crust that’s covering a place where superheated water comes up out of the ground. The hole there releases some of the steam. Otherwise, it might build up too much pressure and erupt.”
“Wow,” she said, shaking her head.
“The crust is brittle,” he said. “If you walked over the top of it or took your horse over there you’d break right through. The water underneath would scald the hell out of you or your horse. Might even kill you if you got bucked off in it.”
“Really?”
“Really. It’s the reason we have to stay together on the trail and not ride off. Those things are everywhere, and some are much worse,” he said. “There’s a little canyon in the park where so much methane gas is produced naturally out of the ground that any living thing that wanders into it will die within minutes. The floor of the canyon is covered in elk and bison bones, and maybe even some old Indian bones.”
He’d softened his voice and she found it oddly rhythmic. She felt a chill ripple through her.
“But when you look at that white patch,” he said, “I want you to imagine something else. Imagine most of Yellowstone Park itself is that white patch. There’s a real thin crust covering hell itself, which is trying to boil over. That
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked.
“To heighten your awareness,” he said. “I want every one of my clients to be awake.”
“I’m awake,” she said.
13
Although it once seemed like he lived in one, Cody Hoyt had not been in a public library for years. And as soon as he entered the Bozeman Public Library on East Main Street, he felt like he was being hurled back in time to when he rode his bike to the Helena library after telling his buddies he was going home. He loved the library, although he kept it in absolute confidence. Only the librarians knew, and they gave him his space and not-so-secretly delighted in the fact that a Hoyt of the violent and rough-hewn Hoyts was actually in their sanctuary of civilization. Often, a librarian would give him a sandwich because he was obviously missing dinner and he’d eat it at his own private table in the back.
He read everything; newspapers, magazines, hunting and fishing books, crime novels, biographies of American presidents, anything he could find on World War Two. He read reference books and
Lying to his friends about going home and lying to his dad about staying at school started a prominent pattern in his life, he realized later. Leading parallel lives and telling serial lies helped prepare him for the trials and rigors of full-blown alcoholism, which, in itself, was like a second full-time-although secret-career. He’d learned early how to multitask.
Cody learned nothing in school and everything he knew in the library. He still read widely and constantly, and was never without a book in his glove compartment (along with a pint of bourbon). For the past year, he’d been alternating among Jim Harrison’s novels, John McPhee’s nonfiction, Flannery O’Connor’s short stories, and the crime novels of John Sandford, Ken Bruen, and T. Jefferson Parker. His books were stacked like Greek columns in his living room and basement. Once he finally built those bookshelves, he could showcase an impressive collection. But he never got around to it.
He was mildly surprised by the banks of computers and the teens and twenty-somethings at each terminal. As he walked past, he noted a familiarity in what they were doing-updating their Facebook pages. He thought,
He approached the information counter and a slim girl with bangs and a nose ring swiveled his direction and arched her eyebrows as if to say
“Someone told me Bull Mitchell would be here,” he said. “Do you have any idea where to find him?”
She pointed across her body past the reference book aisle. There was an archway painted with Mother Goose and Dr. Seuss characters and a sign that read
“No,” Cody said, “I’m looking for an old guy named Bull Mitchell.”
She said, “Yes, and I’m telling you where to find him.”
Cody checked his wristwatch as he entered the children’s section, wondering how much time he was wasting when he should be coursing down the highway toward Yellowstone. But since he was here, he entered the room and walked toward the back where he could hear a gruff deep voice.
“Jesus Christ,” Cody grumbled.
Two young mothers were standing in the aisle and they turned when they heard him, and one of them lifted a finger to her lips to shush him. She was wearing a track suit and her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She was vaguely attractive but already angry with him, so he looked to the other one. She was tall and slim with auburn hair and kind brown eyes and a nice mouth. Her face was wide open. She was pretty in a natural, athletic way.
He shrugged his apology and sidled up to them. He noted other mothers gathered along the windows on the side of the room.
“I’m looking for Bull Mitchell,” he said. “Do you know him?”
“Of course,” the tall woman whispered.“That’s him reading.”
“That’s Bull Mitchell?” Cody asked. “I can’t see him.”
“Here,” the tall woman said, stepping aside.
Cody nodded his thanks.
There, in the middle of twelve or thirteen kids gathered on the floor, was a big man sitting in a comically undersized chair wearing a heavy wool work shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. His head was a cinder block mounted on wide powerful shoulders and his huge hands held
That’s when he noticed a tiny white-haired woman in a wheelchair next to the seated children. She had a wool Pendleton trapper’s blanket over her lap and she leaned forward to listen with a gauzy smile of pure enchantment.
“What’s with the old lady?” Cody asked the tall woman. “What’s she doing here?”
She reacted as if he’d slapped her. The blond woman rolled her eyes and snorted in contempt.
“What?” Cody said, genuinely surprised and puzzled.
