Текст книги "Breaking Point"

Автор книги: C. J. Box

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Joe felt his stomach clench. He wasn’t sure if it was the aftereffect of the morning, the lack of food, or what Butch had just confessed. Or all three.

Joe said, “So you’re saying you killed them without even knowing who they were?”

“That’s what I’m saying, Joe.”

“How do you feel about that?”

Butch hesitated, then said, “Just fine.”

“You know one of them had a family, like you and me?”

“How would I know that?”

“You wouldn’t, I guess,” Joe said. “But you should care.”

The bend of the river leading into the campground was in sight. For the first time that morning, he could hear the sounds of other people: motors racing, gravel crunching under tires, snatches of voices.

He didn’t have much time left.

–

JOE SAID, “So after it was done, after those two agents were down, then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“What did you do next?”

“I fired up my tractor and buried them.”

Joe nodded. “Why right there on your lot? I mean, it seems so obvious.”

“I wasn’t thinking clearly,” Butch said. “It isn’t every day I kill two guys. I just wanted them out of my sight, you know? I couldn’t just leave them on the ground with holes in them.”

“Right. So then what? You took their car?”

“Yeah,” Butch said. “They left the keys in it when they got out. I drove it up Hazelton Road to a place where I knew I could dump it. I aimed it at the edge of the road and jumped out of the car and watched it go over. I was hacked off it didn’t go all the way down the canyon to the bottom, but it got hung up in some trees instead.”

“So that was you?”

“Of course,” Butch said.

Joe trudged along, his legs on fire from cuts and bruises, his burned hand, his head wounds from the fight with Pendergast, and his muscles aching.

“So clear this up for me,” Joe said. “You drove the EPA car off the road, but how did you get back to your lot?”

Butch started to answer, then set his mouth.

“I can’t figure that one out,” Joe said.

Butch shrugged but wouldn’t meet Joe’s eyes.

“And when you came out here, to Big Stream Ranch,” Joe said, “you had to have had a ride or I would have seen your truck on the side of the road. How else would you get here?”

Butch shrugged.

Joe pressed, “When we first saw each other a couple of days ago, you know what we talked about.”

“Yes.”

“So I’m starting to get it, I think,” Joe said. “You could have just shot me at that point and no one would know. I didn’t know what had happened, or that anyone was looking for you. But you let me ride away.”

Butch looked over and squinted as if he couldn’t believe Joe even contemplated the fact that he could have hurt him.

Joe said, “I’ve been thinking a lot about it, the things you said and what we talked about. So I want to run something by you. This isn’t an official interrogation, Butch. This is just you and me. But I need to know.”

Butch took a deep breath and trudged ahead. Joe looked hard at the man, and saw himself.

And that’s what it was.

Simple as that.

He almost didn’t need to float his darkest theory out loud. But he did, anyway.

–

“YOU KNOW,” Butch said softly after confirming it, “when you think about all of this, it’s hard not to want to just throw up your hands and give up.”

Joe looked over, still partially stunned by what they’d discussed.

“These guys,” Butch said, “the EPA. They’re supposed to protect the environment, right? That’s why they exist.”

Joe didn’t respond.

Butch said, “They burned down the whole fucking mountain.”

Joe said gently, “I know.”

Butch barked a bitter laugh.

Joe said, “We’re close to the campground, Butch.”

–

THEY TRUDGED AROUND the bend of the river in the shallows and Joe noted the current had picked up slightly. The log bumped up against the back of his legs, as if it were a Labrador wanting to run again.

“We can float right through them,” Joe offered. “They may not even know we’re there. But that isn’t our deal.”

“A deal is a deal,” Butch said.

Since he’d confirmed Joe’s theory, Butch Roberson seemed to have deflated in height, power, and confidence. He seemed to Joe like a shell of his former self.

“I wasn’t kidding,” Joe said. “This was just between us.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you going to stick with your story?”

“Absolutely. And I trust you to keep it between us.”

Joe nodded.

“You’d do the same thing, wouldn’t you, Joe?” Butch asked.

Joe hesitated before saying, “Don’t ask me that.”

“You would. You’re a good man.”

Joe changed the subject.

“So do you want to float right through or pull over and give yourself up?”

Butch seemed overwhelmed that Joe had suddenly given him a choice. He said, “The second.”

Then, with resignation: “I can’t outrun them. There are too many of those guys.”

Joe hesitated a moment and said, “You might find allies who will help keep you out of their hands. I have a friend who has operated off the grid for years. I’m sure he’d give you some help.”

Butch nodded. “Yeah, I know there are people out there who could help me, like Frank Zeller. But why get other folks in trouble? This is my problem, not theirs.”

“They may not think of it like that,” Joe said.

“My mind is made up. Don’t give me any more chances to change it.”

“Okay, then,” Joe said. “You’ll need to give me that pistol. You won’t be needing it anymore.”

Butch reached back and handed it over. Joe tossed it toward the bank.

–

THE CAMPGROUND WAS BUSTLING, and it didn’t take long to figure out why. Joe recognized vehicles, tents, communications vans, and personnel from the forward operating base on the Big Stream Ranch. They were establishing a new FOB, he reasoned, since the old one was being consumed by the fire. He assumed Batista had ordered the campground evacuated, and was establishing a new beachhead. Joe was impressed they’d been able to assemble and move so quickly. But he dreaded the fact that he was delivering Butch Roberson into the Lion’s Den.

As they nosed the front of the log into the muddy bank of the campground, the cacophony of voices and activity went silent. Dozens of federal men and women turned their faces toward Joe and Butch, and there were gasps and open mouths.

Someone said, “Jesus, there he is.”

Joe searched the crowd for Governor Rulon, but didn’t see him. His new director, Lisa Greene-Dempsey, was there, however. She looked shocked to see him, and her eyes blinked quickly behind her designer glasses. Joe thought he must look like quite a sight: wet and torn clothing, disheveled appearance, streams of blood pouring down his legs into his boots.

Heinz Underwood shouldered through the crowd. To Joe, he grinned and said, “You made it, you crazy bastard.” He pointed at Butch and said, “Arrest that man.”

Several agents Joe didn’t recognize started to advance. Beside him, Joe could feel Butch stiffen.

“No,” Joe said, stepping in front of Butch and placing his right hand on the grip of his Glock.

The agents halted and looked back at Underwood for further instructions.

“Where’s Batista?” Joe asked.

“He said he was called back to HQ,” Underwood said, with a twinkle in his eye. “He’s been gone an hour. He left in a hurry.”

Joe acknowledged the news with a curt nod. It fit.

Lisa Greene-Dempsey said, “Warden Pickett, you need to stand aside. You need to cooperate.”

“I’m through cooperating,” Joe said, his tone flat.

To Greene-Dempsey, Joe said, “Call Sheriff Reed and get him down here now. This man will surrender to him and him only. He’ll be in county lockup if you need to see him.”

Underwood said to Greene-Dempsey, “This is a federal matter. You’ll have to order your employee to turn over that man.”

“Warden Pickett—” she said without enthusiasm, but Joe cut her off.

He said, “I made Butch a deal. He agreed to turn himself in to the sheriff.”

Silence.

Joe meant it. His insides roiled, and he didn’t want to draw his weapon.

Greene-Dempsey stepped forward, and Joe said softly, “That includes you, too, I’m afraid. Just make the call.”

She stopped there and gasped for air. Then she raised her iPhone.

–

BEFORE JOE CLIMBED into the sheriff’s department handicap van behind Butch Roberson in handcuffs, he plucked his badge off his uniform shirt and placed it in Lisa Greene-Dempsey’s outstretched palm. She closed her fingers around it and shook her head sadly.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said.

“Yeah, I do,” Joe said. “This has all put such a bad taste in my mouth, I don’t think I’ll ever shake it.”

“You’re in bad shape,” she said. “You might feel different when this is all behind us.”

“Is the governor still around?” Joe asked.

“He’s somewhere in town,” she said.

“Did my horse survive?”

“Your horse?”

“I let him go.”

The director shrugged and shook her head. She didn’t know anything about Toby.

Joe grunted and climbed into the van and slid the door shut behind him.

“Mike,” Joe said to the sheriff, “can I borrow your phone? I need to call my wife.”

Sheriff Reed handed his phone over.

As the van cleared the campground, spewing a roll of dust, Joe looked through the back window. Lisa Greene-Dempsey was saying something to Underwood, shaking her head while she did, and still clutching his badge.

Behind them, massive columns of yellow smoke rolled into the sky from the mountains.

“Thank you for what you did back there,” Butch Roberson said.

Joe nodded.

“Ask Marybeth to tell Pam and Hannah I’m all right, okay?”

Joe and Roberson exchanged a long look of understanding.

“I will,” Joe said.

–

AFTER HE’D TOLD MARYBETH he was safe but injured and he might be in the hospital for a few days, and she expressed relief, she said, “Something really odd happened this morning. Did you get my message?”

“No, what happened?”

“Pam asked to use the computer so she could check her email, and I pointed her to it. I’d left it on from last night when I called you. But when she sat down at it, her face turned white as a sheet. The EPA site was still up on the screen with Batista’s photo and bio . . .”

Joe felt something flutter in his stomach.

“. . . and Pam pointed to the photo of him and said, ‘What is this asshole doing here? And why are they calling him Juan Julio Batista?’”

“Let me guess,” Joe said. “She knew him as John Pate.”

“And that’s where things start to connect.”

Joe noticed that as he spoke the name, Butch’s head had snapped up sharply.

35

WITH NATE ROMANOWSKI IN THE PASSENGER SEAT OF the pickup, Joe turned from the interstate onto the state highway that led to the burning mountains. Joe wasn’t wearing his uniform anymore, which made him feel incomplete. Seven red shirts were in a pile in the corner of the bedroom, where he’d thrown them as if they were radioactive. Spare badges, name tags, his weapon and gear belt, and a dog-eared laminate of the Miranda warning had been tossed on top of the pile.

Joe glanced down. His personal Remington shotgun was muzzle-down on the bench seat between them. He’d loaded it with double-ought buckshot.

–

NATE WAS TALL AND ANGULAR, with piercing blue eyes and a hatchet nose, and a short blond ponytail since he’d grown his hair back from a year before. The leather strap of the shoulder holster that held his .500 Wyoming Express handgun stretched across a white T-shirt beneath his open pearl-button cowboy shirt.

As they climbed, Joe hit his headlights. Smoke was still heavy in the air, and he hadn’t seen the sun or blue sky for a week. It was as if someone had placed a lid over the valley to keep it from boiling over.

There were no living trees on either side of the road, just skeletons with crooked black limbs. The ground was scorched and there were places where it still smoked. The air was bitter and sharp, and Joe’s lungs ached from breathing it in.

“This reminds me of black-and-white footage from World War One,” Nate said. “It looks like a moonscape.”

Joe grunted.

“How big is the fire now?”

“Last I heard, it stretches a hundred miles to the north and sixty miles to the south. It moves about twenty to twenty-five miles a day depending on the wind.”

“Big,” Nate said.

“And getting bigger.”

The local news was dominated by fire reports and stories of cabins and ranches being burned down, communities evacuated, smoke jumpers killed or injured. People wore masks when they went outside, and public health authorities cautioned young parents to keep their children indoors. Most of the residents of the Saddlestring retirement home had been flown to other locations where they could breathe.

“Where did you say we were headed?” Nate asked.

“A subdivision called Aspen Highlands.”

“I hate cutesy names like that.”

–

NATE HAD SIMPLY shown up on their doorstep three nights before. He’d been sitting on the porch reading a book when Marybeth drove Joe home from the hospital after they’d treated and released him for all of his injuries. Joe had been injured many times before without three days of hospital care, and cynically figured he’d been stuck there to give affidavits and statements regarding Butch Roberson rather than for the severity of his wounds. Dave Farkus was in the next room and he was recovering well. Joe had overheard Farkus telling an attractive nurse how he’d escaped death by bullet, fire, and a whitewater river. How he planned to sell his story to Hollywood.

When Nate saw them drive up, he raised his head and smiled a goofy smile, for Nate.

Marybeth braked a little too hard for Joe and flew out of the van to hug the falconer. She didn’t even close her door.

Joe limped around the van and shut it, and turned to Nate and Marybeth. It was good to see Nate again, he thought.

Nate gestured toward the burning mountains and said, “Sorry. It looks like I’m too late.”

Nate said to Marybeth, “I leave for a year and look what happens. Your husband burns the entire place to the ground.”

“Actually,” Joe said, “you’re right on time.”

“You’ve got something for me to do?”

“Yup.”

“Now?”

“Give me a couple of days to sort it out,” Joe said.

Nate nodded. “Good. I hear Sheridan has a kestrel. I’d like to see it.”

Marybeth clapped her hands girlishly and said, “I know she’d love to show it to you, Nate.”

–

JOE HAD TO SLOW DOWN the pickup as a yellow roll of smoke blew across the road. As he peered into the gloom, he couldn’t see actual flames anywhere and he wondered what there was left to burn.

Nate said, “In the long run, the fire will be a good thing. New growth, aspen, all that.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Joe said. “Like I haven’t heard that a thousand times in the last week.”

“You’re getting grumpy,” Nate said.

“I keep thinking about Butch. How he could be me.”

“Stop thinking so much.”

“I’ve missed that kind of brilliant advice. Wait, no, I haven’t,” Joe said with an edge.

“So what’s this guy’s name we’re going to visit?”

“Harry Blevins,” Joe said. “Harry S. Blevins.”

“And you learned about him how?”

“Matt Donnell, the real estate mogul,” Joe said. “When he came by the house to tell Marybeth he’d sold the hotel, I asked Matt to use his contacts at the county records department to do a title search. He’s the one who came up with Blevins.”

“Ah.”

Donnell had been practically bursting with the good news. He’d learned that the Bureau of Land Management was in the midst of a search for more space in the county because they’d outgrown their old building. Donnell had swooped in and offered the Saddlestring Hotel lot, and the supervisor in charge liked the location—right in the middle of town.

He’d get all his money back, Matt told Marybeth. There would be no profit and what he’d spent on repairs was lost, but the bulk of the investment would be returned. Joe had expected Marybeth to be pleased with the news, but she wasn’t.

“They’ll tear it down, won’t they?” she had asked Donnell.

“Most certainly,” he said, nodding.

“So they can throw up a perfect new nothingburger government office building,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Don’t you see the irony in this, Matt?”

“Of course I do,” he said. “But I’m not in the business of irony. I’m in the real estate business.”

“It’s a good place for you,” Marybeth said to him, doing a shoulder roll and climbing the stairs toward their bedroom.

“I thought she’d be happy,” Donnell said to Joe. He was obviously distressed.

Joe said, “Give her some time.”

“It wasn’t easy, convincing the BLM to buy that lot. What I’m saying is it cost me a little money, if you know what I mean.”

Joe understood.

That’s when he asked Donnell to do the title check.

–

“SO YOU’RE UNEMPLOYED,” Nate said as they drove up Hazelton Road.

“Yup.”

“When do you have to move out of your house?”

“We haven’t gotten that far yet,” Joe said. “I think they’ll give me to the end of the month at least. The new director wants to spin it so it doesn’t look like I quit. The wheels of government turn pretty slow, you know.”

“Except when they don’t,” Nate said, and grinned. “So what are you going to do?”

Joe shrugged. “Something different. Something honest. I have to be able to look at myself in the mirror in the morning.”

“And what would that be?”

“I’m figuring it out, Nate. Governor Rulon has called my cell phone twice in the last couple of days. He says he wants to offer me a job.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“And you haven’t called him back?”

“Not yet.”

Nate nodded and didn’t say anything for a few minutes. Then: “Since I’ve been gone, I’ve come up with a few projects of my own. It’s worked out pretty well. I’m in demand. Do you want to hear about it and maybe partner up?”

Joe looked over and squinted. “I don’t know. Do I?”

Nate smiled wolfishly. “It depends if you’ve completely shucked that Dudley Do-Right thing of yours.”

“I haven’t.”

“Then this is a subject best left for another time,” Nate said.

Joe was curious but not curious enough to ask. There was something disconcerting about Nate, he thought. Nate seemed too jolly, too devil-may-care, where in the past he’d been intense yet honorable in his way. Joe chalked it up to the terrible things that had happened to Nate in the past year, and understood how those tragedies could affect a man.

Still . . .

–

COUNTY ATTORNEY DULCIE SCHALK had come to their house two days before and had told Joe and Marybeth the governor was on a rampage against Batista.

It turned out rancher Frank Zeller had noticed an extra horse grazing in his pasture several days before that turned out to be Toby. Zeller had retrieved the digital recorder and delivered it in person to Rulon, who’d listened to it.

Although Dulcie said she didn’t know any of the details, Julio Batista had been placed on administrative leave pending an investigation of his actions—not the least of which was the unauthorized use of a Hellfire missile. The governor wanted Batista arrested and was making the case for it to anyone who would listen, including Dulcie.

Dulcie said she was pursuing charges against Juan Julio Batista for the murder of Jimmy Sollis. So far, the federal agencies were refusing to turn over the audio and video footage of the drone strike, but Dulcie was tenacious, and she was certain she’d receive it in the weeks ahead. When she did, she said, she’d file the papers to have Batista extradited to Twelve Sleep County.

Joe said, “The murder of Jimmy Sollis? That’s it? He’ll claim fog-of-war stuff. If you’re lucky, you’ll get him on manslaughter.”

“It’s better than nothing,” Dulcie said, defensive.

“There’s more,” Joe said, and waited for Marybeth to hand Dulcie the file she’d put together.

“And maybe,” Joe said, “we can get him to deliver himself.”

–

JOE HAD VISITED Butch Roberson in the county lockup the day before. Roberson wore an orange jumpsuit with TSCDC—Twelve Sleep County Detention Center—stenciled across his back and over a breast pocket. He was shaved and cleaned up, although his arms were covered with bandages from his wounds. He looked smaller through the thick glass of the visiting booth, Joe thought.

Joe asked Butch if he’d changed his mind about his confession.

Roberson said he hadn’t.

“I need to ask you about representation,” Butch said. “I don’t know anything about being a criminal. I’m supposed to show up tomorrow before Judge Hewitt for a charging ceremony or whatever they call it. I built an addition on Hewitt’s house. He knows me, so I think that’s good. The county has said they’d give me a lawyer free of charge.”

“Duane Patterson,” Joe said. “He’s the public defender. He hasn’t handled any high-profile cases like yours.”

“He seems like a nice guy, though.”

“He is,” Joe said. “You could do worse.”

“I got a call from some public defense firm,” Butch said. “They said they have a team of lawyers who want to screw the EPA. I’m fine with that. I was starting to wonder if there was anyone out there who cared at all what they did to us.”

“That’s good to hear,” Joe said.

Butch shook his head. “It’s kind of out of my hands now, isn’t it? Now I’m just a peon in the system.”

“There are some good people out there,” Joe said. “You should at least listen to them. Even if they take you on to prove a point, it’s your point.”

–

THEN JOE ASKED HIM if he knew the name Harry S. Blevins.

It took a moment for Butch to understand. When he did, his face flushed and he said, “That son of a bitch. So it was him, huh?”

“I think it was,” Joe said.

“Then why didn’t he ever call me? Why didn’t he talk to me man-to-man?”

Joe said, “I don’t think they do that.”

–

“SO WHAT do you want me to do?” Nate asked as Joe turned past the half-burned sign for Aspen Highlands. “Do you want me to put him down?”

“No,” Joe said, not sure if Nate was kidding. “Just be scary. Follow my lead and be the scary Nate.”

“I think I can do that.”

–

A TEAM OF SMOKE JUMPERS out of Missoula had been dropped on the location and had saved the structures within Aspen Highlands by igniting a backfire around the perimeter of the subdivision that destroyed the dry fuel before the wildfire could get to it. The crowns of many of the trees had burned, though, as well as a buck-and-rail fence that marked the development. Aspen Highlands was an oasis of green within a desert of scorched earth. Joe credited the smoke jumpers, of course, but wondered who had the clout to convince them to divert resources to spare the development when the wildfire was threatening every town and city throughout the front range of the northern Rocky Mountains.

Joe eased to a stop adjacent to the Roberson lot. The tractor was still there, and the hole where the agents had been found hadn’t been filled in. The grass inside the perimeter tape was trampled down flat by so many law enforcement personnel.

“This is where it happened, eh?” Nate asked quietly.

“Yup.”

“I imagined more land. This isn’t much.”

Joe nodded. He left the truck running and opened the door and said, “I’ll be right back.”

He returned with the faded plywood target that had been nailed to a tree. He tossed it into the empty bed of his pickup.

“What was that about?” Nate asked.

“Nothing,” Joe said. Then he gestured toward the two-story log cabin above them with the green metal roof. He remembered looking at it the day the agents were found.

“That’s the retirement home of Harry Blevins,” Joe said.

“Nice place,” Nate said.

“Nice pension,” Joe said.

–

THERE WAS A NEW-MODEL Jeep Cherokee parked beneath a carport on the side of the cabin.

“He’s home,” Joe said.

“Does he live alone?” Nate asked.

“As far as I know. From what Matt Donnell told me, he’s divorced. He splits his time between here and Denver, where he also has a house.”

“What’s he retired from?” Nate asked.

“Used to be a supervisor for the IRS.”

“Please let me shoot him in the head.”

–

JOE WASN’T SURPRISED that Blevins knew they were there before he knocked. It was quiet in Aspen Highlands, and Blevins no doubt heard the pickup turn up into his driveway.

He opened the door as Joe approached carrying the shotgun. Nate was a step behind.

Blevins was stooped and slight with a wisp of gray hair. He had close-set eyes, a thin nose, and a small mouth offset by a prominent lantern jaw. Joe thought the man gave off a palpable aura of unpleasantness.

“Can I help you find something?” the man said. “Why are you armed?”

“You’re Harry S. Blevins?” Joe asked.

“Yes. And who are you?”

“I’m Joe Pickett. I used to be the game warden around here. You might have seen me wearing a red uniform shirt a week and a half ago. I was standing around on the Roberson lot with the sheriff’s department. I’m guessing you could see the whole thing from here.”

Blevins made a sour face and shook his head slightly, as if denying the premise of what Joe had said.

“I wanted to see what you looked like, once I figured it out. You look exactly like I thought you would.”

“I don’t hunt or fish,” he said. “There’s no need for a game warden to come to my place.”

“I’m no longer a game warden,” Joe said. “I’m here as a local.”

“You got fired?”

“I quit. Which means I don’t have to play by the rules anymore.”

Blevins studied Joe’s face. Joe didn’t flinch. He noticed that Blevins shot several cautious glances toward Nate as well. Nate had that effect on people.

Blevins said, “It’s nice to meet you, but I really don’t have time for this right now.”

Joe said, “When the investigation was going on, did you see me when I turned around and looked right at your nice cabin here? Did a little bit of fear go through you that I might figure it out?”

“Really, I don’t have time for this . . .” Blevins said, and stepped back to swing the door closed.

Nate lurched over Joe’s shoulder and shot his arm out and stopped the closure with the heel of his hand. Nate said, “My friend is talking to you. Don’t be so fucking rude.”

For the first time, fear flickered across Blevins’s eyes.

“You didn’t want your view of the lake blocked by the Roberson home,” Joe said. “You got a call from a man who said he could help you if you agreed to keep him informed on the progress of the construction.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His voice was weak and small, Joe thought, and betrayed exactly the opposite of the words he spoke.

Joe said, “I wondered how you knew Julio Batista, but he actually contacted you, didn’t he? Because you had a mutual interest? Then you and Batista set things in motion and you just sat back here in your nice cabin and let the system destroy Butch.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Blevins said.

“Whatever. But there’s no doubt you lit the Butch Roberson time bomb.”

“I didn’t know he’d murder anyone. I honestly had no idea that could happen.”

Joe hesitated, then asked, “Did you see him pull the trigger?”

“No. I was in town the day it happened.”

“Convenient,” Joe said. Then: “You never spent a minute getting to know him, did you? As far as you knew, he was a redneck in a ball cap, right? You didn’t know he was a local contractor who had a family, did you? To you he was a stupid gorilla who fired up his loud tractor and wanted to screw up your perfect view of the lake. And when things got out of control, you didn’t do anything to stop it, did you? When Butch showed up here two weeks ago and started up his tractor after a year of leaving you alone, you got right back on the phone, didn’t you?”

Before Blevins could speak, Nate growled, “What an asshole.”

Joe said to Blevins, “Five men dead, one man in jail, a good family wrecked. Thousands of animals and birds burned to death. An entire forest incinerated. You’re quite a guy, aren’t you?”

“Look,” Blevins said, panic in his voice, “I’m not responsible for all the things that happened. I was just making a call.”

Joe said, “It’ll be interesting when Butch Roberson’s attorneys find out about you and put you on the stand. Once people find out what you did, you’ll spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder. Right, Nate?”

“And you might see me,” Nate said in a homicidal whisper.

“You can’t prove any of this,” Blevins said. Beads of perspiration sequined his upper lip. He swiveled his head toward Nate and said, “So who are you?”

Joe cringed because he’d seen raw red meat tossed to problem grizzlies before—and this was the same thing.

But there was a hesitation on Nate’s part. Then an explosion. Nate shot his hand out and grasped Blevins’s ear and twisted. The man cried out and bent forward. Nate leaned into him with his huge gun drawn and pressed the muzzle into Blevins’s temple.

“I can twist your ear off your head or blow your brains to Nebraska,” Nate said evenly. “Or I can do both, one after the other, which is my preference.”

Blevins mewled and choked, his head down. Joe considered stopping it, but he didn’t want to.

Nate leaned in closer to Blevins, and thumbed back the hammer of the .50-caliber revolver until it locked.

Nate said to Blevins, “I’ve torn apart men much better than you with my hands. I’ve twisted their noses and ears off and I’ve ripped their arms and legs out of the sockets and beat them over their heads with them. I like doing it to those who deserve it, that’s what you need to understand. You deserve it more than most. So if you don’t start singing right now to my friend Joe, you’ll be eating your own nuts in less than ten seconds. Got that?”

Joe was stunned. But he appreciated it.

Blevins mewled like a cat, then said, “I called Julio when Roberson showed up with his tractor. I never knew what would happen.”

“That’s why those agents showed up so fast,” Joe said. “It’s been driving me crazy. So when did you last talk to Batista?”

“Why is that important?”

Nate twisted the muzzle into Blevins’s temple, breaking the skin. Blevins cried out.

“Answer the question,” Joe said.

“A couple of days ago. He called me and asked if I knew anything about Pam Roberson giving a press conference today.”

Joe knew all about it because Marybeth had written the release and emailed it to every newspaper and electronic media outlet within five hundred miles.

“What did you tell him?” Joe asked.

“That it was scheduled for this afternoon.”

“Did he ask for directions to her house?”

After a beat, Blevins said, “Yes.”

Nate’s finger tightened on the trigger.

“Please, dear God, get him off me,” Blevins pleaded.

Nate looked to Joe and grinned. Joe was unsettled. Something had happened to Nate to drive him further over the moral line he’d always insisted was there. Joe had no doubt that if he said, “Waste him,” Blevins would be history. Headless history.

Instead, Joe drew his new digital recorder out of his breast pocket and checked it and showed it to Blevins.