C. Box - Free Fire

“He’s gone?”

Layborn shook his head. “That’s the thing,” he said. “He refusesto leave. He says he’s staying in custody until we either bring a case against him or not. In the meantime, he’s demandingto be moved to another federal facility. He says he doesn’t care where-Boise, Billings, Casper-anywhere but here. Claims he fears for his life in Yellowstone, which really pisses off the brass. They don’t want that getting out, as you can imagine.”

“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 to you?”

“None. I’ve never heard of anything like that in the park.”

Joe nodded. “There’s no oil or gas here, is there?”

“No. And if there was, nobody could drill for it anyway. Are you sure this connects anything?”

Joe shook his head. “I’m not sure about anything. But when I think about oil and gas, I think of Wyoming. That’s how the whole state is funded. Hoening made a reference to ‘ something going on here with the resources that may deeply impact the State of Wyoming, especially your cash flow situation .’ Remember that? This new information could sort of go to that, and it might be what Cutler figured out and never got a chance to tell us.”

Demming nodded. “Let’s not forget, Joe, that we have no evidenceCutler was murdered. We’re assuming it but have nothingto go on. The forensic guys on the scene are describing it as an accident, that Cutler lost his footing checking on the thermal and fell in.”

Joe shook his head. “I don’t believe that. I saw how careful he was out there.”

“I agree. But we’ve got nothing. We’ve asked the FBI to take a look at what’s left of his body and. . the pieces they could find. They’re FedExing it all to Virginia. Maybe we’ll find out he got hit in the head or shot or something. Until then, we can’t jump to conclusions.”

“I’ve already jumped.”

“So have I,” she sighed.

“What about Herve and the message?” Joe asked.

“He checks out,” she said. “The message was left in his in-boxand he simply delivered it. There’s nothing to suggest he told anyone about the meeting, and he claims he never even looked at it. The investigator who interviewed him said he was clean.”

He told her what Layborn had said about the black SUV.

“I’m not surprised.”

“If we could find that car and who was driving it, we might get somewhere.”

“How do we do that now?” she asked.

“The surveillance tapes,” he said. “Doesn’t the Park Service get a shot of every vehicle and plate that enters at the gates? I’ve seen the cameras. We could look at the tapes for yesterday and see where the SUV came from. If we can’t find it, we can go back two days and find out where it came in. We might even get a picture of who was driving it.”

Her eyes widened with excitement. “That’s right.”

“So we need access to the tapes. Are they in the Pagoda?”

She frowned. “It’s not as simple as that, Joe. The tapes are on site at each entrance gate. They’re not compiled and sent to headquarters, and you can’t watch them at any central place. To see them, you’ve literally got to go to each entrance and downloadthe tapes from the day before and watch them there or bring it back. And if I remember correctly, we only keep a three-day record before the cameras record over the old tape.”

“Which means we’ve got to move on this,” Joe said.

Demming hesitated, and Joe felt suddenly guilty.

“You don’t have to do it,” he said. “You’ve been reassigned. You could really lose your job if you’re seen hanging out with the likes of me.”

“I’ll take the North and West entrances,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’ll be there as part of my patrol anyway. That gives you the South, Northeast, and East entrances. I think if you flash your badge and sweet-talk them, you’ll be able to download the tapes. But if they call in for permission, you’re sunk. We’re sunk.”