He looked up at Joe, and the ambient light from errant flashlights highlighted the spray of stress wrinkles that fanned out from the corners of his eyes.

Reed said, “Cudmore thinks of himself as a patriot and survivalist type, but he’s just a walking bundle of paranoid conspiracy theories. He moved here two or three years ago from southern Illinois, I think, hoping to find a bunch of like-minded individuals. For the most part, I think he was disappointed.

“I’ve heard him go on at city council meetings about the Trilateral Commission, the Bilderbergers, Agenda 21, all that crap. He’s a 9/11 truther who thinks Bush and Cheney brought down the towers so they could invade Iraq for oil. Cudmore’s politics are all over the map. We threw him out of the local Tea Party because he’s such a lunatic.”

“We?” Joe asked.

“I’m on board with my largest constituency,” Reed said, a little on the defensive. “You know that.”

Wyoming had a larger per capita membership in the Tea Party than any other state.

“What does he do for a living?” Joe asked.

“He can run a backhoe, I guess. But basically he does a whole lot of nothing,” Reed said, shaking his head. “He’s supposedly got some kind of disability and he lives off welfare payments.”

Joe said, “He hates the government but lives off welfare?”

“Yeah, I know,” Reed said.

Joe gestured to Reed to continue.

“You’ve never run into him?” the sheriff asked. “He drives an army-surplus Humvee. Bumper stickers and signs all over it?”

Joe now recalled the Humvee and some of the messages on it: KILL A COMMIE FOR MOMMY, 9/11 WAS AN INSIDE JOB, THE TREE OF LIBERTY MUST BE REFRESHED FROM TIME TO TIME WITH THE BLOOD OF TYRANTS, RON PAUL FOR PRESIDENT, ONE NATION UNDER CCTV, OBAMA LOVES AMERICA LIKE O.J. LOVED NICOLE. A miniature Gadsden flag flew from the radio antenna.

“That’s his?” Joe said. “Yeah—I’ve seen it around town. But I guess he’s not a hunter or a fisherman, because I’ve never run across him out in the field in my district. I’ll run a license check, but if he was a sportsman I think I would know it. I thought survivalists hunted at least. How else would they survive?”

“Some, like Tilden Cudmore, buy their five years’ supply of food and have it delivered by UPS,” Reed said. “We should assume Cudmore is armed and dangerous. He’s an open-carry type—wears a .357 revolver in a holster over his coat. He’s been thrown out of county commissioners’ meetings because he refuses to take it off.”

“Any sex crimes on his record?” Joe asked softly, looking over to make sure Lucy was still in his pickup. She was.

“No,” Reed said with a sigh. “No felonies at all. A few DUIs, resisting arrest, refusing to comply—that sort of thing. I think he’s in the middle of a tax dispute with the IRS, but they haven’t involved our department. So his misdemeanor convictions have been for civil disobedience stuff—except for the DUIs. But, as I told you earlier, we’ve had a few calls about him cruising way below the speed limit out on the interstate. He alarms people when they see him driving around in that Humvee of his. But we’ve never had a reason to arrest him for it.

“I sent an officer out here once to ask him why he drives around like that. Cudmore claimed he was looking for beer cans and bottles to claim the deposit on them. That doesn’t exactly square with his personality, but that’s what he said.”

“Is he prowling for hitchhikers?” Joe asked.

“That would be my guess,” Reed said. “But again, the first time we’ve ever received a report of him forcing someone into his car came a few hours ago. Thank goodness the RP put two and two together and let us know.”

Joe asked, “Who is the reporting party?”

“A female. I’m not sure she identified herself to the dispatcher.”

“Can we find out?” Joe asked.

“We’ll have a recording,” Reed said, looking skeptically at Joe. “Why—what are you thinking?”

Joe shrugged.

“Anyway,” Reed said, “we’ve put out a statewide BOLO on him and his Humvee. He won’t get far if he stays in that vehicle. It’s a rolling billboard.”

Deputy Boner appeared from the dark and held a cell phone out to Reed. “Chief Williamson for you.”

Reed frowned and shook his head before taking it.

“Yes, Rocky,” Reed said.

Joe could only hear Reed’s side of the conversation, but he got the gist of what was going on.

“No, we’ve got it handled. There’s no need for that now . . .

“I’d say sit tight and put your resources into finding Cudmore . . .

“I know he’s always armed, but sending that thing out here might play into his worldview and set him off, you know? I’d rather not do that . . .

“I understand. You’re just offering help and I appreciate that. But we’ve got the situation under control.”

Reed punched off and handed the phone back to Boner. To Joe, he said, “Our overeager police chief offered to send out his new toy. I politely declined.”

Joe rolled his eyes.

The Saddlestring Police Department, like so many police departments across the country, had received a twenty-ton military MRAP—a mine-resistant ambush protected vehicle—from the Pentagon and the Department of Homeland Security the month before. The vehicle had been designed for and used in the Iraq War. Although it had cost the government more than a half-million dollars, it was given to Chief Williamson and his six-person police department free of charge. Helmets, body armor, combat boots, and camouflage uniforms were also provided. Williamson, who was as eager to make a show of force as Sheriff Reed was to refrain from it, had also procured a .50-caliber machine gun for the turret on top.

To Joe’s knowledge, the MRAP had been used twice: once to arrest a meth cook operating out of a garage, and also to serve papers on a derelict ex-husband for failure to pay child support. There had been a column in the Saddlestring Roundup by Chief Williamson apologizing for the damage to curbs, gutters, and lawns the MRAP had crushed en route, as well as a vow to only use it in the future for more appropriate situations.

—

JOE LEFT REED to check on Lucy. It had gotten cooler. Hard pellets of snow came in waves, bouncing off the windshields and the packed ground.

It was then that he remembered the plight of the sage grouse twins.

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and called Annie Hatch.

“I’m really sorry,” he said. “Something came up. I can be up there in a couple of hours—”

“Fuck you!” Wentworth screamed back. He’d obviously snatched the phone from Hatch. “Don’t even bother. We found Lek Sixty-four just after the snow paused for a few minutes, and we managed to find the road, no thanks to you.”

Joe punched off before he said something he’d later regret.

—

TEN MINUTES LATER, a set of bright headlights appeared on the access road. Because of his job and the long nights he had spent perching and patrolling his district, Joe had become a student of headlights in the dark. He could discern the make and model of an off-road vehicle by the spacing, height, and intensity of the headlamps. They were like faces to him. These headlights were far apart and higher and brighter than normal, and Joe shouted, “It looks like a Hummer!”

“Oh shit,” Reed said. “Here he comes.”

As he wheeled toward his van, Reed said to his officers, “Get ready for anything. Think of your safety first—and no hero antics. We just want to take him in and question him at this point.”

Deputies jogged toward their vehicles with their hands on their weapons.

Joe grasped Dulcie by the arm and guided her toward his pickup. Lucy opened her door when she saw what he was doing.

“Please get in there with Lucy, and both of you stay on the floor,” Joe said. “Don’t raise your heads until I tell you to, okay?”