Several of the investigators asked Joe pointedly, and with obvious skepticism, if he wasn't too far away to see with certainty what had happened when Munker fired. They also speculated aloud that perhaps his personal interest in the entire event-and his obvious animosity toward Dick Munker and Melinda Strickland-had colored his interpretation. The working theory reached by DCI and the FBI was that the trailer burned from the accidental or intentional ignition of materials within the trailer itself.
One of the FBI investigators, a small man named Wendt, told Joe in confidence that he believed him. He also told Joe that his account would be difficult, if not impossible, to prove. Wendt said he was afraid that the internal investigation would be written from the point of view that Munker was a hero who had died in the line of duty. However it went, he said, Joe would also be commended for his attempt to save Munker's life.
Joe didn't hold out much hope, but part of him wanted to believe that further investigation would somehow corroborate his version and justice would be done. He hoped that a deputy or other member of the assault team would confirm his account, or at least parts of it. Someone, he thought, must have heard the hissing of gas. Maybe time, and guilt, would make someone step forward. But he knew how unlikely that was, and he knew from experience how law-enforcement personnel stuck together and told the same story. For Joe and Marybeth Pickett, the two months following the death of April went by in a kind of bitter, dreamy fog. Joe relived the two days leading up to the deaths over and over, picking apart his feverish moves and decisions. He deeply regretted not pressing Cobb further when he'd first gone to his house, and not questioning Cobb's reference to "sanctuary" that day. Cobb had misled him, but Joe had allowed himself to be misled. Because he hadn't understood what Cobb was hinting at, he had gone on an errant trail and wasted almost sixteen hours when he could have intercepted Spud coming down the mountain. It gnawed at him.
Many nights, he didn't sleep more than a few hours at a stretch. Several times, when he couldn't sleep, he would wander downstairs to his office and rewrite his letter of resignation. He had once sealed it and stamped it-only to retrieve it from his OUT basket the next morning. He had also written-but not submitted-a request to be reassigned to another district. The thought of sharing Twelve Sleep Valley with Melinda Strickland was loathsome.
Marybeth was mercurial, her moods swinging from pure anger to a resigned depression that was new, and disturbing, to Joe. On the nights when Marybeth locked herself in the bedroom, Joe cooked dinner for his girls and told them that their mother wasn't feeling well. Sheridan had stared him down on that one, and had known without asking that he was using illness as an excuse.
Once, late at night, as Joe printed out the latest version of his resignation letter, he heard sounds from down the hallway. Marybeth had led Sheridan and Lucy into Joe and Marybeth's bedroom to sleep, and was shuffling things in the children's bedroom with a vengeance. When Joe found her, she was in the process of removing every last sign of April. She had bagged all of April's clothes, school papers, and toys, and was now stripping the bed. He watched with sadness as she scrubbed down the walls near April's bed, as if to remove any physical evidence of April having been there.
"I haven't cleaned her sheets since she left," Marybeth told him, her eyes strangely alert. "I don't know why I haven't done that. But I need to wash them and put them away now."
Joe had watched her, not knowing what to do. When Marybeth finally paused long enough to cry, he held her.
"I've never hated a woman as much as I hate her," Marybeth said. Joe knew she meant Melinda Strickland.
Joe had never seen her so angry, or so bitter.
"She'll go to jail. The investigation will prove that," Joe assured Marybeth, stroking her hair and hoping that somehow he was right. "It won't bring April back, but at least Melinda Strickland will pay."
Marybeth leaned her head back and met his eyes. "She never even sent a note. Think about that, Joe. Think how cold her heart is."
Joe just nodded, knowing there was nothing to say. On the way home from the last basketball practice of the season, Sheridan sat quietly in the cab of the pickup, absently patting Maxine's head. Joe, driving, cast wary glances at the sky that filled the top half of his windshield. Thunderheads were moving in. It looked like snow.
"Dad?"
"Yes."
"Is Mom going to be okay?"
Joe paused. "She's going to be all right. It takes a while."
"I miss April, too."
"So do I, honey."
"I know we're not going to get April back," Sheridan said. "But I do want my mom back."
Joe reached over and put his hand on Sheridan's shoulder. Her hair was still damp from practice.
"Dad, can I ask you something?"
Joe nodded.
"Are you and Mom mad at me for not watching April closer that day in school? For letting Jeannie Keeley take her away?"
Joe was hurt by the question, and pulled quickly to the side of the road so he could turn in his seat and face her.
"No, honey, of course we're not angry with you," he assured her. "It wasn't your fault."
"But I was responsible for her," Sheridan said, fighting tears that seemed to come, Joe thought, much more easily than they used to.
"That's never even crossed our minds, Sheridan," Joe said. "Never."
As they pulled out into the road, Joe restrained a heavy sigh. He felt badly that he hadn't seen this coming, hadn't thought to talk to Sheridan about this earlier. Of course she would feel this way, he thought. Despite her maturity, despite what she's been through, she's still a child, he thought. And she naturally wondered if the difficulties her parents were having were somehow her doing.
It had been rough on Sheridan and Lucy, Joe knew. They missed April, and they missed the way their mother used to be. Marybeth had seesawed between snapping at them and smothering them with physical affection. Lucy had complained to him that she didn't know what to say to her mother because she never knew what reaction she would get.
Joe knew he was far from faultless as well. He felt distant, and uninterested in so many of the things that used to give him joy. His thoughts were still up there on the mountain, in the compound, in the snow. He sometimes forgot that the living members of his family were in front of him and needed his attention.
"Your mom will be all right," Joe said. "She's tough."
Sheridan nodded.
"We've never really talked about what happened up there on the mountain, Dad," she said. "It seems like the good guys turned out to be the bad guys, and the bad guys weren't all that bad."
Joe smiled. "That's a pretty good way to put it."
"I can't really sort it out," Sheridan confessed.
"Sheridan, it's all about accountability," he said after a pause. It was something he had thought a lot about recently.
"What's that mean?"
"It means that people should be accountable for their actions. They have to be accountable. There need to be consequences for thoughtless or cruel behavior," Joe said, wondering if he'd said too much. He didn't want her to think he was plotting revenge.
Sheridan sat silently for a few moments.
"Who is accountable for me losing a sister for no good reason?"
Joe frowned. "I am, to a certain degree…"
"No, you're not!"
"Yes, honey, I am," Joe said, looking straight ahead out the window. "I didn't protect her as well as I should have. I didn't get her back."
"Dad!" Tears rolled down Sheridan's face.
"Others are even more accountable," he said. That evening, after dinner, the telephone rang. It was Robey Hersig.
"Joe," Hersig said.
Joe could tell that something was wrong. There was no greeting, no small talk, no mention of the coming storm.