“Ten minutes?” Parker guessed. He looked the question at Two Ravens, got a nod, and told Glenn decisively, “Ten minutes.”
They attached regulators to tanks and donned wetsuits. Parker knew his stuff and Two Ravens was no slouch either. Within the promised ten, the pair had entered the water and were inspecting each other's equipment. J.D. and Glenn assumed positions on the shoreline to monitor the search patterns and act as backup in the event of problems.
The divers signaled `Okay' and Glenn returned a `thumbs up' to start the search. They swam to the middle of the lake and then split; Parker headed west, Two Ravens east. Still on the surface, they maneuvered to positions that allowed them to cut the lake into thirds. The men set flagged buoys, held in place by small anchors, to mark the starting points for their individual searches. They signaled the shoreline, received the final `Okay' from Glenn and submerged.
The chief watched silently as the situation slipped from his control. J.D. had been right and he confessed as much to her now. It was out of his control. It was up to the divers now.
*
Sulphur Creek had earned its name. A long stretch of running water framed by washed rock and mixed conifers, with an obvious odor of rotten eggs, it didn't do much to hold the interest of the young scouts. Rob Jones sensed their desire for more exploration and had taken the boys off trail. They climbed up into the lodgepole pines on the south side of Mount Washburn following a game trail through the thick timber. It would be a good learning experience for them.
A half-mile up the sloping terrain, Rob decided it was time to take a break. He was definitely getting too old for this stuff. To the boy directly behind him, Jones said, “Pass the word back down the line. We'll rest here for a while and let everybody catch his breath. Have a snack and tell everyone to be sure and drink some water. I don't need any of you guys getting dehydrated on me.”
Rob dropped his pack and took a seat as the boy told the scout behind him and gave instruction to pass the word down the strung out line of hikers. At the back of the line, James couldn't have been happier to hear the news. He was beat. He also had to pee. He dropped his pack into the heavy brush next to the barely discernible game trail and headed into the trees. He'd take care of business in private, away from prying eyes and, in spite of their temporary truce, away from Greg's shenanigans.
*
Young Bass Donnelly and ol' man Gerry Meeks, on horseback and trailing two pack horses, rode to the edge of a timber northeast of Inspiration Point. The conspicuous whomp, whomp, whomp of an approaching helicopter echoed throughout the area, bouncing from one peak to another, making its actual location difficult to pinpoint. Meeks reined in his mount, and signaled Donnelly to do the same, holding up under the cover of thick trees. The Park Service helicopter passed overhead disappearing as quickly as it had come. As the reverberation of its spinning blades gained distance, Meeks climbed from his saddle and signaled for the young'un to do the same.
They moved quietly toward a break in the trees, Donnelly understanding now why the old codger had made him ditch the colorful ball cap. Meeks dropped to one knee, peering through an opening in the canopy of branches, and pointed. The boy sidled up alongside him, removed his new camouflaged crusher headgear, and followed his gaze.
Chapter 24
A small herd of elk grazed through spotty openings in the trees several hundred yards distant. Slowly picking and choosing their morsels, the cows and calves stood for several moments chewing and scanning their surroundings then individually moved on a few yards, dropped their heads to grab a bite, and repeated the routine. Filtering in and out of the trees, their two-tone brown coats and tell-tale white rumps appeared and disappeared from view.
The poachers patiently watched and waited, finally being rewarded with a glimpse of the majestic albino bull, Hercules. As he stepped into view from a thicket of pines, the monarch tilted his head back, pointed his nose in the air and let out a short whistle and several heavy grunts; just letting his girls know to keep close while they grazed. Lowering his nose and pointing antler tines forward, he briefly attacked a small pine releasing a three-second burst of adrenaline and testosterone, then took a mouthful of grass and slipped back into the cover of a dense patch of trees.
*
Two Ravens slid down the rope between buoy and anchor, inhaling slowly from his regulator and acclimating himself to the freezing cold water. Less than ten feet from the surface of Apparition Lake, his vision was reduced to the length of his outstretched arm. The outfitter hated these kinds of dives and imagined that, somewhere in the murkiness over there, his partner Parker felt the same. Lakes fed by snowmelt and the run-off from heavy rain always held suspended sediment so thick a diver couldn't find his butt with both hands. This was going to be a nasty search, Two Ravens thought.
His knees settled into a carpet of thick grass; the kind always found on the bottom of temporary lakes. Silt gently puffed up at his landing and whirled in slow motion in the icy waters around him making visibility all the worse. He removed a line reel from his utility belt and fastened the spring-hook to the buoy line above the anchor. Reeling out line to the first marker, at the five-foot interval, he moved out from the buoy until the line was taut and started working around it in a circle. He worked slowly, stretching his arms forward, kneading the heavy, swaying grasses for anything that might lead to his target. Finding nothing, he stretched his arms to his sides and repeated the action. Still nothing. Two Ravens moved one body length forward following the marker line in a circle around the buoy.
Five long minutes elapsed before he unreeled five more feet of line and began his second lap.
*
On the surface, monitoring the dive from the bank of Apparition Lake, Glenn looked away for a moment to the crowd by the west barricades, including what had become an entourage of television cameras, local news personalities, newspaper reporters, and photographers. “Every reporter in Flyover Country must be here,” he said.
“Yes,” J.D. agreed. “But there's only one that seems to know it all.”
“What's that?”
“Lark,” she said.
“Yeah, he's a pip.”
“No, Glenn, it's more than that. I'm serious. There's something wrong with that guy. His antics, his attitude, his odd remarks. I get feelings about people; and I've got one about him. Since the day I first saw him, watching him report, watching him hound you; all along it's been about making a name for himself while trying to ruin you. The others ask questions; he fires ammo. Especially about the poaching. He just seems smugly in the know about things he really shouldn't know.”
“You're giving him too much credit.”
“I'm not giving him credit at all. I think he's dirty. I think he's been parading it in front of us and we've been too busy, and too annoyed, to see it.”
“For instance?”
“There are several,” J.D. said. “For instance… Has it dawned on you he just all but admitted to leaking this operation? The public's right to know, he called it. But look who's here. The same rubberneckers that you'd get anywhere you stopped a vehicle in the park; and a ton of reporters. He didn't scoop everyone else with a story. He notified other reporters and gave the story away. He's more interested in giving you a hard time, keeping you busy, than in reporting news.”
Glenn eyed the crowd. “There are a lot of reporters here. But I don't see that proves anything about Lark one way or the other. Do you have a fact you aren't using?”
“I have one, yes,” J.D. said. “Do you remember the morning after Bart Houser was killed when he stopped us in the hallway at Mammoth? He was razzing you to no end about the elk poachers.”
“Yes. I remember.”
“Do you remember what he said?”
“The gist of it. I'm not going to ruin brain cells by committing Lark's squeals to memory.”
“That's my point. In an effort to ignore him, you haven't heard him. You warned us all about tunnel vision. I think Lark's given
you tunnel hearing.”
Glenn laughed anxiously. “J.D., what did he say that I missed?”
“He said the elk poachers were making a monkey out of you. That they were running free in Lewis River, Pitchstone, and Firehole.”
“Yeah. Well,” Glenn said. “Unfortunately, he wasn't wrong. They've hit all those locations.”
“Yes, Glenn. But that's just it. He was too right. The poachers have taken game in all those locations… now. But not then. There was the bear at Mary Bay, a handful of elk in the Lewis River area, and another handful in Pitchstone. But, as of that morning, there were no elk poached at Firehole. Firehole wasn't hit until days later.” Glenn was listening now. “You tell me,” J.D. continued, “on his own, does that loudmouth know anything about poaching, hunting, or wildlife? You don't hold press conferences on poaching incidents alone, so someone has been leaking information to him about elk poaching. Who? And even if it were someone on your staff. How would they have known about Firehole before it happened? How did he know where the poachers were going to strike next?”
Glenn was grim. He signaled to Connolly, who came on the hop. “Head over to the barricade, will you, and invite Howard Lark over here.”
“Lark? By himself? The other reporters will squawk.”
“Let them.” Connolly hurried away. Glenn turned to J.D. with blood in his eyes. “You and I are going to have a chat with Mr. Lark.”
*
As white hair fluttered in and out of view through the trees, Meeks calculated the movement and raised his rifle to watch the predicted point of exposure for his shot. Breathing deeply, he exhaled half and held the reticle on the open window of opportunity between trees. As anticipated, first appeared nose, then face, then headgear high. Finally the swollen neck of Hercules eased into view. There the elk pulled up short and stopped. Meeks released the breath and unconsciously whispered out loud, “Just one more step.”
Standing with vital organs shielded by the trunk of a large pine, the trophy bull lowered his head and grabbed a mouthful of groceries. Raising it once again, he casually turned to look over his shoulder and skyward. The percussion of chopper blades split the air and Meeks lowered his weapon. Parting the branches carefully, he followed Hercules' gaze and watched the helicopter move into sight, hover momentarily above the albino elk and then bank away.
Looking back to the target, Meeks spit into the dirt and wiped his mouth. The elk had taken that brief moment to step through the small clearing, and disappear back into the trees.
*
Franklin, saddled up on Tuff his faithful horse of many years, rode from the timber near Inspiration Point to a secluded turn-out some distance from the road. There he found what appeared to be an abandoned camper.
Dismounting in the trees just off the road, he approached the cab with exaggerated caution. It was empty. Circling to the rear he unsnapped his weapon, listened for movement inside, then reached for the door on the camper shell. Easing it open, a small bag of garbage fell to the dirt and Franklin's tension subsided. Camping equipment, more garbage, and a piecemeal selection of old clothing clogged the doorway and was oddly stuffed to the interior roof of the camper.
Snapping the thumb-break back into place on his holster, Franklin drew his radio from its case on his belt. “Seventeen to Yellowbird One. I have a pickup with a camper parked and unoccupied about a mile from the Point. Keep an eye peeled. There could be riders on the ground.”
“Yellowbird One to seventeen,” the pilot replied. “Copy. In the vicinity. All is copacetic thus far.”
*
Visibility was declining exponentially as Two Ravens initiated his second lap. Each time he moved his arms in a sweep, sedimentation that had settled on the growth attached to the bottom dislodged, clouding his visibility further. Every action was taking place in darker water and murkier conditions. Johnny considered the last time he had been in those waters. This was no purification. Surely Parker was feeling no more comfortable. A lack of comfort, he thought, in an environment in which we are both familiar. It occurred to Two Ravens he owed Glenn an apology. The chief ranger, his friend, was also submerged in a clouded foreign environment with each new incident adding distraction and compounding his ability to see. He and Glenn were both in a quest for understanding, for clarity… and for a body.
Two Ravens swam on, searching.
*
Rob Jones placed an empty candy bar wrapper back in his pack and shouldered the heavy weight. To the boy behind him, he said, “Saddle up. Let's move on up the ridge a little ways.” He took another shot from his canteen as the boy passed the word to the next scout in line. Feeling his age, and regretting his lack of proper exercise, Jones slowly started to climb higher into the dark timber.
Each of the boys got to their feet, passed the word to the next in line, and started up the slope after their leader. The last boy turned to tell James, didn't see him or his pack, figured he'd moved to the front, and continued on with the hike unconcerned.
Of course James wasn't at the front at all. He was still in the timber, forty yards off the trail, and more than a little disoriented. He'd wanted to make sure nobody saw him `draining his radiator' so he had zigged and zagged through the thick trees to make sure he was out of sight. Now he couldn't remember which way he'd come.
“Mr. Jones,” James called out. The dense timber absorbed his words like water in a sponge. “Mr. Jones! Hey, you guys, where are you?”
The only response to his call was the eerie hoot of a great gray owl.
*
A less curious ranger would have left the filthy camper be but, after the well-deserved dressing down he'd received over the golden eagle feather, Franklin was not going to leave anything to chance. His uniform could be washed, he told himself. That camper was out of place. And the trash inside was just plain odd. He grabbed the next bag of garbage on top, hauled it out, then started to dig.
Three minutes into the job, Franklin realized the stack of objectionable material was only two foot deep into the camper. He'd been right to take that second look as it was obviously a wall of deception. There was open space behind and he was sure digging further would be worth the effort. He grabbed as much as he could from the lowest tier in the wall, let out a primal grunt, and pulled. A huge pile collapsed out onto the ground at his feet. Franklin peeked through the rift he'd opened and saw the first glint of antler tine reflecting the newly introduced sunlight. Bingo!
Grinning ear to ear, he crawled into the camper shouting, “So I'll shower twice!” He dove over the top of the fallen wall of garbage to retrieve the hidden treasure. He climbed out again a few minutes later with his arms full and set two large antlers on the ground.
He reached for his radio, just as that same device began to squawk at him. “Yellowbird One to seventeen,” came the metallic voice. “We've got two pack horses in the trees northeast of Inspiration Point and off the Sevenmile Trail. Suspect riders have got to be close. Those packers didn't get here by themselves.”
“Seventeen to Yellowbird,” Franklin told his handset. “Copy. The camper contains concealed contraband. Proceed with prejudice, I'm en route! Seventeen to Dispatch, send a unit to secure the camper, I'm en route to back Yellowbird.”
Without waiting on the reply, Franklin saddled up and spurred Tuff to a gallop.
*
When the news reports that law enforcement has a suspect surrounded, the general picture that forms in the subconscious is a half-dozen squad cars containing a pair of officers each and a fifteen-man SWAT Team in black uniforms, helmets, and heavy artillery engulfing a crime scene with red lights flashing and bullhorns blaring.
In the case of Howard Lark, the situation was not nearly so flamboyant but nonetheless intense. The reporter was sunk in a chair beside a small table in the ICC meeting room with but two people standing over him, one a mere five-foot-four biologist. Regardless, Glenn and J.D. most definitely had Lark surrounded. “This is outrageous!” he sputtered indignantly, for
all the good it did him.
“Yes,” Glenn agreed. “So you've said. But you haven't answered the question. Why is it that a pretentious little creep like you seems to have the pulse of the poachers raping my park?”
“I'm a good reporter.”
“You're not a reporter at all; you're a muckraker. But even that is beside the point. Who has been feeding you inside information about elk poaching in Yellowstone?”
“I don't know what you're talking about?”
“Assuming that's a lie,” J.D. said, cutting in, “how is it that you've been able to report details of incidents not included in Press Releases? Details that have gone no further than shift log reports?”
“Sources. Every reporter has them.”
J.D. ignored him. “How is it you have information about poaching incidents before they occur?”
Lark froze, studying the Fish & Game biologist, the toys turning in his head.
“You remember, smart guy,” Glenn said. “All the fun you were having at the administration offices? Let me quote you. `And the elk poachers… they're running free; Lewis River, Pitchstone, Firehole.' How did you know about Pitchstone, Lark? No information had been released. As for Firehole, the poachers hadn't gotten there yet. But you knew they were headed there. How?”
“This is ridiculous. You may as well quit asking,” Lark insisted. “I'm not going to reveal my sources.”
“Your sources?” J.D. was incredulous.
Glenn chuckled mirthlessly. “We're not asking about your sources. We're talking about your co-conspirators. You've been aiding and abetting criminals in multiple violations of Federal law. We're not talking about a contempt of court charge, Lark. You are in communication with the poachers. You're assisting them. We're talking repeated felonies. Have you ever heard of RICO? You know, racketeering and organized crime. How does a conspiracy charge and decades in federal prison sound? Your only chance is to tell us who these people are and where we can find them. I mean right now.”
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