Apparition Lake

by Daniel D. Lamoreux

  “The outfitter,” Stanton said, shaking hands. “I've heard about you. I apologize, again.”

  “There are reasons to be upset,” Two Ravens said gracefully. “In the park and on the reservation.”

  “Which brings us,” Stanton said, “right back to, what are we going to do?”

  “We believe we have the answer,” Glenn said. He looked to his companions. “But you're going to find it hard to accept.”

  Had he not been totally exhausted, Stanton would have laughed. As it was he simply stared at his chief ranger awaiting the rest.

  “There is no evidence of a physical bear, no sightings of a bear outside of the attacks,” Glenn said. “Because there isn't any bear. Not a real one at least.”

  Stanton's eyes roamed over the three people seated before him. “What?”

  “The bear only exists when it is attacking.”

  Stanton jerked up laughing an unfunny disgusted laugh. He tried to drink from his coffee cup again but the thing was still empty. “What are you talking about?”

  “Mr. Stanton,” Two Ravens said. “He is talking about an Indian spirit that has been unleashed upon people in the Yellowstone area. These murders, and that's what they are, revenge killings, have come about as the direct result of an incident that occurred on these lands over one hundred years ago.”

  “Oh, now, come on.”

  “In 1878, a Shoshone holy man called Silverbear…”

  “Glenn!” Stanton yelled, no longer even hearing whatever it was the Indian was spouting.

  “Listen to him,” the ranger said.

  “I'm up to my eyeballs in blood and red tape and…”

  “Mike,” Glenn hollered back. “Listen to him. Just hear him.”

  The superintendent leaned back again. “All right, Mr. Two Ravens, I'll listen.”

  Johnny told the park superintendent his ancient Indian ghost story. He related with, Glenn thought, amazing elegance the tale of the great medicine man, Silverbear, and his murder at the hands of the filthy white poacher. He detailed, with heartbreaking sadness, Silverbear's eventual consignment to the depths of the eerie, temporal Apparition Lake. “His spirit does not rest,” Two Ravens said solemnly. “Like the grizzly bear, who dies in winter to be reborn in the spring, Silverbear has been reborn to right the wrongs being done to Mother Earth.”

  “You're telling me a ghost is killing these people?” Stanton asked incredulously.

  “A spirit,” Two Ravens said. “The spirit of Silverbear, powered by the magic fetish of Duma Appah, and personified as the mighty grizzly.”

  Stanton turned to Glenn. “Do you believe this?”

  “Intellectually, no,” Glenn said. “My brain says it cannot be happening this way.”

  “Then what is this?”

  “This is my heart saying something different,” Glenn said. “I know what I saw, Mike. I saw the biggest, baddest grizzly bear in my experience that, despite the fact it has been killing everybody else, did me no harm. It wasn't a real bear. It was a spirit. The Spirit Bear saw my heart and knew I posed no threat to Mother Earth. And, instead of killing me, it delivered a warning.”

  “What about you,” Stanton barked at J.D. “You're a scientist. You can't believe this nonsense?”

  “Yes,” she said boldly. “I can.”

  “On what basis?”

  “On a very scientific basis, Mr. Stanton. We've eliminated the impossible. This is the only explanation left. Therefore, regardless of how improbable it sounds, it must be the answer.”

  “Wait,” Stanton said looking as if he smelled something foul. “That's Sherlock Homes, isn't it?”

  “You don't have to believe it, Mike,” Glenn said.

  “I don't,” he said. “I think it's lunacy.”

  “We need your permission to search for Silverbear's body.”

  “What body?” Stanton rose and paced the length of his office. “There can't be a body. That was a hundred years ago.” He pointed at Two Ravens. “You said yourself that the cavalry couldn't find his body when they looked for it; and it had been less than a year. If it wasn't there then, how is it going to be there now?” Two Ravens opened his mouth but Stanton wasn't finished. “He was probably fish food days after his murder.”

  J.D. looked up innocently. “There aren't any fish in Apparition Lake.”

  “No wonder you teamed up with Merrill,” Stanton screamed. “You're a smart mouth too!”

  “Mike,” Glenn said sharply. “You said you'd listen.”

  Stanton reseated himself and took a deep breath. Glenn nodded at Two Ravens.

  “Silverbear was cast into Apparition Lake,” the Indian said. “He was murdered and denied the sacred burial of our custom. By Shoshone belief, the surface of the water would have prevented him from going to the Creator. Our shaman believes that when the waters of Apparition Lake receded, they took the holy man with them, to hold him and to protect him until the appointed time. The lake has returned and brought Silverbear back. The time is now.”

  “The time for what?” Stanton asked.

  “For balance,” Two Ravens said. “Mother Earth has had enough.”

  Chapter 23

  Despite the chaos at the administrative offices the day before, Glenn had hoped beyond hope that their ridiculous program, as Mike Stanton called it, could be carried out without attracting undue attention. But as he eased the Suburban toward the barricades set up west of Apparition Lake that morning, it quickly became obvious that was not going to be the case. There were people everywhere as if the circus had come to town.

  Beside him, a flabbergasted J.D. asked, “Wouldn't Stanton love to see this?”

  Glenn grunted. “He isn't coming within a million miles of this. He authorized it, and I'm grateful for that, but he doesn't want to see it. He's waiting a report at Mammoth; probably under his desk.”

  “I don't think I blame him,” she said scanning the tumult. “Isn't it funny how people seem to come from nowhere?”

  Glenn found it less funny than amazing the way crowds materialized in Yellowstone. And it wasn't a rare occurrence. He remembered an incident near Swan Lake in Gardner's Hole. He'd been out for a drive in his own vehicle and had pulled over, merely to retrieve something from the glove box. In a heartbeat, a camper slowed and stopped near his vehicle, its occupants craning their necks to see why he'd parked. The first vehicle was immediately joined by two more. Someone got out with binoculars. The situation was getting interesting and Glenn decided to sit and watch. Three vehicles became six, and a young couple bailed from their car with cameras. Six became ten. The visitors began to question one another, pointing this direction and then that. When ten rubbernecking tourists became fifteen, Glenn had enough. There was nothing to see; never had been. He was sure that before the adventure was over word would spread that somebody had seen a bear or a moose or maybe an alien spacecraft. Such was human nature.

  J.D. broke his reverie. “Who leaked this operation?”

  “Huh? Oh, I did, J.D.,” Glenn growled. “Everything was going so smoothly, I thought I'd give us all a challenge.”

  The biologist raised her hands in surrender. “I was just asking.”

  Glenn flipped on the red strobes and eased into the westbound lane, heading east, past the line of cars, campers and commercial vehicles backed against the roadblock. Gawkers were leaving their vehicles and wandering on the road like herds of bison along the Madison River. Glenn drove slowly, weaving not to hit them, his annoyance turning to anger. He fought the urge to `moo' out his open window as he passed. The crowd grew denser as Glenn neared the barricades; a wall of arms and legs seemingly attached to a single massive body. Those in the back, on the tips of their toes, struggled to see over the mass in front. Even with lights flashing the crowd seemed ignorant of their presence. He impatiently tapped his horn and a middle-aged woman in front of his grill jumped as if she'd been goosed. She glared back, oblivious to their identities, then ignored them and renewed her attempts to climb the
living mountain ahead of her.

  “Ordinarily,” Glenn said, “I hate the siren.”

  J.D. took the hint. She squawked the control several times in rapid succession startling the mob. They parted, dashing, jumping, running from the road as if a mad dog had been dropped in their midst. “But you must admit,” she said, turning it off again, “it has its uses.”

  Two rangers on the other side of the barricades were laughing. They stifled it, pulled the roadblocks aside, let the chief ranger pass and then closed them up again. The crowd returned to leaning, including several Glenn recognized as reporters. “Hey, chief,” one shouted. “What's going on?”

  Glenn threw his vehicle into park and stepped out with a smile, leaning in a like fashion on his door. “Just routine procedures, folks. There's nothing to get excited about. I recommend you all go see the park and enjoy yourselves. For you guys,” he added, to the reporters, “I'll have a full, and very dull, Press Release in short order.” He turned to the nearest ranger, dropped his voice, and said, “See if you can turn some of these people around and get them out of here. At this rate they'll be lined up to Missoula by noon.”

  The young ranger warily eyed the crowd. “Yes, sir,” he said though his expression suggested he'd just been ordered to join Custer at Little Big Horn.

  “Don't be shy,” Glenn told him. “It's time to earn your bones, kid.” The chief ducked back into his vehicle and, with J.D., drove off toward the lake and the temporary Incident Command Center. The ICC was a converted RV with a communications room, a small conference office, a break room with coffee maker, and a closet-sized bathroom. Glenn pulled up near the vehicle where an agitated Ranger Connolly stood with his mouth hanging open like a landed cutthroat trout.

  “Who sent out the invitations to this party?” J.D. asked as she climbed out, the question for some reason heavy on her mind.

  “Huh?” Connolly asked his mind occupied. “Oh, uh, your guess is as good as mine, J.D.” He turned sheepishly to the chief. “But we've got a problem.”

  “Only one?” Glenn asked.

  “No. I mean a big problem. The press…”

  “Yes,” Glenn said eyeballing the hounds at the barricades. “They were bound to turn up.”

  “No,” Connolly said. “Not them.” He chucked a thumb over his shoulder at the RV. “On the other side, talking to the divers, those other two; a reporter from Billings with his photographer.”

  Glenn looked an angry question while J.D. marched to the end of the RV. She looked to the lake, screwed her face into a frown, looked back to Glenn and nodded. “It's that loud mouth, Lark, and one I don't know with a camera.”

  Glenn growled. “Where's the Public Information Specialist?”

  “Not here yet,” Connolly said helplessly. “And not answering her radio.”

  “What are they doing inside the restricted area?”

  “Well, gee, chief. He wouldn't take no for an answer. Started in with that freedom of the press stuff, and the Public Information Act, and… well… I didn't want to get anybody in trouble. I told him he could wait for you here.”

  “So how did here,” Glenn asked, pointing, “become there?” Connolly had no answer which, Glenn decided, was at least better than a rotten excuse. But it was time to get the show on the road and long past time to put a certain news hound in his place. Glenn took Connolly in tow and, with J.D., headed toward the lake and that most obnoxious member of the fourth estate. He used the sixty yards between to build up steam and ready himself for the clash.

  The oversized gray van of the underwater recovery team was parked near a group of government vehicles along the roadside and adjacent to the lake. Lark and his photographer were beside it trying, none too successfully it appeared, to bend the ear of one of the divers. Lark turned from the waterdog, saw Glenn, J.D. and Connolly coming, and beamed. “Morning, Chief Merrill.”

  “Two questions,” Glenn said. “One…” He pointed into the distance at the barricade through which he and J.D. had just passed and at the pulsing crowd beyond. “Are you responsible for that crowd?”

  Lark took an aborted look and smiled. “The public's right to know, you know.”

  J.D. glared incredulously.

  “Uh huh,” Glenn muttered, less impressed than the biologist and fully prepared to ignore him. “And two, what are you doing inside the restricted area?”

  “Oh, that would be my right to know. I do know my rights, chief.”

  “I'm sure of that,” Glenn said. “What you don't know is under what circumstances you can legally exercise them. You don't know who has authority here. And, clearly, you don't know who it is that you keep messing with. Now, the park superintendent will have a news conference and statement for the press at the appropriate time. Feel free to go back to Mammoth and wait for it. If that doesn't appeal to you, then you can just get out of my face and go gawk with the rest of the clowns – from outside the barricades.”

  The photographer snapped his picture.

  Blinded by the flash and blinking to clear his vision, Glenn barked, “Do that again and that camera takes a swim. Then you go to jail.” He turned to Connolly. “Get them back where they belong!”

  Thanks to the Information Specialist being late, and the run-in with Lark, damage control was starting to look impossible. Word was out something big was happening, that was obvious. Glenn hoped that was all. If the public knew they were in search of a corpse missing for over a century, all hell would break loose.

  *

  Rob Jones stood back and watched with great satisfaction. The rambunctious Cub Scout Troop he'd started out with less than ten days before had actually begun to take on the symmetry and order of a team in the outdoors. They had set up camp near Sulphur Creek in record time, and stood in formation as Jones made an inspection of their work.

  “The camp looks great,” Jones said. “I'm proud of you boys.” The scouts gave themselves a round of applause punctuated with several hardy cheers. “Grab your packs. We'll go for a hike to celebrate. Maybe we can find a moose or something.”

  As the boys scrambled to get their gear, Greg cornered James beside his tent. “Hey, snot nose,” said the bully. James stood to face the larger boy. He felt certain he was about to get his butt kicked but was going to face it like a man. “You did okay today,” Greg said showing a rare smile. “What do you say we call a truce for a while?”

  A good wind would have knocked James over. “You mean it?” he asked in surprise.

  “Sure, I mean it,” Greg said. “I guess you ain't such a bad kid.” He laid his hand out before the smaller boy. James smiled wide and slapped the palm. They ended the exchange in a handshake.

  “You're not so bad yourself,” James said. “For a big creep.”

  For the first time on the trip Greg laughed with James instead of at him. He tapped the smaller boy above the ear. “You don't give up, do you? I guess that's why I like you. Come on, let's go find that moose.”

  *

  With Lark out of his hair, Glenn turned his attention to the dive team leader. “Sorry about that,” the chief said. “I hope he didn't press for too much information?”

  A military crew cut, sharp green eyes, and a cleft chin above sculpted muscles, the dive leader grinned. “Have no fear. He was still wondering whether or not I even have vocal chords when you started chewing on him.” He shook Glenn's hand. “Dave Parker. And if that guy's a problem for you, I'm only going to make it worse. I'm afraid I have no dive team. We were already short personnel because of an incident last night at Bear Lake. Most of my people and equipment are there.”

  Glenn winced. He knew the place; Bear Lake was just south of the Caribou National Forest in Utah. That's where this team had been summoned from, flown in by helicopter from Salt Lake City to the Mammoth Headquarters that morning. From there, it was over a half-hour drive to Apparition Lake and they'd arrived just ahead of him.

  “My partner and I grabbed just the basics and came on alone. I was going to use
your people for surface monitors. Now my partner…” He hesitated, trying to think of a polite way to phrase it. “He's laid out in the back of the van, sick as a dog. I don't know if it's sudden on-set flu, or food poisoning, or what. It hit him just as we arrived. He got dizzy as a top, spiked a temp, and he's vomited twice. I'm hoping he doesn't die on me. There's no way he can dive.”

  As if the gods were listening, a horn began bleating. Glenn, J.D. and Parker turned as one to the west barricades. Having gained no ground dispersing the horde, the rangers were having to hold them back from the gap as they let a pickup with an overloaded bed through.

  “How about that? The Indians come over the hill in time to save the Cavalry.” Glenn turned to Parker. “That's Johnny Two Ravens, a professional outfitter and, among many other things, a trained and experienced diver.”

  Parker nodded. “That's terrific. But under the circumstances, chief, he'd have to volunteer.”

  “When he hears the circumstances,” Glenn replied, “try to stop him.”

  *

  Two Ravens did volunteer of course; immediately. He and Parker had a quick conversation and, though they had only met, went about their work with the refined movements of a Swiss watch. Parker unloaded equipment from the van, Two Ravens from his truck. Together they assembled ropes, buoys, and anchors and, in an orderly and precise fashion, placed everything in the staging area on the shore. Having checked with Simpson in communications, and sent word to Stanton the operation was about to begin, Glenn and J.D. rejoined the divers.

  “We're looking for a body submerged somewhere in the lake,” Glenn explained. “It's been there… for some time… More than likely it will be skeletal remains only.” He put a hand on Two Ravens' shoulder. “I don't want you taking any unnecessary chances out there.”

  Glaring, J.D. butted in. “Glenn, how much diving experience do you have?”

  “Me? I can't even swim.”

  She smiled. “Then why not offer support instead of advice.”

  The chief smiled back, without meaning it, and turned to the dive leader. “How soon can you be in the water?”