Free Fire - C. J. Box [63]
“So Nate is there?” she asked.
“Yes, but we haven’t really met up.”
“He just saved your life and vanished.”
“Same old, same old,” he said, smiling at the statement as he made it.
“I’m glad he’s there.”
“Me too. I just wish working with Nate was more conventional.”
“Then he wouldn’t be Nate, would he?”
“Nope.”
She said they would leave early Saturday morning to get to Yellowstone by early afternoon.
“I can’t wait,” he said.
In his room, Joe poured himself a light bourbon from his traveler and reviewed the growing file. It had helped to see Mc-Cann’s office and the murder scene, to feel them, to re-create the crime in his mind. But there had been no Eureka! moments. He read the rest of Hoening’s e-mails and found several more references to hot-potting and flamers, but nothing that helped advance any kind of theory. He kept hoping he would find a referenceto McCann that would link the victims to the lawyer. Nope.
Hoening’s superior was a man named Mark Cutler, who was area manager of the Old Faithful complex. Joe made a note of the name and intended to interview Cutler in the morning.
He transferred his notes from the day onto a legal pad for his report to Chuck Ward and the governor. While he wrote, he heard a roaring and splashing sound and at first thought an occupant in the next room had flushed his toilet. But it came from outside.
Joe parted the curtains and threw open the window and watched Old Faithful erupt. The wind shifted as the geyser spewed and filled his room with the brackish aftereffect of the steam that smelled slightly of sulfur.
As tired as Joe was, he couldn’t sleep. When he closed his eyes, scenes from the previous two days replayed in a herky-jerkyvideo loop: the meeting at the Pagoda, the two old men scrambling from his sight in his hallway, the long day in the car with Demming, Clay McCann’s office, Darren Rudloff, the fruitless look into the mind and motivations of Rick Hoening’s e-mails, his own repressed memories of his brother’s funeral and the subsequent breakup of his family.
He opened his eyes and looked at his wristwatch, shocked it was only 10:30 P.M. Without television, radio, or the routine of home, his body clock was thrown off. He considered going back over the file to see if something jumped out at him that hadn’t before, now that his subconscious had asserted itself. Instead,he rooted through the desk and read about the Old FaithfulInn in Zephyr brochures.
A half-hour later he dressed, thinking he would go for a walk, hoping the physical activity would help shut down the video loop in his brain. Maybe he’d watch Old Faithful erupt again. He grabbed a jacket, considered taking the Glock, decidedagainst it.
The hallway was dark but not as dark as he remembered it, but he felt familiar relief as the warm glow of soft light on the logs lit his path to the open, empty lobby. Even the desk clerks seemed to be taking a break. The strange mechanical clock on the fireplace ticked, and his boots echoed on the wooden stairs to the lobby floor.
As he reached out for the iron latch on the studded door something made him pause and turn around.
Not every rocking chair in front of the hearth was empty. Nate Romanowski was asleep in one of them, his hands hangingat his sides, his boot soles splayed, his head back and mouth open.
Joe crossed the lobby and nudged Nate’s boot with his own. “Tag, you’re it,” Joe said.
Nate cracked an eye. “Hey.”
“Thanks for today, Nate. I mean that.”
His friend sat up and rubbed his face, waking up.
“Why didn’t you stick around?” Joe asked.
“I heard what that ranger said about the new law,” Nate said. “I believed her.”
Joe chuckled. “She’s good, isn’t she?”
“Yeah.”
“That was good shooting.”
“I’m a good shot.”
Joe pulled a chair over and sat down next to Nate. The fire was nearly spent, but the heated stones of the fireplace radiated warmth.
“I wanted to see the murder scene,” Nate said, “find out if I could get any vibes from it. I got nothing.