Free Fire - C. J. Box [105]
He leaned over her. “Judy, can you hear me? It’s Joe.”
Did her eyes flutter? He thought he saw something but couldn’t be sure. Maybe she could hear him but not wake up. Maybe inside she was shouting, but he just couldn’t hear her.
“Who did this to you, Judy? Try and give me a name.”
He thought he saw a slight purse of her lips, but couldn’t tell if it was deliberate or an unconscious tic.
“Give me a name, Judy, and I promise I’ll get him. That’s a promise I will absolutely keep. I’ll get him.”
She didn’t, couldn’t, or wouldn’t respond.
He brushed her hair back, kissed her forehead, and told her Lars would be waiting for her in Billings.
Joe was outside in the predawn, leaning against the brick building, listening for the sound of the helicopter in the utter stillness. His breath billowed with condensation. He rememberedhow he and Victor used to strike tough-guy poses against the fence in the backyard and “smoke” lengths of twig, blowing the steam out like he was doing now. The stars in the eastern sky were losing their pinprick hardness due to the mauve wash of the coming sun.
Four-thirty. He’d decided to wait until six to call Marybeth and tell her not to come. It was too dangerous. He simply couldn’t let her take the chance now, as much as he wanted to see her and his girls.
In the distance, the EMT van sped down the canyon, headlightsstrobing, but with none of the fanfare or sirens that accompaniedDemming’s arrival. Assault victim, the receptionist had said. The van slowed abruptly, with a screech of brakes, and Joe saw a coyote in the middle of the road, in no hurry, loping down the center stripe. Finally, the coyote ran into the brush and the van could continue down the hill until it turned off the highwayand wheeled to a stop beneath the alcove.
The driver and assistant bailed out, the assistant filling in the doctor who had come outside and nodded at Joe. Joe nodded back.
“What do you mean there’s two of them?” the doctor said, annoyed. “The call said one. We prepped inside for one.”
“There’s two, all right,” the assistant said, lighting a cigarette while the driver strode to the back and threw open the door. “One’s in bad shape. The other one might just be passed out.”
Joe froze as they pulled the gurney out and the legs unfolded,snapped into place, and locked. He saw the assault victim’s face clearly, recognized him despite the lumpy, misshapen appearance and all the blood. It was his father. And the second man, the one still slumped in the back of the van, moaning like a steer, was Doomsayer.
The assistant rolled the gurney toward the entrance door, the doctor alongside, reaching under the bloodied sheet to find a pulse.
“Somebody entered with a key or they let him in,” the assistanttold the doctor. “The rangers said there was no sign of forced entry. Then whoever it was just beat the shit out of these two old guys with a billy club or a baseball bat. Luckily in this case, both of these birds were too drunk to resist or it might have been worse. It was probably like hitting rag dolls—they just flopped around. But whoever it was just whaled the holy hell out of them . . .”
Stunned, joe identified the victims and confirmed that the assault had taken place in room 231 of the Mammoth Hotel.
By the time he talked to the doctor, Demming had left in the helicopter and the sun had long ago burned off the frost.
His father was in a coma, severe brain damage likely. The chopper was coming back for real this time. Doomsayer had a concussion but would live, and was being left behind for observation.
Joe said, “The beating was meant for me.”
The doctor simply looked at him and shook his head.
In the confusion, Joe had forgotten to call Marybeth and by the time he did, no one was home. He tried her cell phone and got the recorded message that she was unavailable, out of range. He thought of trying to send a message to stop his family at the gate, but thought he was likely too late. He thought, What a night.
As they