The man was still regarding him in silence, so Mark added, “We also had a raccoon named Pandora for a while. My mother saved it from the side of the road, and it bit Larry twice. He did not have fond feelings for Pandora.”
The man in the Hawaiian shirt said, “Well, hell. I wouldn’t point anybody else toward him, but that old bastard has been sitting at my bar talking about you and wondering where you are for as long as I’ve been in this town, and that’s twelve years now. Unlike most people who ask after him, you he’ll actually want to see.”
“Where can I find him?”
“You know the Bannock Trail?”
Mark nodded. The Bannock Trail was a dirt-and-gravel road that ran parallel to 212 through Silver Gate, along the base of Mount Republic.
“He’s up there in a cabin with a green tarp over most of the roof.”
That sounded right.
42
In Silver Gate there was a wooden bridge that crossed over the Soda Butte Creek, a stream that fed the Lamar River a few miles farther down, inside Yellowstone. Mark had fished the Soda Butte with his uncle Ronny before a few state-run disasters with fish stocking, followed by fish killing, effectively ruined the stream. On the other side of the water, the pavement disappeared and the road went to packed dirt. This was the Bannock Trail. The modern highways through Yellowstone follow it pretty closely, but the Bannock was originally the path used by bison-hunting parties of the Nez Perce, Shoshone, Kalispel, and Flathead. He saw several cabins that were new to him, and some of them were pretty high-dollar.
The one with the green tarp over the roof was not one of those.
The cabin was set back far from the road, and he almost missed it because the tarp blended with the pines. That was why you went with green instead of blue-class.
He pulled in the drive and parked. The pines here were thick and the place was in the shadow of the mountains and so it was very dark. When a large part of the darkness moved beside him, Mark almost had a heart attack. He was fumbling for his gun when he realized what the massive shape was: a buffalo. A big bastard, too, taller than the Tahoe, with a matted hide that had bits of branches stuck to it. Only one of his massive eyes was visible, and it didn’t look friendly.
Larry was guarded by a Cyclops.
Mark opened the door and stepped out slowly. People who were not cautious around buffalo were people who didn’t know anything about buffalo. Every year a handful of tourists who expected the animals to be cute, harmless oafs were gored while trying to take photographs. Buffalo could be mean, and fast. This fellow didn’t look like one of the low-key breeds, and the fact that he was roaming solo, far from the herds in the park, wasn’t a good sign. Based on the baleful stare he was getting, Mark suspected this old boy had been ejected from the herd due to attitude issues.
Mark walked slowly toward the cabin and the buffalo watched as if he were considering chasing him, then he lowered his head and began to chew on one of the bushes. Apparently Mark wasn’t worth the effort.
Mark went up the steps to the front porch, which was surprisingly solid considering the condition of the roof. The cabin looked like it had been there a hundred years and probably wasn’t going to have much trouble lasting a hundred more. He knocked on the door and heard a slurred curse, then a rhetorical and profane question about the time. There were footsteps and the door opened and Mark’s uncle looked at him without recognition.
He’d aged in the ways Mark’s mother hadn’t. His hair was a thick shock of white and his face was leathered and there were gin roses on his cheeks. He wasn’t a tall man-a few inches shorter than Mark’s six feet-but Mark knew that you underestimated his strength at your own peril. He was built like a sapling. Some of the muscle Mark remembered was gone, but not all of it. He was wearing long johns and a sleeveless undershirt, standing barefoot on the wooden floor.
Mark said, “How are you doing, Uncle?”
Larry blinked and his misty blue eyes sharpened their focus and then he said, “Good Lord in heaven. Markus?”
Mark nodded, and Larry came out and hugged him. Hard and without any hesitation. It jarred Mark, and he was slow returning the embrace. Then Larry stepped back and looked Mark up and down, assessing him against his memory.
“You look good, son.”
“You too, Larry.”
“Shit.” He laughed and then said, “What in the hell are you doing here?”
“Looking for Mom.”
The smile went away. “Sure. Figured you would one of these days. It ain’t gonna be the reunion you want, though. Not if you got ideas of fixing things up.”
“That’s not my idea.”
Larry waited.
“A few things have happened in my life since the last time I saw you,” Mark said.
“I’d sure as hell hope so.”
“I got married.”
“That’s great.”
“My wife was murdered.”
Larry winced, shifted his weight, and was casting about for something to say when Mark spoke again.
“Even I have trouble believing what I’m going to tell you,” he said. He felt unsteady suddenly, wanted a chair. “So I don’t know why in the hell you’d believe it. But there are people…there are some law enforcement people who seem to think that you and Mom might know something about who killed my wife, and why.”
Larry’s eyebrows arched and he leaned forward with his head cocked, as if he hadn’t heard correctly. “That we might know something? Son, I didn’t know you were married. I didn’t know you were alive. When you left, that was that. And I didn’t blame you, but anybody who says otherwise…shit, all I’ve done is wonder about you. And hope for you.”
Mark nodded. “It happened in Florida, but it seems to be connected to a man up here. Somebody Mom knows.”
Larry looked away, a contemplative sideways glance at nothing that Mark remembered well. He had a habit of looking to the side like that just before the shit hit the fan, like he was considering advice from an invisible man in his corner. His invisible man usually gave piss-poor advice.
“Don’t say Pate.”
The confirmation was like another blow, part of the combination that had been building in intensity since Lynn Deschaine had first mentioned the town of Lovell. All roads leading back.
“He’s one of them,” Mark said, “but the one I want most is Garland Webb.”
“That one doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“He’ll be with Pate,” Mark said. “I’m almost sure of it. I came up here with another investigator who was looking for Pate, and-”
“What do you mean, another investigator? You’re police?” Larry said it as if Mark had announced that he made his living testing razor blades on the ears of live bunnies.
“Private detective. I was, at least. The woman who came up here with me is missing, I suspect at Eli Pate’s hand. I need to find him. Can you help?”
Larry worked his tongue under his lower lip. “You ever met a man and felt almost right away, down in your bones, like you’d be doing the world a favor if you popped him? That’s Eli Pate. That’s the boy you’re looking for. And he won’t be easy to find. He’s down in a hole somewhere.”
“What’s he hiding from?”
“Not hiding. Waiting.”
“On?”
“The end of the world.”
Mark gave a slow nod. “One of those. A prepper, that kind of thing?”
“I wouldn’t say that, exactly. He’s his own breed. Get inside so I don’t have to stand here in the cold.” Larry stepped away and then added, sadly, “I wish it wasn’t this that brought you to my doorstep, son. I wish to hell it wasn’t this.”
“Me too, Uncle.”
43
Watching the new woman come slowly awake was a horrifying déjà vu; she mumbled to herself and tugged on the handcuff as if she didn’t understand it, then drifted back to sleep, indifferent, and Sabrina remembered what it had felt like, dealing with the match fires of awareness in the dark valley of drugged sleep.