Back of Beyond ch-1

by C. J. Box

  The door filled with two other firefighters and a staggering night manager. Cody assumed they’d entered through the rear entrance, meaning there was another truck back there. The firemen were quizzing the manager: “Is that everyone? We need a count. We need to know if anyone’s still inside.”

  The manager said, “I think so, I think so…”

  “You better be right,” one of the firemen said.

  The man who’d hit Cody gestured toward him, telling his colleagues, “This guy is a problem. He says he wants back in.”

  Cody backed off.

  He’d fought against his instinct to badge the guy and demand his way back in, but he remembered it had been taken away. And now that he was outside, he knew why his butt had felt the heat so much when he reached back and found the basketball-sized burned hole in his robe. He melded into the crowd, sidling around them so they wouldn’t look at his singed butt, and the more he thought about it the more he realized he was glad he hadn’t had access to his badge. He retrieved his clothing and the saddlebag and melded into the night.

  20

  “The water levels,” Jed said quickly in response to Tristan’s question. “I’ve been noticing every stream we’ve crossed is quite a bit higher than normal, almost like May or early June flows. The lake is higher than I’ve ever seen it this time of year as well. So if the water is high where we’re at, it’ll be a hell of a lot higher lower down in the Thorofare valley.”

  Rachel Mina said, “Have you ever taken this new route before, Jed?”

  Jed shook his head. “No, ma’am. We’ll be seeing and riding through country very few people have ever seen, including me. But according to my topo maps, the elevation rise isn’t much more severe than what we were going to do anyway, so I’m not worried about that. What I can’t guarantee is that we won’t have to stop from time to time and scout out ahead, which is something we haven’t had to do today. We’ll want to avoid black timber that may have trees down in it our horses can’t navigate through. And I’ll want to ride ahead from time to time to make sure we don’t get into a situation where we get rim-rocked.”

  “Rim-rocked?” she asked.

  “It means riding or climbing up into rocks and boulders but not being able to get back down,” he said.

  “Great,” D’Amato said.

  “But there’s an upside,” Jed said. “We may discover some thermal activity and see vistas and wildlife we’d never experience any other way. There are over ten thousand thermal features up here in this park, and who knows what we might find in the kind of virgin territory I’m talking about.”

  “I’m from Brooklyn,” D’Amato said. “I do not know of this virgin territory.”

  Which got a laugh out of Donna Glode, if no one else.

  “The other thing,” Jed said, “is we’re likely to get to our next camp even earlier than the normal route, since we’re kind of cutting the corner. We might even discover a shortcut.

  “Of course,” he said, “we don’t have to try this new route at all. We can stay on our trail and give it our best shot despite the mud and the potential of washouts. I just want you all to know there is an option available.”

  He stopped talking. Jed knew one sure way of killing a sale was to oversell it. He wanted the group to come to their own consensus without him appearing to force it.

  No one, it seemed, wanted to speak first.

  Then Russell said, “We’d be like the Lewis and Clark Expedition. We’d be going through a part of Yellowstone Park practically no one has ever been through. That appeals to me, at least. I like being an explorer.”

  D’Amato cracked in a bad pirate voice, “Beware, there be monsters.”

  Knox said, “‘Back of back of beyond,’ we’ll call it. I like the sound of that.”

  “Me too,” Donna Glode said. “Bring on the adventure!” She rubbed her hands together in what Jed thought was an overplay designed to show the Wall Streeters-D’Amato in particular-she was with them.

  Walt said, “Is there still good fishing this new route?”

  Jed said, “It looks like it, anyway. Those creeks I mentioned earlier, Phlox and Chipmunk, plus Badger Creek. One thing for sure, they haven’t been fished much. So you and Justin might be in for a rare treat-native cutthroat trout that’ve never seen an artificial fly.”

  Walt nodded and smiled. “I like that idea,” he said.

  “I think I’m in,” Sullivan said. “I think my girls would like the idea of seeing country no one has seen for a long time. I know I would. Go big or go home, I say.”

  Jed noticed that Rachel Mina shot Sullivan an approving look.

  Tristan stood up, and turned away from Jed to address the group. “I feel it’s my obligation to bring something up,” he said, the back of his shoulder to Jed. “What Jed is suggesting is kind of radical. We don’t have radios or cell phones. The only thing the Park Service knows about us-or our families at home-is where we’re supposed to be from day to day. So if we don’t show up at the end they know where to look. If we deviate from the trail and get lost or ‘rim-rocked,’ no one will know where to find us.”

  Tristan said, “I’ve had a lot of success in my life by determining where I want to get to and staying the course. It’s when my partners convinced me to deviate from the plan that I failed. What Jed is suggesting here is trading in a sure thing-even though it might be unpleasant for a while-for a flier filled with unknown variables. I’d rather stay the course. It’s what I-and all of you-paid for.”

  Even Jed conceded to himself Tristan was persuasive.

  “Oh for Christ’s sake, Tristan,” Donna said, “didn’t you just hear him? You are such a tight-ass. This isn’t a product launch. I thought the purpose of this trip was for us to experience high adventure. Isn’t that what you said?”

  Tristan didn’t answer her, but even in the firelight Jed could tell his face flushed red. She had embarrassed him, cut his feet out from under him. And his argument. Jed felt the momentum shift back.

  “I’m in,” Knox said. “The worst that could happen is I never make it back to the firm to be at my desk when I get laid off.”

  “Damn right,” Russell said. “Me, too.”

  D’Amato covered his face with his hands as if horrified, then squeaked, “Me, three.”

  Jed looked around. All in favor, one opposed, one not heard from.

  “Mr. Wilson?” he asked, expecting it to go five-two.

  Wilson said nothing, but his glare was intense.

  Jed tried to read Wilson’s eyes, and what he saw was genuine surprise. As if he’d had his feet cut out from him, too. Finally, because all the attention had turned toward him, Wilson said, “That’s fine. I’ll go with the majority.”

  Tristan looked around, and said, “I’ll have to decide tomorrow if we’ll even stay with this expedition.”

  His words fell heavily, until Donna said, “Speak for yourself, kemosabe.”

  Humiliated again, Tristan Glode stormed past Jed, headed for the tents. Over his shoulder, he said, “Democracy is no way to run a business, Jed. You’ll need to learn that.”

  After a beat, Knox said, “I don’t think he likes losing arguments.”

  “You think?” D’Amato said. “Man, what a buzz kill.”

  “Welcome to my life,” Donna said, sliding across the ground toward D’Amato and taking the bottle of tequila from his hands.

  Rachel Mina was curt: “Good night, everyone.” She strode away from the fire, followed by Sullivan.

  “Okay then,” Jed said, taking the rest of his bottle from Walt, who’d gotten stuck with it. “We’ve got a decision. That means it’s going to be a real interesting day tomorrow, and we’ll be getting up early.”

  “Interesting,” D’Amato said, repeating the word and getting up. “As if today was boring.”

  “That’s what I like to hear,” Jed said, smiling.

  Jed turned to the sound of Rachel and Sullivan arguing in the dark near the tents. He saw Dakota stan
ding there, glaring at him. He wondered how much she’d heard.

  That question was answered when she slowly shook her head, as if she couldn’t believe what was happening.

  21

  Framed by the pulsing wig-wag lights that painted the stone walls and arched windows of the front of the Gallatin Gateway Inn in vivid reds and blues, Cody Hoyt tossed the duffel he’d saved into the back of his Ford. He had trouble breathing due to the smoke inhalation and he coughed violently and spattered the back windows with globules of black sputum.

  Behind him, guests gathered in knots in the front yard. The staff who’d helped evacuate them formed a perimeter with several firemen and now a few deputies who’d just arrived. Cody had slipped away while they all watched a bucket truck back across the lawn toward the hotel. He paused to take it all in before entering the Ford. His room on the second floor was easy to spot because of the bright orange glow of flames from inside. Several firefighters had climbed into the bucket and were now being raised toward the second level. When they were even with the orange window, the bucket paused and swayed a bit while a horizontal column of water blasted through the window. When the glass broke a ball of flame shot out of the frame accompanied by gasps from the guests on the lawn.

  He noted the fire seemed to have stayed within his room and not spread to any others, no doubt due to the sprinkler system. Cody guessed it would be short work now to put it out and gain control of the building. It wouldn’t be long before the investigators figured out who had been staying in the room and would want to question him.

  He swung inside the Ford and it was immediately filled with the acrid smell of the smoke from his clothes and hair. His bare skin stung from exposure to the fire, and when he brushed his forearm with his other hand the singed hair on it broke and fell off.

  Thumping the steering wheel with the heel of his hand hard enough to crack the plastic, he cursed and spat and started the engine and rolled away.

  * * *

  The lights and sirens faded as he turned from the inn grounds onto U.S. 191 South. It didn’t take long before he was engulfed in darkness and safely away from the scene. He wheeled the Ford into a pullout and killed the engine.

  Someone had found him and tried to burn him alive.

  He found a half-full pack of cigarettes in the console and lit one. He inhaled deeply-smoke on smoke-then coughed. Jesus, he thought, it was like he was trying to burn himself up from the inside out. He tossed the cigarette out onto the gravel.

  There was a bright side to the fire, he thought. Now he knew he was on the right track, because someone was trying to kill him.

  * * *

  The more he thought about what had happened and what had almost happened, the more his skewed world tilted even farther off plumb.

  He was glad he hadn’t gone cop on the fireman or spoken to anyone on his way out, even though possibly they could have found whoever did it through the process of elimination. But his story would sound preposterous at first, he realized. The firefighters would quickly discover he’d dismantled his smoke detector and they’d find the small mountain of cigarette butts in his room. The conclusion they’d reach immediately was he was smoking in bed and started the fire and had come up with a story about lighter fluid to cover himself. Or they’d accuse him of accidentally-or intentionally-spilling the accelerant on the floor and it went up. Hell, he thought, given the facts on the ground he’d come to the same conclusion. Within minutes they’d have his ID and call it in, discover who he was and where he was supposed to be, and he’d likely spend the rest of the night in the Bozeman jail waiting for a 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 that.

  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 re
ception 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.