Breaking Point
C. J. BoxALSO BY C. J. BOX
THE JOE PICKETT NOVELS
Force of Nature
Cold Wind
Nowhere to Run
Below Zero
Blood Trail
Free Fire
In Plain Sight
Out of Range
Trophy Hunt
Winterkill
Savage Run
Open Season
THE STAND-ALONE NOVELS
Back of Beyond
Three Weeks to Say Goodbye
Blue Heaven
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Publishers Since 1838
Published by the Penguin Group
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Copyright © 2013 by C. J. Box
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Published simultaneously in Canada
ISBN 978-1-101-60927-9
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For Mike and Chantelle Sackett
And Laurie, always . . .
Contents
Also by C. J. Box
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
DAY ONE
Chapter 1
DAY TWO
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
DAY THREE
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
DAY FOUR
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
ONE WEEK AFTER
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Afterword and Acknowledgments
Banality of evil: A phrase coined by philosopher Hannah Arendt that describes the thesis that the great evils in history generally were not executed by fanatics or sociopaths, but rather by ordinary people who accepted the premises of their state and therefore participated with the view that their actions were normal.
You can still get gas in Heaven,
and drink in Kingdom Come.
In the meantime,
I’m cleaning my gun.
—MARK KNOPFLER, “CLEANING MY GUN”
1
ON AN EARLY MORNING IN MID-AUGUST, EPA SPECIAL Agents Tim Singewald and Lenox Baker left the Region 8 Environmental Protection Agency building at 1595 Wynkoop Street in downtown Denver in a Chevrolet Malibu SA hybrid sedan they’d checked out from the motor pool. Singewald was at the wheel, and he maneuvered through shadows cast by tall buildings while Baker fired up the dash-mounted GPS.
“Acquiring satellites,” Baker said, repeating the voice command from the unit.
“Wait until we get out of downtown,” Singewald said. “The buildings block the satellite feed. There’ll be plenty of time to program the address. Besides, I know where we’re going. I’ve been there, remember?”
“Yeah,” Baker said, settling back in his seat. “I know. I was just wondering how long it would take.”
“Forever,” Singewald said, and sighed, taking the turn on Speer that would lead them to I-25 North. “Wyoming is a big-ass state.”
The GPS chirped that it had connected with the sky. Baker punched in an address and waited for a moment and said with a groan, “Four hundred and twenty-two miles. Six hours, twenty-seven minutes. Jesus.”
Said Singewald, “Not counting the guy we need to pick up along the way in Cheyenne. Still, we ought to make it before five, easy.”
“Where are we staying? Do they have any good places to eat up there?”
Singewald emitted a single harsh bark and shook his head. “The Holiday Inn has a government rate, but the bar sucks. There are a couple good bars in town, though, if you don’t mind country music.”
“I hate it.”
“Six and a half hours,” Baker said as Singewald eased the Chevy onto the on-ramp and joined the flow of traffic north.
—
IT WAS A CLEAR summer morning in mid-August. The mountains to the west shimmered through early-hour smog that would lift and dissipate when the temperature rose into the seventies. Both men wore ties and sport coats, and in the backseat was a valise containing the legal documents they were to deliver. Both had packed a single change of clothing for the drive back the next day.
Tim Singewald had thin sandy hair, small eyes, a sallow complexion, and a translucent mustache. Lenox Baker was fifteen years younger. Singewald didn’t know him well at all, although his impression of his colleague was that he was overeager. Baker was dark and compact and exhibited nervous energy and a wide-eyed expression he displayed when talking with a senior staffer that said, Keep me in mind when promotions or transfers come along.
Singewald noticed that Baker wore a wedding band, but he’d never heard the wife’s name. Singewald had been divorced for six years.
All he knew about Baker was, like thousands of others across the country, he was new to the agency and he was gung-ho to get into some kind of action.
Baker was an EPA Special Agent (Grade 12), one of 350-plus and growing. He pulled in $93,539 a year in salary plus benefits and hoped to move up to Grade 15, where Singewald resided. Singewald made $154,615 per year, plus benefits.
As they cleared Metro Denver into Broomfield, Singewald reached up with his left hand and loosened the knot on his tie and then pulled it free and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. When Baker saw him do it, he reached up and did the same.
“Ties stand out where we’re going,” Singewald said.
“What do they wear? Clip-ons? String ties?”
“They don’t wear ties,” Singewald said. “They wear jeans with belts that say ‘Hoss.’”
Baker laughed. Then: “Who is this guy we have to pick up in Cheyenne?”
“Somebody with the U.S. Corps of Engineers,” Singewald said, shrugging. “I don’t know him.”
“Why is he coming along?”
“I don’t know,” Singewald said. “I don’t ask.”
“The secret to a long career,” Baker said.
“You got it.”
“Are there other secrets?” Baker asked, grinning a schoolboy grin.
“Yes,” Singewald said, and said no more.
—
THE AGENTS DROVE another hour north and crossed the border into Wyoming. Instantly, the car was buffeted by gusts of wind.
“Where are the trees?�
Baker asked.
âThey blew away,â Singewald said.
â
AS SINGEWALD WHEELED into the parking lot of the Federal Building in Cheyenne, he saw an older man in a windbreaker and sunglasses standing near the vestibule entrance. The man was conspicuously checking his watch and glancing toward them as they found an empty spot.
âGotta be him,â Singewald said.
âWhat was his name again?â
âLove. Thatâs all I know about him.â
The man who might be Love pushed himself off the brick wall and walked slowly to their car. Singewald powered down his window.
âYou EPA?â the man asked.
âAgents Singewald and Baker.â
âIâm Kim Love,â the man said. âI guess weâre going to the same place today.â
Singewald chinned toward the backseat. âDo you have anything you need to put in the trunk before we leave?â
Love rocked back on his heels and hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. He shook his head.
âIâll follow you up,â Love said. âIâve got my own car.â
âSure you donât want to come with us?â Singewald asked Love.
âIâm sure.â
âSuit yourself. Do you know where weâre going?â
âYes, unfortunately.â
Singewald didnât react. Instead, he reached inside his jacket pocket and handed Love an official EPA business card.
âMy cell phone number is on there. Give me a call when we get going so I have yours, so we can keep in touch if we get separated.â
Love sighed and shook his head. âWhat, you think youâre entering No Manâs Land?â
âYes,â Baker whispered, sotto voce.
âMaybe we can stop in Casper for lunch,â Love said. âI know a place there.â
âWeâll follow you,â Singewald said with a shrug.
When Love walked away to climb into his own sedan with U.S. Government plates, Baker said to Singewald, âWhatâs his problem?â
Singewald shrugged. âDonât know and donât care,â he said. âHeâs just another working stiff. Like us.â
â
BAKER WAS PRACTICALLY SPUTTERING two and a half hours later when the brake lights of Loveâs sedan flashed and the Corps of Engineers car took the Second Street exit in Casper and turned in at a truck stop.
âHeâs yanking our chain,â Baker said, leaning forward in his seat to look around. A long line of side-by-side tractor-trailers idled in a cacophony on the south side of the huge parking lot. A trucker emerged from the restaurant and convenience-store doors holding a half-gallon soft-drink container to take back to his truck cab.
âMaybe this Love knows something,â Singewald said. âMaybe this place is, you know, a jewel in the rough.â
âItâs a truck stop.â
âWe might as well be friendly, since weâre stuck with him,â Singewald said, and turned off the motor.
Baker sighed. âMaybe Iâll just stay in here. I can feel my arteries clogging up just looking at this place and the people coming out of it.â
âYou donât have to come in,â Singewald said, handing Baker the keys. âIf you want to listen to the radio or something.â
Baker waved him off. âBelieve me, thereâs probably nothing worth listening to here. Iâm not a big fan of Buck Owens.â
Singewald pocketed the keys.
âOh, all right,â Baker said with a groan, opening his door to get out.
â
THEY SAT around a Formica table in a high-backed booth; Kim Love on one side and Singewald and Baker on the other. All of the other tables and booths were occupied by truck drivers and rough-looking locals who appeared as if theyâd driven into town from building sites or oil rigs. Even with their ties removed, Singewald thought the three of them stood out. Singewald thought Love seemed distant, and maybe a little hostile to them. He chalked it up to interagency rivalry and didnât let it bother him. There was no reason to make friends, he thought. Heâd never met Love before, and after their joint operation later that afternoon, he doubted heâd ever see him again.
Beside him, Lenox Baker studied the plastic menu and sighed.
âDo you recommend anything in particular?â Baker asked Love.
âThe chicken-fried steak sandwich,â Love said without even looking at his menu. âBest in Central Wyoming. Iâm from Texas, and Iâm particular about chicken-fried steak. They do it right here: no pre-breaded bullshit.â
Baker cringed.
Singewald ordered the sandwich as well, and Baker asked the waitress if the lettuce of the chef salad had any preservatives sprayed on it. Without a smile and with a quick glance toward her other busy tables, she said, âI wouldnât know that, hon.â
âCan you ask the chef?â
âWe donât have a chef. Iâll ask the cook,â she said, and spun on her heels toward the kitchen.
âThose chemicals give me diarrhea,â Baker explained to Singewald.
âCanât have that,â he replied.
â
AFTER THEY PUSHED their empty plates away and sat backâBaker had picked at his salad and claimed he was fullâLove looked squarely at Singewald and said, âI canât say I like what weâre doing today.â
Singewald shrugged. âWeâre just the messengers.â
âStill.â
âWe didnât make the decision,â Singewald said. âWeâre just delivering the verdict.â
âYeah,â Love said, shaking his head and taking a swipe at his balled-up paper napkin like a bear cub, âI read it. In fact, I read it twice and didnât like it any better the second time.â
âI donât read âem,â Singewald said, looking over Bakerâs head in an attempt to signal the waitress. âI just deliver âem. Reading âem is above my pay grade.â
âI hear heâs a hardheaded man,â Love said.
Singewald nodded.
âI get the impression heâs not going to just roll over.â
Baker opened his jacket and interjected, âThatâs why we carry these,â indicating the butt of his holstered semiautomatic .40 Sig Sauer.
Loveâs mouth dropped open, and he turned to Singewald. âYou guys carry guns?â
âWeâre trained and authorized,â Singewald said softly.
âYou should see what we have in the trunk,â Baker said. Singewald thought of the combat shotguns and scoped semiautomatic rifles nestled in their cases.
Loveâs eyebrows arched when he said, âSo youâre prepared to shoot it out with him if necessary?â
âIf necessary,â Baker said, narrowing his eyes.
âI try not to predict these things,â Singewald said, almost apologetically. He didnât want to continue this conversation. He wished Baker wasnât so overtly gung-ho. Then he raised his hand and waved at the waitress. He began to think she was ignoring him.
âHave you met this guy weâre serving the order on?â Love asked Singewald.
âNope,â Singewald said, wondering if he should snap his fingers to get her attention. âI wasnât there the first time he was given the word. From what I understand, he was confused, mainly. I donât think heâs the sharpest knife in the drawer, so to speak.â
âBut he sure as hell understands now,â Love said, shaking his head. âThings like this . . . it makes me wonder just what the hell weâre doing. It isnât the kind of thing I signed up for, thatâs for sure.â
âWhatâs the problem?â Baker said suddenly to Love, his tone incredulous. âThe guy obviously screwed up big-time or we wouldnât be going up there. I donât understand what youâre talking about.â
Love leaned forward on the table and balled his fists together. âDo you know him?â
âOf course not,â Baker said, defensive.
âDo you know anything about him?â
âJust his address.â
âDid you even read the documents weâre taking up there?â
âNo,â Baker said, looking away from
Love to Singewald.
The waitress intervened and slapped the bill down on the table as she rushed by.
âMaâam,â Singewald said.
She turned toward him.
âWeâll need separate checks. One for him and me,â he said, gesturing to Baker, âand one for him,â he nodded toward Love. âAnd receipts, please.â
âSeparate checks and receipts,â she repeated with a dead-eyed stare.
âYes.â
âItâll be a minute,â she said through gritted teeth.
âItâs okay,â Singewald said, sliding out of the booth. âI can get it taken care of at the front counter.â
Baker was right behind him as he walked up to the cashier, pulling out his U.S. government Visa card. When he glanced back, Kim Love was still sitting in the booth.
â
AN HOUR LATER, sixty-seven miles north of Casper, Love caught up with them near Kaycee, Wyoming. Singewald looked up and saw the Corps sedan in his rearview mirror.
Baker saw him do it and turned his head toward the back. âOh, good,â he said. âOur buddy.â
Singewald grunted.
âWhat is his problem, anyway?â
âI guess he doesnât like what weâre doing.â
âWhy does he even care?â
âYouâd have to ask him.â
âI think you should mention this in our report,â Baker said.
â
THE TERRAIN CHANGED as they drove north. Blue humpback mountains had emerged from the prairie to the west. Lines of high white snow veined down from the summits and melded into dark timber.
Baker pointed at a cluster of vivid brown-and-white dots placed on the slow-waving high grass out his window. âAre those pronghorns?â
Singewald said they were.
âAnd they just stand there like that? There must be a hundred of them.â
âIâve heard there are more pronghorn antelope than people in this part of the state,â Singewald said.
âWell, at least thereâs something good about it,â Baker said.
â
âTHE TETONS?â BAKER ASKED, pointing toward the mountains.
âBighorns,â Singewald said. âThose are the Bighorns.â
âSo thatâs where weâre going,â Baker said, looking at the GPS display, and then his watch.