by Rhona Weaver
During his digging through the files, Win discovered that the FBI had leased the entire Corps of Engineers Building from the Park Service the year after the 9/11 attacks. Back then, Bureau offices were expanding to meet what was perceived as an impending global terrorism threat and the FBI’s isolated Yellowstone satellite office was established. There were never enough felony cases in the park to justify one permanent FBI agent, much less two, but as in most government operations, once money was appropriated, the funding continued. The Yellowstone office became the FBI’s dumping ground for unwanted agents who couldn’t be fired for whatever reason but certainly weren’t welcome in the mainstream Bureau. One long winter in this isolated place with nothing productive to do had been enough to convince most of Win’s predecessors to resign and seek employment elsewhere. Johnson was an exception. He stayed for years and did next to nothing. Win thought that was the saddest situation of all.
Having the entire building under FBI control was a huge advantage for Win’s plan to meet Bureau standards for office security and utility. Jason’s carpenters and tradesmen were converting unused space to extra offices, a communications room, a break room, and a locker room. The original historic courtroom was being renovated into a conference room. Jason came through with antique furnishings that had been stored and forgotten. Historic artwork would hang in every room. Win could expand the FBI’s usable office space from three cluttered second-story rooms to the entire old building by removing a few walls, getting rid of years of accumulated hard files and unused junk, and utilizing twelve-hour shifts from a group of very talented craftsmen.
It was shaping up to be an amazing transformation in such a short time. Agent Johnson would think he was in the wrong building when he came back to Mammoth. No, he won’t think that. Yesterday they’d affixed a shiny brass plate to the front entrance of the building. It proudly proclaimed: Federal Bureau of Investigation – Yellowstone National Park.
Win was hanging his framed diplomas and cleaning drywall dust off the bookcase in his personal office when Jim West called at eight o’clock. Twenty minutes later, Win found himself pulling into sleepy downtown Gardiner in an attempt to develop Ellie Bordeaux as a source. He’d had very little training in targeting an informant, and he really didn’t have a clue what he was going to say. The idea was to develop the trust of the prospective “confidential human source,” as the Bureau called its informants. Win could say nothing about the situation or the potential case. No questions, no disinformation—the Bureau’s way of saying no lies. Ellie needed to think the contact was purely coincidental. Of course, nothing was ever coincidental with the FBI; an agent had been trailing Ellie every time she’d left home since Win’s visit at their house two days ago.
There was little traffic on Gardiner’s Park Street. Few of the storefront buildings had come to life for the day. Much of the little town wouldn’t wake from its winter hibernation until more tourists began arriving next month; only a few places were open for business. Win entered Hampton Hardware and the soft jingle of bells announced his presence. He pushed his hat back and nodded to the woman behind the front counter. He breathed in the mixed smells of cattle feed, weed killer, and lumber as he scanned the cluttered aisles of dry goods and tools for Ellie Bordeaux.
She was in a conversation with a second clerk near the back of the store. He watched her as she tucked a strand of silky hair behind her ear, cocked her head, and furrowed her brow as if trying to understand what the thin young man was telling her. She looked good. When she glanced up and noticed him, he had no trouble producing a genuine smile. She was carrying her tan parka and wearing a heavy, blue flannel shirt over a white top; her faded Wranglers were tucked into snow boots. Yep, he thought again, she looks real good.
“Hey, Ellie, building something?” He moved down the aisle next to them.
“Hi, yeah. Luke promised Abby and Ethan a tree house this summer, so I’m starting to gather the materials.” There was no suspicion in her eyes, no distrust. She glanced down at the paper in her hand, “Not sure what Luke meant when he wrote down these six . . . nail sizes? And the young man here”—she nodded to the clerk, who looked lost—“he just started in hardware and doesn’t know either. Had no idea there were so many kinds of nails.”
“Want me to see what I can do with it?” He gave the clerk an I’ve got this look.
She smiled back and handed him the crumpled sheet of paper with Luke’s very precise list of building materials.
“Okay, uh-huh, one pound coated sinker twenty-penny, one pound exterior galvanized sixteen-penny . . .” Win efficiently moved through the open nail bins, sacking and weighing each type. “Nails done!” He glanced back at the list. “What about the hinges, lumber, and other stuff?”
“Just the nails today. I’m getting what we need little by little. Working part-time as a substitute teacher at the elementary school. Things are tight, but maybe by summer . . .” She let that trail off. She blushed and dropped her head slightly when she realized she’d admitted their poor financial situation to him. Then her pride kicked in. She raised her chin and forced a smile. “You don’t want to hear about that. Tell me what you’re looking for.”
What am I looking at? What am I looking for? Thoughts floated in his mind for a millisecond before he got himself back on track. “Embarrassed to admit it, but I’m shopping for cat toys. Cat came with my place, and I’m afraid he might be bored.” It sounded lame, but Win was thinking it wasn’t a lie—he’d intended to get Gruff something to play with, since the cat wanted nothing to do with him.
Ellie’s good humor quickly returned, and she helped him pick out several silly cat toys. They talked about the kids for a couple of minutes, then they paid for their purchases and he walked her out to her pickup. A cold east wind off the Absaroka Mountains had kicked in; it blew straight down the row of old storefront buildings and hit him square in the face as he grabbed his hat, opened her truck door, and braced to keep a gust from snatching both hat and door. They said their goodbyes and he watched her drive toward mountains hidden behind a shroud of dark clouds.
He tucked the cat toys into his coat and walked across the nearly deserted street to a white, late-model pickup with highway department logos, where a fictitious surveyor sat in the driver’s seat, studying a street map. The early-forty-something guy in the orange reflective safety vest and yellow hard hat barely glanced his way as he eased into the passenger seat.
“Good contact, Tyler—you even opened the door for the gal.” He cocked his head and gave Win a sly look. “Yessir, if she’d lose that country-girl vibe, she’d be one hot number! Got some great photos. Hell, you two make a nice couple!”
“Not funny.” Win shifted to get comfortable in the seat. “Cut it out.”
“Just saying. You’re a single guy. . . . Long, cold nights . . .” The guy arched his eyebrows and smirked.
“Cut it out. She’s married.” Win’s reply was angry.
“Yeah, well, married to a thug who could be spending a few years in the federal pen. You know damn well she could get a little lonely.”
Win quickly leaned over the pickup’s center console, put his right hand on the steering wheel to block the man’s right arm, and caught the surveillance agent behind the neck with his left hand. He squeezed just hard enough to get the guy’s full attention. “What part of cut it out don’t you get? You think you can show some shred of professionalism here!” Win’s strong hand and arm had him pinned in a painful nerve lock.
“Okay, okay, let go! Let go, damn it!” He was gasping for air. “Where’d you learn that trick? Damn, that hurt!” The guy sat rubbing his neck and shoulder after Win dropped his hands and leaned away. The agent stared down at the camera in his lap and made no attempt to meet Win’s narrowed eyes. “Hell, didn’t mean any disrespect.” He blew out a breath. “Okay, okay, I was out of line.”
Then the agent whined a little. “I just hate scre
wing around doing next to nothing, following housewives around, while I’ve got real cases to work in Denver. If they keep us up here long, I’m gonna get so far behind I won’t have a weekend off till mid-summer.” He paused and looked warily toward Win. “I’m sorry, alright? Are we square here?”
Win briefly met the guy’s eyes, then stared out the front windshield. He was wondering why he’d gotten physical. “Yeah, we’re cool. I don’t normally have such a short fuse. Maybe I’m feeling a little dirty approaching her. She hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“You know the drill, this is part of informant development; might help us get closer to the bad guys.” The agent laughed. “Hell, Win, if this lightweight stuff bothers you, I sure wouldn’t recommend you put in for undercover work—you do not have what it takes!”
Win grinned to lighten the mood and assured him undercover work wasn’t in his career plan at the Bureau. He found himself only half listening as the man outlined their surveillance strategy for the day. He knew his earlier anger was directed more at himself than at the other agent’s crude banter. There was no harm in noticing and admiring a good-looking woman. None at all. But he knew he’d crossed the line with Ellie this morning. In his mind, there’d been more than admiration, and he was disappointed in himself. He was also thinking the surveillance agent might be more right than he knew. Maybe I don’t have what it takes to do the job.
* * *
Much later that same Friday morning, a burly man sat slumped in the driver’s seat of a Ford sedan, watching the front of the old engineers building. The locals called the building “the Pagoda.” Maybe its shape? He wasn’t sure why. But he did know the area’s FBI office was located in the gray stone building. It was nearly noon, and almost every day for the last several days, the young man who was the new resident agent would come out the front door to walk two hundred yards up the sidewalk to the building housing the Terrace Grill and the Mammoth Hotel Dining Room. There were few choices for lunch in Mammoth this time of year, and the young man seemed to have a tendency to follow a set routine. Routine was a dangerous thing to develop in the older man’s line of work. It was dangerous for the young man too—he just didn’t know it yet.
The sun suddenly stuck its head out of the dense gray clouds and bathed the surroundings in unexpected bright light. It had been so gloomy the last few days that the sunshine was an unaccustomed visitor. The patches of snow and ice on the green tile roof of the Pagoda building caused a near-blinding reflection in the dazzling sunlight. The man hadn’t needed his sunglasses for days and now cursed himself for not having them.
Just after twelve noon, right on time, the front door opened and the agent came into view. As usual, he was alone. He stood on the granite steps, smiling at the sunshine. He was maybe late twenties, tall, with the broad shoulders and chest of an athlete. He was trim and fit with a capable, confident air about him. Not quite cocky, but close. The young man generally had a friendly expression, smiled easily. He was polite to a fault—always opening doors for people, speaking to most everyone he met. Probably a good-natured kid, the man thought. He watched him pull a pair of dark sunglasses from his jacket pocket and put them on. Then the agent ran a hand through his thick brown hair, put on his Indiana Jones–style hat, and adjusted it to a bit of a rakish angle. The older man chuckled to himself. He was thinking any woman alive would find Yellowstone’s resident FBI agent to be one handsome man.
The agent usually had the look of a prosperous young rancher. He wore his khaki twill pants, western-cut jacket, cowboy boots, and leather belt with a little silver on the buckle as if he’d grown up in them. Always starched shirts, usually a tie—nothing flashy, nothing to identify him as a federal officer. He was dressed to fit in with the locals, albeit the better dressed of the locals. The older man had seen him only once in traditional suit and tie, and he’d worn that look just as easily as the western garb. He was obviously comfortable in his own skin—probably any set of clothes would have suited him fine.
The agent was taking his time to bask in the welcome sunshine. As he stretched his arms behind his head, his jacket pulled back and the older man could clearly see the black handgun holstered to his belt on his right-hand side. He knew it was a Glock 22, a .40 caliber semiautomatic pistol, not the FBI’s newer standard-issue Glock 19M. The older man idly wondered why the young man carried the more powerful weapon, wondered if he was accomplished with it. He knew the FBI spent considerable time training their new agents with handguns and that they were required to pass marksmanship tests every few months during their careers. He doubted if this young man had ever drawn the pistol in a confrontation. He doubted he ever would.
He watched him walk up the sidewalk past the hotel, scanning the sparse trees and bare bushes in front of the historic buildings for wildlife. Even during miserable weather, he’d seen the agent turn his back into the wind, pull his heavy parka tight around him, and observe ground squirrels, ravens, or magpies going about their business in the cold drizzle and sleet. He was obviously a curious fellow. The older man saw so many of his generation with their eyes only on their phones. He was thinking it was a shame this contract was for one who actually seemed to look at the natural world with interest.
The older man raised a worn crime novel into sight and pulled the new cowboy hat down lower to hide his face as the agent finally walked past his rental car and up the sidewalk toward the Terrace Grill. The waiting was becoming tedious; it had been six days. Complacency could set in if one waited too long. Worse yet, he could develop an affinity for the target. The younger man appeared to be a decent sort. He had to admit, this assignment was shaping up to be a bit distasteful.
He lowered the book and shifted in his seat as the sun warmed the interior of the car. He’d make the long drive to Spokane this afternoon and tonight. Time to spend a day or so working on the complex extraction component of this job. It was high risk dealing with law enforcement; they all seemed to take it so personal when one of their own was involved. He shrugged a little. High risk—high reward. Still, he knew he had to have everything solidly in place well before he pulled the trigger.
His pale gray eyes never left the agent. The young man had slowed and was watching some rodent-like thing scurry through the frozen bushes. The older man let out a deep sigh. He had played out numerous scenarios in his mind and on the ground. He had well-rehearsed short- and long-range options. He was waiting for his employer to choose one. He was waiting and way past ready for the thing to be set in motion.
Chapter Seven
Saturday dawned damp, foggy, and miserable. Yesterday’s sunshine had evaporated like the vapor from the thermal springs, and Win’s heavy gray sweats were barely keeping the chill at bay. He stopped to catch his breath and watch a stream of scalding water trickle down the mountainside. He moved off the trail to explore the water’s source and thought back over last night’s dinner with Maddy and Bill Wilson. Her visit with coffee and muffins his first real day in the park was still a good memory. Bill was hoping to retire soon from his second career as a ranger, and she was looking forward to moving near the grandkids. A home-cooked meal and a legitimate excuse to avoid the Denver surveillance agents were a winning combination.
He’d also managed to get away from the office long enough yesterday afternoon to meet with the park superintendent, a thin, studious-looking gentleman who seemed to be nervously awaiting the coming of the tourist hordes when the roads fully opened in a few weeks. Nobody mentioned the “armed men,” and Win got the distinct impression the superintendent believed if the issue was ignored, it might just go away.
Win pushed aside a bush and squatted beside a plate-size iridescent blue opening that was coughing up spurts of water.
“Wouldn’t touch that iffen I’s you.”
Win froze with his fingers inches above the steaming water of the small cobalt pool. Luke Bordeaux’s thick Louisiana accent came from behind him—very close. He’d see
n no one on the last two miles of his jog up through the boardwalks and trails of Terrace Mountain. No one was out sightseeing in this weather, except him and, apparently, Luke Bordeaux. Win took a deep breath, stood up slowly, and turned toward the voice. He squared his shoulders toward the man.
“And why shouldn’t I touch it?”
Luke was casually leaning against one of the car-size gray boulders on a slight rise a few feet away, near the hiking trail. His drab-green hooded jacket kept the light drizzle off his head. A canister of bear spray hung from his belt, and Win could clearly see the grip of a handgun through the open jacket.
“That little un there will burn the crap out of ya. Made that mistake only once when I first moved here. Them little blue uns are bad hot.” Luke looked down at Win’s running shoes. “You might wanna move away from it. Ground tends to be thin there where it looks real white. You kin break right through the crust into the hot water.”
Win followed Luke’s eyes down to his track shoes, took two steps forward to the darker ground, and stood looking into the man’s face. Luke had a friendly, amused look in his eyes.
“You following me around for any specific reason?”
“Other than to keep you from afallin’ in a spring and boilin’ to death? C’mon, I’ll show you some things about ’em to watch out fer. There’s a new thermal area that sprung up three years ago just over that ridge. Easy walk. Take ’bout two hours to look ’em over. . . . Got that much time?”
“Need to make some office calls, but not till this afternoon. Yeah, I’ll go.”
Win noticed Luke hadn’t answered his question, but he was curious about the man’s intent. It wasn’t just coincidence they’d run into each other in a park nearly three times the size of Rhode Island. Maybe Luke had decided to provide some information on the Prophet’s group, or maybe he was just trying to size him up. Those were the potential positive possibilities. But as they trooped through the thick evergreen forest up a narrow game trail toward the higher ridge, it occurred to Win that he was following an armed suspect well off the marked hiking trail and he’d told the man he wasn’t expected at the office until much later. No one would miss him for several hours. He had no cell service and no weapon. And he felt like a fool. Win silently asked God to forgive his stupidity and to keep him safe anyway.