Joe said, “It’ll be interesting when Butch Roberson’s attorneys find out about you and put you on the stand. Once people find out what you did, you’ll spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder. Right, Nate?”
“And you might see me,” Nate said in a homicidal whisper.
“You can’t prove any of this,” Blevins said. Beads of perspiration sequined his upper lip. He swiveled his head toward Nate and said, “So who are you?”
Joe cringed because he’d seen raw red meat tossed to problem grizzlies before—and this was the same thing.
But there was a hesitation on Nate’s part. Then an explosion. Nate shot his hand out and grasped Blevins’s ear and twisted. The man cried out and bent forward. Nate leaned into him with his huge gun drawn and pressed the muzzle into Blevins’s temple.
“I can twist your ear off your head or blow your brains to Nebraska,” Nate said evenly. “Or I can do both, one after the other, which is my preference.”
Blevins mewled and choked, his head down. Joe considered stopping it, but he didn’t want to.
Nate leaned in closer to Blevins, and thumbed back the hammer of the .50-caliber revolver until it locked.
Nate said to Blevins, “I’ve torn apart men much better than you with my hands. I’ve twisted their noses and ears off and I’ve ripped their arms and legs out of the sockets and beat them over their heads with them. I like doing it to those who deserve it, that’s what you need to understand. You deserve it more than most. So if you don’t start singing right now to my friend Joe, you’ll be eating your own nuts in less than ten seconds. Got that?”
Joe was stunned. But he appreciated it.
Blevins mewled like a cat, then said, “I called Julio when Roberson showed up with his tractor. I never knew what would happen.”
“That’s why those agents showed up so fast,” Joe said. “It’s been driving me crazy. So when did you last talk to Batista?”
“Why is that important?”
Nate twisted the muzzle into Blevins’s temple, breaking the skin. Blevins cried out.
“Answer the question,” Joe said.
“A couple of days ago. He called me and asked if I knew anything about Pam Roberson giving a press conference today.”
Joe knew all about it because Marybeth had written the release and emailed it to every newspaper and electronic media outlet within five hundred miles.
“What did you tell him?” Joe asked.
“That it was scheduled for this afternoon.”
“Did he ask for directions to her house?”
After a beat, Blevins said, “Yes.”
Nate’s finger tightened on the trigger.
“Please, dear God, get him off me,” Blevins pleaded.
Nate looked to Joe and grinned. Joe was unsettled. Something had happened to Nate to drive him further over the moral line he’d always insisted was there. Joe had no doubt that if he said, “Waste him,” Blevins would be history. Headless history.
Instead, Joe drew his new digital recorder out of his breast pocket and checked it and showed it to Blevins.
“You’ll hear this again in court.”
Blevins, still in Nate’s headlock, looked up with equal measures of horror and confusion.
—
ON THEIR WAY back to Joe’s house, Nate said, “There are too many assholes like that. This is why we need a revolution.”
Joe didn’t respond. He’d been able to contain his red-hot anger at Blevins while he was there in order to get the evidence, but it had been tough work. Nate’s overreaction had skewed things.
“I’m worried about you,” Joe said, not looking over to Nate in the passenger seat.
“What? You thought I’d blow his brains out?”
“Yes.”
“You told me to be scary. You told me to be Nate,” he said angrily.
“Still,” Joe said. “I got the impression you really wanted to do it.”
“I did,” Nate said quickly. “There’s nothing worse on this earth than privileged bureaucratic assholes who work the system. They never get caught, and if they do, there are no real consequences. I wanted to show that asshole some consequences.”
“I understand,” Joe said. “But he’ll be shunned—or worse—when his name gets out and folks find out he’s the one who started all this. He’ll wish he was in jail.”
“Then we’re cool?” Nate asked.
Joe was unclear how to answer.
Nate said, “I saw Marybeth’s post on that website, asking me for help. You don’t understand or want to know my situation these days, but when I saw that she asked for help I dropped everything and showed up. So cut me a fucking break, Joe. I did it for you.”
“And I appreciate it,” Joe said.
“We can always go back,” Nate offered. “I could blow him away and burn his house down.”
Joe shook his head and said, “I’m tired of fires. Plus, we’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
He drew his cell phone out and called Marybeth at home.
“Honey, are Hannah or Pam Roberson still there?”
“Hannah is here, of course,” Marybeth said. “Pam’s going over her statement for the press conference later. I think there will be plenty of press, based on the calls we’ve received.”
“Good for her.”
—
ANOTHER CALL FLASHED on the screen of Joe’s phone, and when he saw who it came from, he said to Marybeth, “I have to take this—it’s Sheriff Reed.”
“Call later.”
“I will.” Then: “Sheriff.”
“Joe, you were right. We pulled him over as soon as he crossed the county line and he’s sitting in my interrogation room, demanding his lawyer.”
“Was he packing?”
“He had a loaded twelve-gauge shotgun in the backseat.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” Joe said, and punched off.
Nate had an expectant look on his face.
“It worked,” Joe said. “The press conference flushed him out.”
Nate nodded with satisfaction. He said, “Drop me off at your place. As much as I’d love to go with you and brace that asshole, I can’t be seen by all the coppers.”
Joe agreed and smiled to himself.
It worked.
36
JOE PUSHED THROUGH THE DOUBLE DOORS OF THE vestibule into the reception area of the Twelve Sleep County Sheriff’s Department and nodded a greeting to Wendy the dispatcher, who waved back. The walls inside were decorated with elk, deer, and antelope heads as well as mounted trophy trout that needed dusting.
“Mike in?” he asked.
“He’s in his office waiting for you,” she said. Then, looking him over: “It’s strange not to see you wearing your uniform.”
“Feels strange, too,” Joe said. He strode around the counter and saw Sheriff Reed wheel out of his office to greet him.
“He’s in there?” Joe asked, gesturing toward the closed door of the interrogation room.
“We’re watching him on the monitor,” Reed said. “He’s fidgety, to say the least.”
Reed backed his wheelchair into his office and Joe followed. Deputy Justin Woods, evidence tech Gary Norwood, and Dulcie looked up from where they sat on folding chairs in front of a television monitor. The black-and-white image was of Juan Julio Batista seated at a bare table. He was aware of the camera lens above him and glanced at it furtively.
Dulcie looked concerned. She was a famously by-the-book county attorney. Joe grinned at her in an effort to reassure her she’d have a clean prosecution, that not too many rules had been broken. That this might flirt with entrapment but not quite cross over the line.
He held up his digital recorder. “It was Blevins working with Batista.”
To Norwood, Joe said, “When you transcribe this, you’ll want to leave out the threats.”
Norwood smiled and Dulcie moaned.
“Don’t worry, Dulcie, you can lose the tape and the transcription later. You won’t even need it.”
Joe turned to the image of Batista. He looked small, pale, and nervous. There was an ugly red welt over his right eye.