C. Box - Free Fire

“When this is over,” she said softly, “I think I’m going to quit. I don’t ever want to be that scared again, and I’ve got a husband at home and two great kids.”

“What would you do?”

She shrugged. “Well, maybe I won’t quit outright. I probably can’t. I’m the primary breadwinner in the family, you know.”

“Believe me,” Joe said, “I know what that’s like. My wife is in the same boat, unfortunately.”

“Maybe I’ll transfer out of law enforcement into interpretation,” she said. “I’d like a life of pointing out wildflowers and bison dung to tourists from Florida and Frankfurt. That sounds a lot less stressful than what I’m doing.”

“Same bureaucracy, though.”

“Yeah, I know. And as an added bonus, less money.”

The old faithful area was the largest complex in the park, consisting of hundreds of cabins, the Snow Lodge, retail stores, souvenir shops and snack bars, a rambling Park Service visitor center, and the showpiece structure of the entire park: the hundred-plus-year-old Old Faithful Inn that stood in sharp, gabled, epic relief against the star-washed sky.

Since Old Faithful was the most heavily visited area, there were a few dozen vehicles in the parking lot despite the lateness of the season. Joe drove under the covered alcove of the hotel, which framed the famous geyser, which puffed exhausted steam breaths. The sides of the cone were moist with water, and steaming rivulets snaked downhill to pour into the river.

“Postcoital geyser,” Demming said, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. “It just went off. We missed it.”

Joe smiled in the dark but chose not to respond.

They unloaded their gear and pulled open the heavy iron-studdedseven-foot wooden doors and entered the most magnificentand bizarre lobby Joe had ever seen. He froze, like hundreds of thousands of visitors had before him, as he did when he first encountered the place two decades before, and tilted his head back and looked up.

"Wow,” Joe said.

"Gets you every time, doesn’t it?” Demming said.

“I’d forgotten.”

“Does it seem smaller, now that you’re older?”

Joe shook his head. “It seems bigger.”

His memories came flooding back, the sense of awe he’d felt then and felt now just as strongly, as if he’d been gone only minutes. At the time he first entered the inn and looked up, he’d never seen anything like it-it was the biggest log room he’d ever been in and it seemed to rise vertically forever. At least three levels of balconies lined the sides, bordered by intricate knotty pine railings and lit by low-wattage bulbs in candlestick fixtures, culminating high above in obscure catwalks and a fancifulwooden crow’s nest nearly obscured by shadow. Fires crackled from hearths in the massive four-sided fireplace that rose in a volcanic stone column from the central lobby into darkness. Then, as now, Joe felt he was looking into the vision-come-true of a genius architect with a fevered and whimsical mind, and it took his breath away.

He marveled at both the beauty and the brashness of the construction,something that rarely interested him because he was not a fan of the indoors. The inn was built on an epic scale to inspireawe, like great European palaces or castles. But instead of stone, it was built of huge logs, and rather than gilded carvings for decoration there was functional but eccentric rococo knotty pine and natural wood. It had been built not for a small royal family but for the masses. There was something very American about it, he thought.

And it was emptier than he remembered. When Joe stayed at the inn as a boy his father had chosen a cheap, faraway “room without bath” accessed by dark hallways like cave tunnels and what seemed, at the time, to be hours from the lobby and a wrong turn away from certain death due to poor navigation skills on his part. The only thing that kept him alive and on the right course, he remembered, were the growing sounds of voices from hundreds of visitors milling in the lobby, either waiting for the next eruption or having just returned from the last one. Getting back to their room through those circuitous pathways was another matter.

This time, though, Joe requested a single room with a bathroomon the second level within sight of the lobby balcony. He got one because the hotel was nearly vacant. A smattering of visitors sat reading in rocking chairs near the fireplace, a few more talked softly on the balconies. The absence of conventionalbackground sound-televisions, radios, Muzak-was striking.

The Zephyr front desk people and bellmen were friendly but worn out from the summer.

“We’ll get you checked in and we can grab a bite,” Demming said, “then I’ve got to get on the phone to Ashby and my husband.”

“You aren’t staying here?” Joe asked.

She shook her head. “We aren’t allowed. The Park Service has housing across the road next to the Zephyr housing. I’ll stay there and meet you early tomorrow.”

Joe nodded and took his key. He threw his bags on the bed in a refurbished room that was nothing like the dark hovel he remembered,and met her in the vast empty dining room.

He watched her leave after dinner and found himself feeling a little sad she was gone. He liked her. He hoped she would be able to make the transfer she wanted into interpretation.

Since he didn’t have a cell signal, Joe used a pay phone from a bank of them in a room off the first-floor balcony to call Marybeth. Her day had been filled with shuttling Sheridan and Lucy to the bus, from the bus, to Sheridan’s volleyball practice and Lucy’s piano lesson. Hectic but normal. Joe told her about Darren Rudloff.

“So Nate is there?” she asked.

“Yes, but we haven’t really met up.”

“He just saved your life and vanished.”

“Same old, same old,” he said, smiling at the statement as he made it.

“I’m glad he’s there.”

“Me too. I just wish working with Nate was more conventional.”

“Then he wouldn’t be Nate, would he?”

“Nope.”

She said they would leave early Saturday morning to get to Yellowstone by early afternoon.

“I can’t wait,” he said.

In his room, Joe poured himself a light bourbon from his traveler and reviewed the growing file. It had helped to see Mc-Cann’s office and the murder scene, to feel them, to re-create the crime in his mind. But there had been no Eureka! moments. He read the rest of Hoening’s e-mails and found several more references to hot-potting and flamers, but nothing that helped advance any kind of theory. He kept hoping he would find a referenceto McCann that would link the victims to the lawyer. Nope.

Hoening’s superior was a man named Mark Cutler, who was area manager of the Old Faithful complex. Joe made a note of the name and intended to interview Cutler in the morning.

He transferred his notes from the day onto a legal pad for his report to Chuck Ward and the governor. While he wrote, he heard a roaring and splashing sound and at first thought an occupant in the next room had flushed his toilet. But it came from outside.

Joe parted the curtains and threw open the window and watched Old Faithful erupt. The wind shifted as the geyser spewed and filled his room with the brackish aftereffect of the steam that smelled slightly of sulfur.

As tired as Joe was, he couldn’t sleep. When he closed his eyes, scenes from the previous two days replayed in a herky-jerkyvideo loop: the meeting at the Pagoda, the two old men scrambling from his sight in his hallway, the long day in the car with Demming, Clay McCann’s office, Darren Rudloff, the fruitless look into the mind and motivations of Rick Hoening’s e-mails, his own repressed memories of his brother’s funeral and the subsequent breakup of his family.