CLAY MCCANN asked Sheila while picking up the business cards. He was agitated. “I don’t know—three hours, maybe.” “What did they want?” “Gee, Clay,” she said, rolling her eyes, “maybe they wanted to ask you about shooting four people dead.” Annoyed, he looked up at her from the cards. He recognized the woman’s name—Demming. She was one of the first on the scene at Bechler. She was no heavy hitter within the park, he knew that. Nothing special. But . . . a game warden? Sheila looked back at him with insolence. She was a poor fill-in for the receptionist who quit. Too much attitude, too much mouth. He wanted to tell her to tone down her act or he’d lose what few clients he still had. Then his focus changed from Sheila to the open door behind her, to the credenza and the notebooks that were clearly displayed on his desk. “Why is my door open?” he asked, his voice cold. “I wanted some light out here so I could read,” she said defensively.“If you haven’t noticed, it’s dark in here.
