C. Box - Breaking Point

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.