C. Box - Free Fire

“I think you covered it,” Ashby said. “Except maybe the fact that Joe Pickett and his mystery buddy have been flashing their weaponry out in the open every place they go against Park Servicepolicy.”

“Oh, that too,” Layborn said.

“You two are poised to become media stars,” Ashby said, biting off his words. “We’ve got more calls for comment than all of us can handle. Just exactly what we didn’t want-more attentionon the Zone of Death and now a fully cooked Zephyr employee.”

“I think you’re out of line,” Joe said. “Both of you.” He wonderedwhich of them, or if both, had sent the black SUV to interceptCutler that morning.

Layborn fixed him with a cop stare, except that one of his eyes peered at something to the side of Joe’s face. “We might just have to pull over and settle this.”

“Maybe so.”

“Let it go, Joe,” Demming said. “This is a Park Service thing, you know?”

“That’s right,” Ashby said. “You have no say here. In fact, I’m thinking of punching your ticket and sending you back home to your governor.”

Demming shot Joe a desperation glance, pleading with her eyes for him to keep quiet. For her sake, he did. He thought that while he could go home, she couldn’t.

As they pulled into the parking lot of the Pagoda at dark, Joe was plotting his moves that evening. Call Chuck Ward, tell him what was going on and what had happened, let him in on his suspicions. Beg for a new vehicle. Apologize for the last one. Call Marybeth. Drink.

“I want your full written statements by tomorrow morning,” Ashby said. “I’m meeting with the chief ranger and want to be fully briefed. Plus, I would expect we’ll be getting some calls from Washington wanting to know just what in the hell is happeningto our park.”

Ashby said to Demming, “When I asked you to come back yesterday, I meant it. But no, you wanted to continue to play cowgirl to John Wayne here. If you would have, maybe Cutler would still be alive.”

Demming turned ashen.

Joe said, “That was low.” He sort of liked being compared to John Wayne, though.

He and demming followed Ashby and Layborn into the Pagoda. Demming looked pale and on the verge of tears she was fighting to hold back. Joe resisted the impulse to put his hand on her shoulder, to reassure her. He thought if he did that it would make her look weak to Ashby and Layborn.

The night dispatcher threw open the door to the lobby, his headset dangling from where he’d jerked it out of his phone. His eyes were wild.

“Chief,” he said to Ashby, “you’ve got to take this.”

“Take what?” Ashby said, grimacing.

“Stevens from Bechler.”

“Wait here,” Ashby told Demming and Joe, and followed the dispatcher.

Five minutes later, he came back. He was seething, his face bright red: “That son of a bitch Clay McCann did it again!”

Joe finished writing his report-including the news of Clay McCann killing two more people in “self-defense” within the Zone of Death-and had it faxed from the front desk. While he watched Simon feed the pages through, something nagged at him. He needed to talk to Demming.

Lower-level federal housing was down the mountain from the Mammoth Hotel, a half-mile walk nearly straight downhill. The moon was full and lit the sagebrush-covered hillside. A small herd of elk grazed in the moonlight. Joe could smell their familiar musky smell in the air. He noticed blue parentheses on either side of the moon. Snow was coming.

The cluster of Park Service housing was built on a plateau on the sagebrush hillside. The houses were packed tightly togetherwith fenceless common yards. The density of the houses was claustrophobic, Joe thought, compared to the vast, empty hillsides in all directions. It reminded him of a government-builtanthill in the middle of a prairie. He found Demming’s house by the brown wooden sign outside that said LARS AND JUDY DEMMING and crossed the postage-stamp lawn. A BMX bike leaned against the house. The house was small and looked exactly like every other house on the street. The Park Service had even painted them all the same light green color. Demming’s cruiser was parked next to a jacked-up Ford 4x4 pickup that looked formidable as well as well taken care of.

A man answered the door. Joe expected someone named Lars to be tall, strapping, blond. Instead, he was short, pudgy, with long sideburns and an acne-scarred face. Smile lines at the corners of his mouth suggested he was always of good cheer. He wore a baggy T-shirt with a silk screen of a wolf on it.

Joe introduced himself. “Hope I didn’t get you at dinner,” Joe said.

“Not at all,” Lars said, looking over Joe’s shoulder for his vehicle. Lars was the kind of man who judged other men by what they drove, Joe guessed. “Come on in. You walked ?”

“Yup.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Lars said, chuckling. “I heard about your Yukon. Quite a story.”

The television was on in the living room and the house smelled of the fried hamburgers they had had for dinner. It was modest, almost spare, except for the elk heads and antlers on the wall. Joe didn’t know what he’d been expecting. Maybe more books, he thought.

Lars introduced Joe to Jake, who was watching television. Jake, ten, was a younger, fitter version of Lars, and he self-consciouslygot up and shook Joe’s hand and returned quickly to the couch. A teenage girl looked out from her room, said hello, and ducked back in.

“Erin,” Lars said. “Fifteen and surly.”

Joe nodded with empathy.

“So, Judy tells me you’re a game warden.”

“Yes.”

“What do you think of those heads on the wall?”

“Nice.”

“I got seven more of ’em in the garage. I was thinking you might want to take a look at them.”

People always wanted to show Joe their game heads or hunting pictures. He was used to it. To be polite, Joe said, “Sure, you bet.”

Judy intervened, coming from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. She was out of uniform, and she looked like, well, a mom.

“I think Joe’s seen plenty of elk heads before, honey,” she said.

“That’s okay,” Joe said.

“Really,” Demming said to Lars.

Lars did a barely noticeable man-to-man eye roll, asked, “You want a beer?”

“You bet.”

“Turn the television off, please, Jake,” Demming said. “Time for homework.”

“I don’t have any,” Jake said.

Demming gave him a look.

“Maybe I do,” Jake said, peeling himself off the couch. As he went down the hall, Jake stopped at Erin’s room just long enough to dart in to do something that made her squeal, “Mom! He flicked my ear with his finger again!”

“Jake, leave her alone,” Demming said, halfheartedly.

Joe smiled. Just like home.

Lars returned with three opened bottles of beer.

“I didn’t really want one,” Demming said.

“I’ll drink it,” Lars said. “We don’t want to see beer go to waste, eh, Joe?”

“Right.”

Joe sat on the couch. Demming and Lars settled in well-wornoverstuffed chairs.

“Too bad about Mark Cutler,” Lars said. “He was a real nice guy. I met him a few times at Old Faithful.”

It seemed oddly uncomfortable, Joe thought. No doubt both Lars and Demming felt the same. Demming did, he was sure, by the way she lowered her eyes while Lars told story after story about every time he had met Mark Cutler. Most of the tales had to do with Lars’s road crew fixing the potholes around Old Faithful. Demming didn’t interrupt when the stories got too long, deferring to her husband.

When Lars went to get Joe another beer, Demming said, “Ashby called. I’ve got a meeting with him and James Langston tomorrow. I won’t be with you anymore either, providing they even let you stay. I’ve been reassigned to traffic if they don’t decideto suspend me.”