Chapter 29
Ferg brings the vests in two in at a time.
They say SHERIFF on the upper back in yellow and again smaller on the front right. I don't even have to check the tags to figure out which one is mine. It's the Mini Me to Walt's extra-large.
Bud is pretty close to the same size as Branch, and since he's from the big city, at least by Wyoming standards, he figures his out faster than Ferg and I do. In my own defense, I haven't had one on since Philly, and that was a concealable Level III. This thing is a monster.
"Why'd you buy riot gear?" Bud asks, trying out various cop postures, making sure they all still work. "This weighs like forty pounds."
Soon after I was hired, I applied for a Department of Justice grant to update our body armor. I chose Level IV instead of the more practical Level III because I figured we don't wear them anyway, so we might as well get the grade recommended for particularly dangerous situations.
The vests arrived, the DOJ reimbursed us, then we promptly relegated them to the basement for safe keeping. If I hadn't forgotten about them, I would have felt bad before now.
"It's not riot gear," I tell Bud as I ease mine over my head like it's packed with explosives. "And they're only thirteen pounds, give or take."
"Yeah," he says, backslapping Ferg's ceramic plate. "Give or take twenty-five pounds."
"Yeah," Ferg says, but he's not listening. He's engrossed in situating the side strap, which he rips open for a third time, lines up and sticks back down.
"That's some rapid calculation, Bud. They teach you that in Casper?"
"Cheyenne," he corrects me because, you know, there's a big difference. "They taught us how to put armor on, which I guess is more than we can say for Philadelphia."
"Check this out," I say, pointing out the window at the FBI agents milling around on the sidewalk. "These guys are wearing the same thing."
I'm feeling kind of top-heavy, so I hold onto the windowsill and adjust my footing in order to avoid slamming to the floor like a felled pine.
"You think that's why the Sheriff's having us wear them?" he asks, looking over my shoulder. "So we don't come off like ignorant rednecks next to the traveling taskforce."
I say, "Maybe," but considering how out of character that would be, I hope not.
I brace myself for Ferg's judgmental stink-eye in response to the suggestion that I might be privy to Walt's motivations, but he's too busy tugging down on the vest in front while trying to see something on his back.
"You think there'll be shooting?" Ferg asks. He doesn't sound particularly concerned, nor does he seem to remember my cranky outburst from less than an hour ago.
"I doubt it," I say. "With these odds, I can't imagine them trying anything."
"They don't know the odds," Ferg says.
"They'll know soon enough," says Bud.
When I knock on Walt's partially open door, he's the phone, but he waves me in.
He watches me walk over to the couch where I drop his vest.
"Yup," he says to whoever is on the other end. "Got it."
I do the whole Vanna White demo to show off my bulletproof attire. I point out the SHERIFF on the front then turn around and model the back in an entirely inappropriate way.
When I face him again, he's blushing.
"Yeah," he says. "Still here."
I start moving towards the door, but he stands up and mouths, "Wait."
"Okay," he says. "No problem."
My eyes land on his belt. I can't help it.
"Thanks. Be there shortly." He hangs up.
I drag my gaze upwards, over his chest, over the hair at the collar, over his strong chin and his lips.
His lips.
"What?" I say.
His eyes are dark and hungry.
"That was the surveillance team," he says in that same tone, with that same depth he uses to weaken me.
He walks towards the couch and therefore towards me. On reflex, even now, I back away from him to create at least a small safety zone between me and the heat.
"And?" I ask.
"Van der Horn's there. Business as usual," he says, picking up the vest. "Can you help me with this?"
"Is that a good idea?"
He lifts it over his head with a little grunt.
"Not light, is it?" he says.
"You'll get used to it."
I adjust the straps on the left, breathing in his grainy soap and coffee scent, then I move to the other side. I do it all without making any contact with his body whatsoever.
"You okay?" he asks, lowering the volume.
"Very okay."
"You want to have dinner tonight?"
"Yes," I say. "Badly."
"Good." He smiles, and it does things to me.
As I'm headed for the door, he says, "Hey."
He's putting his coat on over his vest.
"Be careful."
"I will," I say. "You, too."
It's a gray morning, warmer and more humid than it has been, and still dusky at 9:oo AM, like the world is stuck in transition.
Not much about the pasture leading up to the Van der Horn farmhouse has changed, including the spelling on the signs. However, the skinny white sway-backed horse is markedly thinner, less white, and more sway-backed than it was six weeks ago.
We enter the property through the giant wooden frame at the start of the dirt driveway with two FBI Suburbans and two trooper vehicles, each containing a cameraman, caravanning behind us. When I see the gang of dogs approaching at a sprint, barking their boxy heads off, I have an instant of déjà vu, and the familiarity is actually comforting.
When we come to a stop and the dust clears, Van der Horn with his stringy hair and unnaturally thin build, is standing on the porch smoking a cigarette.
We are now in the presence of evil.
"Ready?" I ask Bud.
He picks up his shot gun and nods.
"Let's do this then."
I take the warrant and the manila envelope containing the thirty-eight page attachment from the seat between us. As we approach the porch, seven or eight dogs swarm around us, barking and growling and panting. I feel their hot breath on my shins while the aggressive border collie pokes his nose into the back of my leg and nips at the ankles of my jeans.
Bud repositions the shotgun across his chest and yells, "Call them off!"
Van der Horn smirks, which rekindles my long-ago desire to punch him.
Bud lifts the gun and points it at Van der Horn.
"Sir," he yells again over the increasing uproar, "call off your dogs!"
This isn't starting well.
Six FBI agents join us, weapons drawn. Four spread out on either side of Bud and me while the remaining two advance to the porch, within five feet of Van der Horn, who has now lost the smirk, but still takes another drag of his cigarette.
The female, Agent Wicks, tall and slender with a jet black buzz cut, nods to me. She's giving me the go-ahead I'm not sure she's authorized to give. I stuff the warrant inside the envelope and drop it on the ground, then I walk up to Van der Horn, keeping just out of arm's reach.
"Call off your dogs, Mr. Van der Horn," I say, and I'm surprised at how calm it comes out with all the adrenaline pumping through my veins.
"Bite me," he says, and it's dead, void of any emotion, just like his red-rimmed pale blue eyes.
This guy seriously creeps me out.
I step forward and grab the front of his brown hoodie with both hands and yank him off the porch so hard that the cigarette flies from his fingers and his head whips back. I actually hadn't intended to use that much force, but he's much lighter than I could have imagined, maybe 125 or less. He smells like dirty laundry and tobacco with a hint of cat urine. Without much effort, I'm able to twist him around so I can ram my knee into the back of his, and he crumbles to the ground. I get my knee on his lower back and pull one arm behind him a bit more clumsily than usual because I'm still not used to the girth of the vest.
The dogs surround us, not missing a note of their audial assault, and I realize it's about to start. If Van der Horn doesn't take care of them, we'll have to.
He's gasping, and I think he might be struggling, but I'm not sure.
I pull his other arm behind him and I say, like it's me on the ground and him holding me down, "Mr. Van der Horn, please. Please call them off."
"Do what you have to do, Deputy," he says, and as if on cue, one of the dogs lunges, a weapon discharges, and a high-pitched yelping begins, first from the one that got shot, then from a couple of the others. I turn my head to see what happened to the target, but it's gone, and there's no sign of blood.
Rubber bullets.
Two particularly focused dogs are still manically barking, but they're now keeping a safer distance from us. The others have backed way off.
A second and then a third shot are fired and both dogs run off towards the side of the house with their tails between their legs. It's suddenly quiet enough that I can hear my ears ringing. There's still some barking far off, then a few more shots, and finally the barking ceases. I'm assuming some of the ammunition was live.
Wicks kneels down next to us with a nylon twist tie and cuffs Van der Horn.
"You made this harder on yourself than it had to be," she says with what may be genuine sympathy.
"You think I give a shit?" he says, voice kind of thin and raspy.
"No," Wicks says, "I guess I don't."
Together we drag him to his feet, and it's at this point I'm able to see across the yard. Two cameramen, Jason Smith and a guy who looks like he could be Smith's grandfather, are capturing everything.
"What the fuck?" I say to Wicks because she's the closest normal person to me. "What's up with that?"
"Some reality show," she says, nonchalant, almost detached.
I wait for her to elaborate, but she doesn't.
"I better not end up on that video," Van der Horn says like he truly believes he's going to be in a position to do something about it if he does.
"At least they could have warned you so you had time to wash your clothes," I say.
"Fuck you, Deputy," he says.
"Do the world a favor and don't fuck anyone, Van der Horn."
We walk him to the nearest SUV under the assumption that the evidence will make him a Federal prisoner, and that's when I see Walt standing there with the manila envelope in his hand, talking to one of the agents.
He makes eye contact briefly then says, "Van der Horn, we're going to give you an opportunity to review the warrant."
"How?" Van der Horn asks. "I'm handcuffed."
"You're an industrious guy. You'll figure it out," Walt says.
We get him settled in the car and Walt puts the envelope on his lap.
"Where's your brother?" I ask.
"Who?"
"The Cushman pilot."
"Oh," Van der Horn says, reviving the smirk. "I think he moved."
In my estimation, that either means we've got a homicide on our hands or we've got a rogue brother hiding out somewhere on the property presenting a significant threat. Neither possibility is going to make this run any smoother.
