C Box - Below Zero

The ninth book in the Joe Pickett series, 2009

Keystone, South Dakota

MARSHALL AND SYLVIA HOTLE, WHO LIKED TO LIST THEIR places of residence as Cedar Rapids, Iowa, Quartzsite, Arizona, and the open road, were preparing dinner when they saw the dark SUV with Illinois plates drive by on the access road for the third time in less than an hour.

There they are again, Sylvia said, narrowing her eyes. She was setting two places on the picnic table. Pork cutlets, green beans, dinner rolls, iceberg lettuce salad, and plenty of weak coffee, just like Marshall liked it.

Gawkers, Marshall said, with a hint of a smile. Im getting used to it.

The evening was warm and still and perfumed with dust and pine pollen particular to the Black Hills of South Dakota. Within the next hour, the smell of hot dogs and hamburgers being cooked on dozens of campground grills would waft through the trees as well. By then the Hotles would be done eating. They liked to eat early. It was a habit they developed on their farm.

The Hotles had parked their massive motor home for the night in a remote campsite within the Mount Rushmore KOA complex near Palmer Gulch, only five miles away from the monument itself. Because it was late August and the roads teemed with tourists, theyd thought ahead and secured this choice site-one theyd occupied before on their semi-annual cross-country trips-by calling and reserving it weeks before. Although there were scores of RVs and tents setting up within the complex below, this particular site was tucked high in the trees and seemed almost remote.

Marshall often said he preferred the Black Hills to the Rocky Mountains farther west. The Black Hills were green, rounded, gentle, with plenty of lots big enough to park The Unit. The highest mountain-Harney Peak-was 7,242 feet. The Black Hills, Marshall said, were reasonable. The Rockies were a different matter. As they ventured from South Dakota into Wyoming, both the people and the landscape changed. Good solid midwestern stock gave way to mountain people who were ragged on the edges, he thought. Farms gave way to ranches. The mountains became severe, twice the elevation of Harney Peak, which was just big enough. The weather became volatile. While the mountains could be seductive, they were also amoral. Little of use could be grown. There were creatures-grizzly bears, black bears, mountain lions-capable of eating him and willing to do it. Give me the Black Hills any old day, Marshall said as he drove, as the rounded dark humps appeared in his windshield to the west. The Black Hills are plenty.

Sylvia was short, compact, and solid. She wore a sweatshirt covered with balloons and clouds shed appliqud herself. Her iron-gray hair was molded into tight curls that looked spring-loaded. She had eight grandchildren with the ninth due any day now. Shed spent the day knitting baby booties and a little stocking cap. She didnt have strong opinions on the Black Hills versus the Rocky Mountains, but

I dont like to be gawked at, she said, barely moving her mouth.

I hate to tell you this, but its not you theyre looking at, Marshall said, sipping coffee. Theyre admiring The Unit. Marshalls belly strained at the snap buttons of his Iowa Hawkeyes windbreaker. His face was round, and his cheeks were always red. Hed worn the same steel-framed glasses so long they were back in style, as was his John Deere cap. He chinned toward the motor home. They probably want to come up here and take a look. Dont worry, though, we can have supper first.

Thats charitable of you, Sylvia said, shaking her head. Dont you ever get tired of giving tours?

No.

Its not just a motor home, you know. Its where we live. But with you giving tours all the time, I feel like Ive always got to keep it spotless.

Ah, he said, sliding a cutlet from the platter onto his plate, youd do that anyway.

Still, she said. You never gave tours of the farmhouse.

He shrugged. Nobody ever wanted to look at it. Its just a house, sweetie. Nothing special about a house.

Said Sylvia heatedly, A house where we raised eight children.

You know what I mean, he said. Hey, good pork.

Oh, dear, she said, here they come again.

The dark SUV with the Illinois plates didnt proceed all the way up the drive to the campsite, but it braked to a stop just off the access road. Sylvia could see two people in the vehicle-two men, it looked like. And maybe someone smaller in the back. A girl? She glared her most unwelcoming glare, she thought. It usually worked. This time, though, the motor shut off and the drivers door opened.

At least they didnt drive in on top of us, she said.

Good campground etiquette, Marshall said.

But they could have waited until after our supper.

You want me to tell them to come back later?

What, she said with sarcasm, and not give them a tour?

Marshall chuckled and reached out and patted Sylvias hand. She shook her head.

Only the driver got out. He was older, about their age or maybe a few years younger, wearing a casual jacket and chinos. He was dark and barrel-chested, with a large head, slicked-back hair, and warm, dark eyes. He had a thick mustache and heavy jowls, and he walked up the drive rocking side-to-side a little, like a B-movie monster.

He looks like somebody, Sylvia said. Who am I thinking of?

Marshall whispered, How would I know who youre thinking of?

Like that dead writer. You know.

Lots of dead writers, Marshall said. Thats the best kind, you ask me.

Sorry to bother you, the man said affably. Im Dave Stenson. My friends in Chicago call me Stenko.

Hemingway, Sylvia muttered without moving her lips. Thats who I mean.

Sorry to bother you at dinnertime. Would it be better if I came back? Stenson/Stenko said, pausing before getting too close.

Before Sylvia could say yes, Marshall said, Im Marshall and this is Sylvia. What can we do for you?

Thats the biggest darned motor home Ive ever seen, Stenko said, stepping back so he could see it all from stem to stern. I just wanted to look at it.

Marshall smiled, and his eyes twinkled behind thick lenses. Sylvia sighed. All those years in the cab of a combine, all those years of corn, corn, corn. The last few years of ethanol mandates had been great! This was Marshalls reward.

Id be happy to give you a quick tour, her husband said.

Please, Stenko said, holding up his hand palm out, finish your dinner first.

Said Marshall, Im done, and pushed away from the picnic table, leaving the salad and green beans untouched.

Sylvia thought, A life spent as a farmer but the man wont eat vegetables.

Turning to her, Stenko asked, I was hoping I could borrow a potato or two. Id sure appreciate it.

She smiled, despite herself, and felt her cheeks get warm. He had good manners, this man, and those dark eyes

SHE WAS CLEANING UP the dishes on the picnic table when Marshall and Stenko finally came out of the motor home. Marshall had done the tour of The Unit so many times, for so many people, that his speech was becoming smooth and well rehearsed. Fellow retired RV enthusiasts as well as people still moored to their jobs wanted to see what it looked like inside the behemoth vehicle: their 2009 45-foot diesel-powered Fleetwood American Heritage, which Marshall simply called The Unit. She heard phrases shed heard dozens of times, Forty-six thousand, six hundred pounds gross vehicle weight five hundred horses with a ten-point-eight-liter diesel engine satellite radio three integrated cameras for backing up GPS bedroom with queen bed, satellite television washer/dryer wine rack and wet bar even though neither one of us drinks