Cold Wind by C.J. Box

didn’t call. His only contact was a large padded envelope sent from somewhere called Hulett, Wyoming, with her monthly cash allowance. Not even a note.
    Then the Feds showed up. She knew when she opened the door that something had happened to her husband. They told her he’d been shot and killed in a remote part of northeastern Wyoming, practically in the shadow of Devils Tower. Nathaniel, Chase’s younger brother, had also been killed. Only Cory, the oldest, had survived. He was in custody and facing federal and state charges.
    Desperate, she went to see her brother-in-law in Denver. Through the thick Plexiglas of the federal detention facility, he told her what had happened. How Chase had been bushwhacked by a local redneck who carried the largest handgun he had ever seen. That’s when she first heard the name.
    She’d desperately quizzed Cory. Where had Chase stashed his money? How could she get access to it? How could she raise another child—Cory’s future nephew or niece—on her own with nothing?
    Cory didn’t help. He said Chase had kept his finances to himself. Besides, Cory said, he had problems of his own and she’d need to learn how to take care of herself.
    It was devastating. She was ruined. She wished she could find Chase and kill him all over again for leaving her like that with nothing. So she’d got an abortion, sold the house—which he’d put in her name to avoid scrutiny—and learned to knit to help take her mind off her situation. She’d turned bitter and spent a lot of time imagining what her life would have been like if Chase had come back. If that redneck hadn’t killed him.
     
     
    Laurie Talich’s father had spent his life within the Chicago infrastructure . Alderman, bookie, and mayoral assistant—he’d held so many jobs, yet never seemed to have an office where he went to work every morning. He was a loving father in a remote way, and seemed to look to her and her brother for solace and comfort and to remind himself he wasn’t all bad. He was a slow, doughy man who arrived home at all hours but never returned from a trip without candy and gifts for his children. In his retirement, he grew peppers and onions in his garden and watched a lot of television. But he was still connected, and when she went to him in desperation, he opened his home to her and listened to her troubles.
    One night, after a few glasses of after-dinner wine, he told her she must seek vengeance.
    “No matter what you think about your ex-husband or what you’ve learned about him since, you can’t let this go unpunished,” he said. “When someone hurts a member of your family, no matter what the reason, he’s hurt you by proxy. You go after him and get revenge. People need to know there are consequences for their actions, especially when it comes to our loved ones. That’s the only way to keep some kind of order in the world because, God knows, these days no one will do it for you. Not the pols, not the cops. I’d do it myself if I could get around, but I’m too damned old and busted up. Revenge is a cleanser, honey. You need to be cleansed.”
     
     
    She’d arrived in Wyoming the month before. It was remarkable—everyone seemed to know everyone else. She asked questions, got answers and leads, and eventually wound up in Saddlestring. It took only three days to find someone who knew Nate Romanowski.
    Her adviser had said, “So you want revenge? I’m one of the few people who actually knows where he hangs his hat.”
    Then her adviser told her he had access to a rocket launcher through some friends in the arms business. Said it could be shipped to her overnight. Her adviser was incredibly helpful, eager even. She never asked about agendas, because she didn’t need to know. All she cared about was that they had a common interest and a common purpose.
    So now it was payback time. It was time to be cleansed.

    Although Johnny and Drennen talked excitedly about what they’d do the next day all the