Free Savage Run by C. J. Box Page B

the Old Man said as they approached the egress to the highway "And I sure as hell don't like all this ram and jungle out here."
    Charlie ignored the Old Man and asked him if he had picked up his shell casing. The Old Man sighed and showed it to him. Charlie was nothing if not thorough. And, in the Old Man's opinion, thoroughly efficient and coolly heartless.
    "Where is the next project?" the Old Man asked.
    "Montana."
    "I was kind of hoping we'd get some time off. We've been going nonstop. I've seen the Rocky Mountains and the Pacific Ocean in the last four days. That's more miles than I want to think about."
    This was the first time the Old Man had complained about their work. The result of his complaint was a pained squint from Charlie Tibbs as he drove.
    "We took a job and we're going to finish it," Charlie said with finality His voice was so low that it could barely be heard over the ram sizzle of the tires.
    The Old Man let it drop. He watched walls of dark wet trees strobe by in the headlights. The ram never stopped. The sky was close, seemingly at treetop level. It was as if they were going through a tunnel. He briefly closed his eyes to rest them.
    When he opened them again his hands were still shaking. The big black pickup, like a land shark, was speeding east devouring miles of wet shining road. Heading east to Go West, the Old Man thought
    MARY BETH SLAMMED DOWN the telephone receiver and, wideeyed, looked around her house to see if anyone was watching her. Of course, no one was. But she was shaking, scared, and angry nonetheless. And very self-conscious.
    It was the same voice on the telephone from the day before. He had called at the same time: after the kids had left for school and Joe had gone to work, but before Marybeth left for the stables. He had either guessed very well when he could talk to her alone or knew her schedule. Either way, it was disconcerting.
    "Is this Mary?" the man had asked. "Maiden name Harris?"
    That was as far as it went yesterday before she hung up. When the telephone rang again this morning, she knew intuitively that it was
    him. This time, she wanted more information about why he was calling, although she was afraid she already knew
    "Who is this?" she asked.
    He identified himself as a writer for Outside magazine. He said he was doing research for a story he was writing about deceased ecoterrorist Stewie Woods. "Why are you calling me?" she asked. "You should be talking instead to our sheriff or my husband. Would you like the sheriffs telephone number?"
    The reporter paused. "You're Mary, aren't you?"
    "Marybeth," she corrected. "Marybeth Pickett."
    "Formerly known as Mary Harris?" he asked.
    "My name has always been Marybeth," she insisted. This was not completely a l ie. Only two people had ever called her Mary
    The reporter's voice was more tentative. "Maybe I've got the wrong person here, and if so, I apologize for wasting your time. But my research led me to you," he said. "Did you know Stewie Woods when you were growing up?"
    She hung up on him.
    IT HAD BEEN a wonderful summer. That summer, the one between high school and college, had been tucked away in her memory but still came back to her from time to time. She had fought it back successfully and never let it bloom. She had tamped that flower back into the earth with her heel. But when she read in the newspaper that Stewie Woods was dead it all came back. Even now, fifteen years later, the memory of it was still vibrant.
    Back then, Stewie Woods was terribly homely but very charismatic, a gawky teenager turning into a fine but unpredictable athlete, who was already envisioning the building of an environmental terrorist organization that would rock the world. Hayden Powell was handsome, sardonic, and talented and vowed to make Stewie and their joint mission to Save the West famous. Although she never shared their radical passion for environmental causes, Marybeth's attraction to both rogues was exciting in the same way that