A Just Cause: FBI Yellowstone Adventure, #3

Chapter One

It was farther away than it looked . . . and it exploded into a fireball just as they topped the dirt-and-gravel berm high above the Snake River. All four stumbled to a stop, staring in shock as the sound wave and then the blast of heat slammed into them. Another burst of flames erupted from the rear of the vehicle and Win Tyler instinctively ducked, his arm flying up to shield his face and his labored breath catching in his throat. He reckoned the others had reacted the same. The car, or SUV, or whatever it had been, was fully engulfed in flames⁠—that was his first thought as he took it in, and that would be the terminology he’d use when he wrote his report. He was standing alongside his two brothers and his best friend less than one hundred yards from the burning wreckage.

Win fished his phone out of his waterproof belt bag and called 911. The call with the Park Service Dispatch Office was quick: a vehicle wreck, a fire, victims unknown. He wasn’t real sure where they were, some dirt road on the west side of the Snake River. A remote spot with one of the most iconic backdrops in America⁠—the jagged granite peaks of the Grand Tetons towered over the landscape. Nothing like it. Absolutely breathtaking, stunning vistas. The boiling black smoke was rising almost straight up into the crystal-blue sky. It seemed odd that there wasn’t any breeze. There was always a bit of wind in this wild western country. . . . A series of sharp pops from the burning vehicle snapped his attention back to the awful situation. It occurred to him that he was thinking about the scenery, the wind, the surreal nature of the thing, to take his mind off the near certainty that a person had just died here⁠—maybe more than one.

Tucker, Blake, you wanta come with me? Win looked down at Will, his fifteen-year-old brother. A look of horror was etched on the boy’s face. Win used his FBI tone of voice. You stay put, Will. We’ll check this out.

They took off at a fast trot across uneven ground that was studded with knee-high sagebrush and buffalo grass; the low scrub scraped their bare legs. Win dodged to the side at the sound of gunshots coming from the black, twisted pile of metal. Blake grabbed for his arm and they stopped, still a good fifty yards away from the wreckage.

It’s rounds goin’ off . . . they had bullets in there! Blake shouted. They all flinched again as more shots erupted from the carnage.

Lots of rounds. Damn. Tucker had to nearly yell to be heard over the roar of the fire.

Win nodded, but he kept his troubled reflections to himself. Whoa! Geez! Bullets exploding in a fire can happen⁠—lots of folks have guns⁠—but so many rounds? And did I heard shots before we hit the plateau? . . . before the fire? . . . before the explosion? He’d learned at Quantico that bullets could explode in a fire, that they could fly in any direction but they generally didn’t travel far, that they usually had low velocity⁠—rarely caused harm. But knowing that and acting on that knowledge were two different things; the sound of gunshots caused him to hesitate. Finally, he shielded his face and moved closer. Let’s make sure no one got thrown clear. Y’all check that side. He raised his voice over the popping, cracking, and occasionally roaring sounds. I’ll go around. He could see nothing inside the overturned blackened vehicle except orange and yellow flames.

The men circled the inferno in a wide ring, then a tighter one; they found no one. Win raised a hand to signal them away from the fire, back toward Will and the riverbank. Someone had died here. Win had no idea who or even how many. All he knew was that someone had died and there wasn’t a thing he could have done about it. They were too late.

He got back on the phone with the dispatcher and explained that he was on a raft trip on the river, that they’d pulled over to the opposite bank to photograph a moose when they’d heard, more than seen, the wreck. He told her that they’d crossed the river, left the guide in the raft, and climbed the bank . . . told her they’d been too late. He turned away from the fire and walked back toward his brothers and Tucker. They just stood around and watched the flames begin to die back.

There wasn’t much to be said. Y’all go on back to the raft. Win nodded toward the berm and the river below. I’ll wait for the rangers to show up. It might be a while.

Blake, Win’s twenty-seven-year-old brother, drew himself up to his full six-foot-four height. He let out a long sigh and held up a hand. We need to pray . . . uh, pray . . . for their families, for their friends.

Yeah. Yeah, right, Win agreed, ashamed that he hadn’t said those words himself. So Blake prayed and Win raised his head as the shrill sound of a distant siren cut the air.

They’d just said their Amens when another small group of rafters joined them. The lead guy wasn’t tall, but his girth was considerable, and the gray T-shirt with its big Georgia black-and-red G was stretched tight. A Bulldogs ball cap and long black-and-red shorts completed his look. He was flushed and huffing from the steep climb up the bank. He reached down and hooked a finger in the jersey of the young boy next to him. Whoa . . . whoa, son. Don’t be goin’ any further, he said in a deep, slow drawl. A woman and another man struggled over the top of the bank and stared at the fire. The woman pulled the little boy back to her and held him tight. And again, Win thought that there should be something they could do. Instead they all just stood there watching the black smoke roll, trying to shut the thoughts of death out of their minds. Each coped with the passing of strangers in their own way⁠—for Win Tyler there was a deep sadness, as if a void had been created in this world with the passing of someone, even though he didn’t know who.

The siren grew louder. It was coming from the south. The red-faced man from Georgia finally cleared his throat. Them shots have quit poppin’ off . . . we need to move in and make sure nobody got thrown clear of the wreck.

We’ve already done that, Win said.

Alright, ain’t nothing else to do till the EMTs get here. I’ll take charge. You people can go on about your rafting. The tone said it was an order.

Win shifted his focus from the wreckage to the stranger. He felt his brothers’ eyes on him as he cleared his throat and spoke. You have some jurisdiction here? Mister . . . ?

The portly man drew himself up at the perceived challenge. I’m Deputy Donnie Sawyer. Chattooga County⁠—

Win cut in. Lemme guess, Georgia?

The man raised his eyebrows in a suspicious look. How’d you know that? Apparently he’d forgotten his getup for the day.

University of Georgia fan. Win nodded down at the huge G on the bulging shirt.

Oh yeah, that.

Win moved to shake hands. I’m Win Tyler, FBI resident agent for Yellowstone National Park. I’m here on leave for a few days.

The man returned the handshake and sized Win up with narrowing eyes. Win knew what the guy was thinking: He doesn’t look like a Fed, looks like a college kid on summer break. The deputy dropped the handshake, reached in his pocket for a business card, and handed it to Win. We’re staying at the Frontier Inn in Jackson. Glad this is your problem. Maybe Deputy Sawyer hadn’t had good relationships with federal law enforcement officers in the past, or maybe he was just anxious to get on with his interrupted vacation. Whatever the reason, he nodded to the rest of his party, and they retreated down the steep bank toward the river without another word.

Win turned his attention back to Tucker and his brothers. I’ll get a ride back with the rangers when they finish up. The deputy is right⁠—there isn’t anything else for y’all to do here. Tucker and Blake nodded and turned to follow the others down the gravel incline, but Win noticed that his youngest brother stood for several more seconds, staring at the wreckage. Will’s face was pinched and pale; Win sensed that the boy was seeing something other than the sputtering fire.

*   *   *

Hey, bud. Win let his hand trail over Will’s shoulder as he straddled the bench on the picnic table outside Dornan’s riverfront restaurant. He eased down beside his little brother and tested the table to make sure their combined weight wouldn’t flip it. Will didn’t speak, he just glanced down at his phone when it vibrated against the wooden tabletop.

Win tried to lift his brother out of the gloom. Some girl reachin’ out? he asked with a grin.

Naw, it’s recruiters blowing up my phone. I don’t know how to get ’em to back off . . . it ain’t like I’m graduating next year.

Win raised his eyebrows. Seriously? College recruiters? You’re just going into tenth grade.

Yeah, yeah. They’ve been calling ever since the Razorback Camp in early June. But it ain’t ’bout me so much⁠—just that I’ve got an older brother who ended up an All-SEC receiver, ended up settin’ SEC scoring records . . . so it isn’t really about me.

Uh-huh. Win wasn’t sure how to respond. He knew it would be hard on Will, coming up in his shadow. He’d been a high school football standout, a four-star recruit. The pressure to perform had been bad enough those many years ago; he knew it was much worse now. Even in junior high, Will Tyler had shown he was a legitimate talent, but living up to the lofty expectations of big-time college coaches would be daunting. It was a discussion they’d need to have, but not now. Now there was another hard conversation at hand.

You okay?

The youngest member of the Tyler clan glanced down at his phone again, then stared off toward the wall of mountains that stood beyond the fast-moving green river. He barely nodded.

I hate that you had to see that . . . hate that⁠—

You’re thinkin’ I’m a little kid. Can’t handle the heavy stuff. Can’t deal with it.

You’re fourteen⁠—

Fifteen. Will’s phone buzzed again. He silenced it.

Barely fifteen.

Doesn’t matter. It happened and I’m so sorry for those people. . . . Will’s voice trailed off.

I didn’t mean to treat you like a little kid. Maybe it’s the big-brother protection thing. I reckon I shoulda been more sensitive. Sensitive isn’t something I do real well. Win drew a deep breath and followed Will’s gaze across the tops of the cottonwoods that lined the Snake River to the towering mountains that stood three miles to the west. Then his eyes swept the lunch crowd of tourists milling around outside the popular restaurant’s door. The postcard view, the smell of pizza and bread, and the murmur of happy voices in the background were a stark contrast to the horror they’d witnessed less than three hours ago.

Yeah, everyone comes here to get away from real life, but an accident and tragedy found some folks today. Win hesitated before he continued. There were two people in the vehicle. It was horrible.

Will closed his eyes tight and finally spoke. Kinda brought back Jim Bob’s wreck. The smell . . . the sounds.

Win had heard about the high school senior’s death last spring. Drag racing, he remembered his dad saying during a phone call. It wasn’t like there were a bunch of Jim Bobs around; Heber Springs, Arkansas, was a small town. Something clicked in Win’s consciousness. How does Will have personal knowledge of that awful wreck? Win had been told that Jim Bob Tanner was drag racing in the middle of the night on one of the few straight stretches of highway in Cleburne County. He turned on the bench to face his little brother. How would you know about those sounds and smells? Dad told me Jim Bob was killed at two a.m. on the road to Drasco. Win had switched to his investigative tone.

Heard about it is all. Will quickly glanced away. His jaw twitched and he swallowed hard. He knew he’d been caught in a lie.

That isn’t what I’m hearin’ in your voice. That isn’t what I’m seein’ on your face, Win softly replied. You were there?

Wasn’t any need to deny it. Will nodded but kept his eyes averted. Don’t go telling me how stupid that was⁠—I don’t need to hear that right now. I ain’t snuck out since. The boy drew in a breath. You gonna tell Dad?

Win paused a long moment and studied his brother. He saw a muscular young man nearly six feet tall⁠—not the skinny, awkward teen that Win still pictured in his mind. Will Tyler had grown up while Win was away, and Win was shocked to realize he hardly knew the brother sitting beside him.

Win was almost twenty-nine years old; he was a freshman in high school when Will was born. While he was tight with Blake, it had never been that way with Will. Win tried to dismiss a stab of regret over that lack of closeness, as his rational self pointed out that it wasn’t his fault. But he wondered how he could have missed the child growing into a man, wondered how that time had gotten away from him. He’d lived enough life to know there was no getting it back.

No, I’m not gonna tell anyone, Win said. This is between you and me. Hard way to learn a lesson, but I’m glad you learned it. Not much good happens with a bunch of teenagers out at two a.m. Everyone was drinkin’?

Will shrugged. I wasn’t.

Okay. Win started to rise. He was going to drop it, try to salvage the rest of the spectacular day, when it hit him. You said it was just like with Jim Bob . . . but he was drag racing. Today the poor folks just lost control⁠—

No. There was a truck racing them, there were two vehicles. I shot it as we were goin’ down the river. Will held up his phone and pulled up the video he’d taken from the raft. He adjusted the objects’ size with his fingers. There were clearly two plumes of dust. The sun glinted off the lead car⁠—looked like a light-colored midsize SUV⁠—but the sun was also gleaming off a second, larger vehicle closing on the first one. Then the view was obstructed by trees along the bank, and then just seconds more of the two vehicles on the distant dirt road, now nearly side by side. The chaser was a dark pickup of some sort. The video ended just before the crash, when the higher riverbank blocked the view. Win stared at the shaky reel in shock.

That’s a pursuit, not a race.

*   *   *

Win pulled out his Bureau phone and recorded the date, the time, and some basic evidentiary facts before airdropping his brother’s video to himself. He typed a quick email and sent it to his boss. Just over a minute later, Jim West was on the phone. Tell me what’s going on. You’re thinking a chase, some sorta crime?

Maybe. We’d pulled off the river to photograph a moose, we heard the crash, the guide said there was a gravel road up there. We had to climb a sixty-foot bank to get to the plateau where the wreck was. I thought I heard gunfire as we were climbing, but . . . I’m really not sure. My little brother had been watching and videoing the vehicles as we floated. I didn’t even know there was a road above the river. Honestly, I was just lookin’ for a moose.

You’re on leave, Win, I wouldn’t expect anything else, Jim replied.

Still, it bothered Win that he hadn’t seen the chase, wasn’t sure about the gunshots.

Jim was still talking. Since we closed the Jackson office, we’ve got no one in that area. Our Lander office is two and a half hours out from you, and we need to stop the Park Service folks from moving the vehicle or disturbing the scene until we figure this out. Can you handle that? Can you get to a ranger station and get a ride back out there?

Yes, sir. We’re at a riverside restaurant at Moose. The ranger station is just across the bridge. The ambulance was still at the site when I left⁠—it was looking like two adults, but it was a mess. They were gonna wait for the fire to cool down, wait for the coroner. I gave my statement to the first ranger on the scene . . . I thought it was just a car crash. I left before they removed the bodies. I . . . uh . . . I didn’t . . . Win sighed.

There was no reason for you to think anything was suspicious, Win. Just get out there and see what you can find. I’ll handle the Park Service. Maybe we’ll luck out and they’ll have a special agent or two that they can call in, get you back on your vacation.

Yes, sir. I’m staying here in the Jackson area for a few nights. You can pull me in if you need to.

*   *   *

It was nearly six that evening when the ranger dropped Win off at Tucker’s aunt’s house in the gated, and guarded, community on a hilltop just northwest of Jackson. Win stood there for a minute and took it in. There weren’t any trees up here, not real trees anyway. Just four multimillion-dollar houses artfully designed to hug the summit of the high ridge and face the wall of mountains that stood five miles away. The soaring peaks seemed close enough to touch. It was a type of optical illusion, Win knew; he’d read about it. The highest mountains climbed straight into the sky; they were 12,500 to nearly 13,800 feet in elevation, no foothills stood between him and the range. The lack of scale caused the peaks to appear much closer and taller⁠—they seemed to pierce the heavens. Win stood there, breathed in the crisp air, and stared at the surreal landscape. He was forcing his mind to go to the mountains, trying to use their overwhelming beauty to chase away the competing thoughts of violence and death. He shook his head and sighed. His efforts to compartmentalize the horror he’d seen weren’t working for him just yet.

He was still standing there in the home’s circular driveway when the massive front door opened and a spry Hispanic man in a white jacket stepped out. They called from the gate, Mr. Win. The others are on the patio. Mr. Tucker asked that you join them when you’re ready. I’m sure you’ll want to freshen up. . . . I can show you to your room.

Win moved toward the man and tried again to shift his mind from the carnage he’d seen⁠—from the death of two individuals⁠—to the expansive home before him, to his friend and his brothers inside. He’d nearly reached the front door when Aunt Martha appeared from the depths of the house, rushed past her employee with arms wide, and pulled Win into a hug.

Oh, Win, bless your heart! Tucker told me about the horrible accident . . . terrible, just terrible! It breaks my heart for those poor souls. She pulled back a little to look up into his dirty face, then took his arm; she didn’t seem to notice the grit and the smell. But of course she did⁠—Win knew she simply had too much class to mention it. Oh, goodness, she said softly, what you’ve been through. He wasn’t sure if she was talking about today’s crisis or his growing list of life traumas.

She introduced José, and Win went through the expected recital of pleasantries and thanks for her hospitality. He remembered to compliment her magnificent house, the blooming pots of red petunias near the entry, the lovely silk suit that brightened her eyes. He might have been grungy and disheveled, but Miss Martha’s delighted smile told him his sincere compliments would have made his mother proud.

José will take care of you. He’ll clean everything. You just let him know what needs to be done. The man nodded as she continued to talk. I wish I could stay⁠—I’m going home for a few days. Win wondered which home. He knew Tucker’s aunt had several. She was wearing a summer jacket and skirt with a soft-pink scarf; she was dressed more for the big city than for this casual tourist town. As she held his arm and led him toward the doorway, he refocused on her words.

I’m so glad y’all can make good use of the place. I wish I could stay and visit. Win, I haven’t seen you in years⁠—that last time was, ah, at Moriah . . . you brought that lovely Shelby to the farm to visit. My, it’s probably been two years.

Nearly three years ago . . . at Tucker’s family home on the Moriah Plantation in Louisiana . . . an engagement party⁠—my engagement party⁠—nearly three years ago.

Such a delightful girl. She beamed up at him. Ah, y’all were getting engaged! Your career with the FBI had just taken off. I’d love to hear⁠—

A white Mercedes pulled behind them into the circular drive and caught her attention, saving Win from an awkward explanation of how his life had recently gone off the rails.

Oh, time to go already! She glanced back at the house wistfully. I don’t get out here often. Sometimes only two or three times each summer.

The driver stepped out of the car and moved around it to open the trunk. Another man materialized from the house and handed the driver several shopping bags and Martha’s luggage. He opened the back passenger door and held out his hand for her to enter.

She nodded to him and turned back to the man in the white jacket. José, thank you for everything. You take good care of these boys! She looked up at Win with a quick smile. Tucker’s going to be here several more days than we originally thought⁠—he said he could work out some property matters for me. He is such a dear. She smoothed down her scarf and took Win’s hand again. You’re welcome to stay as long as you can . . . please say that you will. Tucker will try to convince you to practice law with him. She lowered her voice as if her words were a secret. He’s doing real well for himself in Oxford, but he hasn’t met anyone yet . . . you could be such a good influence on him, Win.

And with that she slid into the back seat, the door closed, and she was gone.

Chapter Two

He was up well before dawn, and he followed the aroma of freshly brewed coffee into the opulent marble kitchen. José was pulling something that smelled even more amazing from the oven. He looked up at Win and smiled. It is Miss Martha’s pecan cinnamon rolls. She made them yesterday afternoon so you young men could enjoy them today. All I had to do is turn on the oven and now drizzle on the glaze. He placed the large tray of pastries on the cooling shelf and turned back to the coffee.

How do you like your coffee, Mr. Win?

Win started to correct him on the Mr. Win thing, but he knew better. He just smiled as he accepted the mug. Thank you, black is perfect for me. You’re up early.

Ah, Mr. Tucker is up too. He wants to take your brothers out to look for bears and lions this morning before the full light, before the wildlife watchers are all out.

Win breathed in the aroma of the coffee and watched José use a piping bag to stream sour cream icing on the warm buns. I wish I could go⁠—

Maybe tomorrow. Tucker’s voice came from behind him. I rousted your brothers and they’ll be here in a minute. Since we’re playing hooky from church, we’ll get into the backcountry real early. You got time to eat before you go?

Naw, I better get moving. My supervisor texted me late last night and I’m supposed to meet another agent up near Jenny Lake. It’ll take me more than half an hour to drive there. Since the Bureau closed the Jackson Hole Resident Agency last month, the nearest FBI office is in Lander, down in central Wyoming. I don’t know where this other agent is out of. Win sighed, then took a long sip of coffee. Could be a long morning. He leaned against the counter and eyed the cinnamon rolls before he turned back to Tucker. Will y’all be in cell phone range this morning?

Off and on. I’m gonna take them up past Moran, up along Pacific and Pilgrim Creeks. There’s almost always a grizzly bear or two in those areas. Want to try to touch base around noon? Maybe we could meet for lunch at the Jackson Lake Lodge or back here in Jackson. Tucker moved to refill his coffee. That is if I haven’t worn those boys out.

Win nodded. As he turned to go, José handed him a sack. There’s a thermos of coffee and cinnamon buns in the bag. Miss Martha wouldn’t stand for you leaving without breakfast, he said with a smile.

Alrighty then. Win eyed the bag of goodies. Thank you! Win saluted with his mug and took two more long sips before he set it on the counter and walked toward the foyer. Tucker walked him to the door and they stepped out into the cold air as the multitude of stars were beginning to fade and the first hints of light were dancing off the high mountains. Geez, what a place, Win said. What a view.

I’ll be seeing it a few more days than I expected, Tucker said as he opened the SUV’s door for Win. Aunt Martha wants me to handle the legal work on some of her real estate acquisitions⁠—her Wyoming attorney is retiring. Soooo . . . He shrugged with his eyebrows and smiled at the stunning view. A man could get used to this every morning.

’Cept it gets twenty below zero in the winter, and I’ll bet the wind comin’ off those mountains is horrific, Win countered.

Well, there is that, Tucker conceded. His gaze caught the Glock on Win’s belt as the cold breeze blew his light jacket back. First time I’ve ever seen you dressed as an FBI agent in the field. You really look the G-man part in a suit and tie, but somehow you look it even more today⁠—hiking boots, T-shirt, safari jacket, Indiana Jones hat . . . kinda the Jack Ryan look. Tucker grinned.

Jack Ryan was CIA.

You know what I mean. Tucker shook his head and the grin widened. Man, it’s no wonder you have to beat off the girls.

Win ignored the teasing, but he hesitated before he got into his old Explorer. Speaking of which, I hate that I’m dumpin’ the boys on you, plus you’ll have to get ready for the cookout, for Tory and Lauren to get here. No tellin’ when I’ll get back.

Tucker shrugged with a smile. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got plenty of help here at the house. And you know how I love to hunt⁠—me and the boys will just be doin’ our huntin’ with cameras instead of rifles today.

Yeah, maybe you can snap Will outa his funk. It bothered Win that his little brother had continued to be withdrawn and pensive, even during the meal at the best Mexican restaurant in Jackson last night.

Will’s got that football recruiting mess on his mind, plus the wreck yesterday really shook him. He’s on his phone constantly⁠—who knows how many girls are after him. Tucker shrugged again. He’s a teenager, Win. Being moody goes with the territory. Gotta let him grow out of it in his own time.

Win nodded, waved his goodbye, slid into the seat, and started the ignition. He watched Tucker turn and take in the view of the mountains again; they were glowing in the dim light. It felt odd to get relationship advice from his best friend. Win studied the man’s silhouette as he put the Explorer in reverse. Tucker Moses was way shorter than Win and kinda homely in a pleasant sort of way. Win knew Tucker was self-conscious about his thinning sandy-blond hair, his narrow shoulders, and the line of freckles that dotted his face. No amount of time in the gym could add muscle to his thin frame; he just wasn’t built that way. He wasn’t made to be an athlete, but he’d walked on at Ole Miss and been their primary kicker for three of his four years of undergraduate school. Some folks had the God-given gifts to be exceptional at their craft⁠—Win knew he was one of those fortunate ones. Tucker had no such benefits, but he’d succeeded all the same. Win Tyler had tremendous respect for that type of effort and perseverance.

Win pulled around the circle drive, glanced in the rearview mirror, and saw Tucker still standing there staring at the Tetons. They’d been best friends since they’d shared an apartment for their three years of law school at the University of Arkansas. But something had recently changed, and Win wasn’t sure what to make of it. Tucker was an only child. He was a year older than Win, nearly thirty. Win knew Tucker was being pushed by his family to put down roots, carry on the family legacy. Win had no such issues. His brother Blake had joined his dad on the family farm after college; Blake and his wife, Rachel, had produced the grandchildren his parents had hoped for. No, he wasn’t feeling the same pressure that Tucker was under to find a suitable wife and take over the reins of the family business. Maybe that’s all it is.

Neither he nor Tucker was big on discussing emotional topics. In all the time they’d known each other, Win could count the times on one hand when they’d dug deep on any issue that evoked strong feelings. Well, other than sports, business, or politics . . . certainly not relationships. But here he is giving me advice on my little brother. A gut feeling told him to heed that advice.

*   *   *

Win wound down the high ridge, cut through the outskirts of Jackson, and headed up Highway 89 into Grand Teton National Park. It was only a few miles north of town, and the drive to the park headquarters at Moose took less than twenty minutes. It was still early, not quite 5:30, but he needed to touch base with the rangers and see where things stood. There was no news from the Teton County Coroner, not that Win was expecting anything this soon. He was surprised to hear that an agent had gotten to the wreck site before daybreak and met with the park ranger who’d had the unpleasant duty of standing guard over the blackened hulk all night.

Win sat in his vehicle in the rangers’ station parking lot, finished up Miss Martha’s second pecan cinnamon roll, and drank another cup of coffee from the thermos as he rechecked the text that Jim West had sent him late last night: Tomorrow am⁠—reach out to Cst. Alex Lindell. ATF may have agents at the scene. Let me know what you need once you assess situation. It didn’t tell him much, but it did tell him that his vacation was fixing to get interrupted again. He punched in the contact number that Jim had forwarded to him. A woman answered, and it didn’t sound like he’d awakened her. She sounded intense.

Who’s calling? That was her curt opening. It was not a friendly voice.

Win Tyler with the FBI. I’m calling for Alex Lindell. Can you get him on the phone, please?

There was a long pause, then an angry tone. Where are you?

Look, maybe I’ve got the wrong number. I need to speak to Alex Lindell. Is he there or not? Now Win’s voice had a bit of an edge. Yeah, it was 5:35, early for a call, but no need for her to be rude.

"This is Alex Lindell. Do you think I’m his hookup for the night? That I’m his answering service? It’s nearly six, why aren’t you out here at the site?"

Whoa! Didn’t see that coming!

Win tried to regroup. I’m . . . uh, sorry⁠—

Meet me outside the Jenny Lake Store at 0615 hours. The call went dead. Win sat there for a few seconds and stared at his phone. He took another sip of coffee and tried to tamp down the anger he felt toward the woman. What had Jim’s text said? Cst. Alex Lindell. What’s a Cst.? Jim said ATF might be involved somehow. He didn’t know much about the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives . . . maybe it was an analyst or evidence response team title? Darned if he knew. He confirmed the area code on her cell phone. Yeah, 406⁠—that was Montana. So maybe she was some kind of local law enforcement. He capped the thermos, pocketed his phone, and started his truck. I’ll find out soon enough.

*   *   *

She had her long dark hair pulled back tight in a ponytail and she was facing away from him, watching the traffic roll into the main parking lot. A sweat-stained blue ball cap and a gray fleece jacket were on the bench beside her, along with a daypack. She wore an olive-drab T-shirt under an equally drab long-sleeve shirt, dusty cargo pants, and dirty hiking boots. She could have been just another of the many hikers settling in for a respite on the picnic tables or benches beneath the big spruce and pine trees near the log building that housed the Jenny Lake Store. She almost looked the part. Almost. But as he walked toward her, he could see the slight bulge of the handgun under her open shirttail, he could smell the ash on her boots. She smelled of death. He knew he’d found Alex Lindell.

He sat down on the opposite end of the shaded bench and took off his hat. He glanced over at her and nodded. She didn’t say anything at first, just watched him with a gaze he couldn’t quite interpret.

We got off on the wrong foot, he began.

You think so?

I was told to contact Alex. . . . I’m sorry if I made the wrong assumption. The folks I’ve known who go by male names are generally men. It wasn’t much of an apology, and he knew it. He didn’t even look her in the eye when he said it. He wasn’t into playing games, and he was sick and tired of being politically correct. There were two deaths to be solved, and she was uptight over an honest mistake. She needed to get over it. He was willing to let it go if she was, but she made no move to shake hands, to say anything conciliatory. She just nodded, and her dark eyes turned back to the steady stream of traffic. He had the feeling she was watching for someone.

Win made another stab at it. I’m here on annual leave. . . . I don’t have any background on the situation, but my supervisor indicated that ATF has been called in for some reason. You’re with ATF?

She glanced back his way. No. I’m RCMP.

Win’s mind flew through the seemingly endless string of federal agency acronyms but got no hits. The confusion was apparently on his face.

She drew in a breath. Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Are you really that slow.

He knew it wasn’t a question and he didn’t like her tone, but of the myriad of agencies she could have named, the Mounties weren’t anywhere on that list. Before he’d been exiled to Yellowstone National Park three months earlier, he’d spent his first three years with the FBI in Charlotte, North Carolina, working white-collar crime and public corruption. He’d had no interaction with Canadian police agencies and hadn’t given them a thought. Montana’s border with Canada was nearly 550 miles long, he did know that much, but that border was hundreds of miles north of where they sat in northwestern Wyoming. He knew the surprise was evident in his voice. So why are you here?

Her tanned face turned back to him, but she didn’t answer his question. It’s getting crowded. Let’s take a walk, she said as she stood. She stuffed her jacket and cap in the daypack, hoisted it over one shoulder, and weaved through the throng of tourists going in and out of the general store. It was early, but the place was already busy on this holiday morning, and the murmur of voices in English and other languages blended together in the background. She paused at the low stone wall and seemed to be reading the signage. Three asphalt paths diverged, and she chose the one headed toward Jenny Lake. Win walked a few paces behind her as they made their way through the sunlit evergreen forest along a trail flanked by smooth boulders and bright-yellow arrowleaf balsamroot flowers. The number of tourists quickly began to dwindle as they left the store and parking areas behind.

Her gait was steady and fast for a person of her size; she was maybe five five and thin as a rail. Too thin, he was thinking. Maybe she’d been sick, maybe she was a distance runner, or maybe she just didn’t eat. Win was hoping he wouldn’t be around her long enough to find out. There was something about Alex Lindell that bothered him, and he didn’t think it was just her surly attitude.

She paused at a spot overlooking the glistening blue lake that nestled up against the soaring mountains. He wondered how many folks had stopped here for the ultimate vacation photo: smiling faces framed by the picturesque lake, the cobalt sky, and the jagged granite peaks. He knew he and Alex Lindell wouldn’t be among them.

She turned abruptly and took a left along the path marked Boat Dock. Win’s vision of a marina from his time on the big lakes in the Arkansas Ozarks didn’t fit in this high alpine place. The Jenny Lake Boat Dock was a three-boat slip where tourists paid a fee and lined up to board a thirty-five-foot covered aluminum boat for the twelve-minute scenic ride to the hiking trails on the opposite side of the lake. A sign said the first boat departed at seven.

Win followed Alex past the waiting tourists and across a log pedestrian bridge over Cottonwood Creek. Icy water was flowing out of the lake and under the bridge and tumbling down through the forest. He slowed to watch her back, wondering again where she was going. That question got answered when she crawled through a pole fence on the other side of the bridge and sat down on a large rock beside the stream. She unlaced one of her hiking boots and dipped it in the water. She was cleaning away the fire’s ash, washing away the smell of death.

Win moved to a smooth log and sat down near her with his back against a stump. He wanted to be able to watch her and still have a view of the people who were arriving for the short boat ride. No one seemed out of the ordinary⁠—about a couple dozen expectant hikers, most of whom looked like city folks excited to have a day in the woods. One couple carried overnight gear and looked the part of seasoned backpackers. There were few children, but it was probably a bit early for most parents to wrangle their kids here. Nothing struck him as odd or out of place, except maybe the woman beside him. Her brooding expression and thin, slouched shoulders contrasted with the upbeat vibe coming from the tourists and the boat’s crew, who were selling tickets a few yards away. It was as if she carried her darkness with her.

He’d managed to unintentionally insult her twice already; it wasn’t a great start. He’d always prided himself on getting along with most everyone, but for some reason that wasn’t happening today. He’d never met a Canadian, he reasoned, so maybe it was a cultural thing, or a gender thing, or a social thing. He knew that it likely had nothing to do with him.

He noticed that she was still watching the crowd. He wondered who she was looking for, what was going on. And he was getting real damn tired of guessing. No one could hear them here, with the rush of the fast stream as a backdrop, so he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his credentials, and flipped them open in front of her. Win Tyler, FBI. And you?

She glanced at his creds as she unbuttoned her shirt’s front pocket, pulled out a lacquered fold-over card and held it up. He read it quickly, but it gave him few answers. Are you going to tell me what’s going on? Why you were at the wreck site? What jurisdiction do you have here? he asked.

She turned her attention back to rinsing her boot while she spoke. I’m working a case in cooperation with your ATF. The case is based out of Salt Lake City and Calgary. She cut her eyes to his. "That’s Calgary, Canada."

She was still baiting him, but he wasn’t biting. He kept his expression neutral. Okay, that explains the ATF connection⁠—

She interrupted him. And before you ask, I’ve got an exemption through ATF to carry a firearm in the U.S. You can check that if you want.

I will. He watched her glance back at