Free Force of Nature by C. J. Box

chance.”
    She thought about it. “I always wanted to go to Austin and see the bats. You know, the bats that come out every night from under that bridge and fly? I like bats.”
    “Then go to Austin,” he said. “See the bats. And when you get bored with them, go somewhere else and see some other bats. Just get out of this place for a while.”
    She looked at him for a long time. Her face never moved.
    “Start packing tonight,” Nate said.
    “Who is this man?” she asked.
    Nate said, “Someone I used to work with. And believe me, he’s not someone you want to see again.”
    He recalled Large Merle’s last words, and it all made sense to him.
    They’ve deployed.

7
     
    AFTER LEAVING Alice Thunder’s home, Nate saw lights through the roadside trees and turned in to an alleyway that led behind the small lighted building. The sign in front flickered from ancient fluorescent bulbs inside, but it read bad bob’s native american outlet. It was a convenience store at the junction that sold gasoline, food, and inauthentic Indian trinkets to tourists. Three old pickups were parked at odd angles in front. One, an older model blue Dodge, had its back end aimed to the side and Nate could read the bumper sticker. It showed a graphic of four Apaches holding rifles and it read homeland security: fighting terrorism since 1492. Another sticker read my heroes have always killed cowboys.
    Bad Bob, the owner of the pickup, also rented DVDs and computer games to boys on the reservation. The back room was where the men gathered to talk and loiter and Bob held court. On the side of the store was one of the few remaining pay telephone booths still in operation on the res. Nate pulled up next to it and dropped two quarters into the slot and punched numbers.
    “Dispatch,” answered a woman with a nasally voice.
    “Hey,” Nate said. “I need to report a game violation. Is this the hotline I’m supposed to call?”
    “It can be,” she said. “This is the general state dispatch center, but we can take your information and forward it to the proper agency. What is your name, where are you calling from, and what is the nature of the call?”
    He hesitated for effect, then said, “My name’s not important, but I’m calling from a pay phone in Twelve Sleep County. I just saw a crime, and I want to report it.”
    Nate described a scenario where someone in a pickup with a spotlight—he used Bad Bob’s vehicle for inspiration—was firing indiscriminately at a herd of mule deer just off Hazelton Road near Crazy Woman Creek. He said it was awful, and gave her the location.
    “When did this happen?” she asked.
    “Just a few minutes ago,” he said. “I just got to a phone. You’ve got to send someone up there.”
    “Are you sure you can’t give me your name?” she asked. “We might need to follow up and contact you for better directions.”
    “The directions are perfect,” he said.
    “I’ll contact the game warden in the district and relay your report,” she said. “I can’t promise he’ll be there right away, though. It’s a huge district, and he may be off duty right now.”
    “Thank you,” Nate said.
    “
Thank you
for calling the Stop Poaching Hotline,” she said, obviously reading from a screen.
    WHEN NATE hung up the phone, he looked up to see Bad Bob coming around the corner of the store holding a lever-action rifle. Bad Bob was shaped like a barrel and had a wide oval face pocked with acnescars. His hair was black, and it glistened from the gel he used to slick the sides down and spike the top. He was wearing a Denver Broncos jersey, baggy trousers, and unlaced Nike high-tops. When he saw Nate, he said, “Jesus!” and jumped back and raised the rifle.
    Nate didn’t reach up for his weapon. He said, “Bob, it’s me. Put the rifle down.”
    “You fuckin’ scared me, man,” Bob said. “I heard something and I was going out back to see if them bears were in my Dumpster again. I’ve been asking the