Apparition Lake

by Daniel D. Lamoreux

  “The feather that I found at Heart Lake.” Franklin reached to the side of his chair, grabbed and opened his attaché, and removed a feather flattened on angle in a large zip-lock bag. It was just over 14 inches long (an attached label read 36 cm), gold leaning to golden brown with white interruptions in a barred pattern. He laid it on the conference table. “From a golden eagle.”

  “You found it at Heart Lake?”

  “Yeah. Yes, sir.” Franklin paused and considered. “Well, not at the lake. I found it in the forest… near Hastings' body.”

  “It's not in your report.”

  “Well, no,” Franklin replied awkwardly. “It's a feather.”

  Glenn ignored the general chuckle and reached for the package. Franklin handed it over. “You took the trouble to bag it up.”

  “Well… in the heavy tree-cover… it seemed out of place.”

  “That's because it was out of place,” Glenn said plainly. “Your instincts were working even if your brain wasn't. It's evidence. I have no idea of what. But it is protected contraband, in unlikely habitat, at the scene of a visitor's death, and it is evidence. Congratulations on finding it. Please, amend your report.”

  A shade redder, Franklin cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.”

  “I'll, eh…” All eyes turned on Pete Lincoln; the source of the stammer. He was sitting forward in his chair, redder than Franklin, biting his lower lip. “I'll have to amend my report as well,” he said.

  Everyone was looking. Glenn was glaring – a question that didn't need to be voiced.

  “There was,” Pete said, “a feather… uh, like that one… just like that one… at Black Warrior Lake too. I didn't mention it. Eh, I didn't collect it. It never dawned on me it was evidence. I mean, the sky's wide open. I didn't think about it twice. But, for what it's worth, I did see it, the, uh, feather, I mean; there in the pool. It had floated up against…” He paused, considering the matter. A light came on in his eyes and he snapped his fingers. “The pictures.” He pointed at the pile on the table. “There was a bison skull in the shallows and the feather…”

  The conference became a standing huddle with Lambro's photographs again the center of attention. One by one they studied the images, ignoring the appearance and antics of the late Texan, eyes glued instead on the bison skull in the fog-shrouded lake behind. There was nothing to see, save the skull, until Stubby went down in the fourth frame. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, like a tiny raft on a great ocean, a golden feather appeared on the lake. Just appeared. In the following three frames it floated up against the bison skull and, in the last, lodged in one of the empty eye sockets, held there by the ripple.

  “That's where I saw it,” Lincoln said. “Sticking out of the skull. I didn't give it another thought.”

  Glenn ground his teeth, unsure if they were seeing a clue or an odd coincidence. Unsure even whether to be delighted or angry. For the moment he decided to skip it. “All right. Do we know anything about the visitor, Hastings, personally?”

  Franklin shrugged. “Nothing that has any bearing on his death, I think. We know he worked for his daddy's strip mining company, that he would have owned it one day, had he lived, and that he had more money than God. That's about it.”

  “Is there any connection?” J.D. asked.

  “Connection? To what?”

  “To Ewing. Both made their fortunes providing energy.”

  “And, what?” Franklin asked. “The bears are working for the EPA?”

  Friendly laughter took another lap around the table. It skipped the chief ranger. Glenn, leaning back, the tips of his fingers touching and pressed against his lips, was deep in contemplation. Finally, stirring, he asked, “How about you, Gloria. Can you shed any light for us?”

  Simpson sat erect and cleared her throat. “First,” she said, “I need to put myself on report. I not only failed to properly collect evidence at the scene of Bart Houser's death. I removed evidence and violated work regulations. I… also found the feather of a golden eagle, at Cistern Spring, within ten yards of the victim's body. I picked it up because it was pretty, laying in a pool of bloody ugliness, and I knew that the mineral water would destroy it. I put it in my truck. It's there now.”

  It was, to say the least, a no-no on every level. Glenn stared, first at Simpson, then at the others in their turns, silently, his mind trying desperately to decipher the shape of this odd problem. One of his best rangers had violated one of the park's most basic regulations. You do not remove anything from nature without permission. Two of them had been derelict in their duties, failing to collect crime scene evidence. All three had failed to record and report crime scene finds. True, the fact they were talking about a feather sounded ridiculous and unbelievable. Still it was what it was and he was damned mad. He was also thankful, more than he could express, that all three had been alert enough to be able to corroborate what was now clearly more than a coincidence. It was the strangest clue ever. For the moment, Glenn opened a file drawer in the back of his mind and shoved it all in.

  “Let's all back out of the tunnel.” He pointed to the pin board up front. “The Norris Geyser Basin. Gloria, what else did you find?”

  “Not much.” She reluctantly stood and stepped to the board. “The first thing that struck me about Houser's death was that it happened at all. He was hardly an ignorant visitor. I find it hard to believe he got himself into a dangerous situation without planning an escape. He was a ranger, chief. He knew better than to spook a bear. It honestly appears as if he was stalked.”

  “Stalked? How do you mean?”

  “Houser was stationary,” Simpson said. “It looks like he was taking a break. The attack came from behind. We found the railing at Echinus Geyser cracked and scratched. Houser had splinters in his palms and wood under his nails. It appears the bear pulled him off the railing, broke the boardwalk using his body as a sledge hammer, and then dragged him to the pool where he was found.”

  “Any other evidence?”

  “Massive bite marks on the head and shoulders, fractured skull, broken spine and numerous ribs, and the abdomen was opened wide. He wasn't eaten, so this was not motivated by hunger.” Simpson paused. “Other than the vicious damage to the body, this scene matches the others. We have not been able to find a single hair, a drop of saliva, anything to indicate a bear or any other animal for that matter was there at all. As to Bart, personally…”

  Glenn raised a curious brow. “Please, don't tell me he was building a nuke plant at Mineral Hot Springs.” Laughter all around again. This time with the exception, Glenn noted, of Lincoln. The elder ranger seemed suddenly deep in thought.

  “A nuke? Not as far as I know, chief,” Simpson said. “Just a friend of the animals like all of us.”

  “Okay,” Glenn said. “J.D. can you help us with the scientific perspective?”

  “We've been doing aerial surveys since the first attack,” she said. “Not a single bear has been noted in any of the attack areas. All radio-collared bears are accounted for. None of them fit these scenarios. There are no reports of rogue bear activity other than these three isolated incidents.”

  “Do you think… and I'm asking you, the scientist; the bear biologist. For the moment ignore the environmental conspiracies and Aquila plumage. Do you think these attacks are related?”

  “I do. I can't believe they aren't,” J.D. said. “But how do you analyze a lack of evidence? If it is a bear, he's huge. I never saw anything in Alaska that could produce a similar bite radius, and they're the biggest bears in North America.” She thought for a moment. “It's hard enough to believe in one bear of these proportions, let alone more. It must be the same bear. But that leaves us with a new riddle.”

  “Distance.” Glenn said matter-of-factly.

  “Absolutely. In order to be in all these places, at these times, the creature would need wings. The distances are far too great. The bottom line is the collected evidence tells us two things for certain; one, that our perpetrator has to be a m
assive grizzly, and two, that it can't be. Now add a conspiracy and decorate it with eagle feathers. I honestly don't know what to think.”

  “All right,” Glenn said. “That's what the animals are doing to the people. Let's talk about what the people are doing to the animals. Frankie, you handled Bear #113 at Mary Bay…”

  “Oh, wait. Sorry, Franklin,” J.D. interrupted excitedly. “On that. I just got this.” She dug for a file folder. “There was something strange in the necropsy report. The bear was missing its gall bladder.”

  Franklin showed no surprise. “Nothing strange there, J.D. It means we're dealing with pros.”

  Glenn nodded his agreement. “The gall bladder is dried and ground up. The powder is sold in countries where the culture considers it an aphrodisiac. They do the same thing with elk antlers. The international market in animal parts is worth hundreds of millions. Every time we lose a critter we worry about professional poachers.”

  J.D. shook her head. “I've lived a sheltered life.”

  “You mentioned elk, chief,” Franklin said. “It isn't common knowledge but for days we've been losing elk in a number of places in the park. I'm afraid we're going to lose a lot more.”

  “And I'm afraid it's about to become common knowledge,” Glenn said. “That moron, Lark, from the Billings paper, already mentioned elk poaching on television and just now asked me about it. If our office has an information leak, I want it stopped up. I know that's enough said in this room, but spread the word.”

  There were silent nods around the table.

  “All right, Pete,” Glenn said eying the old-timer. “Time for experience to put in its two cents. Tell us about our poachers. Who are we looking for?”

  Lincoln studied the ceiling. “At least two men; no more than three. One is older, a pro, with years of experience like yours truly. At least one is young; muscle to get the nasty work done quickly.” He paused to consider further. “They're on horseback…”

  “Then we've got 'em,” Simpson chimed in. “All livestock are registered coming in. We'll have their names and the license number on their horse trailer.”

  “Whoa,” Lincoln said. “Hold your horse trailer, Ranger Simpson. Experience takes its time but I'll get there. I was about to say, our poachers are on horseback – illegally, of course. They wouldn't have brought a trailer through a park entrance for just the reason you spelled out. They rode in, probably at night, definitely in the thick timber of the back country, with pack horses. If they have a trailer, it's outside the park waiting for their triumphant return. They're cold camping and either caching their take in a secluded hiding spot within the park or are packing it out the way they came.”

  “Not to interrupt,” J.D. said. “But what is cold camping?”

  “Basically,” Franklin chimed in. “A cold camp is one where there's no fire; to make it harder to detect. They use a minimum of equipment for sleeping, no cooking supplies, easy to set up and easy to tear down. When they break camp, the pros that is, they leave little trace they were ever there.”

  “Because they're pros,” Lincoln continued, “we're just a stop along the way. They're ruthless. They see wildlife as nothing more than dollar bills wrapped in fur and carrying headgear. They may be loners but, more than likely, they're working for a top predator on contract. Who knows, could be a ring through the Rocky Mountain Range. I'd check with the LEOs in Grand Teton Park, Rocky Mountain Park in Colorado, and Glacier in Montana, see if they've been losing elk, too.”

  “You said the backcountry?” J.D. interrupted again.

  “Pros don't hunt near roads. That would be asking to get caught.”

  “Then I don't understand. If that's your theory, why did they kill the bear? Why near a road? Do we have more than one group of poachers?”

  “It's certainly possible,” Lincoln said.

  “If you don't mind police science and psychology jumping in,” Franklin said. “It could still be one set of poachers. If your theory is correct and there is a young guy among this group of murderers, he may not know the finer points of the business and may have made a boneheaded mistake.”

  “Bear #113 was the first animal killed in this current series,” Glenn said.

  “Right,” Franklin said. “Junior was impulsive, excited; he capped the first creature he saw. And the old pro decided not to waste the shot. I mean, there lay a gall bladder for the taking. Maybe the young guy was trying to make a name for himself?”

  “Sure, why not?” Pete said. “Either way, it's been elk from then on so I'd guess Mr. Experience made it plain to The Grunt that it wasn't going to happen again.”

  “Ranger Franklin,” Glenn said. “I want you on these poachers full time. Step up backcountry horse patrols and put a chopper in the air. I want these guys stopped.”

  “Right, chief.”

  “Everyone,” Glenn said, rising. “Without mentioning eagle feathers again, I suggest each and every one of you immediately bone up on the rules, regulations, and laws that govern this National Park, reread your manual of Standard Operating Procedures and, when you've flushed out your headgear, get back to work. Keep your eyes open. There will be no more dead rangers. That is an order.”

  The meeting broke up and the team funneled out of the room, with the exception of Lincoln, who nervously lingered. The ranger's loitering did not escape notice. He'd reacted oddly during the earlier discussion of Bart Houser, and the chief ranger was starting to get curious. “Pete,” Glenn asked, “was there something else?”

  “Chief,” Lincoln said. “We need to talk.”

  Chapter 12

  A misty rain quietly enveloped the sleepy little community of Gardiner, Montana. Tucked into a long, narrow valley between high mountain peaks at the far north entrance to Yellowstone, it was the idyllic old west town; an eclectic blend of old and new.

  Most of the buildings were constructed before their present occupants were born, repaired and remodeled as necessity dictated, and none too fancy. Architectural facades hid flat roofs and bore the scars of ageless war against the harsh elements of the high country. The lack of pavement and paint gave the town an eerie resemblance to Lago before the drifter rode in.

  There were a few new buildings; strangers in that secluded country. On the north bank of the Gardiner River, beside the only highway into town, sat the Gas & Go. Its stark white walls and neon lights made it stand out like a ten dollar gold piece in a beggar's cup. There, the tourists could buy the Billings Reporter, a cup of coffee, and a breakfast burrito while they fueled up for the trip to anywhere. No matter where you were headed, it was a long drive from Gardiner, Montana.

  Farther to the north sat the big chain motel. The new construction crept in that direction, away from Main Street, with its cramped quarters and old time shops. The new motel had been inevitable, what with Big City folks wanting their hot tubs, exercise rooms, FAX machines and, of course, continental breakfasts. Anywhere else in town you got a room with a bed and were mighty glad to have it.

  North of the river, high on the hillside, stood the newer homes, retirement havens for the transplants with money. They'd fallen in love with the simple lifestyle and, even if they couldn't bear to live it themselves, wanted to be close to it. South of the river, closer to Main, were the homes for the laborers. Compact and simple housing was the order of the day with a car and a pickup in the drive or, lacking that, parked on the lawn. Fishing boats on rusted trailers rested between the weekends beside recently replenished stacks of cut and split firewood gathered in anticipation of the harsh months of winter soon to come.

  Most folks, those that meant to stay, had adapted to the remote location and simple life. They did without conveniences in order to hold onto their independence, relied on each other when times were tough, and knew and trusted their neighbors. It was the only way to survive. Nobody worried about locking their trucks, or even their houses, in Gardiner, Montana. What each man owned was his, and God help the fellow who forgot that simple rule.

  I
f the Old West still lived, it hung its hat in Gardiner.

  Summer brought change. The heavy blanket of snow melted away, turned the Gardiner River to a stream of liquid chocolate, and was replaced by a ground cover of tourists. Dudes. Those demanding, irritating hordes from places so far and so different they might just as well have been from other worlds; New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Germany, Japan, England. Like invading aliens, they came by the thousands, tens of thousands.

  Spotting strangers was easy. They traveled in swarms; colorful swarms at that. The men wore Hawaiian shirts, baggy shorts. and black socks with sandals. They sported cheap cowboy hats with a dead pheasant's tail splattered above the front brim. If they had a hat, dog-gone-it, they were cowboys. The women hung on the arms of their men and dressed in long skirts, western blouses over-decorated in shiny Conchos, pink or blue cowgirl hats and enough make-up to give Tammy Faye Bakker fits of green envy. They strolled the sidewalks, cameras dangling from their necks like jewelry, hungry for a taste of the west as told by Zane Grey and Louis L'Amour.

  Above all else, they came for the park. Thank the park. Yellowstone National Park was a godsend for merchants wanting to make an honest buck and a headache for everybody else. To the people of Gardiner, Montana, the park had moved in and taken over. They even owned Main Street.

  Main Street was like most other streets except that it had only one sidewalk, on the north side of the street. Like any sidewalk, you could casually stroll along in front of old shops, buy picture postcards, cheap souvenirs and t-shirts to tell the world you'd been there. But Main Street was also a dividing line. Look to the south and you had a view of the north entrance to Yellowstone, the jewel of the National Park Service. Step down off the walk, into the street, and you were in Yellowstone.

  The gutter divided Gardiner from the park. The park divided Gardiner.

  There was an old joke, told only half in jest, among local bar patrons. If you fought outside the Main Street gin mill, a common occurrence on Friday nights, make sure you stayed on the sidewalk. Have a good time, knock yourself out, on the sidewalk. When you were done, Big Lou, the sheriff, would chew you out for being a public nuisance, take you home, and pour you into bed. Make the mistake of falling into the street and the rangers would show up. In the park, public intoxication was a federal offense. You'd find yourself in front of Judge Hardnose at Mammoth Headquarters, facing a fine you couldn't afford and time to dry out in a place you wouldn't like.