Over the winter, Noelle attended her mandatory SLETP (Seasonal Law Enforcement Training Program) in Rangely, Colorado, and a Search and Rescue course in the Tetons. Getting to know her new sidearm proved both empowering and intimidating. Truth be told, she preferred the laser-sighted taser.
By the end of September, her first high season in law enforcement had begun to wind down. It had been uneventful. Fifty-some DUIs, about a zillion firework citations, warnings for illegal campsites or fires, and a half-dozen marijuana busts. More speeding tickets than she cared to remember—always locals who acted offended to be pulled over. The tourists were too occupied with the wildlife to even approach the speed limit, which was occasionally worth a warning too.
She was parked just south of Deadman’s Bar, where the speed limit dropped from fifty-five to forty-five. No speeders yet, but it was only 8 a.m.
Suddenly, her phone buzzed. Jackson police. Odd this early in the morning.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Klimpton?”
“Noelle. Can I help you?”
“Deputy Layle Statler here. Ranger Yowlitz gave me your cell number.” Fran Yowlitz was her supervising ranger—a brute of a woman with cropped hair and a Navy Seal demeanor. Noelle got the sense she wasn’t Yowlitz’s favorite new hire.
Layle waited for her approval.
“Go ahead.”
“You’re aware of this wolf carcass down here?”
“Sure. The mystery wolf.”
“Something like that. Anyway, a lot of the guys that work for Game and Fish like to clean their elk in the big fridge down here. They’re running out of room, bugging the hell out of us, and I’m wondering what the park service wants to do with the animal.”
“Ranger Yowlitz didn’t give you any instructions?”
“Not really. She figured it was good to go . . . be incinerated, but wanted someone to look at it first. She said you were the expert.”
Dammit, Noelle thought. Old Fran was being sarcastic. Ever since the bear-tooth incident last summer—it turned out to be fake—Noelle’s animal-identification skills had been the butt of frequent jokes among the rangers. Now she had to drive thirty miles out of her way and play with a frozen wolf carcass to temporarily satisfy her boss’s resentment.
She sighed loud enough for Deputy Layle to hear.
“Is that okay?”
“I’ll be there in forty-five.”
“Great. I’ll see you there.”
Noelle flipped on her lights and spun a U-turn. She grabbed her wide-brimmed hat from the passenger seat and put it on—Yowlitz didn’t like rangers without hats.
Noelle had altered the unflattering uniform’s tan top and green pants to fit her figure. The button-up blouse was always left open two buttons short of the collar, not for the errant sightseer’s benefit, but so that she could feel a touch of individualism in the regimented organization. The green work pants were snugger than uniform code, but not in a tawdry way. Her wavy hair was kept up on most days, with just a coil or two peeking out the front of her hat.
She sighed loudly again. Of course everyone going the speed limit has to slow down to thirty when a cop is behind them. She flipped on her siren and passed the slow-moving caravan.
* * *
Waiting to turn left into the visitor-center parking lot from Cache Street, Noelle ruminated over the wolf carcass. She didn’t know much except that a tracker system had detected a radio signal similar to the ones given off by the collars the national park used on moose, wolves, elk, and bear. The Game and Fish department had performed a necropsy, as it sometimes did for research purposes, but instead of finding a collar, the examiners had found a transmitter embedded between the wolf’s shoulder blades.
Noelle pulled into a gravel parking lot through the back of the visitors’ center. Layle was waiting for her, leaning on his unmarked black Dodge Charger. He was young like Noelle, early thirties probably. He had sandy-blond hair and stood an athletic five feet eleven. His hands fidgeted around, indicating anxiety—something Noelle noticed because of her SLETP training.
The building was a large brick warehouse built in the 1920s. Double-tall garage doors adorned the front. Around the side there was a gray steel door. After introductions, Layle led her inside. Backhoes and graders occupied the cement floor in the front of the building. They walked between them toward the back corner.
Here, there was one small office for the mechanic, and an enormous walk-in cooler. Hanging outside the sealed doors were a few Carhartt insulated jackets and heavy gloves.
The deputy held a jacket out for Noelle, who refused. “We won’t be in there for long.”
“Sure.” Layle was already wearing a navy police-issue sweater. He grabbed two pairs of gloves.
It took a moment for the light to warm up and illuminate the cooler. A scent that reminded Noelle of livestock and a butcher’s shop filled the air. She buttoned her shirt up to the collar. Layle took note of this and handed her the gloves.
“In the back. Watch the hooks.”
Heavy meat hooks hung from the ceiling, connected to a roller track. All but a few of them were occupied by elk carcasses—Game and Fish employees’ trophies, in various stages of butchering. Fifteen or more.
“These guys like to hunt.”
“No kidding,” Layle replied. “One of the perks of working at Game and Fish, I suppose; free butchering facility.”
In the back right corner of the fridge was a stainless lab table on wheels. Its contents were hanging over the edges and covered with a black tarp.
“It’s still in fine shape. They’re just short on room, as you can see.” Layle unwrapped the wolf.
“He’s huge.”
“Hundred and fifteen, believe it or not.”
“Was he in a populated area? What kind of food source would sustain that weight here? That’s Alaskan-sized.” Noelle actually did know a few facts about wolves.
Layle nodded. “He was up by Moran. Suppose he could’ve hit the Dumpsters there, but they’re all bear-proof, right?”
Noelle nodded and then walked to the table and stroked his fur. She felt his waist, which was hollowed out from the autopsy, but would have been as thick as a keg of beer.
“Did he have a benefactor?” This was the park-service term for a person who fed a specific wild animal.
“Nobody up there admits to it.”
“’Course not.” Noelle struggled to lift up the front end of the beast. “Anything you wanna point out?”
“Help me flip it over,” Layle said. They put the frozen wolf on its side. “Right here between the shoulders is where they found the transmitter.”
Noelle ran her fingers over a small patch of shaved skin with an incision across the middle. “What did the biologist say?”
“He consulted with a vet. Blunt force from the vehicle killed him. He did have fluid in the lungs too.”
“Pneumonia?”
“I guess.”
Noelle felt pity for the animal. A prince of the western high country, second in the pecking order only to the grizzly bear, overfed and done in by human contact.
“Is there risk of an outbreak in the wolf population?”
“Biologist didn’t mention that, no.”
“I think I’m finished. Where’s the chip?”
“In my cruiser. Let’s get out of the cold.”
Noelle followed Layle back past the elk carcasses, through the warehouse, and into the parking lot. The sun was up high over Snow King Mountain. Town was starting to bustle, though the commotion didn’t approach the chaos of tourist season.
Layle popped the trunk to his cruiser, where there were three file boxes. He grabbed one, closed the trunk, and rested the box on the hood. From among the paperwork, he produced a small Ziploc evidence bag. He pulled on a pair of blue rubber gloves and handed Noe
lle the same.
“Fingerprints?”
“None. These are more for disease control.”
The “chip” looked like a triple-A battery that had been slightly shrunk; a long, thin pill. Layle handed it to Noelle.
“Little different from modern radio tags.” She looked up at Layle for confirmation.
He shrugged. “I don’t know much about them. The radio specialist from Game and Fish agreed, though. He took the back off here”—Layle pointed to a tiny panel—“and said the antenna apparatus was bigger than usual, and there was an especially powerful battery. Hence the size.”
“Radio transmitters don’t need much battery life?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Then what is it?”
“Outdated, he figured.”
Noelle handed the silver pill back to Layle, who tucked it into its bag.
“Where does it go from here?”
“It’ll live the rest of its life in evidence, along with all this stuff.” He motioned to the file box. “Town doesn’t have the resources to waste its time pursuing what looks like an illegal-species charge at most.”
Noelle thought for a second. Yowlitz seemed to think this thing was open-and-shut, and Noelle had no reason to disagree.
“Go ahead and incinerate the carcass.” Noelle pulled off the gloves and tossed them in the can by the garage doors. “Hold on to the chip.”
“Don’t worry; we can’t dispose of it if the case isn’t resolved. It’ll be in evidence.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks for coming down.”
Noelle put on her Ray-Bans and started toward the car.
Then she stopped and turned. “Oh, how’s the chief?”
Layle clammed up, then stuttered. “H-he’s good. On vacation as we speak.”
“Give him my best.” Noelle got in the Yukon and sped out of the lot toward the park.
28
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA. OCTOBER 24.
10 A.M. EASTERN STANDARD TIME.
“Then call him again!” Thomas Wright, assistant director of counterintelligence, loomed over Divya.
“He doesn’t want to be involved, sir.”
“Unacceptable. Any word on whether the lobby is going to bring out Shar-Pei as ammo?”
“I convinced them it wouldn’t be good for their reputation to leak American secrets.”
“Good. Any new info from them?” Wright was pacing, squeezing a stress ball as though he were trying to kill it.
“Not really.”
He stopped and shook his head emphatically. “Shit, Divya, he’s an agent’s dream—a perfectly embedded liaison. Call the man!”
“Isn’t there anyone else?”
“They killed that police chief, Divya. Married, couple of kids.”
“Are you sure?”
“Eighty percent sure. One of the hourly KH-11 transmissions captured the incident.”
This filled Divya’s mind with questions. “The NRO launched a Kennan Crystal for this? How detailed is the image? Isn’t its orbit over two hundred miles?”
“I could tell you when the postman came to your house yesterday.”
“Damn.” During her preparation, she’d studied Jackson Hole Chief of Police Roger Terrell. She had come to glean that he was not only a solid law enforcement agent, but also a family man. “You said there was no chance of that.”
“Things changed. Xiao’s more desperate than we thought.”
“How hot is the situation there?”
“Wouldn’t be too bad for Trent. If he can locate the girl—give us some ideas about her whereabouts. He doesn’t need to get any more involved than that.”
“So what’s the angle?”
“Make something up. You’re good at that.”
She gave an unconvincing nod. “What about his wife?”
“Alive, we’re guessing. She’s a good bargaining chip for them. We don’t know her condition.”
Wright sensed an opening.
“Do it for her, if nothing else. Send me Trent’s information by the end of the day.” He walked out of Divya’s office.
She rubbed her eyes and took a big gulp of coffee. It was her fifth cup of the day. Her heart was pounding but her eyes were tired, her brain a drained battery.
She thought about Jake. His obvious misery in DC and with her. How clearly he’d yearned to be back home.
What was her next move? Coming clean was the best route when dealing with someone as savvy as Jake, but Wright wouldn’t allow that. He’d read enough about Trent to know he wouldn’t buy into the company line if it contradicted his own sense of justice. According to the assistant director, Jake was too smart for his own good. Which was too bad, because Divya had no doubt that Jake would cooperate if he knew what had happened to Terrell and Charlotte.
Xiao still has Charlotte, but what is my bargaining chip? She’d been at the agency long enough to know that’s what it was all about. A bit more coffee and she signed back into the system. She clicked on the file “Trent, Jake,” browsed a bit, and then opened “Internal Affairs (1),” which hadn’t even occurred to her before.
Holy shit. Her heart sank, but she knew it was her in.
29
SALMON, IDAHO. THE SAME MORNING.
9:45 A.M. MOUNTAIN STANDARD TIME.
Jake woke up to Don tying flies in the kitchen and drinking Red Bull on ice. Bacon was sizzling on the range. The smell of burnt toast overpowered the sour aroma of twenty-some empty Rainier cans on the counter, waiting to be recycled.
“No coffee?”
Don didn’t look up. “Gave it up.” He finished a Purple Peril, size six or so, and put another hook in the vise.
“I’ll get some on the way out.”
This got Don’s attention. “Not fishing today?”
“Time to winterize, I’m afraid. No wood at the house, windows need taping, cover the boat.”
“Season’s just getting started!”
“Here, maybe. We’re about done. Speaking of, don’t you ever work?”
Don looked up from his work again. “I could be. Thought you got bitten by the steelhead bug again yesterday. Was gonna tool around with you.”
Jake momentarily considered it. He thought of J.P. and Esma. “Nah, wish I could. Maybe next week. I’ll call you.”
Don shook his head and went back to the vise. “Getting cold out. That water temperature drops much more they won’t chase flies so well.”
“Right. Getting cold. Gotta winterize. You follow?”
“Asshole,” Don jabbed.
Jake grabbed his backpack from the bottom of the stairs and headed for the door. “Go solo!” he shouted back toward the kitchen.
“That’s when you know you have a problem!” Don yelled back.
Jake laughed and let the door close.
The weather had improved again overnight, contrary to Don’s prediction. It was still early, but already forty degrees. The autumn sun was low but powerful. Nice enough for a light jacket and jeans.
Jake grabbed his Costas from their sunglasses bag and jumped in the SUV. He headed upriver along the Salmon, toward town and Highway 28.
The Exxon had something labeled “Coffee,” and since Jake didn’t have any alternatives, he filled his stainless travel mug with the hot liquid. It looked inky black and viscous, which was better than amber brown and thin.
He browsed the breakfast aisle for something healthy but came up empty-handed.
“Anywhere you’d recommend for breakfast?” Jake asked the cashier. The slight young man didn’t look up.
“Subway.”
“Thanks.”
Halfway between Salmon and Leadore, Jake spotted a small diner on the right. He pulled into the gravel parking lot.
A bell rang a
s Jake opened the door, silencing a table of retirees.
“Molly! Someone’s here,” one of the table’s more sprightly occupants yelled into the kitchen.
“Appreciate it.” Jake grabbed a newspaper and sat at the counter. Under a clear plastic sheet there were old pictures of game—everything from bighorn sheep to mountain lions—that had been taken by local hunters.
Jake looked toward the group, who were eyeing him back. He sent a friendly smile.
“What’s good?”
The same man spoke again, this time begrudgingly. “Corned beef hash. Not on the menu.”
“Thanks again.” So much for healthy, Jake thought.
Finally, Molly emerged from the kitchen and dropped a few plates of hash in front of the old codgers. She was slightly heavy but beautiful. Her demeanor matched. “So sorry to keep you waiting, honey; I do the cooking too.”
“No problem at all.”
“What can I get you?”
“A good cup of coffee and the corned beef hash.”
“Sorry, Molly; Joe told him.” A short man with a weak, raspy voice spoke up.
“Oh, you should know better, Joe,” Molly teased. “Tellin’ our secrets to strangers.”
She leaned over the counter toward Jake and whispered, “They think they get the VIP treatment. Really, my printer’s just broke and I can’t change the menu.”
“I won’t tell,” Jake flirted back.
“They can’t hear anyway.”
As Molly set his coffee down, Jake spread the paper out in front of him.
Senator Canart Gains Student Support
Boise, Idaho—Senator Rick Canart is best known for his divisive stance on immigration and support of a bill that would, among other things, provide federal funding to companies who are developing human tracking technology, or nano-GPS.
During the mid-October congressional recess, he’s brought his keystone message back home to Boise State.
“Idahoans, like myself, love their privacy and constitutional rights as much as anyone else, yet I have found great support here.
River of No Return : A Jake Trent Novel (9781451698053) Page 16
