Winter Territory (Jack Widow Book 2), page 12
“Let’s start now. We won’t get a better chance. The snowstorm will get worse,” Red Cloud said.
Widow nodded. He looked at the sky again and saw that the white grayness was less than a mile away. The fast-paced snowstorm caused Widow some concern because Shepard had said that after the blizzard passed, they needed results. And the faster the storm passed over them, the faster Shepard would keep his promise.
Widow walked over to Amita and said, “We’d better take this time to look for Jacobs. It’ll be impossible when the storm hits harder.”
Amita nodded in agreement. Then she went over to her father and explained. Widow couldn’t hear them, but he saw Chief Red Cloud shake his head in disagreement.
Amita came back and said, “My dad wants us to help with the shelter first. He said our priority is the community center, even though I told him how important it is. He’s calling a town meeting. Half of the community will head this way and stay in the community center. So after we get them in, we’ll let you ask about Jacobs. Maybe one of them will know something. Okay?”
“That’ll have to do,” Widow said. Then he added, “What can I do to help?”
Amita sensed his disappointment and said, “How about this? We need to clear the road of falling debris as fast as possible. You and I can go out in the cruiser and do that.” She stopped talking and looked up at the skyline again. Then she said, “Looks like we have less than an hour. Let’s get moving, and while we’re out, we’ll look for any sign of Jacobs. Deal?”
“You won’t mind?”
“I have a job to do. Doesn’t matter my history with him. I tried to help those federal agents or CIA or whatever. And I’ll help you. Sounds like if we don’t, they’ll only return and cause more problems. And we got other things to deal with.”
Widow stayed quiet and headed for the car. He didn’t wait for her. Amita read nothing into it. He knew she wouldn’t. She was a hard woman, hard as they come. She followed suit and followed him to the police cruiser.
The door to Amita’s car was undamaged and was still open from when the tornado had struck. The seat belt warning was beeping. Widow sat down in the passenger seat. He saw she had left the keys dangling in the ignition. Amita plopped down in the driver's seat and shut the door. She fired up the engine and hit the gas. The car swerved around in a circle and then moved forward as she released the gas a little. The tires peeled up snow, and a small tree limb dragged behind for four or five feet until it let go, releasing itself back into the parking lot.
The cruiser was slow-going on the snow-covered roads until they reached the main street, where its tires dug through the snow and met concrete. Then the car drove the way it was intended, and they headed north at a medium pace.
22
Widow asked, “What exactly are we doing?”
“I told you. Clearing debris.”
“No, I mean, what’s our priority? Any debris or major stuff?”
“We’re looking for big things. Major damage. People in trouble. Roadblocks. That sort of thing,” Amita said.
Widow nodded. He knew it was her job. Although he wanted to help, he thought about the missing CIA agent and the terrorists on her reservation. He thought, too, about Shepard’s threat that the CIA would do anything to prevent a weaponized Ebola attack. Widow didn’t have to wonder about what "anything" meant. He knew it meant something bad, something irreversible.
“Don’t worry. We’re going to look around. Later, when everyone is in the community center, you can ask if anyone has seen him. I want to help, Widow.”
“Thank you. It’s a matter of national security, which means we need to find him. If we don’t, it’ll be bad for you and bad for Red Rain Indian Reservation.”
Amita paused a beat and then asked, “What do you mean, bad for us?”
Widow stayed quiet.
“Widow, tell me. What’s going to happen if we don’t find him?”
“I honestly don’t know, but I fear it’ll be bad. The CIA isn’t supposed to be here. They’re here because of suspected terrorist activities. They aren’t going to go away until they get what they want. And I’m afraid it’ll be at any cost. And that the reservation will be the one to pay the price.”
“What cost do you mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think they’ll raid the reservation? Take everyone prisoner until they find Jacobs?”
“I worry that it’s far worse than that,” Widow said. He paused, then he said, “Later. Okay? Let’s talk about it later. Let’s just worry about finding him.”
Amita said, “Okay.”
They drove on, taking it slow, taking it easy.
The cruiser drove over the road with no problem. They drove on until they came to an obvious path that the twister had made. Debris littered the ground. Amita switched on the light bar. Blue lights flashed across the terrain. Under the darkening sky, the lights bounced off treetops and reflected from the windows of nearby houses and low mobile homes strung together in tight, unorganized sequences.
Widow let his eyes trace the area, looking for damage from the tornado. Amita peered around, doing the same, looking one way and then the other.
She said, “Look there.”
Widow followed her gaze. He saw several mobile homes—some flipped or turned over, and some completely torn apart. Standing in a small crowd around building shrapnel were the former residents of the destroyed homes.
Amita said, “We’d better go look.”
She turned the wheel, and the cruiser turned and dipped over the snow. They drove off the road and onto the flat ground toward the people. They pulled up a few feet from the crowd and saw Henry Little among them.
Amita Red Cloud stomped on the parking brake, threw open the door, and got out without bothering to close it. She propped one foot up on the interior of the doorframe and leaned up over the roof. She called out across the top. “Is everyone okay?”
Henry Little looked back at her and said, “Everyone’s good.”
Amita climbed out all the way and signaled to Widow to follow her. He got out of the car and shut his door. Widow could feel his feet sink farther down into the already fallen snow. The temperature had dropped steadily, but it hadn’t really affected him too much up to this point, but now he felt the cold, like icy nails were poking his skin.
Amita looked back over her shoulder and saw Widow trailing behind, shivering a little as he walked. She stopped walking and stood close to Henry Little.
“What are you all doing out here?”
Henry Little said, “We’re trying to help Samantha search for pictures of her husband.” Then he stopped and turned to gaze at Widow. Little’s face was long with pronounced eyebrows. He looked Widow up and down and then up again. He said, “Her husband died in Afghanistan. She just received the phone call today.”
Widow stayed quiet. Afghanistan was a place he knew, but was fortunate not to have spent too much time in. He had never been stationed there, not on land.
Little moved closer to him. Before, Widow had thought that Little was a giant. But now, he retracted that because Little wasn’t a giant—he was a leviathan.
“He fought in the Army. Now, he’s dead. And now she has lost the small amount of home that your government allows her to have.”
Widow stared at him, didn’t respond.
“Okay. That’s enough, Henry. Come on. He has nothing to do with any of that nonsense,” Amita said.
Little ignored her and continued moving toward him. Widow could smell alcohol on his breath. Widow thought about what a man who knew there was a major storm approaching would do if he were locked in his house. What would he do? He’d drink.
Widow didn’t feel he should judge or say anything about it. But then Little did something Widow didn’t like—he poked Widow’s chest.
Widow said, “Sorry about your friend. But it’s no more my government than it is yours. And I don’t make decisions about your land. I don’t make decisions about anything. I’m just a guy.”
“Are you not a white man?”
Widow said, “Obviously, I’m white. And I was in the military. But I’ve played no role in anything that affects you.”
Little asked, “Military? You look Army.”
“Navy.”
Little poked Widow again. Amita stepped between them and said, “Henry! That’s enough!”
He pushed past her and poked again.
Widow said, “Don’t poke me.”
Little came close and raised his hand up in the air and held it there like a major debate was taking place in his head.
Amita said, “Henry, stop! This makes you look like a jerk!”
Henry Little backed down, and Widow sighed to himself in relief. He didn’t want to hurt an old Native American in front of Amita. Not only that, but he also didn’t disagree.
Amita said, “We’re out here to tell everyone to head to the community center. We’ll be safer buckled down there for the night. It’s stocked with supplies and sleeping bags. Spread the word.”
Henry nodded, said, “Yeah. Okay. I’ll tell people. We’ll all be there. Now they have nowhere else to go.”
Widow felt bad about their homes but said nothing about it. He said, “Amita, we’d better get moving.”
They returned to the car and drove about as far as they could before the snow started. Within a matter of moments, it had turned to hard wind and then harder snow.
Amita said, “This is insane. I’ve lived through storms before, but I’ve never seen it come on so fast.”
Widow stared out the window and shrugged. He had never seen this much snow, and it had only been coming down for a few minutes.
Amita said, “We’d better go back.”
These were words Widow didn’t like hearing. He never went back. Going back wasn’t something in his nature. Going forward was his thing. But he nodded. Amita backed the car up and K-turned and headed back to the community center.
23
Violent winds blasted through the snow-covered streets and the quieted buildings of Red Rain Indian Reservation. A stop sign hung broken and flapped in the wind like a metal flag. Shingles on a nearby roof shuddered and rattled, on the verge of coming off. The old wood of the houses moaned in the storm's vehemence. Some trees bent while others stood strong, their bases secured by three feet of snow. Ice ricocheted off the old telephone poles, and wooden slivers flew off the sides like bark peeling off a tree. The snow didn't fall—it shot and darted across the sky, assaulting the landscape. One temporarily abandoned home had three broken windows because the inhabitants had forgotten to close the shutters. By the time they returned, the place would be filled with snow.
This continued for about seventy-five minutes, and then, suddenly, the storm subsided. It wound down to a milder version of itself, but it was far from over. On a radar screen, the storm would've covered half the map of Northern Wyoming. The sudden calm was merely a pocket in the bigger system, a break from the relentless bombardment.
Down the main street, in the community center, Widow leaned against the back wall of the main chamber. He faced a crowd of locals, most of them with their backs turned. They faced each other and chatted. The low rumble of their voices hummed through the chamber like a church after Mass, when everyone stirs and gathers their belongings, saying hello to members of their congregation. Most of the townspeople were over the age of fifty. There were some small children and a handful of young adults.
No one paid any attention to Widow.
From across the room, Amita Red Cloud looked over at him and then turned back to her father. They spoke for a few minutes. Then she turned and walked toward Widow.
She stopped in front of him and looked up, cocking her head back. She said, "Tell them. My dad is going to get their attention. He wants you to tell them about Jacobs. It's the fastest way to find him. Ask if they've seen him. Someone is bound to know something."
Widow said, "I'm not good in front of crowds."
Amita cracked a smile, and then she said, "I can't believe you're scared of them."
Widow shrugged. "Not afraid. I just have little experience in public speaking."
"Nervous?"
"No."
"Okay then, so get ready."
Chief Red Cloud waved his hands in the air, and the crowd turned and gave him their attention.
He said, "Thanks for your attention. I know that everyone here is in some serious worry about this storm and your homes. I'm glad you heeded our warnings and came to us here. Every year, we get a blizzard or two. This is the worst one I can recall, but we're still safe here. Together."
He walked toward Widow.
"Now I know that many of you are dealin' with the loss of your property because of the twister. Right now, there's nothing we can do about that. Right now, we've got an important matter that must be dealt with. Unfortunately, it's sensitive. I'm asking for your help. Each of you, turn your attention to Mr. Widow. He'll explain."
The crowd turned like one being. There were less than a hundred faces, but over fifty. Widow wasn't sure because when they all stared at him, their faces blurred together. Being the center of attention wasn't something he liked. It made him feel like an outcast because he was so different from everyone else.
Widow swallowed and said, "There are dangerous men among you." No transition. No preparation. He just said it like it was.
The crowd froze and stared at him.
He said, "There's a missing federal agent. It's complicated. We need to find him."
Amita stepped forward and said, "Some of you know him. His name is Mike Jacobs. Does anyone know where he is? Has anyone seen him?"
No one stepped up. No one made a sound.
Widow waited and scanned the sea of faces, but there wasn't a glimmer of recognition in any of them. There were residents missing from the congregation of people. Widow wondered if Jacobs was with one of them. Perhaps people in terrorist cells would remain in their houses—it would make sense. Terrorists live among us, unsuspected, but they were still usually people on the fringes. Hard to hide what you were doing in plain sight. Especially in a small, tight community like this one. Widow had grown up in a small community, and he knew what it was like to stay hidden from public view. In a small town, everyone knew your business.
Widow looked at Amita and shook his head. No one in the room knew anything about Jacobs. Widow doubted that any of them would help, even if they knew. Jacobs was like a needle in a haystack.
Amita approached Widow and said, "Some people aren't here."
"I figured."
"Some live far from the center of town."
"I figured that too. I can't blame them for wanting to stay with their property."
Amita said, "Widow, Mike Jacobs's family home is one of those places. It's on the outskirts. His family sold it to an older man named Sean Gareth."
"Gareth?" Widow asked.
"He's a white man. No one minds him because he keeps to himself. Hardly ever see him in town. Henry usually travels out to his house and delivers supplies once a week. They're friends. They play poker. Everyone knows about it because Henry usually hates white people, as you saw. But he and Gareth are friends."
Widow looked at her. He felt the P99 shift in his pocket. Then he said, "That might be a good place to look."
24
The small boy had been told to run.
And that was what he’d done. He ran as hard and fast as he could through the snow and the trees and the broken limbs. He heard loud noises behind him. Some of them he didn’t recognize. Loud engine sounds. But some he knew. He heard gunshots. He knew those. The boy had seen plenty of movies, bad movies, movies his parents hadn’t wanted him to watch. He didn’t really understand what was going on. The boy only wanted to go home. He wanted to see his parents again. He wondered why he hadn’t seen them.
The man had taken him away from the bad men. He understood bad men. He had seen them in movies, too.
What he had never seen was real-life violence. Not like tonight. Tonight, he had seen a man on fire.
The boy had walked close to him in the freezing snow. He had watched the man combust and then flail around like a chicken with his head cut off. The man had stopped and dropped to his knees, and then he’d dropped flat onto the ground and continued to blaze. The boy had stared at him, not sure what to do.
There was a lot of noise. Gunshots. An explosion. Crackling fire. A dog barking in the distance. Voices yelling.
The man screamed at him to run. Run. So the small boy turned and ran. He didn’t want to because it was cold. Not near the fiery man. Near him, it was warm. But he had to run. He had to listen to the man he had arrived with.
Before he ran, he saw an object on the ground. He wasn’t sure what it was. But it blinked. It was small and box-shaped. He picked it up. He saw the blinking light. And he slipped it into his coat pocket.
“Run!” the man screamed again.
The small boy ran into the forest and over the thick snow, and away from the nightmarish sounds.
25
Widow wondered where the hell Mike Jacobs was and how the hell he was going to find him. It looked like they would have to go out into the snowstorm to search for him. Door to door. House to house. But maybe not everywhere. The best bet would be to start way out where Jacobs’s family house had been. Maybe he had escaped the terrorist cell and was hiding out. Maybe he was holed up, waiting for the storm to pass so he could get in touch with Shepard.
Just then, two unexpected things happened.
The community center and all the people inside seemed to freeze as the lights flickered and the power went out again. The room went black. A hum could be heard surging through the circuitry as the emergency backup lights kicked on. The room filled with an unnatural feeling when the lights shot on. They were bright. The white light filled the room like a blast from the sun.
The second thing to happen was that the door to the community center burst open. The power from the reservation was out everywhere, and the blackness seemed to seep in with the open door.
