Free Fire - C. J. Box [57]
He heard Demming shout into her radio, telling the ranger back at the station to call in a helicopter for an airlift to Idaho Falls before the man bled out.
“Is he going to make it?” she asked Joe, her eyes wide, her hands trembling so badly she couldn’t seat the radio back into its case on her belt. She glanced nervously in the direction the shots had been fired.
“I think so,” Joe said, grimacing at the Iowan’s split and disfigured face and the pool of bright red blood forming in the grass behind his knees. “We can tie his legs off with tourniquets and bind his hand and face to stop the bleeding,” he said, taking off his shirt to tear into strips.
“What happened?” the Iowan croaked, mouth full of blood, shock setting in. “Who did this to me?”
Joe didn’t recognize the flash of clothing, but the marksmanshipwas familiar.
“His name’s Nate Romanowski,” Joe said.
“Who?” Demming asked.
“Friend of mine,” Joe said to the Iowan. “If he wanted to hit you in the head and kill you, you wouldn’t be talking right now.”
11
“HOW LONG AGO WERE THEY HERE?” CLAY MCCANN asked Sheila while picking up the business cards. He was agitated.
“I don’t know—three hours, maybe.”
“What did they want?”
“Gee, Clay,” she said, rolling her eyes, “maybe they wanted to ask you about shooting four people dead.”
Annoyed, he looked up at her from the cards. He recognized the woman’s name—Demming. She was one of the first on the scene at Bechler. She was no heavy hitter within the park, he knew that. Nothing special. But . . . a game warden?
Sheila looked back at him with insolence. She was a poor fill-in for the receptionist who quit. Too much attitude, too much mouth. He wanted to tell her to tone down her act or he’d lose what few clients he still had. Then his focus changed from Sheila to the open door behind her, to the credenza and the notebooks that were clearly displayed on his desk.
“Why is my door open?” he asked, his voice cold.
“I wanted some light out here so I could read,” she said defensively.“If you haven’t noticed, it’s dark in here. You need to replace some bulbs. And there’s a nice big window in your office that lets in the light. Besides, the room needed airing out.”
He glared at her. It wouldn’t take much to drag her out from behind the desk by her hair. “Did they go into my office?” he asked.
“Of course not.”
“Did you?”
“Just to open the door and the curtains. I told you that. Jesus, calm down.”
“Did either of them look into my office?”
She glared back. “No. What’s your problem, anyway?”
Instead of answering, he strode around her desk into his room. Shutting the door, he said, “Keep it closed.”
She knocked softly on the door. “Clay, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
Actually, everything was wrong.
He sat heavily in his chair and rubbed his face and scalp with both hands, stared at his desk without really seeing it.
Everything was wrong. He tried not to think he’d been played. He was the player, not the playee, after all, right?
But the money still hadn’t been wired. The banker was gettingruder each time he called, and had even insinuated that morning that “perhaps Mr. McCann should consider another financialinstitution, one more enthusiastic about such a small deposit,one that would be more in tune to servicing such a meager balance. Maybe one in the States?”
The banker had turned McCann from an angry customer demandinganswers into a pitiful two-bit wannabe, begging for just a few more days of patience. The money would be wired, he assured the banker. He guaranteed it, knowing the value of his word, like his big talk months before, was being devalued by the day.
Even worse was that the man who was supposed to deposit the funds wouldn’t take his call. McCann couldn’t get past the secretary. How could this be?
Had he been conned? McCann couldn’t believe that. He was too smart, too street-savvy to fall for it. He knew too much. But why wouldn’t his business partner take his call? Why wouldn’t he pay up, as promised?