Free Fire - C. J. Box [52]
After they cleared Bozeman, Joe said, “Really, I’m sorry about telling you that story. Don’t pay any attention to me. Forget you heard it.”
She was puzzled. “You probably needed to get it out.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“It’s okay, Joe.”
“No, it isn’t,” he said. “I’m not really a touchy-feely guy and I don’t want you to think I’m sensitive.”
She laughed and shook her head, reached over and patted him on the arm. “Don’t worry—your secret’s safe with me.”
He glowered at her.
Joe said, “you mentioned last night that the park has its own language. What are some of the other terms you can think of unique to here?”
She smiled. “Over the years, I’ve kept a list of them. ‘Bubblequeens’ are laundry room workers; ‘pearl divers’ are dishwashers;‘pillow punchers’ change sheets on the beds; ‘heavers’ are waiters and waitresses. All guests are called ‘dudes’ behind their backs long before everybody called everybodydudes.”
“What are flamers?” Joe asked.
“Excuse me?”
“When I read Hoening’s e-mails to prospective women, he always wrote, ‘We’ll go hot-potting and light a couple of flamers.’ ”
Demming shrugged. “I’m not sure. Zephyr people have their own language within a language.”
“Is he talking about dope?”
“I assume.”
“Maybe Layborn was on to something,” Joe said.
“Maybe.”
They stopped for lunch at Rocky’s in West Yellowstone. It was one of the few places open. The streets were deserted, most businesses closed until the winter season. While they waited for their sandwiches, Joe surveyed the crowd. Everyone looked localand had the same logy listlessness about them as the people he saw in Mammoth; no doubt recovering from the tourist season,he thought.
“James Langston,” Joe asked Demming, “what’s he like?”
“The chief ranger? He’s a bureaucrat of rare order. I’ve alwaysfound him arrogant and very political. He didn’t get to where he’s at by being everyone’s friend, that’s for sure. I heard him say once he thinks he’s underappreciated given all he has to put up with. By underappreciated he meant underpaid. Ha! He should take home my government paycheck.”
Joe said, “Maybe he should quit the Park Service and work in the private sector if he wants more money.”
“What—and have to be accountable to shareholders? Work past five? And not live in a mansion that’s financed by taxpayers?Are you crazy, Joe? What are you saying?”
She caught herself and looked horrified. “But I shouldn’t be saying that.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” Joe said slyly. “Why do you suppose he was checking up on me?”
She sighed. “I’m sure he just wants you gone. He doesn’t want this McCann thing in the news again.”
“Speaking of McCann,” Joe said. “We’re in his hometown. Have you guys kept track of him since he was released?”
“I assume he’s back here,” she said, “that he came home. If he left I haven’t heard. Why, do you want to check up on him?”
Joe nodded.
“Now?”
“I’m curious. Aren’t you?”
In the car, Joe turned on Madison.
“This isn’t the road to Bechler,” Demming said.
“Nope.”
“Then what . . .”
He gestured out the window. “Look.”
The law office of Clay McCann was a simple single-story structure made of logs. It looked like the type of place that was once an art gallery or a Laundromat.
“Think he’s in there?” she asked.
Joe shrugged, but felt a tug of anxiety. He stared at the law office as if he might get a better read on McCann by studying it.
The news photos of McCann made the lawyer look bland and soft. Joe wanted to see him in the flesh, look into his eyes, see what was there. Joe