Joe asked Butch if he’d changed his mind about his confession.

Roberson said he hadn’t.

“I need to ask you about representation,” Butch said. “I don’t know anything about being a criminal. I’m supposed to show up tomorrow before Judge Hewitt for a charging ceremony or whatever they call it. I built an addition on Hewitt’s house. He knows me, so I think that’s good. The county has said they’d give me a lawyer free of charge.”

“Duane Patterson,” Joe said. “He’s the public defender. He hasn’t handled any high-profile cases like yours.”

“He seems like a nice guy, though.”

“He is,” Joe said. “You could do worse.”

“I got a call from some public defense firm,” Butch said. “They said they have a team of lawyers who want to screw the EPA. I’m fine with that. I was starting to wonder if there was anyone out there who cared at all what they did to us.”

“That’s good to hear,” Joe said.

Butch shook his head. “It’s kind of out of my hands now, isn’t it? Now I’m just a peon in the system.”

“There are some good people out there,” Joe said. “You should at least listen to them. Even if they take you on to prove a point, it’s your point.”

—

THEN JOE ASKED HIM if he knew the name Harry S. Blevins.

It took a moment for Butch to understand. When he did, his face flushed and he said, “That son of a bitch. So it was him, huh?”

“I think it was,” Joe said.

“Then why didn’t he ever call me? Why didn’t he talk to me man-to-man?”

Joe said, “I don’t think they do that.”

—

“SO WHAT do you want me to do?” Nate asked as Joe turned past the half-burned sign for Aspen Highlands. “Do you want me to put him down?”

“No,” Joe said, not sure if Nate was kidding. “Just be scary. Follow my lead and be the scary Nate.”

“I think I can do that.”

—

A TEAM OF SMOKE JUMPERS out of Missoula had been dropped on the location and had saved the structures within Aspen Highlands by igniting a backfire around the perimeter of the subdivision that destroyed the dry fuel before the wildfire could get to it. The crowns of many of the trees had burned, though, as well as a buck-and-rail fence that marked the development. Aspen Highlands was an oasis of green within a desert of scorched earth. Joe credited the smoke jumpers, of course, but wondered who had the clout to convince them to divert resources to spare the development when the wildfire was threatening every town and city throughout the front range of the northern Rocky Mountains.

Joe eased to a stop adjacent to the Roberson lot. The tractor was still there, and the hole where the agents had been found hadn’t been filled in. The grass inside the perimeter tape was trampled down flat by so many law enforcement personnel.

“This is where it happened, eh?” Nate asked quietly.

“Yup.”

“I imagined more land. This isn’t much.”

Joe nodded. He left the truck running and opened the door and said, “I’ll be right back.”

He returned with the faded plywood target that had been nailed to a tree. He tossed it into the empty bed of his pickup.

“What was that about?” Nate asked.

“Nothing,” Joe said. Then he gestured toward the two-story log cabin above them with the green metal roof. He remembered looking at it the day the agents were found.

“That’s the retirement home of Harry Blevins,” Joe said.

“Nice place,” Nate said.

“Nice pension,” Joe said.

—

THERE WAS A NEW-MODEL Jeep Cherokee parked beneath a carport on the side of the cabin.

“He’s home,” Joe said.

“Does he live alone?” Nate asked.

“As far as I know. From what Matt Donnell told me, he’s divorced. He splits his time between here and Denver, where he also has a house.”

“What’s he retired from?” Nate asked.

“Used to be a supervisor for the IRS.”

“Please let me shoot him in the head.”

—

JOE WASN’T SURPRISED that Blevins knew they were there before he knocked. It was quiet in Aspen Highlands, and Blevins no doubt heard the pickup turn up into his driveway.

He opened the door as Joe approached carrying the shotgun. Nate was a step behind.

Blevins was stooped and slight with a wisp of gray hair. He had close-set eyes, a thin nose, and a small mouth offset by a prominent lantern jaw. Joe thought the man gave off a palpable aura of unpleasantness.

“Can I help you find something?” the man said. “Why are you armed?”

“You’re Harry S. Blevins?” Joe asked.

“Yes. And who are you?”

“I’m Joe Pickett. I used to be the game warden around here. You might have seen me wearing a red uniform shirt a week and a half ago. I was standing around on the Roberson lot with the sheriff’s department. I’m guessing you could see the whole thing from here.”

Blevins made a sour face and shook his head slightly, as if denying the premise of what Joe had said.

“I wanted to see what you looked like, once I figured it out. You look exactly like I thought you would.”

“I don’t hunt or fish,” he said. “There’s no need for a game warden to come to my place.”

“I’m no longer a game warden,” Joe said. “I’m here as a local.”

“You got fired?”

“I quit. Which means I don’t have to play by the rules anymore.”

Blevins studied Joe’s face. Joe didn’t flinch. He noticed that Blevins shot several cautious glances toward Nate as well. Nate had that effect on people.

Blevins said, “It’s nice to meet you, but I really don’t have time for this right now.”

Joe said, “When the investigation was going on, did you see me when I turned around and looked right at your nice cabin here? Did a little bit of fear go through you that I might figure it out?”

“Really, I don’t have time for this . . .” Blevins said, and stepped back to swing the door closed.

Nate lurched over Joe’s shoulder and shot his arm out and stopped the closure with the heel of his hand. Nate said, “My friend is talking to you. Don’t be so fucking rude.”

For the first time, fear flickered across Blevins’s eyes.

“You didn’t want your view of the lake blocked by the Roberson home,” Joe said. “You got a call from a man who said he could help you if you agreed to keep him informed on the progress of the construction.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His voice was weak and small, Joe thought, and betrayed exactly the opposite of the words he spoke.

Joe said, “I wondered how you knew Julio Batista, but he actually contacted you, didn’t he? Because you had a mutual interest? Then you and Batista set things in motion and you just sat back here in your nice cabin and let the system destroy Butch.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Blevins said.

“Whatever. But there’s no doubt you lit the Butch Roberson time bomb.”

“I didn’t know he’d murder anyone. I honestly had no idea that could happen.”

Joe hesitated, then asked, “Did you see him pull the trigger?”

“No. I was in town the day it happened.”

“Convenient,” Joe said. Then: “You never spent a minute getting to know him, did you? As far as you knew, he was a redneck in a ball cap, right? You didn’t know he was a local contractor who had a family, did you? To you he was a stupid gorilla who fired up his loud tractor and wanted to screw up your perfect view of the lake. And when things got out of control, you didn’t do anything to stop it, did you? When Butch showed up here two weeks ago and started up his tractor after a year of leaving you alone, you got right back on the phone, didn’t you?”

Before Blevins could speak, Nate growled, “What an asshole.”

Joe said to Blevins, “Five men dead, one man in jail, a good family wrecked. Thousands of animals and birds burned to death. An entire forest incinerated. You’re quite a guy, aren’t you?”

“Look,” Blevins said, panic in his voice, “I’m not responsible for all the things that happened. I was just making a call.”