HYBRID: A Thriller

by James Marshall Smith

Dieter nodded and scanned the horizon, wondering again about Michael at the Camporee. Part of him wished he were there with his son, but there would be plenty of times they’d get to go off together exploring the wilderness. For now, he had to take care of the more pressing matter.

  Someday, he’d tell Michael all about it.

  FORTY-FOUR

  When Amy called to check on her, Molly quickly answered the phone: “It was dreadful. I can only imagine how Claire Manning must feel right now.”

  Amy hadn’t heard about the fire that had happened during the night. The offices of the Gallatin County Weekly Reporter on the edge of town had burned to the ground.

  “You suppose it was arson?” Amy asked.

  “It’s a newspaper. They could come up with a dozen suspects off the tops of their heads.”

  “But to burn down the entire operation? It’s just a weekly newspaper, for Chrissakes. Who would have a grudge on a newspaper in Colter, Montana?”

  “That’s what I told the Judge. He just said to leave it to the law. What have you heard about Rusty?”

  “Dieter took him up to the vet hospital in Livingston,” Amy said. “It’s going to be touch and go with the poor thing.”

  “I get knots in my stomach every time I think about it.”

  “I’m out at the lake this weekend,” Amy said. “Could we do lunch on Tuesday? I’ve got something I need to talk over with you.”

  “You can come over now for tea.”

  “Let’s talk over lunch on Tuesday.”

  “Your call,” Molly said. “But before I forget, I had a curious conversation with Ginny Cunningham yesterday.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know her.”

  “She’s one of the Boy Scout moms. Her Randy is about the same age as Michael. He’s at the Park for the big Camporee this weekend, too. I tried to call Dieter to tell him what she’d told me, but couldn’t get an answer.”

  “Not sure where he is this weekend,” Amy replied. “He wasn’t very open about what he was up to. You heard something I should know about?”

  “Ginny told me she was surprised that Michael was going on the backcountry trip. She had a hard time talking her Randy out of it. She felt they’re just too young. And with all that’s going on with the wolves—”

  “Don’t worry. Dieter didn’t let Michael go.”

  “But Michael told Randy that he got his dad to sign for permission. He was actually bragging about it.”

  ***

  Mr. Little Bear had insisted on tagging along with Amy to the campground, but she was determined to handle it alone. She had filled him in on the episode with old man Loudermilk and told him to stay at home, be on the lookout. He promised her that if the bastard put a foot on their property, he’d deal with him. She should cross that concern off her list.

  When Amy arrived at the Indian Creek campground, the likes of a three-ring circus greeted her. Boy Scouts were scattered around, running, shouting, playing games. She found a scout leader with badges pinned all over his uniform like Christmas ornaments and assumed he might be in charge. After introducing herself, she said she was looking for Michael Harmon.

  “Yes, ma’am, we were hoping his dad would be here today.”

  “He had an unexpected emergency.” The words were the first thing to pop into her head.

  “That’s really too bad. We are short a couple of adults.”

  “He’s a busy man. Can you please help me find Michael?”

  “I believe he’s on the list for the overnight hike. They’ve already started on the trail.”

  “That’s not possible. His dad didn’t give him permission.”

  The scout leader sorted through the papers on his clipboard while Amy searched the gaggle of boys.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Bear, I—”

  “That’s, Little Bear.”

  “Pardon me, Miss Little Bear, while I go inside. I’m sure the list is there.” He ducked into a large tent that looked to serve as a makeshift headquarters. Amy twisted her head about to find anyone near the size of Michael. Most of the boys were much taller. When she remembered that Michael didn’t have a uniform, that ruled out every kid she saw.

  The troop leader emerged from the tent. “Well, what do you know! Michael Harmon is right here.” He held the list out for Amy to inspect, pointing to Michael’s name.

  “I can assure you; that’s a mistake. Michael Harmon did not have permission to go on any—” She stopped herself as a group of Scouts gathered around. With her hands on her hips, she looked up and took a deep breath.

  “We plan these activities well in advance, Miss Little Bear.”

  She shot back a squinted stare. “Oh, I’m quite confident you do!” She flipped back her hair with both hands and lowered her head. “I’m sorry. Just a little taken aback at the moment.”

  “Please, Miss. We wouldn’t have him on the list if we didn’t have a parent signature.”

  “But . . . he didn’t even have a sleeping bag . . . or a tent.”

  “Not a problem. He didn’t need either. They’ll camp tonight in a patrol cabin on the other side of the pass. There’s a large cleared area for the older Scouts to pitch a tent or sleep under the stars. The Tenderfoots will be bunked in the cabin.”

  “Okay, okay. I understand. But let me make myself clear. I need to find Michael Harmon.”

  “I wish you’d registered with us, Miss Little Bear,” he said with a firmer voice.

  “Registered?”

  “As an adult leader.”

  “Good. I’ll do that now.”

  He drew in his chin. “Not really. You see—”

  “Perhaps gender is an issue?”

  “Oh, heavens, no!”

  “You did say you were short on adults this weekend.”

  “Of course, but—”

  “And here I am, ready and able to help. Eager to get started, in fact.” For the first time, she smiled.

  He quickly explained that wasn’t the way things were done in Scouting. She didn’t apply and wasn’t cleared by the district as an adult leader. There was paperwork . . . and an interview.

  “May I have a word with you alone?” Amy asked.

  They moved to the shelter of a tree and she spoke more softly. “I believe there’s a lone wolf roaming the Park. It attacked and killed a hiker yesterday. It’s somewhere between here and the border near Colter.”

  The troop leader glared at her as if she had just walked out of an asylum. “Miss Little Bear, we know about the Grizzly incident on the Fawn Pass trail.”

  “Who told you it was a Grizzly?”

  “Our regional scoutmaster was briefed first thing this morning.”

  “Briefed? By who?”

  “The Park’s chief ranger.”

  “Chief Corey?”

  “You know him?”

  “He didn’t have you cancel the hike?”

  “You don’t need to get upset, Miss Little Bear. He told us to take normal precautions. He’s making flyovers throughout the weekend for our protection.”

  “But this is the largest wilderness area in the lower forty-eight!” She lowered her voice. “How the . . . how do you think they’ll protect you? I can’t believe you didn’t cancel the hike.”

  “If it wasn’t safe, why would Yellowstone’s chief ranger give us the go-ahead?”

  Seething inside, she tried to look calm. “Do you have a map?”

  The troop leader shuffled back into his canvas headquarters while she paced outside it. After a minute, he stuck his head through the tent opening and invited her in to see a trail map spread out on a folding table. They explored it together, beginning with the Bighorn Pass trail out of the campground. The first few miles followed Panther Creek, then it broke through the Bighorn Pass between the Three Rivers and Bannock Peak. From the Bighorn Pass, the trail turned northward to follow the Gallatin River.

  Amy traced along with her index finger and paused. A few miles beyond the pass, a spur of the Big Horn connected wit
h the Fawn Pass, the very trail where the attack on the hikers was reported. It linked directly with the trail Michael and the other Scouts were hiking. She leaned with both hands on the table and shook her head back and forth as she stared at the map.

  He asked if she were okay. She lifted her head and thought for a moment before speaking. “How long have they been gone on their hike?”

  He looked at his watch and pursed his lips. “A couple of hours. But I hope you don’t plan to catch up with them. They’re at least four miles ahead of you by now.”

  She lifted the tent flap and looked back at him. “I’ve always liked giving guys a head start.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  “The weather should blow through today,” Bantz Montgomery said. “Probably best we put off the search till tomorrow.”

  “Remember Mother Superior’s orders,” Corey replied.

  “But if the weather’s not cooperating, Jack?”

  “McFarland said we begin today.”

  The problem was Montgomery’s latest observation at Gardiner: high winds and overcast skies with a ceiling of twenty-five hundred feet. Visibility, three and a half miles and dwindling.

  In Corey’s office they plotted out a course while Montgomery wondered if McFarland had reached the superintendent for a decision on closing the Fawn Pass trail. A short-wave scanner on a table by the wall crackled with walkie-talkie chatter among rangers spread throughout the Park. There were too many speeders and that wasn’t going to be tolerated during Labor Day weekend. A teenager who had stepped into the edge of a hot spring and scalded his foot was rushed to the emergency clinic at Lake Lodge. They already had two DUI arrests, one for possession. A collision involving three vehicles reported near the Tetons exit. No serious injuries.

  Montgomery paid little attention to the scanner. He’d been thinking it through most of the night, how to say what he should’ve said long before now. But he knew that even mentioning Greta McFarland’s name would set him off.

  “I’ve got something to level with you, Jack.”

  Corey spoke while staying focused on the map. “We’re always straight with each other.”

  “When you were at Indian Creek with the Scouts, McFarland called me into her office.”

  Corey looked up with a scowl.

  “She was pushing on me, Jack.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “She expressed doubts about you being in charge.”

  Corey slowly leaned back in his chair. “Me? In charge of what? The Park?”

  “No . . . the hunt for the hybrid.”

  “That asshole is trying to go around everybody in the chain. What did you tell her?”

  “I said that I wanted no part of going behind your back. If anybody could handle this, it’s you. I told her to relax. We’d take care of it.”

  Corey folded his hands behind his head and smiled. “Did you know she’s screwing the superintendent?”

  Montgomery didn’t want to go there or anywhere close. “Never heard that one.”

  “The beautiful Black Princess fucking her old white married boss. How do you think she got the job in the first place? The bitch has been aiming for me ever since she arrived.”

  Montgomery pretended to be searching the map. How easy it was for McFarland to push Corey’s buttons. A hatred so utterly deep it always shuts down his mind. On the other hand, Corey hated his ex as much as McFarland. Truth was, the chief park ranger hated many people while holding a strong dislike for most. Maybe the real problem was that Corey hated himself above everyone else.

  Through the static on the shortwave they both heard the same word: llama.

  Corey nudged him to go turn up the volume. A ranger was reporting to the dispatcher that he’d stopped to question a driver hauling a horse trailer with a llama inside. Corey grabbed for the phone and called Comm Central, ordering the clerk to have the ranger call him.

  In less than thirty seconds the phone rang and Corey snatched the receiver. “What were their names? . . . The ones with the llama, dammit . . . Did he have a permit? . . . What did they say they were doing? . . . Where? . . . Not necessary . . . Thanks.”

  Corey hung up then rose out of his seat and barked. “Let’s get to the airport!”

  “There’s no light craft flying now, Jack.”

  Corey seized Montgomery’s wrist and buried his fingernails into his flesh until it turned white. He pronounced each word with a military cadence as he spoke. “Radio to Gardiner. Tell them to get a chopper ready.”

  ***

  While Montgomery prepared for the trip, Corey dashed home. He entered the side door and brushed past the kitchen table, where a large brown envelope lay unopened with a return address of the Livingston law offices of Higgins, Markley, and Jones. He charged up the stairs, two steps at a time, yanked off his clothes in the bedroom, and pulled another uniform wrapped in plastic out of the closet. It was freshly starched and pressed. Extra starch. He put on the tan shirt with the NPS logo and buttoned it up, then sat on the bed with his trousers and rubbed his forefinger and thumb along the crease. He walked back to the closet and scanned the floor. Where were his goddamn hiking boots?

  He rushed to the garage and searched the shelves, looking among the tools and rags on top of and under the workbench. He knocked over a used can of paint and the lid fell off. Black enamel spread like lava over the floor. At the garage door he spotted the boots and kicked them up against the wall before picking them up. When he returned to the bedroom, he pulled on each boot, tying the leather laces with a double-knot. There would be a lot of hiking. In the back corner of the closet, he lugged out his scoped .30/.30, then opened the bottom dresser drawer and grabbed a box of shells, stuffing a handful into each pocket.

  What if one of them had a weapon? People were known to shoot rangers.

  Like what happened to Willie Petruski with Idaho Fish and Wildlife three years before. Willie tried to arrest two hunters who were stalking elk a week before the season opened. They shot Willie through the heart. Corey attended the funeral, along with over fifty rangers from all over the West. Only time in his life he ever cried.

  Next to the box of ammo was a souvenir from his tour of duty in Nam, a Ka-Bar fighting knife encased in a sheath with an emblem of the US Marine Corps. He gripped the knife and twisted it about to study its features. Parkerized finish, with a razor edge. He dragged the blade along a forefinger, just delicately enough to draw blood.

  In front of the full-length mirror, he carefully positioned his ranger hat. Bringing both hands up, he readjusted it, tilting it a half an inch to the right, a finger’s width forward. He gazed at his image.

  What had happened to the dream? Where did it all begin to fall apart?

  It didn’t matter. What mattered was respect. People had to learn that you can’t go around making fools of others, least of all making a fool of him. Some people just didn’t understand that simple moral principle. He jerked back his knee and with a swift kick shattered the mirror. Slivers of glass sprayed out over the bedroom carpet. Too much time had been wasted; had to get back to the airport.

  There was urgent work to do for the Park.

  FORTY-SIX

  Montgomery fingered his mustache as he sat at the controls of a blue and white Bell 206 Jet Ranger. While the engine was warming he studied the sky and checked his watch one more time.

  He held licenses to fly a variety of light fixed-wing aircraft as well as the smaller choppers. All of it was thanks to skills learned in the US Army.

  But he had now grown sick of it all. Babysitting his boss to make sure he met his obligations was taking a toll—plus a daily Valium and forty milligrams of Prilosec. The glove box in his truck held a bottle of a hundred Tums but less than a dozen were left. The worst part of the job was covering for a guy whose biggest problem was fanatical hatred for so many he imagined were trying to do him in. McFarland was catching on and that was going to lead to nothing good.

  When Corey sauntered tow
ard the helipad Montgomery couldn’t believe what he saw—a rifle strapped over Corey’s shoulder. No ranger, absolutely no one, was authorized to use those scoped rifles stored under lock and key by the superintendent. Corey must have snatched one without notifying anybody. A gust of wind blew off his hat and sent it rolling across the chopper pad.

  Montgomery jumped from his seat and chased it down. When he handed it over, he noticed a glob of dried blood on Corey’s shirt collar and the back of his neck was scratched raw.

  “Thank you, ranger,” Corey said, as if speaking to someone he didn’t recognize. “Ready to fly?”

  Over the whirl of the chopper blades, Montgomery could only read his lips. “Winds are gusting to thirty knots,” he shouted back. “And they’re calling for heavy precip.”

  Corey walked toward the chopper, opened the passenger door and climbed in. Montgomery followed and peered in before the door closed. “Jack, we don’t have the weather going for us right now. Maybe later?”

  “Let’s get moving,” Corey said. He spoke with an eerie calmness. “On the double.”

  “Sorry, but I can’t go up for any recon this afternoon.”

  “I don’t want you to do any recon, shithead. I just want you to take me out over the western border. Take a quick look and we can return. Let’s get flying. That’s an order.”

  While Corey entered through the passenger side, Montgomery placed his hand against the cabin door and stared down at the ground. He had the right to refuse orders from anyone when inclement weather loomed.

  Corey pounded on the window.

  Montgomery yanked open the door and hopped into his seat behind the controls. He put on the headset and checked gauges on the panel, then spoke into the mic. “Gardiner traffic, this is N7785. National Park Service. Lifting off southwest helipad, exiting traffic pattern to the south. Monitoring one twenty-one five, Gardiner.”

  Firmly gripping the collective and the stick, he lifted off. Corey sat strapped in, composed and staring straight ahead as if in a trance. Montgomery glimpsed around at the rifle propped up behind the seat. Hopefully, the damn safety was on.

  They flew south to Sheepeater Cliff, then turned west to pick up Indian Creek and follow it between Antler Peak and Dome Mountain, staying clear of the 10,000-foot peaks. He was already shifting about in the wind and didn’t need any sudden downdrafts. Keeping south of Echo Peak, he veered to the northwest until he spotted Grayling Creek south of Crowfoot Ridge, then followed the creek toward the Park border at Highway 191, maintaining a heading of due north.