Shadow Moon

by Alexandra Sokoloff

  He hadn’t wanted to come. It was the wrong time to take off and leave Monica, effectively in the middle of a fight—discussion—about their future. Which by all the signs was looking rocky, not even two years into marriage. She’d moved up to Portland reluctantly as it was, and every road assignment opened up another fissure between them.

  This trip wasn’t even a regular Bureau assignment, rather an off-the-grid favor for one of Snyder’s friends. Chasing a hotline tip, of all things—something Chuck had always warned him to be skeptical of.

  But it was all true in Richmond, he reminded himself.

  No doubt there were similarities to that case, here. The small-town, squirreled-away militia. The insane stockpiling of arms. And the possibility of abuse.

  More than domestic abuse, this time. A missing boy, a potential murder.

  And that was what decided it, even over Monica’s objections. Anywhere a child might be in jeopardy was where he had to be.

  All of that anxiety had melted away in the face of the sheer staggering beauty of the place. He felt an excitement about it that was more than just the thrill of the hunt. There was something for him here. Something of import.

  He turned as Chuck returned with coffee, holding out two trucker-sized cups. Probably the last thing Roarke needed at this point, but he took one anyway.

  Chuck looked out at the valley, the ring of mountains, and drew in a long, satisfied breath.

  “Not bad,” he said, with straight-faced understatement.

  “No,” Roarke agreed.

  Then they got into the ATV and drove on. Toward something, Roarke thought. He didn’t know what. But something.

  Chapter 80

  Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming – 2011

  Cara

  She wakes to the strange half-light of snow clouds outside the cabin window.

  The moon last night had been bright and insistent. Something is coming. It has drawn her here already, brought into this unfamiliar landscape. Today, more will be revealed.

  The snow report posted at the front desk last night said that snow is not expected until late day. She dresses in layers: GORE-TEX and wool, an Arctic-rated parka. She drapes binoculars around her neck, pulls a pack onto her back, and steps outside into a sea of white, under a sky layered with thick, moody clouds.

  She is not at home in the winter world. It is too unfamiliar, too risky. It requires too much preparation, too much caution, too much equipment, too much clothing just for basic survival. And yet, she cannot deny this aspect of life, of nature, of Beauty. It has taken some time on the road, but she has realized it would be against the laws of Nature not to spend some time in the frozen depths of this season.

  The parking lot of Mammoth Hot Springs Hotel is surprisingly bustling, with several sets of visitors busy loading gear into two ATVs. It is not tourist types who brave the winter cold. These are wolf watchers. After centuries of unchecked hunting, the animals were re-introduced into the park in 1995 and since then have been protected, studied, chronicled, storied by scientists and environmentalists. The region has become the world’s wolf-watching capital. She hopes to encounter them herself today.

  She removes her snowshoes from the ATV she has been driving and kneels to strap them to her feet. She is close enough to the wolf-watchers to hear their destination. She manages to catch more interesting information as well, before the group splits up to pile into their cars and depart, vehicles spewing white clouds of exhaust in the frigid air.

  After six years on the road she has become attuned to the threads that draw her, the signs that lead her inevitably to the next Encounter. Sometimes the signs are subtle, a feeling, a quick change of mind or direction. Sometimes they are blatant.

  The wolf-watchers have given her a hint.

  She had intended to hike to the Minerva Terrace today. But now she has a new, further goal. She turns toward the trail head of the nature path and sets out.

  The path takes her along the edge of a frozen lake, pure aquamarine against the white of snow. The cold is crisp and clean, slightly metallic in her lungs, with hints of pine and sulfur. Above her, bare branches are coated in ice. The approach to the falls soon becomes stunningly alien, with mammoth volcanic formations in weird shapes sprouting from the ground, golden against the white. Weirder still are the boiling pools, in shades of aquamarine and turquoise, set in the midst of all that ice.

  Her breath comes heavy now and she is sweating in the cold, feeling the flood of endorphins from the work her body is doing.

  The nature trail opens up to a view of the Terrace. A succession of enormous, shallow pools descends in a series of chalky white limestone formations, like a staircase in some fairy tale palace of the Ice Queen. Round hot pools bubble, witch’s cauldrons in the icy ground.

  Her head is buzzing with the exhilaration of the sight. It is an ecstasy of feeling, sensing, seeing. Worth the trip for this alone. And yet she is certain there is more to come, today.

  She removes the showshoes to walk the boardwalk pathways over the boiling pools, through a steam bath of great billowing plumes of white. At the end of the boardwalk she puts the snowshoes on again, following a path that will circle through the Lamar Valley before returning to the hotel. This she has learned from listening to the wolf-watchers: in winter, elk, bison and moose move down into the valley to graze, and the wolves follow them.

  She descends through trees, and comes out into a meadow, a pristine snow field, a perfect viewing spot. It waits, like a blank canvas. The vast stillness of it is pure pleasure and calm.

  She stands between the trees, lifts the binoculars from around her neck and uses them to survey the meadow.

  After what seems like seconds, as if summoned, a wolf pack emerges from the trees. A huge alpha, six others of various sizes.

  They are breathtaking, magnificent creatures. Powerful. Dangerous. Purely, entirely alive.

  For a moment all time stops.

  And then something begins to gnaw at her consciousness. A heightened awareness, a ripple of fear. Danger.

  She shudders, a primal spasm of anxiety.

  It’s not the wolves she fears. They are much too far away to be any threat to her.

  And yet the stillness is ominous, loaded.

  Loaded.

  She keeps back inside the copse, and scans the edges of the forest at the periphery of the meadow.

  And spots him, a dark stain against the winter landscape.

  He has concealed himself in the trees. But the long barrel of the rifle gives him away. A hunter.

  Her heart hammers crazily in her chest.

  This, too, she has heard from the wolf-watchers. Hunting is illegal in the park. But since the gray wolves were removed from the endangered species list in 2009, some of the trophy hunters wait outside the borders of the park to take down the creatures as they roam across the border.

  Because they can. And to defy the government, which they perceive as their enemy.

  She has no weapon to stop the hunter’s intention. She cannot even run forward to attract attention, not in these oversized tennis rackets attached to her feet. There is no way to reach him. His bead on the pack is a perfect shot.

  So she screams.

  In all her years, with all her Encounters, she has never screamed. Not once, since she was a child. There has been no point. She has never expected help to come, so there is no reason to try to summon it. Screaming would be a waste of several precious seconds which could and must be devoted to killing.

  She does not even know if her damaged throat has the capacity to make such a sound.

  But what comes out of her body is fearsome, reverberating. The surrounding rocks and mountains amplify the sound to a preternatural cry. A shower of snow falls from nearby branches of trees.

  The wolves bolt in one synchronous leap, and run for the woods they’ve emerged from, bounds of pure muscle.

  The echo of the scream lingers in the shattered air, while the hunter staggers and twists
around him in shock and confusion.

  She is breathless, her whole body aching with the effort. But it is done. The wolves are safe, disappeared into the forest.

  Far across the meadow, the hunter stomps about in a circle, enraged. She has spoiled his vicious pleasure for the day.

  And rage begins to boil up inside her, as well.

  She understands hunting for food. If she had to she would kill to eat.

  But someone who would deliberately break the law to slaughter these majestic animals… someone who derives pleasure from the risk of lawbreaking, who clearly thrills to killing….

  There is no end to the mischief he might be doing. He has come across her path, and this is never for no reason.

  It begins to snow, huge, thick, silent flakes. Visibility drops.

  She gathers herself, and keeping inside the trees, she plows through the snow after him.

  Chapter 81

  Snake River, Montana – 2011

  Roarke and Snyder

  Like so many towns in Montana, Snake River had a Wild West feel. Storefronts that looked like a film set, wood benches on plank walkways, old-fashioned shop signs hanging by chains. It was picturesque, and close enough to Glacier National Park that it could have been a natural tourist draw—had it not had the bad luck to be eclipsed by several towns that provided better gateways to the park. In Snake River there were no ski resorts or nearby archeological finds to coax vacationers those extra few miles off the highway.

  The agents did an initial drive through the town, past a post office, pawn shop, general store, the hardware store, called Snake River Mercantile—and the Huckleberry Diner, advertising “World-Famous Pie.”

  They were armed with Ziskin’s information. They’d listened to the tape of the anonymous tip: a tentative, youngish female voice, obviously conflicted. “That family passed through town and the boy was being watched. And then I read that he disappeared…” And then a quick, low appeal: “You need to check out Abraham Strauss. It’s not the first time.”

  Not the first time.

  A pre-teen boy, missing in Montana, a habitat of gray wolves. And rife with geothermal areas.

  It was impossible not to think of Young John Doe.

  It was never a good feeling, an unsolved murder involving a kid. Although maybe it is solved, Roarke argued with himself, as he looked out the windshield at the main street shops. Portland PD thinks so.

  Of course he’d double-checked the missing persons databases, the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. He’d found no thirteen-year old boy reported missing from Snake River or the surrounding area in 2009.

  Why should they make it complicated for themselves, on no real evidence?

  But the agents listened to the tape once more as they cruised past Snake River Mercantile, to fix the woman’s voice in their heads, and it chilled Roarke all over again to hear that final whisper:

  “It’s not the first time.”

  Whatever the anonymous tipster knew, she believed it utterly.

  He parked on the street, some way down the block from Strauss’s store, and the agents got out to walk the final half block to it, their feet crunching on newly salted sidewalks.

  A string of bells on the door jangled as they entered and stood taking a quick look around. The mercantile seemed to have a little of everything. The front racks were ski accessories: gloves, sunglasses, hand warmers. Useful impulse purchases in the weather, and a good excuse for their drop-in to the store.

  A man stood behind the counter, with broad cheeks and a jowly neck, a grizzled goatee that failed to conceal a double chin, and flat dark eyes. Strauss, looking much like his ATF surveillance photo.

  The agents had decided on their cover story when they met with Agent Ziskin: father and son on a ski trip. The ATV was loaded with a ski rack and equipment, luggage in full view. They did the family act for Strauss now, Roarke calling to Snyder from another aisle to summon him. “Dad. This what you were thinking?”

  He brought a pack of hand warmers over to show Snyder, nodding to Strauss as he passed. Behind the counter animal heads were on display on the wall, along with moose antlers, deer antlers. A bumper sticker was affixed to the countertop glass, aggressively yellow, with the image of a coiled snake: the Gadsden flag, with its DON’T TREAD ON ME warning in all-caps.

  While Strauss rang up Snyder’s purchases of hand warmers and sunglasses, Roarke took the moment to check out the photos framed on the wall behind the counter.

  He spotted a group shot: Strauss standing beside a slaughtered elk and three other men posed with rifles beside the animal. Roarke recognized one of them: Furman, the snowmobile shop owner with the bulbous eyes. It was the same photo Furman had had up behind his own counter in the sports shop in Kellogg, when Roarke and Snyder had stopped in earlier in the day, renting snowshoes as a cover to check the militia man out.

  And under that was a photo of Strauss in a coaching jacket, beside a baseball team of middle-school age boys.

  Roarke’s profiler mind leapt into gear. Classic hebephile. Volunteers with middle-school age in some community service capacity—Boy Scouts, church group, sports team—to get close to potential victims. Sets himself up as an authority figure that parents and boys trust.

  Strauss had noticed his attention to the photo. Roarke gestured to it, channeled his high school jock memories, that coach-to-coach proprietary tone. “I do some middle school coaching myself.”

  “It’s our congregation’s district team,” Strauss said.

  Not exactly the point, Roarke thought, but gave him a smile. “It’s all about the boys, though. Nothing like ’em.”

  Strauss’s eyes went strangely blank. “You headed to Whitefish?” His voice was insincere, falsely jovial.

  “Flathead Lake,” Snyder said. “You know it?”

  Strauss gave a terse nod.

  “But we’re looking for a motel here for the night,” Snyder continued. “Got any recommendations?”

  “You could make Whitefish by supper,” Strauss said.

  An obvious invitation to get the hell out of town. So blatant it would’ve been comic—if they hadn’t been dealing with a suspected child predator.

  “We’re in no hurry,” Snyder said pleasantly.

  Strauss handed him the bag with their purchases with a stone face. “Have yourself a good one.”

  The agents were silent as they walked out of the store, and back in the direction of their vehicle. Once they were outside of Strauss’s sight line, Roarke said softly, “Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry?”

  “Interesting reaction to your coaching questions, too,” Snyder answered.

  “He’s in the right position to do a lot of damage,” Roarke agreed tightly.

  But was he a monster? A child killer? Roarke warned himself not to make assumptions and said aloud, “So. The diner?”

  According to Ziskin, the tip call had originated from there.

  Snyder gave him the ghost of a smile. “I never pass up an opportunity for huckleberry pie.”

  Chapter 82

  Yellowstone National Park – 2011

  Cara

  She stands between trees, watching the hunter as he throws his snowshoes into the back of a windowless van parked on the side of the road. He takes much more care with his gun.

  She notes the van’s license plate number, memorizing it. And there is another item of interest: a bright yellow bumper sticker.

  Watching, taking visual notes, is all she can do. Obviously she cannot follow on foot.

  Plumes of exhaust spew from the van’s tailpipes as the hunter starts up the vehicle.

  She turns in the snow and consults her compass to find the trail back to the hotel. There is nothing to do but return there.

  It bothers her not at all.

  If she is meant to find the hunter, she will find him. It is the way.

  Chapter 83

  Snake River, Montana - 2011

  Roarke and Snyder

&n
bsp; The diner had the warm, homey feel of a town hub, where everyone would know each other and people dropped in for the local gossip as much as for the food.

  And the wide front windows had a perfect view of the mercantile.

  The agents staked out a table in the front, and ordered pie and coffee from a waitress in her late twenties, dark blond, and carefully made up to conceal circles under her eyes.

  The pie came immediately and was mouthwatering, a sweet and sour kick.

  Snyder raised his fork in salute to the waitress, who was watching him from across the room.

  “I think we’ve got someone’s attention,” he said softly, casually.

  When Roarke met the waitress’s gaze, she blushed and turned away quickly.

  Could it be? Roarke wondered. Not a random townsperson, but someone who actually works here?

  “Wait,” Snyder said. “Let her come to us.”

  The rest of the meal passed without incident. The waitress, whose nametag pinned on her uniform read Jean, was polite, if cool, and said nothing to the agents beyond, “Anything else for you two?” and “Have a nice day.”

  But she left them a note with the check. The words Alpine turnoff, Whitefish, 4:00.

  Chapter 84

  Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming - 2011

  Cara

  The snow has stopped by the time she comes off the trail back at Mammoth Hot Springs.

  And the first thing she sees is the hunter’s van, parked in the restaurant parking lot.

  So. A sign. It is meant.

  She takes a moment to look over the vehicle. A van, rather than a truck, for hunting. Not especially shocking. But interesting.

  Beside the license plate she can see the graphic on the toxic yellow bumper sticker: a rattlesnake coiled to strike and the capital-letter warning DON’T TREAD ON ME.

  She contemplates it stoically. She has seen its kind before, a historical emblem given ominous new meaning by current political fury.