Free Fire by C.J. Box Page A

considered reachingfor it. Several patrons watched him furtively between forkfulsof pancakes. Most didn’t even look up.
    He slammed the door so hard that the bells on it swung and hit the glass, punctuating his exit. He stormed halfway across the street before stopping and turning around. Marge glared back at him from behind the window, her face distorted by condensationon the glass. His eyes slipped from Marge to the rust-tingedFOR SALE sign on the door of the building. Every place in West, it seemed, was always for sale. That went with the transientnature of the town.
    But it gave him an idea.
    Maybe he could buy the goddamned place and fire Marge. He could buy Rocky’s too. He could own the whole fucking town; then they’d have to respect him.
    Mccann couldn’t feel his feet as he walked back towardhis office to make a call. His insides boiled, and he kept his mouth clamped shut so tightly that his jaw ached. His brief revenge fantasy of buying the town faded quickly. Despite his hunger for reprisal, the last thing he wanted was to stay a minute longer in this place than he had to.
    He looked at his wristwatch, calculating the time difference. He needed to make a call. As he began to open the door to his office, he changed his mind. Who knew who might be listening on his line?
    At a pay phone outside the supermarket he dropped in coins and dialed. It was answered on the third ring and he gave his accountnumber from memory. The receptionist transferred him to his banker.
    The banker asked him to repeat the account number and asked for a password. McCann gave both and waited a moment, listening to a keyboard being tapped.
    “Yes,” the banker said in a clipped Islands/English accent.
    “Has the transfer been made?”
    Hesitation. “There’s been a problem.”
    The words cut through him like a sword. He swooned, and the sky seemed to tilt to the right, causing him to reach out to steady himself on the frame of the phone booth. “What do you mean, There’s been a problem ?”
    “The bulk of the funds didn’t arrive when you said they would. We don’t know when the remainder will arrive.”
    He tried to stay calm. “How much?”
    More tapping. “Approximately five percent of what you told us to expect.”
    “Five percent?” He did the math. Five percent was nothing. Five percent would barely cover his current debts.
    Fighting panic, he asked the banker to check it again. While he waited, he backed away from the booth as far as the cord would let him. He looked down the empty street. Walls of dark pine closed in. Even the crooked sky seemed to push down on him.
    “I’m sorry,” the banker said. “It is correct.”
    “How fucking long do I have to stay here in this shithole and wait?” he said, his voice rising to a choked shout.
    “It is not the fault of our institution, sir,” the banker said defensively.“The problem is with the sender. You should talk to him and find out what is the cause of the delay.”
    McCann wanted to plead to the banker, This was not the plan.
    “Your issue is not with us,” the banker said.
    “I’ll check back with you,” he said, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood and slamming down the receiver.
    Stunned, he turned to walk away. But to where? How could this be happening?
    And to think, three months ago he’d been famous.

part two
    YELLOWSTONE ACT, 1872
    AN ACT TO SET APART A CERTAIN TRACT OF
LAND LYING NEAR THE HEADWATERS OF THE
YELLOWSTONE RIVER AS A PUBLIC PARK,
Approved March 1, 1872 (17 Stat. 32)
    SEC 2. That said public park shall be under the exclusive controlof the Secretary of the Interior, whose duty it shall be, as soon as practicable, to make and publish such rules and regulationsas he may deem necessary or proper for the care and managementof the same. Such regulations shall provide for the preservation, from injury or spoliation, of all timber, mineral deposits, natural curiosities, or wonders within said park, and their retention in their natural