Stone Cold (32 page)

“Jonah Bank,” Joe whispered. “Anybody would recognize him.”

Nate shrugged. “I always wondered what they did with the bodies we brought back.”

Joe was speechless. But it hit him like a hammer. “They're being
aged
,” he said in a whisper. “They sell sausage to the public and dole it out bit by bit to every hunter who gets his game processed here. Critchfield was the butcher.”

“I've always heard humans taste like pork,” Nate said with a whistle. “I guess that's right. Damn, I kind of liked that sausage, too.”

Joe said, “Which means the Feds won't be able to pin more
murders on Templeton unless he confesses. The remains of all the other victims have been . . .
consumed
.”

He had trouble saying that last word. Then he looked straight at Nate.

“The only way you get out of this, maybe, is to become a state witness,” Joe said. “I know the Feds want to nail Templeton really bad. That's why they sent me up here. Tell the Feds everything you know so they can build a bigger case against him. They might make a deal.”

Nate scowled but didn't respond.

Joe squared up against Nate and raised his shotgun to parade rest. “If you don't, I'm going to have to arrest you right here. I don't like it any more than you do, but you really crossed the line this time.”

“You'd do that, wouldn't you?”

“Yup.”

“That's something I've always admired about you, Joe.”

Joe gestured toward the highway. The federal convoy was making the turn onto the road that led to the Black Forest Inn. Above, the helicopters were stabilized and lowering from the sky to land.

“So you trust them?” Nate asked.

“The Feds? Not at all,” Joe said. “Not one bit. Too many of 'em these days are no better than government thugs. But I trust Agent Coon. He's always been straight with me.”

Nate said, “It won't be the first time I worked with the Feds.”

Joe closed his eyes briefly in relief. The last thing he wanted to do was try to arrest Nate if Nate didn't want to be taken. Joe said, “I know about Whip. I saw what happened up there. But where are all the others? The cavalry is here and they don't have anyone to arrest. All I can figure is someone must have tipped them off.”

“Probably.”

“So where are they?”

Nate said, “The sheriff, judge, and chief of police were all manacled together the last I saw them. But they've probably cut themselves free by now.”

“Who cuffed them together?”

“Moi.”

Joe was stunned. “I'm glad you didn't . . .”

“I'm not a murderer, Joe.”

“Glad to hear that, Nate.”

•   •   •

T
HE ROAR
OF THE FIRST HELICOPTER
landing drowned out any more conversation. Joe reached up and clamped his hat on his head so the rotor wash wouldn't send it away.

Agents in black tactical gear and helmets poured out of the helicopter before it settled on the grass on the skirt of the parking lot. They carried Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns and shotguns and jogged to where Joe and Nate stood.

For a moment, Joe thought the agents might start firing, and he threw his shotgun aside and raised his hands. Nate did the same with his revolver.

The lead agent paused and made a hand signal for the agents to swarm the inn around him. As the second helicopter landed, more black-clad agents ran across the parking lot into the inn. When they were dispersed, the lead agent raised his face shield.
Coon.

Joe noticed that Coon glared at Nate with obvious contempt.

The conversation was heated and held mostly in shouts. Joe shouted that Critchfield, Smith, and Robert Whipple were dead,
Latta and his daughter were inside, and as far as he knew the violence was over. The sheriff and judge were likely on the run. Then he gestured toward the missing wall of the processing facility.

“Jesus Christ,” Coon said. His face blanched white as he recognized the bodies. “We've broken this thing wide open. But Jesus, that's disgusting.”

“You don't know the half of it,” Joe said.

“What about him?” Coon asked.

“He's working with us,” Joe shouted to Coon. “He's going to help you build the case, same as Latta. You'll need them.”

Joe insisted Nate had inside information and had in fact saved his life by confronting Whipple and taking him out. Coon yelled back that Nate was as bad as Whip, and just as guilty. Nate didn't say a word.

Finally, as the helicopters wound down and they could speak normally, Coon turned suspiciously to Nate and asked, “Will you help us throw Templeton into federal prison for the rest of his life?”

“I'll tell you what I know,” Nate said. “The throwing-into-a-cage part is up to you.”

Coon stepped back and shook his head, as if having an argument with himself. Then he looked up and asked Joe, “You'll vouch for him?”

“I trust him with my life and the lives of my family.”

“I can't promise anything,” Coon said to Nate. “You know that, right?”

Nate nodded.

“We'll see what we can do. The U.S. attorney will make the final call, not me. Now, if you'll both just hang tight, I'll go inside and set up a command center and coordinate a raid on the ranch to get
Templeton, and a couple of more teams to go after the sheriff and the judge. Then we'll all have a real long talk.”

•   •   •

T
HE MORNING AIR
smelled of smoke from the explosion and the exhaust fumes of two helicopters and a dozen SUVs. It was warming up nicely, though, and snow was sliding off the pitched roof of the inn to the ground below.

Joe leaned against the damaged front of his pickup as the adrenaline dissipated. He felt suddenly exhausted, and tried to count the hours since he'd last slept. He couldn't.

He didn't even note the high-pitched sound of an airplane overhead in the sky until he saw Nate had his head back, looking at it with interest.

“There he goes,” Nate said.

“Who?”

“Wolfgang Templeton and his new squeeze, Missy Vankueren.”

Joe nearly lost his footing.
“What?”

Before Nate could explain, Joe felt a vibration from the phone he had just turned back on in his pocket.

It was Sheridan, and she was panicked. “Dad, someone just saw Erik Young going up the stairwell to the roof with a rifle.”

Joe said with anguish to Sheridan, “I'm five hours away.”

Nate asked, “What's going on?”

Laramie, Wyoming

Past Douglas and somewhere over Laramie Peak in the Cessna Turbo 206H Stationair that belonged to Wolfgang Templeton, Joe said to Nate: “I didn't know you were a pilot.”

“Officially, I'm not,” Nate said. “But I've spent a lot of time in small planes. Plus, I observe how birds fly.”

Joe put his head in his hands. He was grateful they'd be able to quickly cover the 320 miles to Laramie. Nate had reported they were traveling at 220 knots, which meant nothing to Joe. Arriving in less than an hour and a half meant everything.

“Can you land it when we get there?” Joe asked.

“We'll see.”

•   •   •

T
HERE WERE
THREE PASSENGERS
in the plane. In addition to Joe and Nate was a woman named Liv Brannan who had been standing
on the edge of the private airstrip in tears with a duffel bag and a suitcase. Joe hadn't heard the conversation that went on between Brannan and Nate—he was on his phone with Sheridan—but he was surprised when Nate said they'd have company.

•   •   •

W
HEN THE
FEDERAL STRIKE FORCE
arrived at the Sand Creek Ranch earlier, Templeton's Gulfstream jet with Missy inside was long gone. While Agent Coon and his agents swarmed the ranch headquarters and gathered the confused staff, Nate had commandeered a ranch ATV and driven Joe to the airstrip. The air had been heavy with smoke from the burning lodge, which added enough confusion to the raid that they were able to slip away.

As the Cessna gathered speed on the strip and ascended, Joe looked down. The massive old lodge was engulfed in flames. By the time the rural fire department arrived there would likely be nothing left. Templeton had covered his tracks. Nate asked Brannan what had happened with the four men inside. Joe didn't pay any attention to the conversation. It could be sorted out later, he thought.

Over the radio, Joe could follow the progress of the FBI raids throughout Medicine Wheel County.

Judge Bartholomew was arrested in his home while he ate his morning oatmeal.

Sheriff Mead was stopped and arrested as he tried to escape in his personal Lincoln Continental.

Police Chief Dale Miller was in custody, but being flown to the Rapid City hospital due to massive blood loss.

All of them claimed they had no idea where Wolfgang Templeton had gone. In fact, they said they barely knew the man.

•   •   •

B
EFORE LOSING
HIS CELL SIGNAL,
Joe had been able to learn from Sheridan that the university had been locked down and all dorm residents had been ordered to stay in their rooms. She had talked to the student who'd seen Erik Young in the stairwell and reported it to campus police. The student knew nothing about guns, but said the rifle “kind of looked like a toy.” Joe guessed from that description that Young had the stolen Bushmaster, because that semiautomatic rifle had plastic composite stocks. It also had a high-capacity magazine filled with .223 rounds.

The Laramie Police Department and campus police had been called. The rumor mill was up and running. There were posts on Facebook and Twitter about up to a dozen victims thus far, but Sheridan said she'd not personally heard any shots from the roof of her building, and her floor was close enough, she thought, that she should have.

From her dorm room window, she could see police setting up a perimeter and sealing off the streets to traffic. The rumor was that a SWAT team was being assembled to storm the dormitory, but she couldn't see any signs of them yet.

Joe was proud of how calm Sheridan was, given the situation. He hoped
he
could hold it together as well as Sheridan had until they arrived.

But he wasn't sure what he'd do when they got there.

•   •   •

“
S
HE JUST
HELD HER HAND OUT
and said, ‘I don't think so,'” Liv Brannan said to Nate. “I was handing my bags up to Mr. T. on the
steps of the plane when she said it. At first he seemed confused. But he didn't argue with her. He just said, ‘Sorry, Liv,' and handed my bags back.”

“Sounds like her,” Nate said. “Doesn't it, Joe?”

Joe had half heard the conversation. He was thinking that instead of landing the plane at the airport west of town, they could buzz the dorm building itself. From their vantage point, they might be able to actually see Erik Young on top of the roof. He didn't think the Laramie PD had any helicopters of their own to put into the air, and if they had to call one in it would have to be from Cheyenne or Fort Collins, Colorado. Nate would no doubt have the Cessna on the scene before the choppers could arrive.

“I said, sounds like Missy, eh, Joe?”

Liv recounted for Joe the scene where Missy kept Liv out of the Gulfstream after Templeton had destroyed all his records and ordered the lodge torched.

“It does,” Joe said. “I still can't wrap my mind around the fact that Missy was right there on the ranch. I'd hoped she was out of our lives forever.”

“You should have known better,” Nate said.

“I should have, but I can't think about it right now.” To them both, he asked, “Where do you think Templeton is headed? I doubt he filed a flight plan.”

“You can count on that,” Nate said, rolling his eyes.

Liv said, “I wish I could tell you, but I can't. Mr. T. knows people all over the country and all over the world—wealthy people with private airstrips. I know because I've been with him for years and gone on plenty of trips with him. He'll be able to get to wherever he's going without getting close to any kind of commercial airport.”

Nate nodded. He said, “Templeton gave Whip and me a list of safe havens to go to if something went tits-up during an operation. We were supposed to stay there until the heat was off and he could come get us. The list is of Templeton's contacts: former clients, mostly. It reads like the society column in the
New York Times
. With that list, the Feds should be able to close a lot of cases. And no doubt they'll find Templeton.”

“So you do have something to bargain with,” Joe said.

“I do. I feel guilty about it, though. All those old operations were justified.”

Joe shook his head and didn't comment.

Joe could see the wheels in Nate's head were suddenly turning.

“Don't do it, Nate,” Joe said. “Don't even think about it. You gave your word and I gave mine. We shouldn't even be in this airplane right now. If you're thinking of skipping out after this . . .”

Nate shrugged.

Liv said, “What about Missy?”

Joe said, “What about her?”

•   •   •

A
FTER THE
LONGEST HOUR
of his life, Joe could see Laramie laid out before them like broken glass winking in the brown prairie. The snow-covered peaks of the Snowy Range rose to the west and the mountains of the massive Gangplank rose to the east, cradling the little college town between them. Nate lowered the altitude of the aircraft and aimed toward the small cluster of buildings on the eastern side of town. The University of Wyoming.

“That's where we're headed,” Nate told Liv. “The tallest building in Wyoming.”

“You're kidding!” she said with a whoop.

“Please,” Joe said sharply.

There were no other aircraft in the sky.

“We're going to be the first people to get a visual of the roof,” Joe said to Nate. “Let's not buzz him too close on the first pass. Let's see what we can see.”

“If the little bastard shoots at us, he's history,” Nate said, leveling on the approach.

White Hall seemed to be rushing toward them now, filling the cockpit windshield.

•   •   •

“
T
HERE HE
IS,”
Nate said, tilting the Cessna so Joe could see clearly through the pilot's-side window over Nate.

Erik Young was wearing the long, dark coat Joe recognized from before, and he was stalking across the top of the gravel-covered roof with a long rifle. The top of the building was flat except for large utility boxes and a cinder-block structure in the corner with a door in it, where Young had obviously accessed the roof. Young was moving from box to box and peering around them as if looking for adversaries.

What he
wasn't
doing was aiming at students below over the short wall abutment along the sides of the roof.

“What in the hell is he up to?” Nate asked.

“I don't know,” Joe said, confused. “He looks like he's hunting imaginary bad guys.”

“Does he even know we're up here?” Brannan asked from her seat directly behind them.

“Doesn't look like it,” Joe said.

“He better not raise that rifle,” Nate hissed.

“I'm getting a bad feeling about this,” Joe said.

•   •   •

A
FTER THEY'D
ZOOMED
by the campus, Nate began a long, sweeping bank in the sky to return.

“Lower this time, right?” Nate asked.

“Yes,” Joe said. “If nothing else, we can help keep him distracted until the SWAT team is on the roof.”

The radio in the Cessna crackled with bits of dialogue. National Guard choppers were on the way from Cheyenne and would be there momentarily. The officer in charge on the ground asked the chopper pilots if the single-engine aircraft in the sky over Laramie was with them, and the pilots responded that it wasn't.

“So who is flying that plane?” the officer asked.

“Air Romanowski!” Nate shouted in response. But he hadn't used the radio.

Joe grabbed the mic.

“This is Wyoming game warden Joe Pickett in the single-engine aircraft.”

There was a long pause.

The officer asked, “What are you doing up there?”

Joe said, “My daughter is in the building,” and signed off.

“Do you have a visual on the suspect?”

“Yes.”

“What can you tell us?”

“I'm not sure what to say,” Joe said. “He looks . . . confused.”

•   •   •

A
S THEY
APPROACHED THE DORMITORY
from the south, Nate pointed out the black-clad SWAT officers running into the ground-floor lobby from several white vans. The streets on all sides of the building were filled with police cars, sheriff's department vehicles, and campus police with lights flashing.

“I've seen enough storm troopers today to last me awhile,” Nate grumbled.

•   •   •

T
HEY NEARED
THE ROOF AGAIN
at lower elevation. Joe could see Young even more clearly than before. He was still moving from box to box, hunkering down, peering around corners. He seemed blithely unaware not only of the Cessna but also of the police presence twelve stories below.

There was no way, Joe thought, Young could not know about the dozens of SWAT officers thundering up the stairwell.

Young raised his rifle. Whatever he was aiming at was on the roof itself. And he wasn't pointing toward the access door where SWAT would emerge but directly away from it.

What looked like confetti rose from the corner of the roof where Young had been aiming. Joe was momentarily confused, until he realized it wasn't confetti but a big flock of pigeons.

“Oh no,” Joe said, his stomach clenching.

“What?” Nate asked.

Joe grabbed the mic: “Stand down, stand down! He's not shooting at students. He's hunting
pigeons
.”

“Oh shit,” Nate said, as the access door blew open and a swarm of
officers emerged on the roof with their weapons raised. Young apparently heard them and swung around, his weapon up. A dozen orange stars burst from the muzzles of automatic weapons.

Joe saw Young's long coat flutter up behind him as dozens of rounds passed through his body. Erik Young crumpled to the roof with his gun beside him.

The officer on the ground said, “Come again?”

“Too late,” Joe moaned, and slumped against the side window.