“I wouldn’t have done that,” Coon said, “but then, I wouldn’t have agreed to let Romanowski out of the basement for the rest of my natural life. Everywhere he goes, somebody winds up dead or with their ears twisted off. But this isn’t any secret to you.”

“No, it isn’t,” Joe said. “So who is the agent in charge?”

“His name is Stan Dudley.”

“Can you patch me through to him?”

“No can do,” Coon said. “The only way I can talk to him is if I go through the DOJ channels in D.C. That’s the way they have it set up. Besides, I don’t think he’s in the building. I think he’s hovering around Romanowski on his deathbed, hoping he’ll find out who shot him with your pal’s last words.”

“Dudley’s in Billings?”

“I think so,” Coon said. “That’s the last I heard. But don’t hold me to it. Like I said, Dudley’s operating on a separate track. Frankly, I don’t really like the man, but that’s neither here nor there. He probably doesn’t like me, either.”

Joe paused, then asked, “But do you know what’s going on? Why would they want Nate out? Not that I’m against it, but it doesn’t make sense to me.”

“Me, either,” Coon said. “I’ve heard some things, though. Governor Rulon wanted him out because, well, he likes him. He made Romanowski promise not to commit another felony in Wyoming. But for the feds—my understanding is they wanted to put him out there to serve as bait to Wolfgang Templeton. They wanted to snare Templeton when he came after Romanowski.”

“And Nate agreed to that?”

“Apparently,” Coon said. “He agreed to stay out of trouble, but it sounds like that didn’t last very long.”

“Nope,” Joe said. “Why is the DOJ even involved? Don’t they have enough on their plate these days?”

Coon snorted. “What I’m going to tell you is complete speculation on my part. And if you repeat where you heard it, you and I are going to have a problem.”

“Shoot,” Joe said.

“Some of Templeton’s victims were crony capitalists or friends of big fund-raisers for the current administration. It’s personal. Officials who shall remain nameless want revenge on Templeton and they want to shut him up. Simple as that. Romanowski is just a means to an end.”

Joe felt his ire rising once again. “So Templeton, or Templeton’s men, found Romanowski and they took him out? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I’m purely speculating. Who else would want him dead? I’m surprised they even knew that quickly he was out. Unless, of course, someone on the inside let them know.”

That possibility gave Joe an instant headache. “You mean like someone in your building?”

“Like I said, I’m speculating,” Coon said.

“Who else could it be?”

“Gee, I don’t know,” Coon said. “Maybe someone at DOJ tipped Templeton off. Maybe Templeton acted a lot more quickly than the bureaucracy thought possible and they weren’t prepared yet. Have you thought of that? We’re a big agency and we move slow. Someone may have started something that quickly went over their head.”

“They wouldn’t want anyone to know that,” Joe said. “There would be some big-time CYA action going on right now.”

Joe drove on. He could hear Coon breathing on the other end.

“Are you done?” Coon asked.

“I guess so. I’ve got a lot to think about.”

“You do.” Then, with his voice softening, Coon asked, “How’s your girl, Joe? I hear she’s in the same hospital.”

Joe brought Coon up to speed, and told him briefly about the calamity in the courtroom that morning.

Coon said, “It’s a good thing you’ve got Marybeth. If I had all that going on . . . I don’t know what the hell I’d do.”

Joe agreed.

“Chuck,” Joe said before punching off, “please let me know if you hear anything about Nate or Templeton.”

“Not officially,” Coon said. “But I may give you a call from time to time on your cell phone.”

“Thank you.”

“Hang in there, man,” Coon said.

12

April’s hospital room was dimly lit and quiet except for the muffled hum of the HVAC and an occasional soft click from one of the many electronic monitors hovering over her bed. Thin wires from embedded catheters coiled up from her head. She was being fed intravenously through a tube, and other tubes delivered hydration and medication. Additional tubes carried waste away into receptacles underneath the bed. Because she was so still, it seemed to Joe she was simply serving as a disinterested processing center for the transfer of incoming fluids.

Marybeth was with him when he entered the room and she stood behind him as he approached the bed.

“I haven’t seen her since she left,” he said, reaching out and brushing April’s cheek with the back of his hand. She was battered but sleeping, her expression untroubled. He could not tell from looking at her that she had brain trauma. Her hair was brushed neatly, although the part was wrong. How would the nurses know?

Joe listened as Marybeth explained the procedure the doctors had undertaken, and she pointed out what the readings on the monitors meant. She showed Joe the all-important readout that would indicate an increase—or decrease—in brain activity when she was brought out of the coma.

He found April’s limp hand under the blanket. It was warm but unresponsive.

“I’ve seen her eyelids flutter a couple of times,” Marybeth said softly. “That’s not supposed to happen unless there’s brain activity. But when I asked, I was told the monitors didn’t pick it up. But I swear I saw it happen.”

Joe looked over. He believed her, of course. But he didn’t want to read too much into it.

“She’s got great doctors and nurses,” Marybeth said. “They’ll look out for her. They know to call or text me the minute they determine they want to bring her back, or if her situation changes in any way. I want to make sure I’m here if either happens.”

Joe nodded. He had trouble speaking. His job was to take care of his family, to protect them. He hated it that there was nothing he could do to help April now. Her fate was up to doctors he didn’t know, to April herself, and to God. He could only hope that somewhere in her sleeping body she had the ability and the will to get better.

He leaned down close enough to April that he could smell her hair. It smelled medicinal, not like it used to smell. She belonged to the hospital now. He started to say something, but his throat was constricted.

He rose and took a deep breath. Then two.

After a few moments, he leaned back down to her and said, “I just wish you could wake up and tell me who did this to you. I’ll get the man who did it.”

He hoped against hope for a fluttering of her eyelids or a sign—any sign—of a reaction.

Nothing.

Marybeth reached under the covers and gently placed her hand on Joe’s. She whispered to him, “Don’t you dare lose hope.”

—

IN THE HALLWAY, Joe said to Marybeth, “Do you know where Nate is?”

“They haven’t let me see him.”

“Who told you that?”

She said, “There’s a special agent in charge. Kind of an unpleasant man, if you ask me. I know there are rules about only family members in ICU, but . . .”

“Is his name Stan Dudley?”

“He didn’t introduce himself.”

Joe said, “Let’s go find him.”

—

SHRI RECKLING had just come on the night shift and she agreed to help them. She used her key card to open the secure ICU door. When the nurse on duty looked up to see three people come into the hallway, Reckling said, “It’s okay. They’re with me.”