by Marc Daniel
“Ready to head back?” asked Daka.
“Yes, let’s go. I have an orientation session to attend in two hours.”
Daka pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the freeway. Neither he nor Olivia noticed the gray sedan that had left the hospital parking lot shortly after them and was now following their vehicle at a distance.
Chapter 5
Michael parked his patrol car in front of the ranger station and headed for the door. The snow blanket that had fallen over the past two days had completely melted. The sun was once more ruling the cloudless sky.
Three days after the accident, Michael’s legs still hadn’t recovered their normal appearance. The pain was manageable by now, and his scars looked slightly better, but the healing process was slower than it had ever been. Michael simply couldn’t understand why; he’d never heard of such a thing as slow healing. A werebear either healed within a few minutes or died of his injuries. And for this second option, the injury would have to be significant… as in decapitation.
His impaired sense of smell was of particular concern. Although he could still smell things, his nose was currently no more useful than a normal human nose: pathetic.
Inside the station, Jason Parrish and Helen Fletcher stood talking in front of the small desk assigned to Michael. Helen was wearing a white glove on her right hand. The fabric covered all exposed skin and Michael suspected it went all the way up to the woman’s elbow.
“Should I discuss this with Michael?” asked Helen as he approached the two of them.
“Yes, absolutely. Michael, would you mind helping Helen with going through some résumés for the remaining intern positions? She still has a few spots to fill and she could use your experience,” said Jason, failing to hide his eagerness to pass the chore onto someone else.
Michael couldn’t blame his boss. With his five-week tenure at Yellowstone National Park, Jason was only Helen’s senior by a week. It had taken the National Park Service almost two years to backfill Bill Thomason’s position with Jason Parrish.
So far Jason wasn’t half the man Bill had been, but it was still too early for Michael to pronounce a final judgment on his new boss. To be fair, Michael took a long time to warm up to anyone.
“Sure, when do you want to do that?” said Michael.
“Do you have time this morning?” asked Helen.
Michael gave a questioning look to his boss.
“Sure, go ahead. I can give your patrol to someone else.”
“Alright then.” Michael pulled out a chair for Helen and settled behind his desk. “Jason, before we get started, any news about the rifle-wielding maniac?”
Jason looked suddenly somber. “No, but I think we’ll be able to get our forensic analysis of the stolen car. The little girl died yesterday morning.”
Michael refrained from commenting aloud on what would happen to the man if he ever got his hands on him. Instead, he turned to Helen. “How’s your arm? Still hurts like hell, I bet.”
“You should know. Your legs must be in a lot worse shape than my arm. And the rumor is that you’ve yet to see a doctor.”
“You shouldn’t pay too much heed to rumors around here. The park is like a village; if there’s nothing to gossip about, people will just make something up.”
Helen smiled. “I can see that, I guess. And to answer your question, yes, it still hurts, but the hospital gave me a lotion that numbs the pain quite a bit and is supposed to help the skin heal. At least as much as it’s going to. I will need some skin grafts if I don’t want to end up looking like Freddy Krueger for the rest of my life.”
Freddy Krueger again… Michael was starting to think he might have to watch this movie after all.
“I can give you some to try if you want.”
“Give me some what?” asked Michael.
“Some lotion… For your legs.”
“Sure. If you have enough, I can give it a shot. It can’t hurt.”
Helen opened a manila folder and pulled out thirty résumés. “I know it’s a lot, but some of them are just here for you to confirm they aren’t any good.”
“What positions are we filling?”
“We need to pick four interns to finish filling up the backcountry monitoring team and three more for concession stands. I’m not worried about the latter posts, but I’d like your perspective on the backcountry candidates.”
Although Helen had spent no time in Yellowstone’s backcountry, she’d been a ranger in different parks for ten years including five in Zion. Although the Utah park’s landscape differed significantly from Yellowstone’s, there had to be some resemblance between the two because the candidates she’d preselected were exactly the ones Michael would have picked. The woman was full of resources, especially considering the adversity she’d had to overcome recently.
Helen had been scheduled to transfer from Utah and take her post on March 1st, but she’d been involved in a car accident on an icy road two hundred miles from the park. She’d been the one driving and had only received minor bruises and cuts, but her husband had been killed on impact. Michael suspected the small scars on her left cheek and the nearly invisible one under her chin would act as reminders of this fateful night for a long time to come.
In the end they decided to offer the backcountry student internships to a French woman, an Indian man, a Russian man and an American woman. They also selected two résumés to use as back-ups in case one of the first four declined the offer.
“Thanks for the help, Michael. I’ll bring you the lotion later this evening. You need to try it.”
Before Michael could decline the offer, one of the backcountry rangers entered the station and hollered at him. “Michael, I found something odd in the Lamar Valley today and I’d like a second opinion. D’you have a minute?”
The guy was an old timer who’d worked in the park for nearly thirty years, but Michael’s wildlife expertise was unsurpassed among his peers, and people often came to him with questions. The fact he’d had ten centuries to study had a lot to do with his wealth of knowledge, but few were privy to this detail.
“What did you find, Harvey?”
“A dead black bear. I’m not as good a tracker as you, but from the look of it, I’d say a big cat did it. Never seen such a thing.”
“Let’s go have a look,” said Michael.
“Would you mind if I tagged along?” asked Helen.
“The more the merrier,” replied Harvey.
*****
The carcass had benefited from the snow and was still relatively well-preserved. Helen held her gloved hand under her nose in an attempt to mask the smell of rotten flesh, but Michael wished he could smell it better. His damaged sense of smell couldn’t detect any mountain lion scent, nor any other scent for that matter.
The recent snow had erased all potential paw prints, but the teeth marks left on the bear’s neck definitely belonged to a cat. A very big cat.
“What do you think?” asked Harvey.
“I think you’re right. I can’t be a hundred percent sure in the current state of decomposition, but it does look like a cat did this.”
“You both look perplexed. Isn’t this a common thing around here?” asked Helen.
“It’s not. Cats aren’t known to kill bears,” replied Michael.
Olivia and Daka had mentioned the bear’s carcass to Michael, but he’d had other things on his mind these past few days and had never gotten around to go check it out for himself. Daka had identified the then visible paw prints as belonging to a lion. And Daka knew what he was talking about.
“This must have been a hell of a cat,” said Harvey.
Michael nodded silently. He was starting to have a bad feeling about this. Mountain lions were elusive creatures. But now, all of a sudden, he’d smelled a lion’s proximity twice in one day and a black bear appeared to have been killed by one, possibly for the first time in recorded history. Michael didn’t like coincidences.
Chapter 6
Nursing a mug of cold coffee, she reread the article one last time before pressing the SEND button. It was done. The article was now with her editor-in-chief; there was no turning back. Technically there had been no turning back since the first part in the series had hit the stands early this morning.
She got up and headed for the coffee pot but stopped in midstride as her phone chimed with a new text message sent from a hidden number.
Your days are numbered Sheila Wang. Tic toc, tic toc.
She stared annoyed at the text for a moment. It hadn’t taken long; her article had been out less than a day. She plugged her phone into her computer and started a software that had been designed by a friend of hers working for the FBI. Within thirty seconds the originating number had been identified.
She typed it in a reverse look-up database only to find out the number wasn’t associated with any registered user. The text had been sent from a throwaway phone. One of these prepaid devices one could purchase in most gas stations and supermarkets for fifty bucks. Virtually untraceable if paid for with cash, and Sheila would have bet her entire savings the phone hadn’t been purchased with a credit card.
This wasn’t the first time her life was being threatened. No, not by a long shot. And so far, only one of the threats she’d received had led to any physical harm to her person. She’d pissed off the Russian mob a couple of years earlier, and they hadn’t been shy about letting her know.
She’d considered this carefully before deciding to write her latest series and once again expose organized crime. But in the end, she’d simply refused to let fear dictate her decisions. Death threats came with the job. You couldn’t be an investigative journalist without ruffling a few feathers.
The front door opened, and Michael entered the cabin. He walked to the table where she was sitting and bent to kiss her neck: a gesture that still gave her goosebumps. His simple presence instantly made her feel safer. Of all the investigative journalists on the planet, she was the only one dating a virtually unkillable werebear.
“How was your day, honey?” she asked. The pet name provoked the twitch she’d expected on Michael’s face. This had become a bit of a joke between them. Michael wasn’t used to pet names, and Sheila had picked one he deemed particularly ludicrous. But from her perspective it was the most fitting one for a werebear who poured a half pound of the stuff in every cup of tea he drank.
“Nothing too interesting. Went to check the carcass of a dead bear. That’s about it.”
“A dead bear?” she said, but she still had the mob on her mind.
“Are you OK, Sheila?”
“I’m great. Why d’you ask?”
“Because you haven’t mentioned my legs yet and that’s usually the first thing you ask when you see me. You also seem a bit pensive.”
“Sorry. How are your legs feeling today?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know but I still want to know.”
“The pain is almost entirely gone.”
“Can I have a look?”
“Later. What’s on your mind? And don’t tell me nothing.”
Sheila considered lying but thought better of it. Michael would likely be able to tell she wasn’t being truthful. She’d also feel safer if he knew.
“I just received a weird text message,” she said, showing him her phone.
“This isn’t weird at all. It’s plain and simple. It’s a death threat.” Michael was getting himself worked up. “Any idea who sent it?”
Sheila noticed his jaw clenching, his hands balling into fists. She had no doubt he’d kill anyone trying to harm her.
“Not exactly, but I suspect it’s linked to the article that came out today.”
“What’s it about?”
“Sex trafficking in Houston.”
Michael looked at her, confused. “How big of a problem is it?”
“A huge one! The number of active brothels within the city is estimated to be over four hundred at any given time—a large majority of which operate using slave labor.”
“Really? Slaves in Houston?”
“Sex slaves, Michael, yes. It’s a huge problem that most Houstonians ignore everything about.”
“And your article denounces it to raise the awareness?”
“More than that. This is the first piece of a two-part series. This first article was focused on the trafficking of women coming from Central and Latin America. They’re brought into the country willingly under the false pretense that they’ll be working in some restaurant. Once arrived they’re forced into prostitution to pay their safe passage of the US border. A ticket with a $40,000 price tag.”
“Can’t they escape?”
“The traffickers threaten reprisals against their families. And based on my investigations, these aren’t idle threats.”
“So you think these bastards sent you the text.”
“My article specifically names some of the families involved at the highest level and lists addresses of several of their brothels.”
“You sure know how to make friends.”
“It’s my job, Michael. Plus, it’s really the pot calling the kettle black. At least the enemies I make don’t lead packs of werewolves or vampire armies!”
“Point taken. But I still hate knowing people are threatening you.”
“I suspect things won’t get better any time soon,” she said.
Michael gave her a puzzled look.
“Part two of my series will be out next week. That part is about Asian women enslaved in ‘Massage Parlors’ all over town. They’re forced to prostitute themselves and live in captivity inside those windowless brothels. It’s often years before they’re allowed to see the sunlight again.”
“I suppose you name the families responsible for the trafficking and provide addresses where to find them?”
“A few…”
Michael took a deep breath. “I’m glad someone’s looking out for those poor women. And I’m even gladder you’re here in Yellowstone with me at the moment.”
“Me too,” she replied. “I doubt they’ll find me here.”
Chapter 7
They’d just finished dinner. Sheila was wiping the table and Michael was finishing washing up the dishes when someone knocked on the door.
Michael cursed silently at his useless nose that had failed to let him know someone was approaching the cabin. The old cuckoo clock on the wall indicated 9:05 P.M. Who the hell was calling on him at this hour?
He opened the door to find Helen on the step.
“Hi, Michael. Sorry for calling on you so late, but I just remembered I’d promised to drop off the ointment for your legs.”
“Good evening, Helen. Please come in.” He stepped aside to let the woman through.
“Oh! I didn’t know you had company,” said Helen, looking uneasily at Sheila.
“No worries. This is Sheila Wang. Sheila, this is Helen Fletcher. We work together.”
The two women shook hands.
Helen handed Michael the jar of lotion. “You’re supposed to apply it at least twice a day. But you can use it up to four times a day as needed. It really has done marvels to my arm. And don’t worry about running out. They literally gave me a tub of it at the hospital.”
Feigning interest, Michael unscrewed the jar. The odds he’d ever remember to apply the stuff were slim to none.
“It stinks when you first apply it, but the smell goes away after a few minutes. Try it, you won’t regret it.”
“I’ll give it a shot. Thanks, Helen.”
“Sorry again for the intrusion. It was nice meeting you,” Helen said, looking at Sheila.
“And you too.
Have a good evening,” replied Sheila as Helen stepped out into the starlit night.
Michael shut the door and turned around to find Sheila standing, arms crossed, in the middle of the kitchen. She was staring at him, a bizarre look on her face.
“Who was that?”
“That was Helen Fletcher. She’s a ranger too.”
“She’s very pretty,” said Sheila, nodding approvingly.
Michael pictured Helen for an instant. Her auburn hair usually held in a ponytail had been falling onto her shoulders this evening. Her skin was two or three shades darker than Sheila’s and a bit darker than his, with a fair complexion. She was also in great physical shape: very athletic. “I guess she’s not bad-looking,” he replied tentatively. Was Sheila jealous? He’d never seen her act this way.
“How long have the two of you known each other?”
“About a month. She just started working at the park. She used to live in Utah, worked at Zion.”
“And now she works with you… Is she your partner?”
“No. She’s an interpretive ranger. I’m law enforcement.”
“And she also lives in the park?”
“Yes, she has a house near Mammoth.”
“How long of a drive would you say it is from here to Mammoth?”
“About an hour.”
“That’s what I thought. So, she just remembered at eight o’clock that she’d promised you some lotion and decided to drive an hour to bring it over. Now she has another hour’s drive to get back home. That doesn’t strike you as a bit odd?”
OK. So Sheila was jealous. “I don’t think she intended on spending the night,” he answered tentatively.
“Well, I think she likes you. And she’s way too good-looking to be hanging around my boyfriend at night.” Sheila had a smirk on her face now.
“So you’re not mad?” asked Michael tentatively.
“I was just screwing with you,” she said, passing her arms around his waist. “But I meant what I said. I think she likes you.”