Free Fire - C. J. Box [95]
“I can imagine,” Joe said. He wondered whom McCann was scared of, who he thought could get to him in the Yellowstone jail.
“That’s not all,” Layborn said. “He says if we don’t press charges, he’s not leaving until the secretary of the interior issuesa public apology to him for arresting him in the first place and talking about him to the press. He claims his house was vandalized and he can no longer earn a living because his reputation’s been ruined. He says he’ll sue us if the apology isn’t made.”
“You’re kidding,” Joe said.
“Jesus,” Layborn said, “I wish I was. I also wish I could just take the weasel out in the woods and put a bullet in his head and end this.”
Joe thought, I know a guy who would be happy to do that.
“Can I see him?” Joe asked.
“No visitors. Orders of the chief ranger.”
“I’ve got some questions for him.”
“Too bad. The chief thinks if he has no public contact he’ll get bored and leave. McCann likes attention. So no press, no visitors at all. Direct orders. That’s why I’m here this morning—to keep everybody away from him.”
“I’m on your side,” Joe said.
Layborn grinned viciously. “Somehow, I have trouble believingthat.”
“Can I at least look at him?”
Joe could see Layborn thinking about it, wanting to come up with a reason why he couldn’t. Finally, he gestured to the door. “We’ve got cameras in all the cells. The monitors are down the hall. You can look at him there, but nothing else. Then you need to leave, and I mean it.”
As Joe passed him, Layborn said, “I don’t know what you think you’ll see.”
Joe wasn’t sure either. Nevertheless, he went down the hallwayinto a small room with a bank of four black-and-white video monitors on the wall. Two showed empty cells. One revealedtwo disheveled men sleeping on cots. A Post-it note read “Zephyr, DUI.” On the fourth monitor, a pale, pudgy man sat motionless on a cot with his hands on his knees, staring intently at a blank wall. McCann.
There was nothing threatening about him, Joe thought. He looked like an overripe accountant, or the lawyer that he was. He looked lonely, pathetic. Not the murderer or schemer he obviouslywas. He looked almost like . . . a victim. Joe had been around several evil men in his life, and had felt a darkness insidehimself when he was near them. Not this time. Strangely, it bothered him more than if McCann exuded menace. Here sat a man who assassinated six people in cold blood, who wanted an apology from the government for being arrested. This man, Joe thought, was beyond understanding. In a way, he was probably the most dangerous man he had ever encountered. Joe wanted desperately to bring him down.
Demming was opening the door of a Crown Victoria when Joe came out of the Pagoda, ruining the taped stand-up for the Billings television station.
“Cut!” the producer growled to the reporter. “Jenny, you’ll need to do it again.”
“Sorry,” Joe said, stepping out of the shot.
“Damn it,” Jenny said, “I was on a roll.”
“I’ve been assigned to traffic,” Demming said, as Joe climbed into the cruiser with her. “Suspension is still pending, though. I’ll know by Monday if I still have a job. I’ve never seen Langston so angry. Ashby actually defended me, though. A little,at least. Enough to keep me employed through the weekend.”
Joe didn’t know what to say.
“It may all be for the best,” she said, looking out the windshieldat Jenny the reporter starting her stand-up again. “Lars will be out of town at a road engineering conference in Billings. I’ll be around for the kids, which is good.”
“I could use your help,” Joe said. “You’re a good partner.”
She smiled. “It makes me happy to hear you say that, Joe.”
“I mean it.”
Joe told her about the flamers. She was interested, and he could see her thinking.
“She says they lit them with a match,” Joe continued. “It sounded like she was describing a propane torch or something. Does this make any sense