by Rhona Weaver
* * *
The answer to Win’s prayer came in a screaming, laughing little whirlwind racing across the yard to his truck. She gripped his pants leg and squealed with delight as only a three-year-old can. Right behind her was a whooping little boy in an Indian bonnet swinging a wooden hatchet. Win immediately saw the gun barrel drop in the mirror. He went down on one knee and grabbed the hand of the tiny girl.
“Well, well, now! Aren’t you cuter than a speckled pup!”
She grinned, hid her face in her free hand, and swung her dark ponytail with delight. Win let out a deep sigh of relief and smiled into her flushed face.
“Who are you, darlin’?” She transformed into sudden shyness and studied her feet.
“Tell the gentleman your name, baby.”
Luke was now standing beside Win, as calm and polite as could be. Out of the corner of his eye, Win saw the front door open and a tall young woman step out and call to the wild little Indian. This could be a cordial visit among friends anywhere, except that the man had just slung an assault rifle over his shoulder. Win turned his attention back to the little girl, who’d managed to answer “Abby” and then dissolve into a puddle of giggles.
“How old are you?”
Three little fingers went up and she beamed at him. “Three! Nigh onto four!”
“Luke, it’s nearly time for supper. . . . Does the gentleman want to stay for supper? We have plenty,” the tall woman called from the porch.
Well, at least part of the Bordeaux family still has their manners, Win thought. Luke gave Win a hard look as he straightened up. Little Abby immediately reattached herself to his pants leg, hiding from her hatchet-waving big brother.
“Expecting anyone else?” Win asked. “I’d hate to intrude.”
“No, not as I know.” Bordeaux shifted the rifle’s strap on his shoulder. “But then . . . I wasn’t expecting you.”
* * *
Three hours later they were sitting in their coats on the south porch, with the side door to the house cracked just enough to hear if the kids awoke and called out. Win was cradling a cup of very hot coffee. Luke got up to stir the coals and add a log to the fire he’d built earlier, in the pit beyond the porch. The clouds had broken for the first time since Win had been in Yellowstone, and the stars were so bright and close they didn’t seem real.
As he sank into the warmth of his heavy coat, he thought back on the evening. He’d felt dishonest being in their home at first, but Ellie Bordeaux was raised proper—she’d welcomed him with a disarming southern hospitality that set him at ease within minutes. Win’s grandmother used to say any southern girl worth her salt should be able to entertain the President or the Queen of England if they dropped by unannounced. Ellie Bordeaux was definitely worth her salt. She’d offered him sweet tea or coffee even before he’d finished wiping his boots on the front mat.
Their house was warm and cozy; it smelled of cornbread and simmering stew. His eyes had taken in the main room, kitchen, and adjoining dining room in one casual sweep. There was the kids’ crude crayon art on the refrigerator door, clean floor and rugs, relaxed furniture, and flames licking at a single log in the huge stone fireplace. He saw books that looked well read rather than placed for decoration, framed pictures of the children and of family back home. A half-finished puzzle was on the hardwood floor near the television, and toys were stacked under the coffee table. Win felt comfortable with the lack of pretense.
He had to make a conscious effort to keep an investigator’s open mind. A heavy camouflage coat hung next to the rear door, its pattern perfectly matching those of the armed men in the photos he’d seen hours earlier. He’d watched Luke put away the Wilson Combat Recon Tactical Rifle—an expensive precision weapon identical to the one carried by the lead man in the photos. There was no doubt Luke Bordeaux had been trooping around the forests of Yellowstone leading a lethal-looking platoon. The question now was why.
He’d felt Bordeaux’s wary eyes following him, even as the man marshaled the children to clean up before supper. He felt the dark eyes on him as he bowed his head for Abby’s big brother’s lengthy stab at saying grace. He had to bite his lip to keep from laughing as the five-year-old told God how his life would improve if only he had a puppy. When Ethan finally pronounced “Amen,” Win raised his head to see Luke grinning at his little son—then a nod and a quick smile toward him. The man had decided to call a unilateral truce for the night. Luke Bordeaux transitioned into the perfect host.
Ellie was a very good cook, but Win found himself wondering if the thick elk stew was the byproduct of a legal hunt. He had to continually remind himself to ease up, to not get too caught up looking for hidden crimes. Let them reveal what they would. As the evening went on, it became easier. Win played his horsey kid games with little Abby and Ethan. He watched as Luke read to them before they went to bed. Luke and Ellie both seemed to be good parents, attentive and gentle. Intellectually, he knew better than to let that sway his opinion of their overall character. Some of the cruelest gangsters and Nazis had reportedly been caring parents—still, on the surface, these folks seemed really decent.
“You must have young children.” Ellie had smiled at him as he bounced Abby on his knee for at least the tenth time during the games.
“No, no children, but my younger brother, Blake, has four-year-old twin boys and a two-year-old girl. I try to be a good uncle, but I don’t see them as often as I’d like because of my job.” He remembered Shelby used to say he was a kid magnet. She hadn’t really wanted children—said they’d interfere with her medical career. Strange that thoughts of Shelby would drift through my mind tonight.
Win and Luke looked over a compound bow Luke was making and went through the list of who they knew or knew of in their respective states, where they’d both hunted or fished, and when they’d attended major college games. It was a comfortable ritual establishing them as Sons of the South—it set out common denominators that kept them both rooted in a homeland far away from the barren hills and snow-topped mountains of this place.
“Your name’s Bordeaux, that’s French. But you don’t have the Cajun accent.”
Luke shrugged. “Daddy was Cajun. Ellie’s folks are mostly Cajun, but we both grew up over ’round Ferriday. Not much French influence on that side of the state. Just talk like a Louisiana country boy, I reckon.”
Ellie chimed in. “Don’t let him fool you—he can drop back into Cajun talk when he’s around his daddy’s people. I can’t even understand him!” She flashed Luke a playful smile.
Win had formed some conclusions about Luke Bordeaux early on. The guy was sharp, real sharp. He appeared outgoing and was probably fun loving and social. He seemed to have the Cajun “Laissez les bons temps rouler”—“Let the good times roll”—attitude. But there was a tension beneath the surface that made Win wonder if his initial impression of Luke’s easygoing nature was misplaced. And the guy was definitely physically imposing. He was about Win’s size, but he had a palpable aura of strength and quickness about him. Win had a tendency to judge other men’s appearance and temperament by what Shelby would say about them. She’d always had an opinion on such things. As the evening wound down, he wasn’t real sure what she’d say about Luke Bordeaux—maybe that he was intriguing, possibly that he was edgy, certainly that he was good-looking, in a Caribbean pirate sort of way. For sure that he was deceptively intense.
Earlier, Win had asked about living in Montana, and Ellie said it was sometimes hard and sometimes wonderful, just like life anywhere, she supposed. Her mother had told her to bloom where she was planted. She wanted so badly to do that, but she’d found it hard to feel included since she and the children spent part of each year back in Louisiana. The new church they’d begun attending this month was helping, she’d said.
“So where are y’all going?” Win asked her.
“Prophet Daniel Shepherd’s new church outsid
e Gardiner, the Arm of the Lord Church. They’re Luke’s clients—ahhh, becoming his friends, I suppose. They invited us. I’ve got some literature on it. It’s a small congregation, but it’s growing.” Luke took the flyer from Ellie’s hand, giving her a warning look, but handed it to Win, who scanned it quickly.
“I don’t think it would fit your style, boy. It’s working-class people who don’t see no need for government interference in their lives.”
Win’s eyes narrowed at Luke’s insult. Thankfully, Ethan made a timely escape from bed and had to be rounded up. The uncomfortable moment passed.
Win switched his focus back to the present and watched the red sparks fly from the firepit through the steam rising from his coffee. The sparks seemed to melt into the star field above. The adjectives coming to his mind weren’t adequate: awesome, magnificent . . . spectacular?
One of the children cried out and Ellie motioned Luke up. “Your turn.” She smiled at him, and he touched her shoulder lightly as he went inside. Win envied them that casual intimacy. He felt very relaxed for a moment and then very sad. He was a force of destruction here. He was an adversary.
It was as if she could read his thoughts when she spoke. “My husband is a good man. He’s doing the best job he knows how to take care of us. He’s bitter toward the government about losing his guide license last year. . . . He hasn’t made peace with it yet. So you can’t be anything ’cept his enemy, and his enemy has to be my enemy. Do you understand?”
She was sitting only a few feet from Win on the porch, and he realized how beautiful she was in the firelight. Her hair was nearly as black as Luke’s and fell well below her shoulders. She had an almost-olive complexion, with the high cheekbones, fine features, and deep-brown eyes common among Louisiana’s Cajun women. She also had their fiercely independent nature. She was warning him off—she would do nothing to compromise her relationship with Luke. She would not be a source of information.
She didn’t give him time to answer her question when she continued, “Since the children and I came back from home a few weeks ago, it’s been different. Luke has more of a purpose and is doing more of the things he loves now. His friends may not be the ones I’d choose in every way, but they’re God-fearing men.”
Win knew exactly which “friends” she was taking about.
“Ellie, my grandmother, who was far wiser than me, would say that God-loving men are far better than God-fearing men. Some situations aren’t as they first appear. I don’t want either one of you to come to any harm. Test the spirits and see if those men are good or evil.”
“And you, Win Tyler, which one are you?”
Before Win could wrap his mind around that rather heavy question, Luke came through the door with Abby bundled in a blanket and handed her off to Ellie. “Here, Mama, this one won’t go to sleep,” he whispered to her.
Abby spotted Win. “I like you best!” She squealed and grabbed for him as he playfully dodged back in his chair, thankful the dark mood had lifted.
“Best of what, lil darlin’?” Win asked her.
“Best of Daddy’s friends! You happy! You good! Be my friend?” She sang it over twice like a song, and he put his hand on her head and told her he would. He looked at Ellie’s face. Even in the flickering firelight he could see that she looked troubled.
Win glanced at his watch and realized he was pushing it on time. He thanked Ellie again for the great dinner, and he and Luke stepped off the porch and walked out of the firelight into the darkness toward his truck.
Luke was talking softly. “Been nice having someone from back home come over. Good fer Ellie and the kids. But you ain’t gonna be safe droppin’ by fer a while—neither snooping nor visiting.”
“Luke, I know you’re trying to make a living, but you need to know who you’re dealing with—”
“You’re fishin’, you don’t know nothing.”
“I may be fishing, but if we’re gonna talk in idioms here, you’re playing with fire and I think you know it or at least suspect it. You’ve got a great family. Think about them.” Win handed him a business card. “My personal cell phone number is on the back, if you want to call it instead of a government phone. We pay for information.”
“Yeah, and you can bet I ain’t a snitch.” Luke dropped the card.
Win didn’t want to see an example of Luke’s temper. He lowered his voice and eased his tone. “I know. I know. Just want you to think about what you may be getting yourself and your family into, that’s all.”
He retrieved his gun and his phones from the front seat where he’d left them when he was invited into their home. He holstered the handgun as he got into the truck.
“I appreciate you not shooting me this afternoon. . . . Other than that, this has been the most hospitality anyone has shown me since I’ve been out West. Take care of yourself, Luke.”
“You too, Win Tyler.”
* * *
Gus and his three guys were waiting in the Tahoe behind a low rise along the highway. Win lowered his window and nodded in greeting as he pulled close beside them.
“Well, Sport, you cut it pretty close. They had the rotors turning on the chopper,” Gus remarked. “Glad you’re back in one piece. The Chief and all the heavy hitters are waiting for your debrief back at the office. Follow us.” Gus pulled his vehicle away, and Win tried to sort out his conflicted feelings on the short drive to Mammoth. He thought back to little Abby’s song and wondered, Am I happy? Am I good?
Chapter Six
During the debrief, Win had shocked the group with the news of Prophet Daniel Shepherd’s cult encamped four miles from the park’s north entrance. Well, actually he’d shocked everyone except Gus and Chief Randall, who’d been dealing with the church since it purchased the inholding within the park over a year ago. The Park Service folks had no idea the “church” was likely a front for criminal activity, but Daniel Shepherd’s various churches had been on the FBI’s terrorism watch list for years. Win knew little about domestic terrorist groups, but even he’d heard of this guy. Shepherd was a hate-mongering proponent of the anti-government New America Movement—operating under the guise of religion. He’d once been based in South Dakota but had dropped out of sight months ago. He was former military, and a high percentage of his cult’s membership through the years had been disenchanted ex-servicemen. There’d historically been a strong criminal element in the group; they were suspected of carrying out bank robberies and other illegal activities to support their operations. The Arm of the Lord Church was apparently Shepherd’s latest enterprise, and no one in federal law enforcement was jumping up and down to welcome them to the neighborhood.
Over the following hours, the senior levels of several federal agencies fought among themselves over the extent of the threat that the armed men in Yellowstone posed. Win was learning that politics often trumped common sense when it came to such things. The FBI would normally be the lead agency in any perceived threat involving domestic terrorism, but the Bureau’s bosses at the Department of Justice were reluctant to get involved in a situation that could appear to infringe on religious freedom, even if the centerpiece of that religious freedom involved yahoos with semiautomatic rifles and a history of violent crime. So the DOJ kicked the prospective investigation over to the Department of Homeland Security, where the Secret Service brass began to squabble about the budget issues related to bringing aerial surveillance assets into the area. The U.S. Marshals Service was relegated to running warrant checks on anyone remotely involved in the church group. The Interior Department’s National Park Service was totally sidelined—no one was even including them in the conversation.
Thursday afternoon they got a bit of a break. ATF had an informant come through who confirmed there was a well-equipped militia of at least thirty men drilling on the land owned by the Arm of the Lord Church. The militiamen were all former military and employed residents of the area.
The bigger news was what the snitch wasn’t saying. The ATF informant refused to turn over the dirt on four additional men who were now living in the mobile homes on the Bordeaux property. The informant told his ATF handler that those four men were the real heavyweights, but he was demanding more money before he began naming names. Two possibilities: The informant could be talking big to leverage more cash out of the government, or the long-suspected criminal element behind Daniel Shepherd’s cult could be sitting in the park’s backyard. Unfortunately, there was too little evidence of wrongdoing to obtain a court order for a Title III, so the Bureau couldn’t conduct phone taps or any type of invasive surveillance.
The FBI’s Denver Field Office, which would ultimately be held accountable for whatever happened, decided to at least open a preliminary investigation and run limited ground surveillance on the Bordeaux, Daniel Shepherd, and some of the church members. So within twelve hours of Win’s contact at Bordeaux’s home, eight agents from the Denver office were on loose surveillance detail around Gardiner and Mammoth Hot Springs.
* * *
Before dawn broke on Friday, Win was jogging up the stairs to his office. He was on a mission. He waved a half-hearted greeting to one of the surveillance guys, who’d set up shop in Johnson’s renovated office, and started another pot of coffee in the gleaming new break room. Johnson was scheduled back a week from Monday. When he arrived, progress on the office might come to a screeching halt. In less than one week they’d made tremendous strides on the renovation, and Win wanted to keep the momentum going. As an added bonus, the near-frantic construction made it far easier for him to dodge the Denver agents and politely decline their offers to socialize. He was sure they knew he’d been shipped here on a disciplinary issue—no one transferred to Yellowstone voluntarily. He’d lectured himself this morning for his lack of courage in interacting with them, for his refusal to face what he figured was their veiled judgment of his failures, but his self-lecture did no good. He kept his distance.
