Donnell’s face was bright red, and he looked to Joe like he might break down. Joe and Marybeth exchanged worried glances.
Then Marybeth said softly, “We’re screwed, aren’t we?”
Donnell looked up, took a breath, and said, “I think we should give up on this project. I’ll take my losses while I still can. It’s not worth it trying to push back because they hold all the cards. They’ve got paid lawyers and regulators with no personal financial stake in this building like we do. They can sit at their desks and tell us what we can and can’t do, and they can drag this out for years or until we’re both bankrupt.”
“You’re saying we should just walk away from our deal?” Marybeth said, and Joe noticed the welling in her eyes.
Donnell nodded. “Yes. I’ll put the hotel back on the market and sell it for whatever we can get, even if we’re just selling the lot itself. A corner lot on Main Street in the middle of town has to be worth something. I’ll do what I can to return some of the money we’ve already sunk into it, I swear. I’m sorry I got you two involved.”
Joe took a deep breath.
Marybeth said to Donnell, “I’m sorry you’re going to take a loss, and I appreciate the opportunity you gave me.” She looked at Joe. “I’m sorry.”
He knew how much it meant to her. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s fine.”
And it was a hurdle removed from not taking the job in Cheyenne, he thought but didn’t say.
Then he looked at his wristwatch. “I’ve got to go.”
“Call me,” Marybeth said to his back.
14
As Joe drove up Bighorn road with Toby once again in the horse trailer, the immediate anger he’d felt in the lobby of the Saddlestring Hotel subsided and was replaced by frustration. He thought about the look of utter defeat on Marybeth’s face, something he’d rarely seen before. He didn’t like seeing his wife so disappointed.
He wanted to fix it somehow but didn’t know where to start. He wondered what she’d think about the job offer from LGD, and anticipated her response. Which is why he hadn’t told her about it.
As he drove, changing channels from one problem to another, Joe tried to imagine what Butch felt like up there in the mountains, away from his wife and daughter, sleeping on the ground and listening for the sounds of approaching pursuers. Unlike Butch, Joe and Marybeth had dodged a bullet. If they’d made the hotel deal they’d have been ruined instead of disappointed.
Butch had to know, Joe thought, that his life wasn’t worth anything anymore. His construction company would go bankrupt and his family would be affected in ways he could never have imagined.
Butch would know that if he turned himself in he’d be locked away for years. Did he regret what he’d done, or did he feel justified for having done it?
Joe sighed, knowing the question was academic. Butch Roberson was the only suspect in a double homicide-it didn’t matter what he felt.
He was surprised to see a jam of vehicles in front of the gate to the Big Stream Ranch. Pickups with horse trailers, SUVs trailing pods of ATVs, law enforcement panel vans, and a dozen other vehicles were massed on the shoulder of the highway and in the right- hand lane itself-a convoy that had been made to stop. Several uniformed deputies were standing on the blacktop, directing traffic.
Joe slowed and powered his window down as he approached Deputy Justin Woods.
“What’s going on?” Joe asked. “I thought they were going to set up their command post up at the forest boundary.”
“That was the idea,” Woods said, “but they can’t get access to cross the ranch.”
“What?”
“Frank Zeller won’t let them through,” Woods said, trying to stifle a smirk.
“Who’s in charge?”
“Julio Batista and his toady,” Woods said.
Joe thanked him and eased off the blacktop into the ditch and drove toward the front of the line. He could see Batista and Heinz Underwood shouting at someone through the poles of the gate, which was locked up with a heavy chain. Joe couldn’t recall seeing the gate closed before. He pulled parallel with Sheriff Reed’s handicapped van, shut off the engine, and swung out.
Reed was in his chair with the sliding door open, watching the action at the gate with a look of bemusement on his face. When he saw Joe, he arched his eyebrows in greeting.
“Woods told me,” Joe said. “So none of these geniuses made a call to Frank to ask permission to cross his land and set up a command post on it, huh?”
“Apparently not,” Reed said. “They call it an FOB, by the way.”
“So how long have you been waiting here?”
Reed glanced at his wristwatch. “About a half an hour.”
Joe whistled.
“I heard about Bryce Pendergast,” Reed said, his eyes moving to the reddened side of Joe’s face. “I can’t say I’m surprised, though. Pendergast and McDermott have been hanging with the tweaker crowd for a couple of years now, and I guess they thought they’d rather be buyers and sellers.
“Norwood called me a few minutes ago and said those idiots had all the ingredients they needed inside the house-Sudafed, iodine, phosphorus, Coleman fuel, acetone, denatured alcohol, and a bunch of flasks and beakers-but he said it didn’t look like they were in production yet. He said it looked like they were trying to figure out how to cook it, but so far all they’d made were mistakes. It’s a wonder they didn’t blow themselves up.”
“Good thing they didn’t,” Joe said. “There’s a nice old lady next door.”
“Oh-and we have McDermott in jail right alongside Pendergast. We caught him at the Kum and Go, buying a microwave burrito with his last pennies.”
Joe nodded.
“Sounds like you could have gotten yourself killed,” Reed said, concerned.
“Yup.”
“Bear spray, Joe?” Reed asked, incredulous.
“Good stuff.”
Reed grinned and shook his head, then got serious. “I think they could use your help over at the gate. You know Frank pretty well, don’t you?”
“I had breakfast with him yesterday morning.”
“Maybe you could talk some sense into him.”
Joe looked over and saw Batista gesticulating through the rails of the gate.
“Frank’s a stubborn old bird,” Joe said.
“Please, Joe,” Reed said. “Give it a try. We all look kind of stupid just sitting here.”
As Joe turned to join Batista and Heinz Underwood at the gate, Reed called after him, “Joe, they canceled their offer of a reward.”
Joe looked over his shoulder, relieved. “Good.”
“Couldn’t get authorization for it, I guess,” Reed said. “Too much red tape.”
“So it wasn’t like they came to their senses and realized it was too heavy-handed,” Joe said.
“Nothing like that.”
“Did they announce it to the press?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Reed said.
“So the word is still out there.”
“I’m hoping they’ll give a statement soon. I heard something about a press conference at the FOB.” He nodded toward the locked gate and added, “Assuming there’s an FOB.”
Joe shook his head, took a deep breath through his nostrils, and approached the gate.
Frank Zeller stood on the other side of the locked gate in his Wranglers, boots, and sweat-stained silver-belly Stetson. He cradled a lever-action Winchester.30–30 rifle that was pointed loosely off to the side. Joe had last seen the weapon the morning before, in Frank’s gun case. It was an old saddle carbine that had belonged to his father. The stock was scuffed, and the bluing was rubbed silver from years of rough use. He knew Frank had a large choice of rifles-every ranch house did-so he wouldn’t have brought the symbolic Winchester to the gate if he didn’t think the situation was profound.