Free Fire - C. J. Box [84]
“Ah,” Joe said, smiling.
“Something else,” Nate said. “Bob Olig is still around.”
Joe sat forward. “What?”
“I heard it three or four times today.”
Joe and Nate leaned forward in their chairs until their heads nearly touched. “Either it’s him or his ghost,” Nate said. “He’s been spotted, mostly here around the Old Faithful area. One man swore he saw him in the kitchen one morning but Olig ran off before he could stop him. A couple of fine ladies said they saw a guy who sounds like Olig just strolling along the boardwalkone night in the moonlight like he didn’t have a care in the world. When he saw them, he ducked into the trees. And an old guy who has insomnia and wanders around swears he saw Olig standing behind the front desk one night about three-thirty goingthrough the guest register. The old guy yelled at him becausehe knew Olig pretty well from Olig’s days as a tour guide, but Olig ducked behind the counter and disappeared. But he swears it was him. He said Olig looked scared.”
“Olig,” Joe said, “or a guy who looks a lot like Olig? I mean, this sounds like the kind of thing lonely people would come up with to keep themselves amused.”
“Take it for what it’s worth,” Nate said.
“Were any of them interviewed by the Park Service or the FBI?”
“If they were,” Nate said, “they didn’t say anything about seeing Bob Olig. I think most of the sightings happened long after those murders, long after anyone was asking.”
Joe sat back. “Do you believe them?”
Nate was stoic. “You know I believe this kind of shit,” he said. “But that’s just me.”
They stopped talking when they heard the footsteps of a uniformedZephyr employee crossing the wooden floor. Joe looked up, half-expecting to see Bob Olig.
Instead, it was a grizzled bellman with a full beard and a name tag that said Hérve from France.
“Are you Joe Pickett?” Hérve asked.
When Joe said yes, Hérve handed him a message. “Since we don’t have telephones in the rooms, this is the way we deliver them.”
“Thank you.”
“I want to remind you, sirs, that the inn closes tomorrow at noon,” he said.
“We know.”
Hérve smiled, turned on his heel, and returned to the front desk, where his colleagues were packing up and closing down for the season.
Joe unfolded the note and read it aloud.
“Joe: I thought a lot about everything and may have figured something out. It’s a doozy. Meet me at Sunburst Hot Springs tomorrowat seven. Best, Mark Cutler.”
17
At six-forty-five the next morning the thermalsin the upper geyser basin created a wall of billowing steam across the highway that wetted the outside of the windshield of the Yukon so Joe had to brake, turn on the wipers, and crawl through. For a moment, in the midst of the sharp-smelling steam, he was blinded and had the strange sensation of being in an airplane as it rose skyward through the clouds.
Demming was in the passenger seat clutching a large paper cup of coffee; Nate was in the backseat smelling of wood smoke. The two had met uneasily at the Yukon ten minutes before.
“Thanks for saving us,” Demming had said.
“Anytime,” Nate said.
It was crisp and cold, the first shafts of sun pouring over the western mountains as if assaulting the day. A heavy frost made the grass sparkle and coated the pine trees. Elk grazed in the open parks, wisps of steam curling up from their nostrils.
Joe’s holstered Glock was on the console between him and Demming. He had watched her reaction when she saw it and detected no official warning. Maybe she hadn’t awakened yet, he thought. Nate wore his .454 in a shoulder holster beneath a billowy, open fatigue jacket, the leather strap in clear view across his chest. He had no doubt she’d seen that too and said nothing.
They didn’t encounter a single vehicle until they turned from