Stubby screamed; fear, frustration, and pain contributing to the tune. His pants accepted a new stain as his shins bled from the cuts opened by the sharp mineral crust. His ankles burned from the touch of the scalding waters. Stubby crawled from the broken hole and hobbled out into the stinking swirl rising from the earthen kettle. He tried to stand and was hit by a new pain… in his chest. It was sudden and excruciating, acute and crushing, as if somebody had parked his fancy motor home on top of him. With the speed of an electric arc, the pain expanded to his shoulder and shot down the length of his left arm.
He couldn't talk. He couldn't breathe. Sweat burst from the pores of his clammy forehead like water from a sprinkler. He'd forgotten his bleeding shins; forgotten his blistered ankles. But even with the compression in his chest he had not forgotten about the bear. Stubby managed a look over his shoulder and saw that the demon in dark fur had renewed its charge. The Texan let out a soft whimper, grabbed at his aching chest, and toppled into the bubbling cauldron.
Glenda looked on in horror as the monstrous bear ran over top of her husband. With a final roar, it vanished into the heavy fog beyond. Glenda screamed again. The photographer, numbed into silence, instinctively snapped photo after photo as the Firehole mists closed in upon themselves.
Chapter 5
Michael Stanton knew some of his staff called him the “Boy Superintendent” behind his back. The name didn't bother him so much as the fact that, on days like this, it probably fit. He had always marveled at how his people seemed to have a finger on the pulse of the park. It was a trick he had never been able to master. Of course, that had nothing to do with his capabilities. It was simply that upwardly mobile people like him did not have the time for the details that got you inside individual events. That was for the worker bee. Climbing the ladder of authority in the Park Service, like ascending any corporate or political structure, required less attention to detail and far more general viciousness. You had to claw at those above, kick at those below, and pray to whatever god was currently on the throne that you didn't fall off. It went without saying that you never paused to enjoy the view. Now, only eighteen months into the most prestigious superintendent's position in the National Park Service system, Stanton wished for those days of old when he could hop into a patrol vehicle, simply do his job, and leave the administrative headaches to somebody else.
The buzzing intercom interrupted his self-indulgent pouting. He turned from his office window already aware of what his secretary wanted. The rain storm on the outside of the glass was getting worse and it mirrored his mood. “Yes, Althea?”
“Mr. Stanton, your 7:30 appointment is here.” He sighed. Why did the problem children always have to be the first of the day?
Yellowstone Forever promised to be a regular on Stanton's calendar for a while. As the newest environmental activist group in the Greater Yellowstone Area, they were already stepping knee deep in every issue that crossed his desk. It wasn't that he minded hearing from environmental groups, they often had bona fide concerns and occasionally offered real solutions. But radical groups within the movement often created headaches just for the sake of the headache. It was too early to judge, but experience told Stanton that Yellowstone Forever might well be radicals. “Send them in.”
Althea knocked softly, opened the door, and ushered in three guests. Stanton circled his desk, put on that winning pretty-boy smile for which he was renown, and extended his hand to the first of the trio. “Nice to see you again, Nelson,” he said. “How are you?”
Nelson Princep shook with a boney hand, grinned with a skeletal face, and looked every minute of his sixty-years. His stringy gray hair clung to the top of his head, as if combed with a squeegee but hung straight to the collar of his pinstriped suit coat; long for an executive. “I'm fine, Michael, thank you,” Princep said with a click of his dental plate. He gestured. “May I introduce my associates, Priscilla Wentworth and Todd Muncey? Priscilla, Todd; Mr. Michael Stanton, Superintendent of Yellowstone National Park.”
Cordial greetings were exchanged and a third overstuffed armchair slid up to join the two already in front of Stanton's desk. The superintendent slid into his own high-backed chair, clasped his hands atop the polished uncluttered surface, and grinned as if he were Jimmy Carter about to address his “fellow 'mericans” protected only by his teeth.
He stole a good look at Princep's associates. Wentworth was all that her name implied; schooled, spoiled, and with all the snottiness money could buy. She may have been attractive but, dressed like the headmistress of a horror film boarding school, was doing her best to keep it from the peasants. She'd settled back comfortably, Queen of the realm, wearing a humorless expression. Glenn was going to love this one, Stanton thought. Even he, as politically correct as his office forced him to be, saw no reason to pick Priscilla for his stick ball team. Muncey, on the other hand, looked another story entirely. A conservatively dressed, athletically built black man of, probably, twenty-five years. Muncey looked anything but comfortable. Perched on the edge of his chair as if he'd rather have been anywhere else, Stanton would have bet real money this was the young man's first encounter with the government. He couldn't help but wonder what in the name of creation he was doing with these other two stiffs.
“I assume,” Princep said, raising a single brow, “that you received word from Senator Conrad's office.”
“Yes,” Stanton said, his voice cracking. Calm down, he told himself. Give the little worm the idea you're on the run and your troubles are just beginning. He cleared his throat. “I spoke with the Senator last evening. How, exactly, would you like to proceed?”
Yellowstone Forever wanted free rein in his park, Stanton knew; and they had a know-nothing Senator on their side. A thin tightrope lay directly ahead and he had been given no choice but to walk it. To keep his job, he would have to oblige these greens and humor the Senator. But Stanton also knew there were unspoken intentions in the room and he wasn't going to be a floor mat. He would not jeopardize the park and would draw a line in the sand if and when it became necessary.
“We have definite plans for fixing this park's problems,” Wentworth stated plainly. “To properly formulate an action plan, however, we need to analyze your operations in the field.”
Stanton bit his lip. The witch didn't mess around. Princep saw the superintendent's reaction, apparently read his mind, and glared at Wentworth. The look was little more than a flash, but Stanton saw it. A silence settled.
“What Priscilla is getting at,” Princep said more graciously. “Is that we would like to offer suggestions for amending the park's position on a number of environmental and operational issues. Before we can do that, we need to get a closer look at what you actually do; meet your staff, see them at work, perhaps get our hands dirty along with them, I'm sure you understand.”
Stanton understood perfectly. Yellowstone was the new cause and Yellowstone Forever was spearheading the assault. He was expected, out of political expedience, to go along to the slaughter without kicking or screaming. Stanton stood and gazed out his window. Two cow elk were hunkered down under a huge pine along the sidewalk leading to the building. A bison bull grazed nearby, oblivious to the battering wind and pummeling rain. Little bothered those impressive beasts. Oh, Stanton thought, to be a bison.
He sighed and turned to face his guests. “I am willing to cooperate with your organization, Nelson,” he said. “The Senator was clear in his request. But there will be ground rules. I cannot give your people unrestricted access to this facility.” He returned to the window, buying time, searching for the right words. With no intention of budging from beneath their natural umbrella, the elk pointed their ears and eyes down the walk where the object of their attention, Glenn Merrill, was approaching the entrance. Stanton nearly cheered. The cavalry had arrived.
“My chief ranger is just coming in,” he told Princep. “Let me just slip out and have a word with him and we'll see what we can do.”
“Certainly,�
� Princep replied nodding with a wry smile.
*
A dead bear and a dead tourist had made for a long yesterday. No sleep had made it a longer night. Receiving a “Get up and get in here!” phone call from the superintendent's office in place of his alarm was not exactly what Glenn considered the perfect start to a perfect new day.
It wasn't that he and Stanton didn't get along, far from it. They had served together on Glenn's first assignment, working the monuments in Washington D.C. The chief ranger remembered how the two of them had spent a week one night in one of the more burly drinking establishments near Capital Square. They chased too many beers with too many shots of bourbon and, before the night was over, crossed paths with a gang of hoods unimpressed with their All-American looks. To this day, Glenn was amazed how well they fought together, even when staggering drunken.
Stanton had been a good ranger and a better friend for the two years Glenn was in D.C. Then they parted company, professionally and socially, until Mike was promoted to Yellowstone. That was a year and a half ago. They still liked each other but the pecking order prevented them from fraternizing anymore.
The chief ranger and the superintendent shared the understanding that crap rolled down hill. Glenn had gotten fairly adept at getting out of the way, while Stanton was a wiz at giving gravity a helping hand. Even as a ranger, Mike had never failed to shake the hand, lead the tour, nod the right number of times, and otherwise kiss the butt of whatever passing authority could best butter his bread. Glenn was a ranger and Stanton was a climber. That was how it was.
More power to him, Glenn thought. Appointed positions came and went with appointers and kings, for better or for worse, always lost their thrones. He would eat the garbage passed down by Stanton, knowing his boss would eat the garbage passed down from Washington. The chief had the joy of knowing the Boy Superintendent had a bigger plate.
Glenn entered the secretary's reception area, Stanton's barricade against the world, and was greeted with a warm, “Good morning.” Althea, one of those bright ageless women who liked everybody and whom everybody liked, was Moneypenny to his bedraggled Bond. He hung up his rain gear and hat seeing, by the crowded coat rack, that he was already late to Stanton's early morning party.
Behind Althea, Stanton suddenly appeared with his back against his office door as if something inside had frightened him out. It was not a good sign. Glenn tried to ignore him, savoring Althea's smile for what it probably was, the single pleasant moment of the day before him.
“I'm glad you're here,” Stanton told the chief, refusing to be ignored. “I hope you slept well?”
Recognizing his diplomacy for what it was, the lead up to war, Glenn decided not to have any. “Frankly, I didn't sleep. And, from the look on your face, things are not destined to improve.”
“Nonsense,” Stanton said. “Just some people you need to meet.”
Glenn gave Althea the look. She turned away not to laugh, got her face under control, and then turned back to issue the chief ranger a warning with her eyes, `Hold on. The manure is being delivered in an end loader this time.' Stanton, opening the door and leading the way, missed it all.
Glenn would plead guilty to the charge of being a cynic in any court in the land. He'd practically invented the attitude. Regardless, he spotted the three occupants waiting within and forced his eyes to the floor to avoid rolling them up into his head. No doubt carefully selected, to exacting diverse standards; age, race, and gender (check, check, and check), to appeal on a subconscious emotional level to 63.4 percent of those they'd been sent to annoy, the chief couldn't help but wonder which p.c. organization they represented, and what any of them had to do with him?
Stanton waved his arm as if introducing royalty. “This is…”
“Nelson Princep,” the oldest of the three said, interrupting him. The fellow was emaciated, and Glenn wanted nothing more than to make the poor guy a sandwich. He bit his lip taking a tip from Althea on curbing his amusement.
“These are my associates,” Princep said, introducing each. There followed a round robin of warm handshakes and Glenn felt a tinge of guilt wondering if he hadn't misjudged. “We represent an organization known as Yellowstone Forever.”
“My pleasure,” Glenn said, smiling, not at meeting them but in the pleasure of discovering he'd been right in the first place. They were greens; his instincts were sharp as ever.
Stanton's discussion with Glenn had taken place only in his mind. He'd made his decision in the time it had taken to cross from his desk to the outer office. The easiest way to deal with these people would be to pass them down the line like secondhand clothes. To that end, he spoke now with lots of authority and a dash of goodwill. “Glenn, I'd like you to see that these folks are well cared for here in the park for the next couple of weeks. They're researching our operations. Show them what we do, and how and why we do it.”
Glenn's jaw twitched as a train of adult words raced through his head. He bit his tongue in case one of the cars stopped at his mouth.
Stanton was still talking. “And, of course, listen to what these folks have to say. Maybe they'll have some suggestions we can apply here.” No sooner did he get the words out than Stanton realized he might have poked the wrong lion.
“Yes, sir,” Glenn said from behind clenched teeth. He was picturing himself leaving Stanton behind in that stink-hole bar back in D.C.
Princep, a long-time veteran of the political game, recognized the exchange between the chief and his superior for what it was. He knew the next year was going to be difficult enough on them without his organization, let alone with. There was no sense in stirring the pot too soon. In his most diplomatic tone, he said, “Chief Merrill, we haven't had breakfast yet. If you don't mind, we'll go remedy that while you and Michael work out the ground rules.” He gestured toward the door and his associates started out. “Would an hour be all right?”
“Perfect,” Glenn said in a tone resembling the low distant rumble of thunder.
The trio rose, vacated the office, and pulled the door closed without Glenn seeing them. His eyes were locked on the red face of his former partner (now backstabbing politician). “Just what is going on here?”
“Don't use that tone with me, Glenn.” His nervous expression belied his authoritative words.
“What tone do you expect? Come on, Mike, with that bear poaching and the Texan's death, my rangers are stretched to the limit; not to mention this rain storm. There are potential flash flood dangers all over the park. I'm even working the road to try to stay ahead. Now you want me to baby-sit a bunch of greens? Have you lost your mind?”
“No, I haven't,” Stanton barked. “Sit down a minute and calm yourself, will you?”
Glenn threw his arms in the air and dropped into one of the vacated chairs.
Stanton frowned and turned to stare out his window again. The bison had moved off toward the post office building looking for cover and the superintendent couldn't help but think, we're all fighting some kind of storm. “Look, Glenn, you know I don't make all the decisions around here. We go back a long way. I respect your opinion and trust your judgment. But this time neither one of us has a choice.” He took his seat behind the desk, leaned back, and took in a chest full of air. “These people are fanatics. They basically want to put a hurricane fence around the whole park, keep the people out and the wild in. You and I both know it isn't practical, or possible, but this group is also connected.”
Glenn stared.
“Do you remember Senator Conrad?”
“Yeah. The psycho who thinks we should raise wolves and grizzly together so they can live like brothers of the earth, instead of the competing predators they are.”
“That's him. He is now this group's favorite contact in Washington. I don't know if you're aware of it, Glenn, but Conrad is also on the Senate Appropriations Committee. He holds our purse strings.”
The chief stiffened in the chair, glowering. “What's that have to do with me?”
“Don't be naïve. He's on my back. They're on my back. And it all rolls downhill. You will take the representatives of this organization out for a reasonable look at what we do. Show them around; make them feel like we're cooperating until I can figure something else out. And, whatever you do, keep them out of trouble.”
“You're the boss,” Glenn said, not because he respected the notion, merely as a statement of fact. He left the super's office without another word. Althea recognized a gale when she saw one and let the chief pass without interruption.
For his part, Glenn had a single purpose; to get to his own office sanctuary before he said something regrettable. He was halfway there when a twenty-something halfwit in a cheap suit blocked his path. “Chief Merrill,” the man said. “I'm Howard Lark of the Billings Reporter.”
Glenn nodded but kept moving, thumbing behind him. “The superintendent's secretary has a Press Release for the media. Right down the hall.”
“I've seen it,” Lark said. “Identity withheld? Cause of Death undetermined? Come on, chief, I'm no fashion critic but the emperor is buck naked. Can't you give us a few threads?”
Already annoyed, Glenn paused. “A park guest died yesterday near Firehole Lake. There's nothing I can add to that at the moment, Mr…?”
“Lark. Howard Lark. All right. How about the incident at Mary Bay? Your Press Release gives us nothing on that at all.”
“What incident?” Glenn asked, caught off guard. It dawned immediately and he recovered. “You're talking about the bear? We compile statistics on incidents of that kind for annual reports. They don't figure in Press Releases.”
“I'm surprised you don't take it more seriously. Doesn't that policy devalue the animal… and the hunter, for that matter?”
Apparition Lake Page 5
