redecorated. Missy had stripped the walls, replaced the fixtures, and refurnished it with tasteful antiques. Nothing remained of Bud’s first wife, not even the floors. Missy lay under a comforter on top of the bed. The shades were pulled, which she did when she wasn’t wearing makeup and didn’t want to be seen closely. She looks so tiny, Joe thought. Even in the gloom, though, she was a startlingly, undeniably beautiful woman, even if she was at war with her true age.
“I hear it was a late meeting,” Joe said. “How’s the Earl of Lexington?”
“He’s fine . . .” she said, then quickly bit off her words and glared at him. Marybeth was right. He was at the meeting. Missy propped herself up on an elbow, fixing her big eyes on him.
“I heard the news,” she said with an edge in her voice, quickly regaining the upper hand.
Joe said nothing.
“I also heard that you might be thinking of a house in town.”
“Maybe.”
She shook her head slowly. “Let my people go, Joe.”
“What?”
“Let them go, ” she said sharply, sitting up and swinging her feet to the floor. “Everything is perfect as it is. For the first time, Marybeth is comfortable. She has a fine place to live. She’s moving up, finally. Quit dragging my daughter and my granddaughtersdown with you.”
Joe felt his neck get hot.
“They deserve better than to be handcuffed to a mid-level state employee who brings danger they don’t deserve into their lives,” Missy said, the words dripping with disdain. “Don’t you dare take them away from me again. Step aside, and let them . . . blossom.”
“ Blossom ?”
Her eyes flashed. “I’ve said my piece. I wish you would think about it while you run around in the woods again like a schoolboy.”
Joe knew he was one of the few to see her occasionally in her full, evil, stripped-down honesty. He doubted Bud Sr. ever really had. It was the one thing they had together, he and Missy: icy moments of bitter, hateful truth.
“I’ll think about it,” Joe said. “While I’m thinking about it, I’d like you to come to Yellowstone so I can show you around. One place in particular, way on the western side of the park, in Idaho. I hear it’s beautiful.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked, narrowing her eyes and frowning.
He turned and left, his hands shaking.
5
West Yellowstone, Montana October 7
Clay mccann didn’t like how the reporter from the Wall Street Journal had described his hair as “pink.” The description denigrated him, made him sound less serious, like a circus clown. No one wanted to have pink hair. The reasonfor the description in the Journal, and this was patently unfair,was that his hair—once a deep red—was now streaked with silver-gray hairs. The silver made it look from a distance (if the observer was a jaded Eastern reporter) like he dyed his hair pink. Which he did not!
He confirmed it once again in the rearview mirror of his car as he drove through Yellowstone Park. While looking at himself in the mirror instead of watching the road, he nearly collided with a herd of buffalo. McCann cursed and slammed on his brakes, bringing his car into a skidding stop three feet from the front quarters of a one-ton bull. The animal swung its woolly triangle head toward the car, stared through the windshield at him with black amoral prehistoric eyes, snorted with what sounded like indignation, and slowly joined the rest of the herd.
A buffalo jam. Anyone driving through Yellowstone Park had to get used to them. The dank smell that hung in the air, the clip-clop of ungulate hooves on the pavement.
Wouldn’t that have made a hell of an ironic story, McCann thought, saying the headline aloud: “Freed Murderer Killed in Park Collision With Bison.”
While he waited he studied his face again in the mirror. The same reporter had described him as “pale, paunchy, and past his prime” in a flowery alliterative rhetorical flourish filled with popping P’s. That
“I hear it was a late meeting,” Joe said. “How’s the Earl of Lexington?”
“He’s fine . . .” she said, then quickly bit off her words and glared at him. Marybeth was right. He was at the meeting. Missy propped herself up on an elbow, fixing her big eyes on him.
“I heard the news,” she said with an edge in her voice, quickly regaining the upper hand.
Joe said nothing.
“I also heard that you might be thinking of a house in town.”
“Maybe.”
She shook her head slowly. “Let my people go, Joe.”
“What?”
“Let them go, ” she said sharply, sitting up and swinging her feet to the floor. “Everything is perfect as it is. For the first time, Marybeth is comfortable. She has a fine place to live. She’s moving up, finally. Quit dragging my daughter and my granddaughtersdown with you.”
Joe felt his neck get hot.
“They deserve better than to be handcuffed to a mid-level state employee who brings danger they don’t deserve into their lives,” Missy said, the words dripping with disdain. “Don’t you dare take them away from me again. Step aside, and let them . . . blossom.”
“ Blossom ?”
Her eyes flashed. “I’ve said my piece. I wish you would think about it while you run around in the woods again like a schoolboy.”
Joe knew he was one of the few to see her occasionally in her full, evil, stripped-down honesty. He doubted Bud Sr. ever really had. It was the one thing they had together, he and Missy: icy moments of bitter, hateful truth.
“I’ll think about it,” Joe said. “While I’m thinking about it, I’d like you to come to Yellowstone so I can show you around. One place in particular, way on the western side of the park, in Idaho. I hear it’s beautiful.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked, narrowing her eyes and frowning.
He turned and left, his hands shaking.
5
West Yellowstone, Montana October 7
Clay mccann didn’t like how the reporter from the Wall Street Journal had described his hair as “pink.” The description denigrated him, made him sound less serious, like a circus clown. No one wanted to have pink hair. The reasonfor the description in the Journal, and this was patently unfair,was that his hair—once a deep red—was now streaked with silver-gray hairs. The silver made it look from a distance (if the observer was a jaded Eastern reporter) like he dyed his hair pink. Which he did not!
He confirmed it once again in the rearview mirror of his car as he drove through Yellowstone Park. While looking at himself in the mirror instead of watching the road, he nearly collided with a herd of buffalo. McCann cursed and slammed on his brakes, bringing his car into a skidding stop three feet from the front quarters of a one-ton bull. The animal swung its woolly triangle head toward the car, stared through the windshield at him with black amoral prehistoric eyes, snorted with what sounded like indignation, and slowly joined the rest of the herd.
A buffalo jam. Anyone driving through Yellowstone Park had to get used to them. The dank smell that hung in the air, the clip-clop of ungulate hooves on the pavement.
Wouldn’t that have made a hell of an ironic story, McCann thought, saying the headline aloud: “Freed Murderer Killed in Park Collision With Bison.”
While he waited he studied his face again in the mirror. The same reporter had described him as “pale, paunchy, and past his prime” in a flowery alliterative rhetorical flourish filled with popping P’s. That
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