Free Fire Part 39

The stolen snow coach was parked in the trees at the edge of the firelight. McCann could see a reflection of flame in one of the side windows. The pain in his chest had steeled into a steady throb and he was just now able to speak. He recalled how he'd tried to shout as Olig attacked him earlier and hustled him out the front door of the Old Faithful Inn, but the impact of the bulletshad kicked not only the breath out of him but also his abilityto talk.

Finally, Olig walked over to where McCann was sitting.

"I've been thinking of you for a long time."

McCann sighed. "Why weren't you there that day?"

"Rick and I had a disagreement. I decided to pa.s.s on the reunionthis year. I wish I was there."

McCann smiled malevolently. "I wish you were there too."

Olig said, "I wondered for months what it could possibly feel like to kill someone. It's beyond my understanding how someone like you could be so cruel. Someone supposedly with education, like you."

McCann thought about it for a moment. "It isn't as hard as you think. It was a means to an end. Nothing personal, like I said earlier."

Olig seemed to be studying him, his mouth curling with revulsion.

"That makes it worse," he said.

"Maybe it does," McCann conceded.

"Get up."

McCann felt a trill of pain in his groin, and he squirmed. "I'm sure we can work something out if you'll let me try."

"Nope," Olig said. "No deals. Especially with a lawyer who killed my friends."

"But you'll be a murderer," McCann said. "You'll be as bad as me."

Olig smiled. "I'll never be as bad as you."

"I'm not moving."

Olig reached out and grabbed McCann's good ear, asking, "Do we have to go through this again?"

McCann felt the flames on his face as he was pulled toward the hot springs. He thought about running, thought about fighting,thought about trying to negotiate.

The surface of the water smoked with roils of steam, looked oddly inviting. He thought of Sheila, hoped he'd see her again wherever he was going, hoped she wasn't too angry with him.

He felt a ma.s.sive, two-handed shove on his back and he was flying forward. The water was so hot it seemed cold.

It was quick.

33.

Joe drove lars's pickup back toward mammoth with Ashby in the pa.s.senger seat. It was two-thirty in the morning,the snow had stopped, and the FBI agents had left an hour before with their prisoners en route to Jackson Hole. The snow was deep and soft, but the oversized tires bit well and Joe had no doubt that if he held the vehicle steady and kept it moving forward, he wouldn't get stuck.

As quickly as they'd come, the storm clouds dissipated, leaving a creamy wash of stars and an ice-blue slice of moon that lit the snow blue-white. Joe didn't even need his headlights.

He and Ashby hadn't talked about what happened. Ashby seemed lost in his own thoughts and loyalties, and Joe certainly was. Joe replayed his brief conversation with Ward. Of course course Ward was lying about the governor. If Rulon knew about the microbes and the motive for the murders, why would he have sent Joe to investigate? Ward was lying about the governor. If Rulon knew about the microbes and the motive for the murders, why would he have sent Joe to investigate?

Unless, Joe thought darkly, Ward and Rulon expected him to fail. Unless they figured Joe Pickett, shamed ex-game warden, was too b.u.mbling and incompetent to crack the case, thus givingthem the political cover of claiming it had been investigated but nothing was found. And, eventually, Ward would be rich personally and the State of Wyoming would have yet another source of revenue.

Could Rulon possibly be that manipulative? Yes, Joe thought, he could. But was he? Joe wasn't sure.

The only thing he was sure about, as he drove, was that he'd use the relations.h.i.+p he'd established with the governor to press for Nate Romanowski's release. The governor owed him that, Joe figured.

Joe was so deep into rehas.h.i.+ng his situation and what had happenedthat he didn't notice that Ashby was gesturing frantically, pointing at something through the window, sputtering as he tried to put words together. "My G.o.d, Joe, look! It's Steamboat!"

Steamboat Geyser, which Cutler had said was by far the biggest and most unpredictable geyser in the world, was shootingup in a ma.s.sive white column of water and steam, the eruptionfar above the tops of the trees to their left. Joe didn't understand at first how big it was until he stopped the truck and realized that the geyser was miles away, that the eruption they could see pulsing white into the night sky was so huge it would drench-and possibly kill-anyone or anything around it.

"All my years up here," Ashby said, "and I've never seen Steamboat go off. Hardly anyone has. My G.o.d, just look at it."

Joe ran his window down. The geyser speared into the sky, blocking out a vertical slice of stars. Its roar rolled across the landscape, a furious, powerful, guttural sound as if the earth itselfwas clearing its throat.

And that wasn't all, as the truck began to vibrate. A pair of Lars's sungla.s.ses on a lanyard started to swing back and forth from where they hung on the rearview mirror. Old cigarette b.u.t.ts danced out of the tray. Joe could feel the springs in the truck seat tremble, and ahead of them in the dark trees, snow came tumbling down from branches as the ground shook.

"Earthquake," Ashby said, his voice thin.

"Big one," Joe said, watching the snow crash from the trees to the ground like smoke pouring in the wrong direction.

"Jesus," Ashby said, reaching out to steady himself on the dashboard. "This is huge."

Out on the sequined meadow, a herd of elk emerged from the trees and ran across the virgin snow, hoofbeats thumping, sets of antlers cracking against one another as the bulls scrambledto separate themselves. The herd, more than eighty of them, thundered across the road in front of the truck, leaving a wake of snow, s.n.a.t.c.hes of hair, and a dusky smell.

"Maybe this is it," Ashby said.

Joe didn't want to think that.

"Something really upset the balance," the ranger said, pointingtoward a sputtering spray of superheated water that was shooting through the snow in the meadow the elk had just vacated."It's affecting the whole park. That geyser wasn't there even two minutes ago. Now look at it."

Joe had an impulse to call Marybeth, wake her up, tell her that he loved her. Tell her good-bye.

But the trembling stopped.

As did Steamboat Geyser. The new little geyser in the meadow spat out a few more gouts of water, then simply smoked, as if exhausted.

Joe realized he'd been holding his breath, and he slowly let it out. His grip on the steering wheel was so tight his knuckles where white. "I think it's over," he said. "I think we're okay."

"I hope so," Ashby said.

Joe inched the truck forward, crossed the trail the elk had made, eased out into the meadow.

"I was just thinking I should start going back to church," Ashby said. "Or put in my papers for a transfer to Mount Rush-moreor someplace like that. The Was.h.i.+ngton Monument. Maybe Everglades."

It took until they could see the lights of Mammoth Village for Joe to fully relax. He wanted to know what had caused the eruptions and the earthquake, what had upset the underground plumbing system.

"We'll probably never know what caused it," Joe said.

"That's the thing about this place," Ashby said. "It's so much bigger than us. We're nothing here."

Early the next morning, as the sun came up, Joe walked through the still and silent Gardiner cemetery. The snow was untracked until he got there. It took twenty minutes to find the gravestone for Victor Pickett. He couldn't think of anything to say.

Before driving to Billings to see Judy and his father and return Lars's pickup and meet Marybeth, who would take him home, Joe called the governor's office. Rulon took the call and listened without comment as Joe outlined what had happened. Rulon's only reaction was to curse when Joe told him about Chuck Ward.

"That sneaky son of a b.i.t.c.h," Rulon said.

"So you had no idea what he was up to?" Joe asked, trying to sound casual.

"Of course not. What are you implying?"

"Nothing, except the last thing he told me," Joe said, trying to swallow except his mouth was dry, "was that you knew everything."

There was a long pause. Then the governor said, "Of course he'd say that. And he'll probably say more and try to implicate me in order to cut a deal with the Feds. But he can't prove anything,not a d.a.m.n thing. Why would I send you up there after the fact to investigate if I had a role in anything?"

"Maybe because you thought I would fail," Joe said.

"Well, I did think there was a pretty good chance you'd screw things up," the governor said breezily. "That's what you do. But no, I didn't know about the microbes, although I'm fascinatedby the possibilities. We've got to own them. They belongto us . . ."

Joe could hear the excitement in Rulon's voice. He listened as the governor speculated about the possibilities of gasification,of transforming the world of energy production.

"Do you realize what you've found?" the governor finally asked.

"I think so," Joe said.

"Can we get those microbes?"

"I have no idea," Joe said. "The secret will soon be out."

"Then we have to move fast," Rulon said, and Joe could picturethe governor gesturing to his underlings to come into his office. "I've got to go," he said.

"I understand," Joe said, "but there's something else."

"What?" Rulon said impatiently.

"My friend Nate Romanowski. The Feds took him."

"I told you I didn't want to know about him," Rulon said. "In fact, I think our connection is going bad."

"Governor-"

"I'm losing you! d.a.m.n! You're fading away! Good-bye, Joe. And d.a.m.ned good work. Let's keep in touch!"

"Governor . . ."

Instead of going North into Montana, Joe drove south into the park. It was hard to believe that the night before was the first major snowstorm of the season. By mid-morning, the roads had melted and were merely wet, and the sun blasted off the snow in a white-hot reflection.

He could see the tracks of the snow coach Olig had stolen going in and out of the Sunburst Hot Springs turnout, but Olig was gone. So was Clay McCann, Joe thought, so was Clay McCann.

Sunburst was dry, likely a result of the earthquake the night before. The pink microbes in the runoff stream were flat and turning gray as they died. Joe ran his bare hand over the flamer holes that once expelled natural gas. Nothing. He lit a match and waved it over the holes until it burned down to his finger-tips.

Yellowstone, joe thought, as he drove out of it, was the most beautiful place on earth. It was the beginning and the end of everything he knew. He couldn't wait to get home.

AFTERWORD.

Since Free Fire Free Fire was written, three things have happened: was written, three things have happened: Scientists and geological engineers have begun serious research into whether microbes introduced to coal seams can produce natural gas or liquified fuel; The National Park Services in Yellowstone has begun public hearings regarding the exclusive contractsto research firms for the bio-mining of unique thermafiles; U.S. Senator Mike Enzi of Wyoming has contactedfellow lawmakers with the purpose of future federal legislation to close the Yellowstone "Zone of Death" loophole.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

The author would like to thank those who contributed to this novel. First and foremost, Brian C. Kalt, Michigan State University College of Law, for writing "The Perfect Crime," a Legal Studies Research Paper Series. Those interestedin the official citation (Georgetown Law Journal, vol. 93sss, pg. 675) can look it up at papers.ssrn .com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=691642. Mr. Kalt's a.s.sistancewith technical aspects of the law and his theory were invaluable. Additionally, thanks to U.S. District Judge Alan Johnson in Cheyenne for reviewing the premiseand Wyoming game wardens Mark and Mari Nelson, as always, for reading the ma.n.u.script and offering their expertise. .com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=691642. Mr. Kalt's a.s.sistancewith technical aspects of the law and his theory were invaluable. Additionally, thanks to U.S. District Judge Alan Johnson in Cheyenne for reviewing the premiseand Wyoming game wardens Mark and Mari Nelson, as always, for reading the ma.n.u.script and offering their expertise.

In Yellowstone, I thank those who provided backgroundand doc.u.mentation, including Cheryl Matthews, Brian S. Smith, Judy M. Jennings, Mike Keller, Bob Olig, and my friend Rick Hoeninghausen. The wonderful book Old Faithful Inn: Crown Jewel of National Park Lodges Old Faithful Inn: Crown Jewel of National Park Lodges, Karen Wildung Reinhart and Jeff Henry, Roche Jaune Pictures, Inc., 2004, was a helpful resource as well.

My deepest appreciation for the hard work, loyalty, and dedication of Team Putnam: Ivan Held, Michael Barson,Katie Grinch, Tom Colgan, and my new editor Rachel Kahan.

And thanks to Don Hajicek for www.cjbox.net and the wonderful Ann Rittenberg for being Ann Rittenberg. and the wonderful Ann Rittenberg for being Ann Rittenberg.

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