The Zephyr front desk people and bellmen were friendly but worn out from the summer.
"We'll get you checked in and we can grab a bite," Demming said, "then I've got to get on the phone to Ashby and my husband."
"You aren't staying here?" Joe asked.
She shook her head. "We aren't allowed. The Park Service has housing across the road next to the Zephyr housing. I'll stay there and meet you early tomorrow."
Joe nodded and took his key. He threw his bags on the bed in a refurbished room that was nothing like the dark hovel he remembered,and met her in the vast empty dining room.
He watched her leave after dinner and found himself feeling a little sad she was gone. He liked her. He hoped she would be able to make the transfer she wanted into interpretation. Since he didn't have a cell signal, Joe used a pay phone from a bank of them in a room off the first-floor balcony to call Marybeth. Her day had been filled with shuttling Sheridan and Lucy to the bus, from the bus, to Sheridan's volleyball practice and Lucy's piano lesson. Hectic but normal. Joe told her about Darren Rudloff.
"So Nate is there?" she asked.
"Yes, but we haven't really met up."
"He just saved your life and vanished."
"Same old, same old," he said, smiling at the statement as he made it.
"I'm glad he's there."
"Me too. I just wish working with Nate was more conventional."
"Then he wouldn't be Nate, would he?"
"Nope."
She said they would leave early Saturday morning to get to Yellowstone by early afternoon.
"I can't wait," he said. In his room, Joe poured himself a light bourbon from his traveler and reviewed the growing file. It had helped to see Mc-Cann's office and the murder scene, to feel them, to re-create the crime in his mind. But there had been no Eureka! moments. He read the rest of Hoening's e-mails and found several more references to hot-potting and flamers, but nothing that helped advance any kind of theory. He kept hoping he would find a referenceto McCann that would link the victims to the lawyer. Nope.
Hoening's superior was a man named Mark Cutler, who was area manager of the Old Faithful complex. Joe made a note of the name and intended to interview Cutler in the morning.
He transferred his notes from the day onto a legal pad for his report to Chuck Ward and the governor. While he wrote, he heard a roaring and splashing sound and at first thought an occupant in the next room had flushed his toilet. But it came from outside.
Joe parted the curtains and threw open the window and watched Old Faithful erupt. The wind shifted as the geyser spewed and filled his room with the brackish aftereffect of the steam that smelled slightly of sulfur. As tired as Joe was, he couldn't sleep. When he closed his eyes, scenes from the previous two days replayed in a herky-jerkyvideo loop: the meeting at the Pagoda, the two old men scrambling from his sight in his hallway, the long day in the car with Demming, Clay McCann's office, Darren Rudloff, the fruitless look into the mind and motivations of Rick Hoening's e-mails, his own repressed memories of his brother's funeral and the subsequent breakup of his family.
He opened his eyes and looked at his wristwatch, shocked it was only 10:30 P.M. Without television, radio, or the routine of home, his body clock was thrown off. He considered going back over the file to see if something jumped out at him that hadn't before, now that his subconscious had asserted itself. Instead,he rooted through the desk and read about the Old FaithfulInn in Zephyr brochures. A half-hour later he dressed, thinking he would go for a walk, hoping the physical activity would help shut down the video loop in his brain. Maybe he'd watch Old Faithful erupt again. He grabbed a jacket, considered taking the Glock, decidedagainst it.
The hallway was dark but not as dark as he remembered it, but he felt familiar relief as the warm glow of soft light on the logs lit his path to the open, empty lobby. Even the desk clerks seemed to be taking a break. The strange mechanical clock on the fireplace ticked, and his boots echoed on the wooden stairs to the lobby floor.
As he reached out for the iron latch on the studded door something made him pause and turn around.
Not every rocking chair in front of the hearth was empty. Nate Romanowski was asleep in one of them, his hands hangingat his sides, his boot soles splayed, his head back and mouth open.
Joe crossed the lobby and nudged Nate's boot with his own. "Tag, you're it," Joe said.
Nate cracked an eye. "Hey."
"Thanks for today, Nate. I mean that."
His friend sat up and rubbed his face, waking up.
"Why didn't you stick around?" Joe asked.
"I heard what that ranger said about the new law," Nate said. "I believed her."
Joe chuckled. "She's good, isn't she?"
"Yeah."
"That was good shooting."
"I'm a good shot."
Joe pulled a chair over and sat down next to Nate. The fire was nearly spent, but the heated stones of the fireplace radiated warmth.
"I wanted to see the murder scene," Nate said, "find out if I could get any vibes from it. I got nothing. But I was glad I was there when you and the ranger walked up."
"Me too."
"Are you figuring anything out?" Nate asked.
Joe thought about it before answering. "Overall, I'd have to say… nope."
Nate simply nodded. Joe filled Nate in on what had happenedso far, where he was headed. As Joe talked, he studied his friend. Nate appeared to be only half listening, as if there was something else on his mind.
When Joe was through, he asked, "Any questions? Any ideas?"
"Not yet."
"Okay, then."
Nate stood up, checked the front desk to confirm there was still no one there, then stepped over a metal barrier and approachedthe fireplace. "Watch this," Nate said, and started climbing the chimney using the outcrops of volcanic stones for hand- and footholds.
"Nate…"
He scaled the fireplace until he vanished into the gloom. Above, in the shadows, Joe could hear Nate's heavy breathing and the scuffle of his boots on rock. Ten minutes later, Nate rejoined him after scrambling from the chimney onto a cat-walkand taking a series of rickety, ancient stairs back to the lobby.
"I used to do that when I worked here," Nate said in explanation."Every night if I could."
Joe shook his head. "When did you work here?"
"Many years ago."
"I never knew that."
"There are a lot of things about me you don't know."
"And I'm not sure I want to know them."
"No," Nate said, "you probably don't."
Joe sat back in his chair. "This is quite a place, isn't it? I read that it was built in 1903 and 1904, in the middle of winter. Some days it was fifty below. The guy who built it had a sixth-gradeeducation, but he was a self-taught genius."
Nate agreed. "He was a wizard too. If you noticed, the windowson the building don't correspond with particular rooms or floors. They're scattered against the outside like they were just thrown up there and stuck. That's intentional. The architect wanted the look of the hotel to be random and asymmetrical, like nature itself. And it's just as interesting inside. There are secret stairways, hidden rooms, and a crazy dead-end hallway called Bat's Alley. They're closed to the public, of course, and very few people know about them."
Joe looked over. "But you know about them."
Nate nodded Of course but didn't meet Joe's eye.
"Nate, what's going on? There's something wrong, I can tell. You didn't climb that chimney to impress me, although it did. You climbed it because something's eating at you and you need to think."
Nate sighed but didn't disagree.
"What is it?" Joe asked.
"I was over in the Zephyr housing area earlier," Nate said. "I was wondering if there was anybody still here who I knew when I worked here."
"Yes?"
Nate leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and cocked his head. "Joe, there's somebody you probably ought to see."