Bobby shrugged, took a pull of the beer like nothing he’d heard interested him. He smirked as Marquez called up the voice mail message and replayed it, pressing the phone to Bobby’s greasy ear. Kendall was talking about the murder warrant issued this morning. The county was going out to the public, maybe even as they sat here, warning that Nyland was armed and dangerous and wanted for questioning in the death of both Jed Vandemere and Bill Petroni.
Marquez pulled the phone back.
“When you kill a peace officer you get special circumstances.
If you call Troy right now, I’ll bet he’ll tell you police have been out to the house this morning.”
“They already been out.”
“There might be a way out for you still, but Nyland is going down. He’s in a lot of trouble, and Sophie is working with the detectives.”
“She talks a lot of nonsense sometimes. They’re meant to be together.”
Marquez knew from the way Bobby delivered it, that last statement hadn’t been his own. Maybe it was something Nyland had said to explain everything, but it sounded a lot like Troy talking.
“You’re not hearing me, Sophie flipped, she’s helping Kendall put the case together. She’s feeding the detectives information because she doesn’t want to go down with Nyland. She isn’t going to keep him supplied. She might make you think she is, but she isn’t and that leaves you holding the bag. If you can give me your exact routine at Johengen’s farm, what you did out there and who directed you, then maybe I can help you. And I need to know where the other farms are. Where are the bears now?”
Bobby grinned like that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard, repeated it, “Where are the bears?” Then he stared and appropriate of nothing, said, “Supposed to snow tonight.”
“Is Nyland here in the basin?”
“You’re the one that doesn’t know what’s going on.”
Bobby grinned again and Marquez left him in the bar. Half an hour later they watched him transfer two sport-type zip bags from Sophie Broussard’s pickup truck. As Bobby pulled away and they got ready to follow, Marquez took a call from Kendall.
“Thought you were with your family,” Kendall said. “You didn’t say you were up here.”
“We followed Bobby Broussard into the basin, and he just picked up a load of supplies from Sophie.”
“She’s cooperating with us. So is Broussard. Nyland is somewhere in the Barrett Lake area and we’ve got people in there where the drop is going to happen, but let’s hope it doesn’t goddamn snow before we get him. All Bobby needs to do is drop the supplies and haul ass. We’ve got it from here, Marquez. This is ours now.” Kendall waited a beat and then his voice hardened.
“Are we clear on that?”
“Barrett Lake?”
“Don’t even think about.”
“You plan to arrest him when he picks up these supplies?”
“Yes.”
“He’ll see you coming.”
“There’s a SWAT team with a lot more training than you’ve got. You’ve got to stand aside now. I’ll call you after we book him. I’m serious about this. This isn’t even a conversation we should be having.” Kendall hung up.
44
“We stepped into the middle of it and Kendall was doing his best to be nice,” Marquez said after he’d pulled over with Shauf down the road.
“So what do you think?”
“If they catch Nyland picking up the supplies, we’ll back off.”
“Why not otherwise?”
“Because Nyland is the only reason I can think of for Durham to come back this direction rather than run.”
He watched her mull that over. A thing he’d always liked about Shauf was that despite the tough persona she cultivated, she was a gentle human being at heart. She understood how to intimidate and create fear, but she didn’t respect violence and didn’t take any pleasure in it. Ninety percent of the people they chased were motivated by money. Some were brutal and dangerous if given an opportunity, but her mind didn’t turn as readily as his did to the darker qualities of humanity.
He had no trouble picturing Durham taking risks to get to Nyland and meeting him at a prearranged rendezvous spot, perhaps a lonely spot on a dirt road in the Crystal Basin, a contingency plan made long ago. Durham might pull up in a pickup, Nyland step out from under the trees, glad to be rescued, thanking Durham and crawling under a tarp tied down over the pickup bed so he’d be hidden from view. He might lie on a dirty piece of foam as the truck bounced its way back to a paved road. Then he’d hear the reassuring hum of the tires on asphalt and believe he was safely away from the law.
But Durham had plenty to lose if Nyland was apprehended and then traded testimony against him for a lesser sentence. He might well hold the testimony that would put Durham in prison for life, so Marquez saw a different ending, Durham telling Nyland he needed to stay hidden until they reached a safe place, a remote cabin, for example, the spot where Nyland could hole up while the next plan was made. But what would that plan be and why would Durham want the liability and expense? There was a simpler way.
It was a big step, but maybe not so big for Durham if he was the guy they suspected he was. Park somewhere a gunshot wouldn’t matter, lower the pickup gate, and watch Nyland slide out from under the tarp, even help him. Then before he stood and straightened, two shots. The testimony Nyland could trade would end in a shallow grave.
Snow started while Marquez was on the phone to Katherine in the midafternoon. The conversation was laced with a bittersweet sadness, and they decided that she and Maria would stay at a hotel tonight because he wasn’t going to come home. He told her Nyland had been found and he was going to do what he could to help bring him in.
“There’s a jeep trail that runs five miles from the end of the paved road out to a lake named Barrett. He’s near there and on the move. A SWAT team is on its way in and maybe they’ll get him.”
“Enough force and Nyland won’t fight it,” he said.
Marquez drove out past Wright’s Lake and down to the entrance of the Barrett Jeep Trail. Shauf met him there, driving the jeep she’d picked up so she could get them off-road. Snow was falling in light grainy flecks that the wind swirled and tossed.
Marquez stood with his hands in his coat pockets, snowflakes tickling his stubble of beard. The real storm was yet to hit, not forecast to for several more hours, but the sky was dark gray, the light already turning toward dusk. The radio was on, tuned to the band the SWAT team was using. Marquez listened to the backandforth as a helicopter backed away due to turbulence.
“Anything they do to catch Nyland is going to be on foot,” Marquez said. “They just pulled their helicopter out.”
“Where’s he going to go in a snowstorm?”
“Wherever he’d planned to go if police showed up, but let’s hope when we drive up they have him in custody.”
Marquez stripped down and put a long-sleeved Thinsulite shirt, a Kevlar vest, then a fleece pullover and a Gore-Tex parka over that.
The parka had a hood and drawstring to cover most of his face. He pulled on Thinsulite pants and thermal waterproofs over those, Gore-Tex boots, then packed gloves and additional clips for the Glock into his coat. He slipped the night goggles into a pocket and loaded almonds, chocolate bars, a hunk of cheese, juice, and water.
He added a handful of aspirin, Advil, teabags, a small gas stove and canister, a survival blanket, Second Skin, extra socks, bouillon cubes because they always seemed to work for him. He packed bandages, compresses, a morphine shot. Bivouac sack and liner. GPS locator. He’d carry plenty of water. He had a radio and satellite cell phone. In an outside pocket he zipped in handcuffs.