{"product_id":"the-disappeared-isbn-9798217183159","title":"The Disappeared","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eDon’t miss the JOE PICKETT series—now streaming on Paramount+\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWyoming game warden Joe Pickett has two lethal cases to contend with in this electrifying novel from #1\u003ci\u003e New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e-bestselling author C.J. Box.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWyoming's new governor isn't sure what to make of Joe Pickett, but he has a job for him that is extremely delicate. A prominent female British executive never came home from the high-end guest ranch she was visiting, and the British Embassy is pressing hard. Pickett knows that happens sometimes--these ranches are stocked with handsome young cowboys, and \"ranch romances\" aren't uncommon. But no sign of her months after she vanished?  That suggests something else.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the same time, his friend Nate Romanowski has asked Joe to intervene with the Feds on behalf of falconers who can no longer hunt with eagles even though their permits are in order.  Who is blocking the falconers and why? The more Joe investigates both cases, the more someone wants him to go away. Is it because of the missing woman or because he's become Nate's advocate? Or are they somehow connected? The answers, when they come, will be even worse than he'd imagined.\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Disappeared\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"Joe Pickett, the conscientious game warden in these rugged novels... he shows the tough-and-tender qualities that make him such a great guy to have on your side.\"\u003ci\u003e—New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"...tightly crafted story with a sense of place.  Box makes you smell that sawmill burner and feel the cold of a Wyoming blizzard as Pickett struggles through the snow to solve the mystery of Cowboy Kate.\"\u003ci\u003e—Denver Post\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"[A] slow-burn thriller ... one of the most deliberate and sure-footed in the series. In many ways it is a roots novel, a throwback to the earliest Pickett books, with its environmental themes and overlapping plot lines ... the threats are subtle, the mystery more compelling.\"\u003ci\u003e—Arizona Republic\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s difficult to come up with new superlatives to describe C. J. Box’s Joe Pickett series, but his latest, \u003ci\u003eThe Disappeared\u003c\/i\u003e, makes it a whole lot easier…thriller writing at its very best, as big and broad as the Wyoming landscape painted in shades mixed perfectly between dark and light.”\u003ci\u003e—Providence Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This page-turner leads you down one path before tossing you onto another...And just when you think the breathless action is over, Box bows out with a cliffhanger that leaves you with fingers clutching your book, “Arrrgh!” on your lips.\"\u003ci\u003e— Daily Oklahoman\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Box has crafted another thriller with many surprising twists and turns...The Disappeared is a gripping thriller that should appeal to readers who love tales from the Wild West\"\u003ci\u003e— The Durango Herald\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The eighteenth installment of this hugely popular series delivers everything fans want: a compelling mystery, high-stakes action in a beautiful setting, and enjoyably humorous interaction between characters they’ve come to know and love. There’s a reason we keep coming back for more.”\u003ci\u003e—Booklist\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Superlative...[T]he book’s key environmental issue enhances the satisfying conclusion. Also welcome are Box’s underrated touches of wry humor, generally overlooked as one of his strengths. Series fans and newcomers alike will be rewarded.”\u003ci\u003e—Publishers Weekly \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It's a treat to see Joe's daughter pulled into working with her father; there's an unexpected role for his reptilian mother-in-law, the imperishable Missy Vankueren; a false lead he follows will have you whooping with laughter....The final pages find Box's hard-used hero both triumphantly successful and in deep trouble once again in perhaps the most finely balanced conclusion in this rewarding series.”\u003ci\u003e—Kirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eVicious Circle\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A compelling tale that also rings with emotional resonance.”—Associated Press\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The unexpected, suspenseful turns will keep readers enthralled.  Another winner for Box.”—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Bracingly familiar pleasures expertly packaged...first-timers will be intrigued and fans amply rewarded.”\u003ci\u003e—Kirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This outing is the most suspenseful yet in this world-class series, setting a new standard for Box.”\u003ci\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We’ve noted previously how the fully fleshed family dynamic is one of this series’ enduring strengths, and that pays dividends here as we viscerally feel Joe’s fear for his loved ones and his powerlessness to protect them. Box masterfully tightens the suspense until we’re caught in a vicious circle of our own and unable to stop reading.”\u003ci\u003e—Booklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“C. J. Box is back and better than ever.”\u003ci\u003e—Providence Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eC. J. Box\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of twenty-five Joe Pickett novels, eight stand-alone novels, and a story collection. He has won the Edgar, Anthony, Macavity, Gumshoe, and two Barry awards, as well as the French Prix Calibre .38, the Western Heritage Award for Literature, and two Spur Awards. An avid outdoorsman, Box has hunted, fished, hiked, ridden, and skied throughout Wyoming and the Mountain West. He has been executive producer on television series based on his books, including ABC TV’s \u003ci\u003eBig Sky\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eJoe Pickett\u003c\/i\u003e on Paramount+.1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Wylie Frye was used to smelling of smoke and that was long before      he became a criminal of sorts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Wood smoke permeated his clothing, his hair, and his full black      beard to the point that he didn't notice it anymore. He was only      reminded of his particular odor when drinkers on the next barstool      or patrons standing in line at the Kum-N-Go convenience store      leaned away from him and turned their heads to breathe untainted      air.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But he didn't mind. He'd smelled worse at times in his life, and      wood smoke wasn't so bad.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e On cold nights like this, after he'd used the front-end loader to      deliver bucket after bucket of sawdust to the burner from a small      mountain of it near the mill, he could relax in the burner shack      and let the warmth of the fire and the sweet blanket of smoke      engulf him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Wylie sat at a metal desk under a light fixture mounted in the      wall behind him and stared at the dark screen of his cell phone.      It was two-forty-five in the morning and his visitor was fifteen      minutes late. Wylie was starting to fidget.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He watched the screen because he knew he wouldn't hear the phone      chime with an incoming text over the roar from the fire outside.      In the rusting shack where Wylie sat, fifty feet from the base of      the burner, it sounded like he was inside a jet engine. The west      wall-which was made of corrugated steel and faced the      burner-radiated enough heat that he couldn't touch it with his      hand. In the deep January winter of the Upper North Platte River      Valley, Wylie had the warmest blue-collar job of anyone he knew.      So there was that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e If he had to stink in order to stay warm on the job, it was a      trade-off he was willing to make. He still had nightmares about      that winter he'd spent working outside on a fracking rig in North      Dakota where he'd lost two toes and the tip of his little finger      to frostbite.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Every minute or so, Wylie looked up from the phone on the desk to      the small opaque portal window that faced the road outside,      expecting to see headlights approaching. He couldn't see clearly      because the smoke left a film on the glass that distorted the      view, even though he wiped it clear nightly with Windex.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was nothing to see, though.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It wasn't just the heat from the fire that was making him sweat.      He tapped the top of the desk with his fingertips in a manic      rhythm. He felt more than heard his belly surge with acid and he      tasted the green chili burrito he'd eaten for dinner at the Bear      Trap in Riverside. It was going to be a long night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The conical steel structure, known alternatively as a Òbeehive,Ó      Òtipi,Ó or ÒwigwamÓ burner for its resemblance to each, roared in      the dark and belched a solid column of wood smoke into the frigid      night sky of Encampment, Wyoming. The burner was fifty feet high      and its fuel was sawdust from the mill.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Its biggest fires took place at night by design-when sleeping      residents couldn't see the volume of smoke and complain about it.      The flames often burned so hot that the walls of the wigwam glowed      red like the cherry of a massive cigar and errant sparks drifted      out of the steel mesh at the top like shooting stars. When the      base was filled with sawdust and fully aflame, the temperature      inside exceeded a thousand degrees Fahrenheit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was a window of time to do what they wanted to do, heÕd told      the men who would be texting him. Even though it was rare when      anybody was up and around in the middle of the night in      Encampment, a tiny mountain hamlet of barely four hundred people      at the base of the Sierra Madre range, there was a very specific      window of time when their plan would work. It lasted from      two-fifteen to around three-thirty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e After two, some drunks were still driving around after the trio of      bars in the immediate area closed. There was a bar for every one      hundred and fifty residents, which Wylie thought was just about      right-two bars side by side in the tiny village of Riverside, with      its population of fifty residents, and one bar in adjoining      Encampment. When two o'clock finally came around and they closed,      ranch hands headed back to their bunkhouses, lumberjacks went home      for a few hours of sleep, and unemployed drunks drove off to      wherever unemployed drunks went.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Wylie could see the last drinkers of the night through the portal      either driving recklessly up McCaffrey or motoring home so slowly      and cautiously it was almost comical. Large clouds of condensation      coughed out of their tailpipes in the cold, and he could sometimes      see the drivers themselves if they were inebriated and had      forgotten to shut off their interior dome lights. But he couldn't      hear the vehicles because of the roar of the fire. He couldn't      hear anything.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The town cop, known as Jalen Spanks-he'd been given the nickname      Jalen Spanks (His Monkey) by the regulars at the Bear Trap-did the      same routine every night, arriving at three-thirty. Often, Wylie      would emerge from his burn shack and wave hello. In return, Jalen      would raise two fingers from the steering wheel in a reciprocal      salute. Sometimes, when it wasn't below zero outside, Jalen would      roll down his driver's-side window and ask Wylie how he was doing.      Wylie kept his responses pleasant and short. He didn't want to      become friends with Jalen the cop, because Jalen the cop was kind      of a dick who took himself and the authority his uniform bestowed      upon him a little bit too seriously, Wylie thought. Too many      small-town cops were like that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Wylie looked at his phone again. They were twenty minutes late. If      they didnÕt show soon, they might run the risk of being at the      mill when Jalen cruised through. That could be a hell of a      situation, and one that Wylie would have a tough time explaining      away without incriminating himself and getting fired or worse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So when his phone lit up with the message Running late, Wylie said      aloud, \"No shit.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Five minutes appeared in a text balloon immediately afterward.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Better fucking hurry,\" Wylie admonished.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then: Hit the bricks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yeah, yeah,\" Wylie said as he pulled on his heavy Carhartt coat      and jammed a Stormy Kromer rancher hat over his head with the      earflaps down. He thrust his hands in the pockets and stepped      outside the shack in time to see a pair of headlights turn his way      from the road.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The cold instantly tightened the exposed skin of his face and      Wylie tucked his chin into his coat and walked away from the burn      shack and the burner. He guessed it was twenty below zero based on      how quickly the crystals formed inside his nose as he breathed in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He wasn't supposed to see the vehicle come in, or the faces of the      men inside it, or observe what they were doing at the wigwam      burner.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That was the deal.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That was the reason Wylie was a criminal of sorts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In the version told by Jeb Pryor, the owner of the mill, the U.S.      Forest Service had sat idly by while pine beetles bored into      nearly every tree in the Sierra Madre range and, over ten years,      killed them where they stood. While millions of board feet of      lumber went to waste, hundreds of unemployed timber workers stared      at the mountains as they turned from pine green to rust brown.      Only after several five-month-long fires had gone out of control      were the logging roads reopened.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The federal policy of not logging the dying trees had had      something to do with combating global warming, Pryor complained.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Now thousands of dead pine trees were being hauled down from the      mountains to the big lumber mill in Saratoga, eighteen miles to      the north, as well as to the Encampment mill, the much smaller      outfit where Wylie worked as night manager.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Beetle-killed lumber was different from traditional pine, and it      surprised nearly everyone when there was high demand for it.      Unlike regular pine, beetle-killed wood contained whorls within      the lumber that were often tinted blue and green, and these bore      holes gave it \"character\" that furniture makers and designers      seemed to prize. The Saratoga mill was struggling to harvest the      dead timber in the mountains before it burned or rotted and fell      apart.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e After he'd lost his job in North Dakota, Wylie had jumped at the      opportunity to work at the mill, even though it paid less and the      hours were brutal.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But Wylie had child-support payments for two daughters, and a wife      who had left him but refused to work. Plus he wanted to insulate      and improve his garage into a shop where he could tinker with      discarded personal computers and reload his own ammunition. And      there were all those gambling debts from his disastrous foray into      the world of online poker.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So when he'd received a call a few months before from an unknown      number while he sat at the desk in the burner shack, he'd punched      it up out of curiosity and stepped outside so he could hear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The man on the other end had known his name, his occupation, and      his hours at the mill. He'd asked about the temperature of the      burner at full capacity. His deep, almost guttural voice had      sounded like a steel file sawing on a length of metal pipe. It was      a strident voice, the kind that usually made Wylie bristle because      it meant authority, but Wylie had listened anyway.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The man asked: Would Wylie Frye like to pick up some extra money      by doing literally next to nothing?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Wylie was interested. He'd asked the man what he had in mind, and      was told that if he needed that answer, the deal was off.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Wylie said he really didn't need to know.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Just tell me you're not planning to burn hazardous waste,\" Wylie      said. \"I've got to breathe the air around here.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It's not hazardous material,\" the man assured him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And now it was an ongoing thing. Every ten days to two weeks, they      showed up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Up at the mill now, he circled the sawdust pile on foot, careful      not to stare at the burner or the vehicle below. TheyÕd obviously      backed their truck to the feeder door, though, because Wylie had      seen headlights from the pickup sweep across the front of the mill      as it did a three-point turn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e After his second circuit around the pile, Wylie noted that the      pickup was driving away. They'd worked quickly. He watched as the      red taillights narrowed in the dark and the pickup turned onto the      road headed north toward Saratoga.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was surprised how rapidly his legs had stiffened in the cold      despite the flannel-lined jeans he wore, and he beat it back      toward the burner shack. He was nearly to the door when he was      suddenly bathed in white light.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Wylie turned on his heels, his eyes wide.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Out for a stroll?\" Jalen Spanks asked from his open SUV window.      Wylie had not seen the cop enter the yard because the burner had      blocked his view of the side road. Had Spanks seen the departing      vehicle?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Just getting some air,\" Wylie said as he raised his gloved hand      to block the beam.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Kind of a cold night for that, isn't it?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It's cold as a witch's tit, all right,\" Wylie said as he nodded      toward the shack. \"But it gets pretty smoky in there.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Spanks slid his spotlight to the side so it wouldn't continue to      blind Wylie.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You've really got that thing blasting tonight,\" Spanks said.      Wylie wasn't sure whether it was a statement or a question. It was      something a cop would say, though.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It'll start to burn down,\" Wylie said. \"I put the last bucket of      sawdust in it for the night.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Any more and you'll heat the whole town.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And that's a bad thing? Wylie thought but didn't say. It had been      arctic cold in the area for a week.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Spanks leaned toward the open window and sniffed the air.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What's that smell?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Burning wood.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"No, there's something else, it seems to me.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Wylie smelled it, too. The acrid and distinct smell of burning      hair and something that smelled a little like roast chicken. Wylie      kept his glove up so Spanks couldn't see his face, even though the      spotlight wasn't as direct as it had been.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Oh,\" Wylie said, \"I threw the garbage in the fire. That's      probably what it is. Guys throw what's left of their lunches in      the garbage barrel.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Ah.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Is that a problem?\" Wylie asked. \"Do we need a permit or      something to burn our garbage?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I don't think so, but I'll ask the chief,\" Spanks said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Okay.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Well,\" Spanks said as his window whirred back up, \"have a good      night.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You too,\" Wylie said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The police SUV rolled away, gravel crunching under the tires.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Wylie let out a long shivering breath.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Inside, on the desk, was an envelope. In it was twenty-five      hundred dollars in cash, as agreed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Wylie closed his eyes for a moment and he tried not to think about      what the men in the pickup had tossed into the burner.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Whatever it was had turned to ash by now, and Wylie, his kids, and      his garage needed the money.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 2\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Carol Schmidt smelled it, too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Schmidt was a birdlike woman, sixty-nine years old and wiry, a      woman who kept active even when she didn't need to. Aside from her      full-time job as a checker and bagger at Valley Foods, she      crocheted afghans for hospitalized vets, attended both boys' and      girls' games at Encampment High School, and was past president of      the garden club.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She stood behind the storm door waiting for Bridger, her dog, to      do his business in the snow in the small backyard. Bridger was an      eight-year-old, eighty-five-pound, three-legged malamute\/golden      retriever cross. She watched him impatiently as he strolled      through the shadows sniffing this and that, his white snout and      legs picking up what little light there was, his tail straight up      and swinging back and forth like a metronome.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was no use rushing him. If she opened the storm door and      hissed at him to hurry up, he'd obey and come running to get back      into the house, but if he hadn't tended to his business, she'd      just have to let him back out later. Not that she didn't curse him      a little while she waited. \"Damn you, Bridger boy-hurry up.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She felt guilty about it. He was always so cheerful when he came      through the back door that he cheered her up as well. She loved      how something as simple as relieving himself made Bridger happy      night after night, as if it were the first time that particularly      wonderful experience had ever taken place in his life.","brand":"G.P. Putnam's Sons","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48532199833829,"sku":"NP9798217183159","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-disappeared-isbn-9798217183159","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}