Helena deputy to come get him and take him back. No doubt the damage to the hotel caused by the fire and water would cost millions to repair. He thanked God all the guests had been accounted for, or there would be a murder charge as well.
He couldn’t risk
Since the attempted method of getting rid of him had been fire, he wondered if the murderer he was tracking wasn’t on the pack trip after all, but had stayed around Bozeman. But how would the killer know he was in town, or what he was up to? And how could he possibly know he was spending the night at the Gallatin Gateway Inn, or which room? It made no sense.
Did this mean he was next on the killer’s list? Cody dismissed it, since the other victims had been clean and sober for years and he hadn’t. Unless, of course, the killer knew Cody was getting close and had decided to try a preemptive strike.
In many ways, Cody thought, the crime could have been almost perfect. The flames had moved so fast that if he hadn’t been awake at the time the match was struck, he might have been incinerated in the bed. A little digging would bring forth stories of the recent incident with the coroner in Helena, his suspension from the Denver Police Department a year ago, and his infamous alcohol-related binges.
Which meant that whoever had done it knew him well enough to know they might get away with it.
He thought about the few people he’d been in contact with who knew where he was or what he was doing. Larry, obviously, but he’d withheld crucial info from him, like his location.
Cody retraced his steps that day. Other than Cooper and the Mitchells, he’d encountered a half-dozen sales people and the hotel staff. There had also been the state trooper and the mechanic in Townsend. While each may have known a very small piece of what he was up to, no one could have realistically put it all together, he thought.
This was the kind of puzzle he liked to bounce off his partner, because the two of them could usually brainstorm their way to a plausible answer.
His cell phone had a good signal and he scrolled through his contacts until he found Larry’s home phone, but something stopped him before he speed-dialed. He sat in silence, staring at the lit screen, then closed the phone and turned it off. He opened the driver’s door and let the phone drop to the gravel, then smashed it into pieces with the heel of his boot.
Whether they’d followed him from Helena or called ahead he wasn’t sure. If they were keeping tabs on him through the GPS embedded in his cell, that would be the end of that.
Then it hit him with a force that took his breath away.
The stop in Townsend, the overnight there that slowed him down. The long delay that held him in place until tonight. Had the trooper been tipped to keep an eye out for him?
He climbed back into the Ford and covered his face with his hands. Only two people could possibly know the entire story, every part of it. Only two people knew where he was going, why he was going there, and what he planned to do.
One of them was the killer. The other…
He said aloud, “Larry, you treacherous son of a bitch. Why?”
22
By the light of a headlamp, Jed McCarthy stripped down to his T-shirt and underwear in his tent and jammed his outside clothing into a stuff sack he’d use for a pillow, then checked his watch. Getting late. Dakota should be back any second.
He’d left some clients at the fire. Two of the three Wall Streeters were still there, Knox and D’Amato. So was Donna Glode. And K. W. Wilson. Ted Sullivan had left a half hour after he had words with Rachel Mina, saying, “Better go try to patch things up.” Walt Franck had also gone to his tent.
His tooled leather business backpack was stored where it always was, near the head of the tent. He retrieved it and unzipped the front flap, then reached down through his files, canisters of bear spray, the new portable GPS unit, and his loaded.44 Magnum secured in an Uncle Mike’s Cordura holster by an interior zipper that was hidden by design. The light from his headlamp bobbed around while he did it. He kept his ears open for Dakota’s boots swishing through the tall grass toward the tent.
He withdrew a thin brown envelope made stiff by the eight-and-a-half-by-twelve-inch piece of cardboard inside and dumped the contents on the top of his sleeping bag. Newspaper clippings, GPS coordinates, and most important, the Google Earth maps he’d printed off on high-grade photographic paper while Margaret Cooper was choking back tears out in the reception area as she read (out loud) the instructions on how to operate Windows Vista. She’d had no idea what he was doing.
The photographic images were precise. He found the location of Camp One, where they were now, and traced the trail south along the shoreline of the lake with the tip of his finger. He reviewed the place he’d marked with an X at the natural junction where they’d cut west toward Two Ocean Plateau as he described it to his clients around the campfire. Although the terrain and the creeks were burned into his memory from endless hours with the maps, he wanted to reassure himself for the hundredth time that it looked passable, that he could lead the group up and away from the Thorofare on terrain they could handle, that the horses and mules could navigate.
He hoped the new route from the Thorofare to Two Ocean was as clear and unencumbered as the photographs showed. He wished he knew how old the images Google had posted were. If they were a couple of years old, he prayed there’d been no severe timber blowdowns or microbursts in the meanwhile. In the back of his mind was his memory of seeing an entire mountainside in Yellowstone leveled by a nighttime weather phenomenon that scattered hundreds of acres of lodgepole pines like so many pick-up sticks. No one had seen it happen, and the Park Service, being the Park Service, refused to acknowledge that it did. But Yellowstone was a world of its own, as Jed knew better than anyone, and the physical landscape could change literally overnight as geysers shot through the thin crust or earthquakes rattled the ground or unspeakably violent storms blew through. Fires would be okay because they’d help open up the undergrowth, and he knew there had been a dozen lightning-caused blazes in the area the previous fall.
But he knew that no matter how carefully he’d planned things they’d never go exactly right in Yellowstone. The place seemed designed to foil human plans and aspirations. Conditions within the Yellowstone ecosystem were ramped up and exaggerated compared to the world around it. Every natural phenomenon-storms, fires, temperatures, thermal activity, wildlife, geography, weather in general-always seemed pushed to extremes. The more time he spent in the park the smaller he felt, and the less in control of the world around him. All he could do at times was point himself in the general direction of where he wanted to go-both figuratively and literally-and hope he’d get there. He remembered Bull Mitchell telling him something like that when he bought his company, but Jed discounted the statement and credited Bull’s advancing age. Now he knew it to be true.
He jumped when Dakota suddenly entered the tent. He hadn’t heard her coming, and she hadn’t signaled him in any way like she sometimes did with a whistle or a finger-drum on the taut tent wall. It was simple camp etiquette to do so and he’d taught her that. She’d disregarded it, though, and he scrambled to stuff the maps back into the envelope before she saw what he was doing.
She winced when he looked up at her and shined his headlamp directly into her eyes, pretending it was inadvertent.
“Jeez, Jed,” she said, waving her hand at him, “you’re blinding me.”
“Sorry.”
“I bet.”
Once the papers were back in the envelope and the envelope slipped under his sleeping bag, he turned his head and the beam of light.
She didn’t unzip her jacket or remove her boots, but sat Indian style on the foot of her sleeping bag.
He pulled the headlamp off and hung it from a loop so the light hit the inside tent wall and was diffused. “Horses okay?” he asked.
“Yup.”
“Food hung up?”
