“But…”
“I said,” Nate whispered, “go over there with them.”
When the four of them stood shoulder to shoulder, Nate got up and marched them into the great room.
Judge Bartholomew said, “Mr. Templeton would not approve.”
“No talking,” Nate said. He ordered Mead and Chief Miller to sit on the bottom two steps of the staircase, and Biolchini and the judge to stand on the other side of the thick iron railing.
“Take out your cuffs and give me your keys,” Nate said to the two law enforcement officers.
After collecting the keys, Nate told the men on the stairs to snap one of the handcuffs on their outside wrists and pass their arms through the railing. Biolchini rolled his eyes, as if he weren’t going to participate in the game, but Nate cocked the hammer back on his revolver and raised it to fire.
Biolchini and the judge scrambled to lock the open cuffs on their own wrists.
As they did, Templeton entered the room holding a leather notebook. He assessed the situation and said to Nate, “You’ve completely ruined the evening.”
Nate said, “Clear out your shit and be gone by the time I get back here. I’m giving you this one chance only.”
The reaction on Templeton’s face was one of regret.
“Yeah,” Nate said. “Me too.”
He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and wheeled toward the men on the staircase. Miller was clumsily hiking up his pants leg to reach for a small semiautomatic in an ankle holster.
Nate blew his leg off.
Miller screamed and tried to stanch the blood from the stump, and Biolchini simply fainted to the floor.
As he walked through the great room toward the door with his weapon in his hand, Nate kicked Miller’s detached shin and throw-down across the floor. From the level above, he heard Liv scream and Missy call out, “Wolfie, is everything all right down there? Wolfie!”
Liv appeared at the top of the stairs. She said, “Nate, what happened?”
He stopped and ejected the empty casing and replaced it with live .500 caliber cartridges. “I ended the dinner party.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. “Is Mr. T….?”
“He’s all right,” Nate said, glancing toward the dining room. Templeton still stood holding his notebook in stunned disbelief. He shook his head slowly to an internal monologue.
Nate said, “He’ll be leaving this place soon because everything has just blown up. It’s over. You better pack up as well.”
Missy joined her, wearing a purple silk bathrobe. Her face was set in cold rage.
“You son of a bitch,” she seethed. “I should have known this would happen. You’re no better than Joe.”
Nate said, “Actually, he’s better than me.”
Liv said to Nate, “But what about us?”
“There is no us. Every time there’s an us, I lose somebody who didn’t need to die. I’m toxic, and you deserve better.”
Liv’s eyes flashed. “So that’s the decision you’ve made?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“What if I don’t agree with it?”
Nate said, “I wish you’d trust me on this. All of this is over, including you and me.”
He forced himself to turn his back on her as he walked to the door.
Behind him, in the saddest voice imaginable, he heard Templeton say, “Somebody get a hacksaw.”
28
“Hit me again,” Latta said to Joe after spitting blood out of his mouth into the snow, “and this time make it count.”
“You’re kidding me, right?” Joe said, feeling nauseated. He’d already used the butt of his shotgun to pop Latta solidly in the nose. The dull crack of bone sickened him. The blow had staggered Latta, but the game warden straightened up and stepped forward and asked for more.
“No,” Latta said. “Lay me out. The only chance Em and I have with them is if they’re convinced you jumped me and got away. So it has to look like you really jumped me. And damn it, Joe, do it before Emily hears us and looks outside.”
Joe winced and drew the shotgun back, the butt aimed at Latta’s bloody face. He hesitated.
“Do it! Pretend I’m somebody else. Somebody you hate.”
Joe searched his memory for anyone who could call up that kind of violent urge. His mother-in-law, Missy, flashed through his mind, but he knew he could never bash an older woman — even her — with a shotgun.
Nevertheless…
It had been Latta’s idea they fake an assault so Joe could escape alone. Better that, he thought, than the three of them fleeing down the mountain on the only access road and running into Templeton’s men on their way up. Latta told Joe that Sheriff Mead’s office was probably already on the radio getting a team together to raid the cabin. Joe was astonished to hear that law enforcement in Medicine Wheel County operated in the open when it came to dealing with threats to Templeton and that Latta was just a cog in a much larger machine. Knowing this, Joe agreed to the strategy although it meant he had to trust Latta — as well as get off the mountain on his own.
Joe insisted on an addition to the plan: that Latta tell Templeton’s men that Joe was headed for the Black Forest Inn to gather his belongings and regroup. Latta agreed with the strategy. Joe didn’t tell Latta the reason for the wrinkle.
“What about Emily?” Joe had asked earlier in the evening. They were at the dinner table with the open bottle of Evan Williams between them. Daisy was curled up on a rug in front of the fireplace and Emily was sleeping in the bedroom. “Can she lie well enough to pull it off? She seems like a bad liar to me.”
Latta assured Joe that Emily was a bad liar.
“So are my girls,” Joe said. “Two of ’em, anyway.”
“She can do it if I explain to her what’s going on. If she knows that if she gives up the game, they might kill me and hurt her. I’ll be honest with her.”
Joe was skeptical.
Latta said, “She’s gonna find out about what her father did one way or another. I’d rather it be from me, so she at least knows why I did it. She needs to know I made mistakes but now I’m making it right.”
Joe reluctantly agreed because he couldn’t see a better option. He didn’t want to try and make a stand at the cabin. Templeton’s men could fill it full of holes or burn them out. And it would put Emily in harm’s way. Also, if the three of them tried to get down the mountain and encountered the thugs, there could be a bloodbath. He jotted down the cell phone number for Chuck Coon on a napkin and slid it over to Latta.
“Call him and let him know what’s going on. Tell him where I’ll be, because I doubt I’ll have any cell service on the way down.”
Latta agreed.
Latta had located an ancient snow machine — a 1989 Polaris Indy Sport 340cc — in a shed next to the cabin. It was in bad shape, but they were able to get it started by spraying fuel directly into the carburetor. It was now fueled up and ready to go. Joe found a moth-eaten snowmobile suit and a pair of bulky boots that fit him hanging inside the shed.
“Let’s go outside,” Latta said with resignation, after taking a long pull of the bottle.
Joe said, “I can’t do it. You’re already bleeding like a stuck pig. You’re hurt bad enough to convince them, I think.”
Latta rolled his eyes and said with contempt, “Good. Don’t do it, Joe. Get me killed and Emily, too.”
Joe grunted and hit Latta hard in the chin with the butt of the shotgun. Latta went down to his knees holding his face in his hands. Streams of blood pulsed between his fingers and darkened the snow in front of him. He said something garbled that Joe translated as, “You busted my jaw.”