Savage Run by C. J. Box Page A
Authors: C. J. Box
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Mystery & Detective, Mystery Fiction, Conspiracies, Wyoming, Environmentalists, Pickett; Joe (Fictitious character), Game wardens, Explosions
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her immense disappointment.
Marybeth could not discern where this was headed, or if the woman truly needed help, but she did have to get back to the front counter. A woman with two children was waiting with an arm full of books to check out.
"Are you okay Miss Finotta?"
The woman nodded that she was.
"I'll read about Tom Horn when you're done with the book," Marybeth said with a forced smile. "I promise. But now I've got to get back. Please let me know if you need anything else while you're here."
As Marybeth started to turn there was a slight movement of Ginger Finotta's thin hands on the table. She 'was trying unsuccessfully to raise her hand and stop Marybeth from leaving.
"You don't understand!" Ginger Finotta squawked, finding her voice again.
Her voice made Marybeth freeze. It carried throughout the library Newspaper readers in the small lounge area lowered their papers. The woman at the counter and her children turned and stared at the trembling woman. Buster emerged from the periodical aisle with a sour look on his face.
"Are you all right?" Marybeth asked.
"Do I look all right to you?"
Marybeth was confused. "What don't I understand?"
Ginger Finotta's moist eyes swept the ceiling before once again settling on Marybeth. "I know who you are and I know who your husband is."
Marybeth felt a chill crawl up her spine and pull on the roots of her hair.
"That's why you need to know about Tom Horn," Ginger Finotta said, her voice shrill.
"Let's go," Buster spat, suddenly appearing behind Ginger Finotta's wheelchair. Roughly, he pulled the chair out from under the table and started for the front door. Ginger clutched the book to her shrunken breast, as if saving it from a fire.
"Sorry ladies," Buster called over his shoulder, his toothpick dancing. "Mrs. Finotta is having some trouble here and she needs her rest. Bye bye!"
Marybeth stood stock still, wondering what exactly had just happened. She watched as Buster pushed Mrs. Finotta down the sidewalk, much too fast, toward the handicappedaccessible van he had parked near the front door. Marybeth slowly unclenched her fists, and took a deep breath.
that evening, Marybeth told Joe about her experience at the library with Ginger Finotta.
"His wife?" Joe asked, surprised. "That woman was his wife?"
Joe said he had heard of Tom Horn before, had read a book a long time ago, about the infamous stock detective.
"I don't get it," he said, confused.
"Neither do I," agreed Marybeth, still shaken.
12
MISSOULA, MONTANA
June 2
THE OLD MAN AWOKE to the sound of the early morning news playing on the pickup radio. He had been having a dream that he was evil. It was a dream like any other dream, but it was from a different perspective. It was on the outside looking in, and his thoughts in the dream were dark, breezy and grotesque. He saw other people, strangers, in the dream as vacant stooges to be bent to his will or disposed of if they got in the way There were men, women, and little children and they were crying out. He had pure contempt for them and their suffering, which he saw as weakness. He had never had a dream like that before, and it unsettled him.
He grunted and pulled himself into a sitting position before readjusting the truck seat. It was a beautiful day in Western Montana
and it wasn't raining. The Old Man was more comfortable here than in Washington State. The Clark Fork River was on their right. It was fast, white, and tumbling with early summer runoff. Mist hung low and stayed in the valley like a relative. The forested mountainsides were still and dark because the morning sun had not yet lit them, and they were shot through with a mosaic pattern of burn from the fires that had ripped through the land two summers before.
Through bleary eyes he looked at Charlie Tibbs, who was driving. Tibbs nodded good morning, then gestured to the radio. The Old Man yawned and listened. The huge black Ford pickup with smoked dark windows shot through the Lolo
Marybeth could not discern where this was headed, or if the woman truly needed help, but she did have to get back to the front counter. A woman with two children was waiting with an arm full of books to check out.
"Are you okay Miss Finotta?"
The woman nodded that she was.
"I'll read about Tom Horn when you're done with the book," Marybeth said with a forced smile. "I promise. But now I've got to get back. Please let me know if you need anything else while you're here."
As Marybeth started to turn there was a slight movement of Ginger Finotta's thin hands on the table. She 'was trying unsuccessfully to raise her hand and stop Marybeth from leaving.
"You don't understand!" Ginger Finotta squawked, finding her voice again.
Her voice made Marybeth freeze. It carried throughout the library Newspaper readers in the small lounge area lowered their papers. The woman at the counter and her children turned and stared at the trembling woman. Buster emerged from the periodical aisle with a sour look on his face.
"Are you all right?" Marybeth asked.
"Do I look all right to you?"
Marybeth was confused. "What don't I understand?"
Ginger Finotta's moist eyes swept the ceiling before once again settling on Marybeth. "I know who you are and I know who your husband is."
Marybeth felt a chill crawl up her spine and pull on the roots of her hair.
"That's why you need to know about Tom Horn," Ginger Finotta said, her voice shrill.
"Let's go," Buster spat, suddenly appearing behind Ginger Finotta's wheelchair. Roughly, he pulled the chair out from under the table and started for the front door. Ginger clutched the book to her shrunken breast, as if saving it from a fire.
"Sorry ladies," Buster called over his shoulder, his toothpick dancing. "Mrs. Finotta is having some trouble here and she needs her rest. Bye bye!"
Marybeth stood stock still, wondering what exactly had just happened. She watched as Buster pushed Mrs. Finotta down the sidewalk, much too fast, toward the handicappedaccessible van he had parked near the front door. Marybeth slowly unclenched her fists, and took a deep breath.
that evening, Marybeth told Joe about her experience at the library with Ginger Finotta.
"His wife?" Joe asked, surprised. "That woman was his wife?"
Joe said he had heard of Tom Horn before, had read a book a long time ago, about the infamous stock detective.
"I don't get it," he said, confused.
"Neither do I," agreed Marybeth, still shaken.
12
MISSOULA, MONTANA
June 2
THE OLD MAN AWOKE to the sound of the early morning news playing on the pickup radio. He had been having a dream that he was evil. It was a dream like any other dream, but it was from a different perspective. It was on the outside looking in, and his thoughts in the dream were dark, breezy and grotesque. He saw other people, strangers, in the dream as vacant stooges to be bent to his will or disposed of if they got in the way There were men, women, and little children and they were crying out. He had pure contempt for them and their suffering, which he saw as weakness. He had never had a dream like that before, and it unsettled him.
He grunted and pulled himself into a sitting position before readjusting the truck seat. It was a beautiful day in Western Montana
and it wasn't raining. The Old Man was more comfortable here than in Washington State. The Clark Fork River was on their right. It was fast, white, and tumbling with early summer runoff. Mist hung low and stayed in the valley like a relative. The forested mountainsides were still and dark because the morning sun had not yet lit them, and they were shot through with a mosaic pattern of burn from the fires that had ripped through the land two summers before.
Through bleary eyes he looked at Charlie Tibbs, who was driving. Tibbs nodded good morning, then gestured to the radio. The Old Man yawned and listened. The huge black Ford pickup with smoked dark windows shot through the Lolo
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