by C. J. Box
She made a show of sighing dramatically, then turned around and approached the filing cabinets. “I know where everything is,” she said. “I have my own filing system. Apparently, it aggravates Jed that he can’t find anything, even though I’ve tried to explain to him how it works. Let’s see, today is July first, so 07/01. Seven corresponds with G in the alphabet, the seventh letter. One corresponds with A.…” She reached for a middle drawer and pulled it out and started fingering through tabs marked by handwritten letters.
Cody tried to remain calm.
“Here it is,” she said, pulling a file. “All the applications and signed releases of liability. And here,” she said, slipping a single handwritten sheet out of the file, “is the complete list in alphabetical order.”
He snatched it out of her hand and read down the list.
1. Anthony D’Amato
2. Walt Frank
“His Richness,” Cody mumbled. “Damn it.”
3. Justin Hoyt
“Damn it,” Cody whispered. “He’s on it.”
Cody scanned the rest of the list:
4. James Knox
5. Rachel Mina
6. Tristan Glode
7. Donna Glode
8. André Russell
9. Ted Sullivan
10. Gracie Sullivan
11. Danielle Sullivan
12. K. W. Wilson
None of the other names rang a bell. But he thought one of them might produce a ViCAP hit.
“I’ll need that back,” she said.
“In a minute,” he said, shuffling through the applications. Here, in the folder he held in his hand, were the names, addresses, physical descriptions, and details of each client on the trip. He was ecstatic. “Where’s your fax machine?”
“Is it long distance?” she asked. “You know, each fax is just like a long-distance phone call.”
Cody dug in his pocket and threw her a twenty-dollar bill. “That should cover it.”
“Where are you faxing the pages?” she asked.
“Just tell me where the goddamn machine is,” he said.
“No need to be like that,” she said, pointing to a supply room behind her.
* * *
While Cody fed in each page and transmitted it to Larry, he turned on the copy machine next to the fax. After each application was sent he made a copy for himself. Margaret Cooper was at her desk retrieving telephone messages, and had left him alone. He hoped she wouldn’t object to him making copies but it didn’t matter—he was taking the applications with him. Because one of these people, he thought, killed Hank Winters and was near his son.
When he was through he returned all the original documents to the folder and stuffed the copies in under his shirt.
He handed the folder to her at her desk.
“Why do you suppose a detective is calling me?” she asked him. “Is this your colleague? Are you a policeman?”
He nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she said, suddenly sitting up straighter.
“Undercover,” he said. “And this matter is confidential. Please tell no one I was here. Do you understand?”
She nodded furiously.
“Now I need you to think for a minute,” he said. “What is the best way to catch up to the pack trip? Don’t tell me the outfitter doesn’t have a satellite phone or some way to get in touch with the outside world.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but he doesn’t.”
“How can that be in this day and age?” Cody spat. “What if the Park Service needs to contact him? What if he’s got an emergency, like a client has a heart attack or something?”
She smiled sympathetically. “Then he’s to locate a park ranger and the park ranger places the call. You don’t understand how they can be. The Park Service, I mean. Such bureaucracy! They’re the reason Bull Mitchell finally sold the business. I wish he never had. I know he wouldn’t be making me learn how to work a computer.”
Cody took a deep breath. “Okay, so I can’t call them. So how would I find them? Is there a designated route? Doesn’t the Web site indicate they stay at a specific camp every night of the trip?”
She nodded her head. “Unless they camp somewhere else,” she said. “Things happen out there. Sometimes they’ll camp in other places, or even on a different trail if the trail is washed out or trees fall over it or something. All I ever know is where they start and where they end. The middle is kind of … random.”
He slapped the desk in frustration. Then he said, “Where can I find Bull Mitchell?” Thinking: Does he even live in Bozeman? Is he alive?
She looked at her watch.
“It’s nearly two,” she said. “That means he’ll be at the library.”
“The library?”
A misty look came over her eyes. “You’ll see,” she said.
12
Gracie didn’t mind being so far back in the string at all. She liked being able to observe the riders ahead of her, something she couldn’t have done if her horse was higher in the pecking order.
Jed was first, trailing three mules strapped with massive pack-boxes of gear and food. He constantly turned in his saddle to make sure everyone was behind him and in the order he’d set for them.
Behind the mules was the older couple, Tristan and Donna Glode. Gracie hadn’t heard Tristan say much so far on the trip, but he had a kind of serious and businesslike bearing, she thought. His wife seemed cold and aloof, but Gracie noted how gracefully she’d climbed on the saddle and how elegantly she rode. She was the only guest wearing honest-to-God English riding boots. Gracie tried to model her riding style—relaxed, not slumping, head up, reins loose in her left hand—after Donna Glode. But that’s the only thing about Donna Glode Gracie wanted to learn.
Walt and Justin were next. Gracie noted how often Walt turned in his saddle and sized up his soon-to-be stepson and then nodded approvingly at what he saw. She wondered what it was Justin was doing that was worthy of the head nods since it seemed to her the only thing Justin wanted to do was bump along and steal looks at Danielle. Justin rode well, Gracie thought, the way a natural athlete would ride. He wasn’t smooth but he looked strong and well balanced. He had a certain style about him, an attitude: confident, cocky, maybe a little full of himself. He knew he was the only young buck on the trip. He apparently saw no reason to put his feet in the stirrups, for example, and they dangled on the sides of his horse.
Rachel, the divorcée or widow or whatever she was, rode behind Justin on a slick jet-black gelding. Gracie thought the horse, named Midnight, was by far the best-looking of the herd. Midnight’s coat was so black it shined dark blue, like Superman’s hair, Gracie thought. And Rachel Mina looked good on him. She wasn’t as self-consciously slick as Donna Glode, but she’d obviously ridden before. Her posture was good, Gracie thought, as she found herself sitting more upright in Strawberry’s saddle. Gracie thought it would be interesting to talk to Rachel Mina to find out why she’d come alone on a trip like this. She had a feeling the woman was interesting, or had a good story, at least. And was she mistaken, or did Rachel Mina smile at her earlier in an almost familiar way? Like they’d met before, which Gracie was certain hadn’t happened.
The three Wall Streeters rode behind Rachel Mina; James Knox, Drey Russell, and Tony D’Amato. Gracie guessed that maybe Knox had been on a horse before, and possibly Drey. But certainly not Tony, who kept saying things like, “Where is the brake on this thing?” and “What good is a saddle horn that doesn’t honk?” Tony kept the other two laughing with his stupid asides and observations, and Gracie guessed it was kind of an act. Tony pointed out each time Knox’s gelding’s long penis unfurled and swung loose from side to side as the horse walked, saying, “Look who’s relaxed,” or “He reminds me of me when he does that.” The three men together were interesting, she thought. She’d seen very few male friendships up close in her life and the way they chided and insulted each other was a way of showing affection, she gues
sed. If women talked like that to each other there would soon be scratching and blood. She also thought how quickly boring it would become if every other statement was about their sexual organs, as it was with the male Wall Streeters. Despite their goofiness, though, Gracie liked having the three men around. They seemed solid and anchored. Better than three women, she thought. Especially on a trip like this.
The strange man, K. W. Wilson, rode behind them on a pale gray gelding. Although he wasn’t wearing a black hat or shirt, there was something dark about him. Brooding but at times kind of smiling to himself. Like he had a secret or found his thoughts amusing. The ghostly pallor of his horse only added to the image. He was thin and his face was made of sharp planes shoved together, as if he’d once had a normal face but somebody crumpled it in from the sides where it bent like sheet metal. His eyes were mounted close over the sharp bridge of a hatchetlike nose. He needed a shave and the trip had barely even started. He didn’t seem to laugh at the jokes of the Wall Streeters, not at all. Gracie was wary of him, and unlike Rachel Mina, had zero desire to get to know him at all.
Her dad rode behind Wilson, and Danielle was just ahead. Danielle rode well even though she didn’t have a clue as to what she was doing. Gracie wished she filled her saddle as well as Danielle, and wondered if and when her own butt wouldn’t be skinny and bony like a boy’s. Already it hurt. She could use some of Danielle’s padding, she thought.
* * *
“How’s that horse ridin’?” Dakota Hill asked in a tone Gracie could hear but low enough the others couldn’t.
“Good,” Gracie said. “I really like her.”
“Strawberry’s a good little horse. You can depend on her. Just don’t get her too close to those horses up front if you can help it, especially that black one, Midnight. Midnight don’t like Strawberry.”
“That’s too bad,” Gracie said, again leaning forward and patting Strawberry’s neck, “’cause she’s such a sweet girl.”
“Yup.”
Gracie thought Dakota Hill looked like a natural cowgirl in a way that Jed didn’t look like a natural cowboy. She was the type of woman, Gracie thought, who would be almost beautiful if she wore makeup. But Dakota seemed determined to fight against type by playing at being gruff and no-nonsense. What kind of woman wanted to be known as a “mule-skinner”? Gracie was puzzled by her but oddly fascinated at the same time.
When she turned back around in the saddle with the smile still on her face, she was jarred by two sets of eyes directly on her. From the front, Jed McCarthy looked on in what seemed like disapproval. And from a few horses away, K. W. Wilson smirked.
* * *
They were walking their mounts through the middle of a large green saddle slope rimmed by trees on all four sides. The air smelled slightly of sulfur. Jed had walked his string off the trail and let the others pass by. Gracie could see him talking to each rider in turn as they rode past him.
As she rode up next to him he asked, “You and that horse getting along?”
“Yes.”
“You sit a nice horse,” he said, nudging his horse into a walk until they rode side by side.
“I’ve been telling everyone to make sure to stay on the trail,” he said. “It’s more important here in Yellowstone than anywhere else.” He gestured toward a large white patch of ground to their right about a hundred feet away. “See that there?”
“Yes.”
“See anything unusual about it?”
“There’s no grass on it, I guess.”
“Look closer. Look at it about an inch above the ground.”
She squinted and noticed how the air seemed to undulate slightly, as if it were underwater. In the center of the white patch, a slight wisp of steam or smoke curled out of a hole the size of a quarter.
“What is it?”
“This is the thing about this place,” he said. “That’s a fumarole, or steam vent. The white is a dried mineral crust that’s covering a place where superheated water comes up out of the ground. The hole there releases some of the steam. Otherwise, it might build up too much pressure and erupt.”
“Wow,” she said, shaking her head.
“The crust is brittle,” he said. “If you walked over the top of it or took your horse over there you’d break right through. The water underneath would scald the hell out of you or your horse. Might even kill you if you got bucked off in it.”
“Really?”
“Really. It’s the reason we have to stay together on the trail and not ride off. Those things are everywhere, and some are much worse,” he said. “There’s a little canyon in the park where so much methane gas is produced naturally out of the ground that any living thing that wanders into it will die within minutes. The floor of the canyon is covered in elk and bison bones, and maybe even some old Indian bones.”
He’d softened his voice and she found it oddly rhythmic. She felt a chill ripple through her.
“But when you look at that white patch,” he said, “I want you to imagine something else. Imagine most of Yellowstone Park itself is that white patch. There’s a real thin crust covering hell itself, which is trying to boil over. That wants to boil over. And someday, it will. It’s known as the Yellowstone Caldera. In fact, darlin’, when it blows it’ll take two million people with it. It’s blown a few times through history, and we’re sixty thousand years overdue.”
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked.
“To heighten your awareness,” he said. “I want every one of my clients to be awake.”
“I’m awake,” she said.
13
Although it once seemed like he lived in one, Cody Hoyt had not been in a public library for years. And as soon as he entered the Bozeman Public Library on East Main Street, he felt like he was being hurled back in time to when he rode his bike to the Helena library after telling his buddies he was going home. He loved the library, although he kept it in absolute confidence. Only the librarians knew, and they gave him his space and not-so-secretly delighted in the fact that a Hoyt of the violent and rough-hewn Hoyts was actually in their sanctuary of civilization. Often, a librarian would give him a sandwich because he was obviously missing dinner and he’d eat it at his own private table in the back.
He read everything; newspapers, magazines, hunting and fishing books, crime novels, biographies of American presidents, anything he could find on World War Two. He read reference books and Ripley’s Believe It or Not and sex manuals that got him all worked up. Not once did he check out a book and take it with him, because he didn’t dare take a chance that his dad would see it and tease him. And as far as his father knew, he wasn’t home because he was at football or wrestling practice. Since his dad never went to any games anyway, he never found out Cody didn’t participate in the sports he claimed he did.
Lying to his friends about going home and lying to his dad about staying at school started a prominent pattern in his life, he realized later. Leading parallel lives and telling serial lies helped prepare him for the trials and rigors of full-blown alcoholism, which, in itself, was like a second full-time—although secret—career. He’d learned early how to multitask.
Cody learned nothing in school and everything he knew in the library. He still read widely and constantly, and was never without a book in his glove compartment (along with a pint of bourbon). For the past year, he’d been alternating among Jim Harrison’s novels, John McPhee’s nonfiction, Flannery O’Connor’s short stories, and the crime novels of John Sandford, Ken Bruen, and T. Jefferson Parker. His books were stacked like Greek columns in his living room and basement. Once he finally built those bookshelves, he could showcase an impressive collection. But he never got around to it.
He was mildly surprised by the banks of computers and the teens and twenty-somethings at each terminal. As he walked past, he noted a familiarity in what they were doing—updating their Facebook pages. He thought, Some people used to go to libraries to gather information. Now they come to write about
themselves.
He approached the information counter and a slim girl with bangs and a nose ring swiveled his direction and arched her eyebrows as if to say Yes?
“Someone told me Bull Mitchell would be here,” he said. “Do you have any idea where to find him?”
She pointed across her body past the reference book aisle. There was an archway painted with Mother Goose and Dr. Seuss characters and a sign that read children’s room.
“No,” Cody said, “I’m looking for an old guy named Bull Mitchell.”
She said, “Yes, and I’m telling you where to find him.”
* * *
Cody checked his wristwatch as he entered the children’s section, wondering how much time he was wasting when he should be coursing down the highway toward Yellowstone. But since he was here, he entered the room and walked toward the back where he could hear a gruff deep voice.
It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog.
I just got some terrible news. There’s been a murder on the ranch.…
“Jesus Christ,” Cody grumbled.
Two young mothers were standing in the aisle and they turned when they heard him, and one of them lifted a finger to her lips to shush him. She was wearing a track suit and her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She was vaguely attractive but already angry with him, so he looked to the other one. She was tall and slim with auburn hair and kind brown eyes and a nice mouth. Her face was wide open. She was pretty in a natural, athletic way.
He shrugged his apology and sidled up to them. He noted other mothers gathered along the windows on the side of the room.
“I’m looking for Bull Mitchell,” he said. “Do you know him?”
“Of course,” the tall woman whispered.“That’s him reading.”
Well, you know me. I’m no dummy. There’s a thin line between heroism and stupidity, and I try to stay on the south side of it.…
