Open Season by C. J. Box

warden in the middle of Wyoming who made less than $30,000 a year. But, Missy no doubt felt, it still may not be too late. At least that’s what Joe read into many of the things Missy said and did.
    They had discussed all this before, and Marybeth thought Joe was too hard on her mother. Marybeth said that yes, she did sometimes assume the role of daughter when Missy was around, but after all she was Missy’s daughter. Her mother just wanted the best for her, which was what mothers did. And Missy was proud of Joe in a way, Marybeth had said. Joe appeared to be faithful and a good father. Marybeth could have done much worse, Missy felt.
    Joe’s mood was sour when Marybeth came into the kitchen. He poured two glasses and handed them to her.
    â€œCheer up,” Marybeth said. “She’s trying to be pleasant.”
    Joe grunted. “I thought I was being the model of propriety.”
    â€œYou’re not being very accommodating,” Marybeth said, her eyes flashing. Joe stepped up close to Marybeth, so that what he had to say couldn’t be heard in the next room. He had just been through three of the strangest days of his life, he told her, from finding Ote’s body, to the shoot-out at the outfitters’ camp, the finding of the mutilated bodies, to the barrage of questions afterward, to the hospital. His mind was reeling, and he was beyond tired. The last thing he needed upon finally getting home was Missy Vankeuren. The Missy Vankeuren who at one time resented the hell out of her daughter for having the gall to make her a grandmother, of all things.
    Real anger flashed in Marybeth’s face.
    â€œIt’s not her fault all of this happened,” Marybeth said. “She’s just here to visit her granddaughters. She had nothing to do with a man dying in our backyard. She has a right to visit me and her granddaughters, who think she’s wonderful.”
    â€œBut why does it have to be now?” Joe asked lamely.
    â€œThomas Joseph Pickett,” Marybeth said sharply, “go to bed. You’re tired and disagreeable, and we can discuss this tomorrow.”
    Joe started to say something, then caught himself. Her tone was similar to what he heard when she was mad at the children and used their formal names. It was fortunate she was right because Joe didn’t have the energy for an argument.
    Joe entered the living room, and Missy looked up from her magazine. Her eyebrows were arched in an expectant way. Joe found this annoying. She obviously knew there had been words in the kitchen.
    â€œI’m going to bed,” Joe declared. He knew he sounded simple.
    â€œYou should do that,” Missy said, purring. “You are probably just dead with all you’ve gone through.”
    â€œYup.”
    â€œGood night, Joe. Sweet dreams.” Missy dropped her eyes back to her magazine and, with that gesture, dismissed him.
    Â 
    When Marybeth came into the bedroom later, Joe woke up with a start. He had been dreaming he was back in the mountains, back at the elk camp, reliving what had happened. In the aftershock of the shooting, time had become fluid, and Joe had drifted with it, like a raft on a river. The bodies of the outfitters were still in their tent where they had been found. Clyde Lidgard was still wrapped in the folds of the tent. He was moaning. They covered him with blankets. Pink bubbles formed and popped from a hole in his chest as he breathed. Deputy McLanahan was getting violently sick in the bushes from the tension and the release. The stench from the tent drifted to Joe and Wacey when the wind shifted.
    In his dream, they were still waiting on the helicopter to arrive. They were all hungry.
    â€œWhat time is it?” Joe asked.
    Marybeth was scrubbing her makeup off in the bathroom adjacent to the bedroom. She was scrubbing hard. She was still mad.
    â€œMidnight,” she said. “Mom and I were visiting. I didn’t realize how late it was