by Rhona Weaver
A diesel engine starting near the main housing area jogged him out of his melancholy thoughts. Black wisps of clouds swept across the moon for a moment and plunged the sparkling world around him into darkness. The moon reappeared in little slivers that sent shafts of light through the heavy snowfall. God was whispering to him, Focus on the good. His thoughts turned to small accomplishments, little positives to pull him back from the undercurrents of depression.
Well, he hadn’t yet broken the Park Service’s strict rule on not feeding the animals, although it was killing him not to feed the chipmunks and ground squirrels that made his backyard their home.
And he’d come to treasure his hour-long lunches, when he’d wander to one of Mammoth’s two restaurants, eat his one decent meal of the day, and text or call his brothers, his buddies, or friends in the Bureau.
Plus, he’d hired a housekeeper, Tia, who’d come once a week and keep the dust from accumulating in the house. She’d also drive sixty miles into Livingston every week to pick up groceries and dry cleaning for him and for several other single men and women who lived in Mammoth and didn’t have the time or desire to shop for themselves. She was a kind, middle-aged woman who liked his cat and would even iron his shirts.
And he’d bought a dark-brown felt hat from the Mammoth General Store that suited him. It was a mix between a cowboy hat and a fedora, and it kept the rain and sleet off. He’d never worn anything on his head to work, but most men in this region seemed to wear some kind of cap or hat when they were outside and the weather was bad—and the weather always seemed to be bad.
He’d also signed up for the ten-dollar membership at the hotel’s sports club, a gym of sorts that was open to employees and contractors at the park. It had a basketball court and a reasonable assortment of weights and exercise equipment. It was in a historic building directly behind the hotel and just over a hundred yards from his office. Now he had no excuse for not getting back in shape, especially since the Bureau gave their special agents three work hours a week for physical fitness. He’d let that slide during the last six months. It was way past time to put the hammer down on working out.
Maybe most important, he’d revived his once-long-standing habit of calling his folks and grandparents every Sunday afternoon or evening. For most of his life they’d been his anchors. No one had chided him for his self-centered sinfulness of the last two years. No one had said, “I told you so.” He was so grateful for those examples of unconditional love.
And last night he’d pulled out the big file folder that held all the job proposals he’d received since law school. Those who didn’t know him well always assumed he’d move from a successful college football career directly into the pros. Win loved the game, but he’d never felt the draw toward pro football. Oh, the money was great, but he never pictured his life there. He’d had solid offers from several top-flight law firms and corporations. His one-year stint as an Assistant U.S. Attorney bolstered his already-impressive résumé, but settling into a traditional law firm or a corporate environment didn’t fit his style.
The FBI had appealed to his desire for public service while offering something different—the chance to work with a team, the chance to make the world a better place, and maybe have some adventure along the way. He’d seen the Bureau as his life’s calling. He’d never had one regret, never one doubt, about his chosen life’s work until January 25th, when the U.S. Attorney in Charlotte, North Carolina, announced at a press conference that several FBI agents were under investigation for misconduct relating to the alleged entrapment of Congressman Eric Brunson—a pillar of virtue in the U.S. Congress.
Chapter Nine
As Thursday night’s big snowfall slowly melted into an icy mess, Win was spending his third consecutive Saturday in the office. Johnson would be back on Monday and Win wanted everything in place. He was wrapping up the highlight of his day: ten minutes of FaceTime with the world’s cutest niece and world’s greatest nephews and a recap of Razorback football recruiting with his brother Blake. He closed out the call, pushed off from the chair, and admired the newly hung bear painting on his wall as he reflected on the renovation’s progress.
FBI technicians from the Salt Lake City Field Office had installed the new computers and other electronics, which had sat in their boxes for well over a year. Those guys stayed two extra days reconfiguring the building’s security system and installing updated satellite communications systems to enable videoconferencing. They still wouldn’t have coverage over the entire park, even with new systems, but it was a vast improvement over the outdated junk they’d relied on for years. Win had offered the technicians several nights at the Bureau’s two visitors’ cabins at Mammoth—both had sat empty the last two summers. Bartering the two cabins in one of the country’s most popular parks, where it could be nearly impossible to get a room, turned out to be an easy sell. He knew if he’d waited for work orders to go through the proper channels in Denver, it would be months before the technical updates could be accomplished. Horse-trading went a long way, he’d found, even in the federal government.
The steady, freezing drizzle and fog drifting by his second-story window at 1:30 in the afternoon was one more reason for working in the office this Saturday. Win plopped back down in his chair, logged into his secure email, and discovered that Johnson had decided to prolong his getaway by taking a couple of weeks of annual leave after he left Quantico yesterday. As much as he didn’t like the man, Win felt a sinking feeling as he reread the message. Two more weeks alone. . . . He knew he wasn’t real good at “alone.” Most of his life had revolved around a team: his close-knit family, football in junior and senior high school, college football, then Shelby, his FBI squad in Charlotte—his teams. He let out a deep sigh, turned away from the computer, and thumbed through the sparse files on his desk. He could read through the “armed men” working files again, or he could go home, change into his sweats, and watch a TV movie. He picked up the files.
It had been ten days since Win had visited the Bordeaux home. FBI background checks on Luke and Ellie sat on his desk; he basically had them memorized, but he glanced through them again. Luke grew up in a low-income family of four children in a rural area south of Ferriday, Louisiana. His father worked at a chemical plant in Vidalia and drove trucks for log companies or area farmers on his days off. He died five years ago in a log-truck accident. At thirty-two, Luke was the eldest son. He’d been a very good student and an outstanding athlete until the middle of his junior year in high school, when he dropped out to work at a local sawmill.
“Looks like he quit school to help support the family. What a shame.” Win added his own commentary to the factual report.
A second Bordeaux son had served time in the state penitentiary for various minor drug offenses and now worked at a local grain elevator. A third son joined the Army and was killed in Afghanistan. That would have been around the time Luke started running into trouble in his own Army unit. He’d been released with an honorable discharge, but it was clear he was forced out. Until that time, Luke Bordeaux was an outstanding soldier. He’d served with distinction in Iraq and Afghanistan. Silver Star, Bronze Star, Purple Heart—wow, this guy’s a hero. After nine years in the service, he’d moved up to staff sergeant and was an instructor for special operations at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. He’d been selected for Delta Force right before his separation from the service. Delta Force was the Army’s equivalent of the Navy Seals, the best of the best. Win thumbed back through the service documents. He wanted to know what happened to end what appeared to be an exemplary Army career, but Luke’s military records were incomplete and Win’s requests for more information had hit a wall.
There wasn’t much information on Ellie. She was thirty years old. Born and raised in Vidalia. Her mother was a schoolteacher and her father worked as a foreman on a local farm. There were two sisters who had families and still lived in the general area. Ellie had been an excellent student
and an all-state basketball player. Her degree in elementary education was from Methodist University, near Fort Bragg. Bet she went to college while Luke was stationed there. She and Luke had been married since she was nineteen years old. Childhood sweethearts, maybe?
They’d moved to Montana just over five years ago, but both children were born in Louisiana. Win smiled. They may live out West, but they were trying to make sure they raised little LSU fans.
There was information on everything from credit scores to traffic tickets to every single incident with any law enforcement agency. Nothing interesting until the last fourteen months, when Luke’s run-ins with the local FBI agent began.
Win stretched back in his chair, put his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes for a moment. He thought of these “subjects” as the living, breathing people he’d shared dinner with, told his stories to, and laughed alongside just a few nights ago. He pictured Ellie’s smile when she saw him in the hardware store, and Luke’s menacing eyes in the mist as the guy turned toward him with gun drawn. . . .
He let his mind wander to probe various scenarios. Could Luke Bordeaux have been involved with Daniel Shepherd’s group before they made their move to Gardiner? In the suspected bank robberies? Could Bordeaux have known them through his military connections? Could—
The ringing of his personal phone interrupted his thoughts. He didn’t recognize the number, but it looked local. Probably a wrong number, he thought, but he answered it anyway.
She had been crying—he could tell it in her voice.
“Win Tyler?”
He sat up straight in his chair and answered calmly. “Hey, Ellie, you okay?”
“Wouldn’t be calling you if I was okay, would I? I found your card in the yard a while back. I . . . I think I need to talk to you. I can’t talk on the phone long . . . I’m using a lady’s phone in Gardiner.”
Smart girl. She isn’t using her cell phone to call me. Good. “You in any danger?”
“No, no, not now—but it might get to that, and I’m afraid for Luke.”
“Okay, when is a good time to meet?”
“I can get someone to keep the kids tomorrow after church. Luke won’t be home until tomorrow night. . . . Luke doesn’t know I’m calling you.”
Yeah, figured that. “Where do you want to meet?”
“Fewer folks know me in Mammoth, I suppose. More tourists there, could blend in.” She sounded like she was fixing to cry again.
“How about the chapel here at Mammoth, two o’clock. Will that work?”
“Okay . . . okay, I’ll come.”
The call went dead and Win stared down at the four short paragraphs that, according to the FBI, summed up the life of Mary Ellen “Ellie” Bordeaux. Just the facts. Not the soul. He’d never developed an informant before, but he was already sure he wasn’t gonna like it.
* * *
The powers that be at the Bureau, the Park Service, and the Secret Service declared a full-court press for Win’s meeting with Ellie. The higher-ups were on a videoconference within twenty minutes of her call. Even though the agencies had nothing concrete on the church group, the grainy photos of a military-type militia in Yellowstone just ahead of some very high-level diplomatic visits still had Washington a little shaken. Prophet Shepherd’s rants on the ultra-right-wing radio circuit had become increasingly anti-Semitic, and that wasn’t helping calm nerves. No one had been able to get any reliable intel on what was going on within the group. The ATF informant was suddenly off the grid. Win’s contact with Ellie was critical to advance the investigation, and Chief Randall seemed to be the only one who believed Win could pull it off.
Tom Strickland, the Denver Field Office’s Special Agent in Charge, knew about the Brunson fiasco in North Carolina. He knew Win had been exiled to Yellowstone instead of being fired. But he also knew enough about the politics of big-time political corruption cases to acknowledge the possibility that Agent Tyler might have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time and hadn’t gotten a fair shake by the Bureau. Still, Win’s big boss was very hesitant to put a relatively new agent, even a good one, in a situation where the information he needed to gather was so essential.
SAC Lomax, of the Secret Service, thought they were nuts to even be considering it. He wanted to immediately bring Ellie Bordeaux “in” when she showed up at the chapel and pressure her to reveal what she knew—through threats of putting her children in state custody and indicting her for harboring fugitives. He wanted to play hardball, and he certainly didn’t think Win was up to the task.
Chief Randall pointed out to both of them that Mrs. Bordeaux had contacted Win on his personal phone, and so it was very likely she would only meet with him. If a more experienced agent appeared instead and she refused to cooperate, the entire investigation would be derailed.
It was finally agreed that park rangers in civilian clothes would clear the chapel and secure its entrances. FBI agents from Denver would run Win with a wire and video feeds. The Secret Service guys would just have to stand around and fret. Lomax hated it, but he finally agreed. Win spent half of Saturday night on the video feed being coached by various FBI tutors on informant-management techniques. When he finally got home, he ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, remembered to feed the cat, and lay down on the bed with his Bible. After a few minutes of reading, he knew how he’d handle it.
When the FBI contingent walked into the office the next morning, Win was shocked to see that the Denver SAC and the National Security ASAC had accompanied their two wire technicians and the support agents. The FBI jet from Denver had also landed in Jackson and picked up Win’s direct supervisor, Jim West. They’d flown into Bozeman, the nearest large airport, and arrived in Mammoth mid-morning. There was no pep talk, no chitchat. After brief introductions, they left Win to do his job as they huddled downstairs with Lomax and Chief Randall in the conference room.
SAC Strickland reminded Win of one of those big-shouldered English bulldogs: medium height, barrel-chested, with small, watchful eyes and a clean-shaven head. He’d been one of the first African American agents to serve as an FBI Assistant Director. He’d stepped down from that job in January and taken the Denver SAC position because he’d grown up in southern Colorado and planned to retire there. The last thing he needed was a major screwup in a national park on his watch. He’d been in the Bureau for twenty-five years, was former military, and had the reputation of being organized, direct, and fair. He’d never been to Yellowstone National Park, and while he had no illusions his young agent would score much on the informant meeting, he saw the trip as a good chance to be out among the troops.
Denver’s Assistant Special Agent in Charge, or ASAC, for National Security, Wes Givens, had the tall, slim, Ivy League lawyer look. The guy could have been a model for Town & Country. An expensive tan trench coat was perfectly folded across his left arm as he shook Win’s hand.
Win’s quick assessment of his immediate boss, Jim West, confirmed his impressions from their phone and video calls. The guy was in his early forties, about five feet ten, with blondish-brown hair in a short cut. Jim’s eyes were alert and friendly when he introduced Win to the higher-ups.
All three men had a competent, professional air about them. They were here on serious business and their demeanor reflected that fact. They looked like FBI agents. Win was thinking the Director would be pleased.
Just before the two o’clock meeting time, Win was sitting in his SUV in the small parking lot across the highway from the Yellowstone Chapel, listening to the radio chatter and watching the surroundings. Several civilian vehicles had been parked in the lot so that Win and Ellie’s vehicles wouldn’t stand out. A female ranger in hiking garb was lounging near the front of the chapel’s white double doors, pretending to read a map in the light drizzle. Win thought that was weak, but at least she could prevent anyone from entering the building. Two plainclothes rangers were
near the rear of the church, trying to look nonchalant. It occurred to Win that the church’s chiseled stone was the same pale-gray color as the low-hanging clouds.
Since leaving her house for church early that morning, Ellie had been trailed by two cars of FBI agents out of Bozeman who’d been brought in to help. Win watched one of the surveillance vehicles slowly drive by as Ellie pulled into the lot. She parked the silver Toyota pickup three spaces down from Win’s SUV at 1:58 p.m.
The chatter on the radio stopped. Time to saddle up. Win took a deep breath and got out of the truck. He walked to the chapel and went in—he could feel her eyes on him. The small front foyer was adorned with two beautiful stained-glass windows that carried the themes of the park: waterfalls, geysers, and wildlife. Polished beams anchored the vaulted wooden ceiling in the main sanctuary. A carpeted center aisle led to the raised chancel with its tall wooden cross and altar. Everything was spotless. This vintage house of worship was obviously much loved. He moved slowly down the rows of oak pews. He didn’t have to remind himself he wasn’t there to see the 1913 architecture today.
He was surprised at how calm he felt. His bosses might not like it, but he was going to handle this his way. If it worked, fine. If not, well, at least he could live with himself. There would be no pressure, no threats, no blanket offers, no attempts to turn her against her husband. She came in the door of the sanctuary a couple of minutes behind him.
The audio feed on the wire Win was wearing and the video from the hidden cameras were being transmitted directly into the park’s Dispatch Office, a compact building 250 yards away. Chief Randall, SAC Strickland, and SAC Lomax all stood directly behind the large screens relaying the live feed and watched the show. Their number twos took up positions on the sides of the room.
