Free Fire - C. J. Box [55]
Joe showed her the page with Clay McCann’s name on it. Above his name were signatures from the day before for R. Hoening, J. McCaleb, C. Williams, and C. Wade. They listed their destination as “Nirvana.”
Joe said, “If he wanted to make sure they were here, all he had to do was read the register.”
As they stood near the Yukon they both looked at the trailhead,as if it were calling to them.
“I don’t know, Joe . . .” Demming said cautiously.
“I want to see the crime scene,” Joe said. “It’ll help me get my bearings. You can wait for me here if you want.”
She thought about it for a few seconds, looking from Joe to the trailhead and back before saying, “I’m going with you.”
The sign at the fork in the trail indicated it was thirty miles to Old Faithful to the right, two miles to Robinson Lake on the left. The trail on the right fork was more heavily traveled. They went left.
The forest closed in around them. Because there was no plan or program to clear brush in the park, the floor of the timber on both sides of the trail was thick and tangled with rotting deadfall.Joe was struck by how “un-Yellowstone-like” this part of the park was. There were no geysers or thermal areas, and they’d seen no wildlife. Only thick, lush vegetation and old-growthtrees. He studied the surface of the trail as he hiked, looking for fresh tracks either in or out, and stopped at a mud hole to study a wide Vibram-soled footprint.
“Someone’s been in here recently,” he said.
“Great,” Demming whispered.
There was no delineation sign or post to indicate where they crossed the Idaho border. Joe assumed they had because the line, according to his map, was less than two hundred yards from the ranger station and they’d gone much farther than that. The trail meandered at a slight decline, but it was easy walking.
He heard it before he saw it.
“Boundary Creek,” Joe whispered. They were now in the Zone of Death.
Joe felt his senses heighten as they crossed the creek, which was wider and more impressive than he’d guessed from looking at the map. He hopped from rock to rock, spooking brook trout that sunned in calm pools, their forms shooting across the sandy bottom like dark sparks. On the other side, as they pushed fartherinto the trees, he tried to will his ears to hear better and his eyes to sharpen. His body tingled, and he felt, for the first time in months, back in his element.
Robinson lake was rimmed with swamp except for the far side where trees formed a northern stand. The trail skirted the lake on the right and curled around it to the trees where, Joe guessed, the campers had set up their tents and been murdered. As they walked, he tried to put himself into Clay McCann’s head. How far away did he see their tents? Where did he encounterHoening? Did he smell their campfire, hear them talkingbefore he got there?
As they approached the stand of trees and an elevated, grassy flat that had to be where the camp was located, Joe heard Demming unsnap her holster behind him. She was as jumpy as he was.
The camp had been cleared months before but the fire ring revealed the center of it. Logs had been dragged from the timberto sit on around the fire. Tiny pieces of plasticized foil in the grass indicated where a camper—or Clay McCann—had opened a package of snacks.
In the campsite, Joe turned and surveyed the trail they had taken. From the camper’s perspective, they must have seen McCanncoming. There was no way he snuck up on them unless they were distracted or oblivious, which was possible. Since Williams had been found near the fire ring and McCaleb and Wade had been killed coming out of their tent, he assumed McCannwas literally in the camp before he started shooting. So was Hoening, whose body was found on the trail, the first or last to die? Again it struck him that the sequence of events really didn’t matter. There was no doubt who’d done it.
“Joe . . .” Demming whispered.
She was staring into the timber, her face ashen, her hand on her gun. Joe followed her line of sight.
The