When Simon returned his card and said he could pick up the keys in the morning, he said, "There have been a couple of older gentlemen asking for you. I hope you don't mind, but I asked them to wait outside the lobby for you to return."
"Wait outside? Why?"
Simon looked apologetic.
Joe got it. "They were stinking drunk, right?" he said with despair.
"Beyond stinking," Simon said. "They reeked. And one of them had a little accident on the couch. He dropped his bottle of cheap whiskey."
Joe turned to see that the cushions on the overstuffed couch near the fireplace had been removed.
"Son!" George Pickett shouted as he staggered into the lobby from outside. "Son! My boy! Fruit of my loins!"
Doomsayer remained outside so he could throw up on the sidewalk.
Joe angrily intercepted his father. "What do you want?"
"To see my boy. Do you know how good it makes me feel to say I'm going to visit my son? Is there something wrong with that?"
His father hadn't shaved or changed clothes since he'd seen him at Old Faithful, as if their meeting had been the catalyst for the bender he was on. He stunk of whiskey and something rottenhe'd eaten. His eyes shone with a giddy brand of happiness that bordered on the manic. His smile was forced, and as he stumbled, Joe reached out to hold him up.
"We have nothing to talk about," Joe said.
"But you're my son!" George said loudly. "The only one I have left."
Joe glanced over his shoulder to see Simon look away discreetly.
"You can't just stand here and yell," Joe said. "You're sure as hell not driving anywhere. Don't you have someplace to stay?"
"With you!" George slurred. "We can bunk with you! We can stay up late and tell stories and catch up. That meeting we had, that was no good. We need a new start."
Joe felt like smacking him, and instantly felt guilty for even thinking it. He was his father, wasn't he? But he was so much less than that, even though he'd come to Mammoth to see him.
Joe handed George the keys to room 231. "Don't wreck it," Joe said, getting both men into the room.
"You aren't staying with us?" Doomsayer asked.
"Never," Joe said. "And get out tomorrow when you two can walk."
"Ah, tomorrow," Doomsayer said, watching George stagger toward the bed and collapse into the middle of it. "We don't speak of tomorrow up here. It may never come." In the cabin he had rented, Joe sat at a small table and surveyedthe accommodations. It would do, although it was dark and close. He'd hoped there would be a private bedroom for him and Marybeth. He missed his wife, and recalled their last moments together by the fireplace. Instead, there was a double bed and two singles in a long room. Maybe they could send Sheridan and Lucy out for some ice or something, he thought.
He hoped George Pickett would do as he was told and be out of the area by morning, when his family was due to arrive.
Tossing his bags into the small closet, he wondered when Demming would get back. He'd need to leave a note at the hotelabout his new location.
And speaking of location, Joe thought, where in the hell was Nate?
22
With electric peak to the northwest, bunsen Peak to the east, and Swan Lake ahead on her left, Demming's tires sang on the thin strip of roadway across the meadow with the peculiar, discordant note that came from the chips of sharp black obsidian that had been mixed into the asphalt by a long-agoroad crew that probably included her husband, Lars. It was twilight, twenty minutes from Mammoth and home. She was headed north; it was an hour past the end of her shift but she wouldn't claim the overtime because she didn't want to explain to anyone why she was running late.
Her laptop was on the seat next to her in the cruiser, filled with downloaded videotapes from the West and North entrance gates. She hoped Joe had been as successful.
Because she was driving the only car on the road, she goosed up her speed to fifty, five miles over the park speed limit. The brilliant flashes of white on the leaden surface of the lake ahead were, in fact, trumpeter swans. Thus, Swan Lake. She'd be good at interpretation, she thought. She noticed things.
Like the black SUV with the smoked windows ahead of her. It was headed north also, and she could feel her heart race as she slowly closed the gap between them. She hadn't seen where the SUV came onto the road, and could only assume the driver had seen her because he was careful to keep to the speed limit as she neared.
There was no way to determine if this was the black SUV she had seen the day before, other than the fact that the hairs on her forearm and the back of her neck were standing up. She got closer.
Wyoming plates, County 22. Jackson Hole. On closer inspectionshe could see a sticker on the back window from Hertz. A rental. So the driver could be from anywhere and likely chose Jackson since it had the biggest airport of the park gateway cities and the most arriving flights.
When the last shafts of the sun hit the SUV just right she could see two people in it. Men. She recognized neither of them by profile, but noticed the driver had his head tilted up and to the right as he drove. He was watching her approach in the rearview mirror. She wished she could see his eyes or part of his face but the glass was too dark.
She slowed to maintain a cushion of a hundred feet and plucked the mike from its cradle on the dash. She tried to speak calmly.
"Dispatch, this is YP-twenty-nine, requesting backup. I'm in visual contact with a black SUV that matches the description of the vehicle reported yesterday near Biscuit Basin. I think it's the same one we issued the BOLO for yesterday. Repeat: requestingbackup. I'm northbound to Mammoth at Swan Lake. I'd like to pull it over and see who's inside."
"Roger that," the dispatcher said. "Backup is on the way."
"ETA?"
"Five minutes."
She let out a long breath in relief. Five minutes was good. Because of the distances in the park and two-lane traffic, it wasn't unusual to receive ETAs of fifteen and twenty minutes. She eased the cruiser ahead, narrowing the space between them to fifty feet, sending a signal. There would be no doubt now to the driver of the SUV that he was being pursued.
Trying not to make rapid movements, she reached up and unsnapped the buckle of the twelve-gauge pump mounted on the console. For reassurance, she patted her handgun on her belt, rubbed the leather of the holster with her thumb. Then unsnappedit for quick access.
As the two vehicles slowed to round a corner, she looked ahead on the highway as far as she could see for headlights, assumingthat her backup would arrive head-on, dispatched from Mammoth itself. The highway was clear.
She was both pleased and surprised when an NPS Crown Vic cruiser appeared suddenly in her rearview mirror. The backup had arrived much sooner than she anticipated, and she was now ready.
Snapping the toggle for the wigwag lights on the roof light bar, she said, "Let's see who you are."
Behind her, the backup cruiser did the same, flooding the insideof her car with explosions of blue and red.
The black SUV continued on, without speeding up or slowingdown. After thirty seconds, she began to worry. Of course, it had happened before. Citizens who were straining to look for wildlife or simply unaware of their surroundings sometimes claimed they hadn't seen her behind them. But she knew the driver had been watching.
As she reached up to whoop the siren, the brake lights flashed on the SUV and it slowed. She did the same, closing to within twenty yards. Finally, the vehicle swung into a pavement pullout. The driver was courteous enough to park at the far end of the pullout, leaving enough space for both NPS cruisers to park off the road.
"Okay, then," Demming said to herself. She was trained to emerge slowly, keeping part of her body in the cruiser in case the driver ahead decided to gun his engine and make a run. She paused, as trained, behind her open door while she fitted her hat on. The parking lights lit on the SUV, a good sign. The tailpipe burbled with exhaust, meaning the driver hadn't killed the motor.Not such a good sign.