by Fritz Galt
As Jake and Bonnie were leaving the police station, the chief asked point-blank, “What am I supposed to do with Tommy?”
“Keep him as far away from children as you can,” Jake said.
“You mean let him go?”
Jake pointed at Bonnie. “We’ve got his testimony. Go ahead and charge him for breaking and entering if you want, but he was only acting on orders from his boss.”
“And who’s going after his boss?”
Jake looked him in the eye. “That’s my job.”
The afternoon was late and the shadows long. Jake slipped his sunglasses on and turned to Bonnie.
So she had booked some rooms up on Brian Head. “What, exactly, is Brian Head?”
“Brian Head is a ski resort that has year-round accommodations.”
“Sounds nice,” Jake said. “I’m happy to drive.”
She gave him a look that he would not soon forget. A laugh threatened to escape her lips.
Okay, let her do the driving.
They left in her official SUV and headed east toward rounded bluffs.
She applied pressure to the accelerator and the car began a long climb out of town.
“Mind if we turn on NPR?” he asked, aware that the East Coast was deep into the evening news by then.
She hit the radio scan button and they found a series of stations playing country music, religious sermons, and local advertising that reminded Jake of how far he was from Washington. Clearly Bonnie didn’t have NPR preset on her radio. Which got him wondering.
“Doesn’t anyone listen to NPR?”
“What’s NPR?”
“Really?”
“I’m only half joking,” she said. “There are no member stations south of Salt Lake City.”
That meant half the state had no access to “Morning Edition” or “Fresh Air.”
Fascinating.
So Jake turned to his phone and opened the NPR app to stream the radio feed. They listened briefly to the life story of a young rap musician before Jake muted the audio feed. Instead, he read headlines of the latest news coverage.
Most stories centered on candidates for federal office and the buckets of mud they slung at each other. It seemed like the country was tearing itself apart.
He searched for “Frost” and came up with the previous day’s story about Bill Frost’s death. The story revealed that the death was due to murder, that it occurred outside the capital city, and the victim was looking into violations of environmental laws by mining companies.
Well, NPR had it right. There was a murder, and mining companies were the target of his investigation. Only, it wasn’t Bill Frost who had died.
Then he noticed a link to updated news. He tapped on the link and arrived at a more recent story. It was about China’s reaction to Russia. They complained bitterly about the Russian press. It seemed like a normal news story to him until he read the details.
China’s president responded in a strongly worded speech at the Communist Party plenum, condemning Russia for intervening in Mongolia’s internal affairs. Without saying what the dispute was about, the Chinese leader’s argument was that Mongolia was a sovereign state.
For its part, Russia continued to insist that China was meddling in Mongolia, and cited the death of the American environmentalist.
Then NPR helpfully added that the person discovered dead in Mongolia was not an American at all.
What?
Jake had to re-read the sentence. “The person found dead in Mongolia was not American at all.”
How did they know that the body at the FBI Laboratory wasn’t Bill Frost?
He read on. “NPR has independently confirmed through a source familiar with the matter that the body discovered outside the capital of Ulaanbaatar was not that of American TV personality Bill Frost.”
Jake was stunned. Once again, NPR was all over the story, and getting it right, at the same time that Jake was being informed of the FBI Lab’s report.
He stared at his phone. Was NPR bugging his calls?
How did they even know that the FBI Laboratory was performing an autopsy? Did Amber overhear his conversation with Supriya Rao the night before? The very thought of it set his teeth on edge.
Once again, he was faced with the vexing NPR question. Who was leaking the news to them?
But perhaps more chillingly, why were the Chinese and Russians so upset about it? An angry Chinese president was a frightening thing. Was Jake only exacerbating a simple accident?
With no American murdered, he could easily step aside and quietly close the case. But clearly the Russians, the Chinese, the Mongolians, and the U.S. embassy were all heavily invested in conflicting narratives, and tempers were flaring. Furthermore, the invasion into Bill Frost’s house and the involvement of the mining company added a criminal element to the story. And lastly, the television celebrity’s continued absence spoke of ongoing foul play. Someone in Washington’s national security apparatus needed to be made aware of the potentially explosive situation.
He prepared a mental list of government agencies that he could bring into the loop: the National Security Council, the Central Intelligence Agency, and probably even the White House.
With National Public Radio once again beating him to the story, it began to feel like he didn’t have a real handle on the case. It was sad to think that he was turning to a news outlet for clues, but maybe they knew something he didn’t. Was Amber the one breaking the news?
He thought of calling her, and had his finger poised over his Favorites screen, when something told him to hold off. He didn’t want to be accused of leaking anything to her.
Let her do her own research. And let him do his.
Memories of their rancorous blowup over their shared suspicions left a sour taste in his mouth. He didn’t want it that way. He didn’t want the strain. And he didn’t want the relationship to end. But how could he sleep with a traitor?
He briefly imagined her following in his tracks, calling the U.S. embassy, interviewing National Geographic, and asking the FBI spokesman for autopsy results. All of which meant that she was one step behind him, struggling to find out what only he, with his law enforcement authority, could learn.
In a way, it seemed unfair to her, and he allowed himself a brief moment of seeing things from her perspective. He truly wished she could peek under the veil of secrecy that necessarily surrounded FBI investigations. He could use a sharp mind like hers. But he reminded himself of the old operating principle in the FBI: outside interference could jeopardize an investigation.
That was his line, and he was sticking to it.
It made him angry to remember her accusations that he didn’t trust her. Of course he trusted her. He was rooting for her success.
He continued to fume over his fight with Amber as Bonnie gently nursed the SUV up the hill. He was feeling unjustly accused. Yes, he had toyed with the idea that Amber was the leak. After all, from an objective point of view it was plausible enough as Whitney Baker had pointed out. But he had never actually accused her of it. And truth be told, he never really had come anywhere near to thinking that Amber really had leaked the information. He disagreed with his boss on that point. But there was Amber accusing him of a lack of trust. She was overreacting in the extreme and he felt wounded to the bone.
He gritted his teeth again. With some effort, he turned his mind away from his self-centered ruminations and tried to concentrate on what Bonnie was saying. Except that was difficult because he kept just watching her broad, expressive mouth move without really taking in the words she was saying.
Now, Bonnie was someone who trusted him. And he could trust her. He should divulge more to her. So far, she was only following orders. With her knowledge and contacts in Utah’s mining industry, it would help immensely to fully read her into the case.
Her confidence behind the wheel gave him confidence in her, and in himself. The two could make a great team. If he could only get past her good looks and concen
trate on what she was saying.
“…and that’s how I ended up in Utah,” she concluded.
“Wow. What a story.”
Soon they were at the top of a bluff, ahead of a silver sports utility vehicle that was chugging up the winding road several hundred feet behind them. Jake took a moment to look over the town of Hurricane, a neatly laid-out grid of streets in a bowl of dust.
“How did the town get its name?” he asked Bonnie.
“I have no idea. There certainly aren’t hurricanes around here.”
“I don’t even see why a person like Bill Frost would live out here.”
“Oh, wait a few minutes and you’ll see why.”
The road continued on a steady incline and they reached several towns built at high elevation. They were clean little places that showed increasing wealth, in a curbs and white picket fence sort of way.
Again they aimed for higher ground, with Bonnie apparently having made the trip before. They even took a clever shortcut through one community.
“Strange.” She was glancing in her rearview mirror. “That guy’s still following us.”
Jake looked back. Sure enough, the silver vehicle, a Ford Expedition, had taken the same cut-off they had.
“So you’re not from Utah?” he asked.
She stared at him. “We’ve been over all that.” Then she eased off. “No, this is not Reno. This is truly God’s country.”
He began to see why. As they climbed higher, vistas opened up to other valleys and distant mountains. Soon it was clear that they were on an enormous mountain.
“You’ll be able to see Arizona and Nevada from here,” she said.
They passed a yellow road sign that read “13% Uphill Grade.” Jake’s rental never would have made the climb. Even their SUV was gasping for air.
Pine forests soon surrounded the road, and it seemed clear to Jake that there would be no more towns ahead.
They took several switchbacks and crossed narrow bridges. A road sign alerted them to dial “511” for road conditions.
There were already snow banks that had been piled up by snow plows.
“Do you think this is wise?” he asked.
“I don’t know if it’s wise,” she replied, looking out her window at the stunning view. “But it’s worth it.”
Just then, Jake heard a popping sound from behind.
“Gravel?” he asked.
Bonnie looked concerned and checked her mirror.
There was another pop, as something hit the back window.
Jake turned around. The sports utility vehicle, big with tinted windows, was following close behind. A spiderweb of cracks had formed on Bonnie’s back window.
“I think he’s shooting at us,” Jake said.
Bonnie sped up. “We should be bulletproof.”
“He’s gaining on us.”
Then he saw the driver reach out his window, gun in hand.
“He’s shooting at us.”
Bonnie swerved hard to stay on the narrow road, while Jake reached under his suit coat for his Glock 23 semi-automatic pistol.
“What did you do to that guy?” he asked, still wondering if this was normal road rage in the West.
“He’s been tailing us ever since Hurricane,” she said. “Now it looks like he’s making his move.”
Jake racked the slide of his pistol and rolled his window down. But the road kept winding and he couldn’t get a good angle on the silver SUV.
He looked out the front window. They were flying past pine trees and snow drifts at an alarming speed.
“Watch the road,” he said. “I’ll take care of him.”
He climbed into the back seat, where he could aim out the other side window.
“Put on your seatbelt,” Bonnie called over her shoulder.
It sounded overprotective considering that someone was taking potshots at them, but Jake instinctively knew why she said it. They could veer off the road at any moment, only to run into trees or fly off a cliff.
He put on his seatbelt.
The electronic button took forever to lower his window. He opened it several inches and stuck out both his fists with the gun.
He was in an awkward position and couldn’t really aim, but he fired off two rounds anyway.
He could see no results, except that it served to anger the driver. With an extra boost of energy, the silver SUV came roaring up behind them. Jake couldn’t make out the driver’s features through the cracked window, and, maddingly, the car had no license plate.
Suddenly Jake was jolted back against his seat as the SUV rammed into the rear of their vehicle.
Bonnie momentarily lost control of her steering, and they turned into a skid.
Ahead lay nothing but sky. They had reached a sharp turn in the road at the top of a ravine.
The road sign read “SPEED LIMIT 25,” and they were easily going 40.
“Hang on,” Bonnie cried, and forced the front wheels to turn into the skid.
Again there was a sickening crunch as the silver SUV made hard and prolonged contact with their rear bumper. He was nosing them off the curve in a high-speed maneuver that threatened to send both vehicles flying straight off the looming cliff.
Bonnie never lost her cool, but was doing the reverse of what seemed necessary to slow down.
She hit the accelerator.
Jake recognized the move from the FBI’s “crash course” in defensive driving. A car needed traction to reverse the effects of a skid. But not when sliding toward the edge of a cliff.
Gradually, the back wheels grabbed hold of the road and Bonnie was able to straighten the vehicle out.
There was no guard rail and there were no trees to stop them from launching out over space.
Another grinding bump hit from the rear. The guy was destined to go down in flames with them.
“Bonnie, what the hell?”
“Hold on,” she cried.
They rumbled over the shoulder. There was nothing in the windshield. Air whistled through Jake’s window. He ducked and braced.
Then he noticed increased speed and a slight change in their trajectory. Instead of skidding off the curve, they were headed straight downhill.
As the hood dipped lower, the front axle absorbed hard bumps. Then the back wheels flew into the air.
The vehicle bounced out of control, the front and back bumpers striking solid rock.
They scraped against shrubs and tree branches while Bonnie held firmly to the wheel. It looked like she was steering down the mountain, like a daredevil on skis.
They maintained constant, heart-pounding acceleration while they crashed downhill, the car barely missing the many tree trunks that shot up in their faces.
What had seemed like a sheer cliff from the road turned out to be one steep downhill slope with a thick forest straight ahead.
Bonnie needed to reduce their forward momentum and come to a stop before the imposing stand of trees.
“Prepare to roll,” she said.
With that, she spun the wheel hard and leaned into the turn. But they kept going.
The bump and rattle of turned wheels against rock eventually reduced their speed. And slowly the vehicle began to turn. But at that speed, they were tipping onto one side. That began a gravity-defying downhill slide on two wheels.
Eventually, the wheels struck an outcropping of rock. That was too much to remain upright.
With agonizing inevitability, their entire vehicle rolled, with Jake trying to hang onto Bonnie’s seat in front of him. Momentarily on their side, after a quick blur of motion, they bounced off their roof against a soft patch of meadow.
They continued to roll over, more quickly now.
Jake felt like a kid in an overturned sled. How many rolls could they take?
On her side, the vehicle slid against the ground, scraping rock and bashing her side windows into cascades of glass.
Yet they were slowing down!
Skidding on their side for a long ten s
econds, it almost seemed like they were destined to end up sideways like that, halfway down the mountain.
Tilting slightly more, the car’s entire relationship with the earth changed and they landed on their wheels.
Instantly the roar in his ears was gone.
A bird sang through broken glass.
Bonnie sat upright behind the wheel.
She checked her rearview mirror, fixed her lipstick, and restarted the engine.
“We got away from him,” she said, and eased the accelerator forward.
In total wonder, Jake stared as they crawled along a logging road that traversed the clearing and entered the woods.
Had she been in control the whole time? Jake knew how to handle a car in the city, but this special agent knew her mountains.
He looked out the back window to make sure they weren’t still being followed.
“Jake?” she said softly.
“Yes?”
“Would you mind telling me what the hell this is all about?”
Jake’s homicide case may have ended, but another case instantly took over. Attempted murder of a federal official was a federal crime, and both he and Bonnie had become the latest targets of assassination.
As Bonnie steered through the trees back onto the main road, she calmly called in reinforcements to find the silver SUV. “It has no front license plate and a bashed-in front grill. The driver is armed and dangerous.”
The sheriff of Iron County offered the immediate use of his resources. There was no police force at Brian Head, he said. But there were only a few ways one could escape off the mountain. If he could activate the deputies in Parowan, Cedar City, and Long Valley Junction in time, they could set up roadblocks and catch the culprit before he left the mountain.
“Roger and out,” she said, and clicked off the radio.
Jake had joined her in the front seat, and together they watched dusk gather among the bleached white trunks of fallen trees that lay scattered alongside the logging road.
“We’ll drive around Brian Head,” she said, “and make sure the place is cleared.”
In their battered car, they crept up the final few miles of the main road to the ski resort.
Under a rising moon, there was little snow to illuminate the ski slopes. Through the open window, Jake inhaled the scent of fallen pine needles that had been baking in the afternoon sun. It was the smell of freedom, and the smell of his youth spent in Boy Scout camps around Appalachia.
