As he quietly closed his pickup door, Joe felt oddly removed from the rest of the unit. He was a game warden, after all, not an assault-team member. He was used to working alone. But the sheriff had jurisdiction now, and Joe was in a mandated support role.
Joe looked around him at the DCI agents and the deputies from the sheriff's department. Although he assumed they had all received some kind of training, this situation was well beyond what he or any of them was used to. The police-blotter column that ran every week in the Saddlestring Roundup consisted of small-time domestic disputes, dogs without tags chasing sheep, and moving violations. This was no SWAT team. The men were doing their best, though, Joe thought, to look and act as if they were big-city cops on another routine raid. Given the pent-up aggression they no doubt had and their general lack of experience, Joe hoped the situation would stay under control. He had seen Deputy McLanahan empty his shotgun at tents and pull the trigger to hit Stewie Woods in a cow pasture. How much restraint would he use when confronted with a brutal murderer?
Once again, he thought of how he had found Lamar Gardiner-sitting among the elk carcasses and stuffing cigarettes into his rifle. No one could have anticipated Gardiner's state of mind, or his subsequent actions. If Joe had had a secure location in his vehicle, or if he'd had backup, this could all possibly have been avoided. But Joe hadn't had either of those things. He was expected to bring lawbreakers to jail, but wasn't exactly equipped for it if they were hostile or resisted arrest. Nonetheless, what had happened in the mountains had triggered this chain of events. He felt guilty, and responsible. And he wanted, and needed, to see this thing through, even though this was the last place he wanted to be. Only when he was convinced that Nate Romanowski had killed Lamar Gardiner, and that Romanowski was in custody, would Joe's conscience let him rest.
It was the day before Christmas, after all, and the place he should be was home. Instead, he loaded six double-aught buckshot shells into his shotgun, racked the slide, and approached the group of officers who were clustered around Barnum. "Spread out not more than twenty feet from each other and form a skirmish line as we approach," Barnum said. "I want Agent Brazille on the left end and I'll be on the right. I want this Romanowski perp to think a thousand men are advancing on him. As we approach the cabin, Brazille and I will close on it and flank it from both sides in a pincer movement. I want everyone in the line to move from cover to cover, but keep moving forward. Imagine you're kick-returners in football. No lateral movements. Keep advancing up the middle toward that cabin."
Barnum sounds impressive in these kinds of situations, Joe thought. This was Joe's first raid of this kind, however, so he couldn't compare Barnum's orders or plan to anything he had experienced before. Watching the DCI agents, Saddlestring police officers, and sheriff's deputies loading and checking weapons, he was reminded of Barnum's theory of addressing every situation with overwhelming firepower, which they certainly had.
"I'll take the point, if you want," Deputy McLanahan offered, slamming the clip into a scoped M-16 semiautomatic rifle. As if for maximum effect, McLanahan worked the bolt as well, sliding a cartridge into the breech.
"No way, McLanahan," Barnum said, sounding tired. "We don't need cowboys."
Joe watched McLanahan carefully, noting the sting as McLanahan's eyes narrowed in embarrassment and anger.
"No firing unless it's in self-defense," Brazille interjected, eyeing McLahanan as well as his own men.
"I've heard he has some kind of big fucking handgun," McLanahan said. "If he goes for it-the party's over."
Barnum and Brazille exchanged worried glances. "If he goes for his big gun," Barnum said, "we turn him into red mist."
Joe grimaced. "Red mist" was a term prairie-dog hunters used when they hit the indigenous rodents with high-powered rifle bullets and the impact reduced the animals, literally, into puffs of spray.
"I've got some questions for him when you've got him in custody," Melinda Strickland said, speaking for the first time since they had arrived.
Again, Joe wryly noted that although Strickland seemed to want to be in charge of something, she had no apparent experience with tactics or strategy. And she seemed more than willing to stay out of danger.
"That's fine," Barnum agreed. "But please stay back here since you're not armed."
"That won't be a problem," Strickland chortled. Oddly, Joe Pickett thought of his children as he approached the stone house in the skirmish line. He thought of his girls getting ready for the Christmas Eve church service; trying on dresses and tights, asking Marybeth what she thought of their outfits, furtively checking out the brightly wrapped presents under the tree. It was a Pickett family tradition that, after a supper of clam chowder and a trip to church, the children could choose one present to unwrap. Except for Lucy, the girl with style, it was a catastrophe if the present they chose turned out to be clothing. Sheridan, especially, wanted games or books to tide her over until Christmas morning. April claimed she wanted a toaster oven. (She wasn't getting one.) She had explained that she used to warm up her own meals when she was with her mother and father, and would like to be able to do that again. Marybeth had assured her that there would be plenty to eat, but April didn't seem to completely understand.
Joe shook his head to clear it knowing he needed to focus on the situation at hand. He snapped his shotgun's safety off, and tried to keep the recommended distance between himself and two DCI agents as they neared the crest. A stand of cottonwoods crowned by snow provided the only "cover" he could see.
He approached the crest as he would if he were hunting or patrolling-inch by inch. He saw the snow-covered roof of the stone house, then the ragtop of the Jeep. Above them was the bloodred rim of the wall on the other side of the river.
Then he rose far enough to see a surprising, and jarring, sight: Nate Romanowski stood in plain view near a clapboard shed. The suspect stood tall and ready, with both hands empty and away from his body. He was facing the skirmish line, as if waiting for them to come.
Joe stared at Romanowski, and was impressed-and intimidated-by his size and his calm. Romanowski stood stock-still, but Joe could see the man's eyes move from deputy to deputy at they approached. Joe didn't see alarm or threat in Romanowski's demeanor, just that steely calm.
In his peripheral vision, Joe saw both Barnum and Brazille appear from the sides with their weapons drawn. Romanowski saw them too, and leisurely raised his hands.
Then the skirmish line broke and they were on him, a half-dozen high-powered weapons trained on the breast pocket of Romanowski's coveralls. Brazille held his pistol to the suspect's temple with one hand and ran his other hand over Romanowski's person, checking for weapons. When he got to the empty hip sack, he jerked it away to the ground. Barnum barked an order, and the suspect put his hands behind his head and laced his fingers together.
The skirmish line stood erect and began to crowd Romanowski. Joe lowered his shotgun and followed. Two of the DCI agents peeled off and walked toward the stone house.
"You want to confess now or wait until you get into my nice warm jail?" Barnum asked, his voiced raspy.
Romanowski sighed deeply, and looked straight at the sheriff.
"I'm just surprised that they sent the local yokels," Romanowski said. "Do you think there are enough of you?"
Sheriff Barnum didn't know what to make of Romanowski's comment. Neither did Joe. They looked toward Brazille, who shrugged.
Joe tried to read Nate Romanowski. The man certainly didn't display any fear, which seemed unnatural-and suspicious-in itself. Joe realized with a chill that he had no trouble picturing Romanowski drawing a bow and firing two arrows into an unarmed Lamar Gardiner, then walking up and drawing a knife across his throat while his victim watched him, wild-eyed.