Free Fire - C. J. Box [69]
As he dressed he recalled the events of the night before and was still numbed from them. It was as if his world had tilted slightly to the left into unreality.
His father had been too drunk to maintain a conversation and could barely stand. With Keating on one side and Joe on the other, they walked George Pickett home. Nate followed silently.
“I see you haven’t changed much,” Joe said to his father as they cleared the dormitories and steered him toward a crooked line of rickety shacks hidden even farther in the trees.
“I’m happy you’re here,” his father slurred, taking three tries to get it out. “I’d like to get to know you, Son.”
“You had eighteen years for that,” Joe mumbled, knowing the conversation would likely be forgotten by George when he woke up the next morning.
After they’d lowered George into a disheveled single bed in a coffin-shaped cabin strewn with papers and garbage, Keaton said something to Joe about organizing a get-together for the Picketts very soon, so they could talk.
“Nothing to talk about,” Joe had said, turning for the door.
“And it should be sooner rather than later,” Doomsayer intonedas Joe stepped outside. “We’re on borrowed time as it is, you know . . .”
Demming was in the dining room waiting for him at breakfast.He could feel her eyes on his face, trying to discern what was wrong. He ordered eggs from a waiter with the name badge “Vladimir—Czech Republic” and told her about meeting his fatherthe night before in the Zephyr bar.
“He’s one of the Geyser Gazers,” Joe said, trying to sound casual. “He lives in a hovel and drinks like a fish, waiting for the Yellowstone caldera to blow up.”
After Vladimir brought breakfast and talked to them about how beautiful it was outside this morning—“a vision of a dream of nature”—in broken but charming English, Demming said, “So where is your friend Nate?”
“Oh, he’s around,” Joe said, not wanting to tell her that Nate was staying somewhere inside the inn, likely in one of the sectionsthat were officially off-limits to visitors. Nate had mentionedsomething about a tree house far up in the rafters, and Joe fought the urge to look up and see if he was there.
Before separating the night before, Nate had told Joe he intendedto spend the day talking to old Zephyr friends to see if he could learn anything about the Gopher State Five.
“Around, huh?” she said, put off. “I’m beginning to think he doesn’t exist. Like he’s your special secret friend. My son has one of those too, Joe. He calls him Buddy.”
Joe reviewed his notes and scribbled questions in his notebook while Demming went to find Mark Cutler, the area manager of Old Faithful. She returned with a cherubic and avuncular man about Joe’s age with a pillow of dark curly hair, red cheeks, and an air of cheery competence about him. He wore wire-framed glasses, a tie and a blazer, but looked as if he spent as much time outdoors as indoors, judging by his sunburnedskin and the scratches on the back of his hands.
“Mark Cutler,” he said. “I manage this joint.”
“Joe Pickett. Nice to meet you.”
“Judy said you have some questions, follow-up on Hoening and McCaleb.”
“Yup,” Joe said. “Bob Olig too.”
“Ah, Olig,” Cutler said, smiling at the name. “Quite the characters, those three.”
“Do you have a few minutes?”
Cutler looked at his watch. “If you want to sit down and talk, I really don’t, but if you’re willing to tag along with me as I do my work today, I’ve got all the time in the world.”
Joe looked at Demming and