C. Box: Breaking Point

They sat around a Formica table in a high-backed booth; Kim Love on one side and Singewald and Baker on the other. All of the other tables and booths were occupied by truck drivers and rough-looking locals who appeared as if they’d driven into town from building sites or oil rigs. Even with their ties removed, Singewald thought the three of them stood out. Singewald thought Love seemed distant, and maybe a little hostile to them. He chalked it up to interagency rivalry and didn’t let it bother him. There was no reason to make friends, he thought. He’d never met Love before, and after their joint operation later that afternoon, he doubted he’d ever see him again.

Beside him, Lenox Baker studied the plastic menu and sighed.

“Do you recommend anything in particular?” Baker asked Love.

“The chicken-fried steak sandwich,” Love said without even looking at his menu. “Best in Central Wyoming. I’m from Texas, and I’m particular about chicken-fried steak. They do it right here: no pre-breaded bullshit.”

Baker cringed.

Singewald ordered the sandwich as well, and Baker asked the waitress if the lettuce of the chef salad had any preservatives sprayed on it. Without a smile and with a quick glance toward her other busy tables, she said, “I wouldn’t know that, hon.”

“Can you ask the chef?”

“We don’t have a chef. I’ll ask the cook ,” she said, and spun on her heels toward the kitchen.

“Those chemicals give me diarrhea,” Baker explained to Singewald.

“Can’t have that,” he replied.

After they pushed their empty plates away and sat back-Baker had picked at his salad and claimed he was full-Love looked squarely at Singewald and said, “I can’t say I like what we’re doing today.”

Singewald shrugged. “We’re just the messengers.”

“Still.”

“We didn’t make the decision,” Singewald said. “We’re just delivering the verdict.”

“Yeah,” Love said, shaking his head and taking a swipe at his balled-up paper napkin like a bear cub, “I read it. In fact, I read it twice and didn’t like it any better the second time.”

“I don’t read ’em,” Singewald said, looking over Baker’s head in an attempt to signal the waitress. “I just deliver ’em. Reading ’em is above my pay grade.”

“I hear he’s a hardheaded man,” Love said.

Singewald nodded.

“I get the impression he’s not going to just roll over.”

Baker opened his jacket and interjected, “That’s why we carry these,” indicating the butt of his holstered semiautomatic.40 Sig Sauer.

Love’s mouth dropped open, and he turned to Singewald. “You guys carry guns ?”

“We’re trained and authorized,” Singewald said softly.

“You should see what we have in the trunk,” Baker said. Singewald thought of the combat shotguns and scoped semiautomatic rifles nestled in their cases.

Love’s eyebrows arched when he said, “So you’re prepared to shoot it out with him if necessary?”

“If necessary,” Baker said, narrowing his eyes.

“I try not to predict these things,” Singewald said, almost apologetically. He didn’t want to continue this conversation. He wished Baker wasn’t so overtly gung-ho. Then he raised his hand and waved at the waitress. He began to think she was ignoring him.

“Have you met this guy we’re serving the order on?” Love asked Singewald.

“Nope,” Singewald said, wondering if he should snap his fingers to get her attention. “I wasn’t there the first time he was given the word. From what I understand, he was confused, mainly. I don’t think he’s the sharpest knife in the drawer, so to speak.”

“But he sure as hell understands now,” Love said, shaking his head. “Things like this. . it makes me wonder just what the hell we’re doing. It isn’t the kind of thing I signed up for, that’s for sure.”

“What’s the problem?” Baker said suddenly to Love, his tone incredulous. “The guy obviously screwed up big-time or we wouldn’t be going up there. I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

Love leaned forward on the table and balled his fists together. “Do you know him?”

“Of course not,” Baker said, defensive.

“Do you know anything about him?”

“Just his address.”

“Did you even read the documents we’re taking up there?”

“No,” Baker said, looking away from Love to Singewald.

The waitress intervened and slapped the bill down on the table as she rushed by.

“Ma’am,” Singewald said.

She turned toward him.

“We’ll need separate checks. One for him and me,” he said, gesturing to Baker, “and one for him,” he nodded toward Love. “And receipts, please.”

“Separate checks and receipts,” she repeated with a dead-eyed stare.

“Yes.”

“It’ll be a minute,” she said through gritted teeth.

“It’s okay,” Singewald said, sliding out of the booth. “I can get it taken care of at the front counter.”

Baker was right behind him as he walked up to the cashier, pulling out his U.S. government Visa card. When he glanced back, Kim Love was still sitting in the booth.

An hour later, sixty-seven miles north of Casper, Love caught up with them near Kaycee, Wyoming. Singewald looked up and saw the Corps sedan in his rearview mirror.

Baker saw him do it and turned his head toward the back. “Oh, good,” he said. “Our buddy.”

Singewald grunted.

“What is his problem, anyway?”

“I guess he doesn’t like what we’re doing.”

“Why does he even care?”

“You’d have to ask him.”

“I think you should mention this in our report,” Baker said.

The terrain changed as they drove north. Blue humpback mountains had emerged from the prairie to the west. Lines of high white snow veined down from the summits and melded into dark timber.

Baker pointed at a cluster of vivid brown-and-white dots placed on the slow-waving high grass out his window. “Are those pronghorns?”

Singewald said they were.

“And they just stand there like that? There must be a hundred of them.”

“I’ve heard there are more pronghorn antelope than people in this part of the state,” Singewald said.

“Well, at least there’s something good about it,” Baker said.

“The Tetons?” Baker asked, pointing toward the mountains.

“Bighorns,” Singewald said. “Those are the Bighorns.”

“So that’s where we’re going,” Baker said, looking at the GPS display, and then his watch.

“We should be able to get this done in time to check in to the hotel by five,” Baker said. “We won’t even have to do any overtime.”

“That’s the plan,” Singewald said.

“I hope we can find someplace decent to eat,” Baker said. “I’m starving.”

“First things first,” Singewald said as they took the first exit near the town of Saddlestring. The bypass would link them up with a two-lane state highway into the mountains, toward Aspen Highlands, a subdivision near Dull Knife Reservoir.

When he checked his mirror, Love’s sedan was no longer there.

“Call Love and see what’s happened to him,” Singewald said, handing Baker his cell phone.

Baker scrolled through his recent calls and pressed SEND. After a moment, he said, “This is Agent Baker and we’re on our way up the mountain. We were kind of wondering if you planned to join us.”

When he punched off, he said, “Straight to voicemail. Either we lost him or he decided to go into town and check in to his hotel.”

Singewald hadn’t noticed whether Love had continued on I-25.

“I guess we’ll do this ourselves,” he said.

“That asshole,” Baker said. “For sure, this will go into our report, right?”