by Rhona Weaver
The colorful waitress arriving with their drinks interrupted the emotional topic. Win took a sip of his beer and nodded again to acknowledge the explanation.
He and Gus ate their tamale dinners as they rehashed last week’s adventure at Bordeaux’s house and the lack of anything solid on the mysterious militia that had roamed the park until six days ago, but hadn’t been spotted since.
Win wanted a little background on his prospective informant. “What do you know about Bordeaux’s issues with the law?”
“An FBI agent named Harper arrested Bordeaux on federal poaching violations, maybe fourteen months ago. Alleged he’d conspired with some well-heeled trophy hunters to kill park elk and bears. I transferred here right after it all went down. Bordeaux always maintained his innocence. There was no physical evidence any wildlife were killed. No real evidence of anything, really, other than Bordeaux being a convenient target for an overly ambitious special agent. Maybe I’m talkin’ a little outa turn here”—he gave Win a hard look—“but every charge against the guy was later dismissed. Still can’t get his hunting-guide license back, for some reason.”
Win could tell Gus was trying to not step on the Bureau’s toes as he recounted what he knew and what he’d heard. “The park was really shorthanded when that case started. Chief Randall had to be a lot more involved than you’d normally see. It kept looking like Bordeaux was getting railroaded, but the guy didn’t help himself any with his hot temper. Agent Harper was a young guy, like yourself. He was the one pushing it—pushed it hard. Agent Johnson seemed content to just stay on the sidelines. Harper left right after I got here. . . . Heard he’d quit the FBI.”
“The Park Service went after Bordeaux too?” Win asked.
“Park rangers assisted in the arrest and investigation, so I’m sure Bordeaux blames us as well as the FBI for putting him out of business. There was no love lost between your agency and our rangers over that case, that’s for sure.” Gus swirled his drink in his hand, “I don’t know much about Bordeaux except what I’ve heard from other rangers who’ve been around him. He’s former military, was a Green Beret or some kind of special ops. I’ve heard he’s extremely capable as an outdoorsman. One of my rangers called him a ghost in the field; says he can shift from easygoing to downright dangerous in a split second.”
That’s for dang sure, Win was thinking.
Gus took a sip of the bourbon and kept talking. “We’ve got to tread lightly on this whole thing—regardless of what the Secret Service wants. This country has a gun culture; there are no laws against carrying firearms, even loaded firearms, into the national parks. Unless they’re convicted felons or under court order not to be armed, we can’t do a thing to prevent them from trooping around in the woods with their weapons. You can’t legally pick a flower or pocket a rock in Yellowstone, but you’re welcome to carry an assault rifle with a thirty-round magazine most anywhere you want to go.” He shook his head slowly. “Strange world we live in, isn’t it?”
They finished their dinners and watched the weekend crowd of off-duty park employees and a few locals. The lights had been dimmed, the drinking was getting heavier, and the bar was getting louder. Win volunteered to be their designated driver and Gus settled into his fourth bourbon and Coke. Win was still working on his first beer as Gus moved the topic to his personal life. There was a failed marriage, the long drive to visit his kids and dog, and lonely duty in remote outposts. The pain in his slurred voice was real. After a pause, Gus smiled into Win’s face. “Still, I’ve got the best job in the world. Our agency stays screwed up. There’s fewer than 1,300 permanent law enforcement park rangers in the whole country and the number keeps dropping. We never have the resources, staff, or money we need, and it’s hard on the people. But even with all the hardships, it’s the best damn job in the world.”
Gus straightened in his chair and met Win’s eyes for a brief moment before glancing away. Win caught just enough in those brown eyes to realize that even after four drinks of hard liquor in the last ninety minutes, the guy was nowhere near tanked. It occurred to Win in an instant: Yellowstone National Park was a dead end for FBI agents, but it would be the opposite for the Park Service. This guy had to be one of their top men in the country just to be here. Gus could be playing him, digging for information by appearing to be a little intoxicated and very transparent, to lull him into talking about the Bureau’s plans on the armed men case.
It was no secret that several federal agencies were in competition over what could become a major domestic terrorism investigation. Win knew entire agency budgets got bumped up or down depending upon who did what in those kinds of high-profile cases. On the other hand, Gus Jordon might just be a really friendly guy who honestly wanted to build a positive relationship with a younger brother in law enforcement. Who am I kidding? Win tried not to let his face reflect his thoughts. Why can’t everyone just play nice?
Gus leaned back in. “This your favorite method of interrogation, Sport? Get a man drinkin’? You now know more’n you’d ever wanna know about me and I still don’t know a damn thing ’bout you, ’cept you’re gutsy and smart. Tell me about Special Agent Winston Tyler. . . . Tell me what’s happenin’ with the FBI.”
Not gonna happen. Win smiled and tipped his half-full beer bottle toward the man. He settled into his standard diversionary topics of sports and general law enforcement stuff. Interagency politics and intrigue aside, Win liked the ranger. Despite his obvious personal conflicts, the guy seemed to genuinely care about this place and its people. Win couldn’t fault him or his agency for aggressively wanting to protect the park from any threat. But the good guys’ response to the threat in this situation, if there was a real threat, was lost somewhere in the depths of the bureaucratic morass.
* * *
Lost? It wasn’t hard to get lost in the vastness of the place. It wasn’t like there were a lot of roads to meander down, not even many trails. He’d read once that less than one percent of Yellowstone National Park was developed; most of it was still a true wilderness. Around four million tourists would come traipsing through, almost all in the three months that passed for summer. Only a tiny fraction of those would wander off the main highway that made a figure-eight loop through the center of the park. There was plenty of room to get lost . . . or to lose something or someone. On this crappy-looking Thursday afternoon, he intended for someone to get permanently lost.
He didn’t reckon that losing Wayman Duncan was any great loss for humanity in the first place. The man was a damn weasel; a sorry excuse for a human being if there ever was one. He’d served in some low-rent unit in the Air Force—probably stood around for four years smoking cigarettes and spitting on the tarmac, pretending to guard planes to get his service time in. That was the only thing that got him accepted into the church. The service time also ushered him into the military prison at Leavenworth when he screwed up and got caught stealing MREs by the caseload and selling them on the black market. Not weapons, not ammunition, not explosives, but damn Meals, Ready-to-Eat—what a half-assed effort at crime! And then to get caught, no less, and convicted. He’d joined up with the guys off and on during the two years they’d been on the same cellblock at the big prison. He’d heard the Prophet. He’d claimed he’d converted to the Covenant’s Sword, as they were calling it back then. But more’n likely he was just using his professed newfound faith and the daily church meetings as a way to get out of his cell. The military was good about that—letting them meet as often as they wanted.
He hadn’t seen Wayman in a couple of years when he suddenly showed up full of religious fervor and wanted to rejoin the church about a month ago. Wanted to join the Prophet’s militia too, but thank goodness the boy Dan Shepherd had in charge of training had the good sense to smell out a slacker and kindly declined the offer. If he’d put on their uniform, he mighta actually caused some damage. As it was, he was just a damn nuisance. They were coming down to the wire on th
e deal and there wasn’t any room for foul-ups. There were Feds popping up like weeds after a spring rain, and now he had to contend with the likes of Wayman Duncan.
Word was Wayman had cozied up to someone at ATF. Word was Wayman had taken money to rat them out. The man didn’t know anything harmful at this point, but he could stumble onto something, so it had to be handled. He’d considered giving him bad information to confuse the Feds, but that only worked when you were dealing with someone with a little intelligence. Wayman didn’t qualify on that point. That being the case, there wasn’t any other way to go. Dan Shepherd didn’t want to know the details—he just wanted it handled. It was gonna get handled today. Wayman Duncan was gonna get real lost.
They’d parked Wayman’s old Buick in three inches of snowy slush at the edge of the park highway at a little pull-off where the brown wooden sign said Phantom Lake. Had a nice ring to it, given the purpose at hand. The Park Service was making an effort to keep the highway passable between Mammoth and Cooke City, but it had been open less than half the time since early April. The little thaw they’d had the last three days was the only reason they’d gotten this far. Supposed to snow another foot tonight, and that’d cover up what went on at Phantom Lake this afternoon.
They’d only met one car and a couple of Park Service vehicles in the ten miles since they’d left Mammoth, and the pull-off was screened from the highway by a grove of evergreens. Couldn’t be too careful, though, so they’d dressed like winter hikers. He fished a couple of hiking poles out of the back seat, zipped up his heavy coat, and stretched as he climbed out of the front passenger seat. He pulled the ski mask down over his face and smiled to himself. He’d never worn the black mask to keep out the cold, but it’d seen a good deal of use in several real lucrative bank robberies and yeah, that time with the armored car. Wearing it for its intended purpose was kinda nice—silly thing would keep him real toasty in this weather.
“Damn cold!” Red was unfolding his long frame out from behind the wheel. He pulled a knapsack out of the back seat and helped himself to a couple of the aluminum hiking poles. There hadn’t been much conversation on the way over here; never was when you were around Red. The boy was a few bricks shy a load in most every way, but he was a freaking genius with plastic explosives. Prophet says the Good Book teaches the Lord gives each of us a talent. . . .
Red tossed the car keys up high and caught them in his gloved hand. He laughed a wicked-sounding, high-pitched laugh and his breath formed a cloud of condensation above his head. “Hell, I ain’t nearly as cold as ole Wayman’s gonna be—you hear that, Wayman? You comfortable in there?” Red rapped hard on the car’s trunk.
He swung his head toward the fool. Even from behind the black ski mask, the dark intensity of his eyes carried to the redhead.
The younger man backed a step away from the car in the slush and shrugged. “Just playing a little. . . . Damn cold out here.”
“Not another word from you till this business is done. Hear me? If you don’t hear me, there’ll be hell to pay!” He knew that little tirade oughta keep some of the foolishness at bay. Of all the things the redhead feared, he knew his anger topped the list.
He checked his watch: 1500 hours. The boys would swing by to pick them up in less than an hour. He listened for any sounds of approaching traffic. It was quiet. All he heard was the motor popping and the steady drip of slush off the undercarriage of the car.
“All right.”
They yanked Wayman out of the trunk and kept the zip ties on him. They trooped past the north end of the little frozen lake, about half a mile up the slick, slushy trail to the crest of a tree-covered ridge and halfway down the other side. The wind was picking up in the tops of the lodgepole pines, and ever so often there was the sharp snap of small limbs breaking. Wayman’s heavy breathing and their boots in the icy mud were the only other sounds. Wayman had offered them money, drugs, you name it, but he’d known damn well the die was cast as soon as they pulled guns on him back at the trailer.
He’d told the snitch he wouldn’t sic Red on him if he’d come clean. Wayman tearfully told them about his meeting with the ATF boys and where he’d hid his payout. He’d sent one of the brothers to Wayman’s shabby apartment in Gardiner to get the $2,500 in crisp new bills ATF had paid the man for next to nothing in information.
It didn’t take long.
He glanced back at the bright-red flecks that patterned the hard crust of the huge snowbank. There was a raven nearby carrying on with an irritating caw! caw! caw! Just a damn fancy crow, that’s all they were. . . . He watched the silly redhead swinging the camp shovel as the fool slipped and slid his way back up the trail toward the ridgetop and the lake and the car.
He stopped to admire the beauty of the small valley below him. The cold snap today was turning all the snowmelt to ice on every wisp of tall grass that tried to stick its head above the scattered drifts. The clumps of evergreens were covered with thin coats of ice, and the little stream that cut through the meadow was sparkling, even in the flat light. Wayman had a picturesque resting place, that was for damn sure—more than the scumbag deserved. Once the big snowbank melted in June, he’d be food for the animals, but that wouldn’t be such a bad thing either. Least he’d serve some purpose in death. He’d never served any useful purpose in life.
He smiled as a small herd of elk eased out of the forest across the valley and trotted toward the stream. The snow was beginning to fall in soft, pretty flakes. Someone had asked him once if killing folks got easier the more often you did it. . . . Hell, it never was hard in the first place.
* * *
There was light streaming in the window across the room near Win’s desk. He’d forgotten to close the blinds when he fell asleep. The red numbers on the clock read 4:23. He’d been sleeping, what? Nearly five hours. Long enough for this night? Naw. He rolled over and stretched and pulled the down comforter up higher. But the light was pulling at him, and he opened his eyes again, gave up, and moved across the room to pull the curtains. The whole world looked white outside the window. The big snowstorm they’d predicted for Thursday night had finally arrived. It was snowing big flakes, clumps of flakes, and all the while a huge full moon poured down silver light. No, that can’t be—but it was. A full moon bathing his little corner of the world with soft light, while snow clouds hovered over the mountains to the south and the high winds carried the snow to this place. What did Luke Bordeaux call Yellowstone the other day—magical? Geez, it’s beyond magical!
Win pulled on his heavy sweats and a parka and eased out the back door in his insulated boots. He glanced around for anything large that might gore or eat him. Coast is clear! This was the downy, gentle snow he remembered from those infrequent snowfalls back home in Arkansas. This deep, soft snow brought happy memories, a sense of awe, a feeling of peace. He was hard-pressed to find words for it. It was a spiritual thing.
His boots displaced the fresh powder as he walked past his Explorer and the Bureau SUV and jumped the little stream flowing beside the driveway. The snowfall encased Mammoth in a blanket of quiet. No sound except for the flowing water and the almost imperceptible hiss of steam rising as clumps of snowflakes struck the scalding water in front of him. The shiny white surface of the travertine terraces and the glistening layers of draping ice added to the wonder of the scene. He wanted to capture it somehow, but a picture wouldn’t do—not one he’d take, anyway. So he leaned against one of the wooden rails on the boardwalk and became a part of it.
Then, sure enough, Shelby intruded, and the tight grip of loss filled his chest. How dare she haunt me here! He raised his eyes to the moon and felt the soft flakes settle on his face and hair. He fought down the intense desire to share this wonder with her. For as long as he could remember, he’d been able to pull out the phone and call. Didn’t matter what time it was, didn’t much matter where he was, he called. He told her how things looked—how things felt. How he f
elt. It was ripping him apart that he couldn’t do that now. I have no one to call.
He tried to regain his focus on the beauty around him, but his mind wandered away from his anguish in a more familiar direction. He thought about work. The last several days had been barn burners. He’d talked the Denver surveillance agents into helping him babysit the Park Service’s workmen off and on so he wasn’t tied to the office every minute. Bureau rules prohibited contractors, office cleaners, maintenance men, basically anybody, from being in the FBI office alone without authorized personnel on-site. He just happened to be the only authorized personnel around until the eight Denver agents hit town last week. Even with those folks taking some of the load off, he’d still been in the old building from early morning till late evening most days. Jason’s crew had been at it full tilt for ten straight days now. Some rooms only had minor touch-ups remaining. Another day and the renovation would be wrapping up. Then what would he do?
Well, there was the “armed men” issue, which was going nowhere fast. Everyone was scared to death of DOJ coming down on them for infringing on the group’s right to worship. The Prophet had proclaimed a “New America” would spring from the mountains of southwestern Montana, but no one in the federal government had a clue what that meant. Since there’d been no hint of illegal activity in days, the FBI surveillance agents had pulled out this afternoon. They were back home in their beds in Denver tonight.
He’d gotten word that two of the Charlotte agents who’d been fired over the Brunson case had appealed their terminations. All the folks on his old White Collar Crime Squad were keeping their heads down waiting for a new supervisor to be named, waiting for the appeal hearings to begin, waiting for other repercussions. One of the Charlotte agents had texted him to watch his back. What does that mean? He had an awful sense of foreboding about it. Good men’s lives had been turned upside down. The bad guy had friends in high places, and those places included the DOJ and the FBI. It was a hard lesson, a sickening lesson in the workings of the world. The good guys didn’t always win—not in this life anyway.