Free Stone Cold by C. J. Box Page A

point,” Joe said, slightly overwhelmed with the implications of his assignment.
    But this was Rulon’s way: he was to work
for
the governor but
through
the FBI, with his own agency director providing bureaucratic cover without even knowing it. Thus, several layers of deniability were established if the situation went sour.
    Rulon said, “For damn sure don’t clue in the sheriff up there. That might have been the DCI agent’s first mistake.”
    Joe nodded and gulped.
    Rulon again shot out his sleeve. “And we’re out of time.” He stood and shrugged on his suit jacket. He said, “Thanks, Joe.”
    â€œHold it,” Joe said, standing. “I have a hundred questions.”
    â€œI’m not surprised. Maybe somebody can answer them for you.”
    â€œGovernor . . .”
    Rulon turned as he reached for the door handle. He said, “Joe, you know how this works. I smoothed the way for you to come back and even goosed your salary. And I left you completely alone. Now I need your help.”
    He narrowed his eyes and said, “I’m not asking you to get involved in anything up there, and I damned sure don’t want you risking your life. I can’t have any more casualties on my conscience. Butfind out what the deal is with Templeton, and let us know. Stay in the shadows, or the sagebrush, in your case. Just report back. Don’t let things get western, okay?”
    With that Rulon left Joe in his office, clutching the brim of his Stetson. He could hear the governor booming welcomes and homilies to a group of visitors in his larger office.
    As he turned to exit, Lois Fornstrom stuck her head in the doorway and said, “Mr. Coon of the FBI is waiting for you.”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    J OE CLAMPED ON HIS HAT and shook Coon’s hand in the anteroom, careful not to make eye contact with the citizens and lobbyists still waiting for a session with the governor.
    Coon had aged since Joe last saw him. His chest and neck were thicker and his boyish face was cobwebbed with stress lines. He wore a dark blue suit, a red tie, and loafers.
    He said, “Long time, Joe.”
    â€œYup.”
    â€œEven longer would have been better.”
    â€œGood to see you, too, Chuck.”
    â€œFollow me. I have a feeling you’re not going to like what I’m about to show you.”

Who is Wolfgang Templeton?
    Joe and Special Agent Coon spent the ten minutes it took to drive from the capitol to the Federal Building updating each other on their families. Although he was the same age as Joe, Coon had started his family later in life and was going through situations Joe found strangely nostalgic. Coon’s oldest daughter was in her second year of high school and had turned sullen, spending all of her time with her friends or texting with them in her room. Joe laughed, saying it sounded familiar. Coon’s son was in the eighth grade and was a struggling point guard for the McCormick Warriors.
    â€œHe assumes he’ll get bigger, faster, and quicker,” Coon said. “How do I tell him it may not happen?”
    Joe shrugged. “Just go to the games and cheer him on. Believe me, he’ll be the first to know.”
    Joe outlined what was happening with Sheridan, Lucy, and April. As he did, Coon shook his head.
    â€œThree teenage girls,” he said. “And I thought
I
had trouble.”
    â€œThey’re not trouble,” Joe said. “But they’re weighing on my mind right now.”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    I NSIDE THE UGLY F EDERAL B UILDING in central Cheyenne, Joe surrendered his weapon, cell phone, badge, cuffs, and bear spray, and argued with the officer to keep his hat. Coon intervened and told the security officer it was all right. Joe traded his possessions for a VISITOR laminate that he clipped on the breast pocket of his uniform shirt. They rode the elevator