C. Box - Force of Nature

McLanahan shook his head. “I can’t just arrest a guy and hold him without charges.”

“You forget who you’re talking to,” Joe said, and laughed. “You do it all the time. And besides, I’m sure I’ll be the one to press charges against him.”

The sheriff looked away for a moment, then back to Joe with a squint in his eyes.

“Why do we need a SWAT team to bring him in? He don’t look like much.”

“Because he’s not who he says he is, I told you that,” Joe said. “He’s got weapons and he may be highly trained. You don’t want anyone to get hurt, do you? Hit him fast and hard, and assume he’s dangerous.”

McLanahan shook his head as if he couldn’t believe how ridiculous Joe was acting.

“Plus,” Joe said, “you might need that assembled SWAT team later this morning. I think I know where our bad guy is located. Once it’s confirmed, I’ll give you the word.”

“Bullshit,” McLanahan said. “Tell me what you know.”

Joe shook his head. “Not until I’m sure.”

“Damn you, this is my county. You can’t be running your own deal here. I’ve got jurisdiction and you know it.”

Joe took a step toward McLanahan, which surprised the sheriff.

“What I know,” Joe said, nodding toward the restaurant where Sollis stood watching them from inside the window, “is you’ve surrounded yourself with thugs and idiots. That’s why I want your assurance that Reed will be on the team this morning, so there’s at least one competent officer. And make sure you tell them all to stay off the radio. Brueggemann and others are likely monitoring your frequency. He’ll know you’re coming, and we don’t want that.

“And if you send your goons out there before I pinpoint our bad guy, you could tip him off or get your goons killed. Or get my friend killed. Or get me killed.”

“Your friend?” McLanahan said, perking up. “Romanowski’s involved?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Joe said. “But if he is, I don’t want you risking his life.”

“You’re really pissing me off,” McLanahan said. “I don’t need to do anything if I don’t want to. This is my county and my investigation.”

“Understood,” Joe said. “But imagine what people will say about you if everything explodes today and you decided to sit it out. I can’t imagine that would help your reelection chances much.”

McLanahan glared at Joe and then surprised him with a long, slow grin.

“You think you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?” he asked.

“Nope,” Joe said, “not at all. I just know that being sheriff is the only thing you know how to do because you’d get eaten up in the real world. You want to keep this job as if your life depended on it, which in some ways it probably does.”

The smile vanished.

“You said there were three things,” McLanahan said, his tone flat.

“That’s right. Call the FBI in Cheyenne and request assistance immediately. Tell them you might have a firefight up here and you need a federal strike team.”

McLanahan turned away and stomped his foot in the slush.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Joe said.

After a few smoldering moments, the sheriff said, “If this doesn’t all work out, I’m holding you personally responsible. You better understand that. I’ll hold a press conference and name names, and the governor and your director will hear from me.”

Joe shrugged. “If it does work out, you might have a chance of being sheriff again, as miserable as that will be for everybody.”

As McLanahan fumed, Joe walked back toward his pickup. “Keep your cell phone on and stay close to the radio,” Joe said over his shoulder. “I’ll call you as soon as I know if you need to send your goons in.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” McLanahan growled.

Joe said, “I just did.”

JOE CLICKED his radio over to the county frequency while he drove through town toward the mountains. He wanted to monitor traffic as well as he could, and hoped the arrest of Brueggemann would go down as smoothly and safely as possible. And that he wouldn’t hear a word about it until the arrest was made.

Then he called Mike Reed on his cell phone and woke Reed up.

“You’re supposed to be on a plane,” Reed said sleepily.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Joe said. “But in the meanwhile, I need to let you know what’s going on and apologize to you in advance.”

“Apologize for what?” Reed asked.

Joe sighed and told him the story. There was silence on the other end.

Finally, Reed said, “Don’t apologize, Joe. If we get the bad guys, it’s all worth it, whether I win or not. McLanahan’s still a fool, no matter what happens.”

“Thanks, Mike.”

“Well,” he said, “it sounds like I better get dressed and drag my butt into the office.”

HE SAW a few elk hunters road-hunting on his way up Bighorn Road. When they saw his green truck, they pulled over to be checked, but he waved and kept going.

His plan was under way, but he didn’t trust McLanahan not to figure out a way to screw it up.

He looked at his watch and guessed Marybeth and the girls would be able to see the tentlike architecture of Denver International out the window of their Beechcraft.

And he wondered where Nate Romanowski was, and hoped his friend would call. Immediately.

For the second time since he’d left the airport, he drove past his house. Unlike the last time, though, Joe noted a set of tire tracks that veered off the road in the snow near the mailbox, and large boot prints going to and from his box.

Since it was much too early for mail, Joe stopped, left his pickup running, and got out. The boot prints looked familiar, and a rush of excitement shot through him.

Joe opened the door of the mailbox and saw the glint of bronze inside. He reached in and grasped the thick, heavy cartridge between his fingers, and read the stamp on the back:. 500 wyoming express fa. The FA stood for Freedom Arms, where the revolver and the cartridge were manufactured.

He slid the cartridge in the front pocket of his Wranglers as he strode back to his pickup.

This is it, he thought.

Joe drove through Crazy Woman Campground, where he’d first encountered Luke Brueggemann. There were a few hard-side camper trailers in tucked-away campsites. As he passed one, several hunters were lashing camo packs onto the backs of ATVs with bungee cords. The hunters looked up, saw the green pickup with the game warden inside, and stopped what they were doing. One large man with a full beard and a coffee mug in his paw instinctively reached for his wallet to pull out his elk license and ID. Joe tipped the brim of his hat to them as he drove slowly by.

Catch you next time, he thought.

The morning sun had yet to soften or melt the snowfall from the night before in the deep timber. There were three to four inches of it covering the two-track that exited out the back of the campground. At least one ATV was ahead of him, marked by wide tracks and knobby impressions in the snow.

The road got rougher less than a half mile from the campground as it rose up into the trees. Joe reached down below the dashboard and clicked the toggle switch to four-wheel-high. The old road was overgrown and little used since the Forest Service had placed a moratorium on cattle grazing on federal leases high in the mountains, and it no longer appeared on topo maps of the area. But local hunters and poachers knew of it, as did Joe, because it was a back route along the side of the mountain that eventually emptied onto a plateau overlooking the South Fork of the Twelve Sleep River. Below the plateau was the location of the eleven outfitter camps. They were strung out along the river, each three to four miles from the next. The camps were accessed by the South Fork Trail, which loosely followed the bends and contours of the serpentine river.