C Box - Winterkill

Nate shook his head. “Melinda Strickland and Dick Munker are made for each other.”

Joe didn’t respond. The fear that had clenched his stomach for the past few hours was gripping harder. He held tight to the steering wheel and pushed on through the spinning snow, praying that he wasn’t already too late. He needed to come up with a plan and he didn’t have much time.

When they entered Saddlestring it was still dark, although there was now a gray morning glow in the eastern sky. The town was encased in snow and ice. The chains on the tires of Joe’s truck were singing because there was so much packed snow in the wheel wells. Joe was amazed they had made it without getting stuck.

Joe briefed Nate on the situation as he saw it, and went over the plan he had come up with. He told Nate that he needed him there for support and backup only. Nate nodded and smiled slyly, leaving Joe with a queasy feeling.

He didn’t go far into town. He turned off the road and into the parking lot of the First Alpine Church.

The church was sanctuary once again, Joe now knew, for Spud Cargill.

As Joe pulled into the small parking area for the church and the Reverend B. J. Cobb’s trailer, he pointed out to Nate that there was no wood smoke coming from the tin stovepipe atop the church.

“It’s too cold,” Joe said, thinking aloud, “for someone to be inside the church without a morning fire. So if Spud is here, he’ll be in the double-wide.”

Nate grunted his agreement.

As they pulled to a stop in front of the trailer, something bothered Joe, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Then he remembered.

“Yesterday when I was here,” Joe said, “there was a snowmobile parked out by the road. It’s not there now.”

“You think Spud took it?” Nate asked, zipping up his parka and preparing to open the truck door.

“We’ll find out, I guess,” Joe said, jumping out of the truck into the snow. He left his.40 Beretta in his holster and pulled the only weapon that he was comfortable with, his twelve-gauge Remington WingMaster shotgun, out from behind the bench seat. Turning toward the trailer, he spun it upside down in his gloves to make sure it was loaded. The bright brass of a double-aught shell winked at him.

While Joe approached the front door of Cobb’s trailer, Nate Romanowski pushed though the deep snow around the back where there was another door. Joe gave Nate a minute to get around before mounting the steps.

He knocked with enough force to send a line of icicles crashing from the eaves. Toward the back of the trailer, yellow light filled a curtained window. Joe assumed it was the bedroom. He stepped aside on the porch in case Cobb or Spud decided to fire through the door.

Joe heard heavy footfalls inside and watched the door handle turn. There was a kissing sound as it opened and broke through a thin seal of snow and ice. Joe raised the barrel of the shotgun, the butt firmly against his cheek, and aimed it at eye-level where he expected Cobb to stick his head out.

The door opened and the Reverend Cobb’s cinder-block head jutted out into the half-light of dawn, his eyes squinting against the falling snow. The muzzle of Joe’s shotgun was six inches away from Cobb’s ear.

“Throw down your weapon if you have one,” Joe said quietly, as Cobb’s eyes swiveled toward the black mouth of the shotgun.

A nine-millimeter handgun dropped with a thud on the porch, vanishing into the snow but leaving a distinct profile outline.

“That’s not necessary, Joe,” Cobb said, keeping his voice even.

“Step outside where I can see you,” Joe ordered. He did not trust Cobb not to have another weapon on him, or not to jump back and slam the door shut.

“You can’t enter a man’s house without probable cause, Joe,” Cobb cautioned.

“I’m not,” Joe said. “I’m asking you to come outside. And if you don’t do it, we’ve got a problem.”

Cobb gave a slight smile and briefly closed his eyes. His face was pink and warm from sleep, and snowflakes melted on his cheeks.

“Okay,” Cobb said opening his eyes. “My hands are up and I’m coming out. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“No promises,” Joe said, immensely relieved that Cobb was cooperating.

Cobb stepped out on the porch in his slippers. He wore the same bathrobe Joe had seen him in the day before. His hands were raised and his expression was calm, but tired. There was a hint of defeat in the way he slumped his shoulders.

“I was wondering what happened to you yesterday after we talked,” Cobb said.

“I went up to the compund,” Joe responded, a little defensively. “I was too late to find Spud. The Sovereigns had already refused him a place to hide out, and they sent him away.”

Cobb nodded. “I figured they probably wouldn’t let him in. I was conflicted about telling you too much, though. I don’t approve of what he did. I don’t even like Spud much. But I have a real problem with the way the Feds are conducting themselves. We don’t need another Gestapo.”

Joe repressed the urge to hit Cobb across the face with the butt of his shotgun.

“Goddamn you, Cobb, just put that antigovernment crap away for a few minutes,” Joe hissed. “I know about all that, and I don’t care about any of it. All that matters to me right now is my little girl. You’ve just wasted twelve hours of my time when you had a pretty good idea he was coming back here.” Joe angrily racked his shotgun, and pressed the muzzle against Cobb’s ear.

Cobb flinched away from the icy metal on his bare skin, and Joe saw his eyes bulge with fear. Joe didn’t mind that at all.

“I’ve always liked you, B.J.,” Joe said, pressing the muzzle even harder. “I’m not sure why. But if you don’t start telling me the truth, and I mean every bit of it, things are going to get real Western real fast.”

Cobb closed his eyes briefly and Joe heard a wracking breath. He pushed the shotgun forward, so that now the side of Cobb’s head was pinned against the opposite doorjamb and his closest ear was cupped around the muzzle and misshapen.

“Okay, Joe,” Cobb said softly.

Joe felt a rush of relief mixed with a whiff of shame for what he had just done to Cobb. He eased up on the pressure he had been using.

“Is he inside?” Joe asked.

Cobb shook his head, and rubbed his ear. “He was in the church for the past few days. But I haven’t seen him since he left.”

“Then he…” Joe started to ask when Nate shouted from the back of the trailer.

“Joe! There he is.”

Turning, Joe looked through the heavy snowfall toward the church. A door was open, and a single shadowy form-Spud Cargill-was trying to run across an open field away from them. He had obviously been in the church when Joe and Nate arrived, huddling in the cold without a fire, and had just run out the back door behind the pulpit.

“Yes, there he is,” Cobb said with resignation. “He must have known I wouldn’t let him into my home.”

Joe looked back to Cobb. The Reverend was shaking his head sadly, still rubbing his ear, but slumping as if he had given up. There didn’t seem to be any fight in him. Joe made a quick decision that Cobb would stay put and wouldn’t be a threat, since he had, in effect, already given Spud’s location away.

Joe lowered the shotgun and jumped off the porch, turning his back to Cobb.

“Go inside and stay put,” Joe shouted over his shoulder. “You’ve got no part in this anymore.”

“Don’t hurt him,” Cobb implored. “He’s an idiot, but there’s no reason to hurt him.”

Joe said nothing. Nate met him in the yard between the trailer and the church, breathing hard from bulling his way through the deep snow. Joe crossed in front of Nate on his way to his pickup.