Free Fire - C. J. Box [87]
“Or anyone you, me, or Demming told about the meeting this morning,” Nate said.
Joe hadn’t told anyone. There was no one to tell.
“I wonder if Demming called her bosses,” Joe said, not wanting to go where his thoughts seemed to be taking him.
Nate nodded. “Maybe we’ve got a big problem on the inside. I can’t say I’m shocked at the idea.”
“Damn, you’re cynical.”
“You forget,” Nate said, “I used to work for the Feds myself in another, um, capacity. No personal agenda in a closed bureaucracycan surprise me.”
A black raven the size of a football cruised along the basin, calling out rudely. It skimmed the rivulet, saw something in the water, turned and landed. The raven quickly speared something in the stream—a piece of Mark Cutler—and ate it a second beforeit blew up in an explosion of black feathers.
“I hate ravens,” Nate said, holstering his .454.
Joe hadn’t even tried to stop Nate from drawing his weapon and firing because he agreed with the sentiment, given the circumstances.
A half-hour before approaching sirens split the silence, Nate patted Joe on the shoulder and said he had to go. “There will be lots of questions,” Nate said. “Portenson might even be here. I don’t have time for that now.”
“I understand.”
“Besides, you and Demming can cover everything,” Nate said. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
18
That afternoon, clay mccann drove south from West Yellowstone and the sun streamed in through the windowsbut didn’t take the chill off the inside of the car one bit, he thought. In fact, it felt like it was getting colder, despite the digitalgauge on the dash that showed it was nearing sixty degrees.
Butch Toomer sat in the passenger seat, reaching incessantly to fiddle with the radio to try to find a station he liked. He had a toothpick in his mouth that never stopped dancing, and he was wearing his shades.
Sheila sat in the back, fuming. Her rage was palpable, an emotional cold front that could close schools and government buildings in seven states.
“Why the fuck is he here?” she asked McCann. “This was supposed to be a special day.”
“I told you,” McCann said. “I owe him some money. I told him I’d get it in Idaho Falls, and he insisted on coming along.”
“I wish you two would stop talking like I’m not here,” Toomer said. “It’s getting on my nerves.”
“You’re getting on my nerves,” Sheila said. “And don’t get me started on Clay.”
McCann shrugged. Fall colors were bursting like fireworks in the wooded folds of the mountains. Not that he cared. Scenery got old. Instead, he recalled how Sheila had looked that morning when he pulled into the parking lot of her shabby apartment building to pick her up. She had never looked better, he thought. Tight black sweater, charcoal skirt, black nylons, strappy shoes. And where in the hell did she get those pearls?
Oh, how her face fell when she saw Toomer in the car. Oh, the words she used. McCann was a little surprised when she was through that blisters had not formed on his exposed face and hands.
Several times, he had tried to catch her eye in the rearview mirror. He wanted to smile at her, have her know he was smiling at her. The only time she looked back her eyes were fearsome black daggers and when they connected with his he thought the temperature in the car dropped another ten degrees.
“Do you think we’ll have time to look at a couple of horse trailers in Idaho Falls?” Toomer asked. They had just crossed the state line from Montana into Idaho.
“Why?” McCann said.
“Elk season,” Toomer said. “Christ, don’t you pay any attentionaround here? Haven’t you seen all those men wearing orangeand driving around with dead animals in their trucks?”
McCann didn’t respond. He tried to catch Sheila’s eye in the mirror again but she wouldn’t look back.
“I got a two-horse slant load,” Toomer said. “I want to upgradeto a four-horse stock, now that I’m coming into a little money. I like them stocks. They pull good and I got a mare that blows up when I try to get her to load into the