That was the first day I was snowed in, Joe thought. The time line made sense. He changed the subject.
"You know, of course, that you're in a national forest."
"Yes, we're aware of that."
"So you know there's a limit to the number of nights you can camp?"
Brockius's eyes narrowed, and the softness Joe had noted earlier hardened. "Are you an agent of the Forest Service as well?"
"Nope," Joe said quickly. "Not at all."
"Good," Brockius responded. "Because I really don't want to have an argument about this with you. As far as we can tell, this is a public campground in a national forest. By definition, that means that the forest is owned by the citizens of the United States. We own this, as do all American citizens. So I'm pleased to hear that you're not asking us to leave our forest."
Joe tensed. "There are others… Forest Service officials… who may want to make an issue of it, though. Stringing that barbed wire is an invitation for trouble."
Wade Brockius started to speak, then sighed deeply.
"The Forest Service are servants of the people, are they not?" Brockius didn't so much ask as state it. "They work for us. They are our employees, I believe. I didn't elect them, did you? So who are they to tell me where I can set up a camp in a place owned and operated by the people?"
"I'm not going to argue with you," Joe said. In fact, he wasn't sure he could make an argument with much effectiveness. "I just wanted to pass that along."
"Noted," Brockius said, his features softening once again.
"Do you know anything about the murder of Lamar Gardiner, the Forest Service supervisor here?" Joe asked suddenly, hoping to startle Brockius into revealing something.
"No, I do not," Brockius answered with gravity. "I heard about it on Christmas Eve. It's unfortunate. And I assume he was the man who shot all the elk in the meadow."
"Yes he was. Do you know a man named Nate Romanowski?"
"Never heard of him," Brockius said.
There was a beat of silence, and Joe heard the shotgunner shift his position behind the timber.
"Do you plan to stay here long?"
Brockius looked heavenward, then his deep eyes settled on Joe. "I honestly don't know. We might, we might not. In many ways, this seems like a good place to settle in for a while. It feels like the end of the road, the end of our journey. You see, we've been traveling, and I'm very, very tired."
Joe's face obviously betrayed his confusion.
"There are about thirty of us," Brockius said. "From all over the country. We've found each other, and are bound together through mutual tragedies and experiences. Nearly all of us are the last of our kind, the survivors of places and situations that are just incredibly sad."
Brockius turned and pointed to a pop-up camper at the south of the compound. Joe noted the Idaho FAMOUS POTATOES license plate. "Ruby Ridge," Brockius said. "They were there when the FBI snipers shot the dog, the boy, and the woman as she stood at her door holding her baby. If you'll recall, no one on the federal side was ever prosecuted for that. Only the survivors." He pointed toward a camper on a pickup with Montana plates. "Jordan," he said. "The last of the Montana Freemen, only recently released from prison. They lost their liberty, their land, their prospects, everything. No one on the federal side was prosecuted for that, either."
Joe felt an icy shiver crawl up his spine as Brockius spoke. How can this be happening, right here, right now? he thought. Brockius could be putting him on. Joe hoped like hell he was.
"Waco," Brockius intoned, motioning toward a fifth-wheel trailer with a Texas plate parked next to his. "They lost their two young sons in the fire. No arrests were made of the officers or politicians who were there."
Brockius turned to Joe. His voice was still soft, but it suggested steel wrapped in velvet: "We see this place as our refuge, at least for a while. We pose no threat to anyone. We're beaten down and unbelievably tired. We've been wronged, but we just want to be left alone, and we intend to leave others alone. We need this place to rest."
Joe found himself staring back at Brockius. Oddly, he believed the man.
"It was nice meeting you, Mr. Pickett." Brockius thrust his hand through the fence again. "I think I've talked too much. It's a bad habit of mine."
Joe reached out, but felt weak.
"One more question."
Brockius sighed again. His expression was pained.
"Is a woman named Jeannie Keeley with you? And is she intending to contact the little girl she left in Saddlestring?"
"I understand it's her daughter," Brockius said.
"And mine," Joe said, his voice hard and low. "My wife and I are her foster parents. Jeannie Keeley abandoned April when Jeannie cleared out of Saddlestring five years ago. My wife and I are attempting to adopt her."
"Oh," Brockius said. "This is personal, then. And complicated."
"Not really."
"Yes, it is." Brockius looked apologetic. "I hope you understand that I have no control over the Sovereigns. They're here on their own free will, and can come and go as they please. They have their own business and personal interests. And if one of them is involved in legal action for custody of her daughter, that is no concern of mine or any of the others."
"Custody?" Joe repeated. His heart sank.
"She's not in camp right now," Brockius said, shaking his woolly head. "I'm not sure when she'll be back. But I'll tell her you were here."
Joe thanked Wade Brockius and watched as the big man trudged back toward his trailer.
Joe heard his own heartbeat in his ears. He had been hit with two hard blows within a few minutes. The explanation of who these people were. And the news that Jeannie had come back for April. Heading back down Bighorn Road, Joe was grateful for the walls of snow on either side of the road, because without them he'd be likely to drive right off it.
Was it really possible that the survivors, criminals, accessories, sympathizers, and victims of several of America's worst events had grouped together and decided to set up a compound in his mountains? Or that one of them, Jeannie Keeley, was there to take April back?
It was too much, too fast. Then his cell phone rang.
"This is Nate Romanowski," the voice said. Romanowski spoke with a kind of drawled sarcastic lilt. "I've got one phone call and I'm calling you, buddy. Can you meet with me?"
"Why aren't you calling a lawyer?" Joe asked, stunned.
"Because I'm calling you," Romanowski said, sounding annoyed. "Because I thought about it for two days and I'm calling you, mister."
"This is ridiculous."
"It sure is," Romanowski agreed. Joe assumed Romanowski was referring to the case against him. "I'll be waiting for you. I'll clear my schedule."
"Clear your…"
But Romanowski had hung up. A few minutes later, his phone rang again.
Joe snatched it up.
"Please hold for Melinda Strickland," an unfamiliar female voice commanded.
"How did you get my number?" Joe asked. He knew he'd never given it to Strickland.
"Please hold for Melinda Strickland."
Joe held, anger welling up inside of him. He heard a click as the call was put through.
"Uh, Joe, why is Nate Romanowski calling you?" Strickland's voice was strained, as if barely under control.
"I'm not exactly sure," Joe answered. "But how did you know that, and how did you get my cell phone number?"
"I don't like being kept in the dark about things like this," she said icily, ignoring his questions.
Joe was confused.
"He just called. Just minutes ago. And why should I report that to you, anyway?"
"Because, Joe Pickett, I am in charge of this investigation. A man was murdered, you know." Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. "I need to be kept in the loop. I can't have this kind of thing happening behind my back."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Joe said, raising his voice. He felt his scalp twitch. "And there's nothing going on behind your back."