Read Online Savage Run by C. J. Box - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: C. J. Box
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Mystery & Detective, Mystery Fiction, Conspiracies, Wyoming, Environmentalists, Pickett; Joe (Fictitious character), Game wardens, Explosions
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was about six miles up, and where there was a turnout where they could park.
"I knew we were close," Britney said to Raga, "I could just feel it, how close we were."
"That's why you're here?" Joe asked.
"Partly" Raga said. "We're on our way to Toronto to an anti globalism rally Britney's speaking."
She nodded.
Joe turned to go.
"The people who did this will be back," Britney said quite clearly as he walked away He stopped, and looked over his shoulder.
"They can't kill Stewie Woods that easily" she sang.
JOE WAS BACK UP on his perch before he realized he had forgotten to ask Tonk to show him his fishing license. But he stayed in his truck.
Things were certainly more interesting since Stewie Woods had died in his mountains. Although the official investigation was already all but closed, and obituaries and tributes to Stewie had faded from the news, unofficial speculation continued unabated. That there was a strange, disconnected underground made up of people like Raga, Tonk, and Britney who now came to see the crater was disconcerting. They seemed to know something--or thought they knew something--that the public did not.
He hoped this had been an isolated incident. But he doubted it.
7
bremerton, washington
June 14
OUTSIDE A HUGE tree-shrouded home in a driving ram, the Old Man waited. Next to him, in the cab of the black Ford pickup, in the dark, was Charlie Tibbs.
The Old Man stole glances at Charlie, careful not to turn his head and stare directly at him. Charlie's face was barely discernible in the dark of the cab, lit only by the light from a distant fluorescent streetlight that threw a weak shaft through the waving branches of an evergreen tree. The rivulets of rainwater that ran down the windshield cast woringke shadows on Charlie, making his face look splotched and mottled.
They were here to kill someone named Hayden Powell, the owner of the house. But Powell had not yet come home.
The Old Man and Charlie Tibbs had driven up the fern-shrouded driveway two hours before, just as the storm clouds had closed the lid on the sky above Puget Sound. They had backed their black pickup into a tangled thicket so that it couldn't be seen from the road unless someone was really looking for it. Then the ram had started. It was relentless. The ram came down so hard and the vegetation was so thick that the wide leaves, outstretched toward the sky like cartoon hands, jerked and undulated all around them as if the forest floor was dancing. The liquid drumbeat of the storm intimidated the Old Man into complete silence and made the atmosphere otherworldly Not that Charlie was the kind of guy to have a long--or short--discussion with anyway
The Old Man was in awe of Charlie Tibbs. Charlie's stillness and quiet resolve was something from another era. Charlie had never raised his voice since they had been together, and the Old Man often had to strain to even hear him. Despite his age (the Old Man guessed sixty-five, like him) and bone-white hair, Charlie was a powerful presence. Men who didn't know Charlie Tibbs, and who had never heard of his reputation, still seemed to tense up in Charlie's presence. The Old Man had seen that happen just this morning, as they neared Bremerton, Washington, from the east. When they entered a small cafe and Charlie walked down the aisle toward an empty booth, The Old Man had noticed how the rough crowd of construction workers and salmon fishermen paused over their chicken-fried steak and eggs and sat up straight as Charlie passed by them. There was just something about the man. And none of those workers or fishermen had any idea that this was Charlie Tibbs, the legendary stock detective, a man known for his skill at man hunting for over forty years throughout the Rocky Mountains, the Southwest, South America, and Western Canada. Since the days of the open range in the 1870s, stock detectives had played a unique role in cattle country Hired by individual ranchers or landowner consortiums,
"I knew we were close," Britney said to Raga, "I could just feel it, how close we were."
"That's why you're here?" Joe asked.
"Partly" Raga said. "We're on our way to Toronto to an anti globalism rally Britney's speaking."
She nodded.
Joe turned to go.
"The people who did this will be back," Britney said quite clearly as he walked away He stopped, and looked over his shoulder.
"They can't kill Stewie Woods that easily" she sang.
JOE WAS BACK UP on his perch before he realized he had forgotten to ask Tonk to show him his fishing license. But he stayed in his truck.
Things were certainly more interesting since Stewie Woods had died in his mountains. Although the official investigation was already all but closed, and obituaries and tributes to Stewie had faded from the news, unofficial speculation continued unabated. That there was a strange, disconnected underground made up of people like Raga, Tonk, and Britney who now came to see the crater was disconcerting. They seemed to know something--or thought they knew something--that the public did not.
He hoped this had been an isolated incident. But he doubted it.
7
bremerton, washington
June 14
OUTSIDE A HUGE tree-shrouded home in a driving ram, the Old Man waited. Next to him, in the cab of the black Ford pickup, in the dark, was Charlie Tibbs.
The Old Man stole glances at Charlie, careful not to turn his head and stare directly at him. Charlie's face was barely discernible in the dark of the cab, lit only by the light from a distant fluorescent streetlight that threw a weak shaft through the waving branches of an evergreen tree. The rivulets of rainwater that ran down the windshield cast woringke shadows on Charlie, making his face look splotched and mottled.
They were here to kill someone named Hayden Powell, the owner of the house. But Powell had not yet come home.
The Old Man and Charlie Tibbs had driven up the fern-shrouded driveway two hours before, just as the storm clouds had closed the lid on the sky above Puget Sound. They had backed their black pickup into a tangled thicket so that it couldn't be seen from the road unless someone was really looking for it. Then the ram had started. It was relentless. The ram came down so hard and the vegetation was so thick that the wide leaves, outstretched toward the sky like cartoon hands, jerked and undulated all around them as if the forest floor was dancing. The liquid drumbeat of the storm intimidated the Old Man into complete silence and made the atmosphere otherworldly Not that Charlie was the kind of guy to have a long--or short--discussion with anyway
The Old Man was in awe of Charlie Tibbs. Charlie's stillness and quiet resolve was something from another era. Charlie had never raised his voice since they had been together, and the Old Man often had to strain to even hear him. Despite his age (the Old Man guessed sixty-five, like him) and bone-white hair, Charlie was a powerful presence. Men who didn't know Charlie Tibbs, and who had never heard of his reputation, still seemed to tense up in Charlie's presence. The Old Man had seen that happen just this morning, as they neared Bremerton, Washington, from the east. When they entered a small cafe and Charlie walked down the aisle toward an empty booth, The Old Man had noticed how the rough crowd of construction workers and salmon fishermen paused over their chicken-fried steak and eggs and sat up straight as Charlie passed by them. There was just something about the man. And none of those workers or fishermen had any idea that this was Charlie Tibbs, the legendary stock detective, a man known for his skill at man hunting for over forty years throughout the Rocky Mountains, the Southwest, South America, and Western Canada. Since the days of the open range in the 1870s, stock detectives had played a unique role in cattle country Hired by individual ranchers or landowner consortiums,
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