“You didn't clean your plate,” Houser said. With his flashlight he pointed out the mess on the table. “Before you go back to bed, you will do the dishes.” He turned the beam on the campfire. “And put out the light.”
“You gotta be jokin', man.”
“No, sir, I am not,” Houser said, spitting out the `sir' like a sour grape. “Apparently they don't teach you boys to read in the city. If your fire were to get out of control, thousands of acres of national parkland would be ashes by morning.”
The Mohawk eyed the campfire dully.
“Secondly,” Houser said. “This is bear country and you are in violation of our clean camp regulations.”
“Man, I've been in this park two days and ain't seen no bears. Besides, man, I don't know nothin' bout no regulations.”
“Well, while you're cleaning your dishes you can pass the time by reading the permanent notice that's nailed to the top of your picnic table.” Houser slid his flashlight into the loop on his belt and, in its place, drew a citation booklet from his back pocket. “Let me see some ID,” he demanded, having used up all the time he intended to on this numbskull. He finished the citation quickly, tore it from the book, and handed it to the Mohawk.
“What's that for?”
“Have somebody read it to you.”
“What's this gonna cost me?”
“One hundred bucks.” The ranger smiled. “Or I can dismiss it… if you send me that crap hairdo in a paper bag.”
You've got money, kid, Houser thought as he strode away. But you've got no style. As he pulled back out onto the main loop road and headed south, Houser enjoyed his first good laugh of the day.
*
Lights still burned in the Museum of the National Park Ranger as Houser pulled into the lot and silenced his vehicle. The staff began leaving lights on a couple of years back after someone broke in and stole artifacts on display. Houser made his rounds of the old log structure, checking windows and rattling doors. He even paused to gaze at a few of the exhibits through the front picture windows. Life had been rugged and isolated for the old boys stationed there in the late 1800s. Then again, Houser thought, they hadn't had to deal with agitated greens and pink Mohawks.
Already hungry, Houser decided to skip the check on the Norris Campground for the time being and take a break. He drove the short distance to the parking lot above the geyser basin. He grabbed his thermos, snack, and flashlight and started down the steep grade leading to the basin below. Houser turned left down the boardwalk and stopped to shine his light toward Emerald Spring.
The stark, white light reflected off the rising steam from the basin, piercing rapidly changing pockets of visibility as a slight breeze swirled the fog. The light played on the green algae that thrived in the acidic waters and gave the spring its name. He moved on, passing Steamboat Geyser, then turned left at the tee in the pathway. Houser made his way toward a set of benches in the viewing area next to Echinus Geyser. He deposited his Crunchies and thermos on the bench, belted his flashlight, and leaned over the railing to watch the geyser, lit now only by moonlight showing through the rising fog.
Maybe I'll take a little trip up onto the Madison Plateau in a week or so, Houser thought, and do some scouting for elk. The word on the street was prices for antler this season were going to be sky-high. “Thank God for horny Asians,” Houser said out loud. He laughed at his own joke.
It wasn't funny and he knew it. Some people in that part of the world were convinced antler powders were a super aphrodisiac. They paid through the nose to get it. It was a tidy black market that helped make up for the park's lack of appreciation, Houser thought. He might just as well get a jump on the rest of the poachers and bag a trophy or two.
Echinus Geyser interrupted his thoughts with a sudden explosion of water and steam, firing its contents fifty feet into the air. Startled at first, Houser laughed as his adrenalin rush came back under control. He watched the force of nature's underground plumbing blast the white steam into the sky and a fine mist of warm water showered down on him.
Just as suddenly, the hair on the back of Houser's neck came to attention. Out of nowhere, the ranger was overwhelmed with the sensation of being watched. Houser darted his eyes first left, then right, surveying the dark surroundings without moving his head. There was nothing.
He turned slowly to look over his left shoulder. The sensation intensified and the ranger was suddenly afraid without knowing why. But there was nothing there, nothing but fog dancing on a slight breeze amid the darkness. He turned again, coming full around. He resisted the urge to call out who's there?, like some sap in a bad horror film, opting instead to study the silence. He jumped and turned when the Arch Steam Vent hissed at him. He laughed nervously. It didn't feel funny but his psychological defense mechanisms were kicking in. Yes, he'd admit it, he was suddenly afraid.
Beneath the moonlight, brighter now as the cloud cover broke, the night grew alive with the sights and sounds of bubbling, gurgling mud pots and lesser geysers. They chanted at him and spit water while assaulting his nostrils with their pungent odors of sulfur and acid. Houser stood by himself, in darkness, before angelic sights, amid hellish smells… But something told him he was not alone.
He drew his flashlight again, flicked it to life, and pierced the darkness. He passed it over the basin, then he froze. There, in the moving shroud of white mist, two tiny mirrors reflected the beam. The synapses in Houser's brain fired a message. An instant later his mind decoded it. He wasn't seeing mirrors. He was looking at a pair of eyes! The unearthly vapor swirled around the glowing orbs like a phantom rising; it hovered, congealed, took form. The mist became a gigantic bear.
Houser stared. He trembled. He screamed. He turned sharply, blindly, and rammed into the railing he'd been leaning against. The blow knocked the flashlight from his grip and sent it thumping onto the boardwalk. It rolled off the edge and into a geyser, taking its light with it.
In a full panic, Houser tried to climb the rail. Behind him came a roar and, instantly, his shoulder was on fire; the pain so intense the rest of his body felt numb. Something, dear God, the bear, had hold of him. He felt himself being lifted. His right arm no longer worked. With his left, screaming again, he grabbed for the top rail, trying to cling to the boardwalk, to hold on to life. He started over, but was jerked back and shaken. Another blow followed and a convulsion wracked his frame. Through the pain, Houser thought of the old throw rugs his mother shook over the porch banister. That was him, a dirty rug being beaten. He was slammed to the boardwalk. The air escaped him like a broken bellows. Gasping without relief, he was lifted and slammed down again. The boards cracked under his crashing weight. His legs shot out and his heels bounced. The rest of his body went limp as he went from rug to rag. Houser felt the prick of splinters from the weathered and broken lumber beneath him as he was dragged down the boardwalk.
Outside of the ranger's performance, Echinus Geyser continued its captivating display. The rising waters merged with the fog and danced in the darkness; a gorgeous hell. With the grip of fangs sunk deep in his shoulder, Houser went in and out of consciousness as his body trailed the beast down the boardwalk and into the sea of steam. He was a rag doll in the hands of an angry child. The dragging stopped and Houser felt his shoulders come suddenly free. He stole a desperately needed breath. Then the back of his head was smashed onto the boardwalk again. Blood flowed from his nose, trailed over his cheeks, and trickled into his mouth. The liquid tasted of salty copper but he knew it was iron. Everyone knew it was iron. It was warm and soothing. Houser languorously mouthed the sensations like a fish on the beach. His mind snapped, took flight, and left his body to its fate.
The great bruin hunched over the ranger. It slashed Houser's mid-section with its mighty paw and opened his abdomen wide. It grabbed him by the skull, lifted him off the ground, and flipped him into the darkness. With an earth-shattering roar, the bear vanished.
Houser's intestines spilled from the open cavity, danced around his cartw
heeling body, and wrapped it like a stripper's boa. With a splash and a hollow thud, his body landed in a spring. The pool of water recoiled from the crash, met its outer boundaries, and swirled back into place. It covered the ranger's torso and, finally, enveloped his head. His blood joined the beautiful blue waters, creating eerie deep green streaks that swam in spirals before settling toward the bottom. In his final moment, Ranger Bart Houser became one with Cistern Spring.
Chapter 11
The mood the following morning was set by the black and green thunder clouds that hung thick and heavy over the Mammoth Hot Springs basin tiers.
Inside the administration offices, Glenn and J.D. made their way through a river of reporters from Glenn's office to the conference room when, suddenly, up darted the chief's very own piranha, Howard Lark. “Hey, chief, is there anything animal, mineral, or vegetable that can stay alive in this park on your watch?”
Glenn stopped nearly causing a pile-up with his biologist. For J.D., it was just as well the chief was between them. She didn't know the reporter from Adam but, all the same, felt a sudden urge to collect a blood sample from his pointed nose. Glenn faced Lark directly, not stung as the reporter had clearly hoped but surprised and disappointed. “What kind of question is that?”
“An impolite one, I imagine,” Lark said with a smirk. “But one that deserves an answer. How many dead bears now? And two dead guests? And last night a dead ranger? What's going on? Have you found the connection? Certainly the people deserve something more than, `No comment'.”
Glenn's stare turned icy. “Nobody here has ever told you, `No comment.' You've been updated with everyone else as information has come available.” The ranger started walking again. With her short legs, J.D. hustled to keep up. Lark, as lanky as he was smarmy, followed apace. Glenn was talking as he went. “Nothing, as yet, suggests these incidents you've casually bagged up together are in any way connected. All are still under investigation.”
“What about the poachers?” Lark demanded. “The bear at Mary Bay? And those elk poachers… they're running free; Lewis River, Pitchstone, Firehole.” His tone showed disgust but Glenn would have bet real money he saw a glint in the reporter's eye. “My sources say they're pretty much making a monkey out of you.”
They arrived at the conference room – and none too soon. Glenn opened the door, let J.D. pass, then turned on the Billings reporter with menace. “Mr. Lark, you are an absurd man.”
“Can I quote you on that?” Lark asked with a grin.
Before he said or did anything he would regret, Glenn followed J.D. through and closed the door in Lark's face. He felt like he'd traveled to Hell and back since sunrise. It was only nine in the morning; plenty of day to come.
The room looked like you'd expect; a long table, plenty of serviceable if not comfortable chairs, the Stars and Stripes, Wyoming, and Park Service flags, a furled movie screen and a pin board at the front of the room, and maps – lots of maps. The room also contained three rangers, Franklin, Simpson, and Lincoln. They were Glenn's top people and had more than earned their money that week. Grazing on Danish and coffee around a side table, their chatter suddenly stopped. They turned as one to the little blonde biologist and their chief.
“What?” Glenn asked, breaking the silence. “I showered today.”
Franklin choked on the coffee, spitting a slurry of cream and sugar down the front of his uniform. The others roared. Franklin, still gagging, swiped at his mouth with his shirt sleeve. He realized what he was doing and cussed. “Easy, Frankie,” Simpson said, laughing. “You'll end up needing mouth-to-mouth… and then you're going to die.” Franklin grabbed a stack of napkins and, to the continued laughter, dabbed at the mess. The badge came clean, the tie could be saved, but the shirt was a goner.
“It's not always this way,” Glenn told J.D. “Some days it's much worse.” With the entertainment over, they took their seats around the table as the chief introduced her to the troops.
Gloria Simpson was thirty and thick, but as experienced a ranger as Glenn had in the Mammoth District. A peerless professional, she could laugh with the smallest child and match shouts with the largest man and never lose a step between. Glenn liked her the moment she arrived in the park.
Old Pete Lincoln came next and they nodded agreeably at one another.
“You already know Old Faithful here,” Glenn said, pointing at Franklin and his egregiously stained shirt. “If you're done showing off, Frankie, we'll get started.” Glenn walked to the pin board.
It featured a large map of Yellowstone National Park. Color photographs of the mauling victims were pinned to it, each in the general location in which they had died, with a variety of diagrams and note cards interspersed. Glenn absorbed the bloody horrors on display, took a deep breath, and turned to the group. “We've lost one of our own,” he began. “We're clowning now because we're devastated and we don't know how to react. It hurts. We all want to find out what happened to Ranger Houser. But we cannot develop tunnel vision; we've got to keep our eyes on the big picture. We're in the middle of more than Houser's death. At least one of our guests is killing our animals and at least one of our animals is killing our guests.” He paused for a sip of coffee. “We will review each incident so we're all up to speed. Hopefully, together, we can come up with some answers.”
The rangers traded dubious looks across the table. Answers had, so far, seemed in short supply.
“Let's take this in chronological order,” Glenn said. “Pete, what have you got?”
The others swiveled in their chairs to follow him as Ranger Lincoln stepped to the pin board. He grabbed a pointer from the table and nervously tapped his palm. “The first victim was Jason Ewing, a.k.a. Stubby Ewing, of Dallas, Texas. He and his wife were in the Firehole Lake area; specifically, on the boardwalk at Black Warrior Lake.” Lincoln pointed to the west-central area of the park map and traced Stubby's movements.
“He left the boardwalk here,” Lincoln said. “And, ultimately, died here. We have two witnesses, his wife and a photographer who was working the area. They claim he was the victim of a bear attack. Both report the animal charging from the fog on the lake and disappearing back into it again. The coroner's report lists the cause of death as a massive myocardial infarction, uh, a heart attack.”
“On the lake,” J.D. repeated. “Did you say `On the lake'? The bear came from the lake?”
“Uh, yeah.” Lincoln looked to the chief and, again, began nervously tapping the pointer on his palm. “And, uh, then the story really starts to get hinky. I mean, there are some problems.” Lincoln took a deep breath. “There is absolutely no physical evidence to support the eyewitness accounts. The victim broke through the travertine crust here. But there was no sign a bear had broken through either in Black Warrior Lake or anywhere near the body. As big as the witnesses described that bear, you would think he'd have left tracks or broken through himself. No such evidence.”
“How about the body,” Simpson asked. “Any bite marks?”
“None,” Lincoln said. “Other than the expected cuts on his legs, and the burns from the pools, there wasn't a scratch on the guy. You saw the photos, chief.” Lincoln retrieved a file from the table and passed Lambro's glossy 8x10 prints around.
“The photographer, a pro, claims the bear was in every shot,” Glenn told the group.
“Right,” Lincoln said. “But, as you can see, the photographic evidence doesn't support that claim; not hide nor hair. I'm telling you, if it weren't for the witnesses, who as far as we know were complete strangers, corroborating one-another, I'd have a hard time believing there was ever a bear there.”
“This Ewing,” Glenn asked. “What do we know about him?”
Lincoln scratched his head. “The FBI has a file on him… they are not willing to discuss. But, off the record, I was told he'd recently been buying up truckloads of real estate on the park's perimeter.”
“What for?” J.D. asked.
“Only guesses. But Ewing has ties
to a number of Texas energy companies, including researches in geothermal power.”
“Anything else, Pete?”
“Nothing,” Lincoln said. “And no answers.”
“Thank you. You're on, Frankie.”
“I don't know how much more help I'm going to be,” Franklin said, rising. “In the Heart Lake incident we are definitely dealing with a bear, but the situation is almost as weird as Pete's.” Franklin pointed to the location of the campsite where the Shoshone outfitter had guided his fishermen, not far from Yellowstone's south entrance. “According to Johnny Two Ravens,” Franklin said. “He chose this site, not only because the fishing ought to have been excellent but also for the lack of bear sign. The body of Paul Hastings, our second victim, was found only two hundred yards from their camp. We think he got lost in the woods. His trail actually circled the camp before he was killed.”
“You said you know it was a bear,” J.D. said. “How is that?”
“Because of the condition of the body.” Franklin pointed to a photograph on the board. “Hastings had been eviscerated. There were numerous claw and bite marks that definitely indicate grizzly. But I'll tell you, from the size of those marks, this was one monster of a bear. I've never seen damage to equal. And the tooth spread was just plain scary.”
Shared looks and shared gooseflesh raced around the table. Glenn saw it and tried to head it off. “Let's keep our feelings out of this for now. I just want facts. Other evidence?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing?” Glenn asked irritably.
“Just that, chief. No tracks, no hair samples. No kidding, the pathologist wasn't even able to find any saliva in the bite wounds. I've never seen anything like it. There was a bear at the scene but he must have been cleaned and combed out. He left nothing in the way of evidence.” Franklin sighed heavily. Then, oddly, he chuckled. “Unless you want to count the feather?”
Glenn's eyes narrowed. “What feather?”
Apparition Lake Page 11
