“Agent V-v . . . whoever she is . . . said we should keep our eyes open for the girl. She said they were looking too.”
“Right,” Noelle said. “And the only lead we have in any direction is the murder last night.”
“I’m not sure you should believe anything that agent says,” Jake added.
At the Yukon, Jake paused for a second. It was still cold out. “Can I bring Chayote?” he asked. The heeler was scratching at the passenger window of the 4Runner and whining. “I can’t leave him to freeze.”
“Fine.”
Jake jogged over and opened the door. Chayote bolted to the back door Noelle was holding open.
“I’ll follow in my cruiser,” Layle shouted across the lot.
Noelle switched her light bar on, but left the siren off. The traffic headed north on Cache yielded, and she punched it toward Moose Junction, Layle in tow.
“Where did you see the Tercel?”
“Between Moose and Moran. Crest of the hill above Deadman’s Bar.” Noelle checked her speed. She didn’t want Fran Yowlitz to catch word that she was up to something.
“Everyone speeds there,” Jake said.
Noelle laughed. “That’s our most productive trap.”
“How often do you stop someone?”
“I’d say ninety percent don’t slow down to forty-five by the sign, but we let most slide.”
“And the Tercel was doing the speed limit at the sign?”
“Right under.”
“Being cautious at a known speed trap,” Jake guessed.
“A local being cautious. Tourists, if there are any around, wouldn’t know it’s a speed trap.”
“You think she lives somewhere up there? Somewhere she would encounter the trap on the way to or from work?”
“Possible, yeah.”
Jake let his gaze on Noelle linger a second too long. Behind her perfect profile was the cloud-hazed outline of the Tetons. The two most beautiful things Jake had ever seen, all wrapped up into one convenient package.
“What?” she said. She brushed her hair behind her ear so she could keep an eye on him.
“Nothing.”
He continued with his postulation. “Not many places to live up here. One of the dude ranches, or up by Moran.”
Noelle nodded. She slowed down slightly at Moose so as not to attract attention from the park service.
At Circle Y Ranch, a few miles past Deadman’s Bar, Noelle slowed and turned right. “Good a place as any. They’ve got quite a few employees living here. Maybe one drives a Tercel.”
She put the Yukon into four-wheel drive to climb the winding hill toward the main lodge. Chayote was anxiously hopping between rear windows, looking for cows to bark at.
“I need to get one of these.” Jake pointed to the Plexiglas divider between the front and back seats. “He always has to be up front, causing trouble.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Noelle said.
Jake thought he detected a slight upturn in her lips.
Noelle turned off the light bar before the lodge so she didn’t alarm anyone. A rusty Dodge Ram was parked outside, turquoise and tan with longhorns bolted to the front grill.
An old man came out. He wore old Ariat boots and a heavy wool sweater.
Before Noelle could talk, he burst into a rant. “If you’re here to bother me about that culvert there at the road, I told ya I’d be on it when I can afford it.”
She disarmed him when she took off her hat.
“I’ll do it, is all I’m saying.” He spit tobacco onto the fresh snow.
“We’re not here for that, but if you keep flooding the shoulder of the park road there, I’m coming back with handcuffs.” She shot him a smile.
Good police work, Jake thought. Keep ’em on your side as long as you can.
“Reckon I’ll keep flooding it, then. C’mon in.”
Chayote sniffed at a few bull-elk heads wrapped up on the porch waiting for the taxidermist. “Tags for all those, I’m sure?”
“’Course. Y’all gotta start checking the wolves for permits. Twelve of ’em back here chasing mules around this morning.”
Noelle knew better than to go there.
The mudroom was littered with dirty cowboy boots and horse blankets. The rancher kicked them out of the way. “We’re just packing up for winter.”
Layle opened the door and entered the already crowded entryway, drawing a glare from the old man.
“Howdy,” Layle said.
“Cavalry’s here, I see.” The rancher rolled his eyes.
“Anyway.” Noelle got to the point. “We’re wondering if any of your hands might drive an old white Toyota Tercel that could have been involved in a crime last night.”
“I don’t think any of those weenies are capable of committing a crime.” He wasn’t protecting his employees, which was good. “’Sides, they’re all gone.”
“Done for the season?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you know of any cars like that?”
“Never seen one around.”
Jake took a look around as Noelle finished up with the rancher. Nothing suspicious, as far as he could tell.
“Do you mind if we take a look in the barn?” Noelle asked. Jake figured it unnecessary; there was nothing in the old man’s tone suggesting a lie.
“Do what you want. I gotta go get these horses ready for transport.”
“I’ll leave a card here on your desk in case you see that Tercel around.”
He shrugged at Noelle.
Layle laid his card on top of Noelle’s.
“Doubt it’s here,” Jake said as they walked behind the lodge toward the rickety prairie barn.
“Agreed.” Noelle didn’t look up. “But the Ram had a flat tire. Been sitting there a while, looks like. Gotta wonder how he gets around.”
“Nice.” Layle was impressed.
As was Jake. “Didn’t notice” was all he said.
Jake held the door to the barn open. Layle entered first, then Noelle. Jake swept the landscape for the rancher, just to keep the man within sight. He was a few hundred feet down the driveway, putting a head collar on a calico mare.
“Well, shit.” Jake heard Noelle from inside. “It’s a Toyota, all right.”
Jake’s eyes adjusted to the darkness as he walked in. By the high door sat a brand new pearl-white Prius.
“Nice.” Layle said again, then laughed.
On the way back down the driveway, Noelle slowed down by the old man and lowered the window. “Get that culvert fixed.” He didn’t look up from his work. “Cute truck you got in there.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He waved them away.
“Moran?” Jake asked as she put the window up.
“Think so. Not much between here and there.”
They rode in silence to Moran Junction. Noelle pretended to take interest in whatever chatter came over her radio—turning it up, then rolling her eyes or shrugging and turning it back down.
Bearing right at Moran Junction toward Togwotee Pass reminded Jake of a day hike he and Noelle had once taken to Heart Lake. He gave her a sideways glance, wondering if she was thinking the same thing. She didn’t show her cards.
Noelle pulled onto Buffalo Valley Road on the left and stopped the Yukon. Layle pulled up alongside them and opened his passenger’s-side window. “What’s the program?”
“I say we split up. Check as many driveways as possible before word gets around that we’re here.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Layle pulled forward and sped down the country road. Jake and Noelle were only a few car lengths behind.
The deputy’s cruiser was pulled over on the left where a large A-frame sat in a stand of pines. Jake and Noelle continued past to a small hunting ca
mp on the right. The Buffalo Fork flowed through the shanty’s backyard.
They slowed down. The driveway was empty—no Tercel. The yard was a cluttered mess of old farm equipment and vehicles, waiting in vain for repair. A large vegetable garden was starting to rot from fall moisture.
Along the Buffalo Fork, a bony, tall man was walking back toward the structure. He looked to be in his early forties, with tan, wrinkled skin. He wore the rags of a drifter.
“What’s he carrying?” Noelle asked, stopping the car just past the driveway.
Jake squinted through a growing squall of blowing snow. “Looks like a rake or a shovel.”
“Gardening’s done for the year.” Noelle put the Yukon in reverse.
“Yep.”
Chayote was going nuts again in the backseat, anticipating a chance to be free from his cell. He scratched at the window.
The man continued to walk home, looking more uneasy, or at least curious, now that he noticed the ranger’s vehicle. He didn’t wear a jacket, but the snow didn’t seem to bother him. Jake and Noelle parked the Yukon a hundred feet from the cabin and got out, hollering a hello there through the building storm.
The scrawny man didn’t react, neither coming nor going. He simply rested the shovel against the north wall of the camp and stood still, staring at them.
Before Jake could get far, Chayote started barking, so he went back and opened the rear passenger door. The dog bounded toward the river, stopping once to mark his new territory.
Noelle was identifying herself to the man as Jake walked up. He got a glare from the landowner.
“You can’t just let him sniff around, can you? Not that I care.” The man had crossed his arms around his scarecrow body.
Noelle spoke up before Jake could explain. “He’s not a police dog.”
“Still.”
“Planting?” Jake motioned at the shovel, enticing him to lie.
“No. It’s October,” the man said flatly, but didn’t bother to explain the shovel.
Fair enough.
“We’re looking for a certain vehicle. Do you keep a car here?” Jake went on, figuring he was already the bad cop—he might as well push it.
“I don’t have to answer that, do I?” It worked. The scarecrow turned to Noelle. “And how come he doesn’t wear a uniform?”
She jumped in. “We’re just curious. We’re looking for an old Toyota Tercel hatchback that we think might be connected to a crime.”
Jake watched his face, but it remained emotionless.
“I don’t have a car. I use the old Gator four-by back there when I need to go to the convenience store. Anything farther, I hitch.”
They gave him a second to see if he would offer anything else. No dice.
“Do you mind if we look in the garage?”
“Go ahead.”
Noelle and Jake peered through the tiny window. It was empty.
“I’ll leave my card in case you see it around.” Noelle held it out, and the scarecrow took it hesitantly. “Thanks for your time.”
Jake gave the man a head nod, and they headed back toward the Yukon. The wind was up again, now in short gusts. Jake whistled for Chayote, then waited by the truck for him. He didn’t come.
Another whistle and a loud shout. “Chayote! Come!” Nothing.
Noelle joined in the beckoning.
The ruckus attracted the scarecrow, who wandered back toward the Yukon. “Some dog you got there.”
Jake didn’t respond. He turned to Noelle. “I’m gonna go get him.” She was starting the car. He headed off through the blowing snow and behind the house. The scarecrow was following him at a distance.
“Hey! Chayote! C’mon!” No sign of the heeler. Jake turned around. The man, if he was still there, was concealed by the storm.
“Let’s go!” The visibility was such that Jake realized he was at the riverbank only a few steps before tumbling over. He gave another few whistles here, since Chayote, like his owner, had a soft spot for rivers.
Jake started upstream along the Buffalo Fork, whistling the whole way. His hands were freezing; he’d left his gloves back at the house.
“Dammit, Chayote!” He checked again for the scarecrow—a vague gray outline behind him on the bank.
Chayote rarely wandered this far. Thinking he might have returned to Noelle and the truck, Jake turned around. The dog hit him from behind in his usual style—paws up and hard. “Hey! Let’s go.” Chayote bounced in circles around him, excited.
“Get over here!” Chayote calmed down slightly and pranced to his owner. “Where the hell were you?” Jake swatted the dirty paw prints off his backside, then grabbed the heeler and cleaned off his paws and muzzle, which were covered in loose dirt and mud. “What’d you find?” A dead wolf, maybe? The heeler only bucked back onto his rear haunches, begging, Play with me!
When Jake didn’t, Chayote took off back in the direction of the Yukon, looking for a more compliant friend. Jake followed. He had no authority to investigate Chayote’s treasure without Noelle. The scarecrow was already onto him; Jake didn’t want to push his luck.
Back at the truck, Noelle was wiping Chayote down with an old towel. “Sorry ’bout that,” Jake said.
“It’s okay. He’s too adorable to be mad at.”
“Where’d Señor Creepy go?”
“Don’t know. He followed you out there, but didn’t come back out front.”
Jake checked Chayote for mud one last time and gave him a pat on the head. There was a tiny tuft of fur sticking out from his jowl.
38
WEST BANK, SNAKE RIVER. OCTOBER 25.
3:45 P.M. MOUNTAIN STANDARD TIME.
After they wrapped up their search with no more answers and filled in Deputy Statler as to Chayote’s behavior, Noelle dropped Jake off. The good-bye was stilted. Jake wanted to ask her to come in, talk about what was going on, have a drink, dinner, whatever, but he knew it wasn’t the right time. He also knew she would have declined, no matter what she felt in her heart.
As it stood, the day was just a chance encounter. No indication of anything to come. Noelle would pursue the leads as her job required her to, including taking the fur to the park biologist, as Layle suggested. If it was wolf fur, a search warrant would be issued, and she and Layle would go from there. Jake didn’t need to be involved.
She was “sure he was busy.” What the hell did that mean?
With respect to their information about Terrell’s alleged murder, neither Jake nor Noelle knew the correct path to take. Divya, Jake knew, was not who she said she was. Who she was, he didn’t know. For some reason, she’d posed as an FBI agent and insisted they keep the chief’s death quiet. They’d agreed implicitly to keep it to themselves until something more came to light or their investigation came to a standstill. The chief was still MIA.
But why did Divya try to play me in DC? To what end?
She was still not answering her phone.
J.P. walked in as Jake was taking the Bialetti espresso maker off the burner. He tossed his keys on the counter and slumped into the couch.
“Coffee?” Jake asked, making himself a robust Americano.
“Anything stronger?”
“Too early for that. What’s going on?”
“Ah, nothing, man. Esma’s not doing great.”
“I can imagine.”
“No, I mean she’s back in the hospital. Mild sepsis. They’ve got a handle on it with antibiotics and fluids, but she’ll stay for another three days at least.”
Jake joined his friend on the couch. “She’s gonna be okay.”
It was both a question and a statement.
“Yeah. Just more shit to deal with.”
“Can I get you something to eat?”
“Nah, gonna take a shower and head back over there. My stomach’s
torn up.”
“Gotta eat something.”
J.P. shrugged, then looked up. “Maybe you could keep me company? I’ll buy you dinner over there. They say the cafeteria’s fantastic.” He was smirking.
“Yeah, of course, buddy. Let me change my clothes.”
“Take your time.”
Jake put on khakis and a Mountain Hardwear flannel shirt, which he tucked in.
J.P. had just started the shower, so Jake wandered into his fly-tying den.
The small room had been underutilized for the last few months, but at least that meant it was spotless. He sat down on the office chair and reached down to his right, where the bins of hooks were stacked. He kept them organized under three broad categories: freshwater, saltwater, and salmon/steelhead.
Out of the steelhead bin, he selected a size 3 Alec Jackson design, standard weight Spey hook. He clamped it in his vise and let his fly-tying imagination run wild for a moment, which you could get away with for steelhead. There was no need to imitate a specific insect; garish patterns were often the recipe for success.
He grabbed a bobbin of red-wine-colored 3/0 thread and wrapped the shank of the hook from eye to bend. Then he selected a sparse bunch of wine-colored hackle tail fibers and fastened them to the back of the shank with two quick wraps.
Comparing two pieces of purplish-colored chenille, he chose the thinner of the two. Less is more. Before tying in the chenille, he secured a four-inch-long piece of silver tinsel, to garnish the body. After wrapping both materials forward, tinsel on the outside, he picked a piece of dyed-purple guinea fowl from its skin and hackled it around the shank near the eye, creating a fan of fibers around the body that would undulate in the water.
Jake finished the head of the fly just as the shower faucet turned off. He dabbed the final wraps with head cement, then took the fly from the vise and carefully inspected it from all angles. Not a piece of art compared with what many other tyers could do, but functional.
He laid it down on the table and stood up. J.P. was in the doorway, drying his wild, scraggly hair with a towel.
“Pretty.”
“Thanks. You too.”
“I’m trying. Can I borrow a shirt?” J.P. looked enviously at Jake’s attire.
“Take whatever you want.”
River of No Return : A Jake Trent Novel (9781451698053) Page 21
