Part 18 (1/2)

”Then why?”

”In a moment,” Keaton said. ”I have to urinate. Which,” he said, sliding unsteadily off his stool, ”if you take my philosophy to its logical conclusion so it applies to absolutely everything- like p.i.s.sing your pants instead of going to the restroom after you've drunk too much beer-one would go mad while being stinky as well. But there is still something to be said for simple human dignity, despite all that.” And he staggered to the men's room in the back.

After a few beats, Nate turned to Joe. ”I thought he might have been one of them. I heard him mention he came from the north this morning.”

”I wonder what he wants,” Joe said.

”My guess is it'll surprise you.”

”Meaning what?” Joe said, his mind still reeling.

”If we want to understand motivation,” Nate said, ”we might want to step outside convention and procedure. We might need to consider that some things happen up here because it truly is different.”

”What are you saying?”

Nate shook his head. ”I'm not sure. But since dozens of peoplehave studied this crime and come up with nothing, maybe we need to try and think about it differently. Maybe we need to consider that what happened was absolutely unique to this place, and for a reason we never even thought of before.”

Joe nodded. ”Maybe.”

Nate drained his beer. The bartender pointed at the clock behindthe bar, signaling it was time to close.

”I didn't like that bit about germs and me farting,” the bartendersaid. ”Didn't like it one bit.”

As if on cue, the bartender reached out both hands to grip the bar and Joe felt suddenly unsteady but didn't know why. Then he heard the tinkling of liquor bottles on the shelf behind the bar, and he saw ringlets form in the water in the sink. Just as quickly as it happened, it was still again.

”Just an earthquake,” the bartender said. ”Little one.”

”My G.o.d,” Joe whispered, turning to Nate. ”So that's who you wanted me to meet, Doomsayer.”

”No, not really.”

”Then why did you bring me here?”

Nate took a deep breath and his eyes flitted away for a second.Joe was confused.

Nate walked over to Keaton's companion, who was still sleeping on the bar.

”You said you saw two men in the hallway up in Mammoth,” Nate said. ”Two old guys. Doomsayer was one of them, I think we know now. Is this the other one?”

He grabbed a fistful of thin hair on the head of the companionand pulled his face up. Joe felt as if a lightning bolt of bile surged up into his throat. His boots seemed spot-welded to the floor.

Oh, how he recognized that face.

”Dad . . .” Joe said, but the word croaked out.

Two bloodshot, rheumy eyes cracked open, wobbled, focused.

”Son,” George Pickett said thickly.

”This is why I wanted you to leave your gun,” Nate said.

14.

Joe awoke to the sound of old faithful eruptingoutside his window, which for an instant he thought was his stomach. a.s.sured that it wasn't, he threw back the sheets, padded barefoot to the window, and parted the curtains to watch the geyser once again, wondering if it would ever be possible to get tired of seeing it. He didn't think so. He marveled at the furiouschurning of steam and water, the angry noise that accompaniedthe eruption, and was struck how some gouts of water punched through the billows into thin, cold air and paused at their apex, breaking apart into fat droplets that caught the sun, and plunged back down to earth.

As he dressed he recalled the events of the night before and was still numbed from them. It was as if his world had tilted slightly to the left into unreality.

His father had been too drunk to maintain a conversation and could barely stand. With Keating on one side and Joe on the other, they walked George Pickett home. Nate followed silently.

”I see you haven't changed much,” Joe said to his father as they cleared the dormitories and steered him toward a crooked line of rickety shacks hidden even farther in the trees.

”I'm happy you're here,” his father slurred, taking three tries to get it out. ”I'd like to get to know you, Son.”

”You had eighteen years for that,” Joe mumbled, knowing the conversation would likely be forgotten by George when he woke up the next morning.

After they'd lowered George into a disheveled single bed in a coffin-shaped cabin strewn with papers and garbage, Keaton said something to Joe about organizing a get-together for the Picketts very soon, so they could talk.

”Nothing to talk about,” Joe had said, turning for the door.

”And it should be sooner rather than later,” Doomsayer intonedas Joe stepped outside. ”We're on borrowed time as it is, you know . . .”

Demming was in the dining room waiting for him at breakfast.He could feel her eyes on his face, trying to discern what was wrong. He ordered eggs from a waiter with the name badge ”Vladimir-Czech Republic” and told her about meeting his fatherthe night before in the Zephyr bar.

”He's one of the Geyser Gazers,” Joe said, trying to sound casual. ”He lives in a hovel and drinks like a fish, waiting for the Yellowstone caldera to blow up.”

After Vladimir brought breakfast and talked to them about how beautiful it was outside this morning-”a vision of a dream of nature”-in broken but charming English, Demming said, ”So where is your friend Nate?”

”Oh, he's around,” Joe said, not wanting to tell her that Nate was staying somewhere inside the inn, likely in one of the sectionsthat were officially off-limits to visitors. Nate had mentionedsomething about a tree house far up in the rafters, and Joe fought the urge to look up and see if he was there.

Before separating the night before, Nate had told Joe he intendedto spend the day talking to old Zephyr friends to see if he could learn anything about the Gopher State Five.

”Around, huh?” she said, put off. ”I'm beginning to think he doesn't exist. Like he's your special secret friend. My son has one of those too, Joe. He calls him Buddy.”

Joe reviewed his notes and scribbled questions in his notebook while Demming went to find Mark Cutler, the area manager of Old Faithful. She returned with a cherubic and avuncular man about Joe's age with a pillow of dark curly hair, red cheeks, and an air of cheery competence about him. He wore wire-framed gla.s.ses, a tie and a blazer, but looked as if he spent as much time outdoors as indoors, judging by his sunburnedskin and the scratches on the back of his hands.

”Mark Cutler,” he said. ”I manage this joint.”

”Joe Pickett. Nice to meet you.”

”Judy said you have some questions, follow-up on Hoening and McCaleb.”

”Yup,” Joe said. ”Bob Olig too.”

”Ah, Olig,” Cutler said, smiling at the name. ”Quite the characters, those three.”

”Do you have a few minutes?”