by C. J. Box
“No,” Cody said, “but why is our guy on this particular trip? What is he after, or is it his way of hiding out after his spree? No matter how you cut it, the guy must be a little desperate after all he’s done. I wouldn’t think anyone around him would be very safe,” he said, tapping the file of Jed McCarthy’s clients.
“We still don’t know if he’s on the trip,” Larry said.
“I know,” Cody replied. “Don’t remind me how much of a leap this is.”
“So where are you now?” Larry asked.
Cody said, “Close to the park.”
There was a beat of silence. Larry said, “You’re not going to say, then?”
“Nope.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
Cody said, “Larry, you’re the only guy I trust. But the less you know, the better for both of us. As you said, you’re complicit in every stupid thing I do.”
Larry snorted. “I see your point. But answer me this, cowboy. How in the hell are you going to find this pack trip in the middle of the wilderness?”
Cody said, “I’ve got a plan.”
“I hope it’s a good one.”
Cody said, “Me, too.”
* * *
He showered and left his clothes in a pile on the bathroom floor, and slipped into bed naked. He set his alarm for 3:30 A.M. and called the front desk and requested a wake-up call for the same time.
He knew he wouldn’t sleep. Couldn’t. The things Larry had told him swirled around the dark ceiling, darting in and out of his consciousness. He hoped strands of what he knew would somehow miraculously connect and he’d sit bolt upright with an epiphany and suddenly know the connections as well as the answers.
Didn’t happen.
* * *
What did happen, two hours later, was the slight creak of old flooring outside in the hallway. He turned his head in bed and glanced at the digital clock that showed 2:23 A.M. glowing in red.
When he smelled a sharp odor he thought it must be his breath. Then he recognized it as lighter fluid.
Cody propped up on an elbow and stared at the yellow bar of light beneath the door to his room. He rubbed his eyes and tried to convince himself what was happening was not his imagination. Two shadows of feet were evenly spaced within the bar. Someone was standing just outside. And there was a growing pool of liquid that streamed from under it across the tile floor, rivulets reaching out toward his bed like grasping fingers.
Then the distinct sound of a match being struck.
18
Jed McCarthy liked the way the situation was shaping up. He considered himself a kind of master of managing group dynamics, and he had once again proved himself right. He tried not to act too smug or vainglorious about it, although it wasn’t easy.
It had started out with an hour or so of stories after dinner, after Ted Sullivan had come back from the tents. After he’d had some kind of scene with the youngest daughter. Sullivan had settled back on the log next to Rachel Mina and they shared a long, sad look that told Jed as much as he needed to know about them. Sullivan sat with his head down and his arms hanging between his legs, as if he’d received a slip of paper in a game of charades that said Dejected. Jed had left his place with Dakota behind the cooking station and conspicuously walked around the fire. All the voices quieted and faces turned toward him. He handed Sullivan a bottle of Jim Beam. Sullivan took it, both surprised and grateful for the gesture, and took a long drink that made his eyes water and sparkle from the fire. Sullivan offered the bottle to Rachel, who said, “No thanks.” The man tried to give the bottle back, and Jed said, “Keep it. Have another drink, then pass it around.”
From that moment on, Jed knew he had Sullivan on his side. A gesture was all it took with weak men like Sullivan who weren’t used to them from men who weren’t weak, like Jed. It elevated Sullivan in the eyes of the others that Jed had sought him out like that. The only person who didn’t appear impressed was Rachel Mina, who eyed Jed with caution. Jed pretended not to notice.
He returned to the cooking station and monitored the progress of the bottle as it made its way around the campfire, and soon there were other bottles as well.
Inhibitions lowered as voices rose, and Jed made it a point to keep the fire going but not too brightly. Just bright enough he could see their faces and expressions and confirm they were all on the tracks he wanted them to be on.
He felt Dakota’s eyes on him. She was standing beside him at the cooking station, washing dishes and the pots and pans.
Finally, he glanced over at her and mouthed, What?
She whispered, “What in the hell are you thinking?”
He grinned and looked away.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “You’ve always told me to keep our alcohol packed away for later, in the tent. You’ve never brought it out before, and you sure as hell haven’t passed it around.”
He thought her whisper was getting loud enough to be overheard, so he did a quick survey of his guests to see if anyone was looking up. Nope.
“I know what I’m doing,” he said. “Don’t question me with the guests present.”
She grunted her assent.
He said, sotto voce, “And don’t forget you’ve got a mission tonight.”
“Which tent is his?” she asked softly. That meant she was still with him, even though she was angry. But she still wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“The blue and green Mountain Hardwear.”
“The one with the stain on the side of it?”
“That’s the one.”
She nodded that she understood.
He again reached out for her and she jerked away again and he left her there fuming.
“Hope you don’t mind if I join you,” Jed said to his guests, taking the sitting log used earlier by the Sullivan girls and Walt’s soon-to-be stepson.
“Cool,” James Knox said, “please do.”
“And to what do we owe this pleasure?” Tristan Glode asked.
“I’ve got a proposition for you folks a little later,” Jed said. “But first I’d like to have a drink.”
“Try this,” Walt Franck said, offering the single malt.
Jed raised his eyebrows in false trepidation, getting a couple of laughs, then sipped the smooth liquor. It burned nicely on the way down. He said, “It’s not Jim Beam, but it’s pretty good,” to more laughs.
Jed let them ask him to expound about Yellowstone, wildlife, horses, and outfitting. He did, but not at great length. He wanted them wanting more.
He did a quick inventory. The Sullivan girls and Walt’s stepson Justin had gone to their tents. Perfect, he thought. He didn’t want the young ones to weigh in. Sullivan Senior sat by Rachel, Sullivan still moping over whatever it was his daughter was worked up about, but coming out of it. The alcohol helped. Rachel looked on at Sullivan as if sizing him up, as if unsure of her conclusion. Women only thought they liked weak men, Jed surmised. Jed wondered what she’d be like with a strong one. Probably a pain in the ass, he thought.
The three Wall Streeters sat on the ground on a tarp with their backs to a downed log and their feet splayed before the fire. They passed their bottles back and forth. They were tired and getting pleasantly drunk. He doubted they’d make a late night of it, but he didn’t want things to get too wild before he made his proposition. Drey Russell had been quiet a long time and wasn’t as boisterous as Knox or D’Amato. Jed wondered if Russell was having a good time, or doing his best to pretend he was. Russell seemed introspective. Jed wondered if Russell had camped much in his youth, or been in the mountains in such a raw state before.
Tristan and Donna Glode sat on separate stumps to the left of the Wall Streeters. Tristan did take a sip of the single malt but declined the Jim Beam, which didn’t surprise Jed. Donna gulped both, to hoots from D’Amato and Knox, and Jed stifled a smile. This woman was a drinker. And a looker, in her day. Too bad her day had passed. Jed had a feeling Donna was grinning a bit too much at D’Amato an
d Russell. D’Amato seemed to respond, but Russell had none of it. When he saw her lean over and touch D’Amato on the knee to ask for a sip of his tequila, he saw potential trouble brewing for Tristan.
Jed focused on Tristan, and thought he had the man figured out. He seemed uncomfortable, but not because of Donna. Jed got the impression Tristan was a man used to being catered to and he fancied himself an outdoorsman but he didn’t necessarily enjoy being with other clients not in his social stratum. The joshing and passing of the bottles didn’t amuse him but he knew enough about human nature to know if he got up and left he’d be talked about and made the butt of jokes. So he stayed and endured and simply hoped the night would break up early. Tristan had made it clear to Jed he’d studied their route in advance and was as familiar with it as anyone could be.
For that reason, Jed saw Tristan as a challenge. He hoped he’d be able to turn him. And now that he saw Donna flirting with D’Amato, he knew he had leverage he hadn’t before.
K. W. Wilson sat alone. He was dark and quiet. When Walt Franck offered him a sip of Scotch, he started to reach out for it, then declined. Jed found that interesting, and wondered why Wilson wasn’t drinking. He looked like a drinker. His haunted eyes and hollow cheeks practically told drinking stories of their own. But he didn’t take a sip, meaning he was choosing to be antisocial or he had a problem. Or an agenda, something he wanted to keep sharp for. Jed shot a quick look over his shoulder. Dakota was gone. He smiled to himself. It wouldn’t be long before he knew a lot more about K. W. Wilson. Not that it would matter all that much in his strategy, which was to use Wilson’s sour personality as a tool to isolate him and to make his opinion irrelevant, whatever it would turn out to be.
Walt Franck was simply affable. He was slightly younger than Tristan, Donna, and Wilson, but older than the rest. He laughed politely at jokes but told none of his own. Jed thought he might be concerned that his son Justin had suddenly found a new interest—Danielle Sullivan—that might change the purpose of the trip from stepfather/stepson bonding to the blind pursuit of a hot little chick. Surely, Walt wouldn’t really welcome that development, even though there was next to nothing he could do about it. Jed knew that trying to stand between a hormone-fueled teenager and his love interest was akin to walking between a grizzly sow and her cubs, and Walt didn’t look dumb enough to do either. Walt’s distraction would help Jed, though, and that’s all that mattered.
After a few minutes, Rachel Mina stood up and announced she was going to her tent for the night. She said it in a way that made it obvious she expected Ted Sullivan to go with her. Obvious, that is, for everyone except Ted Sullivan, who took a bottle from Knox and took another swig.
“Before you go,” Jed said, “I wanted to float a proposition. I’ll go with whatever you all decide. This is a simple majority rule deal, and I’ll go with the majority because it’s your trip.”
She still eyed him with doubt and put her hands on her hips, waiting. He decided right then he’d need to either win her over or isolate her if she didn’t fall in line. It would be her choice either way it went.
Jed gathered himself to his feet and cleared his throat. “What I’m wondering about,” he said, “is how married everyone is to the route and the trail we talked about this morning to get to our next camp tomorrow night.”
He let that settle in a moment before continuing. “Here’s what I’m thinking. We’ve had a boatload of rain up here this summer, much more than usual. I mentioned it this morning to Tristan,” he said, nodding toward Glode. “See, the trail down along the Yellowstone River is pretty swampy, even in a good year. As I mentioned before we left, the snowpack took a long time to melt this year because there was so much of it and the temperatures have been so cool, plus all the rain we’ve had. I’m concerned if we go down there the regular way we might be walking our horses through miles and miles of gunk. That’s no fun and it slows us way down. It’s hard going for the animals, plus it means mosquitoes. There’s also the possibility the trail is washed out enough that we might lose quite a bit of time finding work-arounds.”
Jed presented his left palm to the group and pointed to it with his right index finger.
“If my palm here is a map, think of the lifeline as the Yellowstone River,” he said, tracing it from top to bottom. “The trail parallels the river pretty much, going north to south. Normally when we get almost to the southern border of the park,” he jabbed the heel of his hand with his finger, “we take the fork by South Boundary Creek and leave the river valley and cut due west into the mountains up toward the Continental Divide and Two Ocean Pass. That’s where we’ve got our camp for tomorrow night, up on Two Ocean.”
He looked up to make sure everyone was paying attention. They were, although only Tristan Glode and K. W. Wilson seemed rapt. The rest looked pliable.
He continued, moving his finger up an inch on his palm. “So what I’m proposing we do tomorrow is leave the trail earlier than we’d normally turn west. That means cutting to the west between Phlox Creek and Chipmunk Creek. I’ve been studying my topo map and it looks doable. We still have to climb up into the mountains and we should still be able to get to our camp, it’s just that we’re arriving an unconventional way through country that probably hasn’t seen ten people in a hundred years.”
Somebody, likely D’Amato, whistled.
“Excuse me,” Tristan cut in, “but I remember asking you about the trail this morning. You didn’t indicate then we may have trouble.”
Jed said patiently, “Mr. Glode, I believe I did. I said it was possible the trail might be washed out in places. This is the first time I’ve been up this way this year, so there was no way to know for sure. Even the Park Service doesn’t send many rangers down where we’re going until hunting season when they try to guard against poachers coming up from Wyoming. There were really heavy snows last winter and big runoff this spring and the rain this summer. I don’t think there’s been anyone down that direction yet this season to provide a report.”
“So what changed your mind?” Tristan asked. There was an edge to his voice.
19
The ignition of the lighter fluid had been instant, less than a second after Cody heard the match strike. There was a whump that sucked most of the air out of the room and his lungs, which left him gasping. Bitter smoke lit hellishly with the orange and blue tongues of flame. His eyes filled with water and his lungs screamed from smoke he inhaled rather than air and he thought he knew how Hank Winters and the others must have felt if they were conscious in their last moments.
Outside the door, he heard footfalls thumping down the hallway so quickly he knew he’d never be able to catch who did it.
The flame seemed to burn away his sense of time as well. He had no idea if it was seconds or minutes before he scrambled out of the bed and stood naked. Since it was pushed against the wall, the only way he could get out was toward the fire. It had likely been a few seconds since the whump; he felt sluggish and cloudy-headed and blind due to the thick smoke. He felt around his feet for the saddlebags because he needed to save them. As he reached toward one of them it ignited, the fire eating up the nylon exterior as if starving for it. He managed to snatch the other one off the floor before it went up, too, and he backed around the foot of the bed into the bathroom. He stood trembling, his back against the sink, gasping, looking through the doorframe at the violent orange glow in the bedroom. He squatted to his haunches and he was able to get below the roiling bank of black smoke. He sucked in the superheated air and was thankful his lungs didn’t explode. The fire had consumed the rug near the door and was curling the flooring. It spread to the sheets and comforter of his bed. He gathered his discarded clothes in his arms.
Then he remembered why the smoke detector didn’t trigger an alarm or activate the sprinkler system, and thought, Shit!
He reached behind him into the bank of smoke for the sink. When he found it he turned on both taps, then stood and jammed down the stopper with the
heel of his hand so the sink filled. While the fire in the bedroom was snapping angrily, he grabbed two towels off the rack and plunged them into the water to soak it up.
His riding boots were within reach in the bedroom near the bed and he found them and pulled them on. The soles were hot. He shoved his arms into a hotel bathrobe that was hanging from a hook behind the door and cinched the tie. Then he dropped down toward the floor again to get a gulp of air. Retrieving the wet towels from the sink, he wrapped one around his head and the other around his hands and ran toward the door using the bag out in front to help block the heat. As he bolted through the flames he felt the hairs on his legs and forearms burn down to the skin and the soles of his boots melt into gel. He could smell the awful acrid smell of his own burning hair.
Cody prayed that whomever had set the fire hadn’t blocked the door so he couldn’t get out, then remembered it was unlikely since the door opened in. In the time it took him to run from the bathroom across the bedroom the heavy water in the towels heated up.
He hit the door hard with the saddlebag out in front of him to cushion the impact. He couldn’t see through the smoke but he reached around the bag for the handle. When he turned it the deadbolt rescinded and he threw himself out into the hallway. The rush of fresh air flowed into the room and fed the fire and the heat from it on his back and neck was instant and intense. Particularly, he felt it on his buttocks.
The hallway was empty except for the round bland face of a disoriented woman who’d just opened her door to peek out. Her eyes fixed above him at the roll of dark brown and yellow smoke that was advancing across the ceiling.
“Get out,” he said to her, “there’s a fire.”
“My things!” she said, her eyes welling with tears.
“Buy new ones,” he said, grasping her hand and pulling her out her door. “Is there anyone in there with you?”
