Free Fire by C.J. Box

deciding that maybe he would look into some sort of hair coloringthat would drown out the gray, McCann dropped the .38 into his coat pocket and went outside into the chill. Sheila had been gone for hours, but not before they’d made a date for later that night. At least she was someone to talk to, he thought, although he preferred her with her mouth full. Maybe she wasn’t so patheticafter all. She’d do until he left, at least.
    West Yellowstone was called a gateway community; it existedalmost solely as a staging area or overnight stop for tourists en route to the park. With a permanent population of less than two thousand people, the little town swelled to seven or eight thousand on summer nights and about half that with the snowmobile crowd in the winter. The place was unique in that they didn’t plow the roads so snowmobiles could be used legally on the streets.
    West, as it was called, was rough-hewn and blue collar, consistingof motels, fly-fishing shops, and souvenir stores. Winters were severe and the people who lived there were rugged. Of the five places McCann had practiced law—Chicago, Minot, Missoula,Helena, and now West Yellowstone, West was by far the bottom of the barrel for a lawyer. Not that he’d had any choice, of course, after the trouble he’d had. For McCann, West was the place he ended up, like something washed up on the shore of the Madison River. Sheila’s story was similar. He could go no farther. He liked to tell people that when they brought him their problems.
    A sheen of frost covered the windshields of parked cars and stiffened the dying grass between the cracks in the sidewalk. His breath billowed as he walked down Madison. There were no cars on the streets except those parked haphazardly around Bear Trap Pancake House. Locals, most of them. He bought a newspaperfrom the stand and went in.
    He sat alone in a booth with his back to the front door and surveyed the crowd. Men wore cowboy hats or caps proclaimingtheir allegiance to fly shops or heavy equipment. They were sullen, waking up, waiting for the caffeine to kick in. In contrast were the four bustling waitresses who seemed unnaturallycheery. McCann figured it out: the staff was happy becausetoday would be their last day for the season. Like most businesses in West, the Bear Trap would close until December when there was several feet of snow and the snowmobilers would be back.
    A middle-aged waitress with a name tag that read “Marge” practically skipped across the restaurant toward him with a pot of coffee. McCann pushed his empty mug across the table towardher.
    As she began to pour, she looked up and her eyes locked on his, and she froze.
    “Yes, please,” he said, gesturing toward his cup.
    Her face hardened and she righted the pot without pouring a drop. Then she turned on her heel and strode into the kitchen.
    A few moments later, McCann saw the face of the cook above the bat wing doors, then the face of the owner of the Bear Trap. The lawyer nodded toward the owner, who acknowledged him cautiously, then returned quickly to the kitchen.
    A young waitress (nameplate: Tina) had apparently not witnessedMarge’s reaction and came over with a pot.
    “No,” Marge said out the side of her mouth from two tables away.
    Tina stopped, unsure of what to do.
    “No,” Marge said again.
    Tina shrugged apologetically at McCann and retreated to the far end of the restaurant to take care of other tables.
    McCann sat quietly for twenty minutes as customers came in and placed their orders. Nothing was said to him. He was simply being frozen out, as if he didn’t exist. His coffee cup remainedempty.
    As Marge passed with another fresh pot, McCann reached out and tugged on her apron and she jumped back as if he’d goosed her.
    “I’d like breakfast,” he said.
    “In hell,” she answered, swinging her large hips away from him.
    McCann stood up angrily and reached for his coat. The .38 thumped against his side and for a second he