by C. J. Box
Joe looked around the empty lobby, trying to sort it out. Should she contact someone else with the information? If so, whom? Should he?
“I’m thinking,” he said. “Sometimes, it takes me a while.”
“I know it does,” she said, chiding him.
“First,” Joe said, “make sure you’re safe there. As long as you’re alive, you’re a threat to him and everyone he’s involved with, even though he thinks you’re dying. We’ve learned a lot in the last hour, Judy. None of it is good. Your life is still in danger, so call the Billings PD. If you have to, make up a story, but make sure they send some men to the hospital to stay outside your door. Make sure no one comes to visit you except your kids.”
“Okay . . .” she said, almost in a whisper. The giddiness she’d started the conversation with was gone.
“Make a deposition,” Joe continued. “Get your statement down on tape and on paper. If nothing else, it will make it less likely they’ll try to get to you if they know you’ve got a statement with the police.”
“And if they do get to me,” she said, “Langston will still go to jail.”
Joe didn’t want to say it that way, but Demming was sharp. And when he said the name Langston aloud, it triggered a question. “What’s James Langston’s wife’s name?”
“Hmmm . . . I met her a couple of times. Tall, skinny, cold. Katherine, I think.”
“Katherine. Are you sure?”
“I think so.”
“Katherine Langston is listed as VP of development for EnerDyne. Either she’s involved or James is protecting himself by using his wife’s name. Probably both.
“Oh,” Joe continued, “I nearly forgot to ask you. Did you recognize the men in the black SUV?”
“I didn’t recognize the driver,” she said.
“Could you pick him out in a photo? Like from the entrance gate video?”
“Absolutely.”
Joe nodded. “Good. I’m pretty sure I’ve got a couple of pictures of him.” Joe described the driver.
Demming said, “That’s him.”
“What about the passenger?”
“He looked familiar.”
“In what way?”
“I’ve been trying to figure that one out,” she said. “I know I’ve seen him before, but I don’t know his name. It seems to me he was up here a year or so ago with your governor.”
Joe felt a chill shoot through his spine.
“He stuck to your governor like glue,” she said. “He seemed like a nice guy but real intense.”
The profile from the video, Joe thought. He knew now why it was familiar to him too.
The name should have struck a nerve when Nate said it. Vice president of operations for EnerDyne, but under his formal name. James Langston wasn’t the only officer at EnerDyne playing name games.
“Joe?”
“I’m here,” he said weakly.
“What’s wrong?”
“His name is Chuck Ward,” Joe said, “aka Charles Ward, aka C. T. Ward the Third. He’s Governor Rulon’s chief of staff. Now I know why he didn’t want the governor to send me up here, and why he had to take some personal leave.”
“He’s the guy you’re working for?” Demming asked, disbelieving.
“He was,” Joe said.
“Does the governor know?”
Joe started to say, I’m sure he doesn’t but his world was turning inside out. Given the implications of free fire, he was sure of nothing.
Instead, he said, “I have no idea what the governor knows.”
“Get out of there,” Demming said. “Get out now.”
Joe mumbled that he understood her, told her to call the Billings PD right away, said he’d come see her as soon as he could.
“Meaning what?” she asked.
“Meaning I’ve got to go.”
JOE DID FOUR long circuits around the outside of Mammoth Hotel in the dark, rubbing his face, running scenarios through his head, stopping once to throw up. He had a headache from lack of sleep and too much thinking and his mouth tasted of stale smoke and regurgitated dinner. As he walked, it got darker and colder. Storm clouds rolled across the black sky, extinguishing the moon and stars, covering Yellowstone Park like a lid on a boiling cauldron.
Winter had arrived.
On his fifth circuit, hard little pellets of snow strafed the ground, hitting so hard on the pavement they bounced. In the darkness, it looked like the road was awash with waves. He thought he felt tremors through his boot soles, and concluded that he probably did.
He stopped in front of the Pagoda. A single light was on from within a cell on the second floor. Clay McCann was awake.
“McCann!” Joe shouted.
After a few moments with no reaction, he shouted again.
The shadow of a face appeared at the window. Joe recognized the lawyer’s profile. The thick window was frosted so McCann couldn’t see who had called his name outside.
“I’ve got you now,” Joe called, “you son of a bitch!”
BACK IN THE Mammoth Hotel lobby, Joe dug a worn and faded business card out of his wallet that he’d kept with him for three years. On the back, handwritten, was a number. He dialed, let it ring eight times before it was answered.
“What?” Tony Portenson said, groggy.
“It’s Joe Pickett.”
Joe heard a clunk as the receiver was dropped on the floor, then picked up. “It’s fucking three-thirty in the morning,” the FBI agent growled. “How’d you get my home number?”
“You gave it to me,” Joe said. “Remember?”
“I remember nothing. It’s too early. Can’t this wait?”
“No, it can’t.”
“Jesus Christ. What?”
Joe could hear a woman’s voice ask, “Who is it, honey?”
Portenson said, “A fucking lunatic.”
“Quit cursing,” his wife said.
“Yes, quit cursing and listen,” Joe said. “I’ve got a conspiracy for you that’s so big you’ll be famous for blowing it open. It’s so big, you’ll be able to name anywhere in the country you want to be transferred to.”
“Okay,” Portenson said. “I’m awake now.”
“Before I tell you anything more, you’ve got to agree to a deal.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Then hang up and I’ll call someone else,” Joe said. He had no idea who else he would call.
“What?” Portenson said sarcastically. “I can’t agree with anything if I don’t know the terms.”
“Fair enough. Here’s the deal. I can deliver the biggest arrest you’ve ever made in your career by far. We’re talking national, international headlines. It’ll shake the foundation of both federal and state government, but don’t worry; it’s no one you like. It’ll affect national energy policy, and you’ll probably receive a medal from the president. Oh, and it will completely break the Clay McCann case.”
After a few beats, Portenson said, “Jesus. What do you want from me?”
“You’ve got to get a team together and get up here by tonight. It needs to be in complete secrecy. You can’t notify anyone or you’ll blow the collar. And when the arrest is made, you have to look the other way when it comes to one individual involved on our side.”
“One individual?” Portenson said.
“Yes.”
“Oh fuck, you mean Nate Romanowski, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I knew he was there.”
“He helped figure this thing out. He saved our lives in the Zone of Death. Besides,” Joe said, “he’s a friend of the family.”
“He killed two men!” Portenson yelled. “A sheriff and a federal agent!”
“Allegedly,” Joe said.
“Allegedly my ass.”
“Do we have a deal or don’t we?”
Portenson moaned and cursed.
“Well?”
“We have a deal.”
AS JOE WALKED back to his cabin in the snow a
t four in the morning, he thought, Another night without sleep.
In his stupor of sleeplessness and putting together the fledgling plan for the coming night, he didn’t pay any attention to the work crew and pickup parked next to the first cabin in the complex. But he smelled the strong rotten-egg smell of gas and could hear a powerful hissing sound from inside.
The front door flew open and a man staggered outside, ran a few feet, and crouched with his hands on his knees, breathing deeply. Another man in a hard hat appeared from around the side of the cabin, yelling, “Get me a wrench!”
Joe stopped, trying to figure out what was going on.
The first man finally stood after filling himself with several lungfuls of fresh air.
“Are you okay?” Joe asked.
“I’ll be fine in a minute,” the man said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “There’s a gas leak inside there, and I got a big breath of it.”
The second man snatched a toolbox from their pickup and carried it to the back of the cabin.
“I don’t know if I can fix this,” the second man shouted. “It’s like somebody broke the fucking valve off. We’ll need to turn the whole system off before somebody lights a match and blows us all to hell.”
The first man shook his head. “Good thing the park is nearly closed. There was enough gas in there to kill a herd of buffalo.”
Joe listened as the second man cranked on a shut-off valve. The hissing stopped.
It took a moment to realize the cabin they were fixing was the one he had moved his family from earlier in the day. Whoever had broken off the valve didn’t know that.
“EVERYBODY UP!” JOE shouted as he entered the cabin. Marybeth sat up in bed. Nate had curled up in some blankets on the floor.
“What’s going on?” Lucy asked.
“It’s snowing,” Joe said. “You’ve got to get out of the park before the roads close.”
“Snowing?” Marybeth said. “Since when are we scared of a little snow?”
“As of now,” Joe said, knowing he sounded like a maniac.
28
CLAY MCCANN COULD NOT STOP PACING. THE ONLY time he paused was at the window, and only for a few seconds. There was something different outside. The dawn light through his mottled window was white and muted, and the sounds of cars on the road outside the jail were more hushed than usual. He could tell it was snowing, although he couldn’t see it.
He had not been able to get back to sleep, ever since that man outside had stood beneath his cell at four in the morning and yelled, “I’ve got you now, you son of a bitch!”
Who was he? What was he doing out at that hour? The incident disturbed McCann immensely. He knew the voices of his partners, and it wasn’t any of them. Had they brought in someone else, or was the owner of the voice an independent threat? Or a local crank?
McCann wanted out. This had been going on too long, he thought. Layborn should have delivered the threat the night before, and action should be taking place. Would they be stupid enough, once again, to try to outflank him? Would they convene another of their meetings? What the hell was going on?
And now it was snowing. Great.
WHEN HE HEARD the sounds downstairs, McCann’s first assumption was they had come to meet with him. There was a muffled conversation, a long pause, and the sound of the front door being shut. He stopped pacing and stood still, listening. He could feel his heart beat faster, and he clenched and unclenched his hands.
Footfalls on the stairs, the sound of a key in the lock, the door swinging open.
“Good morning, asshole.”
The tall man on the other side of the bars had long blond hair in a ponytail, sharp, cruel blue eyes, and the biggest gun McCann had ever seen. Snowflakes melted on the man’s shoulders.
“You’re coming with me,” the man said, opening the cell door.
“No,” McCann said, his voice weak. “I’m staying right here.”
This caused the man to pause. His mouth twisted into a grin that made McCann’s blood run cold.
“All right, then,” the man said, and shot his hand out, grasping McCann’s left ear and twisting so hard the pain made his legs wobble. Then he pulled the lawyer out of the cell, still twisting on his ear, and guided him down the stairs into the lobby of the building.
Although he was cringing with pain, McCann saw the lobby was empty. “Where’s my guard?”
“He decided to take a walk and get some air.”
“And just leave me here?” McCann said, blinking through tears.
“You’re not exactly Mr. Popular in this neck of the woods. Sit,” the blond man said, shoving McCann into a chair by an empty desk. McCann sat, rubbing his ear. When he pulled his hand away there was a smear of blood on the tips of his fingers.
“That’s right,” the man said, “I’ll rip it right off next time if you don’t do everything I tell you. Believe me, I’ve done this before.”
“You can’t do this,” McCann said.
“I just did.”
“What do you want with me?” McCann tried to place the man and couldn’t. His voice was not the same one that had called to him from under his window.
The blond man raised the gun, the muzzle not more than three inches from McCann’s face, and cocked it. McCann watched the cylinder rotate, saw the huge balls of lead turn.
“You’re going to make a call to James Langston. Tell him you’re going to the FBI, and you’re bringing Bob Olig along with you.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Bob Olig?”
“They’ll figure it out.”
As McCann punched the numbers on the phone with a trembling hand, the blond man said, “Somehow, I thought you’d look more impressive, considering you gunned down six people. But you’re just a fat little weasel with pink hair, aren’t you?”
29
“SO,” JOE ASKED MCCANN, “WHO FIGURED OUT THAT the microbes at Sunburst react with coal to produce gas?”
“Mmmf.”
“Nate, would you mind taking the duct tape off of Mr. McCann’s mouth?”
“Happy to,” Nate said, reaching over the front seat of Lars’s pickup. McCann tried to turn his head but Nate grabbed a corner of the tape and ripped it off hard. Red whiskers and a few pieces of skin came with it. McCann howled.
They were headed south from Mammoth, climbing the canyon out of the valley, the snow a maelstrom. Joe was driving and McCann was wedged onto the narrow back bench seat, hands and feet bound with tape.
Joe was still angry that he had had to send his family away, that someone had tried to harm them. Seeing his daughters look back at him from the windows of the van as Marybeth pulled away had torn his heart out. It hadn’t helped seeing the grim look on Marybeth’s face as she drove, determined to get her girls out of there while at the same time upset over leaving her husband. Joe blamed McCann because he didn’t know whom else to blame and McCann was in the truck. “You can’t do this,” McCann sputtered, tears in his eyes from the sting. “I’m technically innocent. This is kidnapping and assault.”
“Nate, can you put fresh tape on his face and rip it off again, please?” Joe said.
“Happy to,” Nate said.
“No!”
Nate stripped six inches of silver tape from the roll with a sound like fabric tearing.
“I asked you who figured out the microbes,” Joe said.
Nate started to lean over the seat.
“Genetech people!” McCann said quickly, “but they didn’t realize what they had.”
Nate shot a glance to Joe, who nodded back. Nate lowered the tape but glared at McCann with menace.
“Talk,” Joe said. “It’s the only thing that might save you right now. And don’t start in on kidnapping and assault. You murdered six people. Putting a bullet in your head will not cause any crocodile tears up here, I’d say.”
McCann breathed deeply, worked his mouth since he couldn’t rub it with his hand. “Why should
I talk?”
“Because,” Joe said patiently but with an edge, “it’s the only chance you have to stay alive.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Because you have no choice. We don’t even have to kill you. All we need to do is stop and let you out, which I’m more than happy to do. The bears and wolves will take care of you. That’s the disadvantage of living in a place where there are so many animals that can eat you. And with this snow, your bones won’t be found until spring.”
“I recognize your voice,” McCann said. “You were the one who yelled at me this morning outside the jail.”
Joe watched McCann’s face in the rearview mirror. The lawyer seemed to be calculating his odds on the fly. He saw McCann shoot a quick glance out his window at a coyote nosing into the snow after a gopher. Good timing, Joe thought.
“Genetech has a little branch office in West Yellowstone,” McCann said. “They hired two local guys who do no more than drive to Sunburst every couple of weeks, harvest the pink microbes, and send them in a special incubation container to Geneva. They’re not engineers, just local boys. One of them got into trouble a year ago, DUI. He asked me to represent him, since I’m also local counsel for Genetech.”
“Stop,” Joe said. “What does that mean? What do you do for them?”
“Very little,” McCann said. “I file the annual extensions for their permit with the Park Service and meet a couple of times a year with James Langston to assure him the company is complying with all of the environmental regulations. I’m on a retainer to keep an eye out for my client in case something goes wrong or there is a challenge to their permit.”
“Ah,” Joe said, now knowing how McCann and Langston had met. “Go on.”
“Anyway, this Genetech guy with the DUI was telling me about something that happened when they were at Sunburst getting the microbes. He’s a smoker, and he said he tossed a cigarette aside while they were working and suddenly flame was shooting out of the ground. He said it singed his jeans. At the time, I thought it was just one of those weird Yellowstone things, and I forgot about it.
“Then I was approached by the CEO of a start-up company out of Denver. They knew about my familiarity with Genetech and the permitting process, and they were interested in getting a permit from Langston to harvest thermophiles.”
