Peeved that he had entered her office uninvited, she strode around her desk and sat down facing him. "What?" she demanded.
He coolly looked around the room. The only things of a personal nature on the side wall were a framed cover of Rumour magazine and a photo of Bette.
"Joe, I…"
"Your actions killed my daughter," Joe said simply, letting the words drop like stones.
She recoiled as if stung.
"You and I both know what happened up there on the mountain," he said, holding her eyes until she looked away. "Your agency exonerated you. But we're talking about the real world now. I was there. You caused her death, and the death of three other people."
"I don't know what you're talking about," she spat. "You are a sick man." She looked everywhere in the room except at Joe.
"You didn't even send my wife a note."
"Leave my office this instant, Warden Pickett."
Joe leaned forward and cleared a spot on her desk for the manila folder he had brought with him. He placed it there but didn't open it.
"There's no way you can bring April back," Joe said. "But there are a couple of things you can do to at least partially absolve your guilt."
Her hands thumped on the desktop. "I'm guilty of nothing!"
"Of course, it's not even close to enough…," Joe continued, opening the folder as if Strickland hadn't spoken, "… but it's something. It will make my wife feel better. And it will make me feel better. It might even make you feel better."
"Get out of my office!" Strickland screeched, her face contorted with rage. It was clear to Joe she wasn't used to people ignoring her orders.
Joe went on, directing his attention again to the paper he was reading. "The first document here is a press release creating the April Keeley Foundation for Children," he said. He glanced up and saw that she was listening, although her face was white and tense. "The initial twenty-five thousand dollars for the Foundation is to be donated by you from the trust fund your father set up for you. If you can give more than that, it would be even better."
He searched the document so he could quote directly from it. "The purpose of the Foundation is to 'advocate for better protection and legislation for children in foster care.' You'll be a hero again. Maybe there will be a story in a magazine about you not only saving a forest but also protecting foster children."
"What is this?" she said. "Where did you get that?"
"I wrote it up last night," he said, shrugging. "Press releases are not my specialty, but I think it's okay."
"What am I supposed to do with it?"
"Release it under your signature. Then call one of your press conferences and announce it." An edge of sarcasm had crept into his voice, and a slight smile tugged at his mouth.
Strickland was clearly aghast. Joe hadn't seen her face so contorted before.
"And something else," he said, removing the other document from the folder. "Your resignation letter. You can sign it and announce it during your press conference. It will look like you're quitting in order to do good work for children. Everybody likes that. The real reason will be our little secret."
The resignation letter had been easy to write for Joe. He had simply used the one he had been working on, and changed the names.
"Sign these, and we can both go home," Joe said, placing the documents in front of her.
"This is sick."
"No, it's not sick."
"I should call the sheriff."
"No, you should sign these documents. There's a copy for you and one for me."
Joe leaned forward in his chair, and any semblance of a smile left his face. "Look, call the sheriff if you want. Tell him I'm threatening you with two pieces of paper. Tell him why this is so upsetting to you, that I would want you to create a foundation for children. That should play pretty well with the media as well, don't you think?"
Strickland erupted violently, lashing out with the back of her hand and sending a stack of paperwork that was piled on the edge of the desk fluttering toward the wall like a flock of wounded birds.
"Get out of my office!" she shrieked. "Just get out!"
Joe snatched the release and the letter before she could destroy them. Watching her carefully, he leaned back in his chair and shouted over his shoulder.
"Nate!"
He watched her eyes as they swung from him over his shoulder toward the door. He heard a shuffle behind him, and watched as her eyes widened and the blood drained from her face.
Joe glanced back. Nate Romanowski stood inside the office now. He cradled Bette in one arm and held the gaping muzzle of his.454 Casull to the head of the cocker spaniel.
"Sign your name," Nate said, "or the little dog gets it."
Despite the situation, Joe almost smiled.
"You're monsters!" Strickland whispered. "My poor Bette."
Joe turned back to her. Silently, he slid the documents back onto her desk. He took a pen from his shirt pocket and took its cap off. Handing her the pen, he said, "Let's get this done."
Relief surged through him as she absently reached out for the pen.
He turned the documents around and pointed to the blank signature lines. Strickland leaned forward and her hand hovered over the papers for a moment, but then he saw something dark and malevolent wash over her face angrily twist her features. Suddenly, she threw the pen aside.
"Go ahead and kill the dog," she snarled. "I'm not signing anything. What's in this for me? Huh? What do I get out of this? Nothing! Fucking nothing."
Joe hoped she was bluffing. But when he looked into her eyes, into the cold fury of madness, he knew she wasn't. He had horribly miscalculated.
Behind him, he heard the metallic click of the hammer being pulled back on the revolver.
But Nate cocking the revolver made no difference. When he looked at Melinda Strickland, he saw a grotesque shell filled with venom and bile. He did not see a glimmer of human feelings. Even the death of her dog, the only thing she appeared to have feelings for, could not break through the armor of her narcissism. He was outmatched, and felt utterly defeated. He knew he wasn't capable of pushing this any further. To do so would be to join her in her malediction.
"Nate, let the dog go," Joe said, sighing.
"What?" Nate's voice was hard with anger. "What are you saying?"
"Let the dog go."
"Joe, you've got to go through with…"
He rose and turned. "It's not going to work."
Nate narrowed his eyes as he studied the leering face of Melinda Strickland, then came to the same conclusion Joe had. The dog licked his hand.
Nate released the hammer and shoved his revolver back into his shoulder holster with indignation. He bent and freed the dog.
"Get out of my office," Strickland said coldly, triumphantly. "Both of you."
Then she called her dog.
Joe walked past Nate into the reception area. He was crushed, humiliated. Nate joined him a beat later. They stared at each other in the reception area, both confounded by what had just happened.
"Bette, damn you, come here!" Strickland shouted from inside her office.
Instead, the cocker spaniel tore through the door and leaped toward Nate. The dog wanted him to hold her again. Thirty-six Joe Pickett stood at the bar in the Stockman's and ordered his third Jim Beam on the rocks. While darkness came and the snow fell outside and drinkers entered complaining about the weather, he stared at his face in the cracked mirror.
He felt impotent and defeated, and the slow warmth of the bourbon spreading through him didn't assuage his humiliation. When the glass came he threw back his head and drained it, then signaled to the bartender. The man looked skeptically at Joe for a moment, but poured another drink.
It was probably dinnertime at home, but it didn't register with him. Pool balls clicked in the back of the bar, but he barely heard them. He realized that somehow he had lost Nate as he walked the three blocks from the Forest Service office to the Stockman's, and he hadn't looked around for him until he was seated on the red leather stool. He didn't want to think anymore. He wanted another drink.