Below Zero

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  PARTY ONE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  PART TWO

  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

  Chapter 25

  PART THREE

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Acknowledgements

  ALSO BY C. J. BOX

  THE JOE PICKETT NOVELS

  Blood Trail

  Free Fire

  In Plain Sight

  Out of Range

  Trophy Hunt

  Winterkill

  Savage Run

  Open Season

  THE STAND-ALONE NOVELS

  Three Weeks to Say Goodbye

  Blue Heaven

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  Publishers Since 1838

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA • Penguin Group

  (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Copyright © 2009 by C. J. Box

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any

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  of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Box, C. J.

  Below zero / C. J. Box.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-05854-1

  1. Pickett, Joe (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Game wardens—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3552.O87658B

  813’.54—dc22

  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.

  While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the

  time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for

  changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and

  does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Don Johnson . . .

  And Laurie, always

  PARTY ONE

  Evolution loves death more than it loves you or me. . . . We are moral creatures, then, in an amoral world. The universe that suckled us is a monster that does not care if we live or die—does not care if it itself grinds to a halt.

  —ANNIE DILLARD

  1

  Keystone, South Dakota

  MARSHALL AND SYLVIA HOTLE, WHO LIKED TO LIST THEIR places of residence as Cedar Rapids, Iowa, Quartzsite, Arizona, and “the open road,” were preparing dinner when they saw the dark SUV with Illinois plates drive by on the access road for the third time in less than an hour.

  “There they are again,” Sylvia said, narrowing her eyes. She was setting two places on the picnic table. Pork cutlets, green beans, dinner rolls, iceberg lettuce salad, and plenty of weak coffee, just like Marshall liked it.

  “Gawkers,” Marshall said, with a hint of a smile. “I’m getting used to it.”

  The evening was warm and still and perfumed with dust and pine pollen particular to the Black Hills of South Dakota. Within the next hour, the smell of hot dogs and hamburgers being cooked on dozens of campground grills would waft through the trees as well. By then the Hotles would be done eating. They liked to eat early. It was a habit they developed on their farm.

  The Hotles had parked their massive motor home for the night in a remote campsite within the Mount Rushmore KOA complex near Palmer Gulch, only five miles away from the monument itself. Because it was late August and the roads teemed with tourists, they’d thought ahead and secured this choice site—one they’d occupied before on their semi-annual cross-country trips—by calling and reserving it weeks before. Although there were scores of RVs and tents setting up within the complex below, this particular site was tucked high in the trees and seemed almost remote.

  Marshall often said he preferred the Black Hills to the Rocky Mountains farther west. The Black Hills were green, rounded, gentle, with plenty of lots big enough to park The Unit. The highest mountain—Harney Peak—was 7,242 feet. The Black Hills, Marshall said, were reasonable. The Rockies were a different matter. As they ventured from South Dakota into Wyoming, both the people and the landscape changed. Good solid midwestern stock gave way to mountain people who were ragged on the edges, he thought. Farms gave way to ranches. The mountains became severe, twice the elevation of Harney Peak, which was just big enough. The weather became volatile. While the mountains could be seductive, they were also amoral. Little of use could be grown. There were creatures—grizzly bears, black bears, mountain lions—capable of eating him and willing to do it. “Give me the Black Hills any old day,” Marshall said as he drove, as the rounded dark humps appeared in his windshield to the west. “The Black Hills are plenty.”

  Sylvia was short, compact, and solid. She wore a sweatshirt covered with balloons and clouds she’d appliquéd herself. Her iron-gray hair was molded into tight curls that looked spring-loaded. She had eight grandchildren with the ninth due any day now. She’d spent the day knitting baby booties and a little stocking cap. She didn’t have strong opinions on the Black Hills versus the Rocky Mountains, but . . .

  “I don’t like to be gawked at,” she said, barely moving her mouth.

  “I hate to tell you this, but it’s not you they’re looking at,” Marshall said, sipping coffee. “They’re admiring The Unit.” Marshall’s belly strained at the snap buttons of his Iowa Hawkeyes windbreaker. His face was round, and his cheeks were always red. He’d worn the same steel-framed glasses so long they were back in style, as was his John Deere cap. He chinned toward the motor home. “They probably want to come up here and take a look. Don’t worry, though, we can have supper first.”

  “That’s charitable of
you,” Sylvia said, shaking her head. “Don’t you ever get tired of giving tours?”

  “No.”

  “It’s not just a motor home, you know. It’s where we live. But with you giving tours all the time, I feel like I’ve always got to keep it spotless.”

  “Ah,” he said, sliding a cutlet from the platter onto his plate, “you’d do that anyway.”

  “Still,” she said. “You never gave tours of the farmhouse.”

  He shrugged. “Nobody ever wanted to look at it. It’s just a house, sweetie. Nothing special about a house.”

  Said Sylvia heatedly, “A house where we raised eight children.”

  “You know what I mean,” he said. “Hey, good pork.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said, “here they come again.”

  The dark SUV with the Illinois plates didn’t proceed all the way up the drive to the campsite, but it braked to a stop just off the access road. Sylvia could see two people in the vehicle—two men, it looked like. And maybe someone smaller in the back. A girl? She glared her most unwelcoming glare, she thought. It usually worked. This time, though, the motor shut off and the driver’s door opened.

  “At least they didn’t drive in on top of us,” she said.

  “Good campground etiquette,” Marshall said.

  “But they could have waited until after our supper.”

  “You want me to tell them to come back later?”

  “What,” she said with sarcasm, “and not give them a tour?”

  Marshall chuckled and reached out and patted Sylvia’s hand. She shook her head.

  Only the driver got out. He was older, about their age or maybe a few years younger, wearing a casual jacket and chinos. He was dark and barrel-chested, with a large head, slicked-back hair, and warm, dark eyes. He had a thick mustache and heavy jowls, and he walked up the drive rocking side-to-side a little, like a B-movie monster.

  “He looks like somebody,” Sylvia said. “Who am I thinking of?”

  Marshall whispered, “How would I know who you’re thinking of?”

  “Like that dead writer. You know.”

  “Lots of dead writers,” Marshall said. “That’s the best kind, you ask me.”

  “Sorry to bother you,” the man said affably. “I’m Dave Stenson. My friends in Chicago call me Stenko.”

  “Hemingway,” Sylvia muttered without moving her lips. “That’s who I mean.”

  “Sorry to bother you at dinnertime. Would it be better if I came back?” Stenson/Stenko said, pausing before getting too close.

  Before Sylvia could say yes, Marshall said, “I’m Marshall and this is Sylvia. What can we do for you?”

  “That’s the biggest darned motor home I’ve ever seen,” Stenko said, stepping back so he could see it all from stem to stern. “I just wanted to look at it.”

  Marshall smiled, and his eyes twinkled behind thick lenses. Sylvia sighed. All those years in the cab of a combine, all those years of corn, corn, corn. The last few years of ethanol mandates had been great! This was Marshall’s reward.

  “I’d be happy to give you a quick tour,” her husband said.

  “Please,” Stenko said, holding up his hand palm out, “finish your dinner first.”

  Said Marshall, “I’m done,” and pushed away from the picnic table, leaving the salad and green beans untouched.

  Sylvia thought, A life spent as a farmer but the man won’t eat vegetables.

  Turning to her, Stenko asked, “I was hoping I could borrow a potato or two. I’d sure appreciate it.”

  She smiled, despite herself, and felt her cheeks get warm. He had good manners, this man, and those dark eyes . . .

  SHE WAS CLEANING UP the dishes on the picnic table when Marshall and Stenko finally came out of the motor home. Marshall had done the tour of The Unit so many times, for so many people, that his speech was becoming smooth and well rehearsed. Fellow retired RV enthusiasts as well as people still moored to their jobs wanted to see what it looked like inside the behemoth vehicle: their 2009 45-foot diesel-powered Fleetwood American Heritage, which Marshall simply called “The Unit.” She heard phrases she’d heard dozens of times, “Forty-six thousand, six hundred pounds gross vehicle weight . . . five hundred horses with a ten-point-eight-liter diesel engine . . . satellite radio . . . three integrated cameras for backing up . . . GPS . . . bedroom with queen bed, satellite television . . . washer/dryer . . . wine rack and wet bar even though neither one of us drinks . . .”

  Now Marshall was getting to the point in his tour where, he said, “We traded a life of farming for life in The Unit. We do the circuit now.”

  “What’s the circuit?” Stenko asked. She thought he sounded genuinely interested. Which meant he might not leave for a while.

  Sylvia shot a glance toward the SUV. She wondered why the people inside didn’t get out, didn’t join Stenko for the tour or at least say hello. They weren’t very friendly, she thought. Her sister in Wisconsin said people from Chicago were like that, as if they owned all the midwestern states and thought of Wisconsin as their own personal recreation playground and Iowa as a cornfield populated by hopeless rubes.

  “It’s our circuit,” Marshall explained, “visiting our kids and grand-kids in six different states, staying ahead of the snow, making sure we hit the big flea markets in Quartzsite, going to a few Fleetwood rallies where we can look at the newest models and talk to our fellow owners. We’re kind of a like a club, us Fleetwood people.”

  Stenko said, “It’s the biggest and most luxurious thing I’ve ever been in. It’s amazing. You must really get some looks on the road.”

  “Thank you,” Marshall said. “We spent a lifetime farming just so we . . .”

  “I’ve heard a vehicle like this can cost more than six hundred K. Now, I’m not asking you what you paid, but am I in the ballpark?”

  Marshall nodded, grinned.

  “What kind of gas mileage does it get?” Stenko asked.

  “Runs on diesel,” Marshall said.

  “Whatever,” Stenko said, withdrawing a small spiral notebook from his jacket pocket and flipping it open.

  What’s he doing? Sylvia thought.

  “We’re getting eight to ten miles a gallon,” Marshall said. “Depends on the conditions, though. The Black Hills are the first mountains we hit going west from Iowa, and the air’s getting thinner. So the mileage gets worse. When we go through Wyoming and Montana—sheesh.”

  “Not good, eh?” Stenko said, scribbling.

  Sylvia knew Marshall disliked talking about miles per gallon because it made him defensive.

  “You can’t look at it that way,” Marshall said, “you can’t look at it like it’s a car or a truck. You’ve got to look at it as your house on wheels. You’re moving your own house from place to place. Eight miles per gallon is a small price to pay for living in your own house. You save on motels and such like that.”

  Stenko licked his pencil and scribbled. He seemed excited. “So how many miles do you put on your . . . house . . . in a year?”

  Marshall looked at Sylvia. She could tell he was ready for Stenko to leave.

  “Sixty thousand on average,” Marshall said. “Last year we did eighty.”

  Stenko whistled. “How many years have you been doing this circuit as you call it?”

  “Five,” Marshall said. “But this is the first year in The Unit.”

  Stenko ignored Sylvia’s stony glare. “How many more years do you figure you’ll be doing this?”

  “That’s a crazy question,” she said. “It’s like you’re asking us when we’re going to die.”

  Stenko chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

  She crossed her arms and gave Marshall a Get rid of him look.

  “You’re what, sixty-five, sixty-six?” Stenko asked.

  “Sixty-five,” Marshall said. “Sylvia’s . . .”

  “Marshall!”

  “. . . approximately the same age,” Stenko s
aid, finishing Marshall’s thought and making another note. “So it’s not crazy to say you two might be able to keep this up for another ten or so years. Maybe even more.”

  “More,” Marshall said, “I hope.”

  “I’ve got to clean up,” Sylvia said, “if you’ll excuse me.” She was furious at Stenko for his personal questions and at Marshall for answering them.

  “Oh,” Stenko said, “about those potatoes.”

  She paused on the step into the motor home and didn’t look at Stenko when she said, “I have a couple of bakers. Will they do?”

  “Perfect,” Stenko said.

  She turned. “Why do you need two potatoes? Aren’t there three of you? I see two more heads out there in your car.”

  “Sylvia,” Marshall said, “would you please just get the man a couple of spuds?”

  She stomped inside and returned with two and held them out like a ritual offering. Stenko chuckled as he took them.

  “I really do thank you,” he said, reaching inside his jacket. “I appreciate your time and information. Ten years on the road is a long time. I envy you in ways you’ll never understand.”

  She was puzzled now. His voice was warm and something about his tone—so sad—touched her. And was that a tear in his eye?

  INSIDE THE HYBRID SUV, the fourteen year-old girl asked the man in the passenger seat, “Like what is he doing up there?”

  The man—she knew him as Robert—was in his mid-thirties. He was handsome and he knew it with his blond hair with the expensive highlights and his ice-cold green eyes and his small, sharp little nose. But he was shrill for a man his age, she thought, and had yet to be very friendly to her. Not that he’d been cruel. It was obvious, though, that he’d rather have Stenko’s undivided attention. Robert said, “He told you not to watch.”

  “But why is he taking, like, big potatoes from them?”