by C. J. Box
Finally, Olig walked over to where McCann was sitting.
“I’ve been thinking of you for a long time.”
McCann sighed. “Why weren’t you there that day?”
“Rick and I had a disagreement. I decided to pass on the reunion this year. I wish I was there.”
McCann smiled malevolently. “I wish you were there too.”
Olig said, “I wondered for months what it could possibly feel like to kill someone. It’s beyond my understanding how someone like you could be so cruel. Someone supposedly with education, like you.”
McCann thought about it for a moment. “It isn’t as hard as you think. It was a means to an end. Nothing personal, like I said earlier.”
Olig seemed to be studying him, his mouth curling with revulsion.
“That makes it worse,” he said.
“Maybe it does,” McCann conceded.
“Get up.”
McCann felt a trill of pain in his groin, and he squirmed. “I’m sure we can work something out if you’ll let me try.”
“Nope,” Olig said. “No deals. Especially with a lawyer who killed my friends.”
“But you’ll be a murderer,” McCann said. “You’ll be as bad as me.”
Olig smiled. “I’ll never be as bad as you.”
“I’m not moving.”
Olig reached out and grabbed McCann’s good ear, asking, “Do we have to go through this again?”
McCann felt the flames on his face as he was pulled toward the hot springs. He thought about running, thought about fighting, thought about trying to negotiate.
The surface of the water smoked with roils of steam, looked oddly inviting. He thought of Sheila, hoped he’d see her again wherever he was going, hoped she wasn’t too angry with him.
He felt a massive, two-handed shove on his back and he was flying forward. The water was so hot it seemed cold.
It was quick.
33
JOE DROVE LARS’S PICKUP BACK TOWARD MAMMOTH with Ashby in the passenger seat. It was two-thirty in the morning, the snow had stopped, and the FBI agents had left an hour before with their prisoners en route to Jackson Hole. The snow was deep and soft, but the oversized tires bit well and Joe had no doubt that if he held the vehicle steady and kept it moving forward, he wouldn’t get stuck.
As quickly as they’d come, the storm clouds dissipated, leaving a creamy wash of stars and an ice-blue slice of moon that lit the snow blue-white. Joe didn’t even need his headlights.
He and Ashby hadn’t talked about what happened. Ashby seemed lost in his own thoughts and loyalties, and Joe certainly was. Joe replayed his brief conversation with Ward. Of course Ward was lying about the governor. If Rulon knew about the microbes and the motive for the murders, why would he have sent Joe to investigate?
Unless, Joe thought darkly, Ward and Rulon expected him to fail. Unless they figured Joe Pickett, shamed ex-game warden, was too bumbling and incompetent to crack the case, thus giving them the political cover of claiming it had been investigated but nothing was found. And, eventually, Ward would be rich personally and the State of Wyoming would have yet another source of revenue.
Could Rulon possibly be that manipulative? Yes, Joe thought, he could. But was he? Joe wasn’t sure.
The only thing he was sure about, as he drove, was that he’d use the relationship he’d established with the governor to press for Nate Romanowski’s release. The governor owed him that, Joe figured.
Joe was so deep into rehashing his situation and what had happened that he didn’t notice that Ashby was gesturing frantically, pointing at something through the window, sputtering as he tried to put words together. “My God, Joe, look! It’s Steamboat!”
Steamboat Geyser, which Cutler had said was by far the biggest and most unpredictable geyser in the world, was shooting up in a massive white column of water and steam, the eruption far above the tops of the trees to their left. Joe didn’t understand at first how big it was until he stopped the truck and realized that the geyser was miles away, that the eruption they could see pulsing white into the night sky was so huge it would drench—and possibly kill—anyone or anything around it.
“All my years up here,” Ashby said, “and I’ve never seen Steamboat go off. Hardly anyone has. My God, just look at it.”
Joe ran his window down. The geyser speared into the sky, blocking out a vertical slice of stars. Its roar rolled across the landscape, a furious, powerful, guttural sound as if the earth itself was clearing its throat.
And that wasn’t all, as the truck began to vibrate. A pair of Lars’s sunglasses on a lanyard started to swing back and forth from where they hung on the rearview mirror. Old cigarette butts danced out of the tray. Joe could feel the springs in the truck seat tremble, and ahead of them in the dark trees, snow came tumbling down from branches as the ground shook.
“Earthquake,” Ashby said, his voice thin.
“Big one,” Joe said, watching the snow crash from the trees to the ground like smoke pouring in the wrong direction.
“Jesus,” Ashby said, reaching out to steady himself on the dashboard. “This is huge.”
Out on the sequined meadow, a herd of elk emerged from the trees and ran across the virgin snow, hoofbeats thumping, sets of antlers cracking against one another as the bulls scrambled to separate themselves. The herd, more than eighty of them, thundered across the road in front of the truck, leaving a wake of snow, snatches of hair, and a dusky smell.
“Maybe this is it,” Ashby said.
Joe didn’t want to think that.
“Something really upset the balance,” the ranger said, pointing toward a sputtering spray of superheated water that was shooting through the snow in the meadow the elk had just vacated. “It’s affecting the whole park. That geyser wasn’t there even two minutes ago. Now look at it.”
Joe had an impulse to call Marybeth, wake her up, tell her that he loved her. Tell her good-bye.
But the trembling stopped.
As did Steamboat Geyser. The new little geyser in the meadow spat out a few more gouts of water, then simply smoked, as if exhausted.
Joe realized he’d been holding his breath, and he slowly let it out. His grip on the steering wheel was so tight his knuckles where white. “I think it’s over,” he said. “I think we’re okay.”
“I hope so,” Ashby said.
Joe inched the truck forward, crossed the trail the elk had made, eased out into the meadow.
“I was just thinking I should start going back to church,” Ashby said. “Or put in my papers for a transfer to Mount Rush-more or someplace like that. The Washington Monument. Maybe Everglades.”
It took until they could see the lights of Mammoth Village for Joe to fully relax. He wanted to know what had caused the eruptions and the earthquake, what had upset the underground plumbing system.
“We’ll probably never know what caused it,” Joe said.
“That’s the thing about this place,” Ashby said. “It’s so much bigger than us. We’re nothing here.”
EARLY THE NEXT morning, as the sun came up, Joe walked through the still and silent Gardiner cemetery. The snow was untracked until he got there. It took twenty minutes to find the gravestone for Victor Pickett. He couldn’t think of anything to say.
BEFORE DRIVING TO Billings to see Judy and his father and return Lars’s pickup and meet Marybeth, who would take him home, Joe called the governor’s office. Rulon took the call and listened without comment as Joe outlined what had happened. Rulon’s only reaction was to curse when Joe told him about Chuck Ward.
“That sneaky son of a bitch,” Rulon said.
“So you had no idea what he was up to?” Joe asked, trying to sound casual.
“Of course not. What are you implying?”
“Nothing, except the last thing he told me,” Joe said, trying to swallow except his mouth was dry, “was that you knew everything.”
There was a long pause. Then the governor said, “Of cour
se he’d say that. And he’ll probably say more and try to implicate me in order to cut a deal with the Feds. But he can’t prove anything, not a damn thing. Why would I send you up there after the fact to investigate if I had a role in anything?”
“Maybe because you thought I would fail,” Joe said.
“Well, I did think there was a pretty good chance you’d screw things up,” the governor said breezily. “That’s what you do. But no, I didn’t know about the microbes, although I’m fascinated by the possibilities. We’ve got to own them. They belong to us . . .”
Joe could hear the excitement in Rulon’s voice. He listened as the governor speculated about the possibilities of gasification, of transforming the world of energy production.
“Do you realize what you’ve found?” the governor finally asked.
“I think so,” Joe said.
“Can we get those microbes?”
“I have no idea,” Joe said. “The secret will soon be out.”
“Then we have to move fast,” Rulon said, and Joe could picture the governor gesturing to his underlings to come into his office. “I’ve got to go,” he said.
“I understand,” Joe said, “but there’s something else.”
“What?” Rulon said impatiently.
“My friend Nate Romanowski. The Feds took him.”
“I told you I didn’t want to know about him,” Rulon said. “In fact, I think our connection is going bad.”
“Governor—”
“I’m losing you! Damn! You’re fading away! Good-bye, Joe. And damned good work. Let’s keep in touch!”
“Governor . . .”
INSTEAD OF GOING North into Montana, Joe drove south into the park. It was hard to believe that the night before was the first major snowstorm of the season. By mid-morning, the roads had melted and were merely wet, and the sun blasted off the snow in a white-hot reflection.
He could see the tracks of the snow coach Olig had stolen going in and out of the Sunburst Hot Springs turnout, but Olig was gone. So was Clay McCann, Joe thought, so was Clay McCann.
Sunburst was dry, likely a result of the earthquake the night before. The pink microbes in the runoff stream were flat and turning gray as they died. Joe ran his bare hand over the flamer holes that once expelled natural gas. Nothing. He lit a match and waved it over the holes until it burned down to his fingertips.
YELLOWSTONE, JOE THOUGHT, as he drove out of it, was the most beautiful place on earth. It was the beginning and the end of everything he knew. He couldn’t wait to get home.
AFTERWORD
Since Free Fire was written, three things have happened:
Scientists and geological engineers have begun serious research into whether microbes introduced to coal seams can produce natural gas or liquified fuel;
The National Park Services in Yellowstone has begun public hearings regarding the exclusive contracts to research firms for the bio-mining of unique thermafiles;
U.S. Senator Mike Enzi of Wyoming has contacted fellow lawmakers with the purpose of future federal legislation to close the Yellowstone “Zone of Death” loophole.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author would like to thank those who contributed to this novel. First and foremost, Brian C. Kalt, Michigan State University College of Law, for writing “The Perfect Crime,” a Legal Studies Research Paper Series. Those interested in the official citation (Georgetown Law Journal, vol. 93sss, pg. 675) can look it up at http://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=691642. Mr. Kalt’s assistance with technical aspects of the law and his theory were invaluable. Additionally, thanks to U.S. District Judge Alan Johnson in Cheyenne for reviewing the premise and Wyoming game wardens Mark and Mari Nelson, as always, for reading the manuscript and offering their expertise.
In Yellowstone, I thank those who provided background and documentation, including Cheryl Matthews, Brian S. Smith, Judy M. Jennings, Mike Keller, Bob Olig, and my friend Rick Hoeninghausen. The wonderful book Old Faithful Inn: Crown Jewel of National Park Lodges, Karen Wildung Reinhart and Jeff Henry, Roche Jaune Pictures, Inc., 2004, was a helpful resource as well.
My deepest appreciation for the hard work, loyalty, and dedication of Team Putnam: Ivan Held, Michael Barson, Katie Grinch, Tom Colgan, and my new editor Rachel Kahan.
And thanks to Don Hajicek for www.cjbox.net and the wonderful Ann Rittenberg for being Ann Rittenberg.
Turn the page for a preview of
Blood Trail
The next Joe Pickett Novel
by C. J. Box
Available in hardcover
from G. P. Putnam’s Sons May 2008
1
I AM A HUNTER, A BESTOWER OF DIGNITY.
I am on the hunt.
As the sun raises its eyebrows over the eastern mountains I can see the track through the still grass meadow. It happens in an instant, the daily rebirth of the sun, a stunning miracle every twenty-four hours so rarely experienced these days by anyone except those who still live by the natural rhythm of the real world, where death is omnipresent and survival an unfair gift. This sudden blast of illumination won’t last long, but it reveals the direction and strategy of my prey as obviously as a flashing neon OPEN sign. That is, if one knows where and how to see. Most people don’t.
Let me tell you what I see:
The first shaft of buttery morning light pours through the timber and electrifies the light frost and dew of the grass. The track made less than an hour before announces itself not by prints or bent foliage but by the absence of dew. For less than twenty seconds, when the force and angle of the morning light is perfect, I can see how my prey had hesitated for a few moments at the edge of the meadow to look and listen before proceeding. The track boldly entered the clearing before stopping and veering back to the right toward the guarded shadows of the dark wall of pine, then continues along the edge of the meadow until it exits between two lodgepole pines, heading southeast.
I am a hunter.
As a hunter, I’m an important tool of nature. I complete the circle of life while never forgetting I’m a participant as well. Without me, there is needless suffering and death is slow, brutal, and without glory. The glory of death depends on if one is the hunter or the prey. It can be either, depending on the circumstances.
I KNOW FROM scouting the area that for the past three mornings two dozen elk have been grazing on a sunlit hillside a mile from where I stand, and I know which way my prey is headed and therefore which way I will be going. The herd includes cows and calves mostly, and three young male spikes. I’d also seen a handsome five-by-five and a six-by-five bull, and a magnificent seven-point royal bull who lorded over the herd with cautious and stoic superiority. I’d follow the track through the meadow and the still-dark and dripping timber until it opened up on the rocky crest of a ridge that overlooked the grassy hillside.
I walk along the edge of the meadow keeping the track of my prey to my right so I can read it with a simple downward glance like a driver checks a road map. But in this case, the route I am following—filled with rushes, pauses, and contemplation—takes me across the high wooded terrain of the eastern slope of the Bighorn Mountains of Wyoming. Like my prey, I stop often to listen, to look, to draw the pine and dust scented air deep into my lungs and to taste it, savor it, let it enter me. I become a part of the whole, not a visitor.
In the timber I do my best to control my breathing to keep it soft and rhythmic. I don’t hike and climb too fast or too clumsily so I don’t get out of breath. In the dawn October chill, my breath is ephemeral, condensating into a cloud from my nose and mouth and whipping away into nothingness. If my prey suspects I am on it—if it hears my labored breathing—it might stop in the thick forest to wait and observe. If I blunder into him, I might never get the shot, or get a poor shot that results in a wound. I don’t want that to happen.
I almost lose the track when the rising terrain turns rocky and becomes plates of granite. The sun has not yet entered this part of the forest, so
the light is dull and fused. Morning mist hangs as if sleeping in the trees, making the rise of the terrain ahead of me seem as if I observe it through a smudged window. Although I know the general direction we are headed, I stop and observe, letting my breath return to a whisper, letting my senses drink in the scene and tell me things I couldn’t just see.
Slowly, slowly, as I stand there and make myself not look at the hillside or the trees or anything in particular, to make the scene in front of me all peripheral, the story is revealed as if the ground itself provided the narration.
My prey had paused where I pause, when it had been even darker. It looked for a better route to the top of the rise so as not to have to scramble up the surface of solid granite, not only because of the slickness of the rock but because the surface was covered with dry pockets of pine needles and untethered stones, each of which, if stepped on directly or dislodged, would signal the presence of an intruder.
But it couldn’t see a better way, so it stepped up on the ledge and continued on a few feet. I now see the disturbance caused by a tentative step in a pile of pine needles, where a quarter-sized spot of moisture has been revealed. The disturbed pine needles themselves, no more than a dozen of them, are scattered on the bare rock like a child’s pick-up sticks. Ten feet to the right of the pocket of pine needles, a small egg-shaped stone lies upturned with clean white granite exposed to the sky. I know the stone has been dislodged, turned upside down by an errant step or stumble, because the exposed side is too clean to have been there long.
Which meant my prey realized scrambling up the rock face was too loud, so it doubled back and returned to where he started. I guess he would skirt the exposed granite to find a better, softer place to climb. I find where my prey stopped to urinate, leaving a dark stain in the soil. I find it by the smell, which is salty and pungent. Pulling off a glove, I touch the moist ground with the tips of my fingers and it is a few degrees warmer than the dirt or air. The prey is close. And I can see a clear track where it turned back again toward the southeast, toward the ridge.
