to the trunk of a tree with a lead rope. Now that he’d climbed down from his mount he looked old and he moved like a stiff old man, Cody thought. Mitchell limped down the line of horses he’d gathered to the gray. When Mitchell got the ropes untied he slid Wilson off by grasping the back of his belt and pulling. Wilson’s boots thumped onto solid ground.
Mitchell said, “I’m officially turning him over to you now while I get these critters some grain and water them.”
Mitchell put his big hand in the middle of Wilson’s back and shoved. Wilson stumbled toward Cody but managed not to trip and fall.
Cody said to him, “Is my son okay? His name is Justin. He’s seventeen.”
Wilson stared back, noncommittal.
Cody studied Wilson’s face for any kind of tell, but the man’s eyes were black, still, and unyielding. He took it as an encouraging sign, assuming there would have been at least a flinch or glimmer of reaction if something had happened to Justin.
“So that’s the way you want to play it,” Cody said. He noted the twin horseshoe impressions on the front of Wilson’s shirt where he’d been kicked. As Cody walked up to him he imagined Wilson’s chest must be badly bruised. Although the man was two inches taller, Cody was thicker. “I heard the shots and found Russell and D’Amato,” Cody said. “We located Tristan Glode’s body earlier. You’ve left a hell of a mess.”
Wilson looked back through heavy-lidded eyes.
Cody gestured toward a pedestal-like rock that jutted out of the grass. “Sit.”
Wilson didn’t move until Cody prodded him with the muzzle of the rifle, then he did so grudgingly. Wilson grunted and settled on the rock and looked at Cody with bored contempt.
Before speaking, Cody made sure Mitchell was out of earshot. He said to Wilson, “Do you know who I am?”
No response.
Cody felt himself smile as his demons took over. He said, “Do you know who I am?”
Wilson didn’t even blink.
“Let me tell you who I am, then. I’m Cody, and I’m an alcoholic.”
Wilson twitched. At last, a chord was struck.
“Thought so,” Cody said, and swung the butt of the rifle into Wilson’s face. He could hear the muffled snap as the man’s nose broke and feel the cartilage flatten through the stock of the rifle. Wilson cried out and tumbled over backwards off the rock into the grass.
Cody bounded forward and straddled the rock and pressed the muzzle of his AR-15 into the flesh between Wilson’s eyes, which had misted from the pain. Blood coursed down the sides of Wilson’s face from the twin spouts of his nostrils. Cody growled, “Let me tell you who I am. I’m the scariest fucking cop you’ll ever meet. My son is on that trip and you murdered the best man I ever knew. We’ve been finding the bodies you left behind all fucking morning. I haven’t had a drink in days and I smoked my last cigarette two hours ago. All I want is an excuse to kill you five times over and piss on your remains. Do you understand me?”
Wilson’s eyes were open wide. He looked bloody and scared.
Cody said, “What, you expected to hear your Miranda rights?”
He moved the muzzle a few inches to the right and fired into the ground so close to Wilson’s head it creased his scalp and furrowed through his hair above the temple. The concussion was deafening in the quiet woods, and when Cody’s ears stopped ringing all he could hear were Wilson’s terrified curses.
“Jesus Christ, you shot me. You son of a bitch. You can’t do this to me.
Cody said, “Yada-yada-yada. Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Cody,” Mitchell called from the timber, “everything all right?”
Cody didn’t look up. “Everything’s fine,” he said.
He moved the muzzle back over where it belonged between Wilson’s eyes, said, “Now tell me, is my son okay?”
“He was fine when I saw him last,” Wilson said. Then: “You busted my nose.” He pronounced the last word
“I’m just getting started,” Cody said softly. “Now what I’m going to do is ask you a series of questions. Your job is to answer each and every one of them with absolute truth and clarity. I’ve interviewed hundreds of dirtbags like you in my life and I know when I hear a lie. If I hear one it’s the last thing you’re ever going to say. Do you hear
Wilson nodded.
“Good. Tell me why you killed Hank Winters.”
“I didn’t kill him, I swear.”
“You’re an idiot,” Cody said, feeling his face get hot. “We’ve got bodies all over Yellowstone Park. I’ve got the gun you used and the knife. Now you’re going to tell me you’re innocent?”
“I said I didn’t kill
Cody paused. “Are you going to try and tell me you didn’t kill D’Amato, Russell, or Glode, too?”
“No, I ain’t going to tell you that.”
“But you know who killed Hank Winters?”
Wilson nodded so slightly Cody almost mistook it for a tremble.
“Do you know why?”
Another barely perceptible nod.
“So what in the hell is going on?” Cody said, pressing the muzzle and front sight against Wilson’s forehead hard enough to draw blood.
35
“Is he gone?” Danielle asked Gracie.
“I think so.”
They were in their tent, waiting for Jed McCarthy to leave camp. Gracie had unzipped the front flap wide enough to see. She could see the aluminum cooking station and James Knox pacing but her field of vision was blocked in back of her. The trail was beyond the camp over a rise. If Jed was indeed gone she hadn’t seen him ride away. But the sounds of the adults talking was muted and random, the sounds of nervous small talk. If Jed was still there she would have heard his voice, which seemed to cut through the air like a saw.
The afternoon sun lit the nylon walls and it was hot inside and Gracie could smell the dirt and perspiration on her body and Danielle’s. She couldn’t remember ever going two days without a shower, much less two days outside being coated by dust, wood smoke, horse, sweat, and a new smell: fear.
“So we’re agreed?” Gracie said, sitting back on her sleeping bag. “We’ll gather up Dakota and Rachel and get out of here.”
“Don’t forget Justin,” Danielle said.
“He’ll want to bring Walt,” Gracie said, a hint of a whine in her tone. “Walt will be the good politician and he’ll probably tell everyone what we’re doing and want them to come, too. Then it’ll be all of us and we’re back to where we started.”
“With this pack of losers,” Danielle said. “But as long as we go home, I don’t care. And I can’t just leave Justin.” She’d brought a file along as well as red polish and she was methodically grooming herself finger by finger. “By the way, I saw where Dad hid the keys to the rental car. He put them by the gas cap and closed that little door. So when we get back we can drive right on out of here.” Then, “Man, I want to take a shower and clean this trip off of me. Except for Justin.”
Gracie put her head in her hands.
“You don’t understand love,” Danielle said solemnly.
“You’ve known him for
