had the means to check out. She eagerly agreed, and he read them off: Allied, Genetech, BioCorp, Schroeder Engineering, EnerDyne.
“I’ll see what I can find,” she said.
He told her about George Pickett, putting a gloss on the meeting. Already, he was feeling guilty for being so hard on the old man. Too much had spilled out and too quickly.
“Joe,” she said, “does he want to meet us?”
“I’m sure he does. But I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I’m tough,” she said. “Your girls are tough. They can handleit.”
“But why should they?”
“Kids are always curious about where they come from,” Marybeth said. “This is an opportunity for them to meet their grandfather.”
Joe laughed nervously. “You’re supposed to be the one with good judgment. Why should we introduce them to a sick old drunk who thinks the world will end any minute?”
She paused. “Honey, are you okay?”
“No,” he said. “I’m not.”
Joe sat in a rocking chair in front of the four-sided fireplace with the purpose of making notes for his report to Chuck Ward but finding himself staring at the dying flames until late into the night. The inn had the feel of melancholy and abandonment on its last night open, which precisely matched his mood. He could not get the image of his father out of his mind-sitting there in his shirt buttoned to his neck, eyes rheumy, hands shaking, saying,“How did you get so hard, Son?” At one point, from out of nowhere, he fought the urge to cry.
Nate arrived holding two stout logs, which he tossed into the fire after stepping over the railing designed to prevent visitors from doing exactly that. The lengths of soft dry pine took off as if they were angry, throwing heat and light. Joe snapped out of his reverie and sat up.
Nate asked, “How’d dinner with Pop go?”
Joe said, “Badly.”
“I had an interesting day,” Nate said, settling down in the chair next to Joe. “But first, tell me about yours.”
After Joe was finished, Nate slowly nodded his head. “I rememberthe hot pot at Sunburst,” he said. “Nice place. I took a girl there once.”
“I’m guessing that’s where Hoening went also,” Joe said, making a mental note to himself to try to contact several of the girls Yellowdick had corresponded with. As far as he knew, the investigators hadn’t followed up with any of them because there appeared to be no reason to do so. But if they could tell Joe anything about trips to the hot springs, it might shed some light. Or, Joe thought, simply make the murky even murkier.
“You said today was interesting,” Joe said. “How so?”
“Couple of things,” Nate said, leaning forward. “Did you know you were being followed?”
Joe told him about their suspicions.
“I got the plate number,” Nate said. “I saw his pickup parked on a side road watching you and Demming wait for Cutler to change clothes. Red oh-four Ford pickup, Montana. Owner is a guy named Butch Toomer, ex-sheriff from West Yellowstone. Likely associate of Mr. Clay McCann. I mean, you’d assume the sheriff and a lawyer would know each other, right? He stuck with you guys all day. Maybe you can ask your contacts to check up on him.”
“I will,” Joe said. “How’d you learn all that about Toomer? Did you call the DMV in Montana?”
Nate chuckled. “It wasn’t necessary. Everybody knows everybody up here, don’t you know that by now?”
Joe waited for the rest.
“There’s a hard core of full-time Zephyr people,” Nate said. “They’re the ones who work different jobs all year-round, unlikethe thousands of seasonal folks who go home for the winter.I found out I knew a few of the hard-core types from when I was here. They’re still around, still crazy. But they keep track of what’s going on. They know when that ranger Layborn is on the prowl for them, and they sure as hell know an ex-sheriff when they see him.”
“Ah,” Joe said, smiling.
“Something else,” Nate said. “Bob Olig is still around.”
Joe sat forward.
“I heard it three or four times today.”
Joe and Nate leaned forward in their chairs until their heads nearly touched. “Either it’s him or his ghost,” Nate said. “He’s been spotted, mostly here around the Old Faithful area. One man swore he saw him in the kitchen one morning but Olig ran off before he could stop him. A couple of fine ladies said they saw a guy who sounds like Olig just strolling along the boardwalkone night in the moonlight like he didn’t have a care in the world. When he saw them, he ducked into the trees. And an old guy who has insomnia and wanders around swears he saw Olig standing behind the front desk one night about three-thirty goingthrough the guest register. The old guy yelled at him becausehe knew Olig pretty well from Olig’s days as a tour guide, but Olig ducked behind the counter and disappeared. But he swears it was him. He said Olig looked scared.”
“Olig,” Joe said, “or a guy who looks a lot like Olig? I mean, this sounds like the kind of thing lonely people would come up with to keep themselves amused.”
“Take it for what it’s worth,” Nate said.
“Were any of them interviewed by the Park Service or the FBI?”
“If they were,” Nate said, “they didn’t say anything about seeing Bob Olig. I think most of the sightings happened long after those murders, long after anyone was asking.”
Joe sat back. “Do you believe them?”
Nate was stoic. “You know I believe this kind of shit,” he said. “But that’s just me.”
They stopped talking when they heard the footsteps of a uniformedZephyr employee crossing the wooden floor. Joe looked up, half-expecting to see Bob Olig.
Instead, it was a grizzled bellman with a full beard and a name tag that said Herve from France.
“Are you Joe Pickett?” Herve asked.
When Joe said yes, Herve handed him a message. “Since we don’t have telephones in the rooms, this is the way we deliver them.”
“Thank you.”
“I want to remind you, sirs, that the inn closes tomorrow at noon,” he said.
“We know.”
Herve smiled, turned on his heel, and returned to the front desk, where his colleagues were packing up and closing down for the season.
Joe unfolded the note and read it aloud.
“
17
At six-forty-five the next morning the thermalsin the upper geyser basin created a wall of billowing steam across the highway that wetted the outside of the windshield of the Yukon so Joe had to brake, turn on the wipers, and crawl through. For a moment, in the midst of the sharp-smelling steam, he was blinded and had the strange sensation of being in an airplane as it rose skyward through the clouds.
Demming was in the passenger seat clutching a large paper cup of coffee; Nate was in the backseat smelling of wood smoke. The two had met uneasily at the Yukon ten minutes before.
“Thanks for saving us,” Demming had said.
“Anytime,” Nate said.
It was crisp and cold, the first shafts of sun pouring over the western mountains as if assaulting the day. A heavy frost made the grass sparkle and coated the pine trees. Elk grazed in the open parks, wisps of steam curling up from their nostrils.
