Free Fire - C. J. Box [50]
Instead of Demming, a uniformed man of medium build pushed through the front doors. He had the aura of officialdom about him. Joe watched him stride across the lobby floor with a sense of purpose, his head tilted forward like a battering ram despite his bland, open face, his flat-brimmed ranger hat in his hand whacking against his thigh, keeping time with his steps. The ranger’s uniform had crisp pleats and shoes shined to a high gloss. He had a full head of silver-white hair, thin lips, a belt cinched too tight, as if to deny the paunch above it that strained against the fabric of his shirt. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, although the white hair made him seem older at first. Beneath a heavy brow and clown-white eyebrows, two sharp brown eyes surveyed the room like drive-by shooters. The ranger saw Joe sitting in his Cinch shirt and Wranglers, dismissedhim quickly as someone of no interest to him, and approachedthe front desk.
“I need to check on a guest,” the ranger said in a clipped, authoritativevoice.
“Name?” Simon asked without deference.
“Pickett. Joe Pickett.”
“He checked in last night.”
“How long is he staying?”
Tap-tap-tap. “The reservation extends through next week.”
“A week! Okay, thank you.”
The ranger turned on his heel and began to cross the lobby.
“Can I help you?” Joe asked, startling the ranger. “I’m Joe Pickett.”
The man stopped, turned, studied Joe while biting his lower lip as if trying to decide something. He held out his hand but didn’t come over to Joe. Meaning if Joe wanted to shake it, he’d need to go to him. Joe did.
“Chief Ranger James Langston,” the man said, biting off his words. “Welcome to Yellowstone.”
“We missed you at the meeting yesterday,” Joe said.
“I had other matters to tend to.”
“I thought it was your day off.”
Langston nodded. “In my job, you never have a day off.”
“That’s too bad,” Joe said, not knowing why he said it.
Neither did Langston. He released Joe’s hand and stepped back, said, “I hope you got all the information you needed and everybody’s been helpful and cooperative.”
“So far.”
“Good, good. Nice to meet you,” Langston said, starting to head for the door.
“Why did you want to know how long I was staying?” Joe asked pleasantly.
“Just curious,” Langston said. “We’d like to get this whole McCann thing behind us and move on. What’s done is done. There isn’t anything you or anyone else can do about it.”
“Ah,” Joe said.
“I’ve got to go. My motor’s running.”
“It sure is,” Joe said.
Langston looked at him curiously, clamped on his hat, and went outside. The Suburban roared off all of two blocks to the Pagoda.
Demming came in the front door. “Was that Chief Ranger Langston?” she asked Joe.
“Yup.”
“What did he want?”
Joe said, “I’m not real sure.”
Demming parked her cruiser and they took Joe’s Yukon to the Bechler ranger station. Because of an overnight rock slide near Obsidian Cliff that likely wouldn’t be cleared until that evening, Demming suggested they exit the park through the north entrance at Gardiner, drive to Bozeman, and double back south through West Yellowstone and on to Bechler.
“That’s a lot of driving,” Joe said as they cleared Mammoth.
“Get used to it,” she laughed. “This is a huge place. You learn not to be in a hurry.