Free Fire - C. J. Box [83]
“When Victor died—”
“Without them,” Joe said, refusing to let George turn the conversation, “I might have turned out to be like you.”
He stood up and walked out of the cafeteria. Joe wasn’t sure why he’d confessed, and it confused him as much as anything. George didn’t call after him.
Marybeth was cleaning up after dinner when Joe called, and the first thing she said was, “Three more days.”
Which reminded him he needed to make arrangements for them, reserve rooms or a cabin in the only place that would still be open, Mammoth.
He asked her if she could get on the Internet and research some companies he had learned about but hadn’t had the means to check out. She eagerly agreed, and he read them off: Allied, Genetech, BioCorp, Schroeder Engineering, EnerDyne.
“I’ll see what I can find,” she said.
He told her about George Pickett, putting a gloss on the meeting. Already, he was feeling guilty for being so hard on the old man. Too much had spilled out and too quickly.
“Joe,” she said, “does he want to meet us?”
“I’m sure he does. But I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I’m tough,” she said. “Your girls are tough. They can handleit.”
“But why should they?”
“Kids are always curious about where they come from,” Marybeth said. “This is an opportunity for them to meet their grandfather.”
Joe laughed nervously. “You’re supposed to be the one with good judgment. Why should we introduce them to a sick old drunk who thinks the world will end any minute?”
She paused. “Honey, are you okay?”
“No,” he said. “I’m not.”
Joe sat in a rocking chair in front of the four-sided fireplace with the purpose of making notes for his report to Chuck Ward but finding himself staring at the dying flames until late into the night. The inn had the feel of melancholy and abandonment on its last night open, which precisely matched his mood. He could not get the image of his father out of his mind—sitting there in his shirt buttoned to his neck, eyes rheumy, hands shaking, saying,“How did you get so hard, Son?” At one point, from out of nowhere, he fought the urge to cry.
Nate arrived holding two stout logs, which he tossed into the fire after stepping over the railing designed to prevent visitors from doing exactly that. The lengths of soft dry pine took off as if they were angry, throwing heat and light. Joe snapped out of his reverie and sat up.
Nate asked, “How’d dinner with Pop go?”
Joe said, “Badly.”
“I had an interesting day,” Nate said, settling down in the chair next to Joe. “But first, tell me about yours.”
After Joe was finished, Nate slowly nodded his head. “I rememberthe hot pot at Sunburst,” he said. “Nice place. I took a girl there once.”
“I’m guessing that’s where Hoening went also,” Joe said, making a mental note to himself to try to contact several of the girls Yellowdick had corresponded with. As far as he knew, the investigators hadn’t followed up with any of them because there appeared to be no reason to do so. But if they could tell Joe anything about trips to the hot springs, it might shed some light. Or, Joe thought, simply make the murky even murkier.
“You said today was interesting,” Joe said. “How so?”
“Couple of things,” Nate said, leaning forward. “Did you know you were being followed?”
Joe told him about their suspicions.
“I got the plate number,” Nate said. “I saw his pickup parked on a side road watching you and Demming wait for Cutler to change clothes. Red oh-four Ford pickup, Montana. Owner is a guy named Butch Toomer, ex-sheriff from West Yellowstone. Likely associate of Mr. Clay McCann. I mean, you’d assume the sheriff and a lawyer would know each other, right? He stuck with you guys all day. Maybe you can ask your contacts to check up on him.”
“I will,” Joe said. “How’d you learn all that about Toomer? Did you call the DMV in Montana?”
Nate chuckled. “It wasn’t necessary. Everybody knows everybody up here, don’t you know that by now?”
Joe waited for the rest.
“There’s a hard core of full-time Zephyr people,” Nate said. “They’re the ones who work different jobs all year-round, unlikethe