Cold Wind - C. J. Box [114]
Bailey’s response was a slight beery snort.
“All this time I’ve been looking for Bud and I never even thought of asking the most obvious guy,” Joe said.
Bailey shrugged.
“Where have you let him stay up there? One of the maintenance buildings, the club itself, or did you give him the keys to one of the members’ houses?”
Timberman delivered the drink, and Joe took a sip of it. It was cold and smoky and good.
When Timberman turned around, Bailey said, “He’s under a shit-load of pressure and pain right now. He needed some time away. There’s no law against helping a buddy out unless he’s wanted for something. You got charges on him?”
“No,” Joe said. “I just need to talk to him. I’ve been trying to find him for days and you know that.”
Bailey turned away from Joe and turned his palms down on the bar. He stiffened. “You never asked.”
“No, you’ve got me there. So are you hiding him from the sheriff as well?”
“So you’re freelancing?”
“Yup.”
“I’m not hiding him from anyone,” Bailey said. “He’s hiding himself. I’ve got no stake in this thing that’s going on, other than helping an old friend. Back in the day when Bud owned the ranch, before that witch took it from him, he was a big man around this country. He helped out a lot of people, and he wasn’t a jerk about it.” He seemed to want to say more, but like so many men Joe had encountered of Bailey’s age and station, he didn’t feel the need to go on.
“He’s struggling,” Bailey said, ending it at that.
“With what? With what he’s about to do?” Joe asked.
“I’m not getting into the particulars. That’s not my business. I’m not sure it’s yours.”
Joe sipped his drink again and shook his head at Timberman when Timberman raised his chin with a “Want another?” look.
Joe said, “I’m not going to hurt him in any way. You know me. I used to work for him, and we always got along. I shouldn’t even have to say that.”
“I’m not worried about you,” Bailey said. “But Bud seems to think there might be some other bastards after him. Trying to get to him before he testifies.”
Joe said, “Who?”
“Don’t know,” Bailey said. “We don’t talk all that much. He asked for a place to stay and I helped him out. We don’t sit around and share feelings.” He said it in a way that made Joe smile and like Keith Bailey more than he’d thought.
“He fades in and out,” Bailey said, “but you know about that.”
Joe nodded. He recalled Bud Sr. showing up in his backyard a year ago, waving a gun, looking for people who were out to get him. For some reason, he thought one of them would be Nate.
“He’s worse than that now,” Bailey said. “On account of his condition.”
“What condition?”
“You really don’t know?”
Joe shook his head.
“I’m not going to be talking out of school here. He can tell you what he wants to tell you. All I’ll do is let you know how to find him,” Bailey said. Then: “On one condition.”
“Shoot.”
“If you’re caught up there, you didn’t get the keypad code from me. I don’t care where you say you got it from—a member, maybe. Or that someone gave it to you so you could check out the wildlife on the place or something. But if you say I gave it to you, I could lose my job.”
Joe agreed, and Bailey tore off a corner of the Saddlestring Roundup and scratched out a seven-digit numeric code.
“You aren’t going to call him and tell him I’m coming, are you?” Joe said, taking the scrap of paper.
Bailey didn’t say yes, didn’t say no, but signaled Timberman for his check.
In the daylight, the Eagle Mountain Club overlooked the Bighorn River valley from its massive perch along the contours of a rounded and high eastern bluff. The club had a thirty-six-hole golf course that fingered through the foothills of the Bighorn Mountains, as well as a private fish hatchery, shooting range, airstrip, and about sixty multi-million-dollar homes that had been constructed long before the economy turned sour. Because of the airstrip, most of the members could arrive and depart without ever venturing beyond the gates. Built in the 1970s, the club was separate