“Story time,” Joan said when supper had been eaten and the dishes—plastic sacks into which hot water was poured to reconstitute various carbohydrate substances—were cleared away and cached in a tree for the night. “What’s been happening all these three days while we’ve been working for a living?”
In the hours since she’d realigned her brain and enjoyed the rejuvenating effects of Joan Rand and the wilderness, the murder investigation had retreated so far as to seem ancient history. Anna brought it to the fore without rancor, a puzzle only, valuable as entertainment around a single candle Joan always burned, her own private “campfire.”
A look at Rory let Anna know the tale, though of his stepmother, held no real horrors for him. Early on, Anna knew he’d suspected his dad. It had been that, more than Carolyn’s demise, that had tortured him. Anna guessed between pouring fish guts and blood and nailing barbed wire to trees, he’d had a significant amount of therapeutic conversation with Joan.
Leaning on her sleeping bag and pack, Anna told them about her phone calls, the name of Fetterman, the unclear connection between the truck and trailer abandoned on the northeast corner of the park and McCaskil’s aliases. The only phone conversation she omitted was the one she’d had with Francine out of Carolyn’s office. Maybe Rory’d not been as close to his stepmother as had first appeared but he didn’t need to have her memory trashed.
No competition in the way of TV, radio, the Internet or floor shows, Anna had a good audience and found herself rambling on more than she intended. She told them about the night she spent hiding in the rocks on the shoulder of Cathedral Peak, how she’d dreamt of a bear padding around and woke to find her water bottle punctured by what could have been teeth, how she’d searched the den, finding it swept clean but for the peanut, the dime and the part of a biscuit.
“We’re nothing if not thorough,” Anna finished. “Harry even had the biscuit analyzed.”
“Flour and water?” Rory ventured.
“Protein, fat, fiber, ash and a few other things,” Anna told him. “Dog food was our guess.”
Joan sat up, the look of passive interest sparked by something deeper. “How big was it?” she asked. “About the size of a charcoal briquet?”
“It was broken,” Anna said. “But about that. Why?”
“Do you remember exactly what it was made of?”
Anna squeezed her eyes shut, trying to picture the sheet of paper. “No percentages. What I said maybe, plus calcium. The bulk, I remember, was dry matter. Sounded sinister to me.”
“Omnivore food,” Joan said.
Anna opened her eyes. “Omnivore food?”
“It’s what we feed bears in captivity. A normal-sized bear will eat about six pounds of omnivore food and about that much in fruits and vegetables every day.”
“Somebody’s feeding the bears?” Rory said. “I mean, feeding them bear food?”
Anna laughed. Feeding bears intentionally or otherwise in the national parks was an ongoing problem, but Rory was right. Nobody fed them bear food. “Why would anybody do that?” she asked. “To lure the bears?”
“Bears eat it,” Joan said. “Bears aren’t finicky. But it’s no great lure. We spent years developing lures. Omnivore chow isn’t even in the top one hundred. The stuff hasn’t got much of an odor. The scent not only doesn’t broadcast, it’s not all that alluring. You might feed bears with it but I doubt you could use it to attract them.”
“You could habituate them,” Rory said unexpectedly. “You know, always have food for them at the same time and the same place so they come there over and over.”
Anna and Joan thought about that for a while. “You could,” Anna said slowly. “But why?”
Between them they listed the obvious reasons: to shoot them, observe them, capture them, photograph them. All were possible, none practical. Glacier National Park was a place where bears were protected, monitored. Their numbers, habits and activities were scrutinized by rangers, researchers and an increasingly informed public. If a person wished to manipulate the bears in any of the suggested ways, there were thousands upon thousands of acres just to the north in British Columbia where, on private lands, it could be done either legally or with a much greater chance of remaining undetected.
“Boone and Crockett,” Anna said, remembering the Washington man evilly ogling the elk. “A trophy-sized bear, one that could tempt a poacher?”
“Not in the lower forty-eight,” Joan said. “Because of food, genetics, etcetera, our bears are on the small side. A big old male could weigh maybe five hundred pounds. Maybe. Four or four-fifty would be more like it. The trophy hunters do Canada up north, or Alaska.”
“An idiot?” Anna suggested. “Wandering around like some demented Johnny Appleseed feeding bears?”
“There’s always room for another idiot,” Joan admitted.
Anna had her
own tent this time out and she found she missed Joan’s company. Through the cloth walls she could hear the other woman snoring in an unladylike fashion and found the noise soothing. Sleep was eluding Anna and it was good to know someone was resting.
The nerves and hyperawareness that had poisoned her last night in the backcountry had passed. She was not lying awake waiting for the clack of sticks and the onslaught of toothy beasts. The man who had rolled a stone down at her and fired off a round didn’t concern her much, either. He had not stalked her. It was she who’d sought him out. If he’d not already finished whatever he’d been up to and left the park, he was probably staying as far away from anybody in green and gray as he could.
Telling her story to Joan and Rory had loosed the scraps and facts she’d managed to tuck away. Now they blew about till the inside of her skull looked like Fifth Avenue after a ticker-tape parade. Joan and Rory; the conversation had triggered something. Anna lay comfortable in her bag, fingers locked behind her head, eyes on the perfect darkness beyond the screen of her front door, waiting for the scrap that would fit to sort itself out from the others. Feeding the bears, trophy bears floated by, Boone and Crockett. That was it. Boone and Crockett, the last word on what was and was not a trophy animal and where it fit in the hierarchy of biggest and best based on skull measurements—taken after death, naturally.
In the pocket of the surplus army jacket Carolyn Van Slyke was caught dead in, the jacket they were pretty sure belonged to William McCaskil, was a piece of note paper. “B & C” was written at the top. Below was a list of numbers. Boone and Crockett and the measurements of a trophy animal, Anna was willing to bet. In the morning she would radio Ruick and get him to check it out.
What, if anything, it had to do with Van Slyke’s murder, she couldn’t fathom. Had Carolyn seen and photographed this animal and so been killed and mutilated, her film stolen? Glacier didn’t have trophy-sized bears, but there were other creatures: moose, elk, mountain lion. That didn’t account for the omnivore food. And who would kill and mutilate a photographer for taking a picture of the animal? How would one be caught in a compromising position with a trophy-sized animal? It was feasible the poacher could pack the kill out. They needn’t take the whole animal. Just the head.
Now there was a grisly picture.
Anna shook her head in the dark. By dint of great mental strain, she’d solved one more small mystery: what the list in the army jacket meant. And nothing but nothing was cleared up.
“You asleep, Joan?” she whispered on impulse.
No answer from the neighboring tent.
“Goodnight then,” she said and resolutely shut her brain off for the night.
Work was good:
hard, hot, deerflies biting. Wretched scrambles through cutting brush with a heavy pack on was what Anna was good at. Like fighting wildland fire, it was deliciously mindless in that just staying on one’s feet and doing one’s job took total concentration. Joan Rand was an added blessing. When Anna had a boss she trusted, she found enormous relief and contentment in just following orders.
Shortly after two p.m. they had the DNA hair trap assembled. Rory predicted the pickings from this site would be slim. He expressed the opinion that the North American grizzly was too intelligent to work as hard as they had just to roll in essence of rotted fish and eat a few huckleberries.
Rory was showing signs of being a kid and not the scared, suspicious shadow of an adult that Anna’d seen when they’d first met. She was beginning to enjoy his company. Joan always had, but then when it came to adolescent boys she saw through the eyes of a mother. Anna’s were more akin to those of a parole officer.
The eighty feet of barbed wire stapled in a rough circle around a place that was only flat in Joan’s imagination, they began the butt-and-heels slide down to the trail.
The next site to be disassembled was back the direction they’d camped. A luxury—since they’d be several nights there, they didn’t have to carry all their gear on their backs during the day.
With a minimum of cursing and scratches, they regained the trail. As they caught their breath, the radio crackled out Joan’s call number. It was the chief ranger asking for Anna.
“You got a fax,” Ruick said. “From some gal at the Tampa tourism office. Looks like a brochure for Fetterman’s Adventure Trails. Nothing on it clicked with me. I’m guessing the alias was a fluke.”
“Describe it for me.” Anna waited while Harry marshaled his thoughts.
“Nothing out of the ordinary. It’s a fax. The resolution isn’t all that great. Fetterman’s looks like a lot of those tourist trap places. Fun for the whole family sort of thing. There’s a picture of what’s probably an alligator. Let’s see. Animal shows. Souvenirs. Looks like a kind of swamp tour thing with nutria being fed to gators. Kind of a mom and pop operation. There’s a group picture on the back. Faces are a blur. Underneath. Let’s see . . . ‘Looking forward to new friends, George and Suzanne Fetterman, Carl Micou, Geoffrey Micou, Arthur Gray and Tunis Chick.’
“The gal who sent it has written in the margin, Adventure Trails was closed down after George Fetterman’s death earlier this summer.’”
“How old is the brochure?” Anna asked. “Can you tell?”
“Hmm. Lemme see, lemme see. Here. Nineteen ninety-six. Old. I expect nothing much changed in Adventure Trails from year to year.”
Anna gave the radio back to Joan. Harry had just called as a courtesy. The brochure held little interest and less information. Neither she nor he had any desire to waste airtime playing twenty questions to figure out what if anything a derelict roadside attraction in Florida had to do with a dead and mutilated Seattle divorce lawyer in Montana.
In fact, Anna’s mental gears had been sufficiently shifted over to the DNA project that they had hiked two miles down the trail before she figured it out.
”Joan! Stop!”
Joan and Rory turned to look back at her. Anna had stalled in the middle of the trail.
“Tell me about that boy you’ve been e-mailing. The one making the map,” she demanded of the researcher.
22
Normally it would
have been a hike of four hours or more from where they were to the tiny meadow where they had camped nearly a week before. They covered the ground in just over three, arriving an hour before sunset.
Having left tents, stoves, sleeping bags and the rest of their camping gear behind, they traveled light and moved quickly. Without the amenities the night would be uncomfortable but Anna had not wanted to lose the time it would have taken to return and strike camp then climb back up to the plateau on Flattop carrying the added burdens.
In truth she’d not wanted the added burden in the persons of Joan and Rory but, after she’d traded her theory for Joan’s information, they refused to be left behind. It increased her sense of responsibility, yet she was glad not to be alone. Because she suspected the park radios were being listened to by people other than rangers, she’d made the decision not to call Ruick to send backup.
The decision was not as foolhardy as it appeared on the surface. No one could start for the high country till morning anyway. Anna had all night to change her mind.
Leaving the trail before it neared Trapper Peak, Anna, Joan and Rory followed the slope in a southerly direction along the side of Flattop. This flank of the mountain was west-facing and caught the brunt of the afternoon sun. Several tiny lakes, carved an eternity before by glaciers and fed by small streams carrying snowmelt, provided water. It was prime huckleberry country and the berries were at the height of their season.
A half-mile or so beyond their old campsite, on an upthrust of rock, Anna stopped. Partly she was motivated by the sounds of heavy breathing behind her. She’d set a punishing pace. That she, too, was breathing hard was of no consequence. If she was right, time was of the essence, not only to save a valuable life but to see a sight that she would never forgive herself for missing.
A grunt and sucking sound told her Rory had dumped his pack at the base of the rock and gotten out his water bottle. Joan crept up beside Anna, aping her pose, elbows on the higher stones, body crouched behind. The researcher’s round face was alarmingly red. The hair that curled from beneath her ball cap was glued to her cheeks with sweat, and the upper regions of her oversized glasses were beaded with moisture. Despite the physical costs, Joan’s first words were, “Do you see anything?”
“Not yet. Tell me again about the e-mails,” Anna said.
“Okay. Right. Let me think.”
Breathe
would have been as apt a word. Anna waited while Joan recovered and lined her thoughts up for a round of scientific reasoning.
“First e-mail about six weeks ago. Maybe more. The screen name is Balthazar. He says he’s a high school student doing a research project on grizzly bears. He wants to know their ranges, denning habits, eating habits, if they’re protected at Glacier, or if we allow hunting. Sensing an acolyte, naturally I fell all over myself to answer.”