by Rhona Weaver
He and Trey were both growing more comfortable with the HRT team members, although comfortable wasn’t exactly the right word. The HRT operators were members of an incredibly exclusive and very dangerous club—and they knew it. Anyone else, no matter their status, was just not on their level. Win wasn’t sure if the HRT culture encouraged that underlying aura of superiority, but it was evident, even when they tried to dial it back to be more welcoming. Thankfully, football was a common interest, and they shared a steak dinner in their thrown-together dining room while hashing out every big game of the last several seasons. He wasn’t surprised that some of the men knew of Arkansas wide receiver Win Tyler. As they ate, several of them recounted games and pivotal plays from years ago. Win smiled to himself as he reflected on that. Shelby had always been confounded that he could remember what she considered completely irrelevant facts and statistics about college football and other players, even from decades past, but he could never seem to remember a grocery list with more than three items.
Long after dinner, as Trey was headed downstairs to work with the teams on possible intrusion points in the compound’s terrain, Win caught up with him.
“Hey, hey . . . I’m gonna be leaving directly, maybe eleven or so. How ’bout you stay at my place for a couple nights while we get this leak worked out. We can’t stay down here and work all night, and if you were there we could bounce ideas off each other without picking up the phone. I’m still not sure I trust the phones.” Trey seemed to be considering his offer, so Win kept up the persuasion. “Your family’s out of town, and two of your rangers will be outside, guarding my house. Just give it some thought.”
He was hoping Trey would agree; otherwise, he’d have no way of keeping up with the guy. It was unrealistic to think he could actually watch the ranger 24/7, but having a little sleepover at his house sure would help.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dark was still holding on as Win finished fixing ham and cheese omelets and Trey took coffee out to the near-frozen rangers who were guarding Win’s house in the continuing awful weather. The snow was only coming down in tiny, crusty flakes this morning, but the wind was howling straight out of the North Pole, the clouds were at treetop level, and most of the roads were sheets of ice. The two rangers were holed up in the small frame garage located at the rear of Win’s backyard. The little yellow building was actually a 1910 carriage shed, or so the historical brochure said, but it hadn’t been used for anything except storage for many years. The shed was certainly serving a practical purpose in the lousy weather by keeping some really good rangers from freezing to death.
Trey stomped his boots off in the mudroom and threw his cap and coat across the washer. “I see they got everything fixed after the shooting,” he casually remarked as he slid into one of the dining room chairs and dove into his food.
“Yeah, looks good as new—could almost pretend nothing happened.” Win didn’t want to let his mind go there this morning.
They ate, then drank an extra cup of coffee and outlined the day’s schedule, which Win knew would probably change the minute they hit the office. He and Trey had gotten nowhere in their biblical research of Ron Chandler’s reference to Malachi, but they’d eliminated four more potential suspects as they continued to whittle down the list of possible moles. Not bad for an impromptu sleepover.
“Hey, babe!” The ranger’s countenance changed as he answered his phone. He smiled at something his wife said. Then, “Hate to tell you, but this FBI fella is in the running for tastiest ham and cheese omelet in town. Told him you were the best cook in the park. Can’t wait for you to get home and defend your title!” He laughed into the phone at her reply. “Yup, everything’s going fine. Tell me how you and . . .”
Win finished putting their plates in the dishwasher and left the room to give the guy some privacy. He heard the ranger laugh at something else she said, and sadness found him. He absently wondered if Shelby had found some guy to tease and laugh with over breakfast, someone to help her ease into the day.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, the protection detail dropped Trey off at HRT’s building and slid their Tahoe to a stop on the ice next to Win’s office. Win was giving himself two hours this cold Friday morning to catch up on case-related matters before he joined Trey for more work on the leak. After the lengthy round of case meetings and calls, he looked up to see Deb and Ramona leaning into his open doorway. He signaled them in as he wrapped up a call with Denver. Since dinner Monday night, Ramona had been friendly but professional. He sure hoped she kept it that way, but darn, she was wearing those swaying silver earrings again. He forced his attention off that distraction and onto her words.
“I’m reviewing the background research on Daniel Shepherd, and I’ve run across something you need to give a look-see. I ran it by Emily late yesterday afternoon and she waved me off, but you should at least see it. . . . May be nothing. . . .”
“Sure, what’ve you got?” Win hoped he didn’t sound too impatient. He was standing now and anxious to get back to the leak investigation.
Ramona and Deb stood over his desk, and Ramona laid out several eight-by-ten-inch black-and-white photos on top of it.
“Where’d you get these? What’s this about?” Win was puzzled and frustrated; he had no time to fool around. The photos were of him.
Ramona was totally noncommittal, and Deb seemed to be intrigued.
“These seven photos either came out of your personnel file, or off an internet search for Winston R. Tyler, or from some other internal Bureau file. Look them over. See anything unusual?” Ramona asked.
He glanced through the photos quickly: a photo of him in a Razorback football uniform; another lower-quality shot at football practice; one of him with a rifle, probably at a marksmanship tournament; two candid shots of him in workout clothes; and two photos taken indoors. None of the pictures was recent; they were all several years old. He flipped them back down on the desk and shrugged. He really didn’t have time for this.
“What about these two?” Ramona dropped the additional photos on his desk. The first was attached to a press clipping from the Livingston Enterprise, the Gardiner-Yellowstone area’s only daily newspaper. The article was dated March 25th, and it announced Win’s appointment as the new resident special agent for Yellowstone National Park. It gave brief background information on him and included his Bureau file photograph. It was the standard press release for any agent receiving a new posting in a small town.
The second photo was a grainy blowup from a news article published in the Rapid City Tribune. It accompanied a lengthy article entitled “Separatist’s Son Shot by FBI in Robbery Attempt.” It was dated four years ago. Win did a double take at the two photos from the newspaper articles and slowly sat down in his chair. He didn’t know what to say.
Ramona tossed three of the other photos Win had assumed were of him on top of the photo from South Dakota. “These three came out of Dennison Shepherd’s file at Headquarters. Dennie at his junior-college football practice, a photo taken during one of his many trials—that one for assault—and a surveillance shot.”
Ramona crossed her arms. “Daniel Shepherd’s youngest son died the day of the bank robbery. He wounded the bank guard and two customers. Four years ago, you’d have passed for brothers, maybe even twin brothers just based on photographs. His features were rougher than yours and he was two inches shorter. I photoshopped tats off his neck and an arm. But if Daniel Shepherd saw the Bureau’s announcement in the newspaper with your picture . . . it had to have brought back some memories.” She let it hang there.
But Win knew. He’d felt it since he and Phillips talked after he shot Richter. He’d felt the attacks were personal. Now he knew why. He scanned the South Dakota news article. Dennison Shepherd, a.k.a. “Dennie,” began a life of crime at a young age, killed at the age of twenty-six by the FBI during a pursuit after a violent bank robbery. This
was deeply personal. This was about revenge. And it wasn’t over yet.
* * *
Later that morning, Win was mulling over the ramifications of Ramona’s photo investigation as he walked down the hall in HRT’s building to get a third cup of coffee. From Win’s perspective, the unfortunate consequence of the probable connection between the attempts on his life and Daniel Shepherd meant that it was only a matter of time before Mr. Givens pulled him off the case and out of danger. He and Deb had agreed to forward Ramona’s research and their conclusions to the ASAC, bypassing Emily, and let the chips fall where they may. It would be irresponsible to stay in Mammoth if some personal vendetta had fueled the attacks. A personal motive made it much more likely Shepherd would strike again—and much more likely someone else would get hurt. He’d hate to pull back, to leave, but he knew it was the right thing to do. He couldn’t afford to put anyone else in danger because he wanted to stay in the game. After all, what was it he’d yelled at Emily on the bridge? It’s not a game—it’s life or death.
* * *
The rest of Win’s day consisted of nose-to-the-grindstone reviews of personnel files, time sheets, and video surveillance footage from the Justice Center. By late afternoon, he and Trey had narrowed down their focus on the leaks to that building. Based on the time line they’d developed, almost everything that had been compromised had originated there, especially the specifics that Luke gave them on agent numbers, surveillance rotations, and aerial-asset scheduling. Their list of “possibles” had spanned the gamut—everyone from the cleaning people to Park Service employees, even little Jason was scrutinized—but the names on their lists were dwindling.
Evening rolled around and Win was puzzled no one had called him about the Daniel Shepherd connection to the attempts on his life. Maybe Mr. Givens had agreed with Emily that the evidence of motive was too flimsy, or just as likely, events on the case were moving so rapidly that his bosses had other, more pressing matters to deal with. He knew the surveillance efforts were going as badly today as yesterday. He also knew the Park Service and Secret Service honchos were now pushing for the Israeli contingent to enter the park through West Yellowstone rather than Mammoth. That was a logical decision, since many of the roads in the western part of the park were now open. It wouldn’t eliminate the potential threat from the Arm of the Lord Church, but it would certainly move the Israelis and the other VIPs beyond the church’s immediate vicinity. West Yellowstone was typically a two-hour drive from Mammoth, and from the current location of most, if not all, of the bad guys.
It was nearly 9:00 p.m. and Win was getting cross-eyed reading through the enigmatic Book of Malachi for the third time in less than two days. No one in the Bureau had broken the church’s code, and so far he had nothing to contribute. He was closing the Scripture when Trey stuck his head in Win’s tiny office.
“They’re still looking at a possible preemptive strike on the compound day after tomorrow, or maybe a redeploy to West Yellowstone.” Trey shook his head. “It’s all up in the air. I’m finished with the logistical stuff tonight. You wanna call it a night and maybe do a prowl-through of a couple of our suspects’ offices real early morning? Might turn up something.”
“Alrighty. . . . We’ve gotten ’em whittled down. I’ve got emergency requests in for financial and phone records on seven potential suspects.” Win watched Trey lean into the doorframe. He sure wasn’t gonna mention that one of the seven was Trey Hechtner. No red flags on the ranger yet. But he wasn’t finding smoking guns on any of their other suspects either—it was a slow, methodical process.
“Any hits?” Trey asked.
“Nope, not yet.” Win averted his eyes, but kept talking. “Let me shut down. I’m starving—I’ll fix us a late supper at my place. Meet you at the door in ten.”
Win wasn’t feeling real good about spying on Trey while Trey was supposedly helping him catch the spy. He was actually beginning to like the guy; they’d worked like partners these last two days. But every FBI agent had the espionage tale of Special Agent Robert Hanssen drilled into them at Quantico. For years the FBI agent in charge of catching an internal mole, a man who did incredible harm to the country and cost several lives, was Agent Hanssen himself. The ultimate example of the fox guarding the henhouse. Win watched Trey move away from the door. Still doesn’t make me feel any better about it.
* * *
He and Trey were wolfing down grilled cheese sandwiches with Cokes and going back and forth on possible leak scenarios when the local TV news came on at ten o’clock. The first story showed a Bozeman reporter standing in the wind and snow in front of the Mammoth Hot Springs Hotel, giving an update on the shoot-out that occurred outside the lobby three days ago. Thankfully, details were still scarce, and the park’s pert, outdoorsy public affairs lady said that federal law enforcement groups were taking part in drills in the Yellowstone area and that the deceased man, who had a long criminal history, had stumbled into an FBI group. Names were still not being released and the FBI would not comment. Yellowstone is perfectly safe now and all is well—that was the impression given in the reporter’s wrap-up. Win wished that were true.
Win was lying on the couch and Trey was stretched out on the rug in front of the TV as they watched the rest of the news broadcast. The weather was forecast to improve in the next few days, and Montana State had just landed a three-star recruit for next year’s basketball team. Trey wasn’t a big talker, but Win took the opportunity to probe a little.
“Why’d you go to Montana State? You’re from Idaho, right?”
“Football and basketball scholarships got me to Montana State. They had a good football team, and my folks didn’t really want me to go to the Northwest or down into Utah.”
“What about Boise State?”
“Just didn’t seem like a good fit, and they wanted me to play a single sport. Plus I’m a rancher. Montana State had the ranch-management program I wanted.”
“What’d you play?”
“Played quarterback. . . . We had some good years.”
No kidding, Win thought. He knew Trey Hechtner had been the quarterback for a team that had won two Big Sky Conference championships. He’d also started in basketball his last two years at the university. The guy was a ballplayer. Win hadn’t had to pull Jason’s trick and google Trey to find those facts. Instead he’d requested an FBI profile of Trey from an intelligence analyst two days ago. He knew everything—from the ranger’s 4-H awards in high school, to his four speeding tickets in college, to the timing of his car payments. There wasn’t any public record or article the Bureau couldn’t pull up quickly. Private matters were a lot trickier to uncover without a subpoena—short of that, he needed to get the guy talking. He was making a stab at that tonight.
“Said you were a rancher. . . . Planned to go back to the ranch after school?”
“Nope, not out of college. I’ve wanted to be a park ranger in Yellowstone since I came here for the first time as a seven-year-old. I got a seasonal position here during the summers of my master’s program. This is my dream job, you know. It’s my calling. After I retire, we might go back to Idaho, maybe start our own horse farm. My brother-in-law works with my dad on the ranch.” He stretched, reached behind the chair, and rubbed Gruff’s ears.
Win couldn’t believe the cat was letting the guy touch him. For some stupid reason it annoyed him that his cat, who he fed and cleaned up after—every single day—had taken up with a complete stranger. It got his focus off track. He needed to be asking the ranger questions he already knew the answers to.
Win tried to ease back into his low-key interrogation. “That’s a blessing to know what you always wanted to do. I was never sure, just knew I didn’t want to go back to farming. I loved so much of it, but a farmer has no control over his life. . . . I guess I needed that control.”
Trey snorted a little as he continued to pet the cat. “Hate to break it to you, Wi
n, but we’re never really in control. Remember what the Bible says, ‘The mind of man plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps.’ Just when you think you’ve got it nailed—when you’re totally on track, when you’re getting cocky about it—then God lets life step in and teaches you a little humility.”
He looked into Win’s eyes. “How’d you end up in the FBI?” Win felt the mood shift. Uh-oh, he’s turning this around on me.
“Uh, went to law school since I couldn’t think of anything else to do . . . didn’t really like it . . .”
“But let me guess, you made all As and were editor of the Law Review.” Trey sat up and pulled his arms around his knees.
“What’s with the sarcasm? I wanna have a good working relationship with you.”
“Is that so? Wouldn’t ever take up poker if I was you, Win.”
“Why? Why’s that?” Win shifted on the couch and looked down at the man.
“You might not be too good at it. Not too good at covering your intent or your thoughts. You watch everyone’s eyes—and I’ll grant you, yours are hard to read. Yet every once in a while I see through you. I’m pretty good at poker, Win, and what I’ve seen in your eyes from time to time yesterday and today is not that trust you keep talking about. More goin’ on here than you just inviting me over for a bunking party, some guy talk, and working on the case. You’ve got a separate agenda and I don’t know what it is.”
Well, dangit! I screwed that up. Win’s instincts told him this guy was solid. If they were going to be a team, there had to be complete honesty; their lives could depend on it. He knew he’d been a fool to handle it this way. Orders or no orders, he could have handled it differently. Win took a deep breath and slouched back on the couch.
