The Zone of Death was a diversion, he thought. This wasn't about the Zone of Death at all. The murders were a means to an end, a way of dealing with those facts that hung in the air and were somehow, some way, connected.
He hoped that a revelation would come to him while he ate breakfast, that the indiscriminate facts would somehow connect and cling to one another, form a pattern, create a story line.
They didn't. When simon said there were no messages for him at the front desk, Joe used the pay phone in the lobby to call Chuck Ward. He needed to know what the governor thought of his reportsthus far and how he could get a new vehicle, and he wanted to advise them of the new information about Cutler, flamers, and Clay McCann's latest crime.
Ward wasn't in.
"Can you tell me how to get ahold of him?" Joe asked the secretary in the governor's office.
"No. He took a few days' personal leave."
"Personal leave? Now?"
"Yes."
Joe was annoyed. This meant Ward hadn't received his reportsand had no idea what was happening.
"When will he be back?"
"Monday."
"That's three more days!"
"Correct." She sounded bored.
Joe tried to think. There was no way Ward would be out of touch completely. He was the governor's chief of staff, he couldn't just vanish. It didn't work that way. He knew the secretaryprobably couldn't give out Ward's number, wherever he was. But he knew who could.
"I need to talk to the governor, then. It's important."
"What did you say your name was?" she asked before puttinghim on hold.
Joe waited. The hold music was Johnny Cash singing "Ghost Riders in the Sky." Joe assumed the governor had had somethingto do with the choice.
Finally, she came back on the line. "The governor says he's never heard of anyone named Joe Pickett."
Joe clenched his jaw, closed his eyes, said, "It's so good to be back in the system. Please have Chuck Ward call me immediatelyif he happens to check in. And please tell the governor things are happening. Three more people are dead. I'm sure he's heard about them-two murdered by Clay McCann, the other a Zephyr employee who we made contact with. That one might be an accident but I doubt it."
"I'll pass that along," she said in a tone suggesting she had no intention of doing so.
"He'll be interested," Joe said. "Trust me on that."
"Hmmmppf." Joe walked to the Pagoda, stepping through a television news crew from Billings that was setting up in the parking lot at the side of the building. A pretty blond correspondent who looked all of twenty-four was applying makeup to her sharp cheekbones, ready to do a stand-up report on the fact that Clay McCann was back in the Yellowstone jail.
The receptionist looked up as Joe entered. Layborn sat in a chair behind her, and he shook his head with clear disgust when he saw Joe.
"Thanks to you," Layborn said, "I get to spend the morning fending off the press instead of doing my job."
Joe ignored him. "Did you find anything out about the black SUV?"
"You mean the one you didn't get a plate number on? No. It was probably out of the park by the time we put out the APB at all the gates."
"But you've alerted the cops in all of the gateways, right? Jackson, Cody, West Yellowstone, Bozeman, Cooke City?"
"Gee," Layborn said, curling his lip, "we never even thought of that. Good thing you're here to advise us." He snorted, "Of course we did that. Christ. But we've got nothing so far. Do you know how many SUVs there are in this area? Everybody has 'em."
Joe nodded. True. "So McCann is here again, huh? Are charges being filed?"
Layborn looked quickly away. Joe could see that the ranger's face and neck were turning red. "We're holding him while the prosecutors try to come up with something," he said through clenched teeth. "This time, we can't even get him on a gun charge, since he claims the victims had the gun and he took it away from them in self-defense. That son of a bitch is going to get away with it. Again!" he spat the word out.
"So he'll be released?" Joe asked, incredulous.
Layborn shifted in his chair, finally looked back at Joe. "We had to tell him this morning he could go."
"He's gone?"
Layborn shook his head. "That's the thing," he said. "He refusesto leave. He says he's staying in custody until we either bring a case against him or not. In the meantime, he's demandingto be moved to another federal facility. He says he doesn't care where-Boise, Billings, Casper-anywhere but here. Claims he fears for his life in Yellowstone, which really pisses off the brass. They don't want that getting out, as you can imagine."
"I can imagine," Joe said. He wondered whom McCann was scared of, who he thought could get to him in the Yellowstone jail.
"That's not all," Layborn said. "He says if we don't press charges, he's not leaving until the secretary of the interior issuesa public apology to him for arresting him in the first place and talking about him to the press. He claims his house was vandalized and he can no longer earn a living because his reputation's been ruined. He says he'll sue us if the apology isn't made."
"You're kidding," Joe said.
"Jesus," Layborn said, "I wish I was. I also wish I could just take the weasel out in the woods and put a bullet in his head and end this."
Joe thought, I know a guy who would be happy to do that.
"Can I see him?" Joe asked.
"No visitors. Orders of the chief ranger."
"I've got some questions for him."
"Too bad. The chief thinks if he has no public contact he'll get bored and leave. McCann likes attention. So no press, no visitors at all. Direct orders. That's why I'm here this morning-to keep everybody away from him."
"I'm on your side," Joe said.
Layborn grinned viciously. "Somehow, I have trouble believingthat."
"Can I at least look at him?"
Joe could see Layborn thinking about it, wanting to come up with a reason why he couldn't. Finally, he gestured to the door. "We've got cameras in all the cells. The monitors are down the hall. You can look at him there, but nothing else. Then you need to leave, and I mean it."
As Joe passed him, Layborn said, "I don't know what you think you'll see."
Joe wasn't sure either. Nevertheless, he went down the hallwayinto a small room with a bank of four black-and-white video monitors on the wall. Two showed empty cells. One revealedtwo disheveled men sleeping on cots. A Post-it note read "Zephyr, DUI." On the fourth monitor, a pale, pudgy man sat motionless on a cot with his hands on his knees, staring intently at a blank wall. McCann.
There was nothing threatening about him, Joe thought. He looked like an overripe accountant, or the lawyer that he was. He looked lonely, pathetic. Not the murderer or schemer he obviouslywas. He looked almost like… a victim. Joe had been around several evil men in his life, and had felt a darkness insidehimself when he was near them. Not this time. Strangely, it bothered him more than if McCann exuded menace. Here sat a man who assassinated six people in cold blood, who wanted an apology from the government for being arrested. This man, Joe thought, was beyond understanding. In a way, he was probably the most dangerous man he had ever encountered. Joe wanted desperately to bring him down. Demming was opening the door of a Crown Victoria when Joe came out of the Pagoda, ruining the taped stand-up for the Billings television station.
"Cut!" the producer growled to the reporter. "Jenny, you'll need to do it again."
"Sorry," Joe said, stepping out of the shot.
"Damn it," Jenny said, "I was on a roll." "I've been assigned to traffic," Demming said, as Joe climbed into the cruiser with her. "Suspension is still pending, though. I'll know by Monday if I still have a job. I've never seen Langston so angry. Ashby actually defended me, though. A little,at least. Enough to keep me employed through the weekend."
Joe didn't know what to say.
"It may all be for the best," she said, looking out the windshieldat Jenny the reporter starting her stand-up again. "Lars will be out of town at a road engineering conference in Billings. I'll be around for the kids, which is good."