A Noble Calling

by Rhona Weaver

  “Turn to Psalm 91,” Trey said.

  “Philippians 4:4–13,” Win offered next.

  “Turn to Romans 8:26–39.”

  The sound of rain on the roof had stopped and sunlight was streaming through the high opaque-glass windows of the old church when Trey closed the sacred book. Only hours ago they’d felt no trust for each other, but here in the Yellowstone Chapel they’d discovered a shared spiritual depth that grounded them both. The gut-wrenching roller coaster of emotions Win had experienced since the shooting began to subside.

  “Where’d you learn so much Scripture?” he asked the ranger.

  “Lutheran schools. All German Lutheran boys learn their Bible. You grew up in church.” Trey stated the obvious.

  “Southern Baptist. Was in church every time the door was open as a kid.”

  “And now?” Trey asked quietly.

  Win dropped his eyes to his hands and shook his head slowly. “We’d call it backsliding in my church.” He kept his eyes down and sucked in a breath. “The last couple of years I sorta drifted away from God. Did some things I’m not proud of . . . was deliberately sinful. It pulled me away from my family, my friends. . . . It eventually destroyed a relationship.”

  If Trey was taken aback by the unexpected confession, he didn’t show it. “So where are you now?” Those gray eyes, so hard and angry back on the high ridge this morning, were compassionate now.

  “I know God has forgiven me, I’ve asked Him to. . . . I just can’t seem to forgive myself. I screwed up His plan, you know?”

  “You were in a shoot-out—you’re the one standing for a reason. There’s still a plan.” The ranger shifted in the pew. “None of us are ever gonna be good enough to work our way into Heaven, Win. We’re all gonna fall short. Accept His grace.”

  In his mind, Win knew these truths, but he hadn’t kept them lodged in his heart and soul for years. And now . . . now he’d killed a man.

  “I’ve got to get back to the office. . . . You wanna talk about any of this, you call me. I mean that.”

  “You some sort of chaplain here?” Win asked.

  He shook his head no. “Nope, just a park ranger. You want me to pray for you before I go?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’d appreciate that,” Win answered in a whisper.

  Trey stood up beside Win in the empty chapel and placed his right hand firmly on Win’s shoulder. “Dear Lord, I lift up my brother, Win Tyler, to You. That You would not only give him Your protection, but give him wisdom, courage, and most of all Your peace. Your peace that is beyond comprehension, that will guard his heart, his mind, and his soul in Christ Jesus. Amen.” His strong hand squeezed Win’s shoulder.

  Win repeated the amen, but kept his head bowed and his eyes closed as Trey collected his coat and hat and walked back up the aisle and out into the late-afternoon sunlight. For the first time since Shelby left him, Win was able to cry.

  * * *

  Win was focused on his computer when the HRT commander, Kirk Phillips, knocked softly on his office door later that afternoon. “Hey, sorry, I was a little deep in thought. Come in.”

  Phillips closed the door and made himself comfortable in one of the chairs across from Win’s desk. “Didn’t know if you were staying in town or shipping out. Got a minute?”

  “Yes, sir. Staying, I hope. I’ve requested a delay on the shooting inquiry, but I haven’t heard anything definitive from Mr. Givens. If Emily has anything to do with it, I’m sure they’ll ship me out.”

  “That’s not on you—Ms. Stuart will be lucky to keep her desk after her performance so far. I would hope she’s smart enough to keep her best people around her at this point.”

  Win shrugged at that, but he appreciated the implied compliment. “Well, I got a little aggressive with her this afternoon. . . .”

  “She deserved every bit of it and more. There’s no place for—what did you call it?—catty games, when the stakes are this high. She’s already heard that from plenty of others since the shooting went down.” Phillips steepled his fingers. “I’m not here to argue with your decision to stay on the case, but there are good reasons to pull back for a few days after going through what you’ve experienced.”

  Win’s silence told of his resolve to stay.

  “I watched this afternoon’s incident on the surveillance cameras,” the commander said. “You handled the confrontation real well. Other people could have been hurt if you hadn’t been smart.”

  “He still nearly killed me. Uh, there’s video on that?”

  “Nearly doesn’t count. And yes, hotel security cameras—several angles—and I read lips so I know what was said between Richter and you. Lots of very good agents wouldn’t have been able to improvise as well as you did under that type pressure. Provided some interesting insight on you and the subjects.”

  “What insight on the subjects?” Win wanted the spotlight off him.

  “Well, everyone’s been assuming the hit on the resident agent was just that—a hit on the Bureau’s top man here. But I’m thinking it’s a hit on you.”

  “Why? Even Richter said it was nothing personal.”

  Phillips leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “What he said was it was not personal to him. He had nothing against you. But he also called you by name and gave you a direct message from his employer: Make your peace. The ‘employer’ is very likely Daniel Shepherd or one of his crew—unless you’ve found another angle.”

  “No, no I haven’t developed any basis for it in my old cases. At least not yet.”

  “Well, think about it. The hit man was a professional killer, Win. There was no reason for him to take the risk of seeing you face-to-face unless he’d been told to make sure you got the message to make your peace with God. Without any security around, the guy could have easily taken you out with the silencer when the room got crowded and loud. You’d never know what hit you—then he’d disappear into the crowd. It’s clear to me the attempt today was totally personal. The other attempt—long-range rifle?—totally impersonal.”

  The commander raised his eyebrows slightly and finished his thoughts. “It’s not tracking for me. Is there anything in this screwy church’s theology that would make that fit? Any way you could have crossed paths with Daniel Shepherd? Any way he would know you or about you?”

  Everything Phillips was saying made sense. It was personal. Win could feel it. He just didn’t know why. Phillips kept up his conversational tone. “If I were you, I’d lean pretty heavily on my instincts, and if you conclude it is personal, then I’d keep looking over my shoulder till we clean out this viper’s nest.”

  He changed the subject quickly, almost as if to trick Win into a rushed response. “Ranger Hechtner wasn’t totally truthful in the briefing right after lunch. There’s more to his relationship with Bordeaux than he laid out.”

  It was Win’s turn to lean back in his chair with his arms folded. He was thinking the Bureau probably didn’t need polygraphs with this guy on the payroll. He decided not to respond. If Phillips thought Trey wasn’t totally truthful in the meeting, Phillips likely suspected the same thing of him.

  The HRT commander knew he’d made his point, which was “Don’t even think about being less than completely honest with me.” He shifted forward in his chair. “Your informant, Bordeaux—he may be the most dangerous one we’re dealing with here. I’ve seen his military records; a real shame they forced him out. He has a lot of basis for anti-government sentiment right there, even if you don’t consider the loss of his guide license up here. He fits our profile for a really serious domestic terrorist threat—fits it perfectly. Both you and Hechtner said he seemed to be struggling with where his loyalties lie. Lots of people waffle between coming down on the right side or the wrong side. You may not know how he will turn until it comes right down to it—he may not even know—but if you guess incorrectly, you could be t
he one paying for it.”

  He stood and picked his coat up off the other chair. “Want some unsolicited advice?” He didn’t wait for Win to answer. “Knock it off here, it’s nearly six. Go home, go see friends, do routine things to take your mind off the shooting. You’ll be one hundred percent better tomorrow if you do. No one ever knows how a shooting’s going to affect them. Besides, I’d like you to go over some intel with our teams in the morning if you stay in town. You’ll need to be sharp.” Win knew then he’d be staying on the case.

  Johnson came to Win’s door as Phillips was walking toward the stairs. “Boss says your request for a delay on the shooting inquiry was approved ’cause of your status with the confidential sources. So the Shooting Inquiry Team won’t be here for at least a week. I’ve got to keep your weapon and jacket for evidence. Found this packet of photos in the blazer.” He handed Win the envelope of photos Tory had given him. “Here’s a brand-new Glock I’ve kept in the safe—keep it till you get your gun back. It’s not a 19M, but it’ll do.”

  Win took the handgun while the big man continued talking. “The rangers are going to continue their security detail for you since our SWAT folks are handling the initial evidence response workload. The ASAC’s using your vehicle tonight. I’m heading out . . . wasn’t expecting to get called back in the middle of my leave. Want me to drop you off at your place?”

  Win started to say no. He hardly ever left the office before 8:15, but Phillips’s advice was on his mind. He had no idea how he was going to deal with the shooting. Maybe I oughta go home and crash for a few hours. He took Johnson up on his offer.

  Win grabbed his coat and as they walked down the stairs, Johnson made an offhand comment. “What the hell happened to the office while I was gone? You win some TV home improvement makeover contest or something?”

  * * *

  Since the threat on Win’s life was assumed to have been diminished with the death of Richter, the rangers only assigned two guys to guard Win’s house. They were, however, in full SWAT gear tonight—no one was pretending to be a tourist anymore.

  For the first time since he’d come to Yellowstone, Win opened the fireplace flue in his den and made a fire. He’d enjoyed the warmth of the big fireplace at the rangers’ cabin last night. How could that have only been twenty-four hours ago? He took Phillips’s advice and turned on some music and set about doing the laundry he’d accumulated over the last two weeks. He wrote a note to his mother and enclosed one of the photos Tory had given him. He knew the picture would please her; he really looked happy holding that bear cub.

  He sat down on the couch and let his mind wander. He’d driven into the park on April 8th. It would be May 8th tomorrow. He set his Coke down and looked back at the photo of himself. What had Tory said? Maybe send one to a girlfriend back home. Tomorrow, May 8th, was their anniversary. Shelby had always called it that. He’d never really known why—some girl thing, he supposed. Maybe it was when he’d first called her or maybe when they’d gone on their first date. How many years ago? Five years. It would have been five years tomorrow.

  How long since she’d stormed out of his life? Since he’d talked to her? Nearly three months. Why didn’t I fight for the relationship? He stared into the dancing flames in the fireplace. What would she say about today? He knew what he’d want her to say, what he’d want her to do. . . . But something had changed that last year in Charlotte. He’d gotten deeply involved in the Brunson case, and it had consumed so much of him, and she’d found a passion for clinical research, which dominated her time and energy. But he knew those things were only the symptoms of a much deeper problem. They’d drifted far apart, and all the little things their love was built on had slipped away.

  She’d told him once, over a year ago, that he was leaving her. Was she right? Had the loss of their love actually happened long ago, had he been clinging to the comfortable, the secure—too much of a coward to end it? Had he left her? What did that old country song say? “Nobody in his right mind would have left her—even my heart was smart enough to stay behind.” He had a bad feeling his heart had indeed stayed behind with Shelby.

  He was letting the intense pain of his grief over the lost relationship seep back into him tonight, just as it had on so many lonely nights. How could he hope to move into a new relationship when he hadn’t really left the old one? He listened to the crackling of the fire, knowing a far more weighty question lay just below the surface of his soul, where he didn’t dare touch it yet—how to deal with his killing of another human being.

  The clothes dryer buzzed, saving him from continuing to wallow in pity and pain. He forced himself off the couch to continue his laundry. He hadn’t been through his mail in about three days, and among the bills and “current resident” flyers was a letter from his mother. He treasured those long letters she’d write him every few months. The first part of the letter was full of the usual news of home, but when he got to the second page, he sat down and read it closely. It was as if she’d written it for tonight.

  You won’t remember this, Win, but it’s a picture stamped in my heart: you looking down at your boots, holding on to a young heifer’s lead rope and halter at the county fair that first time you had shown a calf. It had not gone well and you had not won. You were barely six years old as I recall. Your little blond head was down and I remember thinking you needed a haircut, odd the things that stick in your mind. You were trying real hard not to cry and the heifer was licking at your ear. And you looked up at me with those beautiful blue eyes and declared through those tears that it wasn’t fair. I remember telling you that life wasn’t meant to be fair. God wants life to be cherished, and precious, and good, but until we’re in Heaven there will be trials that test our souls and those trials will never feel fair.

  It troubled me when you were here a few weeks ago—no longer my little towheaded boy, but a handsome man—who’s been successful at everything he’s ever done. I could see that you were feeling it wasn’t fair that you’d been treated poorly by the FBI and by Shelby. You were letting those feelings of injustice defeat your spirit. But Sweetheart, I will say it again: Life wasn’t meant to be fair. It isn’t so much the circumstances that can tear us apart; it’s how we deal with those circumstances.

  God has put you in a new place, where I have no doubt you are already making a positive difference in the lives of so many, so don’t dwell on your losses, move forward toward your next victories. I have prayed every day that God will put new people in your life who will reach out to you and encourage you. I know there are others who were just waiting for you to arrive so you could be an encouragement to them. The wonderful differences you can make in those lives are your victories. I pray every day that His angels will encircle you with their protection. Go looking for those victories, Win.

  He reread the page three times. He thought of Ellie, who’d called him a “deliverer,” and of Luke, who’d also pointed out—rather dramatically with his knife—that life wasn’t fair. He thought of Trey, who’d prayed for him in the chapel; of Tory, who’d shown him an unexpected kindness; of Jason, who seemed to need a big brother; and Gus, whose life was a fascinating mess. He silently thanked God for giving him another chance to make a real difference in this world. Then he picked up his phone and called his mother. It was late at home, but he needed her to know how much he appreciated her wisdom and care.

  * * *

  Win was shocked that he’d actually slept well. His mother’s letter and the long talk with both of his parents helped ease his pain. He was glad he’d called them, since the shooting had made the national news and they’d been trying to reach him on his personal phone all evening. The Bureau hadn’t released the name of the FBI agent involved in the shooting, and he couldn’t comment on it, but they knew it was him.

  The weather had decided to take a turn for the worse during the pre-dawn hours, and the thunderstorms and rain had transitioned to sleet and snow. It rem
inded Win of that first frigid day when he’d driven into Yellowstone. Snow clouds were hanging only a few hundred feet above the buildings, and all the surrounding hills and mountains had disappeared into the swirling white. The Hostage Rescue Team members were not gonna be happy with their first full day in Yellowstone National Park.

  One of the rangers drove him into the office and at 6:15 it was already buzzing with activity. Win hadn’t spoken to Emily since confronting her yesterday at the bridge. He figured he might as well get that unpleasant task out of the way. He knocked on the open door and waited for her to look up from the computer screen. Her red hair was pulled back as tight as it would go into a fuzzy bun; her eyes were puffy under her wire-rim glasses. He doubted she’d slept. She didn’t invite him into the office, so he spoke from the doorway.

  “Ma’am, I owe you an apology for being so aggressive yesterday afternoon. I shouldn’t have come toward you that way.” He didn’t apologize for his words, just his manner of delivering them.

  She looked up over the computer monitor. “Whatever,” was her only response.

  Apparently she wasn’t into accepting apologies or any other civility. As his granny would say, “Bless her heart, probably raised by wolves.” He smiled at that thought and moved back downstairs to the conference room where Mr. Givens had set up his office.

  “How’re you doing?” the ASAC asked when he saw Win.

  “Fine, sir. I’m sure it will hit me, but I’m glad it wasn’t last night.”

  “Well, the press is all over this, but thankfully there’s some big political crisis going on in Washington that has their attention. Hopefully it won’t become a huge story. If anyone asks you about the shooting, refer them to our Denver office and our media relations agent will handle it.” Wes took a sip of his coffee and nodded toward the window. “Can you believe it’s snowing here? May 8th?”

  “They say it snows here off and on until June.”

  “Wow, well, when this is finished, we’ll get you back to a better climate in Denver.” He waved Win in and shuffled through some papers on the conference table before looking up again.