As he topped the rise where he had last seen Romanowski, he looked over his shoulder at the skirmish line and compound far below. Black-clad members of the assault team stood around their disabled vehicles, some gesturing, most still. In the compound, the big roll of black smoke obscured the remains of Wade Brockius's trailer. The rest of the compound was now empty of Sovereigns. Thirty-three Following the two snowmobiles through the trees was easy, and Joe did it through half-lidded eyes that were burning in their sockets and with a twelve-gauge shotgun across his lap. Munker had stayed exactly in Nate's tracks, packing the trail even harder, and Joe knew he would gain speed on both of them.
He had no helmet, and the wind and snow tore at his exposed face and ears and pasted his hair back. He paid no attention to it, concentrating instead on the track in front of him and anticipating the first sight of Munker ahead. He had no doubts about what to do when he caught up to him. Focus was not a problem now.
He followed the tracks across an open meadow and back into the dark timber on the other side. Because he couldn't hear anything but his own motor, he couldn't tell if Munker had Nate in his sights or if he, like Joe, was simply following the trail.
The trees got thicker, flashing by on each side, and Joe had to slow down to stay in the track and not to hurtle into the timber. Nate had obviously tried to shake Munker by diving into the deep woods, making hairpin turns around pine trees, and ducking under low-hanging branches. The trail zigzagged through the trees, sometimes banking sharply near trunks or outcroppings.
The single thought in Joe's mind was to find Dick Munker and kill him. He knew it would mean prison. He didn't care. Today Agent Dick Munker of the FBI needed to die by Joe's hand.
The terrain suddenly cleared, and the track went up the middle of a treeless hill. Joe hit his accelerator and the snowmobile whined, blindly surging up the rise.
He was going so fast, that he almost didn't see the tracks he was following split in two as he plunged down the hill's other side. One track had turned sharply to the right and the other plunged straight down the steep ridge into a dark and tangled mass of violently uprooted trees. Out of control, Joe rocketed down the slope, trying to avoid the trees while decelerating with one hand and crushing the handbrake with the other. He caught a glimpse of a smashed snowmobile below him, pieces of it scattered in the tangle of downed trees, and the black shape of a body in the snow. The body was sprawled out flat on its back, as if making a snow angel. When Joe's machine finally stopped, his left front ski was six inches from Dick Munker's head. Hanging in the air directly in front of him, where his windshield should have been, was the broken-off end of an upturned lodgepole pine that would have skewered Joe if he hadn't been able to stop.
Joe killed the engine and climbed off his snowmobile. He instantly sunk into the snow to his waist. Using a heavy-legged swimming motion, he approached Dick Munker.
It was clear from the two sets of tracks what had happened. Munker had followed Romanowski's trail over the ridge and plunged down into the maw of a violent forest blowdown. Trunks and branches had been wrenched and snapped, and were nakedly exposed. A stout branch had impaled the hood of Munker's snowmobile and thrown Munker into the blowdown. Romanowski had no doubt led him to this spot deliberately.
Munker's eyes were on Joe as he waded to him. Joe detected no movement from Munker other than in those eyes. Only when he was practically on top of Munker did Joe catch the ripe scent of hot blood and notice the steam wafting from the crotch of Munker's white camouflage suit. Joe stared. It was Munker's upper thigh, near his groin. A sharp branch had pierced Munker's suit.
"Didn't make the turn, huh?" Joe said dully, lowering the muzzle of his shotgun to Munker's forehead. Both heard the dull snap of the safety being thumbed off.
Munker started to say something, but decided against it. His sharp eyes moved from the muzzle to Joe's face. Joe noticed that a little clump of snow was packed into Munker's nostril.
"You murdered my daughter," Joe said. "No one in that compound needed to die."
"She wasn't even yours, was she?" Munker asked weakly. His eyes showed contempt.
Joe grimaced. This man wanted to die.
"Joe, don't do it."
It was Nate. He must have shut off his machine in the trees and struggled back through the snow on foot to check on Munker. Joe hadn't heard him coming.
"Why shouldn't I, Nate?" Joe said, feeling strangely giddy. He looked down to see if Munker was moving yet, trying to slap the shotgun away. But all that moved were Munker's sharp eyes.
Nate stopped to catch his breath. He leaned against one of the downed trees, puffing steam that billowed like a halo around his head.
"Because you're not scum like Munker. You don't murder people in cold blood."
"I do now," Joe said. God, his head hurt.
"You're a good guy, Joe. You don't do things like this."
Joe looked up. "I'm tired, Nate. I just lost a daughter."
Nate nodded. "If you shoot this guy, who will take care of Marybeth? What about Sheridan? And Lucy? Her name's Lucy, right?"
"Right." Joe thought Nate was being horribly unfair.
"Who will take care of them? They need their dad."
"Goddamn you, Nate."
Romanowski grinned slightly.
"Besides, I think Munker here severed an artery, and he's probably a few quarts low already. My guess is that he'll go naturally and quietly in your heroic attempt to rescue him."
Joe looked down, and knew that Nate was right. Munker's eyes blazed, but his face was ashen. His lips were already blue. The snow packed into his nose had not melted.
Joe cursed bitterly, raising the shotgun.
"Can you help me lift him up, please?" Joe asked Nate. As Joe roared away from the blowdown with Dick Munker slumped in the seat in front of him, he had second thoughts about Nate's idea. As far as Joe could tell, Munker's life was worth nothing. Joe couldn't think of any value that Munker had brought into the world. Nevertheless, he gunned the engine, hoping against hope that he could deliver the FBI agent to the skirmish line alive. It was more than acceptable if Munker died while Joe transported him, he thought. But he had to give it his all. He couldn't deliberately slow down and dawdle while Munker suffered. That went against his grain, as much as Joe hated the man. Joe knew it didn't make sense, but he would have rather blasted Munker with his shotgun than be responsible for his death because he'd driven back in a half-assed way.
But Dick Munker died before Joe even got him as far as the meadow they had crossed. Joe knew it the instant it happened, because Munker stiffened and then went limp and heavy and nearly fell off of Joe's snowmobile. Joe stopped, and used his bungee cords to secure the body before continuing on to the compound. Joe Pickett leaned against his snowmobile and watched the deputies load Munker's body into the back of the only Sno-Cat that was still operational. Across the fence, the compound was deserted. Joe watched a few of the assault team check out trailers and RVs that were now empty. Nate's intervention, and the chaos that resulted, had allowed the Sovereigns to proceed with a clearly well-rehearsed escape plan. They had vanished, leaving their belongings and vehicles. Nate's disabling of almost all of the sheriff's Sno-Cats and snowmobiles had prevented any attempt at chasing them down. All that was left were their deserted homes, dozens of exiting snowmobile tracks, and the smoking remains of Wade Brockius's trailer.
"You tried to save him," Elle Broxton-Howard said, putting her arm around Joe.
"Yup," he said. He hadn't been thinking about Dick Munker.
"Too bad about that little girl."
Joe shook her arm off and walked far away from her, far away from everybody. He couldn't even speak. He stared at the smoldering carcass of the trailer. It had scorched the snow and exposed the earth beneath it-dark earth and green grass that didn't belong here. Melted snow mixed with soot had cut miniature troughs, like spindly black fingers, down the hillside. When he stared at the black framework, all he could see was the face of April Keeley as he last saw her. She was looking out of the window, her head tucked under the chin of her mother. April's face had been emotionless, and haunted. April had always been haunted. She had never, it seemed, had much of a chance, no matter how hard he and Marybeth had tried. He had failed her, and as a result, she was gone. It tore his heart out.