As he climbed off the tractor he saw that he had messed up. A slim hand stuck up out of the ground. One of the bodies must have rolled over and gotten pushed up to the surface. He climbed back on the tractor, turned the key.

The tractor wouldn’t start. There had been a loose wire in the tractor for weeks. Sometimes it started in seconds, sometimes it took twenty minutes. Right now he didn’t have twenty minutes.

His phone rang.

“What’s the holdup?” Mr. Wilmot said. “The plane is standing by. Wheels up in an hour.”

“I’m on my way,” Collier said.

He jumped off the tractor, walked over to the hand. He felt sure that it was Amalie’s hand—slim, long-fingered, delicate. He was about to cover it with dirt when he was seized by an urge he couldn’t overcome. For the umpteenth time he looked around to make sure no one was watching him. Then he got on his hands and knees and sniffed the hand. It had no distinct smell. He hesitated, then his tongue darted out and he licked one of the fingers. It had a mild earthy taste, like a lightly salted mushroom. He felt pleased and embarrassed at the same time. He did not want to be caught at this by Mr. Wilmot.

He stood, kicked a few clods of frozen black dirt around the hand. It would have been better to retrieve a shovel from the building and cover the hand completely with dirt. But the ground he had replaced was already frozen solid. Even if he got the shovel, it could take him half an hour to chop enough dirt free to cover the hand.

No, it wasn’t worth the effort. Nobody would be out here for weeks. And by then it would be too late.

Evan rolled his wheelchair out into the yard as John Collier and his father loaded their bags into the Cadillac. The cold was bracing, and Evan watched the men huff with their effort. In addition to their suitcases, Collier had loaded in a sort of wheeled caddy containing two shiny canisters. The canisters resembled propane tanks but were slightly taller. Stenciled on the side of each one were red letters reading: R410A REFRIGERANT.

Wilmot spotted Evan and walked toward him. “Well, we’re about to head off.”

“So I see,” Evan said. “You never really told me where you were going.”

“DC,” Wilmot said. “We’re making a presentation to the DOE, meeting with Senator Elbert, Congressman Dade, a couple of other folks. Frankly we’ve reached a point where the ethanol project is just not going to make economic sense without some legislative help.”

Evan nodded but said nothing.

“Margie will take care of you while we’re gone,” his father said.

“I’ll be fine,” said Evan.

“I’ve given her specific instructions.”

His father didn’t move but simply continued to look down at Evan. His face, usually so focused and guarded, seemed momentarily vulnerable and open.

Then he smiled, leaned over, and wrapped his arms around Evan. He squeezed Evan very hard, not letting go for a long time. When finally he did let go and straightened up, Evan was shocked to see tears in the old man’s eyes.

“You’re a good son and a fine man,” Wilmot said. “And I want you to know, I love you very much.”

Taken aback by his father’s uncharacteristic display of affection, Evan asked, “You okay, Dad?”

“I’m fine. Better than I’ve been in a long time.” Evan searched his father’s face for clues, trying to connect this sudden emotion with whatever strange secret he and Collier were keeping. Wilmot continued: “For the longest time I felt so angry about what had been taken from you. I felt like it was my own damn legs that were gone, my own face . . .” He trailed off, a sudden swell of emotion threatening his composure. “But now I’ve made my peace with it. You and me—in our own ways we’re all soldiers fighting for a better future. In our own ways, we all have been called to make our sacrifices.”

“Green energy,” Evan said, pointing at the canisters that Collier was still wrestling into the Cadillac. “Rock on, man.”

His father’s jaw clenched for a moment. “Just know that I love you, that’s all.” Then he turned and walked back to join John Collier at the Cadillac.

He said something roughly to Collier, who slammed the trunk shut. Collier glanced momentarily at Evan, a peevish, resentful expression on his face. Then the two men climbed in the car and drove away.

Evan watched until the car disappeared. Although he didn’t quite know why, he felt a rising dread and fear.

“Everything’s squared away, right?” Wilmot said. “The women are taken care of?”

“It’s done,” Collier said peevishly. He was tired of Wilmot hounding him all the time.

Wilmot stared impassively out the windshield, powering the big car just fast enough that Collier could feel it sliding a little in the snowy turns.

“I don’t have to tell you what that shit will do if we crash into a tree,” Collier said.

Wilmot said nothing. He flipped on the radio, tuned it to the news talk station in Coeur d’Alene.

“In t#82 Q8220;In today’s top story,” the man said. “The standoff in West Virginia appears to be over. Three FBI men are dead, and nine members of the so-called Seventh West Virginia (True) Militia are dead. According to FBI Deputy Director Raymond Dahlgren, two remaining suspects are wanted for questioning—the leader of the militia group, self-appointed Colonel James G. Verhoven, and his wife Lorene Taylor Verhoven.”

“Jesus,” Collier said. He could feel his breathing go shallow and rapid. “Oh, Jesus. What are we going to do?”

“Now’s not the time to panic,” Wilmot said calmly. “Call the emergency number, see if you can raise him.”

Collier took a deep breath. Just the sound of Wilmot’s voice calmed him.

“Right, right. Sorry. I’ll call him on a burner.”

He reached into his briefcase, pulled out one of the disposable cell phones they had reserved specifically for calling Verhoven, and punched in the number.

“No answer,” he said, his voice going high and nervous. “What are we going to do if Verhoven can’t execute?”

“Calm down,” Wilmot said, his deep voice as serene and certain as if he were talking about the weather. “If the Feds had found out anything from them, there’d be guys in black fast-roping out of choppers onto our heads. We’re fine.”

“Yes, sir.” Collier took a breath and closed his eyes, focusing on the thousands of details he’d committed to memory—air-flow calculations, duct schematics—until slowly his pulse returned to normal.

25

SOUTHERN WEST VIRGINIA

Tillman Davis wound through the mountains for twenty miles, heading south toward Virginia. He wasn’t sure where Verhoven wanted to go, but he knew they needed to put some distance between themselves and the compound before showing their faces.

Gideon's War and Hard Target

Finally he pulled into an old gas station, parking the...

“How’s she doing?” Tillman said.

Verhoven’s face was grim. He shook his head.

“I was cross-trained as a medical corpsman,” Tillman said. “We need to get her to a safe place. A hotel room would probably be best. I can do a few things for her, hopefully keep her stable.”

Verhoven wiped his forehead. “I need to make a phone call,” he said. “Keep her comfortable, okay?”

Tillman tried to help Lorene from the bed of the trailer into the truck. She was pale and shaking, too weak to walk, so he had to pick her up and set her inside the truck.

As he got her situated, he tried to listen to the conversation Verhoven was having on the phone. But Verhoven had walked out of earshot to a nearby Dumpster.

Verhoven thumbed thedicccccc T‡ number he had committed to memory on one of the burners he was carrying. Wilmot answered after the first ring. Although he kept his voice even, it was pitched with tension.

“Where are you?”

“Twenty miles from my place,” Verhoven said.

“It’s all over the damn news. Did this have something to do with that snitch, Mixon?”