by C. J. Box
“Maybe,” Cody said.
Wilson reacted with a jerk of his mouth to the side when he heard that. Mitchell dismounted and tied his horse to the trunk of a tree with a lead rope. Now that he’d climbed down from his mount he looked old and he moved like a stiff old man, Cody thought. Mitchell limped down the line of horses he’d gathered to the gray. When Mitchell got the ropes untied he slid Wilson off by grasping the back of his belt and pulling. Wilson’s boots thumped onto solid ground.
Mitchell said, “I’m officially turning him over to you now while I get these critters some grain and water them.”
Mitchell put his big hand in the middle of Wilson’s back and shoved. Wilson stumbled toward Cody but managed not to trip and fall.
Cody said to him, “Is my son okay? His name is Justin. He’s seventeen.”
Wilson stared back, noncommittal.
Cody studied Wilson’s face for any kind of tell, but the man’s eyes were black, still, and unyielding. He took it as an encouraging sign, assuming there would have been at least a flinch or glimmer of reaction if something had happened to Justin.
“So that’s the way you want to play it,” Cody said. He noted the twin horseshoe impressions on the front of Wilson’s shirt where he’d been kicked. As Cody walked up to him he imagined Wilson’s chest must be badly bruised. Although the man was two inches taller, Cody was thicker. “I heard the shots and found Russell and D’Amato,” Cody said. “We located Tristan Glode’s body earlier. You’ve left a hell of a mess.”
Wilson looked back through heavy-lidded eyes.
Cody gestured toward a pedestal-like rock that jutted out of the grass. “Sit.”
Wilson didn’t move until Cody prodded him with the muzzle of the rifle, then he did so grudgingly. Wilson grunted and settled on the rock and looked at Cody with bored contempt.
Before speaking, Cody made sure Mitchell was out of earshot. He said to Wilson, “Do you know who I am?”
No response.
Cody felt himself smile as his demons took over. He said, “Do you know who I am?”
Wilson didn’t even blink.
“Let me tell you who I am, then. I’m Cody, and I’m an alcoholic.”
Wilson twitched. At last, a chord was struck.
“Thought so,” Cody said, and swung the butt of the rifle into Wilson’s face. He could hear the muffled snap as the man’s nose broke and feel the cartilage flatten through the stock of the rifle. Wilson cried out and tumbled over backwards off the rock into the grass.
Cody bounded forward and straddled the rock and pressed the muzzle of his AR-15 into the flesh between Wilson’s eyes, which had misted from the pain. Blood coursed down the sides of Wilson’s face from the twin spouts of his nostrils. Cody growled, “Let me tell you who I am. I’m the scariest fucking cop you’ll ever meet. My son is on that trip and you murdered the best man I ever knew. We’ve been finding the bodies you left behind all fucking morning. I haven’t had a drink in days and I smoked my last cigarette two hours ago. All I want is an excuse to kill you five times over and piss on your remains. Do you understand me?”
Wilson’s eyes were open wide. He looked bloody and scared.
Cody said, “What, you expected to hear your Miranda rights?”
He moved the muzzle a few inches to the right and fired into the ground so close to Wilson’s head it creased his scalp and furrowed through his hair above the temple. The concussion was deafening in the quiet woods, and when Cody’s ears stopped ringing all he could hear were Wilson’s terrified curses.
“Jesus Christ, you shot me. You son of a bitch. You can’t do this to me. You’re a cop.”
Cody said, “Yada-yada-yada. Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Cody,” Mitchell called from the timber, “everything all right?”
Cody didn’t look up. “Everything’s fine,” he said.
He moved the muzzle back over where it belonged between Wilson’s eyes, said, “Now tell me, is my son okay?”
“He was fine when I saw him last,” Wilson said. Then: “You busted my nose.” He pronounced the last word node. “And I can’t hear out of my right ear.” Cadt.
“I’m just getting started,” Cody said softly. “Now what I’m going to do is ask you a series of questions. Your job is to answer each and every one of them with absolute truth and clarity. I’ve interviewed hundreds of dirtbags like you in my life and I know when I hear a lie. If I hear one it’s the last thing you’re ever going to say. Do you hear that?”
Wilson nodded.
“Good. Tell me why you killed Hank Winters.”
“I didn’t kill him, I swear.”
“You’re an idiot,” Cody said, feeling his face get hot. “We’ve got bodies all over Yellowstone Park. I’ve got the gun you used and the knife. Now you’re going to tell me you’re innocent?”
“I said I didn’t kill Winters, whoever the hell he is,” Wilson hissed. “I’ve never heard of the guy. It wasn’t me who did that. It wasn’t me, I swear it.”
Cody paused. “Are you going to try and tell me you didn’t kill D’Amato, Russell, or Glode, too?”
“No, I ain’t going to tell you that.”
“But you know who killed Hank Winters?”
Wilson nodded so slightly Cody almost mistook it for a tremble.
“Do you know why?”
Another barely perceptible nod.
“So what in the hell is going on?” Cody said, pressing the muzzle and front sight against Wilson’s forehead hard enough to draw blood.
35
“Is he gone?” Danielle asked Gracie.
“I think so.”
They were in their tent, waiting for Jed McCarthy to leave camp. Gracie had unzipped the front flap wide enough to see. She could see the aluminum cooking station and James Knox pacing but her field of vision was blocked in back of her. The trail was beyond the camp over a rise. If Jed was indeed gone she hadn’t seen him ride away. But the sounds of the adults talking was muted and random, the sounds of nervous small talk. If Jed was still there she would have heard his voice, which seemed to cut through the air like a saw.
The afternoon sun lit the nylon walls and it was hot inside and Gracie could smell the dirt and perspiration on her body and Danielle’s. She couldn’t remember ever going two days without a shower, much less two days outside being coated by dust, wood smoke, horse, sweat, and a new smell: fear.
“So we’re agreed?” Gracie said, sitting back on her sleeping bag. “We’ll gather up Dakota and Rachel and get out of here.”
“Don’t forget Justin,” Danielle said.
“He’ll want to bring Walt,” Gracie said, a hint of a whine in her tone. “Walt will be the good politician and he’ll probably tell everyone what we’re doing and want them to come, too. Then it’ll be all of us and we’re back to where we started.”
“With this pack of losers,” Danielle said. “But as long as we go home, I don’t care. And I can’t just leave Justin.” She’d brought a file along as well as red polish and she was methodically grooming herself finger by finger. “By the way, I saw where Dad hid the keys to the rental car. He put them by the gas cap and closed that little door. So when we get back we can drive right on out of here.” Then, “Man, I want to take a shower and clean this trip off of me. Except for Justin.”
Gracie put her head in her hands.
“You don’t understand love,” Danielle said solemnly.
“You’ve known him for two days,” Gracie said.
“Like I said. You don’t understand love. I hope someday you will,” Danielle said, studying her nails. “But you’ll need to lose the attitude.”
Gracie flopped back on her sleeping bag and kept one hand over her face.
The silence went on for a while, Danielle working on her nails and Gracie sweltering and miserable. Finally, Gracie said, “What about Dad?”
“I thought you said you didn’t care about him, the way he treated you.”
�
�I said that,” Gracie said, “but I was mad at him. We can’t just leave him here.”
“Why not?” She sounded half miffed and half bored. Danielle seemed more than amenable to let Gracie make all the profound decisions, and didn’t seem to like the idea of her waffling because that required her to once again become involved in the discussion.
Gracie said, “Because he paid for this trip and everything’s gone wrong. I feel sorry for him, you know? I’m not sure Rachel even likes him anymore, and that was the whole point. I mean, besides us bonding with him in the wilderness and all of that. He’s going with us.”
“I like Rachel,” Danielle said. “She’s cool. She treats us like adults. Like we matter.”
“Yeah.
“Unlike Dad, I mean.”
“Yeah.”
“I think he doesn’t know whether we’re little girls or young adults, so he goes with what’s most comfortable to him—meaning we’re his little girls. He can’t think of us as real people. That’s why he doesn’t believe me when I say someone is spying on us or believe you when you say you heard something happen in the dark outside the tents.”
Gracie spread her fingers apart on her face so she could look at her sister with wonder. Rarely did Danielle say something that made her think.
“What?” Danielle asked, defensive.
“Nothing.”
“Anyway, wouldn’t it be weird if Rachel turned out to be our friend even after she dumps Dad?”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
Danielle said, “That’s the kind of thing I think about all the time. You know how so many of our friends say they wish their parents could get back together? Well, I never think that. I think Mom is better off without him. I think he’s kind of embarrassing, to be honest. He’d rather make that idiot Jed like him than show respect for his own daughters.”
Gracie sat up and shook her head at her sister. “You’re talking about our dad.”
Danielle shrugged. “Really, basically, he’s just another dude. He’s got to show me something to get me to think otherwise, and I haven’t seen it.”
“Danielle!”
“Hey,” she said, sliding her nail file back into its plastic holder like a sword into a sheath, “that’s what I feel. So why shouldn’t I say it?”
“Maybe you should think rather than just feel,” Gracie said. “It’s possible, you know.”
Danielle shrugged. “Yeah, if you’re a pathetic loser, I guess.”
Gracie flopped back down on her back. “This is the worst trip I’ve ever been on.”
Danielle said, “Welcome to Hell-o-stone Park, sister. Maybe we’ll see some wolves and bears and birdies and other stupid animals on the way out.”
Gracie moaned.
Danielle leaned over on her and put her lips to Gracie’s ear. “Now let’s go find Dakota and Rachel and my boy and Dad and get the friggin’ hell out of here.”
* * *
They avoided the camp and skirted along the edge of the trees toward where the horses were picketed.
“We’ll ask Dakota to get our horses ready,” Gracie said. “I can help her. Then we’ll find Rachel.”
Danielle nodded.
Shadows lengthened across the open ground as the sun sank beneath the tops of the trees. The temperature dropped a quick ten degrees in the shade.
“Leaving in the dark might be a problem for us,” Gracie said.
“I don’t care when we leave as long as we leave,” Danielle said.
“There’s Rachel,” Gracie said, seeing her coming up from where the horses were. Their dad wasn’t with her. And something was off about the way she walked; arms crossed around her like she was hugging herself, head down. She appeared deep in thought.
“Rachel,” Gracie called.
Rachel’s head snapped up. Her face was drawn and white.
“What’s wrong?”
Rachel took a deep breath, as if trying to gain control of herself. She said, “Oh, girls, it’s horrible. I just found Dakota down there. Somebody slit her throat and killed her. It just happened. Her body…”
Gracie gasped and Danielle froze beside her.
“This isn’t a joke, is it?” Danielle asked.
Rachel shook her head and gestured behind her. Her eyes were rimmed with red and she looked like she could collapse. “There’s so much blood,” she said, and opened her arms so they could see it on the front of her shirt. Rachel said, “I turned her over to see if she was still alive, but…” She couldn’t finish again. She was trembling.
Gracie gasped. “Could it possibly have been an accident?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“No.”
“Did you see anyone?”
Rachel turned away, deflecting the question.
“Rachel,” Gracie said, “who did you see down there?”
“She saw Jed,” Danielle said. “Jed did it.”
Rachel nodded her head and tears streamed down her cheeks, making them glisten in a shaft of sunlight.
“Oh my God,” Gracie said, reaching out for Danielle so her legs wouldn’t collapse. “She saw Jed kill Dakota.”
Rachel nodded, apparently unable to speak.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Danielle said. “Now.”
Gracie watched as Rachel’s horror transformed into anger. She reached out and grasped both sisters and leaned into them.
“Your dad and I were down by the horses. We heard them arguing and we hid. That’s when Jed did it. And he just left her there and took his horse. He just left her there in the grass.”
Danielle covered her mouth with her hand.
“Your dad asked me to get you out of here. He said he’d stay in the camp with the others and try to keep Jed under control until we’re gone. Get your horses,” she said. “I’m going to lead us out of here.”
Gracie felt a flood of relief. Then: “What about everyone else?”
Rachel’s eyes flashed. “I don’t care about them and I don’t know if we can trust anyone but each other anymore. It’s time to take care of ourselves now. The rest can be on their own.”
Gracie swallowed, “Even Dad?”
“I know,” Rachel said, gripping her arm harder, “but it’s what he asked me. He’s going to quietly tell the others what we saw and get them to help him jump Jed and tie him up until we can get help. He doesn’t want you two in the camp in case things go bad.”
“Justin’s coming with us,” Danielle said, pulling away from Rachel and folding her arms over her breasts. “I won’t leave him behind.”
Rachel grimaced, but she seemed to realize she’d come up against an immovable object.
“Get him,” she said. “We leave in five minutes.”
* * *
Gracie and Danielle walked up the hill into the camp. They tried to not betray their anxiety or their plan. Gracie noted that Danielle was better at deception than she was, and she could only imagine how she looked so she covered her head with her hood and kept her eyes down. Jed wasn’t there, and neither was her dad.
What was going on?
She followed her sister to where Justin was sitting on a rock. Danielle approached him, held out her hand, and Justin took it with a quizzical but amused look on his face. She led him away.
Walt didn’t say a word.
As they led Justin back toward the horses, Gracie chanced a look over her shoulder. Donna Glode, Knox, and Walt stared at the fire, absorbed in their own thoughts.
36
From the edge of the clearing where he was resting the horses, Mitchell called, “Hey, Hoyt. When you get a minute you may want to come look what this guy has in his saddlebags.”
Cody didn’t ease up on the pressure he was applying with the muzzle of the rifle. He said, “In a minute, Bull.”
But he noticed something pass across Wilson’s bloody face.
“Christ,” Wilson said. “You’re Cody Hoyt?”
“That’s right.”
“Shit, I should have
figured it out. I knew your uncle Jeter. We used to drink together at the Commercial Bar in Townsend.”
Cody let up a bit simply because he was trying to process what Wilson said.
“You’re a damned Hoyt,” the man said. “A damned Hoyt.” As if it meant something.
“Then who the hell are you?” Cody asked. “I’ve never heard of anyone named K. W. Wilson.”
Wilson clammed up, and Cody stepped back and kicked him hard in the ribs. When the man grunted and curled away, Cody dropped on him with a knee in his back and snatched his wallet out of his jeans pocket.
The Montana auto license was in the front sleeve. “Jim Gannon,” Cody said. “Shit, I know that name.”
Gannon, like his uncle Jeter, was an outfitter who used to work out of Lincoln. Cody had never met him, but he’d heard stories. Gannon was a hard-drinking, hard-charging fourth-generation Montanan. He had a reputation as a poacher and a wild man, and Cody remembered hearing he’d been brought up on charges and had his outfitting license revoked and his hunting lodge shut down.
Cody said to Mitchell, “Bull, you know who we’ve got here?”
“Jim Gannon,” Mitchell said, ambling over. “That’s what I was going to show you. He’s got a bunch of personal crap in his saddlebag with his name all over: ‘Property of Jim Gannon.’ I told you we were dealing with an outfitter. Hell, I thought he looked familiar. I guess I must have seen his picture in the paper once when they brought him up on charges.”
Cody swung his rifle back over. “Why’d you register for this trip as someone named Wilson?”
Wilson/Gannon rasped, “Why d’you think?”
Cody said, “So Jed or anyone else in his office wouldn’t recognize the name. It would have seemed kind of suspicious for a bent guide like yourself to pay all that money to go on a trip with dudes.”
Gannon nodded, still trying to get his breath back from the kick.
“I think you should just shoot him now,” Mitchell said, leaning against a tree. “He gives outfitters a bad name. I never knew him because he wasn’t in the Montana Outfitters and Guides Association. Hell, he doesn’t even know how to handle horses worth a damn.”
