Savage Run by C. J. Box

said proudly
    "Then she's Jim Finotta's mother?"
    "She's his wife, for Christ's sake." Buster laughed. "Not his ma."
    Marybeth recalled Joe telling her about an old woman at the house, as well as about the stupid ranch hand who she now knew as Buster.
    "What is wrong with her?" Marybeth asked gently
    "You mean besides the fact that she's a crabby old bitch?" Buster asked, raising his eyebrows. He actually seemed to think he was charming her, Marybeth thought in amazement. "She's got Lou Gehrig's disease. ALS or ACS or something like that. She's getting worse all of the time. Pretty soon, she'll be flat on her back and her speech will go away completely"
    "Are you going to help her?" Marybeth asked archly.
    Buster rolled his eyes. "Eventually, yeah. When we're done here."
    Marybeth looked at him coldly "We are done here," she said, and left him leaning on the counter while she approached Ginger Finotta.
    Ginger Finotta's face was contorted and her lips were pressed together in a kind of sour pucker. Her eyes were rheumy with fluid, but they welcomed Marybeth as she approached. Marybeth removed one of the straight-backed chairs at the nearest table and wheeled Ginger into the empty space.
    "Did you find everything you need?" Marybeth asked over Ginger Finotta's shoulder. Marybeth noted the stiff helmet of hair and the woman's skeletal neck and shoulders, which couldn't be hidden by her high-necked print dress.
    "Isn't Buster an awful man?" Ginger Finotta asked in a scratchy voice.
    "Yes, he is," Marybeth agreed.
    "He is an awful man."
    Marybeth said "Mmmingmmm" and walked around to the other side of the table so they could see each other. It took a moment for Ginger Finotta's eyes to catch up. When they did, Marybeth sensed the immediate pain that the woman was in.
    "I'm doing research for my book."
    "That's what I understand from Buster."
    "How much do you know about the history of Wyoming?" Ginger asked. Her voice was not well modulated, and questions sounded like statements.
    Marybeth said she knew a little from school, but wasn't a scholar or historian by any means.
    "Do you know about Tom Horn?" Ginger Finotta asked.
    "A little, I guess," Marybeth said. "He was a so-called stock detective and he was hanged in Cheyenne for killing a fourteen-year-old boy"
    Ginger Finotta nodded almost imperceptibly "But he didn't do it. He did so many other bad things, though, that it doesn't matter if he shot that boy or not."
    Buster had finally left the counter and was approaching the table.
    "Mrs. Finotta, do you need anything?" he asked, and shot Marybeth a conspiratorial wink that she ignored.
    "I need you to go to some other part of this building. I'll call you when I want to go home."
    Buster raised his palms and said "Whoa!" before departing with a smirk on his face.
    Ginger Finotta's attention remained on Marybeth. Marybeth wondered if the woman knew anything about the situation between Jim Finotta and Joe. It was hard to guess how lucid she was. She was a prisoner of her twisted and contorted frame.
    "You need to know about Tom Horn," Ginger Finotta said, tapping the book on the table. It was called The Life and Times of Tom Horn, Stock Detective.
    "Why is that?"
    The question hung in the air while Ginger's eyes closed, slowly at first and then so tightly that her face trembled. She seemed to be battling through something. When her eyes reopened they were almost blank.
    "Because if you know about history, it's easier to understand the present. You know, why we do the things we're doing now:"
    "What do you mean?" Marybeth asked softly
    Ginger's eyes searched Marybeth's face. She clearly wanted to answer, but suddenly couldn't. Her face trembled, tiny muscles and tendons dancing under waxed-paper skin. She seemed to be concentrating on conquering the tics, trying to get her own body under some kind of control. But when she opened her mouth there was a bubble of spit, and the only sound she made was an angry hiss. Her eyes betrayed