Chapter 2 - The Net Closes InBy Tuesday afternoon, the ripples of the state investigation had reached the upper echelons of the Gallatin County Sheriff’s Department. Sheriff Thomas, a man who had spent twenty years turning a blind eye to the corruption festering beneath his nose, suddenly found himself facing a barrage of subpoenas, state investigators, and media inquiries that he couldn't deflect with a polite handshake and a cup of coffee.
State Investigator Santos wasted no time. With the financial records, the fabricated reports, and the dashcam footage securely in hand, she secured a multi-count arrest warrant for Deputy Brock Timmons on charges of bribery, obstruction of justice, and accessory after the fact to aggravated domestic assault.
Simultaneously, a felony warrant was issued for Trent Huxley: attempted murder of an unborn child, aggravated domestic assault, and witness intimidation.
I sat in the waiting area outside the neonatal intensive-care unit, staring through the glass at my new grandson. He was a tiny, fragile thing, hooked up to a network of translucent tubes and a mechanical incubator that breathed for him. His chest rose and fell in a rhythmic, desperate dance of life. He weighed barely four pounds, a micro-preemie forced into a hostile world weeks before his time because his father was a violent coward.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a text message from Maria Santos: We’re moving on Timmons now. Meet me at the precinct in an hour. We have reason to believe Trent is heading for his uncle's hunting cabin near Hebgen Lake.
I stood up, rolled my shoulders, and walked down the brightly lit hospital corridor. Before leaving, I stopped by Cassidy’s room. She was sleeping fitfully, her hand resting over her abdomen where the surgical stitches throbbed beneath a thick gauze bandage. I kissed her forehead gently.
"He's going down, Cass," I whispered. "I promise you."
When I arrived at the county sheriff’s department in downtown Bozeman, the atmosphere was chaotic. State police cruisers blocked the parking lot, and internal affairs officers were swarming the administrative desks.
In the main holding bullpen, Brock Timmons sat in handcuffs. His crisp sheriff's deputy uniform—the symbol of authority he had abused so egregiously—was wrinkled, his belt and badge stripped away. When he saw me walk past the glass partition, his face flushed a deep, mottled red. He stood up abruptly, slamming his hands against the metal table.
"You think you're smart, old man!" Timmons roared, spittle flying against the glass. "You think some state investigator can touch us? Trent's got money! He's got people! You'll never make it stick!"
I stopped, turning to look him dead in the eye. I didn't shout. I didn't threaten him. I simply looked at him the way I used to look at a rotting timber on an oil rig that was about to collapse under pressure—with cold, clinical disgust.
"Your buddy Trent isn't going to save you, Timmons," I said quietly, my voice carrying clearly through the intercom speaker. "He's too busy running for his own life. And when they lock you away in Deer Lodge, remember one thing: you traded your life, your career, and your freedom for forty-two thousand dollars and a coward who beats pregnant women. Hope it was worth it."
Timmons lunged forward, but the two state troopers stationed inside the holding cell slammed him back down into the chair with a resounding crash.
I turned away and walked into the command center, where Maria Santos was leaning over a large topographical map spread across a conference table. Several tactical officers in full gear stood nearby, checking their rifles and radio frequencies.
"We just got a ping on a burner cell phone registered under a false name," Santos said, looking up as I entered. "It pinged off a cellular tower near West Yellowstone, roughly three miles from the old Huxley family hunting cabin. Local forest service rangers confirmed that smoke was spotted coming from the cabin chimney about an hour ago."
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"That’s him," I said. "That’s where he used to hide out when the game wardens caught him poaching back in his twenties."
Santos nodded to the lead tactical officer. "All right, boys. The suspect is considered armed and extremely dangerous. We want him alive, but do not hesitate to protect yourselves. Let's move out."
