Breaking Point

toxic waste. Knowing what we do now, who in their right mind would want to build
anything
, or fix
anything
, anymore?”
    Donnell’s face was bright red, and he looked to Joe like he might break down. Joe and Marybeth exchanged worried glances.
    Then Marybeth said softly, “We’re screwed, aren’t we?”
    Donnell looked up, took a breath, and said, “I think we should give up on this project. I’ll take my losses while I still can. It’s not worth it trying to push back because they hold all the cards. They’ve got paid lawyers and regulators with no personal financial stake in this building like we do. They can sit at their desks and tell us what we can and can’t do, and they can drag this out for years or until we’re both bankrupt.”
    “You’re saying we should just walk away from our deal?” Marybeth said, and Joe noticed the welling in her eyes.
    Donnell nodded. “Yes. I’ll put the hotel back on the market and sell it for whatever we can get, even if we’re just selling the lot itself. A corner lot on Main Street in the middle of town has to be worth something. I’ll do what I can to return some of the money we’ve already sunk into it, I swear. I’m sorry I got you two involved.”
    Joe took a deep breath.
    Marybeth said to Donnell, “I’m sorry you’re going to take a loss, and I appreciate the opportunity you gave me.” She looked at Joe. “I’m sorry.”
    He knew how much it meant to her. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s fine.”
    And it was a hurdle removed from not taking the job in Cheyenne, he thought but didn’t say.
    Then he looked at his wristwatch. “I’ve got to go.”
    “Call me,” Marybeth said to his back.

14
    AS JOE DROVE UP BIGHORN ROAD WITH TOBY ONCE again in the horse trailer, the immediate anger he’d felt in the lobby of the Saddlestring Hotel subsided and was replaced by frustration. He thought about the look of utter defeat on Marybeth’s face, something he’d rarely seen before. He didn’t like seeing his wife so disappointed.
    He wanted to fix it somehow but didn’t know where to start. He wondered what she’d think about the job offer from LGD, and anticipated her response. Which is why he hadn’t told her about it.
    —
    A S HE DROVE, changing channels from one problem to another, Joe tried to imagine what Butch felt like up there in the mountains, away from his wife and daughter, sleeping on the ground and listening for the sounds of approaching pursuers. Unlike Butch, Joe and Marybeth had dodged a bullet. If they’d made the hotel deal they’d have been ruined instead of disappointed.
    Butch had to know, Joe thought, that his life wasn’t worth anything anymore. His construction company would go bankrupt and his family would be affected in ways he could never have imagined.
    Butch would know that if he turned himself in he’d be locked away for years. Did he regret what he’d done, or did he feel justified for having done it?
    Joe sighed, knowing the question was academic. Butch Roberson was the only suspect in a double homicide—it didn’t matter what he felt.
    —
    H E WAS SURPRISED to see a jam of vehicles in front of the gate to the Big Stream Ranch. Pickups with horse trailers, SUVs trailing pods of ATVs, law enforcement panel vans, and a dozen other vehicles were massed on the shoulder of the highway and in the right- hand lane itself—a convoy that had been made to stop. Several uniformed deputies were standing on the blacktop, directing traffic.
    Joe slowed and powered his window down as he approached Deputy Justin Woods.
    “What’s going on?” Joe asked. “I thought they were going to set up their command post up at the forest boundary.”
    “That was the idea,” Woods said, “but they can’t get access to cross the ranch.”
    “What?”
    “Frank Zeller won’t let them through,” Woods said, trying to stifle a smirk.
    “Who’s in charge?”
    “Julio Batista and his toady,” Woods said.
    Joe thanked him and eased off the blacktop into the ditch and drove toward the front of the line. He could see Batista and Heinz Underwood shouting at someone through the poles of the gate, which was locked up with a heavy chain. Joe couldn’t recall seeing the gate closed before. He pulled parallel with Sheriff Reed’s handicapped van, shut off the engine, and swung out.
    Reed was in his chair with the sliding door open, watching the action at the gate with a look of bemusement on his face. When he saw Joe, he arched