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THE COMMUNITY CENTER was set way back from the complex and surrounded by trees. Off in the distance, a pair of Sandhill cranes stood in the snow, taunting each other with calls. Maybe they were friends. Maybe not. Widow thought they would’ve flown south for the winter by now. Perhaps they still would. He wasn’t one hundred percent sure of their migration patterns. Yellowstone wasn’t exactly a mecca for birds migrating south. The high altitude and cold winters didn’t make the park an optimal location for birds to migrate to in the first place. But there they were. Surely they would fly away before the storm progressed in this direction.
Widow moved his eyes from the birds and scanned the horizon. He could no longer see the luminous clouds from the north because the sky was now completely gray and white, and the snow had started to come on stronger than before, falling almost horizontal like tilted rainfall.
He flicked his eyes back to the ground and saw a bear, about a hundred yards away, rearing up and staring at him from the tree line. It looked around casually, looked back at Widow, and then dashed off into the woods like it was more scared of him than he was of it.
Widow walked past the office to the community center and then around the corner of the building, making his way to the front entrance of the station house. He saw that both police cruisers were parked in the lot as well as a green Jeep Cherokee. It was an older model—probably early 2000s. The tires were speckled with snow but relatively clear. Widow noticed his elongated reflection in the front windshield as he passed.
He walked to the front entrance, avoided the side one he entered when he was in handcuffs. He figured he was a member of the public now and not a prisoner. Best to use the public’s entrance. He passed under a tin overhang and there, etched on a double glass door, was the single word: Police. The door squeaked as he pulled it open, and he heard a buzzer sound to indicate that a member of the public had entered the station house.
Inside the station, he was immediately greeted by a bulletin wall with various public service announcements on it—dates that the general store was closed, scheduled times for town hall meetings in the community center, and a new schedule for school buses that ran from the reservation to Tower Junction. Widow guessed there weren’t enough kids on the reservation to warrant building a school of their own, although he suspected that most kids were homeschooled anyway. The local public school was unlikely to teach tribal history and matters that concerned the community.
In the center of the bulletin board, there was a big black-and-white printed sheet that read Warning! Snowstorm! Curfew in effect for nightfall!
It was dated with today’s date.
To Widow’s right, there was a small, cheap-looking desk with papers stacked on one side and nothing but a small computer on the other. A small, pale white woman sat behind it. She was young—probably early twenties. She wore glasses that blended right into her face and had long, curly red hair with dark streaks flowing through it. She was skinny in a bony way like she could double as a teenage boy and fool most people.
She had a warm smile and flashed her white teeth at Widow as she said, “Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Officer Red Cloud.”
“Okay. Just a second. She just walked in, I think.”
Widow glanced down at the girl’s nameplate on her desk. It was Martha. Martha must’ve been from Tower Junction. He doubted there were any white people living on the reservation. Therefore, she probably commuted every day.
Martha stood up and walked behind a partition into the bullpen. The station house was a basic rectangle, leaving no more space beyond the partition for anything other than the bullpen, the chief’s office, and the two empty cells at the rear, which he was all too familiar with.
Widow turned his back to the station house’s interior and looked back at the door. He’d heard a car pull into the lot. The drive belt squealed like it was due to be changed, and then there was a loud whine from the brakes and the sound of chunks of snow being thrown away from the tires. He heard an emergency brake being pushed in and the click as it locked into place, then the sounds of two doors opening and closing. Moments later, a middle-aged man and woman walked into the station house. They smiled at Widow and waited behind him.
He said, “Good morning.”
They said it back.
Widow heard a voice behind him ask, “What the hell are you doing back here?”
He turned to see Amita Red Cloud. She had a confused look on her face rivaled only by the expression of fear he had seen on it the night before when he had beaten up the two CIA agents.
Widow felt the Walther P99 in his pocket poking him in the thigh. He tugged at the bottom of his shirt the best he could to keep the gun’s small bulge hidden from view. The last thing he wanted to do was to let Amita know he’d returned with a gun.
In his back pocket was the satellite phone. Basic design. Basic package. It fit in his pocket with only the antenna poking out. He reminded himself not to sit on it. But he was sure that a sat phone coming from a CIA agent was probably built with durability in mind.
Amita repeated herself and said, “What the hell are you doing back here?”
“We gotta talk,” he said.
“Come back,” she said. And then she looked past him at the couple that had entered. She said, “I’m sorry. My dad’s not here. He knows about your problem, and he’ll be here shortly if you want to wait.”
The wife nodded, but the husband looked angry at having to wait.
Widow didn’t give them a second thought. He walked past Amita and disappeared behind the partition. He walked several paces back to the spot where they had all sat the night before and waited for her to join him.
“What the hell are you doing back here?” Amita asked a third time.
Widow remained standing. He said, “We need to talk. Your dad should know about this, too.”
“He’ll be in shortly. What’s going on?”
“Let’s go into his office,” Widow said and walked to the chief’s office. He didn’t wait for permission. He needed to have a private conversation with Amita and didn’t want Martha to overhear.
They walked into the empty office. Widow turned to Amita and said, “This guy, Jacobs. Is he here?”
Amita turned pale. She said, “We went over that. What does this have to do with your being here?”
Widow stayed quiet. He studied her expression. She was lying. He knew it. But he didn’t know what she was lying about. Did she know he was there? Did she know where he was?
Widow concluded it might be better to keep some of the truth to himself. For one thing, the CIA being so desperate that they had recruited a total stranger to help them locate a missing agent sounded crazy. For another, Shepard had asked him not to tell anyone. That didn’t really matter to Widow since he didn’t owe allegiance to Shepard, the CIA, or anyone else. But he liked Amita Red Cloud and her father. And he didn’t want to see anything bad happen to this community. The threat of bombing the reservation was preposterous. Widow knew that. But something about Shepard told him that he wasn’t lying about it as an option. Shepard was a serious guy. Widow had known spooks like him before.
“Widow! What the hell is going on?”
He decided to trust her. Sometimes the best way to earn trust was to give it first. He said, “The two guys who were up here. They aren’t feds. Not technically. They’re CIA agents.”
Amita did a double take. She looked at Widow sideways. She asked, “Are you high?”
“I know it sounds crazy. But it explains how they got FBI badges.”
“Why the hell would the CIA be here?”
Widow said, “Can’t tell you the details.”
“Don’t even say that you’ll have to kill me!” she said, and for the first time, a smile crept across her face like she forgot who she was talking to.
Widow said, “Smiling looks much better on you than scowling.”
“You’re the reason I’ve been scowling.”
Widow stayed quiet.
“You’re serious about the CIA, aren’t you?”
“That’s what the guy told me.”
“What guy?”
Widow explained to her about the diner and the guy with the scar. Before he could finish, her father walked into the station house with questions in his eyes but a hearty smile to greet his returned guest. Widow explained the whole story to both of them—all except the part about the Ebola virus. He figured it was best to leave that detail out. They had enough of an unbelievable story to swallow without the doomsday virus scenario tacked onto it. And although he wasn’t supposed to tell anyone anything, he didn’t work for the CIA. And he was pretty sure that neither of the Red Clouds would be involved in the crazy terrorist plot.
Amita said, “That’s unbelievable.”
“Well, it’s what’s happening. It explains why those two agents were here. Why they passed themselves off as feds.”
“So what do we do now?”
“They want me to find him. I need your help. We don’t have much time.”
Outside, the winds howled, and the sky clattered and rolled with the echo of a vengeful God. The way that only Mother Nature could sound. The storm was coming, and now was the time to start looking for Mike Jacobs.