 
### Death Comes in the Morning

Published by Don Bissett at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 by Don Bissett

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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### Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Chapter 1

I made the call at ten in the morning, surprised that there was cell phone service this far out in the forest in Montana. But three bars showed on my phone, and the call was answered after one ring.

"9-1-1 Teton County. What's your emergency?" An alert, calm, professional-sounding female voice. Someone who had experience in answering 9-1-1 calls. But for me, this was my first time ever calling the number.

"I found a dead body in the forest," I said evenly.

"You found a body?" Her response was full of disbelief and emotion.

"Yes. There's a dead man here." Just the facts. Wait for her next question.

"Why are you sure he is dead? Does he need medical attention?" She sounded a bit frenzied. One so often hears on the news the frantic unintelligible audio from hysterical callers in distress. The operator has to ask the same question over and over to get clear answers. And the voice of the operator also can rise in pitch and volume in the excitement of the moment. Perhaps this was the first time she had gotten a call about a body. She might also be wondering why I was not one of those hysterical callers. But I would be calm and clear since I was detached from this problem.

"No, he doesn't need medical attention. There's no doubt he is dead." I let that sink in for a few seconds. I looked down at the lifeless form at my feet, his eyes staring blankly, flies buzzing around the exposed face and hands.

It was the sound of buzzing flies that drew me off the trail. When I approached, a vulture lazily flapped its wings and hopped away, perching nearby to guard his meal. His abrupt departure sent a cloud of flies airborne. There was also a very faint putrid odor. Not overpowering, but it was definitely there, the smell of death.

I spoke again to the Operator. "My name is Nathan Parker. I was hiking on Monarch Trail in Lewis and Clark National Forest and found the body. I don't know who he is or how he died. He's lying near the base of a cliff on the trail."

I heard the clicking sound of a keyboard. She was probably entering the information into a computer. She didn't tell me to slow down or to repeat anything, so I continued. "I estimate he's been dead for less than twenty-four hours, probably less than twelve." That seemed like a reasonable estimate to me.

"What? How do you figure that?"

"The blow flies. He's covered in them."

"What kind of flies?"

"Blow flies. They're the first insects to invade a corpse. There also may be some flesh flies in the mix."

"What? How do you know that?"

"I'm an ex-cop. I've seen many bodies."

I thought of a couple more pieces of vital information. The operator needs to know the _Ws_ : what, where, when, who, why, weapons. I hadn't yet given her all of them. So I added, "There is no weapon that I can see, and there's no one else here, just the body and me."

Yes, just me, I thought. I had always been a bit of a loner. I liked solitude. Maybe that's part of the reason hiking is so appealing to me. Alone to wander quietly at my own pace in the wilderness. I didn't choose to be this way. It's just the way I am. Maybe it's genetic, maybe it has something to do with my upbringing, the old nature vs. nurture debate. It didn't matter. I am what I am.

But I had been alone for a long time now, dumped as a cop, looking for work, roaming westward. My time was occupied, but I was alone, too alone. I had found my limit for solitude. I would always need periods of alone time, but I also needed more. Even this long-distance connection with a nameless 9-1-1 Operator was comforting contact.

I gave her my cell phone number in case it was not displayed on her screen. She told me to stay on the line while she transferred my call to the local authorities. I stayed on the line.

I stayed on the line waiting, waiting for a long time, and thinking.

I'm an ex-cop. When I supplied that information to the 9-1-1 Operator, it was the first time I had actually said that to anyone. I added it thinking there would be some authority behind it, like I would automatically therefore know what I was talking about. But I really didn't feel authoritative. They took that away from me when I had to turn in my badge and gun back in Cincinnati.

They said it was the economy. The financial meltdown of the Great Recession hit like a tsunami, even in conservative Cincinnati. It has been said that Mark Twain, speaking about that conservative city, once stated something to the effect, _If I knew the world was going to end, I would move to Cincinnati since everything there happens ten years later._ He was wrong. The collapse happened even there as it rippled through the US. It left me and millions of other casualties in its wake. One day you're working, next day you're out. Discarded. Thrown away. Society's litter.

And no one was hiring. I tried for months to find a job as a cop, bodyguard, security guard, even lifeguard. No one was hiring. My unemployment benefits ended. I found some low-paying jobs, but all they did was slow my downward financial spiral. So I finally gave up, sold all my belongings, dropped all my subscriptions, and abandoned my house and its under-water mortgage. Homeless. Now all I had left in the world was inside my old car.

My ex-partner, Ed Garvey, offered to let me move into his basement. As close as we were on both professional and personal levels, I could not intrude on his life like that. He had kids to raise. He didn't need me in the way.

If I had stayed in Cincinnati, it would have been too tempting to keep trying to re-enter my old life, waiting for the phone to ring, waiting for the call back to my old job, waiting for something that was not going to happen. I had to leave. So just like many refugees of the past, from the Dust Bowl and the Great Depression, I went west to find greener pastures. I eventually wandered to Montana, Big Sky Country.

Of course, there were no jobs out here either. Besides, who wants to hire someone who lives in his car? Too unstable. Can't be trusted. Just a drifter. Society's litter.

I lost confidence, drifted aimlessly, and lost hope. So to boost my own morale, I decided to pursue two passions of mine: hiking and writing. Hiking really cost nothing except time, and I had plenty of that. It allowed me to clear my head and try to forget that I was discarded. Writing also cost me nothing, but it had potential to produce income. Perhaps I could write something that would capture my first-hand experience as a homeless person. Could I make that into a compelling-enough story to start a new career as a writer? Maybe. I had written articles for magazines on hiking and then about the litter that other hikers leave behind. As Ed Garvey advised, "Go write the great American novel." So here I am in Montana, the Big Sky State, to try to do that. Perhaps Big Sky could make big dreams come true.

My brooding was finally interrupted when a voice came on the line.

"This is Deputy Powell, Willow Run police department." It was a young-sounding, deep, booming voice. I knew Willow Run was the nearest town, the only town for many miles. That is where I had rented a room at a cheap run-down motel, though I hadn't actually seen the town center yet.

"What's the problem?" His question sounded almost bored. The 9-1-1 Operator must not have told him that I was reporting a body.

"There's a dead body here."

"A body?" This response was enthusiastic. But then he became more suspicious and fired questions at me. "Are you sure he's dead? Does he maybe need medical attention? Where are you?" Then he yelled into the phone, "And who the hell is this anyway?"

Deputy Powell must be an inexperienced officer. Too frantic, firing off too many questions, making his own job more difficult. I chose to respond calmly to just one of his questions, rather than fire back random answers.

"No," I said, trying hard to keep from displaying the annoyance I felt. "With all the flies and the vulture that started in on him, there's no doubt. He's dead."

"Where are you and what's your name?" he repeated, his tone now more accusatory.

Trying even harder to keep this conversation informative, I responded evenly, "I'm on Monarch Trail in the National Forest. My name...."

He didn't let me finish before he shouted into the phone, "Did you kill this guy?"

What is this guy's problem? Now I was beginning to wish I hadn't made the call. I was out of this death business. I could have just walked away. Maybe I could have convinced myself it's not my problem. But I knew that wasn't possible for me. Even as an ex-cop, having taken the oath to protect and to serve, I still felt that obligation. Besides, now it's too late. But this Deputy was beginning to annoy me, and to worry me.

"Deputy, please let me explain," I said, trying my hardest not to vent back at him in frustration.

"Oh, so you admit you have some explaining to do. Why did you kill him?" He breathed heavily into the receiver, like he was hyperventilating. "Well?" he bellowed.

That was it. He had received the last courteous response from me. "Maybe I should put the dead guy on the phone. Then he can tell you he's dead and that I didn't do it," I quipped. If I had thought about what I would say, that quip would not have been my first choice. But I was glad it came out that way. I may have lost hope in finding a job, but I hadn't lost my sense of humor in dealing with pinheads.

His response was more sinister. "Oh, a smart ass," he responded in a _you'll-pay-for-that_ tone.

"Look, Deputy." I had to get this conversation back on a professional level. "The guy was already dead when I got here. He was covered in flies, like he has been dead for at least several hours." I paused to let that sink in. "My name is Nathan Parker, and I'm just out here hiking. I'm calling from my cell phone." I gave him the number. "I'm about 3 miles out on Monarch Trail in the Lewis and Clark National Forest. The body is lying here near the base of a cliff. The guy appears to be Hispanic."

He too must have recognized the need to be more professional about this. "All right," he said in a more controlled tone. "I know the trail. Well, you stay put and don't touch anything." His voice was getting a bit calmer, though it still wavered with agitation. "I don't want you messing with my crime scene."

Crime scene? This looked more like a guy falling off a cliff.

Deputy Powell continued, "I'll be there in about an hour. Don't mess with my crime scene," he repeated, the confrontational tone returning. "Understood?"

"Don't worry, Deputy. I won't disturb the body." But my words were spoken to a dial tone. He had already hung up.

Chapter 2

The Deputy said about an hour before he would arrive. A long time to wait. While I swore not to disturb the body, I really hadn't meant it. And he had already hung up, so he didn't hear that anyway. Besides, I had been a cop. I'm naturally nosey.

I also began to feel some excitement, a feeling that I had not sensed for a long time. I also felt a bit guilty that it took this man's death to get my juices flowing, but I couldn't help it. After so long, I was finally involved in something.

I had seen bodies before. When I was on the force in Cincinnati, there were over 70 deaths each year from murder alone. That provided a lot of experience. Getting pictures seemed like a good place to start. I opened my phone and snapped several, then stuffed the device back into my shirt pocket.

In my days as a cop, I would be taking notes of my observations. But for the first time in many years, I had nothing on me to write with. No paper. No pen. And I wanted to become a writer? Well, I could at least take mental notes.

The hatless body lay on its stomach, arms outstretched. His hands were open with palms down on the ground, like he had tried to use them to break his fall. The left cheek was pressed against some rocks. A small pool of dried blood lay on the ground around the head. No open wound was visible, so the blood must have leaked from somewhere on the left side of the face. The exposed right eye was open and unblinking. The exposed right ear was jaggedly torn and crusted with blood. Perhaps the vulture had just started in on him there. Black dusty hair crowned a dirt-streaked, dark-skinned, unshaven face with a thin ragged beard. He appeared to be under 40. Perhaps Hispanic.

He was short, probably only a few inches taller than five feet, and wore a plain coat, grimy baggy pants, and worn shoes. The coat was torn, with jagged tears and slices, some that were deep enough to draw trickles of blood. It reminded me of the wounds from a knife fight.

The body had certainly been here for less than a day. Any longer than a day in this summer heat would have led to much greater decay and a stronger putrid odor. And the vulture would have had more time to do some serious damage. I'm no expert on body decomposition. That was the job of the medical examiner, the ME, to tell the cops what he learned from his examination.

I did know that insects are among the best allies of an ME. From controlled studies with decaying bodies at defined temperatures, scientists determined that insects invade corpses in a predictable sequence. Insects are drawn by the putrid scent of decomposition. The first to arrive are shiny blue-green blowflies. There were plenty of them on this corpse. They are followed by dark-colored flesh flies. I was certain there were a few of them here also. The next to join are beetles, which can eventually strip flesh right down to the bone. Even common houseflies are lured by the feast on flesh. As all these species reproduce, predatory and parasitic insects feed on the offspring. And in the end, hide beetles and clothes moths consume what's left.

Based on the insect species present, their stages of development in their life cycles, and the environmental conditions, a forensic expert can determine when the insects first invaded the body. Since the insects usually find the corpse within minutes of death, the time of death can be calculated fairly accurately. Even without that kind of detailed analysis, I was still betting on much less than 24 hours, probably less than 12 hours.

"Leave it alone," I murmured to myself, but knew I couldn't. I had been a cop. Being nosey was in my blood. Even though the guy was dead, I had to be more thorough. I grasped the right wrist and felt for a pulse. Nothing. I continued by lifting it further, and then did the same with the left. Both hands were empty, but all the creases of the fingers and palms were filled with deeply embedded dirt. The palms were heavily callused, and dark dirt filled the spaces under the fingernails. These hands had done hard labor. If he was a migrant worker, hard labor might be expected. The life of such migrants involved using one's hands and arms and backs in manual labor, whether it was landscaping, construction, or harvesting crops.

On the ground where his right hand had been lay a crinkled piece of brown paper. Next to it was a length of jaggedly torn plant stem with a few attached leaves. These were fresh, not old, dried out, and darkened like one would expect from something that has been lying around for a long time. While I could reasonably guess how long the Hispanic's body had been lying here, I didn't know plants. How quickly do they dry out and wither once they are detached from the living plant? I had no clue. I could, though, see they were not from any of the bushes or grasses in the immediate vicinity. Different stuff.

But there were also pieces of all sorts of other plants covering this guy. Burrs, leaves, twigs. To examine any of it further, I would have to disturb them. Probably it had nothing to do with the body. Just more trail litter. Rather than disturb it, I snapped some pictures with my cell phone, then placed the hands of the body back in their original positions. The paper was probably nothing. Most materials collected in the field turn out to be nothing of importance. But police collect it all, sift it, and pull out the useful pieces.

There were no back pockets on the baggy pants, but there was one on the exposed right side of the loose fitting coat. Some green plant material stuck out of the pocket. I often end up with parts of plants in my clothes after a hike. Most likely he had been off the cleared and marked trails to have picked up so much vegetation.

I looked around the body at the loose soil for several feet in each direction and only saw my own footprints leading in a straight line to this spot. It was clear there were no other impressions in the ground, and certainly nothing to match his badly worn footwear. There was also nothing lying on the ground in the area, not a backpack, not even a water container. Being this far in the backcountry without water in this hot weather seemed unusual. But then, many people die from being unprepared for what they consider a simple hike.

So if there are no footprints leading to this spot, how did he get here? I had already concluded he must have come from the overhanging cliff above, but that was probably 20 feet behind him. To be this far from the cliff, he must have been running and soared off into open space, landing out here. He didn't look like a runner and wasn't outfitted like one. Regardless, he must have been running. But running from where or from what?

There are large predators in Montana: bears and mountain lions. Maybe he was running from one of them. There are, of course, more sinister possibilities, which is where my time as a cop so often led me. Maybe he was running to the cliff on purpose, for suicide. Or did someone help launch him off that cliff? Or even toss him out of an aircraft?

I wanted to study the body further, but I reminded myself this was not my investigation. This was also not my turf. What had been my turf, before I was let go, was 1500 miles to the east. I didn't need to rile the local law. But then I had already done that with that pinhead Deputy Powell. His attitude had pushed the wrong buttons in me. So, what the hell? At least I could check around the area for clues to the mystery of this man's death. I still had plenty of time before the Deputy arrived.

I turned around and looked up. The cliff was probably 100 feet high with no chance of scaling it at this point. So I went in reverse on the trail where I entered the ravine for perhaps an eighth of a mile to reach a steep but navigable slope. It looked like a long hot climb, but upward I went. Maybe the dead guy had dropped something on top of the cliff, something that might help identify him.

As I climbed upward, the sun was directly in front of me, causing me to squint even from behind the protective darkness of my sunglasses. The slope was sparsely covered with bushes, which I waded through to make the climb. Small loose rocks covered the surface, and I skidded backward often as I climbed higher. Several times I came down on my knees, skinning my shins in the process. I was glad I'd chosen to wear long pants rather than shorts for my hike.

Nearing the top of the climb, I stopped to catch my breath. Looking upward to determine how much further it was to the crest of the hill, I froze. Silhouetted on the top of the next ridge in the glare of the sun were the head and shoulders of a man facing my direction. And he had a rifle aimed at me.

Chapter 3

I dropped to the ground, below the guy's line of sight. I lost my footing on the loose rocks, sending a cascade of pebbles tumbling down the hill behind me. Falling heavily to my hands and knees, a jolt of pain shot upward from my knees to my hips.

"Damn," I blurted. Thoughts of being shot out here crossed my mind. I stayed on my hands and knees for several long seconds, my heart pounding from the climb, and now racing even faster as I considered my situation.

If the man on the ridge intended to come after me, I couldn't stay here. I was an easy unarmed target. Being unarmed probably put me in the minority in this state. And certainly going back down the slope wouldn't improve my situation. He would still hold the high ground and be able to see me down there. So, staying in a crouched position, I quickly duck-walked several dozen paces to my left until finding the cover of a thick growth of trees. I then cautiously continued my climb upward toward the ridge, picking my way through the trees, walking quietly on the carpet of pine needles. I crawled the last dozen paces, and then got down on my stomach to peer over the ridge. I looked quickly right where the guy had been, and then left and back to the right. There was no one.

Had I imagined it? The day was hot. The sun's glare was in my eyes. I was breathing hard and sweating profusely from the climb. But no, I had not imagined it. Someone had been there.

I scrambled over the ridge, staying low. Still no one. Then I stood and walked along the ridge to where he had been. No one. But the ground was disturbed, suggesting someone had just been there. Now that there appeared to be no immediate danger, I breathed out loudly. The pressure that had built up in my chest eased, and the adrenaline rush gradually subsided. Maybe the guy wasn't a threat. After all, I was unharmed, and now alone again. Feeling a bit foolish, I sat down until my breathing settled, and then took some long pulls on a bottle of water.

I looked one more time over the ridge. All was quiet. So I climbed back down toward the rim of the cliff. After a few minutes of careful searching, I found a few widely spaced spots of disturbed ground leading from the forest on my right and directly to the cliff on my left. This could be the route the dead guy down below had taken. Nothing lay on the ground that he might have dropped, no backpack, no water bottle. But his trail was now disturbed by my scramble up the slope to the ridge beyond. I had unintentionally messed some more with the Deputy's crime scene. So be it.

By now, it probably had been over a half hour since my call to the deputy, so I could be expecting company soon. I placed a small pyramid of stones near the runner's trail to mark the area. Climbing back down the slope, with all the loose rocks under foot, I had to concentrate on each step to avoid a face-first tumble. Instead of a face-first fall, I twice landed hard on my butt when the loose surface slipped away from under my feet. After reaching the bottom, I settled in a shady spot near the cliff face to cool off, wiped the sweat from my face, and finished drinking my bottle of water.

After several minutes, with no appearance of the Deputy, I grew bored with waiting and walked back over toward the body. I retraced my previous track, stepping in my own footprints. The vulture was gone. He must have gone in search of a different meal. Or perhaps this body wasn't yet ripe enough to suit him.

But something was wrong. There was no sound of buzzing flies. That buzzing had been the sound that originally drew me over here. I stopped where my earlier trail of footprints ended. This was the place. I saw the small pool of blood on the ground. But the body was gone.

Chapter 4

I've seen many bodies at the spot where they died or had been dumped. I've seen a few bodies that were clearly moved short distances in an attempt to conceal them, or to make a murder look like an accident or suicide. But once I had arrived at the scene and had seen a body, it never moved. And it certainly never disappeared. Until this morning. I was beginning to wonder what my horoscope had been for today.

I wasn't hallucinating. There had been a body. As ridiculous as it felt, I confirmed that by viewing the pictures I'd taken of the corpse with my cell phone camera. The guy was there, in this very spot. The small pool of dried blood was still visible on the ground. I mentally ticked off my other observations after first finding the body. There was the putrid odor. His eyes were open and unblinking. He was being attacked by flies and a buzzard. When I grasped the wrist, I had not felt a pulse. He was clearly dead. So he did not get up and walk away.

The hour I had been gone on my climb up the slope seemed like a narrow window of time for the body to be removed. Yet it was clearly gone. He could have been carried or dragged away. By an animal? Adult mountain lions are large enough to drag a body away, and I had read they roam all over Montana. Or taken by the guy with the rifle? Either way, being unarmed, I was not in a position of strength.

Despite being unarmed, I stepped forward anyway because I saw something. There were two parallel scuffmarks in the dirt leading away from me, as if the body was dragged with its toes leaving a trail. After a few yards, the scuff marks ended and were replaced by clearly defined imprints in the soft earth continuing in the same direction. Not a mountain lion. Human footprints. Someone, not something, took the body. These prints weren't left by the worn soles of the dead guy's shoes. They looked more like boot prints with a clear pattern of ridges.

I ran to overtake the body snatcher. He couldn't be too far ahead of me. After all, he was carrying the dead weight of another person. The track of prints and crumpled vegetation went straight away from the cliff face and toward a small rise ahead. The track did not waver, even over this uneven ground, suggesting the weight of the body was not much of a burden for the snatcher. A strong guy. Clearing the rise, there was a drop-off of several feet. I jumped down the embankment and saw that the boot prints continued down there. Then they ended abruptly. They were replaced by parallel widely spaced tire impressions that wound off into the scrub. I couldn't see or hear any vehicle. Whoever had been here was already gone.

I prepared to follow, but knew better. I couldn't run to catch up with a vehicle. And I couldn't just wander away, even if it was in pursuit of a possible suspect. The Deputy had my name and phone number. He expected to find me here. And he also expected to find a body. What a screw up this had turned into.

I sullenly walked back toward the cliff. A nice day turned to crap. I had called to report a body. I didn't stay put as ordered. Instead, I wandered away from the body and up the hill. Now the body was gone. I broke a basic rule by not securing the possible crime scene because I had assumed that there was no harm in it, and that there really was no crime anyway. After all, it was a case of a guy just falling off a cliff, wasn't it? Maybe I had been gone from the police force too long. This was not my problem, but I stuck my nose in anyway. Now it was my problem for sure.

After a few more minutes, I heard the sound of an engine approaching up Monarch Trail. I saw what looked like a solitary uniformed figure on an ATV, an all-terrain vehicle, approaching fast. It was one of those side-by-side, 2-seater models with a steel rollover frame around the passenger compartment. This must be the Deputy. He skidded to a stop next to me as he braked, kicking up a small cloud of dust and pebbles. He jumped off the ATV.

He was maybe 25 with a smooth face. He was clean-shaven, but it appeared he would have difficulty growing a full beard even if he didn't shave. He looked almost baby-faced. But there was nothing babyish about him otherwise. He was big, probably six foot six, somewhere north of 250 pounds. No bulging muscles, perhaps even a bit flabby in the belly, but still powerful with his thick arms and legs. He towered over me. He had big black boots, really big boots, much larger than my size 12. He wore a brown police uniform and wide-brimmed hat. Over the breast pocket of the shirt was stitched Willow Run Police Department.

Skipping introductions, he blurted out, "Where's the body?"

"Deputy Powell? I'm Nathan Parker, the one who called....."

"Yeah, yeah, I already figured that out," he said impatiently. "Where's the body?"

"Let me just take you through what......"

"We can talk later." He then continued, speaking very slowly and enunciating each word clearly. "For the last time, where is the body?"

His face was turning red with anger. He had already lost patience with me. But I hoped by taking it a bit slowly that I might explain this mess away. There was no reason for this to be a confrontation. After all, we were both on the same side, weren't we?

"It was over there," I said, trying to be firm about it, but it came out sounding a bit sheepish.

"What do you mean _was_? I told you don't mess with my crime scene." His red face was now contorted, the veins stuck out on his neck, and he sprayed spittle in my direction as he spoke.

"First, let me show you some pictures of what I saw." Not wanting to spook him, I slowly retrieved my cell phone from my shirt pocket and flipped it open to display the pictures taken earlier. I scrolled slowly through the shots.

At first, he watched with impatient disinterest. But gradually he admitted, "OK, so maybe you found a body." His anger had subsided. Then he spoke slowly, clearly, and firmly. "Now show it to me."

I led him to the spot where the body had been and pointed out the pool of dried blood. I squatted down, and he followed suit. "The body was here." I pointed to a spot on the ground. "You can see the blood stain there."

He slowly stood up. He outwardly remained surprisingly controlled for someone who moments ago seemed ready to remove my head. But even though I could not see his eyes under his wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses, I could feel the laser of his stare penetrating me. "Mister, please don't tell me you dragged me all the way out here for a blood stain."

"No, there was a body," I said, sounding more like a child trying to convince a parent the boogieman was under the bed. "You saw the pictures."

"What I see is a blood stain. Don't even know if it's human."

"But there was a body, right here," I pleaded my case, pointing to the ground. "You saw the pictures."

He clenched his jaws and hung his head in seeming pity that I was stuck with being me. I could feel him becoming more distant, starting to disengage, to lose interest in my story. "I see you then managed to add your own footprints to the scene." He gestured toward the jumble of footprints on the ground. "Tell me more."

At least now he seemed ready to listen. "I waited for you over there in the shade." I intentionally left out the part about climbing up the slope, finding the trail of prints, and the guy with the rifle. I had to spoon-feed him only what occurred down here, since I was probably in enough legal peril already, without adding all the details. "When I came back over here just before you arrived, the body was gone."

He looked back down at the ground, hands on hips, exhaling slowly but loudly. It was as if he was disappointed in me as an entity, a failed experiment of the human race.

My earlier impulse to investigate the scene had caught up to me. When I was a cop, I could rightly gather the facts and follow where the evidence led. And I had fallen back on that habit, aggressively chasing the evidence. But I was rusty. And as a private citizen, I had no authority, no standing to do that. I had no practical option but to tell him more to defend my actions.

"Deputy, I am an ex-cop from Cincinnati. I was out here hiking. I found a body. I called 9-1-1. They transferred me to you. While I was waiting, over there in the shade, someone took the body. There is a trail of footprints leading from this spot and over that ridge. I followed it. Whoever took the body then got into a vehicle and drove away. It was probably only a few minutes ago. There may still be time to catch up to him. We can use your ATV."

He listened to all this without interrupting, even nodding his head in understanding. If I could see his eyes, it would help me sense his mood better. But his eyes remained hidden behind the dark glasses. Regardless, I felt certain I was winning him over. So I continued.

"Let's follow the trail," I suggested, turning and taking a long stride in that direction.

My backpack was ripped off, jerking me backward. A hand grabbed my collar and propelled me down onto my knees. A forearm into my mid-back sent me sprawling face down onto the ground. A knee in my back pinned me there. Within seconds, I heard the click of handcuffs securing my wrists behind me.

Chapter 5

I struggled with Deputy Powell as he flung me to the ground and handcuffed me. Yet in spite of that, he had easily handled me without any hint that it was a struggle. I was sweating, and my heart was pounding. He wasn't even breathing hard. He leaned in close to my ear and calmly spoke.

"Mister, for your own protection, I am detaining you." He continued calmly and forcefully. "What I think happened today is this. You were out here hiking. You found a guy lying on the ground. You thought he was dead. He wasn't. He got up, walked over that ridge to his vehicle, and drove away. No body, no crime, unless we include you not calling for medical help for someone who was probably seriously injured. Or if we include you calling in a false report of a corpse. And even if there was a body, you messed with my crime scene." He stopped to let that sink into my clearly dense skull.

He then continued, as if comforting a village idiot. "Here is also what I think. If you are, as you say, an ex-cop, you probably miss the action, so you let your active imagination run away with you. It is a hot day, and you look dirty and tired from hiking. It was easy to let it all influence your thinking. So what we are going to do is this. We are going into town and have a chat, just you, me, and the Sheriff. Got that?"

He remained remarkably calm, and I might go so far as to say even eloquent, considering the circumstances. But he was right. I did miss the action of being a cop. Finding the corpse had started my juices flowing. It was a corpse, no doubt about it. But I decided to stop trying to convince him of anything. The time had come to just be compliant.

"Yes," I grunted with what little breath I could muster considering how his bulk had squeezed most of the air out of my lungs.

"Because you claim to be an ex-cop, I am giving you more courtesy than I would normally."

Courtesy? Flinging me to the ground with your knee digging into my spine? But maybe this was courtesy. I wasn't really physically hurt. He was big enough that if he wanted to be discourteous, I would be a mangled pile of body parts, vulture food. And I had also turned away from him. To him, it probably looked like I was running away. I am the village idiot.

Yet I still wanted to be believed. After all, there were other facts I could point out, like the putrid odor, the flies, the vulture, the boot prints that did not match the corpse's footwear, the man with the gun on the ridge. But they were observations that I could not show. I had no pictures. So they were not facts. To him, they would not exist. Based on the meager rock-solid pieces of evidence, the pictures in my cell phone, and with the absence of the body, his scenario was probably more believable to everyone else in Montana.

He grasped both of my arms between the elbows and shoulders, and in one easy movement pulled me vertical. He frisked me, pulling my wallet, keys, and cell phone from my pockets. These were dumped in my backpack. Then securely grasping the chain link of the handcuffs, he pushed me ahead of him and toward the ATV.

We didn't speak on the ride back out on the trail. The noise of the engine was too loud for conversation anyway. The trail ended at a parking lot where my old Honda CRV and his Chevy Trailblazer with attached trailer were parked. He shook his head in obvious distaste, saying, "Is that your _foreign_ car?"

I nodded guiltily. He folded me into the back seat of his vehicle and loaded the ATV on the trailer. He did an external inspection of my car, peering in the windows and writing down the license plate number. I had nothing to fear from those. The only things in the car were a pillow, sleeping bag, and a cooler. My home on wheels.

Then he climbed into the driver seat of his SUV. Since my hands were cuffed, I asked him, "How about a hand in buckling the seat belt?" He ignored me. "You could be liable for any injury to an unbuckled passenger if there's an accident." I really didn't care about the seat belt. I just felt a need to show some spine. Maybe it was not the wisest move, but I was pissed at him and at myself. Really, how the hell did I let a body disappear?

He continued to ignore me, except to scowl in the rear view mirror. He drove us to town, still in silence. This first day in the Lewis and Clark National Forest, my attempt to find inspiration for writing, turned into one screwed up mess. I had earlier been thinking I needed more human contact. Now solitude looked much more appealing.

Chapter 6

Approaching town, we passed an old weathered wooden sign proclaiming, _WELCOME TO WILLOW RUN, FOUNDED 1890, POPULATION 2395_. The main road was lined by a mixture of old wooden structures with saggy roofs probably pushing 100 years or more in age, some not quite so old brick buildings, and a few more modern glass and steel store fronts. Nothing was taller than two stories. Whether intentional or not, it afforded all the buildings a nearly unobstructed view of the surrounding tree-covered hills. There were a few side streets, which appeared to be lined with small single-family homes. The roads on the south side of town were short, ending after a couple of blocks where they intersected a creek. The roads on the north side of town extended further, rising upward toward a forested hillside. A few rustic houses, A-frames, and log cabins poked out of the trees.

We cruised past a feed supply store, post office, Teton County Observer newspaper office, and general store. It appeared to be a nice quiet girl-next-door kind of town. I was pleased to note their public library remained open. Libraries had become heavily used during the recession as a source of free entertainment: books, CDs, DVDs, magazines, newspapers, even time surfing the Internet. They were a favorite of mine, providing a brief escape from living in my car. But even though libraries are heavily used, their funding was often one of the first to be cut in the recession. This library had somehow survived.

Yet Willow Run also seemed to be a town hit hard by the recession. A closed movie theater and several empty storefronts lined the main street. I wondered what businesses some of them had housed. Any signs identifying the previous occupants had been removed. These closed stores also suggested that the population figure on the Willow Run welcoming sign was probably wrong. When things are bad, people move on, populations shift, and towns wither.

Near what appeared to be the center of town was a small square plot of ground with a pole bearing the American flag. Behind that stood a small brick building with a sign over the front door. It read _Willow Run Administration Center_. Deputy Powell pulled into a gravel parking lot in back where I noted a rectangular plaque with _Police Department_ printed on it.

The Deputy ushered me through a door and into the small dimly lit office. Straight ahead was a counter. Behind it was a swivel chair and desk topped with a computer, printer, and fax machine. A locked gun rack filled the wall above, and beyond that was a door leading presumably to a bathroom in the back or a connector to the front of the building. A wooden name tent on the desk read _Sheriff Rex Tyler_ on top and _Deputy Enid Powell_ below. To the left was a single cell. To the right was a small room, a walled cubicle, containing a table with telephone and two chairs. A small town and a small budget, with little in the way of amenities.

He steered me into the cell, closed and locked the door, and then reached through the bars to remove my handcuffs. After their removal, I brought my arms in front of me and kept my back to him so he could not see me rub my wrists to restore circulation to my hands. He had clamped the cuffs tighter than was comfortable, but I didn't want him to know that it had affected me in the least.

The windowless cell was bare bones. Painted white walls, a metal bunk bolted to the wall and floor. The bunk held a narrow mattress, blanket, and pillow. No sink, no toilet, no mirror. Just a box with a bed.

"Am I under arrest?"

"Not officially," he said calmly. The ride into town had quieted his anger. Then a few beats later he added, "At least not yet. I'll call the Sheriff for our chat. You just sit tight."

"If you keep me too long, I'm going to want my phone call and a lawyer."

He huffed and grimaced at me tightly. He seemed unmoved. But I figured even in a town this small, there had to be at least one lawyer who could serve as legal representative, and probably for a lot less than the going rate in even a conservative city like Cincinnati.

Deputy Powell went into the enclosed cubicle and shut the door. Through the glass window in the upper half of the door, I saw him open each pocket of my backpack, examine the contents, and pull items out for a closer look. There was nothing in the pack that concerned me. Then he talked on the phone. He made several calls, some of which seemed to include sharing information he retrieved from my wallet, cell phone, and motel key. He came out a couple of times and banged on the computer. Probably more checking on me, my keys, my car, my life.

I lay back on the bunk and thought more about my situation. I chastised myself, again. If I had ignored the urge to investigate the crime scene, the body would still have been there, and all of this would not be happening. If I had stayed near the body waiting for the Deputy to arrive, Enid Powell would be trying to identify him, determine why he was out there, and securing the scene to find out what happened.

Instead, the Deputy did not even believe there was a body. To him, it was just someone who fell down, got up, and walked away. Someone, who in spite of my incompetence, had survived to get into his vehicle, drive away, and re-enter his life.

But the guy couldn't re-enter his life. He was dead. I checked for a pulse on his wrist, though that effort was pretty superficial. Why didn't I put two fingers to his neck to check for a pulse in the carotid artery? That was a more reliable method than the wrist. But I knew he was dead. There were the opened lifeless eyes, the flies, the vulture, the putrid smell. They all told me he was dead and had been dead for hours. There was no reason to be thorough in checking for a pulse.

He was running out of the woods and went off the cliff. An accident. It must have been dark so he didn't see the drop off. Went airborne and died. But why was he running? What was he running from?

No matter. He went off the cliff. A few hours later I found the corpse because of my curiosity about all those buzzing flies. If I'd just walked on by, I would now be back at my motel room enjoying something cold to drink, waiting to watch the sun settle over the mountains for the night.

The guy with the rifle was troubling. While he didn't really threaten me directly, it was unnerving to realize I was out there alone and unarmed, with someone aiming a gun at me. I could have easily been shot and joined the dead guy on the ground.

I lay back on the cot, staring at the ceiling, thoughts tumbling through my mind. I finally relaxed, the rush of today's events draining away, and eventually dozed off.

Chapter 7

The sound of the door opening woke me. Another brown-uniformed large man entered through the door. He wasn't as big in height or weight as Deputy Powell, but he was definitely cast from a similar physically intimidating mold. He was probably in his sixties, more leanly muscular than the Deputy, with a creased and darkly tanned face. Deputy Powell said I would be chatting with the Sheriff. This must be him.

Neither age nor the job had put a stoop in his shoulders. He stood tall and had a confident manner. However, when he looked toward me, there was sadness in his gaze, as if he was far away, rather than here. Then it was gone, and he had returned to this time and place.

From the open door, he tossed his hat neatly onto the counter in front of the desk with a practiced flick of his wrist. He had a knap sack over his shoulder and dropped that on the counter next to the hat. He glanced at me quickly with a brief tight-lipped grin, and then joined the Deputy in the cubicle.

They talked back and forth, and there were some more phone calls. Deputy Powell seemed to be the agitated one. The Sheriff appeared to be trying to calm him down. Finally they emerged. Our chat was about to begin.

"Nathan Parker, I'm Sheriff Tyler," he said through the bars of the cell. He pulled a chair up close and relaxed into it. Deputy Powell remained standing. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and rings of perspiration dampened the shirt near his armpits. While he didn't seem to break a sweat when he wrestled me in the National Forest, his checking up on me or arguing with the Sheriff had evidently taxed him, at least emotionally.

The Sheriff continued. "It sounds like you had an interesting day. Why don't you take me through it." He said it as a statement, not a question.

"Sheriff, am I under arrest or under suspicion of a crime?"

"No," he said. "Let's say that you are our guest until we can feel comfortable about what happened today. We don't have any video camera running, no tape recorder, no stenographer. It's just us talking. Call it off the record. So, tell me what happened."

I had to admire his style. It was authoritative, yet reassuring. Perhaps the Sheriff was inclined to let all this go away. I could clam up and ask for a lawyer. But I wanted this over. Just stick to the facts.

"I was hiking in the National Forest. I found a body. I called 9-1-1 and was transferred to Deputy Powell. The guy appeared to be Hispanic. I took some pictures of the body, force of habit." Stick to the facts.

"I sat in the shade waiting for Deputy Powell. That was maybe thirty yards from the body. But I couldn't see the body from there. Just before your Deputy arrived, I walked back over toward the body. It was gone. I followed a trail of boot prints, which ended where vehicle tracks started. Then your Deputy showed up." I stopped there. If I said anything more, about the flies, about the vulture, about my suspicions of a body snatcher, I would be adding fuel to the fire. I would let him bring those up if he chose to. Surely his Deputy or the 9-1-1 Operator had told it all to him already anyway.

And I couldn't mention my trek up the hill and the guy with the rifle. I hadn't shared that with the Deputy, so I wasn't going to share it now. I knew this was not the wisest course of action, since lying to the police is a messy game.

When I didn't say any more, Sheriff Tyler eventually took the lead. "I've seen the pictures on your cell phone. No doubt, there is someone lying on the ground. I can't tell if he's dead or simply lying there injured. In your call you said it was a body, no doubt. You chose not to call for medical help. Why?"

"As I told your Deputy, I thought he was dead." I decided to share information that I had mentioned to the 9-1-1 Operator since that was already part of the record. "He was covered in flies, his eyes were open, and he was unresponsive. He was dead."

At this, Deputy Powell interrupted accusingly, "You didn't mention that to me before!"

I pressed on calmly without responding to his outrage. "And I checked for a pulse. There was none."

"Sheriff, he's making this stuff up." He sounded like a hurt child. Then directing his attention toward me, he blurted out, "Why didn't you mention those before?"

I felt it was time for an appropriate quip, like how could I talk with your flabby ass pinning me to the ground? But the Sheriff straightened up a bit in his chair and raised an open hand slowly as if it were a stop sign, gently signaling for silence from both of us. "OK, so you checked for a pulse and forgot to mention those before?"

"Yes, I did check for a pulse. No, I didn't forget to mention it. I told all this to the 9-1-1 Operator. Your Deputy had me in cuffs before I could finish telling him."

Enid Powell scowled at me, but didn't speak. He was boiling inside, but respecting the Sheriff's wish for peace.

"Where did you check for a pulse?"

"On his wrist," I said a bit weakly.

"You do know that a pulse should be checked on the neck, on the carotid artery. A lot more reliable as an indicator," the Sheriff offered.

"Yes," I said sheepishly. "I screwed up."

He stared at me for several seconds before continuing. "You thought he was dead and made the call to 9-1-1."

"Yes."

There was a long pause before the Sheriff spoke again. "I took a ride out to the spot where you said you found him. I saw the blood on the ground. We now have samples that can be used for analysis."

I glanced toward the knap sack he had dumped on the counter when he came in. I wanted to shout, _Finally you're doing something_. But I remained silent, gazing at him. I hoped he would continue, describing a more thorough investigation.

As if reading my mind, he asked, "You were expecting more?"

Was he asking for my advice? Did he want me to tell him what to do? Perhaps here was my invitation to offer what else might be done. I said, "I suppose there are some things that might be done. For example, plaster replicas of the boot prints, measurements on the length of the strides, dimensions on the vehicle tires and tire-to-tire distance?"

He looked at me for a few seconds. Rather than responding, he asked me something else. "Did you know this man, this Hispanic?"

"No, never met him before."

"Was there any reason you wanted him dead?"

Wanted him dead? Was he probing for a motive? I could envision the Sheriff thinking I had hit the guy and called 9-1-1 to report an accidental death. Then maybe I changed my mind, panicked, and decided to hide the body. So I had to make up a story about a body snatcher to cover it up. I felt like a trap was closing on me. I felt anger rising in me. I wanted to lash out.

"No!" I said too forcefully.

"Did you move the body?"

He really was probing for a reason to keep me locked up.

"No," I said less forcefully, but with as much conviction as I could put into that one short word.

The Sheriff stared unblinking at me for a long time. He breathed in deeply as if to continue, then changed direction. "When did you arrive in Willow Run?"

I hesitated before answering, "Yesterday."

"Where are you staying and for how long?"

"At the Willow Run Inn on Route 287. I have the room for a week."

"And you're here just to do some hiking?"

"Yes."

"You're an ex-cop, unemployed?"

"Yes."

"Any career plans after hiking?"

Yes, I thought to myself. I hope to get my old job back. And I want to be a writer. But I simply said, "I'm working on plans. And I have enough money to pay my bills. I'm not a vagrant."

The Sheriff sat silent and unmoving, gazing at me intently for what seemed an eternity. Then for a second, or maybe it was a fraction of a second, one corner of his mouth ticked upward ever so slightly in a quarter grin. Then it was gone. He leaned forward in his chair, spreading his hands wide on his knees.

"Well, Nathan Parker. We checked you out. You seem to be OK, although I must say you had a bad day, calling in a false report about a dead body. It must be a false report since there was no body and no evidence of a body. Just a bloodstain and some footprints leading to where a vehicle was parked. To answer your previous questions, no, I did not collect all the evidence you suggested. This is not CSI or NCIS. This is Willow Run, Montana. We don't have a crime lab. And there is no need to gather all that evidence when there is no hint of a crime."

He continued. "It seems there was an injured man, perhaps a Hispanic man from what you say. He was out there, got hurt, and then just walked away. No body, no crime. We'll let the false report thing pass. Call it a professional courtesy. You are lucky the guy was able to walk away. If he had been more seriously hurt and not given medical attention, he might not have survived. Then you would be in some hot water for failing to aid him."

He paused for that message to sink in. He was saying I had screwed up, and warning me not to screw up again in his town.

"So, Mr. Parker, enjoy your hiking vacation. Remember to stay on the marked trails. It's a big country out there, and people do get lost."

The Deputy didn't seem to share this outcome. His tight-faced expression said he wanted me to suffer some consequence. But he remained silent. I simply nodded gratefully, and the Sheriff continued. "We did save the pictures from your cell phone. We will look into finding the guy to see if he needs medical attention. He may be a migrant worker. Maybe got a bit lost out there. Not too many of them out here, but they do come and go from time to time. Probably we'll never find him." He paused then continued. "Anyway, we deleted the pictures from your phone. We don't want them falling into the wrong hands and ending up posted on the Internet. Everything else, you can have back."

I simply nodded.

"OK then," Sheriff Tyler said. "Deputy Powell will take you to your car. Then I suggest you drive it back to your motel room, get a good night's sleep, and forget this day ever happened. Start fresh tomorrow on your vacation. It's Sunday night. Supposed to be my day off. So I'm heading home for supper." With that, the Sheriff rose from his chair, grabbed his hat, and headed out into the fading heat of the evening.

On the drive back to my car, I again rode in the back seat of the Deputy's SUV, this time uncuffed, but intentionally still not wearing my seat belt. The Deputy scowled the whole trip. When we arrived, he simply said, "This is your lucky day," as he yanked the door open and waved me out of his vehicle.

He stayed to watch me get into my car and drive away. Then he followed, probably to ensure I headed toward the motel. The Sheriff had advised me to forget this day had ever happened. That seemed like good advice. Yet I thought there was better advice to follow. I had to tread lightly since I didn't have a badge to protect me, but I wasn't going to forget this day. I was a cop at heart, and had to know what happened. Besides, I came out here to become a writer. I sensed there was a story to find in this dead Hispanic on the trail.

Chapter 8

Arriving at the motel, I was tempted to listen to the car radio or turn on the TV in my room to catch a news story about a missing Hispanic man. But that seemed fruitless. He hadn't even been missing a day yet. And this was Willow Run, Montana. There weren't any news reporters hanging around hoping to catch a hot story.

I sat in a plastic lawn chair on the concrete pad outside my room. I faced west to watch the sun dip behind the forested hills. Out there is where I found the dead man, and out there was the answer to why he died. I had been a cop, not a detective, so I had no true investigative experience. But it was time to find out if I had the right stuff to be a detective.

First of all, the guy was dead. Of that I had no doubt. And his body was taken. He did not get up and walk away like the local cops preferred to believe.

Next, he died from a fall off the cliff. There was no trail of footprints up to the body, so he didn't just walk there and drop dead. And the only evidence of a wound I saw was a pool of blood on the ground under the head. It was reasonable to assume he died from impact of the left side of his head with the ground. I rejected consideration of his death being suicide or being dumped out of an aircraft. Those seemed too far-fetched.

He was running when he went off the cliff. The widely spaced imprints at the top of the cliff indicated that. And his body was far from the face of the cliff. For sure he was running. And there were no other imprints up there either, so the guy had been alone.

He was running and went off the cliff. An accident. My estimated time of death was sometime very early in the morning. If he had been running in daylight, he would have seen the rim of the cliff and turned left to go up or right to go down the slope, just as I did. Last night there was only a sliver of moon. It would have been really dark out there, too dark to see the drop-off.

But why was he running in the dark? Because he was late getting back from a hike? Even if it were _really_ late, I would be walking in the dark. I might be walking briskly, but still walking, not running. He would be walking too.

So he was probably running away from something, like a bear or mountain lion. But when they retrieve your body, it's as a meal. They don't then put you in a car and drive away. So he was running from someone. Whoever chased him was frightening, terrifying enough that the guy ran in the dark through the forest to escape.

The disappearance of the body was the most puzzling part of all this. The body snatcher was not a friend and not a Good Samaritan. Either of them would have asked me to help carry the guy to the vehicle and be grateful for the assistance. Whoever chased him had to be the one who took the body. The man on the ridge with the rifle. All of this had to be linked to him.

I took out a pad of paper to prepare a list of what I did after finding the body. I made the 9-1-1 call, took some pictures, inspected the body, and then climbed the cliff. Near the top of my climb I saw the guy with the rifle, climbed up to that spot, searched around up there, and came back down. How long did all that take? I could estimate the amount of time as at least thirty minutes, which would be plenty of time to snatch the body. But I needed to get some real numbers. Tomorrow.

The man with a rifle saw me for sure. I walked right up into his field of view. He aimed the gun right at me. Then he was gone. And so was the body. He must have been looking for it and took it.

The body must have already been gone by the time I got back to the bottom of the cliff. Once I got back down the cliff, if the body was being taken away, I would have seen or heard something. After all, I wasn't that far away.

Why would someone take a rotting body?

But maybe the body snatcher didn't know he was looking for a corpse. You don't need to carry a gun to retrieve a corpse. You bring a gun when you are hunting. He was hunting for a guy who was running away. The man with the gun was probably tracking him and saw me.

When did he see me? Certainly when I climbed up the cliff. Or did he see me before that? He probably saw me when I was near the body. Once I left the body and started climbing up the slope, that gave him the opportunity to go snatch the corpse. Maybe he didn't intend for me to see him. The sun was to his back and in my eyes. It was a good position for him to avoid detection. And I only got a glimpse of him. Or maybe he wasn't that concerned about being seen. Once he took the body, I was going to realize he had been there anyway. So as long as I did not get a good look at him, could not later identify him, he was just a ghost figure on the hill.

But the body of a guy who falls off a cliff is not a prize to be stolen. It's buzzard food.

Then again, maybe it is a prize, if the guy has some value. There might be a bounty on the man. I had no experience with bounty hunters. I knew they were out there, everywhere, trying to capture suspects and collect the rewards. But I had never encountered one in my time as a cop in Cincinnati. Yet that would explain why he was out there with a rifle. He was in armed pursuit of a fugitive, who just happened to end up dead from a fall. A bounty hunter wouldn't identify himself to me and wouldn't ask for my assistance since that might mean he would have to share the reward. Just quietly grab the body and disappear.

The bounty hunter might have been aiming his rifle at me since he did not know what my intentions were. He also would not know if I was armed. He might have looked at me as a threat. So he just watched me from a distance, waiting for an opportunity to take the body.

But it still did not explain the coincidence of me finding the body, many hours after it became a body, and then the bounty hunter showing up to retrieve it within minutes. Too narrow a time frame. Too much coincidence.

The guy had already been dead for several hours, so it was not as if the bounty hunter was close on his heels. The dead man had been running in the dark. The hunter may have been tracking him in the dark, a very slow process.

It had to be my phone call that led him to the body. I called 9-1-1 and indicated precisely where to find the corpse. I was on National Forest land, so the call likely would have been transferred to the ranger station since it is in their jurisdiction. But I ended up talking to Deputy Powell in Willow Run. Did a ranger defer to the Willow Run cops? I found it surprising that a federal agency would give up jurisdiction on anything to anyone, especially a small-town police department. Once US government agencies were on a case, they seemed unlikely to give it up to the locals. Something about pride, boundaries, territory, jurisdiction, turf.

But maybe there was an agreement between the National Forest and the local law regarding such matters, since the park might not be equipped to handle a report of something like a body. The rangers may not be trained in how to deal with a corpse. And budgets were tight. Washington, DC funding had been cut deeply across the country on so many fronts, including monies for National Forests and Parks. Lewis and Clark National Forest would be no exception, with likely deep cuts leading to downsizing of maintenance, vehicles, equipment, people, and services. They might be so under-funded and short-handed that they simply could not muster a response to a 9-1-1 call. Then they would give up jurisdiction because of manpower issues.

So, if someone in this string of people told the guy with the rifle they were looking for a body instead of a running Hispanic man and where to find it, who was the leak? The 9-1-1 Operator? That seemed too far-fetched to even consider. Calls into 9-1-1 are randomly picked up by the next available Operator.

Or maybe the leak was a National Forest Ranger? It was difficult to assign any involvement there since I hadn't even talked to or met any of them yet. I needed to rectify that situation.

The Sheriff? I couldn't see it. He was too lazy to do any digging beyond the superficial. It was convenient to just accept that it didn't happen. Sit back, be the nice doddering old fool, and wait for retirement.

Then there was Deputy Powell. He was the one I talked to on the phone. Maybe he knew beforehand that a bounty hunter was on the hunt in the area. He had sounded surprised when I told him there was a body in the National Forest, the body of a Hispanic man. No wonder he was so excited. It would be exciting, especially if he could turn it into a profit. If he knew there was a bounty hunter in the area seeking a Hispanic, he would call and make a deal. Cash for the location. The deal was struck, the body was snatched, and then Deputy Powell showed up to close the loop. He might have expected to find nobody at the scene. The bounty hunter might have already disposed of me, if I had gotten in the way. But he did find me. So he took me out of there in handcuffs, helping his friend disappear without a pursuit.

Enid Powell put on quite a show on Monarch Trail. He feigned a spectrum of emotions when finding me. He went from excitement to suspicion to pity and finally to anger. He played his part well, like a performer on a stage. And I played right into his hands, turning away from him in the direction the body snatcher went, giving him precisely the opportunity he needed to slam me to the ground and slap on the cuffs. That ended any pursuit. I had underestimated him. What he may lack in intelligence, he made up for in guile and acting skills.

Deputy Powell might be collecting his share of the bounty money at this very moment, as I sit here figuring out what happened today. It bothered me professionally that the Deputy might be greedy enough to do this. Otherwise it didn't particularly perturb me to the point that I would make a stink about it, even if I could prove it. But it might be the tip of the iceberg of some larger-scale corruption. It might run deeper and involve bigger stakes. Even in a small town, it is often surprising how big the payout can be. The possibility of something bigger right here in Willow Run kept my juices flowing. It gave me something even more compelling to investigate, unofficially, of course.

My thoughts then returned to the bounty hunter. He saw me next to the body and waited for me to climb the slope. Then he went down and carried the body away. He carried the dead weight of that body on his back for about 100 yards in the late morning heat to his vehicle and drove away. For sure, he was strong to do that. And he was also very motivated to do that. Very tough, determined, and motivated.

It was convenient for him that I went up on the cliff top, out of view of the body so he could snatch it. As soon as he saw me, he must have hustled down to retrieve the body while I was up on the top of the cliff.

"Damn," I blurted out loud. He didn't carry the body away. I didn't have the numbers, but there just was not enough time, considering the amount of rough ground he had to cover, even if he pushed himself hard. He had an accomplice. Someone else did the carrying. So there had to be two guys. One was watching me while the other snatched the body. They were in communication somehow.

So now there are at least two bounty hunters, partners, who wanted that corpse. It certainly was convenient that I had climbed up the slope to investigate. That gave them the chance to grab the body.

But there was a more chilling consideration. Maybe it was convenient, perhaps even lucky, for _me_ that I had been nosey. The guy was armed. He had a rifle. His partner probably was also armed. They wanted that body. I had chastised myself for not sitting there next to the body, waiting for the Deputy to arrive. If they really wanted that corpse, I would not have been any obstacle to them. Armed or not, I would have been an easy target, sitting in the middle of an open field, with at least one of them holding the high ground. I might have become a corpse myself, dragged away and dumped somewhere. The only trace left of me might be my 9-1-1 call and my car parked at the trailhead lot. There would have been a search, for a day or two. Then it would be called off. Lost and never found.

And Deputy Powell would just report that he had received a 9-1-1 call, got to the location, and found nothing. I would be labeled as another crazy tourist in over his head in Big Sky Country.

Quite possibly, I was alive now only because I had been nosey and climbed that slope. That was a very sobering consideration.

But I was alive and well. Since I had postulated the bounty hunter angle, I had to go prove it. If writing a book is where this was going to lead me, I needed more facts. _Run away and write the Great American Novel._ That is what my ex-partner Ed Garvey advised. Well, I was right in the middle of a plot now. I had to see where it led.

Chapter 9

The faint stirrings of wildlife outside my window woke me. A few rays of morning sunlight began to filter through the trees, lifting the darkness in the room. Monday.

The room was lit enough that I could survey my temporary home. It was sparsely furnished. A two-drawer dresser topped by an old chunky TV, which was bolted down. One old wooden chair in the corner. Nothing decorated the walls except peeling white paint. The mattress was saggy, and the bed was too short for me. My toes hung over the end. Yet it was vastly more comfortable than sleeping in my car. A very acceptable temporary home. A welcome change, until even this cheap luxury was no longer affordable, because my cash reserves were dwindling.

In spite of the unusual events of yesterday, I had slept surprisingly well. Now I was alert and ready to follow where this trail of the dead Hispanic guy would lead me.

I had only seen one other person of that ethnicity in my short time here. When I left the motel yesterday morning, I saw the maid preparing to clean rooms. Her nametag read _Cortina Perez_. She appeared to be Hispanic, and the name did too. I wondered if there was any possibility that she and my dead guy knew each other. Ordinarily, the mere fact they shared ethnicity wouldn't be sufficient reason to believe they were acquainted. But the Sheriff implied that few Hispanics lived in the area. So it seemed to me the likelihood they knew each other was great enough to ask her.

On the way out of my room, I again saw the maid Cortina loading her cart, preparing to start her rounds. She was maybe 30, round face, smooth dark skin. She was a little over five feet tall, short compared to me at a little over six feet. I had always felt tall, at least until yesterday. Enid had made me feel short.

Cortina Perez was neatly dressed, and her hair was a bit wavy and shiny. She maintained her appearance as she did the motel rooms, clean and neat, in spite of their general shabby condition.

I smiled and said, "Good morning, Cortina."

She smiled widely showing clean, but somewhat stained, teeth and responded in thickly accented English, "Good morning, Señor Parker." She must have gotten my name from the guest list.

"Looks like it will be a beautiful day," I said cheerily.

"Yes, pretty. Have nice day," she said in broken English.

We smiled at each other as I passed. There would be an opportunity to ask her about the guy on the trail. But not yet. I needed a better way to approach her on this. If I were still a cop, no problem. I would flash my badge and just ask her. But as a civilian, I didn't want to scare or confuse her. Right now, I had nothing to show her. The Sheriff had erased my cell phone pictures of the dead man's face. At least I broke the ice by speaking to her. A start. When I had something solid to show her, then I could comfortably start a conversation about dead people. Today, there might even be a report in the news about the man.

As I had discovered yesterday morning, the motel's free continental breakfast was a box of cheap donuts and a pitcher of watered-down orange juice. I looked through the office window at the pathetic pastries and decided to try the diner in town. I had spotted it while being hauled off to jail. It looked cozy and inviting, a place where I could get a great-tasting breakfast and a day's worth of fat and calories, all probably for well under ten bucks.

Climbing into my CRV, I noted Deputy Powell sitting in his patrol car at the end of the parking lot. He watched me, making no attempt to hide his presence. Had my misadventure on the trail yesterday raised the Willow Run alert level to orange? Maybe so. I was beginning to really dislike this guy.

The diner was an old building, perhaps a little under-maintained around the edges, but clean. The faded and chipped stenciled letters on the plate-glass window read simply _Sam's Diner_. The air inside was filled with the aroma of breakfast: eggs, bacon, pancakes, and coffee. The place was already filling with customers, probably mostly local regulars. An older waitress seemed to know many of their names, smiling warmly, asking about family, and placing a familiar hand on a shoulder as she filled cups.

A sign read _Seat Yourself_ , so I did. I looked around the tables and saw several faces turn toward me, some stoic, some inquisitive, others attempting to hide snickers of laughter. I wondered if I'd forgotten to zip my fly. Or maybe my shirt was inside out. Or maybe that is just the way strangers are greeted here. Welcome to Willow Run.

I spotted the Sheriff sitting against the opposite wall, having breakfast and chatting with a second younger slender waitress, her long dark hair flowing over her shoulders. Other patrons of the diner stopped to greet the Sheriff or wave a good morning to him from across the room. Certainly, he was a popular guy. Everybody's friend. Sheriff for life, perhaps. I guess that's the way it is in a small town.

After a few more moments, the slender waitress left his table and strode towards me. She was probably in her forties, with tiny flecks of gray in her long dark hair. But her smooth pale skin made her look younger. I wondered how someone living out in Big Sky Country, where the sun shines bright so many days each year, could have such clear unlined skin.

I was surprised to see that she wore a nametag. It seemed redundant since everyone already appeared to know her. But it at least informed me, a stranger, of her name. Janice.

"Mornin'. Having coffee today?" she said smoothly as soon as she stopped near the table.

"Good morning. Sure." As she poured, I asked, "Any menu recommendation?"

"Try the country breakfast. That's steak, eggs, toast, and pancakes. It may be lacking in some of the basic food groups, but it will stick to your ribs for hiking all day. Mr. Parker from Cincinnati, isn't it?"

"How did you...."

"Honey, it's a small town. Word travels fast." She continued. "Besides, you drove up in a car with Ohio plates, and you're wearing what look like hiking boots." She paused to let me speak. But I was speechless, admiring her investigative skills. So she smilingly said, "And Deputy Powell was in here earlier. Told us all about your adventure yesterday. That boy loves to tell a story."

I felt a bit embarrassed at hearing this. And I was professionally offended that an officer of the law would tell the whole town about what should be a private police matter. He should be keeping that information to himself, not sharing it with all his buddies. Before I could brood on that any further, Janice flicked her head, sexily sending her hair to lie over the other shoulder, and turned back to the business of breakfast.

"So how do you want your steak?"

Since it seemed she had decided that her recommendation was what my meal would be, I simply replied, "Medium, with sunny side up eggs."

"You got it," she said cheerily. She strode toward the kitchen.

So the word was out. I was the village idiot who thought he found a body. No wonder I was a focus of attention when entering the diner. A small town. Word travels fast. I would probably hear more about that for the next day or two, or maybe the whole week, until the next gossip-worthy news cropped up.

While waiting for my meal, I thought about the dead man on Monarch Trail. I didn't know where this was going to lead, but having a body disappear on me was troubling. Having Deputy Powell gossip about it might be his way to embarrass and humiliate me into dropping my interest in the incident. But all it did was encourage me to prove that I was right and that he was wrong.

Soon my meal arrived, and it smelled and tasted fabulous. This was definitely, as Janice said, going to stick to my ribs all day. I dove in. I put jelly on the toast, mashed the bread into the yellow yoke of an egg, and downed the dripping slice. I buried the pancakes in maple syrup, forked some into my mouth, and savored the sweet stickiness. Then I carved up the steak, running the pieces through the yolk and syrup residue on the plate. When I finished, there was nothing left on the plate except a bone that had been picked clean. I topped it off with another cup of coffee. I had not eaten that much in one sitting in a long time. I was stuffed, but felt satisfied. I gladly paid, leaving a generous tip on the table.

Getting into my car, I noticed the Deputy sitting in his SUV across the street, the engine idling. He wasn't being secretive about watching me. He stared right at me.

I opened my car door, grabbed a pad of paper, and tore off a page. I placed it on the hood of my car, leaning over it and printing four short lines. Out of my peripheral vision, I could see that Powell was peering at me intently, probably wondering what the hell I was doing. He would find out soon enough. I labeled the four short lines of print, from top to bottom, 1, 2, 3, and 4, circling each number prominently. I walked over to the Deputy's car. He had the driver's side window open and his left elbow jutting out. He watched me approach. Since he didn't have on his sunglasses, I could easily see his eyes, which got wider with each step I took in his direction.

"Deputy Powell," I said politely and evenly. "So it will be easier for you to follow me, here's my schedule for the day." I stuck the paper through the open window and flicked it onto the dashboard. "Have a nice day." Then I backed away a few paces, before turning toward my car.

It was an impulsive move that took less than a minute from start to finish. At any point during that time, I could have talked myself out of doing it. But, of course, I didn't. Instead, I rather enjoyed it.

The Deputy, though, had not enjoyed it. I heard him growl, so I turned back to watch him. His face flushed red with rage.

"You wise ass!" he blurted, starting to climb out of his patrol vehicle. I thought he might charge at me. But he stopped halfway out the door, with just his left foot planted on the ground.

"Good morning, Mr. Parker." It was the Sheriff, who had come up behind me from the diner. I turned toward him and saw that while he was talking to me, he looked past me toward his Deputy. He asked with concern, "Any problem?"

"No, Sheriff. None at all," I replied calmly. "Just telling Deputy Powell about my plans for the day. Going hiking."

Enid had gotten back into his car, slamming the door and scowling again. He seemed to scowl a lot. But maybe it was just because of me, in which case I was glad to accommodate.

The Sheriff put his hands on his hips in a gesture of resignation. He clearly knew there was more to it than I let on. But he seemed to realize there was no use in pressing further. So he dully said, "Have a good hike." He tipped the brim of his hat slightly and walked off toward the police station.

Chapter 10

Staying just feet from my rear bumper, the Deputy followed me out of town. I was certain that the Sheriff would soon know more about why his Deputy scowled at me. After all, he had told the folks in the diner about my adventure yesterday. So reporting my confrontation with him this morning would certainly be on his agenda with his boss.

I passed the _Welcome to Willow Run_ sign and took the turnoff heading north toward the National Forest. Powell stuck close to my rear bumper. I braked at the entry to the unpaved Monarch Trail access parking area. The entrance was blocked by a large X formed by two crossed wooden poles. A sign on the poles read _Trail Closed_. So the local law had decided to preserve the scene after all. My opinion of their skills shot up one or two notches on seeing this.

I continued on past this access area and saw in my rear view mirror that the Deputy was turning around. He must have satisfied himself that I wasn't going to mess with his crime scene, so he didn't need to tag along.

But he was wrong. I wasn't going to let this go. I just wasn't going to park in this access lot. That would be too obvious if the Deputy came back by. But like the grid of highways in this country, most trails intersect other trails. So I would simply hike in from a different starting point. After driving another mile, I pulled into the next access parking area, The Dells, and checked the trail map I'd picked up at the motel. Sure enough, the Monarch and Dells trails intersected. I would have two or three more miles of hiking to get to Monarch Trail, but I had plenty of time. I started hiking.

It was still early in the day, and the sun slanted through the trees at an acute angle, just barely lighting the forest floor. The birds and squirrels were busily pursuing their breakfasts or marking their territories. It was peaceful. Again, I was alone on a trail. My faithful companion, solitude. I had been alone yesterday, until the wilderness got crowded with a body, the bounty hunters, and the Deputy. I hoped for a less crowded wilderness today. Solitude would be perfect.

After a hike of a couple miles, the trail forked. At the fork stood a brown wooden post. There were yellow arrows on two sides of the post. The arrow going to the right was labeled _Dells_ , while the one to the left read _Monarch_. I went left. This trail connector was not well maintained. Downed branches lay across it, and bushes grew over it. A trek of perhaps a half-mile brought me to a section of path I recognized from yesterday. I was joining the Monarch Trail not far from where it entered the ravine below the cliff.

When I emerged out of the woods and into the ravine, the sun was well up in the sky, and the air felt hot. Before entering the ravine, I did a 360-degree scan for anyone in the area. Satisfied that no one was taking aim at me, I walked straight toward the spot where I found the body.

The bloodstain that had been on the ground was gone. I noted that the piece of brown paper, the one that had been under the right hand of the dead guy, was also gone. I couldn't recall if it had vanished with the body yesterday or not. It probably didn't matter, but it bothered me that I had overlooked that, in spite of it being just a small detail. Even with the panic I felt on discovering that the body was gone and later showing the spot on the ground to Deputy Powell, I should have been alert enough to notice the absence or presence of that bit of possible evidence. But I just couldn't remember. I really was rusty, a very rusty ex-cop.

At least today I was alert enough to realize something else. Yesterday when I found that the body was missing, I had seen the drag marks in the dirt and then the single line of boot prints leading toward where a vehicle must have been parked, just beyond the rise ahead. But if someone had come out here to snatch the body, where was the trail of boot prints leading up to this point? Without that, the scenario proposed by the Sheriff and Deputy was more plausible: the guy fell down, then got up and walked away.

I started scanning around the area, looking for the trail of boot prints coming in toward the body. It had to be here. I saw the disturbed ground where Enid and I scuffled. I saw my footprints leading away from the body toward where the vehicle was parked and then back again to this spot. But that was it. So I stepped over the spot where the body had been and walked slowly several paces away, scanning left and right, looking for another set of imprints. The ground in this direction was rocky. If the body snatcher had come in this way, he wouldn't have left an obvious trail.

About a dozen feet out, I found an area where the ground was more soil than rock. And there were boot prints coming inward, the same kind of imprints that led away from the body. I placed a dollar bill next to one of the clearly visible prints and took some pictures of both the right and left foot impressions and of the spacing between individual prints to judge stride length. US paper currency is six inches in length. In the absence of a measuring tape, it served as a good indicator of scale. The boot print was perhaps eleven inches in length. Smaller than those of the Deputy, the Sheriff, or me. Yet larger than the small feet of the dead Hispanic.

The presence of this imprint simply confirmed what I already knew. Someone came over and carried him away. It also confirmed what I suspected, that the Sheriff was not very thorough in his search for evidence at the scene. There was no indication that he had come over this way or followed my other path over to where the vehicle had been parked. He had simply walked up to where I found the body, collected the blood, and left. He had already concluded what happened. A guy fell down, got up, and walked away. Case closed.

But then, why would the Sheriff be motivated to look for evidence? There was no body. Could I really blame him for being skeptical? I might be an ex-cop, but I was nobody to him. Just an unemployed drifter. Not credible in the least.

Yet I knew I was right. And there was more to be learned. So I followed the track of prints for several more yards. I saw that the track turned slightly and then went in a straight line toward where the vehicle would have been parked. No deviation. No wandering around. This was not a search pattern. The strides were widely spaced and deeply impressed in the ground, like he was running. It was as if he knew where to go and what he would find. He ran to the spot, and then walked away carrying a corpse.

Backtracking to the spot where the body had been, I took pictures of the left and right boot prints in front of me, again using my dollar-bill ruler.

I walked over the rise to the tire tracks and studied them. The track width would provide a guess at the type of vehicle. My shoed foot is almost exactly a foot long. I paced heel-to-toe across the width of the track. The distance from tire center to tire center was about six feet. And the tread width was nearly a foot. Big dimensions, what one might expect for a sizeable truck or a Hummer. I placed a dollar bill, my six-inch ruler, across the tire track and took a picture.

I needed to confirm my speculation from last night, that two bounty hunters were involved. I went past where the vehicle had been parked, searching for footprints from the guy with the rifle. I soon found them in some soft ground. They were headed directly to where the vehicle had been. I had intended to get a time measurement of how long it would take for the guy with the rifle to get from the ridge above down to this spot. I didn't think it could be done in the brief time between when I saw him up there and when the body disappeared. To get the measurement, I would have gone up to the ridge, found his tracks, and then followed them down to here. But now there clearly was no need to do that.

I took some pictures of these boot prints in the sandy soil, again using my dollar-bill ruler. The pattern looked very similar, if not identical, to the other boot print pictures and perhaps even the same size. But these new prints were strikingly different. Unlike the prints left by the body snatcher, there was a distinctive gap in one of the imprint ridges near the ball of the right foot. It was as if a chunk of the sole had been gouged out by a rock or other sharp object. And the left foot splayed outward a bit relative to the straighter tract of the right foot. Two different sets of boots, two different guys: the one with the rifle and the body snatcher.

Still wanting to make the climb to the top of the cliff to check something, I first noted the time on my cell phone. As I climbed, the sun was again in my eyes. Bushes blocked my view of the ravine below, and my attention was focused on climbing over the loose footing. I located the place where I'd stopped when first spotting the guy with the rifle. Then I knelt down. Twenty-four minutes. I duck-walked sideways across the slope, just as I had done yesterday. Then I crawled up to the ridge where the guy with the rifle had been. I checked the time. Seven more minutes had elapsed. During that entire time, just over a half hour, I was out of sight of the ravine below. I would not have been able to see anything from the base of the cliff all the way to where the vehicle had been parked. That was plenty of time for the body to have been taken, and I wouldn't have seen any of it.

From the vantage point of the ridge, I couldn't see the place where the vehicle had been parked. But I could see the route I had taken up the slope and the spot where the body had been. Briefly, I wondered why it had not occurred to me to look down at the body when I'd been up here yesterday. But the circumstances were quite different then. I had been focused on looking for a man with a rifle. At that point, my thoughts were on preserving my own body.

So, the different boot prints confirmed there were two guys. One was on the high ridge watching me. The other one was snatching the body. Then, as soon as the body was taken, there was no need to keep an eye on me any longer. So the guy with the gun ran down the other side of the slope to the vehicle. They were probably gone long before I finished my climb back down. I saw none of it, except a brief glimpse of the guy on top of the ridge. It was a slick operation that had to be improvised on the spot. Very impressive.

I had to talk to the Sheriff about this new evidence. It wasn't much, but I felt it was important. He wouldn't be pleased that I was doing this. Yet it seemed like the right thing to do for the sake of the dead man.

Chapter 11

By the time I hiked back out and drove into town, the time was approaching mid-afternoon. I went straight to the police department and parked next to the Deputy's vehicle. I hoped the Sheriff was also there since he might be a more receptive audience.

As I entered the building and Deputy Powell saw me, a scowl appeared on his wide face. He asked mockingly, "Find another body today?"

To defuse another confrontation, I simply said, "No," slowly shaking my head a few beats. "No body today. But I was just curious if you had any luck finding the injured Hispanic man."

The deputy took a while to consider an answer, but then said, "I can't discuss an ongoing investigation."

An ongoing investigation? He told the whole town about it this morning. But I let it pass.

"So, no missing person reports? Any lead on the guy, say by asking the Hispanic maid at the motel? Any injured man showing up at a hospital?" I asked. "I'm just concerned about the guy," I lied. How could I be concerned about a guy who is already dead?

The Deputy didn't answer, but rather turned red in the face, trying to contain his building fury. He worked his jaw muscles, his upper and lower teeth grinding against each other.

"Mr. Parker," he said forcefully. He spoke slowly, enunciating his words precisely. "You are not a cop any more. You aren't part of this investigation. Let us do our job."

I considered pressing a little more, but his stern expression told me I had already pressed as far as he would tolerate. So I left saying, "Have a good day, Deputy Powell."

While I struck out with Enid, I was in luck. I saw the Sheriff across the street just taking a seat on a bench in the shade, talking with someone. As I neared them, the other man got up and abruptly left. I guessed that my reputation preceded me and had spooked the citizens of Willow Run. Seeing me approach, the Sheriff, though, stayed seated.

"Did you have a nice hike this morning?" he asked.

"Yes, thanks. Very peaceful. I took the Dells Trail. I ended up on Monarch Trail again. I didn't realize they were connected," I lied.

There was no response from the Sheriff. I half expected him to chastise me for entering a crime scene, but he just sat there fixing an unblinking gaze in my direction.

"My hike was also informative," I added.

"How so?" he asked with modest interest.

I told him about the boot prints, the pictures of them that I took, and my thoughts about what happened out there.

His face had a pained expression. "Are we going to do this dance again?" he asked. "This was all settled yesterday."

"Sheriff, I'm just a curious guy. I had to convince myself there was more to this than an injured man getting up and walking away. These new prints just confirm that someone did walk up to the body and carry it away."

He sighed, resigned to the fact that I was going to continue playing cop. "Mr. Parker. You seem to be running an investigation here. I thought you were a tourist on a hiking vacation. So why don't you just be a tourist?"

"I'll try," I offered. "But I can't guarantee anything."

He gazed unblinking at me for a moment before continuing. "And why do you find it necessary to antagonize my Deputy?"

I could sense immediately that he regretted asking. He let out a sigh that was more like a quiet groan. He didn't want to play the role of mediator in a dispute between Powell and me. But it confirmed what I suspected would happen, that the giant Enid did go whining to the Sheriff about me giving him my schedule for the day. Now I would get some fatherly advice to back off.

He had a pained expression on his face. "Mr. Parker. This is a small town. Maybe in the big city you can be rude because it's tolerated. But here, everyone knows everybody. We all share a confined space. We have to be more civil to each other."

"I'll try to behave," I offered. But I knew that would be a difficult promise to keep.

The Sheriff sighed as he rose, almost conceding that he knew there would be more conflict yet to come. "Please do that," he said. Without enthusiasm, he added, "Have a nice evening."

Sure, I was no longer a cop. But that was no reason for him to ignore facts laid in front of him. If ignorance is bliss, then he must be the happiest man in Willow Run. The situation just meant that I needed to find something even more convincing to sway his opinion. I needed more facts.

I knew where to find more facts. I crossed the street to the public library. It was an old brick building, but seemed to be well maintained. There was a small recess into the front wall of the structure where the entry was located. The two side-by-side front doors in the recess were tall and made of thick wood, with small panes of sturdy glass in the upper half. I grabbed the door handle on the right, and it swung open easily.

The inside of the small facility was brightly lit, with a desk, several rows of shelves holding books and CDs, a display containing DVDs, a wall-mounted rack filled with magazines, a scattering of tables and chairs, and a single computer terminal against the back wall. The word that came to mind was tidy. Everything was neat and orderly. This place was pristine. Spotless windows that let the rays of sunlight shine in unimpeded, no refuse on the floor, everything neatly aligned on the shelves.

Three young girls browsed through the DVDs, and two middle-aged women thumbed magazines. A teen-age boy wearing dark-rimmed glasses was reading a book at a table and occasionally jotting something on a pad of paper. He also wore earpieces connected to an iPod and seemed to be texting on his phone. The ultimate multi-tasker. I also noted two elderly gentlemen sitting near the back prowling through some books on tape. As I bee-lined toward the desk, a slender woman emerged from behind one of the tall stacks of shelves.

"Good afternoon," she said, smiling widely. "Can I help you find something?"

She was about 5 foot 6, slender with arrow-straight posture, green eyes, red hair, and a splash of tiny freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. She wore blue jeans and a white top, which made her red hair appear like a bright flame. The sight was stunning.

"I don't recall seeing you here before. Are you visiting our town of Willow Run?"

After a brief pause to compose a response, I finally said, "Yes, just got here a couple of days ago."

"Mr. Parker I presume?" she offered. The rumor mill in Willow Run was alive and well. She already knew who I was even though we had not met before this moment. So she probably had already heard all about my exploits in the forest.

"You are well informed," I said, resigned to my fate as the bull's eye of gossip in this town.

She did not appear affected by my somewhat sullen response. She simply responded, "Small town. News travels fast." Then after a few beats, she stated, "Allison Wells, at your service."

I held her gaze for a few moments and then dragged my attention away from her, glancing around the library. "I wanted to browse some local newspapers, if you have any."

"Sure," she said passing by and beckoning me to follow. As she passed, the scent of a light fragrance rose from her hair. I didn't recognize the aroma, but I liked it. I followed. She then pointed toward a low round table in a small alcove near the front of the building. It was surrounded by three stuffed armchairs. "Are you looking for a specific newspaper?"

"I don't know the names of the local papers, but I'm looking for news stories about this area."

"Well, on the table are newspapers from this morning." There were several papers, arranged neatly in a circular fan shape. Either no one else had read those papers today, or Allison Wells had rearranged them after their use. Typically, a read newspaper is a jumbled pile of crinkled, haphazardly folded, and out-of-sequence or missing pages. These looked neatly pressed and might have just been unwrapped from the morning's mail.

"The paper you will probably want to look at first is the Teton County Observer. That's our local paper. It comes out Monday through Friday. Then there are the daily papers from Great Falls, Butte, and Helena. Those are the bigger cities in the area."

She then continued, giving me more information than I probably needed. I stared at her flowing red hair, listening intently. "The other papers from Chicago, San Francisco, and Denver and USA Today are not going to help you with local stories. Now if you want older papers, I keep them for two weeks as hard copies on the shelf against the window. Anything older should then be available on-line. If you want to search for those on the computer, I can get you set up over there." She turned and pointed toward the computer I had seen when entering. At the moment, it was being used.

She turned toward me and laughed at herself, flushing briefly. "Sorry. I got carried away with the tour guide thing. Sorry."

"No problem. I'm sure I'll need that information on my future visits here." And then I added, "Although I may need you to give me a refresher course." It was my turn to flush for being perhaps a bit obvious about my interest in her. We both laughed lightly.

She finally added, "Glad to help."

The young girls were at the desk waiting to check out their DVD selections. Allison said, "Duty calls," and headed that direction. As she passed, that alluring scent from her hair came over me again. Now there was something that solitude did not provide.

Still feeling a bit giddy, I sat at the table. Doing an Internet search seemed like a better place to start. But the computer was in use, and my cheap motel didn't offer Internet connection. So I would start the old fashioned way, by reading the papers. I picked up the Teton County Observer, and read. It was a small paper, only six pages total, and the sheets of newsprint were smaller than the standard wide-circulation papers. So even reading every word would not take long.

There were a few short international and national stories, likely pulled from the Associated Press wire. The rest was focused on state, county, and local news and events, along with the usual array of advertisements, coupons, and an editorial opinion piece. There were no reports of a body being found. The only articles reporting injured persons dealt with the collision of a car, driven by a first-time teenage driver. He collided with a stop sign. Well, at least he did stop. And there was a report of a local man who broke an arm falling off his roof while repairing the chimney. But there were no reports of a seriously injured or deceased or missing man.

It took considerably longer to read the Great Falls Review, Butte Times, and Helena Herald. These came from larger cities and had much more extensive coverage of topics on the local, regional, national, and international news. I read all the headings for each story. They covered the latest militant attacks in the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the battle on Capital Hill over health care options, slashing of budgets, the ground-swell of outrage over the bloated bonuses for the bankers who had played a major part in causing the recession, the continued housing crash, unemployment, and all the other topics that make reading the paper an often gloomy prospect. But I had the same lack of luck on the topic of immediate interest to me.

Perhaps it was just too soon. After all, I found the body only yesterday morning. Maybe by the time he was taken to a hospital or morgue, it was past press time. Finding a dead guy usually was enough to warrant a piece in the newspaper. And if the body was of someone taken for the bounty on his head, it might not appear in the news at all, especially if the Hispanic was wanted far from here. The body would just be turned in for the bounty. End of story. I would have to check the news again tomorrow.

"Mr. Parker?" I started at that question coming from behind me. "Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you," Allison said with concern. I hadn't heard her approach. But then others have told me before that I often became so absorbed in reading that I was oblivious to my surroundings.

"I guess I was deep into it." I looked around. I was the last patron in the building. "Is it closing time?"

"Yes, in a couple of minutes," she said. "But go ahead and finish what you're reading."

"I didn't realize it was so late. Anyway, I'm finished with the newspapers."

Her gaze went to the table, and a dark cloud seemed to cross over her face. I looked down at the papers and realized I had created a tangled mess out of several of them. Yes, I was really finished with them, having mangled her tidy arrangement in the process. I felt a sharp pang of guilt at having so violated the neatness of this space.

"Sorry," was all I could say. Still seated, I started to reassemble the paper I held.

Her frown softened, and she offered, "Don't worry about the papers. I'll straighten them out before I file them." I could tell that she wasn't happy with my mess, but was too polite to say so. She was showing mercy to a stranger.

"Sorry," I offered again weakly.

"It's OK," she said with less hurt in her voice. "You're welcome to come back tomorrow."

"I'll do that. Thanks," I offered. Gently, I put down the section of paper in my hand, and it gradually sagged onto the reminder of the mess I created.

Then I quickly glanced over at the computer monitor and confirmed that it was not in use. "Just give me a minute for a quick search," I said, rushing past her.

She sighed heavily, but didn't stop me. I took that as an OK. I sat at the computer and punched in some search terms. Only four hits came back, an astonishingly small number for any search. I glanced through the brief summaries and opened one of them. I looked over at Allison and saw her glaring at me. Turning back to the computer, I pressed print without even reading the article.

At the sound of the printer, Allison went behind the counter and snatched the sheets out of the printer bin. She abruptly dropped them on the counter in front of me. I didn't know what the per-page cost was for the printed sheets, but slid a dollar across the counter.

"Thanks," I said. "Sorry for keeping you late." When she didn't respond, I added, "Have a good night." Then I rushed to the exit.

"Good night," she said tersely.

I looked back through the window of the alcove and saw her take a seat at the table with the newspapers. She was undoing the mess I had left. I felt another twinge of guilt as I turned to leave.

Chapter 12

The shadows were long as I drove back to the motel and parked in front of my room. Stuck between the room door and its frame was a business card. Across the top it had the name Joseph Custer. Underneath was Teton County Observer, the name of the local newspaper I had just read at the library. There were phone numbers and an email address in the bottom right corner. Scribbled on the back was a request: _Please call me ASAP_. It was signed _Joseph_. The date and time were for today at 10 AM.

He was a reporter rustling up a story. It certainly didn't take him long to track me down. But it's a small town, and there weren't any other lodging options. His name was curious. I wondered if there was any connection to the infamous Indian fighter, General George Armstrong Custer. I might ask him, just out of curiosity, though he had probably already been asked that question hundreds or thousands of times throughout his life. Best to let that go.

I pocketed the card. A reporter can be a valuable resource. He knows Willow Run and probably could tell me far more than I would learn simply by searching at the library. And by writing a story on my misadventure in the forest, with my input, he might put a more positive spin on it. That might help repair my damaged reputation. The story might even bring forth witnesses or those who knew the missing man. A written story also would be helpful in approaching Cortina Perez. It would give me something solid for starting a conversation.

I stayed outside on the walkway in front of the room, pulled out my phone, turned it on, and dialed. The reception out here was good, so I didn't want to chance having it fade out by going inside. Except when I was on Monarch Trail, I had kept the device turned off. I wanted to postpone dealing with the missed calls I knew had come in. There were three of them. The calls were not from Joseph Custer, since he didn't have my number. Rather, they were calls from an old friend.

"Garvey," he answered.

This was his desk phone number, so Ed was still at it, ever the workaholic. He volunteered for overtime whenever he could to squeeze out some extra pay to support his family.

"Did you put some bad guys away today?" I asked.

Ed Garvey was in his late forties. We had been partners in a patrol car for several years, until I was let go from the force in the budget cuts. He was the older cop teaching me, the rookie. We had clicked from the first day, getting along like long-time friends. We had an easy relationship. He was like an older brother. We could confide in each other, joke with each other, and watch each other's backs.

"Well, if it isn't Liberty, the traveling gnome," he said with enthusiasm. "You still trekking on the frontier?"

Liberty was a nickname Ed laid on me the day we met, and it stuck. I had no objection.

"Yeah, now I'm out here in Big Sky Country starting over. And I guess they haven't laid you off yet?"

"Not yet, but the big guys are working on it. The budget is worse off than they thought, so more of us may soon be following you out west. Leave a trail of breadcrumbs so we can find our way," he said, laughing. Then he continued with a tone of annoyance. "But while they screw us over, they bought a new fleet of cars for the suits, riot gear, a second police helicopter, and a cabin cruiser for patrolling the Ohio River. You know, Cincinnati is such a hotbed of terrorist activity."

"Sounds like same old same old. But enough griping. How are the wife and kids?"

"Samantha is fine. The new school year will be coming up soon, so she'll be getting her class work together for the fall. And we spent a lot of time recently on campus tours. The older kid is starting to apply for college. Can you believe she's going to be a senior this year?"

"They do grow up fast. Next thing you know, you'll be a grandpa." We both chuckled at that.

There was a brief lag in the conversation, and then Ed picked it up. "I tried calling you several times. I was worried. We were all worried here. Some Montana cops called to ask about you. What's going on out there?"

"Sorry about the phone. Reception is not so good out here." That was a lie, but I hoped he wouldn't recognize it.

"OK," he said hesitantly. After a brief moment, he probed, "But what's going on?" His voice had the sound of a mixture of concern and a bit of annoyance at me delaying in answering him.

"Nothing really, Ed." I wasn't ready to reveal to him my finding and losing a body in the forest. That would come eventually, because in the long run, we had no secrets from each other. Maybe he already knew about it and was letting me take the lead in telling him, rather than pushing me into it. "I just reported something to the cops, and I guess they wanted to know more about the reliability of me as a witness. No big deal." After a pause, I continued. "Ed, I really just called to hear a familiar voice." I sincerely meant that.

"Glad to accommodate. You know my offer still stands. You are welcome to stay in our basement. It has a foldout couch, bathroom, twenty years of accumulated junk from us living in this house. The room service sucks, but the price is right."

"Thanks, Ed. I may yet take you up on that." I paused a few beats. "So I guess there's still no openings in the department."

"Sorry, buddy. No hiring, just more firing."

I expected that to be his answer. I yearned for my old position back, to re-enter my old life, to have a job again. Income was important, but the job meant more than just the money. It signified that I had value to the world. I needed that.

Ed continued. "Any job openings in Montana?"

"Looking into it." In the diner, I had overheard a remark from one of the locals about the Sheriff retiring. So perhaps there was an opportunity, if the populace of Willow Run had not already decided I was an imbecile for my exploits on Monarch Trail. If the Sheriff and Enid got a vote, though, I was finished before I started.

"Sounds promising," Ed said with feigned enthusiasm. "Look, buddy, I gotta get going and pick up the kid from soccer practice. Maybe we can talk later?"

"Sure. I'll call you tomorrow. Thanks for the chat, Ed."

"Anytime, Liberty."

We both rang off. It was good to hear his voice. His friendship meant a lot to me. And I knew that his _anytime_ also meant I could rely on him as a resource, if I needed it. Since there was no crime lab at my disposal, I hoped Ed would assist me as my investigation into the disappearing corpse continued.

Chapter 13

In the motel room, I pulled out my laptop computer. It was one of the few things that I kept in my downsizing before leaving Cincinnati. I kept the computer, which was already paid for, but ditched Internet service, which would continue to cost me every month. I also kept my GPS and cell phone, though I went to the minimum service on the phone to minimize expenses.

I missed all the electronic capabilities. Internet whenever I wanted it, email, cable TV, texting on my phone. Things that I took for granted for so much of my life, dating back to my years in school. I thought they were indispensable, essentials to life. And to the younger set, they probably were essentials. Those gadgets had been around their entire lives, so they didn't know a world without them. However, for me, they turned out to be luxuries when I had to choose between them and the basic necessities. Someday, when I could afford them again, I would welcome them back into my life. Yet there were advantages of living off the grid. There were no telephone solicitations, no sales people at the door, and no junk mail addressed to Occupant. I didn't miss any of those.

I stared at the laptop, then decided not to use it tonight. If being a writer is where my life was headed, at some point I had to actually start writing. For me, creating a novel was an ambitious undertaking. While I had written a few newspaper and magazine articles on hiking and litter, and of course many arrest reports while a cop, all those were based on facts. Times, places, names, addresses, vehicle type, plate numbers, and on and on. I was surprised there was still an urge within me to write after all that paper work. But I looked at the task as creating a permanent record of what I did. Those served as statements that I passed through this world, left something of value behind, a contribution that out-lived me.

That thought about permanent records reminded me of the article that was stuffed in my pocket. At the library, I had searched for Hispanics in Willow Run, a search that had produced only four hits. Three of them were not relevant. Irrelevant hits happen with any search. But the fourth had seemed important. It was from last year, the September 10, 2008 issue of the local paper, the Teton County Observer. The front-page headline read, _Illegal Immigrant Stirs Up Trouble in Willow Run by Joseph Custer_. I read the story underneath.

Two Willow Run residents, in separate incidents, each fought off the same would-be car thief from stealing their vehicles. The unknown man, thought to be of Hispanic descent, is now in custody.

Yesterday morning, Megan White on Spruce Street had just returned home from shopping when an unknown male grabbed the keys from her hand and jumped into the driver seat of her pick-up truck. While he tried to start the vehicle, she grabbed a stick of pepperoni from a grocery bag in the bed of the truck and started beating him on the head through the open driver side window. When interviewed, Megan said, "I got him pretty good. I know he'll have a black eye, and I hope I broke his nose." The man apparently could not start the truck. Mrs. White offered, "This old truck is ornery. You have to treat 'er right to get 'er goin'."

The man exited from the passenger side of the truck, and then ran down Spruce Street where he encountered Roland Barnes. Mr. Barnes had just come to a stop at the intersection with River Road. The man tried to pull open the car door, but Mr. Barnes jabbed him several times in the stomach and groin through the open window with his cane, doubling the man over into a seated position on the ground. When he tried to get up, Mr. Barnes opened the car door, hitting him in the head and sending him flat on his back on the ground. Mr. Barnes then got out of his car and started jabbing the cane at the thief's head.

Deputy Powell, who had been called by Megan White, arrived just as the unidentified man got up. He started to run, but was tackled by Deputy Powell, handcuffed, and taken to jail. Dr. Bernard Keats was called to examine the thief, but he indicated that his injuries from the pepperoni beating, from the cane attack, and from Deputy Powell's tackle were only minor scrapes and bruises.

Deputy Powell suggested he might be an illegal immigrant, perhaps Hispanic. The man carried no identification and did not speak English. Though residents in the area were questioned, no one had seen him prior to the attempted car theft incidents.

The unidentified man was not in the Willow Run jail cell for long. According to Deputy Powell, he was turned over to Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) personnel late in the day. INS handles processing of illegal immigrants, most of them being deported back to their countries of origin. There are approximately 1 million deportations from the United States back to Mexico each year, although deportations from Montana are not very common. The Hispanic population in Montana is small (only 2% of the state's total population) and the estimated illegal immigrant population is much less than 1%.

Regardless of who this man was and where he came from, Mr. Barnes had some advice for any would-be criminal. "I may be old, but I'm a veteran. I still know how to fight." Mr. Barnes fought in the Korean War, and was decorated with the Silver Star and a Purple Heart for his service. Sheriff Tyler, who was out of town during the incident, was reached by telephone. He commended Deputy Powell for his handling of the situation, and personally called Roland Barnes and Megan White to thank them for their bravery in fighting back against crime.

So an exciting day in Willow Run and an interesting find for me. Here was another Hispanic who seems to have appeared out of nowhere. How could I track what happened to him? I had no name to search. But perhaps Ed Garvey would be willing to help me on this.

Lying in bed, I thought a lot about the two men. One was sprinting through the dark forest, scared and pursued by bounty hunters. Then he ran off a cliff to die alone. The other one was captured. Enid was involved in both incidents. There indeed was a story here.

Chapter 14

I awoke early, and reminded myself what day of the week it was. Tuesday. It was something I started doing every morning. Being out of work, no email, no daily newspaper, no routine of going to a job, it was easy to lose track of something that basic. For the employed, the world was still in rhythmic motion. They were still contributing to bettering the human condition. I missed that greater connection of being part of something of value.

Yet I had my way to become reconnected. I was committed to speak for the dead man, to be his voice now that his had been silenced. But to do that, I needed fuel. It was still early enough that some of the motel's pathetic continental breakfast, those stale donuts and diluted juice, would still be available. It wasn't as good as the diner had been, but the price was right. Sure enough, when I got to the office, there were still two glazed donuts and a half-cup of juice. I took them back toward my room and sat in the white plastic chair outside.

As I ate, Deputy Powell cruised slowly past the motel going south, eyeing me as he went by. I was still on his surveillance list, which did not surprise me if he was protecting his secret, a payoff from bounty hunters. And I hadn't helped the relationship by antagonizing him. But he wasn't interfering with my activities, so I dismissed him for now. We would surely be seeing more of each other soon enough.

Even though it was still early in Montana, it was mid-morning in Cincinnati. Ed Garvey, though, was not answering his desk phone or his cell phone. He was probably out on patrol and could not answer. That left me disappointed. I still owed him a more detailed account of what happened on Monarch Trail. When I had talked to him last, he clearly knew more than he let on, and so certainly expected me to reveal more. I simply had not been ready then. But now I was now mentally prepared for that conversation. The conversation certainly had to precede me asking him for favors. I hoped he could look into my 9-1-1 call, ask for a transcript and any follow-ups that might have occurred. As a cop, he surely would get a quicker and more thorough response than Nathan Parker, private citizen. For now, though, I just left a message saying I'd call him back later in the day.

I got up from the plastic chair and noticed a business card lying on the sidewalk in front of my room. It probably had been stuck between the door and its frame, and I hadn't seen it fall when leaving the room earlier. It was another greeting from Joseph Custer. On the back of this one was the same scribbled note as yesterday: _Please call me ASAP_. It was signed _Joseph_. The date was today at 6 AM. So he had visited very early, but thankfully had not pounded on the door to awaken me before the first rays of sunlight had even shone. With his persistence, I really did need to call him today. There was no need for any more of his business cards cluttering my pocket.

I also needed to get some detailed maps of the area to learn more about the lay of the land. All I had was a road atlas where the entire state had been squeezed onto a single page. It seemed that a good place for such detailed maps would be the ranger station in the National Forest. In the past two days, I had entered the forest through a more remote access road south and west of town. The main entrance was to the north on US Highway 287. This would also be an opportunity to meet and talk with a Ranger as part of the follow-up on my 9-1-1 call and the bounty hunter angle. With all of the budget cuts, maybe there weren't many rangers still employed in the park, so I might get lucky and actually talk with the one who took the call.

On the way to my car, I saw Cortina. She entered one of the rooms with her cart. The guy from the front desk followed her, gabbing away. I still wanted to talk with her and considered waiting until she was done with her conversation. But it seemed like their discussion was more than just a casual chat, since he stood in the door of the room, continuing his monologue. So I would wait until later. While I preferred having something solid in hand, such as a news story, when I talked with her, I didn't want to delay much longer. So tomorrow at the latest would be it, even if I had nothing new to steer the conversation.

Driving north toward the National Forest entrance, I soaked in the scenery, the expanse of trees and the mountains in the distance. The mountains were majestic and calming and enticing. I could gaze at them for hours. But what I really wanted was to wander through them, experiencing their embrace up close, touching, inhaling the fragrance of clean air, immersing myself in them. That closeness to nature had always stirred me and was an addiction not easily satisfied. I would experience it up close soon, very soon, since I planned to continue my hiking, along with starting my writing career.

Ahead on the side of the road, a brown wooden sign with yellow lettering loomed. It indicated I had entered the Lewis and Clark National Forest. There were no buildings on either side of the road, no houses, no businesses, no farms. Just barbed wire fencing on both sides of the road, marking boundaries for the Forest on the west and presumably ranchland on the east. A little further along, a sign proclaimed that the ranger station was ahead, and I turned west through a gate. On the gate, a small sign indicated the entrance was open from dawn to dusk. The paved road quickly turned into a gravel surface. This one was smoother than expected, suggesting perhaps some recent maintenance.

I pulled into an open spot in front of the ranger station, a brown wooden log cabin sitting on a stone foundation. Two other vehicles with out-of-state plates sat in the lot, so I was not the only tourist here today. Inside to the right, a set of small displays about the local history, flora, and fauna filled the space. There were waist-high glass-covered cases, dioramas on the wall, and some rocks, bones, and antlers for touching. These displays occupied the attention of what appeared to be a couple and their young son, who jumped up and down in excitement.

The other family fared less well. The dad stayed in the building continuing the survey of the exhibits with his daughter, and watching over a stroller containing a sleeping youngster. In the meantime, the mom dealt with a melt down, hauling a crying boy out the door. He sobbed something about there not being a gift shop.

I noted some maps pinned on one wall of the building. Those looked like just what I needed. They were large, about three-feet square, and had the kind of detail I sought. A Ranger in forest green uniform stood behind a counter. He appeared to be in his late thirties. Not quite six feet tall, thin, short brown hair, clean-shaven, neat. I thought he was even a bit prissy looking. The nametag on his chest read _Andrew Pine_. Some people just have the perfect name for the job. Is someone named Pine simply destined to be a forest ranger? Probably. It reminded me of a police officer in Cincinnati. His name was Jonathan Leash. He was head of the canine unit. There was no more suitable place for him in the department.

"Good morning," Ranger Pine said cheerily with a wide grin on his face. "Looks like another beautiful day."

"Yes, it does. Good morning," I responded.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

"I was hoping to buy some detailed maps of the area, maybe even a topographical map."

"Well, you've come to the right place," he said. "All of them are displayed on the wall over there."

"Great." I pointed to the ones I wanted. He fished them out from under the counter, and I paid for them. I also wanted to get some information from him.

"It seems there are several different parks in the area," I ventured.

"Well, there are several National Forests that adjoin the Lewis and Clark, such as the Flathead and Lolo to the west. It all covers millions of acres."

"Millions of acres. That's a lot of ground to manage."

"Yes, it is."

"With all the government cut-backs, it must be getting harder than ever to patrol it all." I had recalled reading that the number of rangers was grossly inadequate to monitor activities in the areas they were assigned to manage. Tens of thousands, even hundreds of thousands, of acres per National Forest Ranger. An impossible task.

"Yes. The budget cutbacks have been difficult. We lost a lot of good people."

"Must leave you with a lot of responsibility."

"Sometimes it seems like too much. Makes for some long workdays and weeks. But I manage."

"So, are you the head ranger here?" I probed.

He beamed with obvious pride. "Yes, that's right. I run the entire southern end of the National Forest."

"Well, then I'm talking to the expert."

"I wouldn't say that," he feigned a bit of modesty, though he still wore a wide toothy grin. "But if you have any questions about the National Forest, glad to help if I can."

"Can you tell me about the hiking trails?"

"Sure," he gushed. "I have maps of the trails right here." He deftly snatched up a pamphlet, opened it to display the marked hiking trails, and handed it across the counter to me. "There are dozens of trails, well over 100 miles in total. And in addition to hiking, we offer opportunities for horseback riding, camping, fishing, and canoeing. Lots of activities here."

Then he continued less enthusiastically and more seriously. "But some of the facilities are closed due to reduced manpower, and a lot of it is pretty remote country. So unless you are an experienced hiker, I suggest staying to the marked trails. It's easy to get lost out there. And then some of it is restricted wilderness area."

"Restricted?"

"For some of the more remote areas, you need to get a permit, so we know who is out there and for how long." Then he added, "In case someone does not return on schedule, at least we know where to start looking. People do get lost out there from time to time." He paused before continuing. "Then there are some areas that are off limits entirely."

I raised my eyebrows as if to ask a question, but he continued without further prompting.

"Those areas have been used too heavily so are closed for natural healing. We have one area where there was a big fire last year. We think it was caused by a careless hiker or back packer. His fire burned hundreds of acres. To protect it from further erosion, we have closed the entire area. Healing could take years."

I nodded. He was talking freely, which is what I'd hoped for. Since he did not immediately continue the conversation, I asked, "Sounds like it was bad."

He nodded sternly.

"So, if you are understaffed, who fought the fire?" I asked.

Ranger Pine seemed uncertain why I was asking, but after a few beats answered. "Well, just about everybody. Me, our own fire squad, though that's not many people. And the volunteer fire department from Willow Run. That's the small town not far from here. Everybody. Fortunately, it was remote enough that no one was hurt, not even the careless camper. We never did find him. Whoever he was, he did not have a permit to be camped there."

"Where was the fire? Can you show me on the map?" He looked at me a bit quizzically, so I added, "I just want to know where I shouldn't be hiking."

He hesitated briefly, glancing at his other patrons. But seeing that they were occupied and did not need his attention, he moved from behind the counter to one of the maps on the wall.

"The fire was in this area, Spring Valley. It got that name from the first settlers here since there are some natural springs in there. Keeps a small creek flowing all year, regardless of rainfall."

I couldn't determine with a quick glance of the map how distant this valley was from the highway. I would need to consult the scale to do that. Since I already had a copy of the map he was pointing to, I could do that later. Regardless, it seemed this valley was at least a couple of miles into the forest. This ranger station and the road running past it were the closest points to the site of the fire. So this was where a fire-fighting crew would have entered to battle the blaze.

Ranger Pine continued. "We've sealed off the entire area for healing."

He did not seem to mind me asking questions. This was probably a lonely post much of the time, and he might enjoy the opportunity to socialize. He seemed eager to be of assistance. So I continued.

"What do you do to help the area recover, other than keep people out?"

"We fenced it off to warn people not to enter. And we have replanted a lot of trees in there since the fire to give it a jump-start. Planting is still going on. But it's a big area, and replanting so many trees is expensive."

"Yes, I imagine it is expensive. Who does the planting?"

He looked a bit puzzled, like he wanted to ask why I cared about such a mundane task. But he also did not seem ready to let a conversation opportunity pass him by. "We don't have the manpower to do it ourselves, so it's all done by a contract crew."

Bingo. It was a thin thread, but it connected the dots. This might be where my dead guy came from. He was dirty and clearly had been doing manual labor. If he was part of the contract crew doing the job, the bounty hunters must have tracked him to here. They went in to get him. The guy ran and died when he launched himself off the cliff on Monarch Trail in the darkness. The rest I already knew. This gave me a new starting point for further investigation.

"Are there any Hispanics in the crew?"

He looked at me for several long moments, uncertain where this questioning was going and whether he should even be discussing this at all. But he finally answered. "I really don't know. But probably. There are some migrant workers in the area. Many of them work in landscaping and gardening. So, sure, there probably are some in the crew."

"Any of them go missing?"

"Missing?" he asked with a bit of puzzlement. "These are strange questions. I don't expect them from a tourist. Why are you asking?"

This might make our further discussion more difficult, but I had to reset his thinking about who I was so he might continue to openly talk to me. "Sorry. Old habit. I used to be a cop. I'm on vacation, but also doing some private investigative work. I'm looking for a missing person. So trying to connect some pieces of information I've collected." This was quite a stretch of the truth, of course. And I had no credentials to show him. I quickly continued talking so that he might not think to ask. "I hope you don't mind."

He loosened up a bit, then nodded in apparent understanding and smiled. "Well, glad to help if I can." He kept the smile frozen on his face, as if waiting for me to pick up the conversation.

"So, have any guys in the planting crew gone missing?" I repeated.

"Oh, sorry. Forgot you had asked that question." He gazed upward toward the ceiling, as if searching his memory for an answer. "Well, I don't recall any Hispanic reported missing. But then I don't have much contact with the tree planters. Like I said, it's a contract crew. I don't count heads as they come and go. And we haven't been asked to help find any missing men from the crew."

It bothered me that no one would report the guy missing. It would seem to me a guy who goes missing would warrant a search and a request for help from the National Forest personnel. But then maybe the bounty hunters were more discrete about their activities, waiting until the guy was alone to make their move. And then at the end of the day, the crew boss miscounted his charges or didn't even bother with a head count. And it could be that a guy simply walking off the job is something that happens. Perhaps the work was too hard, the pay was too low, or the boss was too demanding. People leave jobs all the time, even in a bad economy, if the situation is dire enough.

And certainly migrant workers, especially those who are here illegally, are in precarious and unstable positions. Maybe if they get spooked about being caught and deported, they just wander off, and nobody notices or cares. The sight of a symbol of government authority, like a Forest Ranger uniform, might set off warning bells to run away.

"I would like to talk with the tree crew boss or the company he works for. Any way you can put me in touch with them?"

Andrew Pine seemed to consider this for a long moment. He walked from the wall-mounted maps back to his position behind the counter before answering. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I can do that. It's just not something I can freely discuss. Confidentiality, you know."

"I understand," I said with disappointment. I really hadn't expected him to give me that information anyway. If I were a cop, it might be a different situation. Yet I needed to talk to someone on that crew, preferably the crew boss.

I could park at the entrance to the park in the afternoon and wait for them to come out. They had to leave some time. They certainly aren't camping out in a burned over valley. Even if I did not talk to anyone right away, I could probably get a company name off the vehicle as it departed the National Forest for the day. I could follow the vehicle to its final destination and talk to the driver or the crew boss if he was in the truck. Either way, then I would have a solid contact, or at least a company name, to give me a lead of where to look next.

After a pause, he added, "Anything else I can help you with?"

"Actually there is. What happens when you have an emergency in the forest?"

"Emergency?"

"Like a 9-1-1 call. If there was an emergency in the National Forest, would a 9-1-1 Operator transfer that call to your phone?" I then added, "And are there circumstances when you might transfer jurisdiction to the local police?"

His face remained stoic, but there was a faint hint of recognition in his eyes, which widened just a fraction and only for an instant before he returned to being the same rigid figure as before. But that was enough to tell me he indeed was the one who took my call, though I never spoke to him since the call was then transferred to Deputy Powell. There was, of course, no wrongdoing in that. For me, it was just connecting more of the dots.

He deflected my questions, stating with a bit of confusion on his face, "These are very odd questions."

I continued to stare at him, and he seemed to get uncomfortable with my focused attention. He glanced nervously toward the other tourists in the building, but they seemed to be doing fine without him. He remained frozen to the spot behind the counter. I anticipated that this talkative fellow would say more under my intense stare. And he finally did.

"We are under-staffed to respond to emergencies. So, yes, we might transfer jurisdiction." He seemed satisfied that his answer would suffice, but added, "Why are you asking?"

I leaned over the counter a bit and spoke softly so the other tourists in the building would not hear. "What if the call was about a dead body?"

He showed no emotion at the question. He was probably already steeled against surprise no matter what I said. That previous one brief change in his eyes was all there would be. Yet I could see he was still feeling uncomfortable. A dead body wasn't a topic he liked to discuss openly. It's bad for business to admit someone died in your back yard. And there were other patrons in the building at the moment, so he wouldn't want to alarm them. He started organizing materials on the counter top, restacking pamphlets and postcards, even though the stacks had been neat and tidy to begin with. "That is not something I can discuss. Why are you asking?"

"I was hiking on Monarch Trail and...."

"That trail is closed!" he blurted, forcefully cutting me off. One of the tourists turned in surprise in our direction at his brief outburst. Ranger Pine smiled at the man and nodded his head, as if in greeting, to assure him everything was fine. Then he turned back toward me. "That trail is closed," he repeated calmly and quietly. "You shouldn't be out there." His manner had become very stiff and much less accommodating.

"I know it's closed now. I was on it before then. I made the 9-1-1 call to report finding a body. I'm just trying to find out what happened and where the guy came from."

He went rigid, and gave stern advice that sounded more like a warning, his voice forceful but controlled. "Stay out of that area. The trail is closed, and a lot of the surrounding forest is off limits while healing continues."

His voice had gotten loud enough that all the adult tourists in the building looked over nervously. He sealed his lips and took his turn glaring at me. He wasn't going to volunteer any more information. Our conversation had come to its end. When I was officially the law, his discomfort would be an invitation to push harder. But now, with my lack of credentials, I needed to break it off. I would get back to Ranger Pine when I knew more.

I smiled. "Thanks for your time. And thanks for the maps."

I exited the building into the bright sunlight, slipping on my sunglasses to shield my eyes. OK, so maybe the dead guy I found was from the tree-planting crew. The bounty hunters went in there to get him. He ran away from the work crew. It must have been late in the day, and he ran through the night to escape them. He ran right off the cliff in the darkness and died. That was my speculation, but it was feeling more solid all the time.

Ranger Pine's reactions to my probing questions were a bit over the top, but then I didn't know the man. People are not all alike in their reactions to stress situations. At least I could feel fairly certain now that the 9-1-1 call had been transferred to this ranger station, and to Ranger Pine specifically, before going to Deputy Powell. And the call had probably been transferred because Pine did not have the resources to handle a dead body. But I had a feeling there was more that I could learn from Andrew Pine.

Before driving away, I noted a gated road leading off into the forest to the west. Three horizontal strands of barbed wire ran from the gateposts on either side of the entry toward the trees. Signs on the fence read _No Trespassing, Wilderness Area, Healing in Progress_. The locked swinging gate had a sign reading _Official Use Only_. This was probably the access road to Spring Valley where the fire had been. I looked down the road, but it wound slightly in the woods and disappeared from view into the darkness of the thick growth of trees lining both sides of the tract.

Behind the ranger station, a small creek emerged from those trees. This must flow from Spring Valley. Yet more reason to believe this road was the route to where the tree-planting crew was working.

I wanted to dig into the maps, to get the lay of the land, such as the positions of the ranger station relative to Spring Valley and Monarch Trail. That would help determine if the dead guy could reasonably have come from the valley. I was just being thorough, connecting all the dots. Those maps were lying on the passenger seat of my car, beckoning me. But they would have to wait. Now I needed to learn more about this fire. That meant a return to the library.

I hoped that Allison Wells, Willow Run Librarian, was working there today. I thought about seeing her with some anticipation. It had been so long since I had a relationship, any kind of closeness, with a woman. That left a hollowness inside me that had me searching for a connection, for human companionship. I sensed there might be some attraction between Allison Wells and me, though I had really botched things yesterday. All I could advise myself was to give it time, don't force it. Let the connection happen, if it would.

Chapter 15

Driving south past the motel, I noticed Deputy Powell parked at the intersection of the road leading into Willow Run. He was well hidden from vehicles heading north and held a radar gun out the window. Hoping to pick up a few speeders to boost the town's struggling budget, no doubt. He turned his head to watch as I drove past, but remained parked. I fortunately had been obeying the speed limit. Too bad for the Deputy. He certainly would have enjoyed writing me up.

I found a parking spot across the street from the library. I entered the building, and there she was. Rays of sun were coming in at a steep angle through a window in the back so that she appeared more in silhouette, the filtered light sparkling on the slightly curled tips of her shiny red hair. She looked up and smiled.

"Mr. Parker," she said warmly in greeting. "Back to read more of our newspapers?" She didn't seem upset about the mess I had made of her papers yesterday, so she must be very forgiving of the sloppy habits of others.

"As a matter of fact, yes. Yesterday you mentioned you have old newspapers for searching on-line. Can you get me started on that?"

"Sure. Any particular paper you want to see?"

"I don't know exactly which paper, but I wanted to learn more about the fire in the National Forest last year." Then I added, "And also about missing persons in the area."

"A curious combination of interests. Usually tourists come here to read about the history of the area or about.....well, tourist attractions." She eyed me a bit suspiciously, but with a good-natured twinkle in her eye. "Mysterious. Are you a spy on a secret mission?"

"Just call me Bond, James Bond," I responded. It was lame, of course, but she smiled.

"Right this way, Mr. Bond," she whispered. She led me to the computer terminal and gestured for me to sit. She leaned over and swiftly typed in a web address, bringing up the Teton County Observer site. She was close enough that I could smell her hair again. There was that faint fragrance. I was like a moth being drawn to a flame, her flaming red hair.

"The fire stories will start back in August of last year. I suggest you start with our local paper. The web site addresses for the other papers are listed here." She used the cursor to indicate a pull-down Favorites menu at the top of the screen. I saw that the other area papers were near the top of the list. "Enjoy."

"Thanks." I watched her walk away for a couple of seconds, marveling at how I had become enchanted by her. I was probably no different than so many other males of the human species who are smitten. An innate weakness, something about genes and hormones. At least, that was my excuse.

I stirred myself from the trance and dug into my searching. There were several stories on the fire over a two-week period, the first on Monday, August 4, 2008. That was the day after the fire started. Ranger Pine was accurate on the size of the fire. It consumed many acres of a valley deep in the forest. Most locals joined in fighting it. When the fire broke out, the town emptied into the forest with their gear: helmets, boots, axes, chain saws, and trucks. The cause of the blaze was later determined to be a campfire out of control, as Ranger Pine had indicated. Responsibility could never be pinned on anyone, so it was assumed to have been a careless hiker or camper who simply left the scene. With the destruction in the valley, no traceable trail remained, and not surprisingly, no one ever came forward to admit involvement.

The fire apparently had burned quite extensively before even being detected by Ranger Andrew Pine himself late on Sunday, sometime after 9 PM. Much of the valley was in flames before the first fire fighters arrived at around 10 PM. That was a skeleton crew from the National Forest itself. Because it was a Sunday night, few people were around. Visitors to the park had already left, and the few rangers also were gone for the night since the area closed at dusk.

The Willow Run volunteer fire department joined in the fight around 11 PM. But they were hampered by the lack of an access road to the valley, requiring the early fire fighters to haul their gear on ATVs or on their backs. Every chain saw in the area seemed to have been brought to bear on clearing a crude road from behind the ranger station toward the valley. It was apparently a major feat to cut a path through the more than two miles of trees in the smoky darkness. They were cutting on the trace of an old road that had not been used in years. While it was overgrown, at least all the trees along its route were small and easily cut. Yet cutting even small trees over such a long distance was remarkable. But they did it, finishing before dawn, to allow heavier equipment to join in the battle.

Fortunately, with the bowl shape of the valley, the blaze was mostly contained inside it. There was little vegetation near the top of the steep valley walls, so the fire died out mostly on its own, never leaping over the top to scorch the surrounding millions of acres of trees. Most of the effort was directed to containing the fire within the valley by preventing it from escaping through the valley opening behind the ranger station. By mid-day on Tuesday, all the flames and smoldering debris had been extinguished due to the heroic efforts of the fire fighters. Amazingly, no one was seriously hurt, though several people were overcome by smoke inhalation and heat. All were affected by the exhaustion from the effort and lack of sleep since most of them stayed on the job non-stop for the entire time, from Sunday night through Tuesday morning.

It was definitely a devastating loss for the National Forest. Spring Valley, a popular hiking destination, was lost as a tourist draw. Now, it was off limits for healing, perhaps for years until sufficient growth of plants could be restored to avoid erosion, which would be worsened by heavy foot traffic. One short story indicated that the number of visitors to the National Forest dropped substantially once this tourist attraction was closed. I figured the deepening recession also contributed greatly to the fall-off in visitors.

The fire must have been the topic of conversation for days, with so many of the town's citizens participating in battling it. Debates about the need to increase funding for fire prevention and control in the National Forest and even to have a permanent, rather than an all volunteer, fire squad in Willow Run ran for a few days. But those soon faded since there was no money to be found anywhere. Besides, since the whole incident was handled adequately locally, why fix something that wasn't obviously broken?

There were also follow-up stories on fencing of the area to allow recovery and the tree replanting. These efforts began right away, according to a story a week after the fire. The tree planting would continue in the spring once the ground thawed. There were no specifics about who did either job. But the speed with which they started was surprising. Usually anything involving US government contracts required competitive bidding and long delays. But it might be different out here where big forest fires on government lands are common. There might be an automatic mechanism in place to jump-start such activities quickly.

Of particular interest to me was a follow-up story on September 4, 2008 in the local Teton County Observer. This short article appeared on page one, near the bottom. Its header read, _Public Service Announcement from Lewis and Clark National Forest, Tree Planting in Scorched National Forest._

Planting of pine seedlings in Spring Valley started recently to begin the healing process after the devastating fire a month ago. Before the project is completed, tens of thousands of trees will be planted in the valley. To prevent acceleration of erosion that can occur from hikers, horseback riders, mountain bikers, and other recreational visitors on the burned ground, the entire valley remains off limits until the healing process is completed. Fencing around the valley is being installed to remind visitors to the National Forest that the area is regrettably restricted until further notice. We thank the public for their understanding and cooperation in helping the valley to heal.

That was the last story on the fire I could locate. It faded from the newspaper pages even in Willow Run, as happens with all old news, to be replaced by fresher events. Other papers from towns farther from the Lewis and Clark carried a few briefer stories about the fire, but those faded even sooner from their pages.

So there was a big fire in the valley, and a wide path was cut through the trees for the fire fighters to get there. That must have been the road I saw behind the _Official Use Only_ gate near the ranger station. The tree planting operation would use that road and the gravel road leading to it. There could be Hispanics on that crew, one of whom was a wanted fugitive. Bounty hunters could have gone in there to retrieve him. He ran. He died. They picked up the body right from under my nose and took it away to claim their reward. And I suspected that Deputy Powell shared in the bounty.

I next searched bounty hunters. They tend to be secretive people when it comes to whom they are tracking, where they are searching, and the names of their contacts. It's their competitive advantage. But after nabbing the suspect, they can be a boastful lot, especially to others in the profession. Bounty hunters of the old west are portrayed as ruthless ruffians, and many of them were. Many of them probably still are. Maybe to be successful you need to be as bad as the bad guys you're chasing.

I browsed through many web sites, the bounty hunter gossip wire, looking for any boasting that might relate to tracking and finding the dead guy and turning him in for the bounty. Capturing someone alive might go unnoticed since it probably happens every day. It probably happens dozens, or perhaps even hundreds, of times every day. It wouldn't be news worthy. But a dead bounty would get some media attention somewhere. Even on a busy news day, dead bodies have a way of rising above the background noise.

I searched for my dead guy as the trophy of a bounty hunter in Montana and then more widely across other nearby states and then across the entire US. I even looked at Canada and Mexico, even though those seemed unlikely. How would one get a dead body through a border crossing? Regardless, there was nothing. It didn't seem likely the body would still be lying in the back of a bounty hunter's vehicle. It had been over two days. It was still summertime and hot across most of North America. The corpse would be very ripe by now. They would have turned it in for their reward, and it should be in the news, something about it somewhere. But there was nothing.

I did a new search on Enid Powell and bounty hunter. I read through a few of the hits, which were all newspaper accounts, to piece together an incident that happened in June of 2004. Enid had teamed up with two other men, two bounty hunters. The three of them went in pursuit of an accused bank robber, Evan McCormick, who had skipped out on bail in Wyoming. Based on a tip, they eventually caught up with the man at a Phoenix apartment. Two of them knocked on the door with guns drawn, claiming to be police officers. McCormick went to a rear bedroom and climbed out a window. As he attempted to run away, he was tackled by Enid Powell, who had been watching the back. The two men struggled. Enid shot McCormick. He ended up with a collapsed lung from the bullet and also had multiple bruises and contusions.

All manner of finger pointing followed this incident. Enid, who had no formal training in law enforcement, was on his first assignment with these two men. None of them had checked in with the local authorities, a requirement before making an arrest in Arizona. The prosecutor contemplated filing criminal charges, and the family of Evan McCormick considered a lawsuit. The three bounty hunters had no comment.

I re-read one of the articles to get the names of the two bounty hunters: Ross Browne and Joey Hammons. Searching the three names and bounty hunter, I found no new stories after that incident. Fleetingly I thought about simply asking Deputy Powell who the guys were. That seemed like a bad idea, to push his buttons too often. For the meantime, I pushed the print command for the articles.

Chapter 16

I narrowed in on bounty hunter since that made sense to me. It fit the facts. Maybe I was chasing a shadow. Maybe it was a misdirection of my own making. But it felt like a good lead, and I would ask for help to follow up.

There were no other patrons in the library that I could see. So I flipped open my phone to make a call. I didn't want to leave the computer. If I went outside to make the call, the workstation might not be available when I came back.

"Garvey."

"Ed. How's it going today?"

"Liberty. Sorry I had to cut you off yesterday. Family duties, you know."

"No problem. Say, can I trouble you to check into something for me?"

He hesitated for a short time before asking suspiciously, "What's the topic?" He revealed no enthusiasm in his question. I still owed him an explanation of my activities out here. Yet his question implied he would grant my request for assistance, though it might be grudgingly. Still, he was being easier on me than I had anticipated.

"Bounty hunters!" I said, a bit louder than intended.

I looked up hoping my blurted comment hadn't been noticed, but Allison fixed an intense gaze in my direction. It was then I noticed other patrons in the library. There were two women browsing magazines, and a man checking out some books. They were also staring in my direction. There could even be more people in the building behind the shelves.

"What?" Ed asked in surprise.

"Hold on, Ed. I need to step outside for better reception." Better reception was always a good ploy with a cell phone. It can be a means to delay a conversation, to seek privacy, to create uninterrupted time to think about what you want to say next. In this case, it was simply to take my bothersome noise outside.

I kept the phone to my ear. As I passed by Allison at her desk, I mouthed as meekly as possible, "Sorry."

Outside, I continued the conversation. "Ed, I'm back." I paused a beat. "I think I should start at the beginning. I know this is going to sound a bit weird, but please bear with me."

"OK. I've heard weird before. Shoot."

"When I was hiking on Sunday, I found a body in the forest. That's why the Willow Run police called you guys. It was a follow-up to their investigation."

A few moments passed before Ed slowly said, "OK." He sounded less than convinced. His response suggested that he was waiting for a better explanation than that. Before I could bring myself to continue, he prompted me. "You want to share anything else that might have led them to call us?"

He knew. I suspected he knew it all yesterday. This confirmed it. It was time to fess up. So I told him everything. Not just about the 9-1-1 call and that the body disappeared, but everything else, including my tussle with Deputy Powell, that I had climbed up the slope, saw the guy with the rifle aimed at me, found the trail of boot prints and the tire tracks. I also told him about my suspicions regarding the bounty hunters and about Enid Powell probably receiving a payoff from them.

For several long seconds after I finished, Ed remained silent. The phone connection wasn't broken since I could still faintly hear him breathing. He finally spoke.

"Nathan, what the hell are you doing? You're a civilian now. You're not a cop or private eye or reporter. This isn't any of your business. Just go hiking and write your book, your _fictional_ novel."

But I had made it my business since no one else would. I hesitated, and then responded tiredly. "Yes, Dad." Dad was the nickname I gave Ed when he became my mentor. I used it whenever he started telling me what to do.

"Maybe I deserved that," he conceded. "But it needed to be said. This is beyond weird."

"You may be right, but I have to do this. It's important. I have to do this for him since no one else will. And I have to do this for me. I have to prove I was right." There. I had finally said it, not just to Ed, but also to myself. I may have convinced myself that the dead man needed someone to speak for him since no one else would. But the real truth was I simply had to prove I was right. It had to be done to rebuild my shattered confidence. I needed to prove I was not litter, that I still had value in this world.

"Did it ever occur to you they might be right? That your guy was not dead, that he just got up and walked away?"

"No," I insisted. "I was there. I know what I saw."

"Well, buddy, just remember that smarter people than you have made that mistake."

"I know, Ed. But there's no doubt. No doubt at all." I didn't have to force conviction in saying this. That certainty came through without effort. I really did have absolutely no doubt.

"Well, it's hard for me to buy in, buddy," Ed said. "All I have is your story. Got any evidence? Any pictures to show me? You know the old saying, a picture is worth a thousand words."

"Not much. The Sheriff deleted the pictures from my cell phone."

"You're not making it easy to believe you."

The line was silent for a long time. Finally Ed spoke again.

"OK," he conceded. "This seems important to you. And I'm sure you didn't call me just to unburden yourself. So before we get to what you want me to do, how did your guy die?"

Relief surged through me. He was going to help. And he got right to the point. I liked that in him.

"Thanks, Ed. This means a lot, you know that."

"Yeah, yeah. Just tell me."

"OK. I think he was running in the dark through a forest. Ran off a cliff. Died on impact."

"Running in the dark? Your man sounds like a candidate for one of those Darwin Awards."

I knew it well. Back in the 1980s, the Darwin Award emerged as a joke, to poke fun at people who, through their own stupidity, kill themselves unintentionally and thus remove themselves from the gene pool.

"We can only hope your guy didn't already have children." He laughed.

My dead guy might be considered a candidate for the award, but I suspected there were extenuating circumstances. Bounty hunters were chasing him.

Ed was still laughing. "Sorry for getting side-tracked, buddy. What are you going to ask me to do to help?"

"Ed, I've run through all this. The bounty hunter angle fits. So I was hoping you could check if a dead guy has been turned in for a reward. I didn't find anything on the Internet, but something like this has to make some noise somewhere. The dead guy appeared Hispanic, but that's all I have. No name. I guess maybe 35 or 40 years old, maybe five foot four, 130 to 140 pounds. The body must have already been turned in. There's no way anyone is going to carry it around in the summer for more than a day or two."

"Nathan, I figured at some point I'd be helping you out. But I thought it would be you moving back here to mooch off me. I have to admit. Never thought I'd be looking for a dead bounty." He paused, probably to let me stew a bit, letting me know this was going to cost me at some point down the road. "Any description of the bounty hunter, the guy you saw with the rifle?"

"No, the sun was behind him, so I couldn't get a good look at his face. All I saw was the outline of his head and shoulders. And the rifle. But I do have a couple of names, former bounty hunter buddies of the Deputy. Ross Browne and Joey Hammons."

"OK," Ed said, sighing. "I'll see what I can find."

"And one more thing?" I said quickly.

He sighed again in resignation. "OK, what else?"

"Do you still have that connection in INS? Was his name Craig?"

"You mean Craig Frymuth. Yeah, I still have his phone number. Why?"

"Last year, there was another Hispanic man in Willow Run. He was captured by the local cops and then turned over to INS. He was probably deported back to Mexico." I gave him the details. "Can you see if there is a trail on this guy?"

Ed sighed heavily. "I'll see what I can find."

"Thanks for helping, Ed. And for being patient with me."

"Yeah, I'm a soft touch for lost causes."

We both rang off.

Chapter 17

I went back inside the library, apologizing to Allison for my disturbance earlier. She smiled tightly, and I felt a chill run down my spine at her icy stare. I sensed in that glare a warning. Strike two. The first was the mess I made of her newspapers. Strike one. This was the second. At the rate I was going, strike three was probably not far in the future. I couldn't afford strike three. Finding a replacement Internet connection in Willow Run was not going to be easy. And I felt my hoped-for connection to Allison Wells slipping away. I needed to work on repairing the damage done.

At least I was in luck in regard to the computer. The workstation was still unoccupied, so I sat back down. I turned my attention to recent missing persons. Over the past month, there were scattered reports of missing hikers, campers, off-road vehicles, and kids who turned out to be runaways. Most were eventually found. Two were not. One was a white male Army Corporal on leave who had over-indulged at a local bar, boasting about going to protect our southern border from illegal immigrants. His car, with gas tank empty, was found on the side of Interstate Highway 15 in Idaho. His whereabouts were unknown. The other was an African-American female who had headed north on that same highway going toward Great Falls to visit relatives. She never showed up, and neither she nor her vehicle was seen again. Neither of these stories was relevant to what I was looking for.

One of the missing-then-found reports was a brief article in the local paper from July 23, 2009. _Pair Saved by Good Samaritans, by Joseph Custer._

Two local teenagers, lost in the Lewis and Clark National Forest for nearly two days, were found early yesterday, according to Willow Run police. Two unidentified good Samaritans are credited with the find.

Benjamin Moore, 19, left Willow Run on Monday morning for a job interview in Missoula on Tuesday. Rachael Sterling, 18, accompanied him. On the way, they stopped for a short hike in the National Forest. They veered off the marked trail and quickly became disoriented, losing their way. They wandered for the remainder of Monday and all day Tuesday trying to relocate the trail, but were unsuccessful. Neither of them had taken a cell phone, so they were unable to call for help.

Fortunately, help found them. Benjamin and Rachael reported that two men in camouflage outfits, possibly hunters, found the pair Wednesday morning and led them to the marked trail to within sight of where they had parked their car. Then the two men quietly went back into the forest. These good Samaritans did not identify themselves and said very little throughout the rescue.

Rachael's parents reported their daughter missing early Wednesday morning when she did not return from what they thought was a two-day campout on the Gaines' farm just outside of town. So they called the Willow Run Police Department to report the disappearance. While on patrol Tuesday afternoon, Deputy Powell had recalled seeing Benjamin's vehicle parked near the south end of the forest. Since Rachael's parents reported that Rachael and Benjamin had been dating, Deputy Powell and Sheriff Tyler went to investigate. They had just arrived where the car was parked when the pair of lost hikers came walking out of the woods.

While the daytimes were warm, the nighttime temperatures dropped into the lower 50s. So the pair of lost hikers spent two uncomfortable nights sleeping on the forest floor. Since they intended to only take a short hike, they also did not have any food or water with them. When found, they were dehydrated and hungry. But other than scrapes and bruises from their ordeal, they were in good health. Both were treated and released from the clinic in Willow Run.

Rachael's parents declined comment except to say they were overjoyed to have their daughter home. Benjamin's family had no comment. Amanda Gaines, 18, and her parents also declined comment.

I chuckled softly at this report. I figured that Rachael arranged to secretly go with Benjamin on his interview trip, using a fake camp out with her friend Amanda as a cover story. But Rachael and Ben couldn't wait until they got to Missoula, so they ducked into the forest for a quickie, leaving their cell phones in the car so they wouldn't be disturbed. When they got lost, their scheme came unraveled. No comment from the parents. I wondered how long each of these kids was grounded. This did not seem relevant to my interest in a runaway from a tree-planting crew, though I wondered who the shy good Samaritans were. Could they be in some way connected to my guy with the rifle? Probably not.

"Mr. Parker". It was Allison. The iciness was not completely gone. She leaned over slightly and spoke very softly, but firmly. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but there are others waiting to use the work station." Her index finger rested lightly on a sign to my left that read _Thirty-minute time limit when others are waiting to use the workstation_. I had been so intent on reading that I hadn't noticed the several kids who had entered and now stood behind me waiting.

There was another search I wanted to do, but it would now have to wait. "Oh, sure," I responded.

"Thank you. You're welcome to use it again later." Later was encouraging. Maybe I wasn't as deep into the strike count as I thought.

Allison added, "You can collect your print outs at the desk when you are ready." While searching, I had clicked on the print command for several of the documents I read. There would likely be a charge per page, but there weren't that many total pages.

"I'll get them now, if that's OK," I said.

"Sure."

"And again, I'm sorry about the disturbance from my cell phone call."

She smiled less tightly. "That's OK," she said, trying to be more kindly toward me than she probably felt and that I deserved.

I paid and thanked her for my print outs, then wandered over to the table with today's newspapers, hoping there might be news about the body in the forest. There was a report of an 8-year old girl missing in California and a college student on vacation not seen since being picked up outside her hotel on a Caribbean island. But there was nothing about any local missing persons or bodies found. Before standing up from the table, I made certain to neatly refold each paper I had read. Then I rearranged the lot of them into the circular fan pattern that had been here before my reading began. A small gesture perhaps, but it might serve to let Allison Wells know that I was trainable.

I wanted to do more on-line searching for older events, back around the time of the fire in the fall. But now a second young girl occupied the computer. And if her other friends then each got their thirty minutes worth, I would be waiting a long time.

I walked the few paces to the desk. "Allison?"

"Yes, Mr. Parker."

I grinned. "Since I'm a repeat customer, could it be just Nathan?" I asked hopefully. "The mister sounds so formal." Perhaps if we were on a first-name basis, I could more easily overcome my two-strike count.

"I think that can be arranged," she said flashing a warmer smile. "How can I help?" I noticed she didn't use my first name at this opportunity. Maybe next time. At least the ice in her voice was melting. Perhaps she had seen me refold the newspapers today. That had to count for something.

"I was just curious who runs the Teton County Observer. I thought I might stop in."

"There's only one person who works there. He owns it. Joseph Custer." Allison continued. "At the paper, he's a one-man show. You might catch him in there, but he's often out recruiting advertisers and digging for the news."

"News from the small town grape vine?" I asked.

"Some might call it that, but it is a good way for him to get leads on local stories. He's pretty persistent in tracking them down." I touched my pocket that already held two of his business cards. I was familiar with that persistence.

"Thanks. I'll stop back another time when the computer is less busy."

"The best time is in the early morning," she said helpfully. Now the iciness was completely gone. I was grateful for that.

"Thanks."

I left the library and went two doors down the street to the newspaper office. It was locked. As Allison said, he might be out digging for news. I removed one of his business cards from my pocket and scribbled a response on the back. It was simple: _CALL ME_. I included my cell phone number and stuck the card between the door and its frame.

As I turned around, there stood Enid, eyeing me from across the street. I wondered how long he'd been watching me this time. I started to cross the street to where my car was parked. Mid-street, I sharply changed course and walked toward Deputy Powell. I hadn't planned to do this, but him staring at me prompted the move. He peered my way with a slight look of surprise, but held my gaze as I neared.

"Deputy Powell, I have a question for you."

"Yeah? What?" he spat.

"How are your bounty hunter pals doing today?" I had actually intended to be more subtle about asking him that, but the more direct approach just came spilling out. Yet it had an effect far better than anticipated. His face showed an expression of surprise and shock, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, or in his case specifically a city official caught with his fingers accepting a payoff.

He was speechless for a couple of seconds before finally blurting out, "How did you know....?" He stopped himself and clamped his mouth shut. He turned red, though it was probably not with anger. More likely it was from embarrassment at being found out.

A tingle of excitement coursed through me. I had struck a nerve with him. Yet I became concerned that my approach might have been too blunt. It might arouse this angry giant. In spite of that concern, I considered how to use his embarrassment to my advantage, hoping to drill down to get the name of the dead Hispanic. But before I could say anything, he turned, stormed off, hopped into his patrol vehicle, and sped away, spraying up a cloud of dust and pebbles from the gravel parking lot.

Now I had no doubt that there was something solid in this bounty hunter angle. I was naturally eager to hear back from Ed on what he could dig up. But since there was nothing more I could do until I heard back from him or talked with Joseph Custer or could get back on the Internet at the library, I felt restless. I was juiced up with no way right now to focus it on my investigation. It was still too early to wait at the National Forest entrance for the tree-planting crew to come out for the night. Needing to burn off some energy, I drove west out of town into the forest to hike Boulder Creek Trail.

Boulder Creek was a short trail, with an easy walk through the forest to the creek. The path paralleled the water for several hundred yards, and then crossed it to go up into the hills for a panoramic view from an overlook high above. I forded the creek, hopping from rock to rock to avoid soaking my boots, then climbed up the steep grade. Many of the footholds on the way were exposed tree roots that created an irregular but easily navigable set of stairs. At the overlook, I was rewarded with a spectacular view of the creek, the rising slopes of evergreens upstream, and the rolling hills downstream. This is what attracted me so to hiking, getting to the end and seeing what relatively few others have. Many people hike the easy parts of the trail, and then give up when the going gets tough. Yet on most trails, the reward is at the end. I guess it's the same with an investigation. The reward is at the end, solving the riddle. I lingered for a long time at the end of this trail, taking in the scenery. But knowing that darkness comes early to the mountains, I reluctantly reversed course.

On the way out, litter from previous hikers caught my eye, and I stuffed it in my backpack to dispose of later. I often found myself doing this, packing out what others carried in. I always felt a responsibility to nature to leave as small a trace as possible, a payment for the use of the land. The reward is an unspoiled view on the next visit. I reflected on that. Since I was social litter, I hoped that someone would pick me up along the way.

I had longed for Jennifer Lambert to pick me up. We met after I was on the police force back in Cincinnati. We were engaged. When I was dumped as a cop, she did pick me up, for a while. We continued as a couple, still making plans for the future. But as my unemployment lingered, dragging into months, she grew tired of postponing the plans for a life together. While she had a job and could have supported us both until I found employment, she wanted more than an unemployed husband. She wanted more than I could give. So we drifted apart. And I drifted west.

And my mind had drifted too. Usually hiking was therapeutic for me, bringing mental focus, clearing my head of clutter. But sometimes it led my mind to wander to memories, the good and the bad, the pleasant and the painful, the beautiful and the ugly. I had to forget about Jennifer. That chapter of my life was over. It was history. I needed to focus on here and now.

By the time I got back to my car, the sun was slowly vanishing, already casting long shadows. I had not eaten since the donuts and juice early this morning, so my energy level was fading. I munched on a granola bar as I drove toward the main entrance to the National Forest. It was a little after 4 PM when I arrived, which seemed like a sufficiently early time to begin my watch for the tree-planting crew to emerge and head home for the day. My brief scan of the maps in the ranger station suggested this was the road that vehicles would take in and out of Spring Valley. So this was the place to watch.

I found a wooded spot across the highway from the entrance. It provided an unobstructed view down the gravel entry road. In the distance I could see the front of the ranger station and even the beginning of the _Official Use Only_ road leading into the forest. I opened my window to let in the outside air, tilted the seat back a couple notches, and got comfortable.

I sat and waited. I waited a long time. Cars, trucks, and buses occasionally zoomed north and south along the highway. No vehicles exited through the gate. No vehicles entered. I expected at least some traffic in and out, even though it was in the middle of the week. But there was nothing. I suppose that's a consequence of the recession. Tourism is down, people just aren't traveling, even to affordable National Forests. Ranger Pine's station was indeed a lonely post. No wonder he was so talkative, at least until I started making him uncomfortable with my probing questions about a dead body on the trail.

The clock on my cell phone silently showed the time as I sat and waited. 5 PM. I waited and checked the time again and again. It crept along.

Finally my clock indicated it was 6 PM. No traffic in, no traffic out. The shadows of the trees got longer as the sun drifted behind the hills. The light was fading. 7 PM. These guys work very long hours. Perhaps they stay until there is absolutely no daylight left at all before calling it quits for the day. A very demanding regimen. 8 PM. It was dark.

I could see the lights of a vehicle heading toward me. At last. But these were too low to the ground and too narrowly spaced to be a truck or even a van. A truck or a van is what I had expected to see transporting a sizeable number of workers from a tree-planting crew.

What emerged through the gate was a sedan with a driver and three passengers. There were no markings on the door panel to suggest it was associated with a contract business. Just a car, tourists presumably, heading home after a day in the National Forest. The car went north.

Shortly after that, another car approached. It stopped just outside the entrance gate. A figure emerged, swung the gate closed, locked it, and returned to the car. It then turned onto the highway and sped south. I did catch a glimpse of a National Forest emblem on the driver side door panel. Ranger Pine heading home for the night after a very long workday. After his departure, all was quiet again.

It seemed unlikely that a tree-planting crew would have quit work for the day before I arrived at 4 PM. But then maybe they had. I cursed myself for indulging in the hike on Boulder Creek Trail. I should have come directly from town to here and waited, even if it would have been for most of the afternoon. Then I would not have missed them exiting.

It also seemed unlikely that the crew would still be in there after dark, especially since now the gate was locked. But then again, perhaps they had their own gate key. So I waited for another half hour. Still no one emerged. It was long past any quitting time I could imagine for outdoor labor. They could not have continued planting trees in the dark. They wouldn't be able to see what they were doing. I suppose they could be using a generator to power spot lights. I looked in the direction of Spring Valley. Even though it was a long way into the forest, I should have seen a glow of spotlights shimmering over the top of the trees. There was nothing. Finally, at 9 PM, I gave up.

I had bungled the investigation. I was fumbling along here, alone, almost no resources, no experience as a detective.

Yet I knew there was no stopping for me. I was not a quitter. I would just try again.

Chapter 18

My immediate need was food. The sustenance from the granola bar earlier in the afternoon had long since worn off. I hoped the diner was open. As I drove toward it, I saw bright lights still gleaming inside. The waitress Janice was there. Like Ranger Pine, a very long workday for her too. Most of her waking life must be spent in this building. No wonder her skin is smooth and unlined. It never saw the sun.

I ordered a sandwich and pie to go. As I turned to leave, I nearly collided with Sheriff Tyler who just came through the door. Before I could apologize for my clumsiness, he spoke.

"Mr. Parker," he said with a warm wide grin, apparently having forgiven my recent bad behavior with his Deputy. And he showed no sign of having a new reason to be upset with me. That suggested Enid had not told him about my comment regarding bounty hunters. Of course, that was to be expected. If you're getting income under the table, you don't tell your boss.

"How's the hiking?" he asked.

"Oh, fine, Sheriff. Just grabbing some dinner."

"Well, if you have the time, why not join me? I'd like the company."

His warm smile and the hint of pleading in his eyes compelled me to accept. In spite of my quips with Enid and my resistance to playing nicely, the Sheriff was still friendly toward me. Maybe he's a really nice guy who just wants to get along with everybody, even pain-in-the-ass, city-folk tourists. It seemed like he wasn't tough enough to be Sheriff. But then again, maybe his laid-back approach was all he needed for decades in this peaceful town. Maybe his style had worked because bad stuff just didn't happen here.

"Sure, Sheriff."

He steered us to a booth, and Janice appeared there in seconds.

"Hi, Sheriff. You want the special?" she asked.

"Sure, Janice. Thanks."

"And Mister Parker seems to already have his dinner," she smiled. "Something to drink with that?"

"Coffee, please."

"Comin' right up."

"Well, Nathan Parker. Tell me about your hiking."

"I visited the ranger station today to get some maps and then was on Boulder Creek Trail. I wanted to finish Monarch Trail, but I saw it was closed. Are you still investigating it?" I asked.

"Enid tells me he's still looking into it."

"Excuse me for being blunt, Sheriff, but is there really any investigation going on? I get the feeling Enid prefers to follow me around, rather than look into anything."

"Well, he can be a bit over zealous. You have to realize that not much serious stuff happens around here. This is a small quiet town. So he gets a little excited when a stranger shows up and reports a body. I'm giving him a lot of leeway to pursue this to give him some experience. He's a good deputy. No need to worry."

"Thanks for the reassurance, Sheriff," I said, feeling not in the least reassured.

"In fact, Enid has made progress on this. He told me that the Hispanic maid at the hotel reported her boyfriend was missing. The guy showed up at her door late this afternoon with a bandage on his head. Apparently, he looks a lot like the guy in your cell phone picture. Hurt himself in a fall. But now he seems to be doing fine."

During this discourse, Janice had appeared with our drinks. "I heard about that," Janice said.

We both looked up at her. The Sheriff seemed to have a glint of warmth in his eyes. I was simply surprised at what she said.

"Enid stopped in here earlier. You know he can't keep a secret." She said that last to the Sheriff, her left hand resting gently on his shoulder. Then she went back toward the kitchen.

The Sheriff showed no sign of concern that his Deputy had again told the world about an ongoing investigation. Rather, he seemed to be beaming from Janice's touch on his shoulder.

"That's great news, Sheriff, about the Hispanic guy showing up." I said it as convincingly as I could. But I knew the guy was dead. Enid had to be lying, lying to cover up his share of the bounty. Perhaps he convinced Cortina Perez to lie for him. If so, he was digging himself in deeper and deeper. But at least my opening line to talk to her had been placed in my lap.

I decided to probe further. "Sheriff, did you see or talk to the guy or his girl friend?"

"You really are a suspicious sort, aren't you?"

"Well, if the guy really did just show up, then I have to feel some responsibility for presuming he was dead. I should have called for medical assistance rather than reporting a body." This was not my true motivation since I knew for sure the guy had been dead. I just wanted to know the truth of the reported return from the dead for the man.

The Sheriff clearly wasn't convinced with my attempt at sincere concern for the guy, but he didn't press it. "Well, I didn't need to talk to the guy or the girl friend. Enid handled it."

"Will you indulge me for one more suspicious question?"

He sighed heavily. "You probably think we are just country hicks, you being a cop from a big city. Well, we aren't as incompetent as you might think."

"I didn't mean to imply....."

Interrupting me, he said, "Don't worry about it. I think I know what you want to ask. So go ahead. What's your question?"

"Did Enid talk to either of them?"

The Sheriff laughed. "You're not only suspicious, you're also predictably persistent." He paused to consider, eyeing me intensely, but then relented. "OK. Enid found a note in the office. It was accurate on the details, very believable."

A note? That's it? Of course it was accurate and believable to Enid. He wrote it. I wanted to press further. But that was clearly not going to lead anywhere. He was in the same frame of mind as Enid. Case closed.

"Then that's great news, Sheriff."

"I suppose he's with her now." He winked conspiratorially. "You know, that glad-you're-back sex."

I nodded knowingly.

Shifting subjects, the Sheriff said, "Enid tells me you've been spending a lot of time at the library." He left it hanging there with an implied question of what was I doing.

"Does everyone know what everyone does in this town?"

"Not much goes on without someone seeing it. And then everyone else hears about it. Hard to keep a secret here. We just grow up accepting that. You might consider it as nosey. But a lot of it's really about caring about your neighbors."

"I guess so," I said. "Since it seems everyone will find out what I'm doing at the library anyway, I might as well start the gossip myself. At least then the first telling of it is the real story."

The Sheriff chuckled. "Perhaps a wise move. But I can't guarantee the story won't get twisted on the re-telling."

"Well, it's not all that exciting. I am an ex-cop who likes to hike, and this is a good place for that. I also like to write, which is how I hope to make a living. So I've been spending time in your library doing research. Certainly glad your library is still open. Many others have closed in this recession."

"The town council did cut back the budget on the library, but we felt it was important to at least keep it open. It's the only one in the area."

"Well, you'd never know there was a budget cut. It's open every day and well maintained."

The Sheriff paused before answering, leaning forward for emphasis. "You can credit that to the librarian, Allison Wells. She does all the inside cleaning on her own time. And even took a pay cut. But she insisted on keeping the building open its normal hours. Quite a gal."

I nodded in understanding. Quite a gal, indeed. Neat, tidy, committed, and also selfless.

"So, Mr. Parker, you're writing a book about Willow Run?"

"Willow Run might be part of it, but I don't have a complete plot yet. Working on it. I've written some magazine articles before, but an entire novel is a lot more challenging." I paused to consider that I had probably now opened the floodgates. "As this gossip spreads, I'll probably get all kinds of plot and character ideas from everyone in town."

"Probably." We both laughed at that.

Janice brought the Sheriff's plate out then. So the special for the Sheriff was pork chops, potato, green beans, and corn bread. It certainly looked better than my cold sandwich and pickle. But I also had pie. I smiled.

"Sheriff, I'll bring your warm apple pie when you're ready," Janice said, glancing pointedly at my fading smug expression.

You win, I thought.

As we ate dinner, we talked about Willow Run, the Sheriff growing up here, his 40 years wearing a badge, and how the economy was squeezing this small town. Even this isolated outpost had many ties to the rest of the country and the world. The area relied on ranching, agriculture, and tourism. All of these were suffering with the recession, and money from the state was drying up. With no work to be had, many of the young men had joined the military since at least that was a paying job. It was, of course, a dangerous career choice with the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, but it was steady income for their families back here.

"My son Jason joined the army to see the world. They sent him to Afghanistan." He stopped and looked down at his hands. When he raised his head, the glint of tears moistened the corners of his eyes and that far away look was back in his gaze. "They brought him home in a body bag."

"I'm so sorry, Sheriff. I didn't know. That must have been awful."

He nodded, regaining his composure. "I was hoping he would stay here and become the fourth generation Willow Run Sheriff in the family." He stopped talking, his face lost all expression, and he again had that distant gaze in his eyes, as though he was imagining better times. Then he quickly snapped out of it and returned to here and now.

"So, Nathan Parker, tell me why are you an ex-cop?"

I knew the Sheriff and Enid had checked on my history when I was a guest in their cell, but they might not have gotten all the details. They were probably just told that I previously worked for the force in Cincinnati, but may not have been told the reason for my departure.

"It wasn't my choice. They were making budget cuts. I was one of the newer guys. Not enough seniority. So I was cut. One hundred and thirty-eight of us were cut." I recited that specific number from memory. That number was forever burned into my brain. It had been a big headline in the Cincinnati newspaper. I didn't know what happened to the other 137 officers. Probably not all of them drifted west like me, but perhaps a few did. It was my turn to have a distant gaze in my eyes.

"That must be tough, losing your job like that," he offered.

Then Janice appeared with the Sheriff's large slab of warm pie. She beamed widely and placed it before him. "You want me to warm yours up, Mr. Parker?"

I peered down at my much smaller slice and said, "No, thanks. I'll be fine," trying to convince myself.

Lightly placing her hand on the Sheriff's shoulder, she said, "Enjoy." She placed our checks on the table and went back toward the kitchen.

As if sensing I wanted to say something, he said, "Rank has its privilege," as he forked a section of the steaming dessert into his mouth.

We finished our desserts in relative quiet. After paying my tab, I stuffed the change in my shirt pocket. Then we went our separate ways.

Driving back to my motel, I thought about how the Sheriff seemed to be a nice guy who was mourning the loss of his son. The fact that he ate at the diner alone, until I joined him, suggested perhaps his wife was also gone. Just marking time until retirement. And perhaps too long in the job. He had lost his edge, his drive to be inquisitive. Yet he may have found a new romance in Janice. There seemed to be a connection between the two of them. So perhaps his energies were focused in that direction, rather than on his old tired job. To make matters worse, he had a corrupt Deputy working for him. So the dead guy had come back to life to be with his girl friend Cortina Perez. Yeah, right.

But what if I was wrong? I would feel so stupid. That would be difficult for my wobbly confidence. So I simply had to be right. That meant I was rooting that someone died just to boost my self-confidence. I hated to admit it, but yes, I would feel better, because then I would be proven right. That thought gave me pause.

Chapter 19

In the morning, I felt better about myself. It was Wednesday.

I shaved, showered, and dressed quickly. I wanted to go find Cortina. If the past couple of days were an indication of her schedule, she would already be loading her cart for room cleaning today. The Sheriff had said her boyfriend, her Hispanic boyfriend, had returned. I had to meet this guy.

When I stepped onto the sidewalk outside my door, I turned right toward the room where Cortina had previously been loading her cart with clean towels from a small utility room. But no cart sat on the sidewalk, and the door was closed. I tried the knob. Locked. OK, so she's getting a late start today. Maybe the Sheriff was right. She was having some glad-you're-home-safely sex. I'd try to locate her later.

Back in my room, I spread out the maps from the ranger station onto the bed. The National Forest trail map was very detailed, showing the access parking areas, the trails snaking across the landscape, and the structures in the park. The topographic map did not show the trails, but did indicate roads, creeks, buildings, and the elevations as contour lines, at five-meter intervals. The two maps were not to the same scale, so it wasn't possible to simply overlay them. But after a short time comparing the trail map with the topographic map and aligning the creeks that were on both, I located on the topo map the Monarch Trail and the cliff near where I found the body. The cliff was easy to spot since eight of the contour lines nearly merged, indicating a near vertical drop of 40 meters, over 120 feet.

The Hispanic man had come from the west of the cliff. So I scanned west from the cliff on the map. There was no indication of any buildings in that direction, just wilderness area for several miles.

I then located the ranger station and the _Official Use Only_ access road I'd seen. It ran approximately southwest into the forest. On the map, that road did not extend very far. Tracing further southwest, there was again no indication of any structures, just more wilderness.

I folded up two sheets of newspaper to use as long rulers. On the topographic map, I lined up one going west from the cliff, and the other going southwest down where I surmised the gated road led away from the ranger station. Miles into the forest, they intersected at a large area where many contour lines nearly merged. They didn't completely merge as they did at the cliff, but clearly the terrain was steep. In a very short distance on the map, the elevation change must have been 300 meters, over 1200 feet. This steep elevation change occurred in a nearly oval shape.

On the inside of the oval, the contour lines were more widely spaced, indicating a more gentle descent into a basin that was probably a half mile wide and a bit longer. The rim around the valley must be a couple miles long. There was a narrow opening in the oval on the northeast side where a small creek flowed outward. The opening fell on a straight line from the access road to the center of the basin. Though the name was not on the map, this had to be Spring Valley, the place where the big fire occurred last year. The place where the tree planting crew now worked. The place from which the Hispanic man ran.

I had to see Spring Valley for myself, even though it was posted as off limits. I couldn't go through the _Official Use Only_ road since the ranger station was situated right there. Way too visible. However, I could follow in reverse the path of the Hispanic guy. It would be a long hike. I would be gone all day. But I had to know what he experienced in running through that forest. I might even be able to enter that valley and talk with the tree-planting crew, something that I felt compelled to do after my failure to connect with them yesterday evening. The only thing between the valley and me would be some barbed wire, if it actually extended around the entire area.

Before leaving, I checked for Cortina again. She still wasn't at the motel. But Enid was back, spying on me again. He drove by in his patrol car going north, and then south as I walked in front of the motel over to the gas station and convenience store next door. There I loaded up on energy bars and apples for my hike. I secured some of them in my backpack, leaving the rest in the cooler in my car. As soon as Enid's vehicle was out of sight, I hopped in mine and drove through town toward the south access to the National Forest, with no tail on the way in. I hoped he missed me, and that it was annoying him. That thought gave me a measure of pleasure.

I noted that the Monarch Trail access lot was still closed. I drove past and parked at the Dells Trail access area. Just as before, I hiked on the Dells Trail, took the connector, and joined the Monarch Trail near the cliff. I climbed back up the slope and relocated my pyramid of rocks and the scuffed up ground where I suspected the man had run. I followed that path away from the cliff face and into the trees.

Since there wasn't a trail through this area, the hiking was rough, pushing through branches, undergrowth, prickly bushes, and uneven ground. But regardless of terrain, I stayed due west by frequently checking against a small compass from my backpack. Occasionally, I saw disturbed ground or small broken branches. These traces soon disappeared, and then I was walking through apparently undisturbed territory.

There were occasional openings in the tree canopy so that a small arc of sky could be seen. The guy didn't have a compass to steer a course, but he might have stayed on an eastward track by occasional glimpses of the stars or the sliver of moon that was visible in the sky that night. I assumed the Hispanic man had run an approximately straight path. I would stay on a straight path since not only did I have a compass, but the coordinates for Spring Valley were also programmed into the small GPS in my backpack. Technology, what a wonderful thing. Technology assured it was just a matter of time.

I hiked for three hours and finally sat on a downed tree to rest. While drinking water and chewing some of my snacks, I surveyed the surroundings. It was certainly a long way to Spring Valley. Measuring miles on a map is really not a good indication of distance out here. The actual distance was probably as much as twice as far with all the vertical terrain changes and the meanderings to avoid obstacles, such as downed trees.

Another hour of hiking brought me to a steep upward slope. I was still going west, and the GPS indicated I was close to my destination. This had to be the last climb before the valley. This slope had to be the wall surrounding it. So I climbed. Part way up the slope, I encountered three strands of new shiny barbed wire strung from tree to tree as far as I could see to the left and to the right. Spaced along the wire were small metal signs that read _No Trespassing, Wilderness Area, Healing in Progress_. These signs were identical to the one I'd seen on the road near the ranger station. I had arrived.

I ignored the sign, hopped over the wire, and continued climbing upward. The climb became very steep, just as the topographic map had indicated. It was also densely covered in vegetation. The branches of adjacent evergreen trees formed a tangled web that was difficult to penetrate. I thrashed through them. After several minutes of climbing upward, I was exhausted. I stopped to catch my breath, leaning up against a tree to avoid sliding back down the steep slope. I bent over, my breaths coming in loud gasping gulps. My breathing finally settled, and I convinced myself to keep climbing.

When I looked upward, more sunlight came filtering through the treetops, and some blue sky appeared. The top of the ridge was near. I noisily plowed through the underbrush, grabbing small tree trunks and sturdy bushes to pull myself upward. I only looked upward occasionally, keeping most of my focus on what I would grasp next and where my next footstep would be, slowly trudging upward.

I plowed into a barrier that yielded at first. Then it pushed me back downhill several feet. I heard a metallic echoing sound from above me. My progress had been stopped by a chain-link fence.

I stared in disbelief for several seconds. Like the barbed wire below, this fence ran as far as I could see to the left and right, and it was new, not some rusty relic from the past. It was probably eight feet high and topped by a coil of razor wire a couple of feet in diameter, so that it extended outward from the top of the fence and over my head. The trees near the fence had been de-branched for a dozen feet above ground level. As far as I could see, no trees seemed to have been cut down to make room. Rather, it was as if the fence had been embedded into the forest. It was hard enough to see it even at ground level. From the air, it would probably be unseen.

This fence was meant to keep people out. And maybe also to keep people in. But why would anyone go to this effort to keep someone out of a wilderness area? Sure, it was burned over and now healing. It seemed the barbed wire at the bottom of this slope and the steepness of this climb would be sufficient warning. Then again, it hadn't been enough to stop me. Still, this seemed like overkill.

I peered upward through the fence and could see that the steepness of the grade became shallower. The ground started to level out. And about 20 yards further up there was little vegetation, and the open blue big sky was visible over the valley. But the view was interrupted by another obstacle, a parallel second line of chain-link fence, also topped with razor wire. Far to my left I saw a gate in the inner fence. That would provide access to the space between the fence lines. But as far as I could see in either direction, there were no gates in the outer fence.

Assuming the Hispanic climbed over this barrier before running through the forest, the razor wire would certainly explain the cuts in my dead guy's clothing. It was fortunate that all he suffered were a few cuts. The wire could easily have sliced deep enough so that he would have bled to death. But then fortunate was a relative term. After all, he died anyway when he ran off the cliff.

This fence was not just serious protection. It was also expensive. It was far more than any National Forest budget could manage. This was protecting a secret, not just a burned out area of wilderness. This fortification held enough of a secret that someone running away from it would be pursued by armed men. They were not simply planting trees, as I had been led to believe by Ranger Pine. What did that imply about my bounty hunter theory? I didn't know.

There was definitely a story here. I just had no idea what story. I pulled out my cell phone and snapped several pictures of the fence lines and the razor wire. The pictures were not great because of the low light level beneath the canopy of tree branches, but they were clear enough.

I had to know what was inside. Climbing over the top did not seem like a good idea, considering the razor wire up there. I grabbed a sturdy branch off the ground nearby and started digging into the soil at the base of the fence. My progress was blocked by the wire, which extended below the surface at least several inches. And the ground was rocky. But I was soon flinging dirt, rocks, and vegetation aside as I dug downward.

Bending over my improvised digging tool, I suddenly felt something hard and cold press deep into my neck. It felt round and metallic. A subdued husky voice behind me said, "Don't move. Don't make a sound."

Chapter 20

I obeyed. There was nothing else for me to do but obey.

How did someone sneak up behind me so quietly? My climb up had been noisy enough to wake the dead. I must have been so involved in my digging that I simply did not hear this man approach.

Then I heard voices up on top of the ridge. I couldn't see them yet. I considered calling to them for help. The man behind me must have sensed my thoughts since the circular cold object pressed deeper into my neck. "Shhhh," he commanded. Several seconds ticked by, and gradually the voices faded as they passed by. The pressure on my neck subsided.

The metal object left my neck, and the voice behind me said, almost chuckling, "You're a lucky son of a bitch. Just saved your hide."

I turned around to look at the man, but all I saw was his back as he retreated diagonally, almost silently, down the slope, taking long balanced strides. He was tall and lean. His coat and pants looked grimy, and long gray disheveled hair ran in tangled mats from under his hat and over his collar. He wore gloves and held a rifle in one hand down by his side. In the other, he clasped a dead bird by the legs. I didn't know if hunting was permitted in the National Forest and what game would be in season. I wasn't about to challenge him on those points.

He didn't seem dangerous. He had the drop on me, but didn't press his advantage. I quickly kicked rocks and loose dirt back into the hole I'd started, stomped it smooth with my boots, and covered it with pine needles and small branches. Then I noisily followed him down the hill. He probably had more information about what was inside the fence than I would get from my futile attempt to tunnel in. Yesterday, I had yearned for more resources to help with my investigation. Perhaps he was it, coming by a most unexpected turn of events.

He showed no sign of slowing down and strode right over the barbed wire fence as I hustled to catch up to him.

"Wait up," I called.

He stopped and turned to face me. The long tangled hair hung down all around so that only the middle of his face was exposed. His face had a long graying beard and mustache to match. He looked like an old mountain man who had not seen civilization in years. He was dressed in baggy coveralls, an unbuttoned camouflage jacket, and a hat on which were printed the three letters NRA, the acronym for National Rifleman's Association. His crinkled face and graying hair suggested he must be at least 60.

He grinned, and I expected to see gaps in his teeth, considering his lack of external hygiene. But his teeth were all present and accounted for. They were somewhat stained with age, but otherwise straight and apparently well cared for. What struck me the most, though, were his eyes. They were too wide open, like they were bulging from their sockets. It gave him the appearance of permanent surprise or wonder. He looked at me, but seemed to be focusing somewhere else.

While it was unnerving to gaze at this guy, I didn't feel threatened. He stared in my direction with those bulging unblinking eyes. There were clearly some loose connections here, but there seemed to be nothing to fear.

"You said you saved my hide. What did you mean by that?"

He had a look of disbelief on his face, and his rising tone carried a note of surprise. "You're out here and you don't know?"

"Know what?"

"You don't know what going on?" His voice grew louder, and those bulging eyes incredibly popped out from their sockets even further.

"No, I don't," I said. Calmly I urged him, "Please tell me."

He looked all around as if to ensure we were not being watched and then leaned in close, speaking so softly it came out almost as a whisper. "The conspiracy."

"Conspiracy?"

"Conspiracy," he said with finality, nodding his head once to confirm it.

This guy was clearly a bit loony. Though, how could I accuse him of that when I myself had also pondered conspiracy as a way to explain what had happened to me on Monarch Trail on Sunday? But this guy had completely bought into the conspiracy concept, though I had no idea what conspiracy he was referring to. I could have disengaged from him right there and walked away. But in spite of his confused state of mind, he probably had knowledge, or at least suspicions, about the valley that I wanted to hear.

"Can you tell me about it?"

"Oh, yes, I can. I can tell you about it."

He stopped there, his eager stare still fixed in my direction. Then he looked all around again as if to ensure we were alone, and continued.

"They sent us home from Nam. But they made a mistake. They still needed us back there to keep fighting the Communists, and they came looking for me. So I've been hiding. It must be driving them nuts. They've been looking for years and still can't find me," he said gleefully.

I didn't know where this conversation was heading, but it seemed I should let him take it wherever he wanted to. Maybe later I could steer it where I wanted it to go. But there was one thing he needed to hear.

"You don't have to hide. The Vietnam War is over."

"That's what they want me and everyone else to think, so that we'll come out of hiding. Then they can send us back over there." After a beat, he warned, "They'll send you, too." Then with pride he added, "But they'll never find me." He beamed a wide grin.

Here was a Vietnam vet who should have been put under psychiatric care when he returned home from the jungles. But back then, care for mental and post-traumatic stress disorders was sporadic, at best, for returning soldiers. The focus was on the physical wounds that could be easily seen and dealt with by physicians, using bandages, antibiotic, sutures, and splints. The invisible wounds often went undiagnosed.

Many of the vets slipped through the cracks as they tried to re-enter civilian life. Normal social structure had become foreign to many of them after months or years of savage fighting in the jungles of Southeast Asia. This guy must have fallen through a very large crack and landed on his head. I wasn't versed in matters of mental illness, but he clearly needed help adjusting to peacetime, help that was probably decades overdue.

I was almost certain of the answer to my next question, but was hoping that by keeping him talking calmly, I could derive some useful information about the valley from him. "Who are they?"

He looked around again. Satisfied no one else was around, he leaned in to whisper again. "The military establishment."

"Are they the ones inside the fence, inside the valley?"

"Oh, yeah. It's them. They've gotten close, but they still haven't found me." He beamed with pride again.

"How do you know it's them?"

He giggled. "They think they're so clever, sneaking around in there. But I see them every day patrolling. They can't hide what they are. They still act like military, still look like military. I know," he said, winking one eye and tapping his temple in a show of wisdom, using his left index finger. The dead bird was still in that hand, and it thumped softly against his hair and beard with the movement of that hand. He didn't seem to notice. I found it comical, yet managed to suppress the urge to laugh at the scene.

Could I really believe anything this guy was saying? I doubted it. He was loony and perhaps unstable. But I decided to press on.

"Besides looking for you and all your comrades from Vietnam, what else are they doing in there?"

He stared at me quizzically as if to say there was nothing more important for them to be doing than trying to find him. So why would there be anything else? When he continued to stare at me blankly, I took a different direction.

"Well, I'm glad you were here to save my hide from them." I grinned and added, "My name is Nathan Parker. What's yours?"

He hesitated a long time, considering the possible consequences before finally answering. "If you're willing to reveal your identity, you're a brave man. Now they will be looking for you for sure. They already know who I am." After a beat, he said, "Jake, Jake Monroe."

He still had on the gloves and still held the rifle and the dead bird. He made no motion to set any of them aside to extend a hand in greeting. So I just nodded in acknowledgement. "Nice to know you, Jake."

"They patrol the fence line every thirty minutes. Military precision," he said with authority.

I didn't notice a watch on his wrist, so wondered how he kept time to determine the thirty-minute number. But some people seem to have the knack of keeping time in their heads without the need for electronic gadgets.

Jake nodded, turned, and walked away. I didn't know if his departure was a signal that I had been dismissed. Our conversation was probably more talking than he had done in a long time. Or perhaps he had lots of practice talking to a different audience: himself. He mumbled something as he strode away. No need to be silent now, I supposed. He had already caught his dinner.

I decided to follow him. I wanted to continue the conversation, if he was willing, before he returned to his self-imposed life style.

"Wait up," I said to him. He didn't turn to acknowledge me, but did slow down so I could catch up.

"Jake, do the patrols come outside the fence?"

"Oh, yeah." he said with a maniacal glint in his eyes. "That's why I had to leave. It's time for them to come outside the fence looking for me."

Thanks for telling me, I thought with a scowl. That patrol might have walked right into me.

His pace was picking up again, those long strides forcing me to walk faster than normal to stay close.

"Do these patrols happen every thirty minutes all day long?"

"Oh, yeah. Whenever the sun is up. I watch them every day so I know where they are. Don't want them to sneak up on me." He paused, then continued. "Don't know about night. I don't like the night. Can't see. I'm afraid they might have those new goggles."

I assumed he referred to night vision goggles that allow the wearer to detect infrared radiation, body heat. I didn't know if those were available during the Vietnam War era, but they certainly were afterwards. He might have heard about them before hiding this far from civilization.

"How long have you been out here?" I asked.

He turned his face toward me and considered an answer. "What year is it?"

"It's 2009, Jake."

He abruptly stopped walking and seemed to be calculating the time span, pondering how much of his life had slipped past. "A long time," was his response, stated with wonder. "I've been hiding here a long time."

He couldn't recall the year, and I worried each morning about remembering what day of the week it was?

After a few moments, his rapid pace resumed, and I continued to follow. Then he stopped abruptly and turned to face me accusingly. "Are you one of them, out here trying to fool me?" Even with his accusatory language, I didn't feel threatened. But I also knew that if he was in any way unstable, our interaction might become volatile. So I spoke calmly to defuse the situation.

"No, I'm just out hiking and found the fence. Just curious what's inside there."

"Didn't I already tell you what's inside?"

"Of course you did. I meant I was curious until you told me."

That seemed to satisfy him. "You know, that boy and girl who were hiking out here got captured by one of their patrols," he said.

Boy and girl? Then I remembered. Could it be? Benjamin Moore and Rachael Sterling, the couple who wandered into the woods to couple, got lost, and were rescued by shy good Samaritans. "You mean earlier this summer?"

"Oh, yeah!" he blurted. "I didn't get here in time to save them. They were probably sent to Vietnam to fight in the jungles. Poor bastards," he said sadly. "They won't last long over there."

So if I could believe what Jake was saying, the shy good Samaritans were these soldiers inside the valley, and they steered the lost Benjamin and Rachael away from their fence line. That would avoid having a search party stumble onto it. They delivered the lost kids back to their car. Then to avoid having to explain themselves, they just melted back into the forest.

"Anybody else captured by them?" I asked.

"Some came close, but I scared them away before the soldiers could capture them."

"Scared them?"

"They don't see me. I hide real good. People are scared of animal noises and rustling of the trees. Even grown men go running when I'm through with them," he said with a large measure of pride. "But it's for their own good. They don't know how bad it is in the jungle."

So again, if I could believe what he said, here might be a reason no one had discovered the fence in the time since it was erected. A confused Vietnam vet was spooking those who came too close. And no one who is spooked in the woods is going to admit that to someone else. That would seem like weakness and wouldn't be admitted to another soul. Just leave and never return to this area. And for Benjamin and Rachael, who eluded the surveillance shield that Jake secretly manned, they were escorted out anonymously by the guards, who were then cast as Good Samaritans. As for me, I somehow stumbled through his screen and made it all the way to the chain-link fence and was saved from a still unknown fate by Jake.

"Jake, has anyone else seen the fence where you found me?"

"How did you know?" He stared at me with those wide bulging eyes, a look of pleading emanating from them. "Did he get away from them?"

"Who, Jake?"

"The running man," he stated with admiration. "He escaped before they could send him back to the jungle."

"Was that just a few days ago?"

"Oh, yeah," he stated wildly, as if he was rooting for his favorite hero.

"Did he climb over the fence to run away?"

"Oh, yes, he did. Over the fence. Over the river and through the woods." He was then looking east, as if staring in that direction brought back the image to him more clearly. He asked with deep interest, "Did he get away?"

He had to be referring to the dead man I found on Monarch Trail. It all fit too neatly to be otherwise. Escaping, his clothing slit by the climb over the fence, running, pursued by armed men. But I could not bring myself to tell him how badly it had ended. "Yes, Jake, he got away from them. They can't send him back to the jungles."

He seemed pleased with that bit of information, and I detected tears forming in the corners of his eyes. "Good," was all he managed to croak out before clamping his lips shut firmly to suppress any further show of emotion.

"Jake, when did they put up the fence?" I was pretty certain it had been last fall, after the fire, but his confirmation would be helpful to close the loop.

"There was a big battle. It lit up the sky. I thought I was back in the jungle. They couldn't find me, so they brought the war over here." He peered in the direction of the fence line. "I hid for three days, and then it was over. It was horrible. They destroyed that valley. Everything was blown up and burned and dead. I can never look at it again."

The forest fire in the valley was his big battle. I suppose someone who was traumatized by the blast of bombs in the jungle would interpret the orange and yellow glow in the night sky as a return of those bad memories.

"Was that last year?"

"Oh, yeah," Jake said sadly.

"Is that when they put up the fence?"

He thought about that for a while, and then answered.

"Oh, yeah. They built it so no one would know the truth, you know, about what happened there. They had to hide it."

That was his interpretation. No one builds a fence like that to hide a forest fire or even a battlefield.

"Who built the fence?"

"They made their prisoners build the fence, all the way around the valley. They worked them hard and every day and all day." He paused, then continued sadly. "I couldn't help them. There were too many soldiers with guns. So I hid and watched."

"Did the prisoners look like the running man?"

"Oh, yeah."

So there was a crew of Hispanics all right, but it was not for planting trees. The only reason to have armed guards to build a fence is that the workers were not there voluntarily. They were constructing something secretly, and it had to be kept under complete control.

"How many prisoners were there?"

"Many."

"Was it ten or twenty?"

"Many. But one of them was a running man, too."

"You mean one of them escaped when they were building the fence?"

"Oh, yeah. Did he get away?"

"I don't know, Jake. I hope so. I'll find out."

He nodded as if hoping the answer would be yes.

"Jake, I don't think I've yet said thanks for saving my hide. Thanks."

"Oh, yeah," was his gleeful response.

Chapter 21

I had a long hike to get back to my car. There probably was not enough daylight left to get me there. And while I had my GPS, stumbling in the dark in unfamiliar territory was not the wisest choice. Yet it seemed there wasn't another good option.

"Well, it's getting late, Jake, so I better get out of here."

"Better come with me so you won't get lost. I don't like night."

He started walking, in a direction perpendicular to the way I should be going to find my car. But I followed. If he had survived out here for years on his own, he probably knew better than me what he was doing.

He didn't seem to want to talk. Maybe all the conversation we just had was his limit for the day. If he'd been out here for years alone, all the conversation today might have used up his annual quota. So we walked in silence with just our footfalls as background sound. Finally, he broke the silence.

"The draft got me into Nam." He said this without the hint of craziness that much of our previous conversation had contained.

It didn't surprise me. I had guessed he was at least 60, the right age to have been swept up in the draft for that horrible conflict.

"Were you in combat?"

"Not with a gun. I was a bad shot. I'm better now, with a gun and with a bow," he said proudly. "So I was a corpsman. I patched up wounded guys while the Communists shot at me."

It was difficult to picture this dirty confused old man as a corpsman. But then, in the heat of battle, cleanliness was probably not the primary concern in treating the wounded. Stopping the bleeding, administering painkiller, getting the patient to safety. Those would be the priorities.

"Did you get wounded?"

"Oh, yeah." Now the craziness was back in his voice. "Many times."

"And now you live out here alone?"

"Oh, yeah. No one is shooting at me here."

I understood the desire to be alone, the desire for solitude, though being that way for years seemed over the top. I needed more contact than that with the human race.

Little light now penetrated to the forest floor. We finally arrived at his cabin, which was nestled on a high piece of ground in the center of a thick growth of trees. If he had not been leading the way, I probably would have walked right on past without noticing it in the low light. Even in the middle of the day, it would be tough to spot.

This cabin had no amenities. There were no electric or phone lines into it. The roof sagged and probably leaked in a rainstorm or when the snow started to melt. A nearby well suggested the lack of water lines into the place. Maybe he built the cabin himself, or maybe he just found it vacant and moved in. I didn't bother to ask since it really didn't matter. Regardless of how he chose this hovel, for him it was home.

Parked beside it was a very old rusty pick up truck. Affixed to the bumper was a bent and stained license plate, with a sticker that read _03-96_. March of 1996. So he may have been in these woods for 13 years or more, not bothering to get the tags renewed. If he spent any time at all on official roadways, surely he would have been pulled over for expired tags. He just hid out here, living off the land, living off the grid, trying to stay under the radar of the military that he was so convinced still pursued him.

He tossed the dead bird and his gloves in the bed of the truck, stowed the rifle in the gun rack in the back window, and hopped into the driver's side. I took that as my invitation to get in as a passenger, though I questioned if the thing was even functional.

"We'll go to your car," he offered.

"Thanks."

Getting in, I noticed his hands. They had been obscured by the gloves until now. They were spotlessly clean. Unlike the grime covering the rest of him, his hands were immaculate. Maybe he really had been a corpsman, and clean hands went with the territory. Or maybe not. What did I know about being a corpsman? Nothing.

He turned the key, and the engine emitted a low muffled rumble from under the hood. He pumped the accelerator and gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white with the effort, willing the truck to start. It finally sputtered to life, spewing a thick cloud of gray smoke out the tail pipe. He flicked on the headlights, but all I saw was the dim glow from one still functioning bulb. We lurched and chugged through the woods, meandering around trees and through their low hanging branches until finally reaching a clearer path several hundreds yards along. It wasn't what I would call a road, but it served the purpose. Eventually we did come out of the woods and onto a partly overgrown gravel road.

I marveled that somehow he managed to keep this old heap running. It clearly would not pass any motor vehicle inspection. And I wondered what he did for money to buy gas, bullets for his rifle, and basic supplies. Maybe he had a post office box in town to receive pension or Social Security checks, though that seemed unlikely since then there would be a way for the dreaded military to track him. Perhaps he was like me. Sold all his stuff, drifted out here, living off his cash, which must be running low after all this time. I wanted to ask, but held back since it really was none of my business. I dug into my shirt pocket and removed the change from my dinner at the diner last night. I stuffed it between my thigh and the seat cushion. I thought it was better to just leave some cash, rather than offer an outright tip, when we reached my car.

Jake was once more comfortable with silence, so silently was how we traveled. It was dark when we arrived at the trailhead parking area. He dropped me at my car, and I thanked him again.

"Nice to have your company," he said out his window as he turned and drove away quickly, as if to indicate it was also nice when company left, leaving him alone again.

Chapter 22

In the morning, I wiped the sleep from my eyes. Thursday. I scooped up my phone, turned it on, and noticed two missed calls. I fished Joseph Custer's business card out of my shirt pocket. The numbers matched. He must have called when I was hiking. I had turned off my phone to save the battery and forgot to turn it back on after Jake dropped me at my car. I had to talk to Joseph today. I couldn't let this potential contact slip away.

I also wanted to try again to talk with Cortina Perez, though now I was wondering if that was necessary at all. I knew that the man I'd found on Monarch Trail was dead. If what Jake Monroe said could be believed, I felt sure that the guy's body was hauled back into the valley by his pursuers. He did not then come back out to rejoin Cortina. He was probably buried in there to preserve the secret the valley held. Yet I still wanted to talk to her, to close the loop, to expose Enid Powell for the liar that he was. Based on what the Sheriff said, the Deputy had received a note from Cortina expressing relief that her lost and injured Hispanic boyfriend had returned. I doubted the truth of any of it.

My encounter with Jake opened a new question. Were bounty hunters involved in this at all? Now I wasn't so sure. Yet the coincidence of the body snatchers showing up right after my 9-1-1 call left me with the conclusion that those who took the call were involved in this: Ranger Pine, Enid Powell, or maybe both. And certainly there still had to be payoffs, perhaps not from bounty hunters, but from whoever occupied Spring Valley.

Regardless, yesterday I found the fence, the fortress in the forest. There was something much bigger than a tree-planting operation in the valley. No wonder I never saw a crew leave the National Forest when I sat for hours outside the entrance. There was no crew to see. So Ranger Pine was covering up something, something big. He had lied to me. Too bad lying to a civilian is not a crime. If I only had a badge.

Going back to Ranger Pine to probe about the chain-link fence seemed like a bad idea. He had already lied and given me a stern warning to not be in that area. I didn't care about his warning, not in the least. But before confronting him, I needed more information. At least then I would be in a better position to deflect whatever new lies he might tell me.

I could go to the Sheriff. He wasn't lying to me, at least not that I could determine. He simply wasn't interested in what I had to say. This was all over, as far as he was concerned. Nothing happened. Sharing what I had with him would be pointless, so I was still on my own.

I left my room to find Cortina. Her cart was parked outside the storage room door. An arm occasionally poked out through the doorway and plopped supplies on the cart. But it wasn't Cortina. In her place was another woman. She was taller, scrawny, and had an older-looking sun-wrinkled face surrounded by tangled salt-and-pepper hair.

And she was angry. She cursed, slamming stacks of towels onto the cart and dumping little individually packaged bars of soap into a box, spilling several onto the concrete walkway. She ignored them and stomped off, pushing the cart up over them, crushing them to smears on the sidewalk. They would leave bubbly streaks in the next rain. She puffed on a cigarette that had a long tendril of ash clinging to its lighted tip. If she was having a bad day this early, I did not want to be around for her mood at the end of her shift.

I stopped in the office, hoping there might be some coffee. The pot was empty and cold, as it had been every day I'd been here.

"Good morning," I said to the clerk behind the desk.

"Yeah, yeah," he growled. He was also in a foul mood.

"A bad day already?" I asked.

"You could say that. The maid didn't show up yesterday, and she ain't here today. The bitch. Leaves me hanging with a motel full of guests."

"You mean Cortina?" I asked.

"You know where she is?" he snapped accusingly.

"No, no, not at all," I said defensively. "I just happened to speak to her the other day and remembered the name. I see you already have a replacement."

"Her?" he said with a sneer. "She's no replacement. My wife arranged this little deal. That's my no-good sister-in-law. She's out there doing this only cuz she wants me to fix her piece-a-crap car. Terrible cleaner. Her own house is a pigsty. I'm gonna have a hard time finding someone as good as Cortina."

"Does she live near here?" I probed.

"Cortina? Near here? Hell, yes. Lived in a utility room in the back. Too small to rent out, but she was fine with it. Free room. That was half of her pay. It was a great deal for me."

"Did she have any family or a boyfriend? Maybe they know where she is."

"Why do you care so much about her? Got a thing for Hispanic maids?" he asked lewdly.

"No. It's just that I talked to her, and she seemed like a nice lady." That was a long stretch on the extent of our relationship, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Well, I can tell you, she was the best maid I ever had here. Was here over 2 years. Always kept the rooms real nice. Clean and tidy."

I knew that cleanliness. In contrast, the office was trashed. This guy did not have any of the traits that he seemed to so admire in her. While the area on my side of the counter was clean, by the hand of Cortina, no doubt, everything on his side was in disarray. Paper and pamphlets were strewn about at random. Huge wispy clumps of dust lingered along the baseboards, and the linoleum floor was grimy and scuffed. There were dirty smudges high up on the inner office door where he had probably placed his hand thousands of times to open and close it, rather than using the doorknob. And the counter top had a layer of well-entrenched dust. There was a clear line of demarcation between where Cortina cleaned and where this guy's chaotic turf started. I supposed he just did not want anyone messing with his stuff, so Cortina didn't clean behind the counter.

A _No Smoking_ sign was tacked to the wall. But he had an ashtray on the counter that overflowed with cigarette butts and burned residue. The air was filled with a stale foul bluish haze.

His personal appearance was no better. Unkempt hair, black stubble on his face that was several days in the making, wide gaps between smoke-yellowed teeth, and a shirt that had been fastened such that there were two unused button holes near his chin but only one available button to close the gap. It gave him an off-kilter appearance, like he was leaning sideways a few degrees. To complete the picture, one tail of his shirt protruded from the waistband of his trousers. Yet, he said he had a wife, so somewhere in the world he found someone who would keep him regardless.

"Cortina never caused no trouble," he continued, thankfully unaware of my thoughts. "Just worked here every morning, then over at the convenience store next door every afternoon and evening. Sent most of her money to her family back in Mexico. If she had a boyfriend, I never saw him. Hell, with the hours she worked, she didn't have time for no boyfriend."

I had been to that convenience store a couple of times, but had not seen her there. Now that I thought about it, the store had seemed unusually clean, not like most such establishments that were often a bit seedy looking. Likely the hand of Cortina Perez.

"So, she just left without a word? Packed up her stuff and left?" I asked, already suspecting that his answer would confirm those points.

"Yup, not a word. All her stuff is gone. And that old junk car of hers. That won't get her far. Shit. I've got to find someone. Can't put up with all the crap from my sister-in-law." He continued grumbling, pounded his fist on the door behind him to push it open, and disappeared into the small office, slamming the door shut.

I didn't know Cortina, in spite of what I might have implied to the clerk or tried to imagine. In the few days I'd been here, she was always on the job early in the morning. His comments suggested she was a hard-working dependable employee: works two jobs, ends money home to her family, has no time for a social life. The disappearing act seemed out of character. As if I really knew anything about her character. Maybe she was so overwhelmed with joy at the supposed return of her boyfriend that they had just packed up and left town. Conveniently left just when I wanted to talk to her and meet this dead-now-undead boyfriend.

The desk clerk mentioned that she also worked next door. I wondered when they noticed her disappear. I walked over to ask.

Just inside the door was a bank of coffee urns with a selection of roasts. I poured a cup of regular coffee and strolled up to the register. "Good morning," I said.

The cashier looked weary, his face pale and drawn, dark circles under his eyes, and hair a bit unkempt. He just nodded with a tight smile, which seemed to be all the emotion he could muster. "Anything else?" he asked.

"I was hoping to talk with Cortina Perez. Is she around?"

He eyed me a bit suspiciously, hesitated, and then answered. "She only works afternoons and nights. Why do you want to see her?"

"Oh, nothing in particular. I met her at the motel and heard she also worked over here. Just wanted to say _hi_ if she was around." I knew it sounded weak, but that's what I had to offer.

"Well, I'd like to talk to her, too." Color returned to his face, which was flushing with suppressed anger. "She didn't show up for work yesterday, so I guess you could say she doesn't work here anymore. I would like her to come around so I can officially fire her ass for leaving me without a cashier yesterday. I had to work an 18-hour shift because she didn't show. And I'll have to be here all day today too. If you see her, tell her...." He closed his lips tight and didn't say anything further. But he got still redder in the face, his cheeks puffing like a chipmunk hoarding food. He seemed on the verge of bursting into an uncontrolled tirade.

"Sorry I brought it up," I said. I paid him for the coffee and left. He was still glaring at me as I walked by the front window of his store on my way back to the motel.

This disappearing act did not make sense. Cortina, by these accounts, had been a dependable employee. She apparently needed the money for her family back home. Her supposed boyfriend did not appear to have a lot going for him. His clothing and appearance did not fit with the neat and tidy Cortina. He did not seem to be in a position to support himself, let alone the two of them and her family back in Mexico. Why would she run off with him? Then there was his being dead, a significant factor in disbelieving any connection between him and her. There was no way he was or had been Cortina's beau. If I could put any stock in Jake Monroe's story, the Hispanic guy had been a prisoner who escaped from the valley.

Cortina's unexplained disappearance really bothered me. It was just too convenient. I wanted to talk to her, and now she was gone. The Sheriff said that Enid got a note from her saying her injured boyfriend was back. Yeah, right. There might well be a note, but Cortina didn't write it. If anyone wrote it, Enid did.

So did he scare off Cortina, force her to run away? What leverage would he have used? Perhaps she was an illegal immigrant, and he threatened to report her.

I needed information. I scrolled through the contact list in my phone. When I got to my old partner's name, I punched the call option. He answered after the third ring.

"Garvey."

"Hey, Ed. Hope it's OK to talk now about the stuff you're looking into."

I then realized that jumping right to business was probably inappropriate, particularly since I was asking him again for favors. Rather, I should have at least started with some cordial conversation, some measure of civility. So I added, "How's your day so far?" It was really lame.

His stilted robotic response revealed that he had noticed the lack of proper order in my salutation. "My day is fine so far." Then he lightened up. "But I don't think I'm going to make your day."

"What do you mean?" I asked with concern.

"Well, on your bounty hunter, there's nothing out there. No bodies turned in for a reward. I think you might be chasing ghosts, buddy."

I felt badly. Not about him not finding any useful information, but that none of it mattered anymore. I no longer cared about bounty hunters because that had been a misdirection of my own creation. So I had wasted Ed's time. But I couldn't bring myself to tell him that.

"That's fine, Ed. Thanks for looking."

"Are you bull shitting me?" Ed blurted.

"What do you mean?" I asked, trying to sound confused and insulted.

"When you asked for this stuff two days ago, you made it sound so urgent. Now you're fine when I didn't find anything. Did you already know this was a dead end?"

Why did he always have to be so insightful? I admired that in him. But now it worked against me.

I mustered my best argument in response. "No, it's not a dead end. It's still a good lead I'm following. If it takes a little longer to develop, that's OK since I also have other directions to go. I can focus on those for now."

I hoped he bought it, though his long silence suggested he wasn't convinced. Surely my using him as a resource had not burned through all the trust we had built over the years, but it was probably taking a toll.

"Ed?"

The silence continued for a few more moments before he finally spoke.

"And I suppose you want help on those other directions?" he probed calmly.

A wave of relief rolled over me. He was still going to assist me. "That would be great if you could."

After a long pause, one that was long enough to convey his annoyance with me, he asked, "What have you got today?"

"Got a name of someone perhaps you can track down. Hispanic woman, maybe thirty years old. Name is Cortina Perez. She was working as a maid at a motel and as a clerk at a convenience store here in Willow Run, then just disappeared. I'm curious if she is here legally, and if there is any paper trail on address, where she might have gone, say like credit card use, car, family, anything you can find."

"Checking up on an old girl friend you scared away?" he asked with irritation. "Or is this one you're planning to stalk?"

"Nothing like that, Ed. It's just that she might be connected to the dead man, and now she has mysteriously vanished. Packed up and left town without a word." I chose to ignore the note that Enid reported finding since I was convinced those words did not come from Cortina.

"OK, Liberty." I was glad to hear him use my nickname. He used it when things were good between us. When he wasn't using it, as had been the case in much of our recent phone conversations, it meant he was somehow displeased with me. I couldn't really blame him. Now, though, it seemed we were getting back on firmer footing.

"Thanks, Ed."

"If I find your Cortina, would you put in a good word for me? Maybe I'll want a shot at her."

"Samantha's gonna be jealous," I warned.

"I can fantasize, can't I?" Ed lightly defended himself. Then his tone became more serious again. "Are you writing your novel yet? I seem to recall that was your new chosen profession."

"I'm working on it." I thought glumly that I hadn't really even started yet.

"If you say so," was his unconvinced reply. "Anyway, I'll see what I can find. It might take a couple of days. It doesn't sound like that will delay publication of your novel," he mocked.

"Not likely."

"But seriously, Nathan. Remember you don't carry a badge now. Watch where you step."

"I will. Thanks, Ed."

Chapter 23

When I arrived at the library, Allison was busily shelving DVDs. I hoped that since my previous visit, she had decided to overlook my missteps.

She looked up and her eyes brightened as I approached. "Good morning, Mr........., I mean Nathan."

That was a good start. The last time we had spoken, she didn't call me anything, not even Mr. Parker. Now she was using my first name as I had requested. A good sign.

"You didn't come in here yesterday. I thought maybe you no longer needed our services for writing your book."

I didn't recall telling her about my writing plans. But then I had told the Sheriff in the diner the other night, and Janice the waitress was there within earshot. So it would not be surprising that the word had spread far and wide.

"Not at all. You and your services are irreplaceable."

"Glad to hear it." We locked glances for a brief moment before she spoke.

"Are you enjoying our town?" she asked.

"Yes, though the only places I've really been in town are your library and the diner. I can highly recommend both."

"Thank you, kind sir." She beamed pleasantly. "Been doing a lot of hiking?"

"Yes. I was out all day yesterday. Met an interesting character in the woods. A guy named Jake Monroe. Do you know him?"

"I've heard of him, but haven't met him."

"He seems to be a loner. Lives in an old cabin pretty far out there. Does he come into town much?" I asked.

"I heard he comes in for supplies a few times a year, but that's about it. He doesn't talk much, from what I've heard. What's his story?"

This was a first for me, being asked by a Willow Run resident about one of its own. Did this indicate I was officially a member of the local grape vine?

"Seems to be a Vietnam veteran who's still struggling with adjusting to civilian life. So he keeps to himself, living off the grid. Totally harmless as far as I could see."

"You learn something new every day. Welcome to the Willow Run gossip wire."

"Thanks," I said. "I have a gossip question for you, if that's OK."

"Sure," she said.

I probably could have found the answer by searching old copies of the Teton County Observer, but there are times when asking a knowledgeable person is faster than asking the Internet. "When did Enid Powell become Deputy here?"

She thought for a moment, and then responded with conviction. "It was September of 2004, so almost 5 years ago."

That was just months after his misadventure with two bounty hunters. That career path did not work for him, so he became Deputy in Willow Run.

She then peered at me quizzically. "Why do you want to know?"

I raised my eyebrows conspiratorially and replied, "In due time."

She leaned in a little closer, "So mysterious, Mr. Bond," she whispered.

I winked knowingly and turned to the computer.

According to Jake Monroe, two men had escaped from the fortress in the forest. One had to be the captive Deputy Powell turned over to INS. The other died running off a cliff. I felt tempted to conclude that the fenced-in fortress in the woods was an illegal immigrant detention center. But that seemed far-fetched, especially on National Forest land. Just to be thorough, I did a quick search for detention centers in the US. None were listed for Montana. They were instead located in more heavily populated states and especially along the southern border, as expected.

I considered agricultural research stations. That might be something one would construct in a forested area and perhaps even fence in to protect the research. An Internet search revealed there are more than 120 such stations in the US. All are highly promoted, visible, and public friendly. Two were listed in eastern Montana, far from here. Whatever is in Spring Valley is something far different, something requiring armed guards.

Are there military bases in Montana? A search revealed only one Air Force base, but that was far from Willow Run. No Marine and no Army bases were listed. Besides, military bases have signs on the highway announcing where they are. And they have big signs over their guarded gates.

But a secret military base would be....well, secret. I chuckled to myself. Sure, let's just search for secret military bases online and find a complete list with their locations, functions, personnel, and funding. But for the hell of it, I did the search anyway. There was a long list of suspected and rumored bases all over the country, supposedly gleaned from review of public documents. The list included one in Bozeman, Montana that was speculated to do genetics work. Bozeman is over 100 miles from Willow Fork, and this posting on the Internet was long before the fire in the forest and the fence construction.

I had become addicted to the Internet as a way to find information. Now I had to step away from that comfortable tool to consider other ways to solve this riddle of what is going on among Ranger Andrew Pine's trees.

"Nathan." I jerked around in my chair at Allison's voice. I had been so involved in my pondering that I did not hear her approach. "I'm sorry," she said apologetically. "Didn't mean to startle you."

"Oh, no problem. I guess I was pretty deep into it again."

"I guess so." After a moment, she continued, "I close up for lunch, so can you come back at one o'clock?"

"Wow, it's lunch time already?" It was amazing to me how quickly time could go by when banging on computer keys. It seemed like I just sat down. "Well, actually I think I'm done for now."

I hesitated briefly, and then took a bold step, for a homeless drifter.

"Allison, can I buy you lunch?" A couple of times this morning, I had glanced up from my searching and noticed her looking in my direction. Was she just checking to see if I needed assistance? Or was there something more personal, perhaps a connection? So I had to ask.

The invitation seemed to take her off stride. Recovering her composure, she replied swiftly, "No." After a moment, she added, "I brought my lunch from home."

With that, she turned sharply and went back to her desk. I guess I read more into her use of my first name and those glances in my direction than she felt. I had probably stepped over the line. She was simply being friendly as a courtesy to me as a user of the library. I had imagined it was personal, that she somehow might have interest in me.

Why would she? I was just a drifter passing through. For all she knew, I could be a sexual predator. Besides, there was probably some rule against fraternizing with the patrons, even in a small town like Willow Run. Don't mix business with personal.

Now I felt foolish. Not because of the rejection, though that did hurt. I felt foolish because I'd put her in an awkward position. No wonder she reacted the way she did. I was also now in an awkward position. I felt a need to apologize to her.

I closed out of the searching. My next stop was Allison's desk to apologize. But before I could get out of my chair, she came toward me with purpose on her face. I spoke first.

"Allison, I'm sorry....." I didn't get the chance to finish. She waved off my apology with a shake of her head.

"You have nothing to be sorry about. I was abrupt and...." She didn't finish the thought, but rather continued in a new direction. "Would you please repeat your question?"

What? She wanted me to ask her to lunch again? It seemed a genuine, heart-felt request. So I asked again.

"Allison, can I buy you lunch?"

Without hesitation, she responded, "Yes, thank you." She smiled with a slight tilt of her head. I didn't know if there was any message to be derived from that tilt, but it only served to make her even more charming. As an after thought she added, "Yes, lunch would be nice. Maybe we can just go across the street to the diner, which you so highly recommended earlier."

"My thought exactly," I said smiling. But I was still puzzled by her. Mysterious and moody. Icy at times, and then quick to forgive my transgressions. This could be an interesting ride.

Chapter 24

We crossed the street in the bright sunlight and entered the diner. When we were inside, the heads of several seated guests turned our way, looks of surprise registering on their faces. Allison smiled and nodded greetings to several of them. This was followed by whispered conversations. Something new and gossip-worthy had just come through the door.

Choosing a booth that was a bit isolated from the rest of the patrons, Allison and I sat across from each other.

"So, Mr. Parker," she caught herself, "Nathan. I have a lot of questions for you. Since I barely know you, and we are now on a lunch date, I have to learn more about you. This is a small town, and I need enough information to defend myself from all the gossip that will surely follow."

She called this luncheon a date. That was quite a step up for me, going from possible sexual predator to date.

"I see that some of that gossip might have already started," I offered.

She smiled and said, "The price of living in a small town."

"If you don't mind my asking, why did you accept a lunch invite from a near stranger?" I probably shouldn't care why. What mattered is that we were here now. But I just wanted to know what a stably employed young woman saw in me, an unemployed drifter.

"This is supposed to be my interrogation of you. But I'll indulge your question first. It's really quite simple. I admire that you are sticking to your guns. You said you found a body in the forest. Everyone else seems to be trying to convince you that you're wrong. I'm not sure that you're right or that antagonizing Enid is a wise thing to do, but let's just say I like your spirit. I like your spunk."

I pondered that for a moment. "I never thought of myself as spunky."

"Well, maybe you should." She beamed a heart-melting smile. I smiled in return.

"As I may have said before, you certainly seem to be well informed about me. The local grape vine?"

"That's right. It works quite well."

We gazed at each other for a brief moment in silence, and then I spoke. "Well, if you need information to deal with the gossips, then OK, Allison. Fire away."

She was about to start when Janice appeared at the table. She definitely must live here. I had seen her early morning, in the evening, and now at lunchtime. Just further confirmation that her fair and unlined skin was due to her job. She never got outside in the sun.

"Hi, Allison. Welcome back, Mr. Parker." She had remembered my name, and probably the gossip that went with it. As I recalled that gossip discussion from earlier, I could feel myself getting hot in the neck, most assuredly beginning to flush, though I hoped not too noticeably red in the face.

Allison partly covered her mouth with her hand attempting to suppress a giggle. Janice played it cool, simply asking for our orders.

Since Janice didn't tell me what I should order as she did the other day for breakfast, I went with the likely safe bet of a grilled cheese sandwich and chicken noodle soup. Allison held up the menu in front of her. She did not speak, just tapped an item. Janice smiled, and simply said, "You got it."

I turned to Allison. "I suspect you already know a lot about me. I've been a topic of gossip in town for days."

"Actually, you're right. I do know a lot. You graduated from Fairfield High School just north of Cincinnati, National Honor Society, several sports teams, majored in criminal justice at University of Cincinnati, attended Cincinnati Police Academy. Now an ex-cop from there. You're out here maybe to do some hiking, maybe to write a novel, and maybe," she paused briefly, "correction, probably found a body in the forest."

"You got all that from the gossip wire?"

"Some, but it's too slow for all the details. I prefer the Internet."

"I didn't know so much of my life was on the Internet." I paused before continuing, uncertain if I should bring up the obvious. "So you did some on-line spying into my background before I asked you to lunch?" I asked it off-handedly, more as an amusing comment. There certainly was not time for her to do that search between when I first asked her to lunch and when she accepted. So she did it before today. There was no harm in it, and I was flattered that she might have done the search because she thought of me as potential dateable material before I asked her here. But then maybe she did the search to ensure I was not some kind of pedophile, booted out of Ohio for a nasty criminal offense. That's when I realized it might come off as more accusatory than casual.

There was a brief flash of anger in her eyes at realizing she had probably said too much, more than she intended to. It revealed her snooping on my background, looking into my history. Then the anger was gone, and she responded brightly, "It's my job. I'm the librarian." She smiled, and the warm glow melted my heart.

After a few moments to quickly recompose herself, she added slyly, "Something else that did come from the gossip wire."

"What's that?" I asked suspiciously.

"You're definitely on Deputy Powell's _S_ list."

A very blunt woman. I could feel myself beginning to flush again.

"So you took pity on me and accepted my invitation to lunch?"

"Something like that."

"Well, regardless of your motivation, I'm glad you accepted."

"Glad to help a tourist in distress," she offered. "Now I need some statistics. Height looks to be a little more than six feet. Weight 180 or 190 pounds. What about birth date and marital history?"

She wasn't wasting any time getting the fundamentals out of the way. Very direct. I liked that. "You surely found all this on the Internet, didn't you?"

"But it's always wise to check your sources. I like to confirm my data."

Me too, I thought. "OK. You're close enough on the height and weight. Never been married. I was engaged briefly back in Cincinnati."

"Oh, really? You'll have to fill me in on that."

"Later," was all I offered. A brief image of Jennifer Lambert flashed into my mind. But it faded with Allison's next question.

"Birthday?"

"Born on the fourth of July."

"An Independence Day baby. Wow! Well, I guess someone has to be born on that day."

"It gets even better. My mom was a Revolutionary War fanatic. So my full name is Nathan Hale Parker."

"Nathan Hale the patriot?" she asked.

"That's the one." And that had led Ed Garvey to give me the nick name Liberty. The name had stuck. "My mother probably would have preferred if our last name were Washington or Franklin to go with it, but she was stuck with Parker."

"Very cool, Nathan Hale Parker," she cooed.

"So what's your middle name?" I asked.

She paused, perhaps considering if I was trustworthy enough to be given such details of her life. Then she offered, "Violet."

"Allison Violet Wells," I recited. "Your mother liked flowers?"

"Yes, especially violets."

"Good thing," I said. "Allison Violet has a very nice sound to it. Otherwise you might be Rhododendron Chrysanthemum Wells." I fumbled in saying that tongue-twisting name, but it sounded like I avoided butchering it. "I'd be calling you Rhoda."

"Oh, please. I'd have to change my name or leave town."

"So, Rhoda," I began.

She flashed me the evil eye. Actually two green soul-piercing evil eyes, but only for a moment since there was a hint of humor behind them.

"So, Allison, when is your birthday?" Knowing the birthday was useful. It is very awkward to have missed on giving a gift or flowers or at least a card on the appropriate day, especially to someone who I considered very dateable material, someone I wanted to spend a lot more time with.

"In due time," she said mysteriously. "I've clearly let this interrogation get out of control. I'm supposed to be the one asking the questions." She paused to consider her next inquiry, and I waited for it. "When you were a cop, did you ever get shot?"

Usually people first asked if I had shot anyone. Perhaps that was because of the many TV crime shows with shoot-outs in the streets. They wanted to hear about the gun battles I had been in and how many criminals I had killed or wounded. In reality, I hadn't ever fired my gun at anyone, just at targets on the shooting range. Usually the second question then was to ask if I had ever been shot. But that was Allison's first question. Not a big deal, but it suggested a different mindset, concern for the well being of the officer first, rather than the fate of the criminal suspect.

Instinctively I touched my left shoulder where a bullet had struck me, and I saw her gaze go there. "Yes, once."

"What happened?" she asked with a note of concern in her question.

"It was late at night. A routine traffic stop for speeding. I never even got to the guy's car before I was hit and down. Nothing serious. My partner ended up killing the guy in self defense." The story was of course more involved than that, but those were the essentials.

"Those late night stops are scary," she said. "My brother is a county cop and patrols through the night. I worry about him."

I started to ask her more about that, but she continued.

"So you got shot. Is that why you're an ex-cop?"

I didn't like the ex-cop subject. It just brought up less-than-pleasant memories of a life now gone. "No. The bullet wound didn't do it. I was a victim of budget cuts," I said sourly. "Not enough seniority." I did not go into my social litter analogy.

"But there is always a bright side. It did bring you to our nice little town." She smiled brightly. "Next question. What are you researching on my computer?"

"Well, I really am writing a novel." I paused. "More accurately, I am planning to write a novel. I had some ideas before I came out here, but finding the body of the Hispanic guy is leading me in a different direction. So I'm searching a lot of things as background. Maybe I can fit that into a plot."

"Searching missing persons, Hispanics, fires, bounty hunters. Unusual stuff for a tourist. Did you find anything interesting?"

All those topics had been on the print outs I requested. She had handed them to me. So it did not surprise me she was well informed. And it did not bother me that she had snooped. No big deal. So I told her about the would-be car thief from last fall.

She laughed. "That was hysterical, the way Roland Barnes and Megan White beat on that guy. It was the talk of the town for a week. And the tackle by Deputy Powell was classic."

I suspected what that tackle must have felt like from my experience with Deputy Powell on Monarch Trail. And Enid had tackled another guy, Evan McCormick, in his bounty hunter days. So classic seemed to fit, but I asked anyway. "Classic?"

"Sure, he was a big football star in high school and college. So tackling had to be the way he would catch the guy." She paused to reflect. "Enid had a shot at the pros until he blew out a knee in his senior year at the University of Montana. Ended his football future."

"And he came back to Willow Run to be a cop?" I asked. She nodded. "That must have hurt his ego," I ventured.

"Yeah, he was pretty angry about that for a long time," she said. "He thought he had a shot at fame and fortune. I think he takes out his anger sometimes on criminals. Like that car thief. The tackle bruised him pretty badly. Nothing serious, of course, but Enid could have just grabbed him. Nope, had to be a hard tackle."

Her use of his first name suggested familiarity. "Do you know him well?"

"Oh, sure. In a small town, everyone knows everyone pretty well. We went to high school together, and we dated a couple of times after he became a cop. But he was too angry about how life treated him. So now we're just friends."

"Since you two have a history, does this lunch put me higher up on his _S_ list?" I asked.

"Probably," she replied devilishly.

Our food arrived then. My sandwich and soup, and her banana split. I looked at her suspiciously. "Won't that spoil your dinner?"

"Oh, I certainly hope so. I figured since this lunch wasn't planned, and you're buying, I would be impulsive."

We dove into the food, and she posed another question. "What else have you been searching?"

"About that big fire last year in the forest. I think there might be a way to connect the Hispanics with the fire, at least in making a story."

"Yeah, that fire was quite the thing. A lot of the people here are in the volunteer fire department, and they all went out to fight that one. It burned a lot of acres of the forest in a big valley. Left quite a mess."

"In talking with Ranger Pine about that, he said the area is off limits so it can recover."

"Don't you just love his name? Could he be anything except a ranger?"

"Probably not," I agreed, recalling that the same thought had crossed my mind on first learning his name at the ranger station. "He seems like he loves his trees."

"Yeah, he is a bit of a tree nerd. But here's some gossip for you." She leaned over the booth to confer conspiratorially. "His wife Edith left him almost a year ago. Just left one morning without a word. Didn't say anything to anyone. Ever since then, Ranger Pine has been practically living at the ranger station, working every day. It's as if when his wife left him, he married the job."

"That's a tough break. Where did she go?"

"No one knows. Neither of them grew up here. They moved in when Pine got the forest ranger position several years ago. They made some friends, but they weren't what you'd call real close friends. Anyway, even they haven't heard a word from her since she left. And he isn't saying anything. He was a bit of a recluse before. Now he doesn't seem to talk to anyone in town."

"I guess losing someone close can really change a person," I offered.

Since there didn't seem to be anything further to say on that topic, we fell silent for a few moments. But Allison soon took the lead.

"Anyway, the off limits stuff is typical around here after a fire. Unfortunately, we've had some practice in dealing with wild fires, living so close to the National Forest. Doesn't matter. There is plenty of forest out there for everyone, even with that burned out area closed off."

"I suppose so." Since she had just stuffed a heaping spoon of ice cream into her mouth, I took the opportunity to ask her a question. "I've seen a lot of Deputy Powell. Too much of Deputy Powell. What about Sheriff Tyler? He doesn't seem to be too active."

"The Sheriff is ready to call it quits. He wants to retire. So he's letting Enid pretty much run things. On the job training, I guess."

"Yeah, I overheard someone mention the Sheriff retiring."

"See, you really are part of the local gossip wire," she said smiling.

"I guess so," I responded with a smile. "Is Enid ready to be Sheriff?"

"I'm not sure. He still seems too angry. He needs to be better with people. Maybe he'll learn."

I could attest to Enid Powell's need to be better with people. Of course, I had heard the same said about me from the Sheriff. I guess we all have our issues.

"Sheriff Tyler seems to be very good with people."

"Oh, he is, and everyone wants him to stay on. But his wife died from cancer a couple of years ago, and that really hit him hard. Then his son Jason was killed in Afghanistan. He kinda lost interest in the job. The city council is talking about not replacing him since the budget is so tight. But even a small town like Willow Run needs two lawmen. So he has been going to the county seat in Choteau and the state capital in Helena to plead for some additional funding. Maybe the town can get enough to afford a second cop." She paused, and then asked brightly, "Interested in a small town job?"

"I am beginning to think I could be persuaded." We locked eyes for a few seconds, making a brief intimate connection.

"So, you're wandering alone across the country, hiking and writing....and searching the Internet on my computer."

"Yup, just the roaming gnome."

"Sounds lonely, Nathan Hale Parker."

"Oh, I was fine for a long time, except for the part about not having a job. I certainly thought finding a new one would be easier. I guess I've been doing OK on my own." I had not planned to share any deeper feelings, but she seemed a receptive caring audience, one in whom I could confide without fear of it all hitting the gossip wire in Willow Run. So in spite of my normally reserved nature when it comes to personal details, I spilled some of my inner secrets. "But one thing about solitude is you have lots of time to think. I realized that while I thought being alone was fine, I really was looking for more out of life. A lot more."

"I can understand that," she said quietly. "I think we're all looking for more in some way." She was looking at me intently, but also looking into me, as if searching.

I thought she might be flirting with me, opening up to her inner feelings also. Since I had already stepped into this personal territory, I ventured another step. "And what are you searching for, Allison Violet Wells?"

She didn't answer right away, yet continued to look into me. Normally I would feel discomfort at such focused attention. Normally I would turn away from the intensity of such a gaze, but I was not the least bit uncomfortable. Her eyes were sparkling and inviting, and I didn't want to look anywhere else.

She finally answered wistfully. "I suppose it's because this is a small town. Everyone knows everything about everybody. I just think there must be more. I guess I'm looking for something.....or someone to be more." She kept focus on me for another beat, and the sensation flowed to me that I might be the more, the someone, she was referring to.

Then as if breaking a spell, she looked away, adding, "But my mom always said bloom where you are planted. So that's what I'm doing."

She smiled. "Well, Nathan, I will have to continue my interrogation of you later. It's time for me to go back to work."

So, there might be a later. That was encouraging.

"Thanks for lunch. Are you doing any more searching today?" she asked.

"Not today. But tomorrow, yes. Right now, I want to go talk to Joseph Custer about that car thief article."

"Tomorrow then," she said, lightly touching my forearm as she turned to go.

I adored this woman. It was hopeless to deny it. Even though I was society's litter, I was feeling a lot better about it because Allison seemed to see value in me. Sometimes that's all it takes to feel as if life has meaning.

Chapter 25

As I walked the short distance to the newspaper office, I considered a point that Allison had made. Ranger Andrew Pine's wife Edith had left him, and no one had heard from her since.

Cortina Perez disappeared. The body of the dead man I found in the forest disappeared. And the Hispanic tackled and captured by Enid Powell last year was quickly picked up by INS. That occurred the same day he was captured. Would something like that happen so quickly? Would an INS agent make the run from wherever in Montana, on very short notice, all the way to little Willow Run to pick up just one guy?

It bothered me that this cluster of unusual events had occurred in a short span of time in one small place. And all of these disappearances seemed to be tied somehow to the burned-out valley in the National Forest. Ranger Pine was putting in much longer hours at work. Maybe it was just to keep himself occupied now that his wife was gone. Maybe it was the increased workload brought on by the manpower reductions forced by the recession. But what if it was his choice so that he could more closely monitor and guard the valley and whatever its secret is? I had to learn what secret was hidden in there.

I reached for the door handle of the Teton County Observer newspaper office. I was surprised that such a small paper, with likely very limited circulation, was still in business. The Internet was making printed newspapers less popular sources of information. Computers and hand-held devices had become the news medium of the times. Many big papers were folding, and even the survivors undertook massive cost-cutting efforts.

Inside the building was a small room with one desk and two chairs. Beyond it stood a wall with a single door in it. That presumably was the printing area in back. Behind the desk sat a thin, slightly stooped, clean-shaven, balding man who looked to be in his fifties, busily tapping on a keyboard. He glanced up when I entered.

"Hi. I'm Joseph Custer." He stood and stuck out his right hand, which I shook. "You must be the tourist Nathan Parker," he stated with certainty.

"How did you know that?" As soon as the question left my mouth, I realized it was a stupid thing to ask. Everyone in town seemed to know who I was.

"I'm a reporter. I'm naturally nosey and keep my ear to the gossip mill. I'm glad you stopped in. Saves me another trip to find you."

"You left some messages," I said.

"Yes indeed. Deputy Powell may mock your story about finding a body, but to me there's news in there. Can I interview you about what you found?"

He didn't waste any time with introductions or pleasantries, instead getting right down to business. That was fine. He wanted to exploit me as news. I wanted to pick his brain as a resource. It seemed a fair trade.

I really didn't want to keep the gossip alive about the body, but I guessed it didn't really matter. Most people in Willow Run had probably already heard about it. Might as well inform the few remaining uninformed and make it unanimous for the town. I didn't know how many specific details Enid had shared, but at least my telling would provide the real story and give me a voice.

While I did not know Joseph Custer except for this brief encounter, I got a good vibe from him. I was trying to solve a puzzle. I was trying to get some information to help sort out what I had seen and maybe get a jump on writing my book, which I hoped to base on lots of facts. So what was the real risk of telling him what I thought? He was a more receptive ear than most of the rest of this town.

So I said, "Tell you what. If you answer some questions for me, you can get your interview."

He gestured for me to sit in the second chair, and he sat back down behind the desk.

"What questions?" he inquired a bit suspiciously.

"I'm not done looking into this. Perhaps we can help each other. I can tell you about what really happened on Monarch Trail on Sunday, and you can write that up. In return, you can help me as I investigate it further. When it's done, and only when it's done, then we can share the whole story. I think you might end up with several stories out of this."

While his was a small paper in a small town, I could see a glint in his eyes. If there was more than just a one-time story, there might be something big in it for him. It might be something that could put him in a bigger spot light than Willow Run could offer. A good story might propel him out of a dying small-town newspaper and into something in one of Montana's bigger cities. While he might be reaching the end of a career at his age, he probably still wanted more. As Allison said, _I think we're all looking for more in some way._

"What do you mean by share?" he asked.

"We share authorship of the complete story. I'm not looking to be a reporter. I just want the exposure of having my name clearly tied to any news stories related to this." I felt a need for that kind of exposure to pull me out of my jobless obscurity. And if writing is where my life was leading, that exposure could propel me out of my drifter status.

He eyed me for a few seconds before responding. "I heard you might be writing a novel. So it will be based on this dead guy?"

I wasn't surprised that he knew that fact. The gossip wire again had spread the word. "Yes," I said firmly. "But that will be fiction, inspired by the facts. That won't happen for a while. In the meantime, if the facts turn into anything substantial, I suspect there will be news that could be helpful in getting your name and mine in the public eye." I paused in case he might have something to ask, but he sat passively. Was that a good sign he was listening? Or a signal that he thought I was nuts? Regardless, I continued. "Any publicity is good publicity if I want someone to actually buy my book."

He nodded, not necessarily in agreement, but perhaps just to acknowledge he understood what I was saying.

"So, what makes you think there is such news potential in all this?" he finally asked.

"There are some unusual things I've found. It seems to me like there's more going on than just the body I found in the forest. The Sheriff doesn't even want to look into it. He thinks I'm wrong and has dismissed me. So I've come to you. If you are willing to work with me, I'll tell you all of it, confidentially, of course. I can't tell you every detail now since there are some things that need to be checked and confirmed. But I'll start with the things I know for certain. Then we'll go from there. You must have contacts in the area that can help with investigating these. I don't have any connections here."

He considered what he'd just heard. He worked it over in his mind, the index fingers of his folded hands extended upward and tapping rhythmically against his tightly pursed lips, eyes looking straight ahead.

"So you suspect there is something big going on here?" he asked.

"Yes."

After another pause, he firmly said, "Agreed." He stuck out his hand so we could shake and seal the deal. Even though I did not know this man, I was certain that this handshake agreement would be as binding as any written contract.

I then told him my account of the events on Monarch Trail on Sunday morning. I told him what I told the Sheriff and Deputy Powell. Finding the body, calling 9-1-1, the call being transferred to Ranger Pine and then to the Deputy, the boot prints, the disappearance of the body. I told him everything, including my climb up the slope, the man who was pointing a rifle at me, and the details of my subsequent encounter with Deputy Powell. At this point, I was not concerned if it might differ in content from what I already told the Willow Run police.

Throughout my monologue, Joseph Custer tapped on his keyboard, typing all that I said. Certainly he would rewrite it later in his own style, inserting quotes from me and perhaps ones he had already heard elsewhere. But for now, he was just recording information. He then asked several questions, typing my responses into his document. When he was done, he let out a satisfied sigh and grinned.

"This will make an interesting story, a very different spin from what Enid Powell has been saying."

I was certain this story would really aggravate the Sheriff, but I didn't care. He was ignoring me. This might get his attention and force him to reconsider. Or prod him to run me out of town on a rail. At least there would be a reaction.

"Is he always so publicly talkative about police business?" I asked.

"Enid? Not usually this much, but he does say a lot more than he probably should. Sorry to say, I think he has a particular dislike for you."

"Yes, I got that impression," I said, realizing that at least part of that dislike was my own fault for giving Enid such a hard time. But I had so enjoyed it.

"OK, Mr. Parker. Now I've got your story. So what do you want from me?"

"Let me tell you about a coincidence that I think isn't."

That got his attention at least a little since he sat up straighter in his chair, leaning slightly forward.

"I think there's a connection between the dead man, the Hispanic car thief who was caught last fall right here in town, and the big fire last year in Spring Valley."

He didn't say anything right away. It was as if the three items I had just mentioned were bouncing around in his head, colliding and ricocheting as he considered how they might fit. He finally said, "Tell me more."

"First, tell me a little bit about the fire. I read several stories in some old papers at the library, but give me some of the facts and the unknowns."

"Well, it was a doozie. Biggest fire around here in a long time. It had been hot and dry all summer, so once it got started, there wasn't much to stop it."

"I heard it was big. Any cause determined?" I asked.

"The National Forest guys said it was a camp fire out of control. With the dry conditions, campfires were banned. But a lot of hikers never pay any attention to that. No one was ever tied to the fire. The guy apparently just walked away."

"Who fought the fire? Any outside people join in?"

"The National Forest guys, but there's only a few of them. Our volunteer fire department and a lot of people from town went up there to fight it. Some other fire departments in the area, local farmers. There was some word that National Guard guys came over."

Here finally was a connection to military. I had chosen to believe Jake Monroe regarding the military presence. But I hadn't considered the National Guard when I did my searching for military bases. That was an important oversight.

"I don't recall any mention of the National Guard in the newspaper articles. Where were they from?" I asked.

"It wasn't in the stories?" he asked.

I shook my head _no_.

"Missed that. Must have been too focused on the fire itself. I don't think I ever looked into where they came from. The nearest unit is in Great Falls. That's about 90 minutes east of here. Just out of curiosity, I will ask around." He paused. "Why is that important?"

I hesitated, wondering what entangled web I might be stepping into. But the commitment had already been made to work with Joseph Custer. We already shook on it. So I dove in.

"You may already know that I was a cop."

He nodded. "An ex-cop from Cincinnati, from what I hear."

"Even though I'm an ex-cop, I still get curious when I find a body in the woods that then disappears. This started as my attempt to figure out what happened to the guy and how he ended up dead out there." I paused to consider how to proceed next. "But along the way I also learned about the Hispanic car thief in your town last year. That makes two Hispanic guys running, one goes to jail while the other one dies. How often does that happen around here?"

Joseph Custer flashed a humorless grin, nodding his head in acknowledgement. "Only once."

"Right. An unusual thing. One dies and disappears. The other one is in jail and disappears into the hands of INS on the same day he's brought in." I paused to take a breath for effect. "But where is the nearest INS office and why would they come here so quickly just to pick up this one guy? Excuse me if this sounds insulting, but this small town would not seem to warrant that kind of instant service for just one guy."

He sat quietly for several seconds, gazing beyond me as he considered this. "You're right. Enid said INS came to get him, and I left it at that." It was said almost as a confession, as if realizing that he had not done the due diligence as a reporter to dig deep enough to connect all the dots, or even to find all the dots. Maybe he had been too long in a small town where, as the Sheriff said, nothing big happens. Joseph Custer may have lost his inquisitive edge. That might have been too harsh an assessment, but that is what I sensed. Perhaps he was rusty in his job, just as I had felt about my capability since being forced out as a cop. I hoped my eroded skills were returning. There was the glimmer of a spark in his eyes, so I was hopeful he still had the fire in his belly to be a better reporter.

"But here is the most solid thing to consider," I continued. "I'm certain those two Hispanics are in some way connected to something in Spring Valley. I don't know what it is, but I'm working on it. What I can tell you is I took a long hike in the National Forest to take a look inside Spring Valley. I ran into a fence out there."

"Yeah," he said, recovering his composure. "Everyone knows about the fence to keep people out while the valley recovers from the fire. That was in the stories in the papers."

"I'm not referring to the simple barbed wire fence. I saw that one even behind the ranger station." I paused to give separation between what I had just said and what I was about to say. "I walked over that barbed wire and up the slope surrounding the valley. I found something else. It was a huge chain-link fence, two parallel rows of it, eight feet high, several feet apart, with razor wire across the top. It completely encloses Spring Valley."

"What?" he said in disbelief.

I flipped open my phone, pulled up the images, leaned over the desk, and showed him.

He took the phone and stared at the pictures, scrolling through them. "Are you sure?" he inquired, still not believing.

"I took the coordinates for the valley off a map I picked up at the ranger station. I used my GPS to take me right to the spot. Yes, I'm sure."

He continued looking at the pictures, not ready to release the phone back into my hand.

"What's inside the fence?" I said.

"They're replanting trees, you know, those little evergreen seedlings. With the size of the valley, they'll have to plant thousands of them. It's going to take a while." But his response lacked conviction, as if he was robotically repeating the party line.

"That's the story that Ranger Andrew Pine fed me," I said. "And I believed it, until running into this fence. What's inside?" I pressed. "What's so important that this kind of protection is needed?"

He had no answer, but he did release his grip on my cell phone.

"No one builds a fence like this to protect seedlings. This is about more than just trees."

"There has to be a simple answer," he said defensively, but his words trailed off, lacking confidence.

"When I was there, there were men patrolling the fence line. I can't be sure, but they were probably military of some kind. I think the two Hispanic guys were being held in there and somehow managed to escape."

"Maybe so. But how could such a fence go unnoticed for so long?" he asked.

"You tell me. It's pretty remote back there, and the terrain is steep. It was a very difficult climb up that slope, and I'm in good shape. Maybe that steep slope was all it took." I did not tell him about Jake Monroe and his hobby of scaring people away. We could get to that some other time.

He was still contemplating the unknowns I had planted with him. The big question for me was still what's inside the fence? I contemplated hiring someone to fly me over the valley at low altitude to look in there. That might be the direction to go, though it sounded expensive. I didn't have any money for that.

Joseph Custer had stopped entering thoughts into his computer, but had continued taking notes on a pad of paper throughout our discussion.

"So, what do you think?" I asked.

"I think I have some work to do. Thanks for bringing this to me."

"Sure. When might you start on this?"

"Right away. Right now. I still have to get out tomorrow's paper, but I'm almost done with that."

"Great!" I said enthusiastically. "One more thing maybe you can do?"

"What's that?" he inquired.

"I'd like to talk with Megan White and Roland Barnes, the two who saw the car thief last fall. Just want to ask them a few questions. Could you arrange that? You're welcome to be there when I talk to them, of course."

"No problem. I'll call them today and set up something for tomorrow. They both live in town, so it should be easy."

Since we already had each other's cell phone numbers and he knew where I was staying, there was no need to exchange information. I left the newspaper office feeling comfortably unburdened. He had listened without criticism, something that the Sheriff had not done. It was good to have someone listen and accept that just maybe I wasn't a crazy tourist.

Chapter 26

I stayed on the sidewalk outside the newspaper office. It was shaded there, so a comfortable place to make a call. I scrolled through the contact list in my phone. When I got to my old partner's name, I punched the call option. It was nearly 5 PM in Cincinnati, and Ed would likely still be at the station, finishing up paperwork for the day. My call was answered after the second ring.

"Garvey."

"Ed, you still employed today?" I hoped that by starting this conversation on a light note that we could have a more congenial and productive discussion. Our previous phone conversations had been tense at times.

"I won't be if you keep distracting me from my duties," he said without any trace of anger. It sounded like we were back on pleasant terms. Now maybe he was going to give me some slack and thus less hassle. "Let me guess. You're still not taking my advice about watching where you step, so now you have another request."

"Am I that transparent?" I asked, trying to inject some hurt into my question.

"Well, let's see. Until a couple days ago, I hadn't heard from you in over a week, and then all of a sudden you're calling every day. Yeah, transparent is a good choice of word." He paused. "Have you at least started writing your book rather than spending all your time being a detective?"

I still had not actually started any writing. The investigation was consuming all my time and energy. There was, though, at least the start of an outline on my note pad back at the motel. So there was a positive response I could give. "Yes, Ed. I started."

"Good to hear. I better get a cut of the profits from your book, considering all the help you keep asking for."

"Maybe I can give you an acknowledgement at the end or use your name for one of the characters. How does that sound?"

"I'll reserve a decision until after you tell me what you want."

"I was wondering if you had any word yet from your INS guy about the Hispanic who was picked up last year in Willow Run."

Ed said, "I left a message, but he hasn't called back with anything yet."

"Well, can you call him again? I really need to know about this guy," I pleaded.

"You do realize that I don't work for you, don't you?" he shot back.

"Yes, Ed, I know. But this is important."

He sighed. "OK, I'll call him again," he said tiredly. "But this is gonna cost me some LA Lakers tickets to press him for information. You know how hard it is to get those tickets for a price I can afford?"

"Just let me know how much, and I'll pay for them." I winced at the thought of how much this might cost me. $100? $200? $500? I really had no idea what professional basketball seat prices were, but tickets in LA would not be cheap.

"Oh, no. You're not getting off that easy. Besides you need the money. No, I like the idea of you owing me. I'll decide later what it will cost you," Ed threatened. "Yeah, you're going to pay big time."

"OK, OK," I responded in mock surrender. "I'll owe you."

"Give me a couple of days, Nathan. And for free, I'll give you the same advice as before. Watch where you step, buddy."

"I will. Thanks, Ed."

Now that I had talked with a reporter about my investigation, I felt committed, even compelled to actually start writing a book. I drove back to my motel room and dove into it, banging away on my laptop. I had been wrestling with how to make my observations into a story. But I decided to simply write the events as they were occurring, exactly as it was happening to me, with all the unknowns that came with it. I was living it, so I would just write it that way.

I started with an outline of what had occurred to me over the past several days. Then I went back and started filling in details. After a couple of hours, I started to lose my focus and could not put any more words down.

I called Joseph Custer, hoping he had already learned something. No answer. I left a message.

My mind was still fuzzy. I decided a short hike seemed like the right thing to clear my head and let me refocus.

I grabbed my backpack to stuff in a couple of water bottles. These were bottles that I had used and reused many times, simply refilling them. It was just a small stab at thrift, but every penny helped to slow the decline of my cash reserves.

There were also a couple of empty bottles from one of my previous hikes. As I removed them, I recalled that in another pocket there was also some litter I had picked up from Monarch Trail on Sunday. I normally disposed of such trash the same day it was collected. But my tussle with Deputy Powell and the quality time spent in the Willow Run jail cell had put me off my stride.

As soon as I opened the pocket, something clicked for me. Two seemingly disparate thoughts had found each other. I immediately stopped and went to my car to retrieve a pair of gloves. They were thick-fingered winter gloves and would be clumsy to work with, but the litter was damp and sticky and smelly. I was going to use some measure of protection.

While I had picked up the items as trail trash on Sunday without any examination, I was alertly examining them now. Near the opening of the pocket was what I sought. It was a piece of paper, a piece of brown paper. It was not crumpled, like someone might have bunched it into a ball to discard it. Rather this torn piece of brown paper had been folded, and the other edges had been crimped to make a roughly square sealed pouch, just as might be done with aluminum foil to wrap a sandwich, though one end of this packet was shredded open. There was nothing inside that I could see, but with the end shredded, whatever might have been inside would have spilled out. They were either on the ground where I had found it, mixed in with the other litter in my backpack, or who knows where else in the National Forest.

I uncrimped the edges of the packet to open it. The brown paper was much thicker and tougher than normal writing paper. It was dirty, with some dark-colored smudges. Also on the paper were the two stamped capital letters M and E. The thing that came to mind immediately was medical examiner. ME. But certainly this meant something else, or maybe ME had nothing to do with anything, just imprinted letters on a piece of old brown paper that was used as a wrap. There was also some hand-written scrawl on the paper. It was either really bad penmanship, or it was not English. Beyond English, I had no language skills, so could not decipher what it said.

Regardless, I was certain I'd seen paper that looked exactly like this before. It was lying on the ground under the right hand of the dead Hispanic on Monarch Trail. I took pictures of it with my cell phone. Those pictures had been deleted by the Willow Run police. I needed to see those pictures again to compare. But I couldn't. They were gone. Even if I could see them again, what did it mean? Did it mean anything at all?

I went into the bathroom for two towels, which I spread out on the bed. I dumped the entire contents of the litter from my backpack into a pile on one towel to inspect it all. I removed each piece from the pile as I did a mental inventory, putting the inspected litter on the other towel. There were two aluminum soft drink cans, which I had flattened before putting in the pack, gum wrappers, an empty plastic Tic Tac container, a tattered trail map, some used facial tissues, a used condom, which I had wrapped in tissue before picking it up, broken plastic sunglasses, and a set of car keys. I had forgotten about the keys, which I found near the parking lot. None of these items seemed relevant to what I was looking for.

I recalled that under the right hand of the dead man had also been what I thought was fresh plant material, leaves and a segment of stem. Images of them were with the now-deleted-from-my-cell-phone photos of the brown paper. I didn't have a good enough recollection of them to compare mentally with all the bits and pieces of plants that now remained from my original pile of litter on the towel. Did any of these come from the brown paper pouch? Or were they just things that I picked up along with the litter? I didn't know.

I also didn't know plants. Botany was not my strong suit. So I didn't know what I had in front of me. It was just a pile of stuff that was brown and crinkled, or rapidly heading toward that fate. But I got to thinking about coincidences. I picked up some litter that may be similar to what was under the dead guy's hand. On first finding the body, I was not certain if the brown paper had anything to do with him. He could have simply landed next to it when he ran off the cliff. Then I just happened to pick up another one just like it, thinking it was ordinary litter, probably just moments before while hiking. I did recall that I'd found it near the cliff face. Coincidence? Possibly. But probably not. And then there was this plant material thing. Maybe this whole connection that had just clicked in my head was taking me somewhere. Or not.

Yet I had to pursue this as far as it would go. This paper may have been handled by the dead guy. That would leave fingerprints. Maybe the guy had a criminal record, or had been deported back to Mexico previously, or had been screened as part of a job interview. Then there would be prints on file somewhere. Of course, my prints might be on the paper too. I had picked it up off the ground on Sunday. But I had been wearing gloves today. So at least there were no new prints added. This was worth exploring. I called Ed Garvey, but it went right to message.

"Ed, this is Nathan. I'm sending you a letter overnight with an explanation. Maybe you can just add it to my tab. I wanted to explain before sending it, but I think this is really, really important. Give me a call when you get a chance. Thanks, buddy."

I had some old plastic shopping bags in my luggage. I picked up the towel with what I thought was the irrelevant litter and dumped it into one of those bags. I took some pictures of the plant material and then dumped it into a second bag. Both bags then were returned to my backpack, my evidence locker. I tossed the towels into the bathroom.

It was not quite 4 PM. I could still get this to the Post Office for overnight express mail delivery. Ed would get it tomorrow morning. I jotted a note requesting that he check for fingerprints and that he should expect to find mine also. Then I realized there might be another known set of prints on it, those of Deputy Powell. Since he had searched my backpack when I was a guest in his jail, he may well have touched the litter in the pack also. So I added a sentence that Enid Powell might also have left his mark.

I took a picture of the brown paper with my cell phone camera. I nudged the brown paper onto a blank sheet of paper, and then folded them together. It was a bit presumptuous of me that Ed would do yet another favor, this time without actually discussing it beforehand. But I hoped our friendship would permit taking advantage of his connections to the crime lab in Cincinnati yet again. My investigation was so reliant on him. I hoped my requests had not reached the limits of his generosity in helping me.

The Willow Run Post Office was still open when I arrived, though the clerk just inserted a key into the door's lock when I rushed in. She didn't object verbally to my last-minute arrival, though she seemed impatient for me to be done with my business. She seemed even less pleased when I went to the coin-operated color photocopier, particularly since I then had to ask her for the appropriate change. Again, there was no verbal objection, though she wore a tight-lipped grin of annoyance.

I had not brought my gloves into the post office, so had to gently prod the brown paper onto the photocopier glass with my car key to copy one side, and then flip it over to copy the other side. Even though only one side contained any writing, the ME and the scrawls, I wanted to have a complete picture of it before letting it out of my hands. All this painstaking effort for a piece of scrap paper only added to the postal employee's impatience with me since it extended the time it took me to finish.

I then asked her for an envelope, which she pointed out to me on a display rack near the copier. I slid the brown paper back into the blank piece of paper, refolded it, and then put my note to Ed Garvey on top. I slid these into the appropriate envelope, addressed it to Ed's home, and paid the clerk. She stiffly assured me he would get it Friday morning.

While the entire process probably took less than five minutes, it seemed much longer because she had been hovering, impatient for me to finish so she could go home. In spite of her attempt at intimidation, I thanked her and left the post office at one minute before closing time, so there was no need to feel guilty about delaying her intended early departure. Most importantly, the letter was on its way to Ed.

Chapter 27

I forgot all about taking a hike. I had another thought. If there was a military unit in the valley, even a secret operation, one might expect to see military personnel around town. Being cooped up on a military base would wear thin after weeks or months. They would want to get out and blow off some steam. Even secret bases must issue a pass or leave.

Soldiers on leave might not be in uniform, especially if there was some secrecy surrounding their mission. But a group of them, young fit men with their short haircuts, should make them easy to spot if one is looking for them. If I were a local, such newcomers would probably be recognizable on sight as not from around here, just like everyone seemed to know I didn't belong here. Yet even though I was not local, I didn't recall seeing anyone that might fit the mold of someone in the military.

Where do military guys hang out off base? Never having been in the military, I didn't know, but could guess. Willow Run was not an entertainment mecca, though it was the only town within many miles. It seemed the most likely place to look was a bar or wherever they might find women. I did know where at least one bar was, just south of town on Highway 287.

I pulled out the phone book. This is one of the times I really missed not having an Internet connection and printer. I could easily pull up a listing of all the bars in the area and print out driving directions to them. As it turned out, though, all the bars within many miles of here were along Highway 287. I just had to drive north and south from the motel and find half a dozen joints that might attract soldiers on leave, assuming that they confined their leaves to the local area. If they ventured much farther away, then the options were probably too great to even consider exploring.

It was still early, as far as the bar crowds are concerned. Not even 9 PM. But I hopped into my car, and drove the half a mile south to the nearest bar. _Snake Pit_ was emblazoned in bright red neon lights over the roof. There were a dozen vehicles in the lot, all parked in a line facing the building and all but two of them large pickup trucks. My foreign mini-SUV was small and very conspicuous next to this array of horsepower, so I parked at the end of the row, out of the glare of the lights streaming out the front windows.

Loud country music burst through the front door when I entered. Inside was a bar against the back wall, a few round wooden tables with wooden chairs scattered about the area in front of it, and a pool table on the far left. True to its name, the bar also held a glass aquarium containing rocks, sand, desert plants, and several rattle snakes. The fluorescent bulb above it flickered randomly. The snakes were motionless and curled in a corner.

The place smelled of stale beer and staler cigarette smoke. There was a blue haze in the air, and I saw that several patrons were puffing away. There were also plenty of others using smokeless tobacco, a wad of the stuff tucked between cheek and gum. I didn't have to get close to see which people chose that form of nicotine intake. The outlines of round metal cans bulged in the back pockets of jeans, both male and female, and several held used plastic beverage containers into which they could spit.

Everyone wore cowboy hats, including the sole waitress. Part of the local attire. She was clad in white boots that peaked out from under tight-fitting jeans and a white blouse that seemed to have been sculpted to fit her upper body like a coat of paint. She filled out the outfit well, to the delight of the customers with whom she seemed to have a great rapport. Both of these attributes would likely contribute to some sizeable tips.

When I took a seat at an empty corner table, she hustled right over.

"Howdie. Welcome to the Snake Pit," she said with a huge grim. "First-time customer?"

I felt like there was a neon sign over my head proclaiming _stranger_. Great for my planned undercover work. "Thanks. Yes, my first time here."

"What are you drinking?" she asked.

I wasn't much of a drinker, so had always been the designated driver ever since first getting my license. Now on my limited budget, I had cut alcohol out completely since it was too expensive. But I would stick out even more here if I ordered just a Coke, so I ordered a beer.

The waitress swayed her way to the bar to fill my order. She dodged between tables and chairs, deftly avoided groping hands, and arrived at her destination without dropping a single empty beer bottle from her overloaded tray.

I surveyed the room. With the loud music, the sharp clack of pool balls striking each other, and the dim lighting in the corner I had chosen, no one paid any attention to me. So I could scan the room without fear of being detected. I realized then there was probably another distinguishing feature of the military guys on leave, in addition to their youth and fit builds. They would likely not have cowboy hats. That should make them far easier to spot.

I stayed for 45 minutes, nursing my beer and scanning the room. A few customers left, only to be replaced by more guys wearing ten-gallon hats, jeans, and boots. A couple of women entered also, but they were in the company of more cowboys. No military guys that I could detect with any certainty. The waitress was getting annoyed with me, probably for not ordering another drink and thus not contributing to her take of tips for the night. And I was occupying a table that could be used by the next influx of customers. So I put a ten on the table and left quickly.

Maybe that bar was too close to home for comfort. They might want to put some distance between their base and where they entertained themselves. So I needed to range out further. Or maybe none of them were on leave tonight. Or maybe there were no military guys in the area at all, in which case I was chasing nothing. After all, I was relying on the report of Jake Monroe, an unstable individual at best. But I pressed on anyway.

I went to the next bar south, which was several miles further away. The red neon sign over this one read _The Trough_. It was much like the Snake Pit: large pick-up trucks, loud, filled with cowboys, stale smelling, smoky, and no military-looking guys in sight. I nursed another beer for nearly an hour, and then called it quits there.

I never was much of a drinker. Even small quantities of alcohol affected me quickly. And since I had not imbibed in a long time, my tolerance was diminished even further. So I felt light headed from the beers and lack of dinner. Before leaving the bar, I paid for a couple bags of pretzels to help ease my hunger and the effect of the alcohol. I didn't feel too impaired to drive, but that is probably what every drunk thinks when getting behind the wheel. So I sat in my car in the parking lot eating the salty snacks and downing a bottle of water from my cooler. I took it slow and gradually felt my head clear.

I decided to not stray further from my motel since my driving skills were probably still diminished. At The Trough, I was nearly ten miles south of the motel. I headed north and would stop at the first bar up there in search of my quarry. After nursing a beer there, if I had no luck, then I'd call it a night. I zoomed past my motel and continued north.

I pulled over. Not because I had reached the next bar, but because the flashing lights of a patrol car close to my rear bumper compelled me to. I suspected why I was being stopped. My speedometer had nudged well past the speed limit. But my concern was the alcohol I'd consumed. I popped a stick of mint gum in my mouth, chewed, and opened the car window. Saying as little as possible seemed the wisest move since I didn't know how much the alcohol might have affected me. So I would only speak if asked a question.

In my rear view mirror, I watched the officer approach. He strode with a confident swagger up to the driver side of my car, and shone his flashlight into the interior and across the side of my face. I squinted my eyes to avoid the blinding glare.

"License, registration, and proof of insurance," he said, skipping any introductory comments. I could not see any of his facial features, just a tall dark form back-lit by the moon. I handed him the requested documents and noticed there was a Teton County Sheriff Department patch sewn on the upper left breast of his shirt. The name plate underneath read _Wells_.

I started to ask if he was Allison's brother, but he cut me off.

"Please stay in your vehicle. I'll be back," he responded curtly.

He returned to his patrol car, surely to check out my vehicle, my documents, and me. He was there for several minutes, then finally came back and returned my documents.

"You were speeding," he stated flatly. "I'm just giving you a warning this time. Slow down or the next time you'll get a ticket."

I turned my head to thank the officer for giving me only a warning, but he was already gone back to his vehicle. Then he sped into the night heading north.

I continued north for another 12 miles until finding the next bar. The name over this establishment was _Montana Moonshine_. It looked much like the other two bars and had pretty much the same type of patrons. I stayed only thirty minutes and gave up.

Hell, even if I drank at every bar in Montana I might not find what I was looking for if it wasn't there to be found. Maybe the guys never left the base or maybe there is no secret base. I could simply be way off base.

But I wasn't ready to give up. I didn't find them at a bar, but maybe I could sight them returning to the valley after a night of drinking. On the way back south, I parked in some dense growth across the road from the entrance to the National Forest. It was the same area I had parked in on Tuesday evening. This time, I embedded my car deeper into the trees so that it would not be visible even in the glare of lights from passing vehicles. I could still see the National Forest entrance through openings in the tangle of tree branches, though the view was very limited. But it was sufficient for what I needed.

I killed the lights and engine and waited. I waited a long time: ten minutes, twenty minutes, thirty minutes. I stared at the luminous numbers on my cell phone screen. The minutes ticked by so slowly as I sat quietly in the dark, alternately staring at my phone, at the rear view mirror, and then out the car's side window. I had to keep this rotation to remain alert. The lateness of the hour and the alcohol were affecting me to the point that I might doze off if I let my vigilance drop.

Occasional vehicles blew past me going north or south. I didn't pay any attention to them. Only a vehicle that turned into the National Forest entrance would be of interest to me.

I sat there for a long time. No one entered. No one even slowed on passing by. I just sat there waiting and watching. I began to wonder if I should give this up. It was well past midnight. How long should I wait? I decided another forty-five minutes, at which time I knew I would wait even a little longer just in case. So I set a new limit of another sixty minutes.

For cars going north, I had started counting the number of seconds it took for the beam of headlights to first become visible as a faint reflected glow on the dark pavement until the red taillights were facing me. That interval was four or five seconds depending on the speed of the passing vehicle. At the fifty-two minute mark, I started counting again as the next car approached. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven..... The approaching vehicle was slowing down. In a few more seconds, a car pulled into the entrance. It swung around and pointed south. It was probably someone just turning around. But the vehicle then stopped. A tall thin man emerged, unlocked the gate, and swung it open.

Within seconds, the glow of headlights from the north swept across the entrance, and I could see who the tall thin man was. Ranger Andrew Pine. The glow of the headlights neared, and a camouflaged Hummer turned into the entrance. There were two heads poking above the seats.

Not far behind the Hummer was another vehicle. Its headlights were widely spaced and high off the ground. A truck. I could see it was boxy, drab-colored, had two wheels in the front and four in the back, and a canvas tarp over the cargo bed. A typical military-style truck one sees at reserve facilities all over the country and often on the highways chugging along alone or in convoys. There was a driver and a passenger in the front seat. The truck rode low, as if its cargo bed was loaded. The truck slowed, lurched through the gate, accelerated, and roared off into the forest, following the Hummer. Ranger Pine closed and locked the gate, jumped into his car, and sped back south toward Willow Run. The whole process took less than thirty seconds. Then the night went quiet again.

I was tempted to follow the car to see where Ranger Pine was going. But it seemed logical he was simply going home. Instead, I got out of my car to follow the vehicles into the forest.

Chapter 28

I climbed over the entry gate and jogged down the paved and then gravel road past the ranger station. I hurdled over the _Official Use Only_ gate and entered into the forest canopy overhanging the track through the trees. Very little moonlight penetrated here, but I could still see well enough to navigate forward. I could see and feel under my feet the many small stumps of all the trees that had been cut during the fire-fighting efforts last fall. They were cut very close to the ground so that vehicles could pass over them without puncturing a tire or scraping the undercarriage. After jogging for what I judged was about a mile, I slowed to a walk. My breathing gradually returned to normal such that I could hear the sounds of the forest around me, not just the rapid pounding of my heartbeat in my ears.

Continuing forward, I eventually saw a break in the trees ahead in the distance. The moonlight was more visible over the wide opening of the valley. Since I could more clearly see my target, I moved to the right edge of the road to be less visible myself. I stopped every few steps to peer ahead and listen. There was nothing. I continued this walk and stop routine. This vigilant slow pace was tedious and even a bit nerve-wracking, but I felt it was necessary.

In the dim moonlight, I finally got close enough to see a chain-link fence running across the road and stopped to stare. It was topped by razor wire. Behind it, I could make out a second row of fencing, just like on top of the ridge surrounding the valley. There were no lights visible beyond the fence, as though those inside were in blackout conditions. There had to be at least someone in there, such as the two guys in the truck and the two guys in the Hummer. I had to get closer to look in.

I was about to continue forward to the fence when my ears detected the faintest crunch. It sounded like a footfall breaking small twigs. It came from the other side of the track well ahead of me. Standing perfectly still and without moving my head, I swept my eyes in that direction. There was movement to the left, slow deliberate movement, and more quiet crunching under feet. As the sound progressed across the road in front of me, I saw the faint outline of someone, and it seemed he was carrying something high across his chest. It was a rifle. The figure came slowly toward me, and seemed to be cautiously searching. Perhaps the person heard my approach and was looking for its source. It was clear, though, if I stayed here and he continued on his course, I would be found.

I didn't panic. I had been mentally prepared for this. I had followed the track of a military truck toward what I suspected to be a place occupied by guys with guns. I was unarmed, probably a fool getting in over my head. But I was ready to fight my way out, if I had to.

My heart rate was rising, and I could feel the blood pulsing through the veins in my temple. I forced myself to take slow quiet breaths. He still crept cautiously forward toward me.

I didn't dare make a sudden move from this spot. My movement would be seen. Even though the dark woods were behind me, so he probably couldn't see me, I felt like too big of a target standing up. Ever so slowly, I crouched down to minimize my profile, ending in a position where I sat on my uplifted heels, balancing on my toes. My fingertips were outstretched to my sides, lightly touching the ground for balance. From this posture, if I needed to, I could roll right or left or spring forward. Retreating was not an option. I would be found if I attempted retreat.

The figure still came in my direction at the same slow measured pace. His rifle was still held high across his body, across his chest. He was less than 20 feet away. I felt lightly with the fingers of my right hand on the ground for something that could be used as a weapon. There were small pebbles, along with sand and pine needles. Now he was just 15 feet away. I probed a little farther behind me and felt a stick. My fingertips ran along its length. It was maybe two feet long, less than two inches in diameter. He was only ten feet away. The branch felt firm, not spongy like an old rotting piece of wood. Not much, but it could work if I surprised the guy. Now he was just a few strides away. I quietly lifted the stick and gripped it tightly in both hands like the handlebar of a mountain bike, my knuckles pressed against the ground in front of me for balance. I tensed in preparation, adrenaline pumping through my system.

"Mason!" The urgent call came from near the fence. "Mason! What's going on out there?"

There were two of them? I hadn't seen or heard the second guy, who was much farther back, perhaps up near the fence. I was certain he could not see me, otherwise he would have known what was going on. I froze in position, and could feel tightness and burning building in the tensed muscles of my feet and legs.

"Mason!" the other guy called in annoyance. "Are you screwin' around again?"

"Quiet. I thought I heard something over here." He was so close that even his hushed response to his partner seemed loud.

"I didn't hear nothin'. Do you see anything over there?"

"Quiet!" Mason urged.

Mason kept coming my way. My heart was pounding so loudly in my head that he must hear it. What was I doing? I had some training in hand-to-hand combat against an armed opponent, and had done well in practice. But I had never actually used that skill in the field. Did I think I was Rambo? Yet I now had no choice but to strike before he stepped right on me or heard my heart as it burst from my chest. And I hoped my body had another surge of adrenaline in reserve to take me through this.

He was only a couple of strides from me and moving faster now, like he was charging me. I sprang upward and toward him, driving the stick upward with both hands, using all the strength in my arms. I felt the jolt in my wrists and forearms as it hit him hard under the chin, and I heard the sharp clack of lower teeth smashing into upper teeth. He grunted, staggering backwards and starting to fall. I continued to push until he fell with a thud on his back, his head smacking hard against the ground. I landed in a seated position on his abdomen, which emptied his lungs of air in a loud grunt. His fingers lost their grip on the rifle, and he lay still.

I felt an urge to leave now that the immediate threat had been neutralized. But I stayed frozen in place.

"Mason! What was that?" the other man shouted.

The other guy was closer now. Did I have to confront him also?

I sat motionless on Mason's mid-section, and he continued to lay quiet.

"Mason, did you run into a tree again? You dumb fuck." After a pause, "I wish the Lieutenant had gotten us night vision goggles." It was quiet for a few moments. "Mason?"

I felt for and could feel Mason's pulse on his neck. As I did, my fingers touched metal. Dog tags. This was what I had expected to find. This wasn't the reason I followed the truck. It was even better. Reckless behavior led me to attack an armed guard. Now I was glad I did.

"I'm not coming out there to drag your sorry ass back in here," his partner scolded.

I hoped that Mason would be fine, after a couple of days. Tomorrow though he would definitely have a headache and sore jaws. I snatched the dog tags off the chain and placed Mason's rifle softly onto the pine needles in the woods several feet away. If he came around, he wouldn't find it in time to shoot at me. I would be long gone.

"God damn it, Mason. Where are you?" The other guy was sounding a bit desperate now.

I dropped the chain and one dog tag on the ground, keeping the other tag. That was really the original purpose of the tags to the military, take one and leave the other with the body. With any luck at all, Mason would actually think he ran into a tree, knocking himself out, and losing a dog tag when his chain snagged on a branch. With any luck. Regardless, I was leaving with some information. Maybe this tag would help tell me who these guys are.

I scooted softly on the fallen pine needles in a crouched position down the edge of the road, moving quickly away from the fence. When I had gone for about a minute like this, I stopped to listen, still crouched down to minimize my profile. I forced myself to breath shallowly so I could hear better, though it was difficult with my accelerated heartbeat and the rush of blood pounding in my head. But I heard no other human sounds. No crunch of footfalls on the ground, no shouts of alarm, no gunshots whizzing around me. There were only the sounds of the forest: crickets and an owl in the distance.

I stood upright and ran, still staying on the pine needle carpet. I ran as fast as I could, down the road, over the fence, past the ranger station, over the gate, across the highway, and into the relative safety of my car.

As I drove south, I looked behind me, but didn't see any headlights trailing me. As a precaution, I went past my motel for a mile, did a U-turn in the road, and headed back north. No lights came toward me, so I felt sure that I was not followed. I stopped across the road from the motel and surveyed the parking lot for several minutes. There was nothing unusual happening, and no other cars passed by or entered the lot. I killed the car lights, turned into the lot, shifted into neutral, turned off the engine, and coasted into a spot in front of my room. No lights came on in the office or any of the other rooms. I went inside my room, my safe haven in Montana. It was there that I finally felt my heart rate slow to normal. It was nearly three in the morning.

Still fully clothed, I lay down on the bed thinking the rush from my adventure would prevent me from dozing at all. I was really feeling the juice now. I had some hard information, the dog tag. Much better than my disappearing body, sighting of some guys who might be military, and some plant pieces that might have nothing to do with anything. But I was spent, like coming down from a high. In minutes, I was sound asleep.

Chapter 29

I awoke to someone pounding on my room door and a raspy female voice shouting, "Housekeeping."

An instant later, the door was unlocked and propelled inward. The security chain prevented it from opening.

"Damn!" she uttered. Then the door slammed shut. It must be the so-happy-to-be-here sister-in-law, still stuck with the cleaning job she so despised. That meant Cortina Perez had not reappeared.

It was Friday, eight o'clock. I had slept remarkably well, considering my reckless behavior last night, or more correctly early this morning. I had assaulted an armed guard, a military man, in the dark. His fellow guard had called him Mason. He also said something about running into a tree. So perhaps Mason did not even know he had been assaulted. Perhaps he thought he had run into a tree again. That would be convenient. Alternatively, since no one had burst through the door to roust me out of bed to be arrested, I was at least an unknown assailant.

My first priority was to call Ed. I pulled out the confiscated dog tag. Jeremy Mason was the name imprinted on it. It also listed his middle initial, social security number, blood type, and religion. The information was minimal. But it would be more than enough for Ed to run it down, if he was willing.

My call to his cell phone was answered on the fourth ring, but it wasn't him. It was his wife Samantha.

"Hello?" she said with a rising tone at the end of that word, as if it were a question.

"Hey, Sam. How are you?"

"Nathan! It's good to hear your voice. Are you OK?" She had always been a worrier and often asked that question, as if any phone call meant I was ill or in trouble. Maybe it was being a cop's wife that made her nervous, wondering when that call would come in that there had been a shooting involving someone she really cared about. I wasn't shot, I wasn't ill, though I might soon be in trouble out here with my increasingly reckless behavior.

"Everything's fine, Sam." With her, I couldn't just ask for what I wanted. There always had to be the introductory chitchat before getting to the main point. That had always been fine with me in the past, but right now I just wanted to talk to Ed. Things were rolling, and I didn't want to lose momentum. But I also had to meet her expectations.

"How are the kids?" I asked, trying not to sound robotic about it. I cared about the kids, of course, but really just wanted to talk to Ed.

"They're great. We're on our way to a soccer game with them right now." Then she got to her business. "I've been worried about you, traveling all alone across the country. When are you coming back?" I knew she cared, cared a lot. She had sort of treated me like an adopted son. One of her missions in life was to match me up, get me married and settled down, regardless of my employment situation. I suspected that was a primary motive for wanting me back in Ohio so she could hook me up with another female from her stable of available women.

"Maybe I'll come back for the holidays. Right now I'm exploring opportunities in Montana." She, of course, already knew about that since surely she would have picked Ed's brain clean of any gossip about me. Samantha Garvey would fit well in the grape vine out here. Her ear was always tuned to new news.

"That would be so nice. I'll make up a bed in the basement for you," she said gleefully.

It was time to make the switch in subject. "Sam, can I talk to Ed for a minute?"

"He's driving, so can't talk right now." She had a strict rule about cell phone use while behind the wheel. She intended it to be a clear signal to her children that it just was not done, not in her car, not by her family. It was probably a wise position to take, though I knew that Ed violated that whenever she wasn't there to monitor him.

"Then just have him call me when he can talk, OK? It's important."

"He can call as soon as we get to the game."

"Thanks, Sam. I have to go now."

There was a moment of silence as if she was put off by the shortness of the call, but she finally answered. "You be careful, Nathan."

"Thanks. I will."

I disconnected the call. While it was nice to talk with her, I really had wanted to speak with Ed. I had a hot item of interest in my hand, the dog tag. Now it was going to sit idle for too long. That bothered me. Opportunity right in front of me, but nothing I could really do with it.

I quickly showered, shaved, and dressed. It bothered me that I still had not heard from Joseph Custer. He had suggested setting up meetings with Brenda White and Ronald Barnes for today. Perhaps there was a message waiting for me stuck in my door.

There was none, but maybe at the front desk. As I walked down the sidewalk toward the office, I saw the angry sister-in-law noisily doing her cleaning chores, occasionally uttering some profanity. Again I did not see Cortina, unfortunate confirmation that she was probably gone for good.

In the office, I saw that it was too late for the continental breakfast. All that remained were sugar crumbs and grease stains in the otherwise empty donut box. And the juice pitcher was drained. No coffee was brewing in there either. My stomach grumbled from lack of attention, but it would have to wait a bit longer.

"Good morning," I said trying to sound cheery.

The guy behind the desk didn't even look up from his newspaper. He just grumbled, "I suppose so." He must still be enamored with having to endure his sister-in-law's lack of cleaning capabilities.

"Are there any messages for me? Room 17?"

Again without looking up or checking who was asking, he said, "Nope." Well, it was a small motel. I guess he would know if there were messages.

Then I realized I hadn't checked my cell phone for messages that might have come in last night. I had left it off all night. I had just turned it back on this morning and failed to check. Sure enough, there was a message from Joseph Custer just before midnight. I connected to my voice-mail to listen.

"Mr. Parker. Joseph Custer. I did some checking after our discussion. Found something very interesting. Stop by the office."

He found something interesting so quickly. I wondered what it might be and where he found it. Even though I wanted to eat now, I had to go find him first.

Before I got in my car, my phone rang.

"I should be angry at you." It was Ed Garvey.

"Why should you be angry at me?"

"Because you sent me more free work to do for you, this time without asking. Sent it to my house, on my day off." These were all points that made a strong case in his favor. They could have been delivered with force, like nails in my coffin. But they weren't. They were just delivered evenly, without malice. Yet he wasn't using my nickname, Liberty. So all was not entirely good between us.

"So then why aren't you angry at me?"

"Because Samantha convinced me I should give you a lot of slack and be more charitable. You know how she always wanted me to become a volunteer for a good cause?" He didn't wait for a response from me and plowed on ahead. "She says you are my volunteer project until you get back on your feet. So I've accepted my fate. I am at your service, Nathan Hale Parker."

"Wow," was all I could immediately muster. "Maybe I should have asked for this service from you before now."

"Buddy, you don't have the credentials she does."

"Maybe so, but please thank her for the kindness."

"Yeah, yeah. By the time this is all over, I'm going to own you. You will owe me really big time." He paused for that to sink in. "So, down to business. You wanted this information as soon as it came in. Well, it just came in late last night."

"OK," I said in anticipation. "Give me what you've got."

"Well, your Cortina Perez is Hispanic and a legal citizen of the US. She did it by the book. None of this illegal entry stuff. Like you said, she works two jobs. Pays her taxes. Has a bank account. Sends money home to Mexico. Has a license and a registered old car. Even has a credit card. She charges a few things to her card every month and pays the bill on time every month. A model citizen. You've got to hook me up with this girl. Sounds like someone who could support me in my old age."

"Dream on, partner. Besides, I don't think Samantha would approve."

"Probably not."

"Have there been any charges to her credit card in the past few days? Maybe for gas for the car?"

"Nope, no activity."

"Any way to track if her car crossed into Mexico? Or if she stayed at another motel somewhere in the US?"

"Way ahead of you on the border crossing, Nathan. She hasn't crossed the border into Mexico _or_ Canada."

I had not even thought of Canada since I was so focused on Mexico as a likely destination. "What about the motel angle?"

"All I can say, partner, is she didn't use a credit card for a motel under the name Cortina Perez. That would have shown up. She may have used cash. She might have stayed with friends or relatives."

I sighed with obvious disappointment. "Is there some way to check motels to see if she might have used cash?"

"No easy way to track it. You know that. Nathan, this is not an ongoing investigation. This is just a favor, remember?" Ed sounded a bit peeved with me.

I was pushing the bounds of even a required volunteer gig. Besides, I knew that would be his answer, but I had to try. "Sorry, Ed. You're right. I'm grateful for whatever you can do. Can you just monitor the credit card a bit longer?" I begged.

"That I can do," Ed replied. "Now, about your guy, the Hispanic car thief who went to jail. INS has no record of picking up anyone from Willow Run last fall. In fact, they have no record of visiting Willow Run, ever."

"Could the paperwork just be screwed up?" I pleaded.

"My guy tells me paperwork might go missing. It can happen. But it's not likely. Montana is not your hotbed of INS issues. So it's not like they would have hundreds of illegals to process up there. They can probably fit all their illegal immigrant paperwork in a single file cabinet."

I was feeling a bit cheated on useful information here.

Ed continued though. "But...."

"But what?" I jumped in, cutting him off just as he started to dangle a carrot.

"Let me finish. But Willow Run is probably one of those towns with only a couple of cops and maybe only a single cell in their jail. Am I right?" Ed asked.

I knew that single cell well. "That's right, but what...."

It was his turn to cut me off. "Sooo, a prisoner might be transferred to another facility, say a county jail, which has more capacity and people to watch a prisoner overnight. Sooo, while there is no way an INS agent would have gone to tiny Willow Run on a moment's notice to pick up a single illegal, your illegal might have been transferred to a county jail. Then at his convenience, the INS guy could go pick up your guy a couple days later, along with any others that had accumulated there over those days. Check with your local county mounty."

I had encountered, as Ed called him, a local county mounty. He pulled me over for speeding. We didn't have what you could call a relationship that would be conducive to asking about an illegal immigrant. But if he was indeed Allison's brother, I might be able to work on that.

"Thanks, Ed. That gives me a place to look."

I waited a beat expecting that Ed would mention the letter I sent requesting a fingerprint check. But he didn't say anything, so I broached the subject.

"Ed, you mentioned that you got my letter."

"That's right. Tell me about this piece of paper. Why do you think it's important enough to look for finger prints?"

I didn't want to take him through the whole story. While the scenario all worked for me, to someone on the outside it would probably seem weak. So I embellished a bit. "This was lying on the ground near the body of the Hispanic. The local law had no interest in it, so I kept it." Those statements were reasonably accurate, though clearly a stretch of the facts. I did find it somewhere in the vicinity of the body. Enid Powell probably looked at it when he searched my backpack and did not keep it. So I kept it, though only because I forgot to discard it.

I continued. "I think the guy was carrying it when he ran off the cliff and died. It's a chance to identify him if his prints are on file somewhere."

Ed was quiet for a few seconds, probably considering the likelihood this was going anywhere and then factoring the volunteer project his wife had prodded him into doing. He finally responded cheerily. "OK. I'll see what I can find. In fact, the fingerprint check is already running."

He could have easily told me that up front, not forcing me to drag it out of him. It was his way of informing me that there would be limits to what he was willing to do for me, regardless of what Samantha had made him promise. She might be sitting right there next to him so that he couldn't come right out and say that I was reaching the limit of what he was willing to do. So he had to communicate that message in some other manner, such as forcing me to drag it out of him.

"Thanks. You're the best." Now came the kicker. "There is one more thing."

I heard a heavy sigh and a slight groan. I was now past the limit of his generosity. Already he must be regretting this volunteer project pact he had been coerced into. He might not be willing to help me any further.

Faintly in the background I heard, "Ed? Is everything OK with Nathan?"

It was Samantha. She was nearby. She was my hope. I hated to put my old partner in such a position, but I really needed him to come through. It was unfortunate that his true motivation would be her pushing him. But that couldn't be helped. I needed answers.

The next words were louder than Samantha's but still distant, like Ed moved the phone away from his mouth to respond to her. "Yes, Sam. Nathan is fine."

"Nathan, you are putting me in a difficult position. You do realize that I have a full time job already. Sneaking around to do your bidding is a bit awkward. You know, using department resources for unofficial investigations?"

He was laying the guilt trip on me, and it was working, to a point. Sure I asked for a lot. But I was certain the activity here warranted investigation. Maybe it wasn't official, not in Cincinnati and unfortunately not even here in Montana, but I could not let it go. "You're right. If I'm pushing you too much on this, I'm sorry. But I think this is important, and I could really use your help. I have no where else to turn."

There was another long pause, and I felt compelled to fill the void. But he finally spoke. "OK. I'll do what I can, but only because Samantha is glaring at me." After a beat, he continued. "So what do you need now?"

In my mind, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. I had been holding my breath waiting for his response. I dove right in before he could change his mind.

"I have a dog tag. Can you do a check?" I asked.

"Dog tag? Where the hell did you get a dog tag?"

"Let's just say I found it."

"Yeah, right," Ed said wryly. He was silent for a few moments, then exhaled loudly and continued. "And this is somehow connected to all this Hispanic stuff you keep throwing at me?"

"Yes, definitely. Let me tell you how."

"Oh, no you don't. I don't want to know. Just read me the info off the tag."

"The name is Mason, Jeremy L." I read the other information on the tag to him.

"I'll see what I can do. But I'm warning you. Stay out of this, whatever it is. Fingerprints and dog tags? Just make up stuff and write your novel. It doesn't need to be real."

"I know. But this is important." I was pleading my case even though he had already agreed to help. I felt I needed to offer him some justification, as weak as it was. "Thanks, Ed."

He hung up without another word. Regret and excitement surged through me. I had definitely pushed Ed to the limit of what I could expect. For that I felt disappointment in myself for intruding on him. And I despised myself for being in a position that I was so desperate and dependent on him. But it had to be done. Of course, it would not have happened without the influence of Samantha. I owed her big time and would tell her so when this was over. I felt it would be soon. Things were coming to a head. Maybe not today, but very soon.

Chapter 30

I drove into town. There was no sign of Enid Powell. Maybe even he takes a break from harassing tourists. I parked near the newspaper office and walked up to the door. It was locked, and no lights were on.

As I turned to leave, I noticed a hand-written note on a piece of cardboard taped to the front window. It read _No paper today, out of town for family emergency_. I really wanted to know what he had found. And then there were the meetings with Megan White and Ronald Barnes that he was going to set up. I dialed his cell phone number. It might not be the most appropriate action, to disturb him in a time of a family crisis. But I did it anyway. My call immediately went to voice mail, and I left a message for him to call me.

It was now past 9 o'clock, and my stomach protested. The diner was just across the street. I turned in that direction, and spotted Allison just arriving at the library. She hadn't seen me since she was scooping up the day's delivery of newspapers off the front step. I walked up behind her as she stuck the key in the lock.

"Can I interest you in some breakfast?" I asked.

She jumped in surprise, turning around to face me. "Nathan, you startled me."

Her face was flushed, and her hand was on her chest as if to keep her racing heart from escaping. I felt stupid for being so brash.

"I'm so sorry for scaring you. Are you OK?" I asked.

"I'll be fine," she breathed heavily. "I guess that was payback for me startling you in the library the other day."

"Unintentional," I offered meekly. "Again, I'm sorry." And I truly was. Then I repeated my offer. "Please let me buy you some breakfast at the diner."

She composed herself quickly, and then flashed her bright smile. "Thank you, but I ate at home." She then lightly touched my forearm, just as she had before. "You could, though, bring me some hot tea, with lemon."

"As you wish." I bowed my head slightly, as if addressing royalty. She entered the library still smiling, and I scooted off to the diner.

While I was still hungry enough to eat a moose, I wasn't going to spend the time to gorge myself here while she waited for her tea. I also was not going to take a gigantic to-go order to the library and stuff it down in front of her.

The diner didn't have English muffins, which I thought might go well with tea. So I ordered hot tea, toast, and coffee, all to go.

By the time I entered the building, Allison was just finishing placement of the day's newspapers on the table in the fan shape I'd seen previously.

She looked up, saw the two steaming cups, and said, "Since there's no one else here yet, you can just set them on the table. We just can't spill on the newspapers."

"Fear not, I have been known to go an entire day without spilling."

She smiled and sat down. "What else did you bring?"

"I wanted English muffins, but the best I could do was lots of toast. We have both white and wheat. And jelly. Let's see, we have grape, and grape, and another grape....it seems we have any flavor you want, as long as it's grape."

"Well, then, I choose grape," she said brightly.

We sipped our beverages and munched on toast. "Since you already interrogated me, can I be the inquisitor this morning?" I asked.

"Be my guest," she said.

"What do you do when you're not being a librarian?"

"I tend my garden of vegetables and can them for the winter."

The pioneer spirit.

"And I volunteer for food and clothing drives. With the bad economy, there are a lot of people in need, in Willow Run and in other parts of the county."

"So noble," I said with conviction, and I truly meant it. When people do such selfless volunteering, I feel somehow inadequate.

She blushed slightly and said softly, "It just seems like the right thing to do."

I nodded in agreement.

"No more questions? That was the extent of your interrogation?" she quipped. "Some cop you must have been." The instant look of shock in her face revealed that she regretted saying it. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

"It's OK. I didn't take it like that." A week ago my bruised ego would have been mortally wounded by such a comment. But now I could take it in stride. "I guess I'm out of practice."

She was silent for a few moments, and then asked brightly, "Is there any Internet searching you wanted to do today?"

I told her I wanted to find the phone numbers for Megan White and Ronald Barnes. She looked puzzled for a moment, and then must have recalled the car thief incident. "Doing a little follow up interview?"

"Joseph Custer was going to introduce me to them for that. But he never set it up, so I thought I would call myself."

I told her about Joseph not being around. She wanted to see the sign herself, so we both walked to the newspaper office.

"This is not like Joseph to just leave without telling someone," she mused.

"Does he have any family here to ask?"

"No, Joseph was an only child, and his parents died years ago. And he never talked about any family outside of Willow Run. He was just married to his newspaper."

"Has he missed publishing the paper before?"

"No, never. Even when we had the big blizzard a few years ago, he came into the office and printed a paper. It was small, but he printed it," she said.

"When I talked to him yesterday, he said today's paper was almost done. This sign suggests there's not going to be one for today. Did the library get one?"

Allison wore a look of concern. "No, it wasn't in the mail. He delivers the papers early in the morning. When I didn't see it today, I figured I could just walk over and get one."

"Who would he tell if he was going to be gone?" I asked.

"Normally he tells me since the library is nearby. But he didn't say anything to me yesterday about being gone. And there were no messages from him."

"Curious. I tried calling him this morning, but it went right to voice mail."

We walked back to the library. I took out my phone and dialed again. It went immediately to voice mail. For the second time in less than an hour, I left my name and cell phone number.

"Maybe he's in an area with poor reception and just turned the phone off," I offered.

"That's probably it," she agreed. While I made the call, Allison had found the numbers for Megan White and Roland Barnes. She handed me a slip of paper. "Here you go."

I looked at it quickly. "Thanks. And perhaps two other numbers? For Benjamin Moore and Amanda Sterling."

"Why would you want to talk to those two kids?"

"I read something about them getting lost in the forest about a month ago."

"Of course," she said with sudden remembrance. "Those two were in big trouble for that stunt."

"I figured." I could just picture angry parents reading those kids the riot act. "I'd like to ask them about the good Samaritans."

"Everyone wants to know about them. But you won't get anything out of those two."

I had a sinking feeling. People were disappearing at an alarming rate from this small town. Cortina Perez, Ranger Pine's wife, the two Hispanic men, and now Joseph Custer. I feared what might have happened to these two.

"Why not?" I asked in alarm.

"Oh, nothing dire. But their parents made sure no one was going to talk to them about it. Ben joined the army and was gone soon after the incident. Amanda enrolled in an all-girls school far from here."

"Their parents' attempts to rein in the overactive sex drive?" I ventured.

"Bingo!"

We shared a laugh from that.

"Nathan," Allison said. "Earlier you asked what I do when I'm not being a librarian." She paused, peering at me intently. "I also like to go to the county fair. It just so happens to open this weekend. You should take me there tonight."

The thought of a county fair and the animals there led me to respond, "Moi?" That was what popped into my head. The French word for me, made famous by Miss Piggy of the Muppets.

Allison giggled. "Yes, you."

"Wonderful. I'd love to. I'll see you later then."

After leaving the library, I sat in my car and called Megan White, asking if Joseph Custer had called her in advance.

"Joseph?" she asked, sounding a bit confused. "No, Joseph didn't call me. Who are you again?"

I tried explaining that I wanted to talk with her about the car thief last fall and that Joseph was going to introduce us.

"I don't want to be introduced to no stranger," she said and promptly hung up.

That could have gone better, I thought. Even though I had provided my name, I guess she was not as connected to the local gossip wire as most other folks. Otherwise my name should have prompted some recollection of the incident that Enid had made so popular. That brought to mind that I still had not seen Enid lurking nearby. I didn't crave his company, but ever since I pushed him about the bounty hunters, he had let me be. Maybe he could be intimidated after all.

I next tried Roland Barnes. He turned out to be a bit deaf. I guess that was not surprising since he would probably be in his eighties if he fought in the Korean War as the newspaper article reported.

"Who's this?" he said for the third time.

I tried explaining that I wanted to talk with him about the car thief last fall and that Joseph was going to introduce us.

"Joseph? You mean Joseph Custer? You don't sound like Joseph." Then he hung up.

I had imagined getting more out of those calls than dial tones after two hang-ups. I would just have to wait for the real Joseph Custer to return if I was going to meet and talk with these folks. If he ever did return.

Chapter 31

I sat in my car considering what my next move should be. One remaining piece of evidence I wanted to follow up on was the bag of plant parts that I had dug out of my backpack. I just wished that I still had the pictures I'd taken on Monarch Trail to compare against. But the Willow Run police had erased those pictures from my cell phone.

I considered going to one of those places where computer whizzes can retrieve data and pictures from electronic memory devices. In the TV police shows, the crime lab tech breaks the case wide open by miraculously retrieving all the critical data from a memory device that has been blown up and charred to a crisp. My cell phone memory wasn't damaged. Mine was just erased. Getting back my pictures of the scene on Monarch Trail should be relatively easy, though likely expensive. It was also clear that I would need a city larger than Willow Run to locate a geek crew that could do the job.

Then another thought occurred to me. My cell phone had many features, most of which I never used nor was even aware of. I had long ago lost the instruction manual, which was at least twice as big as the phone itself. Most of it I never read, which of course meant I really didn't know all the functions and tools available to me. Regardless, in most phones, as far as I knew, deleting an item eliminated it from easy retrieval.

Perhaps my phone was one of those where deleting an item did not permanently erase it, but rather simply moved it to trash, which then needed to be emptied. So I pulled out my phone and scrolled through the menus. It took a couple of minutes, but I finally located a trash option buried deep in one of the menus. I clicked it, and there were the pictures, all the pictures, of the scene from Sunday. The body, the close-up shots of the face, the blood on the ground, the folded paper under the hand, and the fresh plant parts nearby.

I pulled out the photocopy of the brown paper I had made at the Post Office before mailing it to Ed. I compared it to the picture of the brown paper on my cell phone. They looked similar, maybe even identical. So sending the paper I found on the trail to Ed for fingerprint analysis had been a good move.

I then pulled out the bag of plant parts from the back of my car and spread them out. I compared them with the pictures on my cell phone. The pictures were slightly out of focus since I hadn't focused on them. I had been taking a picture of the brown paper. The plant parts just happened to be in the shot. While there were similarities, I needed a plant expert.

I decided that my next destination was the University of Montana in Missoula. It was the nearest large campus I was aware of, less than two hours away. They would likely have a botany department where an expert could be found.

I drove west on Route 200. It was another Big Sky day, sunny with clear, deep blue extending from one horizon to the opposite. I loved the view of dramatic and distant horizon that came with much of the west. It was much more appealing than the claustrophobic nearness of buildings and stacked freeway ramps that cluttered most urban areas. That included my hometown of Cincinnati. That past life now seemed so foreign. I was beginning to feel like I belonged here instead.

When I eventually arrived at the campus area, there was a sign announcing _The University of Montana, Missoula Campus, founded 1893_. I parked in a visitor's lot, plugged some quarters in the meter, and set out on foot. I found a campus directory on a large signboard planted at the edge of the parking lot. There were two destinations I had in mind. One was the language department to check on that writing on the brown paper litter. The other was the botany department. I set out on foot in that direction first.

The campus was fairly quiet, probably not unusual for late summer, before the new school year starts. The few people on campus were likely students taking summer classes, incoming freshmen learning their new turf, and probably fall sport squads getting a jump on training for the upcoming season. But soon the campus would be swarming with activity for the start of the new academic year.

The botany building was a couple minutes walk away, taking me to the edge of the campus. When I got there, rather than enter the front of the building, I walked around to the back. That was where I found what I hoped would be there: a greenhouse. Through the glass and metal frame I saw a profusion of plants. That seemed like a good place to start. A door on the end facing me stood open, so I entered.

Inside, the air was warm and steamy, like stepping into the tropics. Fortunately, it was early in the day. The sun had not yet climbed high in the sky. All that radiant energy pouring through the glass might turn the place into a stifling environment. There were rows of tables on which sat neat lines of potted plants. The pots were labeled with some type of code. Probably experiments in progress. An older man was transferring plants from small pots into larger ones, presumably since they seemed to have outgrown their old homes.

"Good morning," I said with a grin. "I'm Nathan."

He looked up, but did not offer his hand to shake mine. His were covered in black dirt, the potting soil. Occupational hazard. "Mornin'," he said cheerily enough. "I'm George. Are you looking for someone?"

"Well, I'm not looking for anyone in particular. But I am trying to identify some plants." I opened my backpack, removed the plastic bag, and pushed the bottom upward to expose its contents. They looked pathetic, all dry and crispy, jumbled together in the bag. At least they no longer smelled bad. They had dried out since I dumped them from the pack, the noxious odor going away as they desiccated. "Is there someone who might be able to help me?"

"I'm not so good at the identification part." But he peered in the bag anyway. He seemed to consider them for several seconds, and then said, "Nope. I mostly just help out here in my spare time. Everyone needs volunteers these days with the bad economy, you know." He turned his back, and I thought he was finished with me. But then he hollered down the greenhouse, "Rose?"

Branches rustled in a cluster of taller plants further down, and a response came back. "Yes, George?"

"Someone here maybe you can help."

"Thank you, George," I said, walking toward the voice in the bushes. When I got there, no one was visible.

"What can I do for you?" The words came from behind me, and I jumped a bit.

I turned to face a woman probably in her sixties. She wore a wide-brimmed hat, gloves, and coveralls. She was bright-eyed, and her cheeks had a pink blush. Rose, I presumed.

"Hi, I'm Nathan."

"I'm Rose Barker, manager of plant collections."

Rose did not extend her hand to shake mine, though I noted her gloves were dirt-covered from working in potting soil, just as George's had been. "What can I do for you?" she said, repeating her question with a touch of impatience.

"I was hoping you might be able to tell me what these plants are." I extended the plastic bag, and again pushed the bottom upward to expose its contents.

She was hesitant at first. Certainly my request probably seemed unusual, bringing a bag of random parts and asking for identification of such a motley lot. But she conceded. Looking into the bag, she fingered the specimens with a gloved hand, pushing them around, stirring the pile to see the ones underneath. I could tell from her expression that she was not puzzled by any of them. She recognized them.

Then her eyes opened wide. It was just for a moment, but I had seen it. I didn't know if a single item in the bag had caused that response or if it was the collective lot. She looked up from the bag, squinting her eyes and tightly pursing her lips. "Where did you get this?"

I didn't know what the _this_ specifically referred to or if it meant the collective _this_. But at least something in the lot seemed worthy of her attention. So she would be able to help me. Good, I came to the right place. I hadn't expected her question about where the stuff came from and didn't see how that was relevant. But what the heck. The truth seemed as good as any explanation.

"This may sound crazy, but I was hiking and picked up some litter on the trail. These," I rattled the bag to indicate what the _these_ meant, "were mixed in." I paused for a moment. "I don't know my plants and was curious what they are."

"Did you pick this?" she asked a bit accusingly.

Which one is the _this_ she keeps referring to? And didn't I just tell her? Anyway, I responded, "Yes, I picked them up." Then I realized she probably meant did I pick them, as in kill a live plant to pick or collect these.

I started to add that I did not kill a live plant and drive it all the way here, but she was peering at me with a weird look in her eyes. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"Why do you ask that?" I replied.

"Your accent. Doesn't sound local."

Accent? What accent? "I just moved out here, from out east." I left my response vague, a spur of the moment decision. I was getting a bad feeling about where this conversation was going. I continued, hoping to still get the answer I sought. "I was just hiking, and I found these. Can you tell me what they are?"

She seemed inclined to tell me what I wanted to know. Then suddenly she changed her mind. "Excuse me a moment." She turned and abruptly walked away. She went into a small office and closed the door.

Why the mystery about identifying some plants? I walked closer to the office, but couldn't see her in there through the tangle of leaves obscuring the window. I could hear her talking, though the words were too muffled by the closed door to be understood. Then there was silence. Then she was talking again. She was on the phone.

Something didn't feel right. If she were calling a colleague to get an opinion on the identification, she would have simply said so and probably invited me into the office while she made the call. That would have been normal behavior. There was something else happening here. A warning bell in my head clanged, and I knew it was time to leave Rose and her world of botany. I turned around and marched down between two rows of plants.

"George, stop him! Lock the door!" Rose called to her colleague from the office doorway.

George turned toward the greenhouse door. He looked puzzled, but started to obey her command. He was only a few steps away from the door. No time for a discrete exit. I ran. He had his hand on the knob and began to swing the door shut. There was no doubt in my mind that, if necessary, I could overpower George and leave this place. But there was no call for physical violence. He's just a volunteer, doing what he's told.

My left hand still clutched the bag of plants, so I stuck out my left arm and caught the edge of the metal and glass door with elbow, jangling my funny bone. The force of George closing that door pushed me a bit to the right so that when I stuck out my right hand, my forearm jammed hard against the doorframe. As awkward as that was, I used my forward momentum and these two tenuous pivot points to propel myself through the narrowing gap.

I immediately turned in a direction away from where I parked the car. Then I walked quickly halfway around the botany building to get back on the right tract toward the parking lot. I heard a vehicle approaching somewhere behind me and ducked behind a large tree. I peered back toward the building to see a campus security car, with lights flashing, as it neared the greenhouse. She had called the university police.

I was tempted to sprint to the parking lot to get away from here as fast as possible. But I knew that would only draw attention to me. With part of my brain urging me to run and another part putting on the brakes, I walked at a pace that might be noticed, but not raise a red flag of suspicion. As a precaution, I slipped out of the blue button-down short-sleeve shirt I had on and loosely folded it into my hand. This exposed the white tee shirt underneath.

As I fast walked across campus, I replayed the scene in my head, wondering if I had left anything behind that could tie my visit to me. The door was opened when I arrived, so I left no fingerprints on it. I had left nothing in the building. And I had blocked the closing door with my arms, not my hands. And I saw no security cameras in there. So, to the best of my recollection, I left no important trace behind.

But what was my transgression that warranted a visit by the campus cops? I was too busy leaving to be concerned with that detail for the moment.

At the parking lot, I hopped in my car and left hurriedly. Since it was a metered parking lot, there was no gate to go through, no parking attendant, and no parking ticket that might leave a trail.

I felt relief at getting away. It wasn't as if it was The Great Escape, yet the relief was still uplifting. But getting away from what? I brought some plants to a greenhouse for identification. What kind of plant would evoke this reaction? Two things came to mind. I would soon be searching those at a safe haven: the library in Willow Run.

I was disappointed that I didn't get to the language department to check on that writing on the brown paper litter. But staying on campus any longer for that was not wise. Wiser is what I was doing, which was leaving.

Chapter 32

By early afternoon, I was back in Willow Run. After parking, I walked first to the newspaper office. It was locked and dark, with the same family emergency sign still in the window. I called Joseph Custer, and got his voice mail. Without leaving yet another message, I turned and went to the library.

Inside, Allison had her back turned to the door arranging books on a cart. The patrons consisted of several women leafing through magazines, two men reading papers, and three teenage girls rummaging among the DVDs. I noticed that the computer terminal was in use. That was unfortunate. I'd have to wait.

"Hi, Allison."

She turned as I approached, placed a hand on my arm, and kissed me lightly on the cheek. That brought a burst of giggles from the girls in the DVD section and a burst of color to our embarrassed faces.

"That will stir up the rumor mill," Allison said mischievously.

"But it was worth it," I said, smiling in return.

We locked eyes for a few moments, and then she asked, "More searching today?"

"Yes. I had a most interesting visit to the Missoula campus this morning, and now I have questions to answer."

"A campus visit? Aren't you a little old to be going to college?" she teased.

"You know what they say. It's never too late to learn, or something philosophical like that."

"Are you going to tell me about this interesting visit? Or do I have to wait for your book to publish?"

"Attempting to pry secrets out of me?"

"If you'll tell me what your book is about, maybe I can help you search," she offered innocently.

"Nice try, but I'm not ready to talk about the plot. It needs to come together a bit more. It's just not ready to be shared," I offered defensively.

"I know, I know. The mysterious secrets of an author," she said with mild exasperation. She pretended to pout. Or maybe it was not pretend. She sounded a bit like her pride had been wounded, like she was not trustworthy enough to be drawn into the inner circle. I felt guilty holding back, and it surely showed in the expression on my face. I was about to say something soothing when she flashed that winning smile.

"Gotcha," she giggled. "You go do your searching. I have work to do."

I smiled. "Yeah, you got me good." She scooted off to her desk.

Turning toward the computer terminal, I saw an empty chair. The person who had been using it had just gotten up, so I hustled over there to sit down before someone else could take it. I noticed out of my peripheral vision that someone else had been marching that direction also, but I avoided eye contact. I might have chiseled in line, but the person didn't challenge me about it. If I did chisel, I was certain that also would be in the gossip wire before the day was out. I would survive that too.

I went to the Internet. I had my suspicions of what happened this morning with Rose Barker. She seemed to be concerned if I had picked the plants. So I started by searching for endangered and threatened species. Picking these plants would be illegal. The search revealed there are 746 such plant species in the US listed under the Endangered Species Act. I had to narrow that down. Even searching just for Montana, a long list resulted. This was impossible for me, the non-botanist. I had a bag of wilted plant parts and a very long list of species to compare against. Impossible. I jotted down the web addresses for these hits. Maybe I'd come back to those later if my other route did not pan out.

The other route was more likely. Rose Barker called campus security. You don't call campus security because someone picked an endangered plant. You call campus security for drugs. She was following the SOP, the Standard Operating Procedure. Step one is most likely to call campus security. So she called them. Step two might be to try to get more information or to keep the perpetrator talking until security arrives. She probably went way beyond the intent of the SOP by trying to detain me in the greenhouse. The last thing she would be prepared to handle is a cornered desperate man. The consequences could have been unpleasant for Rose and her colleague George.

While I had made arrests for drug possession in my days as a cop, it was always the finished goods, such as white powder. I did not recall actually ever seeing a live plant from which drugs are derived. I did recall seeing pictures of marijuana plants at some point along the way. Live plants, though, never showed up in any investigation I was involved in. But there was plenty on the Internet. Pictures, instructions on how to grow and harvest the plants, procedures for processing the harvest into useable recreational drug, descriptions of the euphoria of drug use experiences. It was all there.

Of particular interest, I found references to illegal marijuana being grown in National Parklands in Idaho, Colorado, and California. In the past, the guilty apparently were mom-and-pop operations growing a few plants for personal use or for sale on a small scale. But now the culprits responsible were illegal immigrants from drug cartels in Mexico. With the increased security along the US's southern border, drug production was moved into the States as a way to avoid drug shipment seizures in border crossings. In Pike National Forest in Colorado, a football field sized planting of marijuana was found. These operations were even recruiting other migrant workers to plant, tend, and harvest these fields.

With the federal cutbacks on staffing, the numbers worked out that each National Parkland ranger was responsible for overseeing 500,000 acres, an impossible task. Ranger Pine had mentioned staffing problems in the Lewis and Clark National Forest. He and his skeleton crew could not possibly oversee it all. Actually, it could be used as a convenient excuse for claiming ignorance about what's going on in Spring Valley. With the valley in a replanting operation handled by an outside group, he could just let it run on autopilot, not bothering to be distracted by monitoring their efforts. He's too busy doing his job, so he lets them do theirs without any question. It might be a drug producer's dream: plenty of land, little chance of being discovered, and a cooperative ranger watching over the entrance. That was my new emerging story. I hoped that the facts would let me stick to it.

I didn't have much to go on, just these brown fragile pieces in a bag. I rummaged through them, one at a time, comparing what I had with what was on the computer monitor screen. They clearly were not marijuana, which has long thin leaves with finely serrated edges.

Then there is the coca plant from which cocaine is derived. I didn't know what the plant looked like. A quick Internet search revealed a picture. There were small clusters of flowers on the stem. The leaves were long, oval, and smooth along the edges. I pawed through the leaves in the bag again, and saw that some of them might fit that description. I couldn't be certain if there was any relationship between them. A sense of frustration swept over me at my ineptitude with plants. I could really use a botanist right about now, one that wouldn't call the cops on me.

That is when the three teenage girls walked past the workstation and eyed what I was doing. They wore very strange facial expressions at seeing me sitting there with a bag of debris scattered out on the table top next to the keyboard. I just flashed them a deadpan expression, and they wandered off giggling. I ignored them.

I then pulled out my cell phone and found the pictures I had taken on my first day on Monarch Trail. While the images were focused on the brown paper, there was also some greenery in the scene. They were on the ground and might have some connection to what I was looking for. Those green leaves were also not marijuana, I was certain of that. And they were not from the coca plant. Nothing else jumped out at me. I decided for now to set aside consideration of coca plants and return later if necessary.

Then there is the opium poppy plant. An Internet picture of it revealed a long thick stem with a bulbous flower. The leaves were wrinkly and jagged on their edges. Probably not scientific terms, but that is what I saw in the picture. In spite of the poor focus on the green leaves on my cell phone screen, there were definite similarities with what was on the computer monitor. After poking through the contents of the bag one more time, I found two leaves like that attached to a short thick section of stem. The leaves of the specimen in the bag, the picture on the computer monitor, and the image in my cell phone all looked very similar.

But it turns out there are many kinds of poppies, going by names such as wood, oriental, and even California wild. And the flowers appear in a spectrum of colors, such as red, yellow, orange, purple, and pink. While the Internet pictures focused on the flowers of all these various poppy varieties, they all seemed to have wrinkly jagged leaves. I suppose someone trained in botany might be able to distinguish opium poppies from any of the other varieties based on the leaves alone. Someone such as Rose Barker, who saw the telltale leaves and called campus security.

I felt a surge of excitement. This investigation of mine had turned into something bigger. So now I have a Hispanic guy running through the woods carrying poppy plant parts. No one would be chasing him if he had ornamental California poppies. You only chase someone if they are going to let the cat out of the bag about your opium poppy patch. He was carrying the plant parts as evidence of the activities in the valley. And he wasn't just running. He was escaping. And so was the man who was arrested while trying to steal a car in Willow Run.

But how did it tie into the military that, according to Jake Monroe, were guarding the fenced area in the National Forest? To help Uncle Sam fund the war effort? Not likely. More likely, the guys were a rogue military group growing their early retirement, their own version of an IRA.

I could go to the law with what I had. But what did I really have? There was the chain-link fence. Yet the rest was still conjecture. I had poorly supported suspicions based on a dead guy, who everyone else thought was alive and skipped town with his lady friend Cortina. I had a few pieces of plant that I, a non-botanist with some crispy specimens in hand, had concluded from an Internet search was an opium poppy. I still needed more. So I continued reading about the opium poppy.

There were many sites on the Internet that discussed the topic. Cultivation of the opium poppy, _Papaver somniferum_ , dates back thousands of years when it was called the flower of joy. The plants are hardy, able to grow in many environments. The seeds are planted after the last snow. Here in Montana, the last snow can come late in the spring, often into May. So planting might have to be delayed to account for that. Three months after the seeds are planted, the flowers appear. When the petals fall off, a bulbous seedpod is exposed. The pod contains an opaque milky sap, which is crude opium.

The pods are slit with a knife vertically, and the sap seeps out. Exposed to air, it darkens and forms a brown-black gum. The gum is collected, bundled into various shapes such as bricks, and often wrapped in plastic for transport to a processing facility, which for convenience is often close to the poppy fields.

The processing facility is usually done on the cheap, using oil drums as the cooking vats. The crude opium is mixed with lime in boiling water. Organic waste sinks to the bottom, while white morphine floats to the surface. The morphine is taken off, reheated with ammonia, filtered, and boiled again to reduce it to a brown paste called morphine base.

Heroin is a derivative of morphine. The chemical name for heroin is diacetyl morphine, which is produced by combining morphine with the chemical acetic anhydride. The mixture is heated for several hours. Then there are various purification and filtering steps to yield heroin. Numerous levels of concentration and purity are sold to users. Those who inject it use fairly crude material. Higher purity heroin can be inhaled or smoked. But because of the wide variations in the heroin sold to users, deaths can occur from impurities and overdosing. I was certainly familiar with the accidental deaths. I had been called to the scene of some of those back in Cincinnati.

There is legal production of heroin for medical applications. But that is highly regulated and is on a relatively small scale. In contrast, the annual world production of illicit raw opium is estimated to be 4300 tons, which translates to about 430 tons of heroin. Half of that ends up sold on the streets in the United States.

OK, I thought. So maybe they're growing opium poppies in the valley. But it's certainly not for medicinal purposes. Not in a National Forest. Not secretly hidden behind razor wire, using captive Hispanic laborers. This has to be an illegal operation that has eluded detection.

The geography of the valley was perfect for that illicit activity. The steep-walled, horseshoe-shaped terrain is a natural barrier. Put some fencing around it, and no one is getting in or out easily. The fencing is embedded in the forest on top of the surrounding ridge so it's not visible from the air. And if they were using some type of camouflage, the activity in the valley itself wouldn't be visible either.

They couldn't just start growing poppies in the valley unless they got rid of the native vegetation. Thus the fire. So the fire was probably not the campfire of a careless backpacker. It was a planned ground clearing in the fall for planting the next spring.

On a whim, I typed in the search terms _fire_ and _poppies_. Up popped an interesting news story from an Orange County, California paper in February 2008. It discussed a fire in Santiago Canyon in California in October 2007. I remembered reading something about that fire previously. It was intentionally set, burning over 28,000 acres. Many houses were destroyed. Over 1100 firefighters battled the blaze, finally bringing it under control in November. A terrible case of arson. The February article though was not about the fire itself. I read the brief story.

The destructive Santiago Fire in October 2007 prompted fire officials to warn residents in low lying communities to prepare for evacuation if heavy rains arrive since the lack of vegetation on the scorched hillsides could permit destructive mud slides.

Winter storms however brought only gentle rains that both eased the long-standing drought and also provided the necessary moisture for new growth of plants to help anchor the ravaged hillsides. If the normal pounding rains had fallen, huge mudslides would most surely have resulted, threatening to bury the hundreds of homes in the valleys.

While the danger is not yet over since heavy storms could still sweep in from the Pacific and loosen the weakly anchored soil on the hills in Cleveland National Forest, officials are encouraged by the gentleness of the weather so far this winter. And all those who have recently peered upward at the charred slopes are now seeing green, not the dusty brown and blackened landscape of just a few weeks ago.

Not only is greenery returning, but also wildflowers are bursting forth across vast stretches of the hillsides. So that the public can view the profusion of colors, some areas such as Caspers Wilderness Park and Laguna Coast Wilderness Park have been recently reopened for limited visitation.

The seeds of many rarely seen wildflowers often lie dormant in the soil, according to John Murten, a park manager in Orange County. "When the slopes are cleared of vegetation and the rainfall is just right, these fire-following plants emerge. The conditions are just right this year. It's unlikely people will see this abundance again in their life times," he said.

While the burn areas themselves remain off limits to the public, the wildflower profusion can be viewed from parking areas in the parks. The public is being allowed in limited numbers to enter these parking areas to view the blooms, but cannot leave the paved lots. This is to prevent disturbance of the unstable ground and to protect the fragile seedlings from foot traffic. Park rangers are there to ensure compliance.

The most impressive display of flowers is the bloom of wild California poppies. Their yellow-orange blossoms stretch up the hillsides, in some areas as an unbroken mass of color stretching to the tops of the surrounding ridges.

John Murten indicated that park officials are discussing when the parks can be reopened completely for enjoyment by the public. That likely will be sometime in the summer.

The article was accompanied by photographs showing masses of California poppies stretching up the hills in all directions. So if these poppies grow well on burned-over ground, perhaps the same is true for the opium variety.

The Hispanic car thief, the first running man, escaped in the fall long before the opium growing started. He was probably part of the crew installing the chain-link fence. If he was just a hired hand, he could have walked away from the job at any time, or at least waited until the end of the day before skipping out. So he was doing forced labor and could not just quit. He had no choice but to escape. He tried to get away and got as far as Willow Run before being captured. No INS agent came to pick him up from Willow Run. If INS had picked him up, he would have eventually encountered someone who spoke Spanish, and the man probably would have talked. So he was either taken back to forced labor or disposed of. By Deputy Enid Powell?

What had Allison said? Enid was angry that he missed out on his chance at fame and fortune in football because of a knee injury. So here he was back in the same small town where he grew up, maybe locally famous for his high school athletics, but certainly not rich. His anger could be great enough that he would turn to crime as a way to get that fortune he so craved. And with the Sheriff near to retirement and turning the police duties over to Enid, Deputy Powell had the run of the town.

He could well be protecting the guys in the valley from outside interference. Dealing with the car thief, making the problem go away, making him disappear. Perhaps he also helped Cortina Perez and Joseph Custer disappear because they were a threat. Cortina could reveal that she did not even know the dead guy from the trail. He was dead, and he was not her boyfriend. She did not just run away. She was eliminated. The note Enid claimed that she wrote was a fake. And Joseph left me a message saying he had discovered something. Then he disappeared. That coincidence just did not set well with me.

Enid Powell. A local boy, local hero, who turned bad. He turned against the people of Willow Run, the very ones he was sworn to protect and to serve. I pictured in my mind Deputy Enid Powell in his brown uniform.

I then remembered the brown paper that had been in my backpack in the pile of litter. While I sent it to Ed Garvey for fingerprint analysis, I had a photocopy of it. I pulled that out of my pack to study it.

Printed on the paper were the letters M and E. The M was next to the shredded edge of the paper. It suggested there had been more printed letters that were lost during the guy's run through the forest. Not ME as in medical examiner. But they could have been part of a word, with letters such as L and I missing. LIME. This coarse paper could have come from bags of lime for processing the crude opium right there in the valley. This piece of paper might have been taken from one of those bags and used for another purpose. That purpose was to tell part of a story once it was removed from the valley.

If so, then the effort in the valley was very complex. And very expensive. Fencing, probably camouflage netting, guards, housing, lime, maybe ammonia, drug processing building, supplies, and vehicles. Certainly heroin can bring in a lot of money, but they would need a lot of up-front money to start this. Was the military secretly producing heroin as a money-raising campaign in this tight economy? Sure, it could be worth millions of dollars and maybe even a few billion, but that seemed like rounding error compared to the huge size of the US military budget. They were spending hundreds of billions of dollars each year in Iraq alone.

Or would they be producing heroin to compete with the Afghanistan production of the drug? Put the Afghan drug lords out of business, and money for the Taliban and terrorism begins to dry up. That might actually work.

These scenarios bestowed some honor on the guys in the valley, raising money for the military objectives over there. But both of these distorted possibilities still put drugs on the streets of America. Maybe it's just creative thinking put into action by an over-zealous or misguided military unit. Yet I suspected it was the usual motive for such activity. It was most likely being done for personal gain. It was simply greed. It always was.

But I was letting my imagination run away a bit with this. I had no real proof of anything. Just circumstantial bits and pieces of my conspiracy theory.

I studied the photocopy of the brown paper again. In addition to the letters M and E were dark streaks or smudges. According to the material I had just read, that was the color of the sap that oozes from a slit opium seedpod after it has darkened when exposed to air. I peered at the dark streaks more closely. There was a pattern to them, nearly parallel curved lines on the paper, like the residue from a slit pod. I had not seen any pod in the paper. I rummaged again through the plant parts in my bag and did not see anything that resembled the pod I had seen on the computer monitor. I was certain that is what the paper had probably contained, but it had been lost somewhere out there in the forest. That could be confirmed by Ed. He could have the paper I sent him analyzed for morphine residue. That should be simple enough for him. It's the kind of thing that is probably done routinely, even in the Cincinnati crime lab.

Now I felt more confident about interpreting that the dead man I found on Monarch Trail escaped from the valley. But unlike the car thief in the fall, he was also carrying opium plant parts wrapped in the brown paper torn from a bag of lime as proof of what was going on in the valley. But he never got to deliver that proof. He died running off the cliff. And the guys in the valley took away the evidence, the body and plant parts and the brown paper I had seen on the guy. But he had also been carrying a second set of evidence, a back up, that he dropped when he went over the cliff. And I picked it up only because I am a nut case about litter. A coincidence. A very freaky coincidence.

Chapter 33

Allison had been busy with other patrons as I was about to leave, so our verbal exchange was brief. She handed me a stack of papers. I had ordered up printing of many of the pages I'd read since they all seemed important in some way to my investigation. I paid for them. I was excited by what I'd found and wanted to say something to her or give her a big hug and kiss, even right there in front of the other library patrons.

"You look happy," she said.

"Yes, I am," was my enthusiastic response. "Things are coming together."

"That's nice," she said smiling. "And they are for me too. I have a date with a young man from Cincinnati. He's taking me to the county fair."

"Lucky guy," I said.

She smiled.

I requested one more thing before leaving. She answered from memory. It was the address for Joseph Custer's home.

"I'll see you later," she said smiling.

I drove the few blocks to Custer's home. It was a small old one-story house with no garage, though it did have an attached carport, which was empty. I knocked on the door. No answer. I knocked again. Still no answer. I tried the doorknob. Locked. I walked around to the back of the house and tried the knob leading in from the carport. Locked. I peered in through the window of that door and the small window next to it. I saw a kitchen containing a small table and two chairs, but nothing else. No food left out, no sign of a struggle, no body on the floor. There were no lights on in the house. So he really is gone, either voluntarily on a family emergency mission, or involuntarily, which I hoped was not the case. But it was eerily reminiscent of the sudden departure of Cortina Perez.

As I walked back toward the front of the house, Sheriff Tyler pulled up and got out of his patrol car. He leaned his forearms on the roof and peered across the car in my direction.

"Mr. Parker," he said in greeting. "Didn't expect to find you here."

"Hi, Sheriff," I replied, pressing my palms on the hood of his vehicle. "Who did you expect to find?"

"Got a call from one of the folks nearby. Said there was someone snooping around Joe's place."

"Not snooping. Just seeing if he's home. Have you seen him?"

"You thinking of going into the newspaper business?"

"Maybe so," I said, trying to be a bit vague. "Gotta keep my options open. Anyway, seems he left pretty suddenly. Did he say anything to you about where he was going?"

"Nope. The sign on the newspaper door said something about a family emergency. I expect he'll be back soon enough."

"Yeah, I guess so." I paused to consider if I should say anything further. My past efforts to involve the Sheriff had been unsuccessful. He had lived here his whole life, and seemed to already have all the answers. That accumulated knowledge might be able to help with one item.

"Sheriff. I know you and I have different opinions about the man I found on Monarch Trail."

"Reckon so," he offered.

"Well, I've done some more poking around out there."

"Not surprised. You seem like someone who doesn't quit easily. And it seems you're doing more investigating than you are writing a book."

"Reckon so," I offered, hesitating before continuing. "Sheriff, I hiked far west from Monarch Trail, just out of curiosity, of course."

"Of course," he said, nodding. I sensed a bit of annoyance in his gestures. But at the same time, it was as if he had expected no less.

"Like I said, I hiked west from the cliff on Monarch Trail because that's where the guy came from. A few miles out, I found a barbed wire fence. It was posted, something about the area recovering, from that fire last fall."

"No surprise there. The whole town knows it's off limits."

"Yes, I realize that. But beyond the barbed wire was another fence, a double row of eight-foot high chain link fences. They're topped with razor wire. It completely surrounds Spring Valley."

"What?" he stated with disbelief.

I opened my phone to the images of the high fence and passed the phone over to him. Again, I had to admit they were not the best pictures because of the low light in the forest. But since I had personally seen the fence up close, they were clear as day to me.

After a few moments he asked, "How do you know it was the valley?" More skepticism.

"I had my GPS with me. No doubt where I was." I held back on mentioning anything about the military guys. I was still waiting for the call from Ed Garvey on the dog tag before saying anything to anyone.

"So, Sheriff, what's out there that requires an eight-foot high fence? Certainly no need for that just to plant some trees."

He was silent for several long moments. He was still staring at the images on my phone and considering what to say. "I don't know. I don't know what you have here, but there's probably some simple explanation."

"Maybe so. Any ideas?" I was pushing him to come up with an answer.

"I don't know," he said, sounding puzzled. He was still staring at the pictures, furrowing his brow, thinking I supposed. Then he snapped the phone shut and handed it across to me. "I don't know, but I suppose you're going to figure it out."

"Yes, I suppose so," I concluded.

"Have a good day, Mr. Parker." He was done pondering the question. He climbed back into his vehicle, I pulled back from it, and he drove off.

So this was the Sheriff's response to my latest request for help or for his involvement. Just pass it off as something that probably had a simple explanation. It clearly was not of sufficient interest for him to get involved. Then maybe that was an appropriate response to a lunatic tourist who had been at odds with him from the start. In spite of my often-impolite behavior, he had kept our interactions civil. But I was still frustrated at his inaction. He really did need to just retire, turn over the reins to someone else. As long as it wasn't Enid Powell.

I went back to the motel. I felt good progress had been made in this unofficial investigation. Perhaps Ed would soon call with information on the things I had sent to him for analysis: the brown paper for fingerprints and the data from the dog tag. However, it was his day off. I might not hear until tomorrow.

There was something else I wanted him to look into also. If what Jake Monroe said was true, there were a lot of men working in the valley, men just like his running man. More Hispanics. And they were in there against their will, since they were trying to escape. It seemed to me that they must have been kidnapped from somewhere. There might be a trace of that, such as missing person reports. I might find something on the Internet. Ed, though, would be able to dig into many places that I could not, such as police missing person reports. But I couldn't call him with yet another request. Not until he finished what he was already working.

Chapter 34

I picked up Allison mid-afternoon, and we drove to Great Falls where the county fair was being held. I had not been to a fair since I was a kid visiting my grandparents in New England. That was the Eastern States Exposition, a huge fair held in West Springfield, Massachusetts in September. I remembered fondly the glitz, rides, giant pumpkins, games, and food. It was the big event ending the summer, and it seemed the whole world went to it.

This fair in Montana conjured the same pleasant memories as the one in New England. We were going first to the tractor pull. I recalled as a toddler, with my grandfather at a tiny community fair, seeing some farm tractors compete at pulling wooden sleds loaded with cinder blocks and thinking that was cool. I soon learned this was not my grandfather's tractor pull, not like it in the least. The behemoth engines on wheels didn't resemble any tractor I had ever seen, and they certainly had never plowed a row of corn, beans, or potatoes. Their engines roared deafeningly as they pulled a huge sled with a weight that dug deeper and deeper into the track as it was pulled forward. Eventually even these monster machines ground to a halt when they could not move the weight any further down the track. The winner seemed to be the one that pulled it the farthest.

The crowd went wild with each new entry, cheering their favorite, reveling in the ear-shattering noise and the sheer power of these machines. With no favorite, we covered our ears to muffle the sound and applauded after each pull. The crowd also howled each time a scantily clad blond strode by in an all-white ensemble of cowboy hat, low-cut sleeveless top, skin-tight shorts, and boots. She strutted her stuff, carrying a sign over her head. The sign advertised cowboy attire. I tried not to stare, but it was difficult to ignore her. Allison caught me eyeing this vision in white a couple of times and punched my upper arm in mock anger. I felt guilty for my obvious ogling, but she just laughed at me.

Later, with our ears still ringing from the roar of the tractors, we played the games. Ring toss, bowling, balloon popping, and various shooting games. I was terrible at the throwing games, embarrassing myself badly. But I had always done well with a gun. I spent many hours at the shooting range when I was a cop, sharpening my aim, certain that one day it would save someone's life, maybe my own. With that skill, and a hand full of quarters, I managed to knock down enough rag dolls with a BB gun to win 3 stuffed bears, which I gave to Allison.

Her arms bulging with the prizes, she said, "Ah, you shouldn't have," laughing and hugging the trio.

"Weren't nothin', ma'am," I said.

She wrapped her left hand around my right arm, pulled me close, and quickly kissed me on the cheek. I was floating on air.

"Mr. Parker." That jerked me suddenly out of my euphoria. It was Sheriff Tyler. I had not noticed him since my attention had been focused entirely on Allison. "Are you enjoying the fair?"

"Sheriff! Why yes I am."

"Hey, Sheriff," Allison added. "We're both enjoying it."

"So it seems. Well, good. I've always liked coming here." He gazed around, taking in the scene and the stars above. "Feels like home." He gazed around with that far-off look I had seen in his eyes before. It was like he was again recalling fond long-ago memories that he would never recapture in real life again. Then suddenly he snapped out of it and said. "Be seeing you." He tipped his hat and walked off.

I was about to say something to Allison when I noticed Enid Powell standing maybe 20 yards away. He was glaring at me and not looking very pleased. Even though he and I had not crossed paths in a couple of days, it seemed I was still high up on his _S_ list. With Allison wrapped around my arm, he probably looked at me as competition, someone who was stealing his girl. But I didn't avert my gaze from him. I wasn't going to be bullied by this angry Deputy, even in this long-distance staring contest.

I wondered who was keeping the peace back in Willow Run. The Sheriff and Enid were both here. But then it's a quiet little place where nothing big happens. And probably half the town was up here anyway, so there was no reason the local law shouldn't enjoy it along with their neighbors. I was tempted to go up to him and say something, but did not have an appropriate quip that I might toss at him.

Allison must have noticed the staring contest. She still had her hand wrapped around my upper arm and gently led me away in another direction. "Let's go get some barbecue," she said. "I'm hungry."

"Good plan," I responded, immediately forgetting about Enid.

In was dark now. We ordered our food and settled across from each other at a dimly lit picnic table. The barbecue was fabulous. It was one of those foods that I never seem to tire of, but this was definitely the best ever. Or perhaps it was the time, the place, and the company that made it seem so.

Soon a law officer approached. He walked with a confident swagger, one that seemed familiar. He strode right up to our table and spoke to me.

"Mr. Parker," he said almost accusingly. He was clean-shaven, with wavy light-colored hair peeking out from under his wide-brimmed hat. He was tall, trim, and muscled. Are all Montana lawmen such large guys? Very intimidating. His uniform was emblazoned with a patch that read Teton County Sheriff Department.

It took me by surprise. How many cops were at this fair? I had already seen the Sheriff and Enid. Now another. And why did he know my name? Then I noticed the nametag on his shirt. It read _Wells_.

"Hello, Jeff. Sit down," Allison said in a friendly tone. This had to be her brother. And it was probably the one who pulled me over on Thursday night for speeding. He sat down next to Allison and fixed a steady gaze on me. Allison must have told him about our plan to be here.

"Jeff, meet Nathan Parker. Nathan, meet Jefferson Wells, my big brother."

I attempted to wipe the barbecue sauce off my fingers with a napkin, anticipating that he might offer his hand to shake. But he sat there with his arms folded, elbows resting on the tabletop. "Sorry, my hands are kind of messy," I offered. "Nice to meet you, Jeff." Since he was not apparently going to bring up our past encounter in the traffic stop, I chose not to raise the subject either.

Jeff did not seem inclined to volunteer to start any conversation, so I took the lead. "Are you off duty tonight, Jeff?"

He didn't answer, but instead turned to Allison. "Enjoying the fair?"

For a moment, she fixed a deadly gaze at him. There was anger rising in there because of his attitude. But all she said was, "Yes, Jeff. It's been nice." Then she turned to me. "Jeff is on duty tonight, but I asked him to stop by if he had the chance."

"Jeff, the barbecue is great. Do you want some?" I asked, hoping to draw him into some civil conversation.

He took a long time to answer, then finally said, "Later."

Allison turned to glare at him, addressing him sweetly but sternly. "Do you think perhaps you could stop treating Nathan like a suspect?"

He continued to stare at me without answering, and then responded in a low monotone, "I suppose so," as though he was reserving the right to water board me at a later time. Then he smiled weakly and said flatly, "Welcome to Montana." It lacked the enthusiasm of a tourism advertisement, but it seemed a step in the right direction.

Not knowing if I should call him Jeff or Jefferson, since Allison had used both and my use of the name Jeff had not been met with a kind response from him, I chose to just say, "Thanks."

"Sis tells me you're an ex-cop, from Cincinnati," he offered.

I didn't particularly want to talk about this topic, not tonight and not to another cop. But I responded. "Unfortunately, yes. It wasn't my choice to be an ex," I said a bit glumly. But I tried to brighten up the tone, since I was feeling a bit bulletproof tonight in the company of Allison. So I added, "I'm glad to see you have kept your position with the county, in spite of the economy."

I immediately wished I hadn't said anything since maybe I had hit a nerve, a sensitive spot if Jeff Wells' job was not so secure after all.

But he continued as if I had not spoken at all. "And so you came all the way out here to be an author? What are you going to be an author of?"

I was already tiring of Jeff interrogating me. And then I noticed over his shoulder someone who was smiling in my direction and at my expense. It was Enid Powell. He really seemed to be enjoying my obvious discomfort.

"Well...." I started. But Allison broke in there.

"Why don't you two go behind the tent over there and fight this one out?" she said in disgust, mainly but not entirely directed at her brother. Why was I a target of her anger? At least I was trying to be civil.

Jeff then stood. "Later. I have to get back to my patrol. See you, Sis." And with that he left. I barely knew the man, and he seemed to have already concluded I was a waste of flesh. That was going to complicate any relationship Allison and I might have.

"That could have gone better," Allison said apologetically. Then she gently inserted her hand into mine. "Let's go."

When we got back to her house, even though it was late, she invited me in. The house was old and small. But because it was well maintained, tidy, and sparsely furnished, it actually seemed large on the inside. And there were only a few knick-knacks on surfaces so that it was uncluttered.

"There's something I have to show you." Allison led me through the living room, into the kitchen, and out onto a small porch in the back. She left the lights off. There was a rocking chair, a 2-person swing bench, and a stunning view of the creek and the forest rising into the distance over the hills. It was lit by stars shining brightly in a cloudless sky and a moon whose glow was reflecting off the surface of the water in the creek. It was the kind of scene that felt like home, something comforting that I had not sensed in a very long time.

"Wow!" was all I could muster.

"I knew you'd like it." She took my arm and steered me into the swing. "I'll be right back."

I continued to stare at the scene. I scanned from the sparklingly clear sky down to the back yard and saw what must be her vegetable garden. This wasn't a small plot with a few tomatoes and a couple of squash. It was enormous, covering half of the area between the house and the creek. That's one way to cut down on the amount of grass to mow.

I heard some clattering in the kitchen, and she soon returned with two glasses containing ice cubes and liquid. "Lemonade?" she asked.

"That sounds great."

She sat next to me. I could smell her hair. It was the same pleasant flowery scent as when I first met her in the library. Then, I didn't know what kind of flower, but I liked it. Now I recognized it was the faint scent of violet, like her middle name.

"Nice view. Looks like a scene from a postcard. Come home to Montana."

"Yeah, we kinda like it," she said a bit dreamily.

I wondered who _we_ referred to. It could be _we Montana folks_ or maybe she shared the house with a parent, or pet, or friend. I decided it was not important. I was sitting with her on this beautiful night. Whoever the other part of _we_ referred to was not here. But I was here.

"I always liked this view, even when I was a kid," she continued. "I grew up in this house and spent a lot of evenings on this porch with my parents. When I went off to college, I wanted something different, bigger, away from here. But when my parents retired and moved to Arizona, I couldn't bear the thought of losing this old place. So I moved back in."

"I think you chose wisely. This is a really nice place." I stopped briefly to gaze at the sky and breathe in the fragrance of her hair. "Why did they move to Arizona?"

"They love Montana, and they miss the trees. But they don't miss the winter. The cold was just too hard on them. So they went someplace warmer. They come up here to visit for a few weeks in the summer when it gets too hot down south. They still have lots of friends here. And I think they still consider this home."

"Don't blame them at all. This is like home."

Her left hand rested on her thigh. I touched the top of her hand with my right, intertwining my fingers with hers. She squeezed gently. I leaned in close, breathed in the scent of her hair again, and kissed her on the temple. She leaned in toward me and tilted her head up. I kissed her cheek and then her warm soft lips. She responded, pressing into me for a long moment.

"Sis, I'm home." It sounded like her brother, entering the kitchen and flipping on the porch light, putting us in the glare of the bare bulb. Now I knew for certain who the other part of _we_ was.

"Big brother is watching," Allison mumbled with our lips still enmeshed. She slowly pulled back, pushing gently against my chest, sitting straight up, and quietly clearing her throat.

"Nice timing, Jefferson." I suspected from her tone that the formal Jefferson was not meant to be endearing.

Jeff did not seem at all bothered by his obvious interruption of an intimate moment. He simply said, "Just keeping watch over you like I promised mom and dad." He then promptly sat in the empty chair on the porch, as if guarding his little sister against the advances of me, the jobless drifter from Cincinnati. This seemed like quite a change in character from the sullen guy at the county fair. He was more talkative, more animated, and even more of a pain in the ass.

"And mom and dad wonder why I'm still single," Allison said mockingly. Then she smiled overly sweetly and asked, "Jeff, I thought you were on patrol tonight?"

"I am," he said. "Just thought I'd take a break."

Allison scowled. Then she forced a smile and asked, "Did you have a good time at the fair?"

"Oh, sure. I was only there a little while, but I did talk with Sheriff Tyler. He's still working on getting additional budget for his replacement when he retires. And he still wants me to quit the county job and take up being Sheriff here."

"Are you seriously considering the Sheriff job?" Allison asked.

"Certainly would cut down on travel. It's a lot of county to patrol. But the town needs to come up with the money first." Jeff continued. "The Sheriff certainly seems ready to call it quits. The loss of his wife and his son really hit him hard. He just wants out. Says he's going to move somewhere else, maybe somewhere warm. I guess after a while, the winters here can be hard to take."

And so can intrusive brothers, I thought. There was a long silence, so I took that as my cue. I stood, stretched, and said, "I guess it's time to call it a night." I looked toward Allison, and she seemed disappointed. But in her eyes I could see that she understood. The moment had been shattered by Jeff's presence, so it was time. "Allison, I had a great time at the fair. Glad we went. Jeff, nice to meet you." I didn't even bother to extend my hand to shake his since he was not making any move. His elbows were planted on the arms of the rocking chair, and his hands were firmly lodged in a knot on his stomach. So I just grasped the porch door handle, swung the door open, and leaned in toward the kitchen.

"I'll walk out with you," Allison said, fixing an icy stare on her brother.

As I held the door for her to pass, she turned her head in Jeff's direction. She openly glared at her brother and his smug self-satisfied grin. I suspected there were going to be some verbal fireworks after I left. Note to myself: don't get this redhead angry. There is the urban legend that redheads have volatile temperaments. I had never bought into the connection between hair color and temper, but maybe in this case those traits were fused.

At the front door, she pressed lightly up against me, resting her hands on my chest, her index fingers gently caressing the skin above my shirt collar. "I'm sorry about my brother. He can be such as ass."

"He's just being protective," I said, gallantly defending him, another member of the male order. I supposed that as the man of this shared house, he considered it his moral duty to protect his sister. But it was something that he was doing with far too much delight. I imagined wonderfully bad things happening to him after I left.

"Whatever," she said dismissively. Then she instantly softened and whispered softly in my ear, "I'll call you tomorrow." She planted a warm lingering kiss on my lips, followed by a tender, "Good night, Nathan."

She said she'd call me tomorrow. Usually it seemed the social norm was for the guy to be responsible for calling to continue a relationship. She was taking the lead, indicating a more equal relationship, more like a partnership in our journey together. I liked that. I liked that a lot.

In spite of Jeff, it really had been a perfect evening. I felt a strong connection with Allison. I hoped this relationship would blossom.

As I turned to get into my car, I caught another glimpse of the moon and stars hanging over the forested hills. Maybe I had come home, home to Montana. Maybe I was no longer litter and could fit into a new life in Willow Run. I wished for that.

Chapter 35

I awoke. It was Saturday. I showered, shaved, dressed, and drove over to the diner for some coffee. At the diner, Janice was there, of course, seemingly working every hour the place was open.

"Coffee, Mr. Parker?" she asked with mug and steaming pot in hand.

"Sure. But maybe you can call me Nathan since I'm becoming a regular customer?"

"Maybe. But I'm not sure I want to be that familiar with a guy who keeps getting in trouble with the law," she responded.

What was she talking about? She saw my puzzlement and continued.

"Well, you get locked up by Enid on your first day in town. Then you have a face-off with Jeff Wells at the fair. You seem like trouble looking for a place to happen."

News sure does travel fast in this small town. "Enid?" I asked.

"Yup. Came in here first thing this morning to spread the word about you. I told you that boy loves to tell a story." She chuckled as she walked toward the kitchen. "I'll bring you some breakfast."

I hadn't ordered anything to eat, but whatever she brought was bound to be good. I noticed that the other diners were looking my way furtively and suppressing chuckles of their own. Wonderful. At least, though, this new story probably wouldn't end up in the local paper. That reminded me to call Joseph Custer again. It went right to voice mail, and I left another message.

I found a section of the Helena Herald in a booth nearby. I grabbed that for reading material until my food arrived. It also provided something I could focus on, thus allowing me to easily ignore the gazes of the gossipers in the diner.

In spite of the tense atmosphere, I enjoyed what Janice brought to my table: eggs, biscuits, and grits. Just as I finished and was enjoying a few last sips of coffee, my cell phone rang. Everyone in the place immediately stared at me, so I quickly flipped open the phone. I hoped it was Joseph Custer finally getting back to me. He had said he wanted to use the story in Monday's paper. That meant we had to get together soon to discuss the details.

"Hello," I said in anticipation.

"Hello, sailor. Are you busy?" It was Allison.

"Hi," I said softly. I felt a little guilty thinking the call was from Joseph when I should have been thinking of her. "I was just thinking about you."

"Liar," she said sweetly. "But it's nice of you to say." She giggled faintly. "Are you close by? Can you come over to the house?"

I wanted to say something clever like everywhere is close by in this town. I could be there in less than five minutes from just about anywhere. But she quickly continued.

"Jeff has something he wants to say to you." Then she must have held the phone far away from her lips. I heard the echo as she said loudly, "You do have something to say to Nathan, don't you, dear brother?" Then softly she said into the phone, "I'll see you soon." She hung up.

I slapped some dollars on the table, and bolted through the door. I was eager to see her again. But then maybe I should not be in such a rush. Allison had probably given Jeff what-for. That was not necessarily a good thing for me. He was armed. I was not. I vowed to stay close to the exterior door when we had our face off.

In less than four minutes, I was at the house. I rang the doorbell and Allison answered. She grasped my left arm with both hands, pulled me near, and kissed me on the cheek as she led me in. Jeff was standing and waiting. Even though Jeff towered over Allison by a half foot, he seemed subdued and smaller now. She had definitely given him what-for. It was an odd scene for a burly uniformed county trooper to be so intimidated by a petite redhead.

Allison steered us to the sofa, and gestured for Jeff to sit in a chair across from us.

"Jeff?" she started.

He breathed in deeply and slowly exhaled in defeat. "I was....." He hesitated as if finding the words he wanted. " I was not as hospitable as I might have been last night." This was really hard for him, but he chose his words carefully to be consistent with his apparent dislike for me.

"Go on," she prompted quietly while staring him down.

"I was just being protective of my sister. Being a cop, I'm naturally suspicious. I was concerned that she was being taken advantage of by an unemployed drifter." He seemed to have absolutely no problem delivering this part of his speech without any hesitation. It was how he felt, so there was nothing artificial about it. Then he finished with, "In spite of those concerns, I could have been more cordial."

It was an awkward apology, of sorts, and it seemed his obligation to Allison on this matter was now over. And he had clearly hit the nail on the head. I was an unemployed drifter. But in spite of that handicap, I had miraculously won favor with his sister.

"Thanks, Jeff," I said. "I understand." Since I did not have a rehearsed script, I was gathering my thoughts to continue with a defense of my unemployed state. But Allison closed this chapter in our relationship.

"Not great," she said to Jeff, "But much better. Now shake hands and start all over."

We shook awkwardly, and she continued. "Jeff, since you are so concerned about Nathan's employment status, perhaps you can help him find something. Or at least help him find whatever he needs to write his book. He won't tell me what his book is about," she smiled in my direction a bit accusingly. "But that's OK. I understand that authors tend to be secretive until they're finished. Anyway, since both of you are cops by training, maybe you can find some common ground."

Speaking to me, she continued, being very much the general in charge of an unruly batch of recruits. "Jeff has to work this afternoon and tomorrow. But for now the two of you should talk, cordially. And Jeff will find time to look for a position with the county or right here in Willow Run. Won't you, Jeff?" She directed this last question squarely and pointedly at her brother.

Jeff nodded in agreement. "Yes, Ma'am."

"Excellent. This morning I work at the library, and this afternoon I have to collect clothes and food for the charity drive. But tonight, Nathan, please join us for dinner here at seven o'clock."

"Yes, Ma'am." I parroted Jeff's response since it had not led to any outburst from the in-charge redhead.

"Excellent again." She leaned toward me. "Nathan, I'm glad you came over." She put her palms lightly on my chest and kissed me gently on the lips. She may be the general today, intimidating her brother and giving me orders. However, she also had a very tender side that I craved.

She pushed back from me, stood, snatched up her purse, and walked toward the front door. Jeff and I watched as she left.

Sitting there in the living room with Jeff felt uncomfortable. I wasn't sure where to start this bonding moment. Fortunately, Jeff took the lead.

"Nathan, I know that Allison likes you and wants us to be friendly. Maybe you're an upright guy, but I'm just concerned about her." He was again being direct, with no hint of discomfort in discussing this. It probably comes with being a cop, the ability to set feelings aside and get to the heart of the matter.

"I understand that," I said. "I'm not going to take advantage of her. I'm paying my own way here. I'm not a vagrant." I paused considering what I should say to assure Jeff. "I like your sister. I like her a lot. Yes, I'm unemployed, but that won't last forever. I will find a job. I just hope that she'll still want me around when that time comes."

Jeff's eyes focused squarely on me, but not in anger. I suspected he was searching for reasons to believe me, to trust me. After several seconds, he nodded, apparently accepting that I was trustworthy.

"I've done some checking up on you," he said.

That was expected. He's a cop. If my sister were involved with an unemployed drifter, I would do the same. That now made the second time my background had been scrutinized by the local law. No real problem. Nothing nefarious there to be found, nothing to hide. I just felt a bit vulnerable.

"I understand," was all I offered in response.

He didn't say anything about what he found or what he thought of me. He just continued to focus his eyes on me. After a pause, he said, "I haven't talked to my supervisor yet about any positions with the county. It's his day off. He'll be back on Monday. I'll get with him then."

Those words said all that needed to be said. He had checked up on me, found nothing to be concerned with. He had probably also talked with Sheriff Tyler. Maybe the squabbles between Deputy Powell and me came up in their discussions, but it did not seem to be important enough to kill my chances. Regardless of what he had found or heard, he was going to help me with employment. "Thanks, Jeff. I appreciate that."

He nodded.

"Jeff, did you want to get something to eat before you go back on patrol?"

"No, I'm fine for now. I'll grab something later." He paused to collect his thoughts before continuing. "I've heard some things about you, and I just need to learn more. What are you doing here?"

As I had been contemplating earlier, if I was going to take my investigation anywhere, I needed an ally in local law enforcement. To get an ally requires giving up something, to build a bridge. And if my relationship with Allison were to evolve into a long-term relationship, then Jeff would be part of that in some way. Any relationship brings with it a new family that needs to be folded in. It was time to start folding Jeff into my life. Not all at once, but step by step. Besides, he might even one day be my brother-in-law. So I started telling him what I was doing here.

"After the economy threw me out of my job in Cincinnati, I applied everywhere. Nothing came up." I paused to consider how to proceed next and decided to just tell it like it happened. "I couldn't afford to stay in my home, so I sold everything and moved into my car. Maybe not the greatest plan, but it seemed to be my only real option. And since there still weren't any jobs, I headed west to get away. I couldn't stay in Ohio any more. Unemployment in Cincinnati was over ten percent, even higher in some places around there."

Jeff didn't say anything. He just nodded in apparent understanding.

Feeling a need to defend myself, I added, "I have money to pay my bills. I'm no vagrant. And being unemployed is not my choice. It's just the way it is." I felt like this was a confession of my failings. It was not a normal course of conversation for me, but it had to be said.

"I've always liked hiking, so this was as good a place as any to do that. And since I'd written a few articles on hiking, writing as a career seemed like something I should try."

Jeff was still silent, just peering in my direction without judgment. I suspected that Allison had already told him all of this, but he wasn't interrupting. Perhaps hearing it from me reinforced it for him, made it real so he could better trust me as a suitor of his sister.

His silence made me a bit uncomfortable, but I plowed ahead. "You've probably heard about the dead man I found near the bottom of a cliff on Monarch Trail." I focused my eyes on him, putting him on the spot to respond.

"The Sheriff seems to think you're wrong about him being dead."

"Yeah, well, I know what I saw."

"And the grape vine thinks you're just a wanna-be author looking to create a plot." He chuckled. "You have to admit, your start here in Willow Run has been less than stellar."

"Well, talk is cheap. Anyway, I've been looking into it some more." I wasn't ready yet to share everything. I hadn't even done that with my long-time partner Ed Garvey. But I had to draw Jeff closer because after obtaining the dog tag, there was a certainty that very soon I would need him as an ally.

I noticed Jeff took a quick glance at his wristwatch, a telling signal that he would soon have to go to work.

"I have some thoughts and speculation on what happened out there. We can talk about all that when you have more time." And, I thought, when I have more hard facts in hand. "But there is one thing you might be able to help me understand."

"What's that?" he said.

"I hiked west from the cliff on Monarch Trail because that is the direction the guy came from. A few miles out, I encountered a fence." Before he could interject, I rushed on. "There was a barbed wire fence. It was posted about the area recovering, from that fire last fall. But beyond that was a double row of eight-foot high chain link fences, topped with razor wire. It completely surrounds Spring Valley."

"What?" he stated with disbelief.

I showed him the images from my cell phone.

After a few moments he asked, "How do you know it was the valley?"

"I had my GPS with me," I said firmly. "So, Jeff, what's out there that requires an eight-foot fence?"

He was silent for several moments, staring at the images on my phone and considering what to say. "Nathan, I don't know. I don't know what you have here, but there's probably some simple explanation."

"Yeah? What might that be?" I challenged. His reaction was following the script of when I talked with the do-nothing Sheriff.

"I don't know. And what does it have to do with your dead guy?"

"Maybe everything. Maybe nothing. I don't know, but I have my suspicions which we can talk about when you have more time, lots more time."

"Maybe so. I think though I need to see this fence for myself."

Finally, the first sign of curiosity from a local law enforcement officer. "Sure. Any time you say, we can hike out there. I'll show you exactly what I saw."

He stared at the images for a few more seconds and then checked his wristwatch. "Look, I've got to get back on patrol. I'm working today and tomorrow. But on Monday we can go out there. While we're hiking, you can tell me what else you're thinking."

"Sure," I said. It was funny how this interaction had started. We were talking because Allison had dictated it. This was not how I might have scripted this to go, but it was working. And I had to tell everything to someone who at least was willing to listen, though the last time I did that, with Joseph Custer, the guy disappeared. Jeff would be different. He was armed. He was the law. He was not going to disappear. At least, I had to believe that.

"Nathan, who else have you told about this?"

"Why does it matter?" I asked.

He laughed about the absurdity of my question. "You've been here long enough to witness the grape vine in action. The folks around here have been talking about your dead Hispanic for days. People can do crazy things when they don't understand what's going on."

I nodded in understanding. "Just the Sheriff who doesn't believe it anyway. And Joseph Custer who left town suddenly."

He hung his head in disappointment on hearing the name Joseph Custer, a reporter who might tell all in his paper.

"It's OK, Jeff. Joseph said he wouldn't print anything until we talked. Since he's been gone, we haven't talked again. And with him gone, no new papers have been printed."

"Well, that's a bit comforting."

I was tempted to interject something about it being odd that Custer left town so suddenly, but then what did I really know about him? Almost nothing. He's a grown-up who can certainly take care of himself. So I said nothing.

"I won't say anything until we have a chance to talk again," I offered.

Jeff nodded in approval. "Well, gotta go. I'll call you later."

"Thanks, Jeff."

We left the house. He climbed into his cruiser and waved quickly, almost like a salute, as he departed.

Chapter 36

I went back to my motel to continue summarizing all that I had done here in Willow Run. I needed to put it all down. My superficial reason was that it would be the start of my book. But the reality was that I was preparing an investigative summary.

I sat in the plastic chair outside my room, banging on my laptop keyboard. My focus was broken by the chirp of my cell phone.

"Hello."

"You really do need to get caller ID." It was Ed Garvey. He sounded angry, again. "You've stepped into something big, so you better know who's calling you next time."

Excited by the prospect of something big, I eagerly asked, "What are you talking about?"

"The dog tag. It belongs to a guy who is deployed to Afghanistan. Except he's missing."

"What do you mean missing?"

Ed continued without answering my question. "Actually, he is and his entire platoon are missing."

"As in missing in action?"

"No, as in AWOL, Absent Without Official Leave. Since you found one of them, chances are the rest of them are there too."

"Interesting." I was pleased. Things were clicking into place. Military guys from Afghanistan, AWOL in a burned-out valley, growing opium poppies. I sensed my probing was on to something big. My methods might be a bit sloppy, my resources might not be readily available, but I was feeling like detective-worthy material.

"Interesting, my ass," Ed blurted. "I just hope I don't get buried in the backlash from this. If it comes back to me, I'm sorry, but I'm gonna have to give up the source. That's you."

"What backlash?"

"You can't possibly be that naïve, can you? AWOL is a serious matter. When it's a whole platoon, you can bet the feds are gonna jump all over this, and you don't want to be in their sights. There may be a new administration in DC, but there are still a lot of rogue spooks out there who like their jobs too much."

Ed was right. His information was exciting to me because it revealed something big, showed I was onto something important. It showed that I was right. But it could indeed ignite a firestorm if not handled well.

"Understood, Ed."

"I'm not so sure you do understand," he said forcefully. "The shit is going to hit the fan on this one. I don't want to be caught in the spray. Neither should you."

"OK, Ed," I said soothingly. Then a thought occurred to me. "Where are the AWOL guys from?"

"You mean what state?"

"Yeah," I replied.

"Don't know, didn't ask, and don't care," he said gruffly. "And that's not all," he continued harshly. "I got back the fingerprint results. Yours are there. No surprise. Also a guy named Enid Powell. Is that your local cop?"

I had anticipated that might be the case. He had searched my backpack after arresting me and must have touched the paper.

"Yes, Ed. He's the Deputy here in Willow Run."

"Well, there's more," Ed added. "A third set of prints. They belong to an Afghan who is supposed to be in prison over there. He disappeared in March. Assumed to be an escapee. And now you turn up his prints in Montana? What the hell's going on out there?"

All along I had been thinking my dead guy was Hispanic. But he was Afghan. Did my pursuit of the Hispanic angle lead to the disappearance of Cortina Perez? That was a very troubling thought. And what about Joseph Custer? Did it in any way impact what might have happened to him? I couldn't know the answers to those questions right now. Those had to wait.

The guy was Afghan. But not just any guy from Afghanistan. He was a prisoner of war from that country, probably a militant, maybe from the Taliban, perhaps a member of al-Qaeda.

That made me consider that the handwriting on the brown paper was Arabic. It had to be. I didn't know what it said, but now I could guess it was a plea for help. It was insurance so that if the guy died in his escape attempt, the paper might eventually get translated. I had intended to do that yesterday at the university. His mission had failed, but in a sense it had also succeeded. I found the paper and now knew what it meant. He died, but his message got through.

"I think I know what's going on. At least, some of it. I need to dig just a little more."

"Yeah, dig is right. Dig a hole and go hide in it because now that this fingerprint has shown up, Homeland Security is going to want to know who found the print and where. A prisoner of war from Afghanistan running loose in the US? That will feel like a terrorist plot unfolding on US soil. They're going to swarm all over it. Arrest everybody and ask questions later."

Homeland Security had expansive powers, and they controlled enormous resources. Ed was right. The shit would hit the fan.

"How well protected are you, Ed?"

"I don't know. I think it's OK. But you don't need to know the details of where I got the information. Suffice it to say, I got a hard copy of the federal arrest warrant for the whole lot of the AWOL soldiers and the output on the Afghan guy from the fingerprint check. I had already eliminated your fingerprints and Deputy Powell's from my request, so only the Afghan prints ended up being run through data bases outside our lab here."

There was a long silence on the line. "Are you at the motel, and does it have a fax?" Ed finally asked.

"Let me check." I pulled out a motel business card I'd taken from the front desk when checking in. Sure enough, there was a number printed in the lower left corner. I read it to Ed.

"OK. I'm going to an office supply store to send this to your room number. If they require a name, I'll send it to Liberty Valance. That's you for the purposes of this transmission. I'll send it anonymously in the next few minutes. I suggest you should be standing right there at the fax machine to receive this. You can do what you want with it, but I suggest you then call this one in. Better yet, call it in anonymously and go far off the grid for a while."

I would call it in. I would tell it all. But it would not be anonymous. I wanted the credit for this. I needed the credit. I needed to be right. It might be messy, but it was my way back out of the unemployment trap I was in.

Throughout his speech to me, Ed spoke forcefully and his tone rose, not in anger, but to convey the urgency he felt. And he continued his urgent discourse. "Nathan, just go far away so the spray doesn't hit you. Go on some frickin' month-long trek in the wilderness. Just get lost." He paused before continuing. "I'm scheduled for some vacation time. I'm taking it before school starts. The family and I will go to a cabin in the woods where there's no TV, no Internet, no phone. I figure in a week, maybe all this will blow over, and I can come back to civilization. I hope you're still alive then."

Ed sounded a bit paranoid, but he was also right. Rather than debate with him, I just said, "OK. Thanks for the advice, Ed." I waited a beat and added, "But I do have one more request before I disappear."

He responded angrily. "You haven't heard anything I've said! No. We're done. I don't care what Samantha expects me to do for you. After I send this fax, there is no more. Just turn it over to the authorities and end it. Now."

He hung up without saying goodbye.

Ed was normally slow to boil. But he was hot with anger, at me and probably at himself for letting me drag him into this. I was sure we could still be friends when this was all over, as long as he did not get caught in the spray. He was probably not really concerned about himself. But he had a family to protect, and that had to be his number one priority. If I had jeopardized that in any way, I would never forgive myself. Neither would Ed.

I went to the motel office. No one was there, but through the side window, I saw the desk clerk smoking and talking on his cell phone. I noticed a sheet of paper starting to spill out into the fax tray behind the counter. I leaned sideways against the counter, picked up a pamphlet on tourist attractions in the area, and pretended to read it.

With my free hand, I reached over the counter and fumbled around until my fingers touched the plastic fax tray and then the paper inside it. The noise from the machine seemed so loud. Surely the guy outside could hear it and would come inside to see what it was. Or maybe he could hear it and just didn't give a damn. I hoped that was the case.

It seemed like an eternity for all the sheets to spill out, even though in reality it was probably far less than a minute. I scooped up the sheets and stuck them under my arm. I opened the office door to leave when the clatter of the machine started up again. Quickly closing the door to muffle the sound, I reached over the counter again, and grabbed another sheet as soon as it popped out.

I looked up to see the desk clerk staring straight at me as I leaned against the counter. With the angle he had, I hoped he couldn't see my arm extending over the counter. If he could, he would probably assume I was trying to get into the cash drawer. We locked eyes for a second, and he started marching purposefully toward the office.

I thought for sure he was going to hang up and rush toward me. But then the other party must have said something to send him off because he stopped, yelled into the phone, and kicked a garbage can nearby, spraying trash over the parking lot. It seemed like the kind of outburst he might aim at his beloved sister-in-law. But he was also the kind of guy who likely had issues not just with her, but with many people. And that was fortunate. He wasn't paying attention to me anymore. Venting his anger at someone on the other end of the line, he cursed into his phone. And I cruised out the front door of the office, trying hard not to appear in a hurry.

As soon as I was out of sight of the desk clerk, I checked to make sure I had all the sheets. The cover sheet indicated there were eleven pages. I had the eleven pages and one more. The twelfth, the last one to be spit out of the machine, was the log sheet stating that the transmission had been completed. I was glad I'd gotten that sheet. Otherwise he would be looking for the fax that accompanied it and might contact the sender, the office supply store in Cincinnati, to ask what had been sent. Or probably he just didn't give a damn and would not bother checking. But I felt better with it not being in his possession.

I then considered that I didn't want to give that page to anyone else since that would allow it to be traced back to Cincinnati. It would be too easy in an official investigation for Ed to be found that way. So I tore up the cover sheet and log page, shoving the pieces into a partially opened pizza box in a trashcan. I could see that it contained some type of sauce, fries with ketchup, beer, and stale cigarette butts in there also. No one would be rummaging around in that disgusting soup to retrieve those page fragments, which were already absorbing the sloppy mess in which they lay.

Tossing the cover page and log sheet might not protect anything. It seemed everything could be traced: phone calls, emails, computer data from a damaged hard drive, or even deleted pictures from a cell phone. Fax transmissions are probably also equally traceable. But it felt like a step in the direction of secrecy just to dispose of the pages.

As soon as I got back to my room, I read over the remaining ten pages of the fax. It was mostly the federal arrest warrant, which contained a lot of legal language that was difficult to wade through. Of greater interest to me were the last two pages.

The last one was not part of the arrest warrant. It was separate and discussed the fingerprint analysis, indicating that the prints submitted belonged to a male Afghan named Salah bin Tariq Al-Fulani, age 35. He was captured in a battle with US forces in Afghanistan, incarcerated in that country, and scheduled to be shipped to the detention center in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. He was missing and presumed escaped.

So here was my dead guy from Monarch Trail. A captive who was forced into labor in Spring Valley to grow opium poppies. This actually made a lot more sense than using Hispanic labor. Opium farming is rampant in Afghanistan. This Al-Fulani guy probably had experience growing poppies and was chosen for that skill. The question, though, was how did a bunch of AWOL soldiers get him over here to do their bidding? And it wasn't just him. There were surely more, maybe dozens more, of them. They didn't just get on a commercial jet and fly over here. That was something I would have to come back to.

I flipped to the next-to-last page. It contained a list of the AWOL soldiers who were reported absent last summer, just before the fire in the valley. All were from a National Guard unit in Montana, though the page did not specify where specifically the unit was from. So here were Jake Monroe's military guys. Were they the ones who joined in fighting the fire and then just never left? Perhaps. There were a couple dozen names. None of the names meant anything to me, except for two: Ross Browne and Joey Hammons. Enid's bounty hunter buddies who left that profession and apparently joined the military. Son of a bitch, I thought. So Enid is certainly involved, up to his eyeballs. A dirty cop in Willow Run. Collecting money under the table.

Enid, having been a bounty hunter, had the right stuff, the right mentality, to take cash for his services. The would-be car thief in Willow Run last fall was not picked up by INS. Enid simply handed him over to his two buddies in the valley to return to forced labor, or worse. They could not take the chance of handing him over to INS since his fingerprints also would eventually have been matched. Or he might encounter someone who could translate his Arabic language. Then, in the course of events, someone in authority would learn everything that was occurring in the valley.

So Enid was also involved in an opium producing operation. The newspaper report I'd read indicated both Ross Browne and Joey Hammons were originally from Montana, so somewhere Enid met them in this state. Were they originally from Willow Run? College acquaintances? How, where, when, exactly what brought these guys together? I could ask Allison. She might know or could find out. I could ask Joseph Custer, if I ever saw him again.

Deputy Powell could serve a very helpful role for the activities in the valley. He was already basically running the show in Willow Run, since the Sheriff had long ago retired on the job. Enid could protect the interests of the guys in the valley. He tried hard to keep me corralled and out of the action. Maybe I should be thankful he didn't take it farther by turning me over to his military buddies. In hindsight, maybe he wished he had. I had been out there alone with him in the forest. It might have been easy for him to do that. A missed opportunity for him.

Now the opportunity was mine. I made the call.

Chapter 37

"This is Jeff."

I had considered again calling the Sheriff, but figured that was useless. I couldn't call Deputy Powell. So that left Jeff. While we had not gotten off to a good start in our relationship, we were now civil to each other and improving. And he was a receptive audience.

"Jeff, can we talk? Now?" I asked urgently.

"What's so urgent?"

"It has to do with what we talked about earlier, the fence in the forest. I have some new information. You really need to see this. We need to talk. I want to get your advice on what to do next," I pleaded.

"I'm already on patrol a long way from Willow Run. I'll be on duty until 6 tonight. Can't it wait?" he questioned.

"No, it can't wait. When can we meet?"

He sighed loudly as if he regretted getting tangled up with me. I was a burden pressed upon on him by his meddling sister. Then he relented. "I'll stop by as soon as I can. It might be a couple of hours, though."

"OK," I said. It was a long time to wait, but I felt there was no choice.

"And if it's so important," Jeff added, "Please don't call Joseph Custer about it. OK?"

"No problem," I conceded as I rang off. Besides, I couldn't even find Joseph Custer. But waiting was going to be a problem. I felt as if the information could not possibly be contained inside me. I was boiling over with excitement. The days of fumbling around in Willow Run and the National Forest had finally all come together. I wanted to scream to the whole world that I had value, that I was back, that I had been right.

I could just call the feds anonymously, as Ed had suggested. But this was happening right in the backyard of Willow Run. It was only right to alert the locals first.

Jeff was the right one to tell. He sounded a bit annoyed with me, but that would change soon enough, as soon as I laid out all the information for him. Jeff could then alert the proper authorities, whether they are county, state, or federal. Bring in the cavalry and clean up the valley. He would have the contacts for that.

While I was juiced up by all of these pieces of information coming together, I also wanted to get it over with. My stomach was in knots knowing all this and not being able to share it. I tried to write, but couldn't focus beyond putting down in outline form what I had just learned. I fidgeted and paced the room. Finally I just left and took a walk. There was an open field behind the motel, with the creek running along its edge. I headed in that direction.

I always found that hiking alone was a way for me to think. I could still enjoy the outdoors, but my mind was working, often without even trying to focus on the problem. It would just naturally wander there.

I wondered what was the connection, when and where was the point of intersection, between the AWOL soldiers and my suspected rogue citizens of Willow Run: Ranger Andrew Pine and Deputy Enid Powell. I already had a connection between Enid and his old bounty hunter buddies, who were among the AWOL soldiers. As for Pine, I had no connection. I made a mental note to add that to my discussion with Jeff. We could cross-check the names on the AWOL list with Andrew Pine, looking at high school, college, previous jobs, anywhere.

But then I considered another possibility. Coercion. Even though I had only talked with Ranger Pine once, he did not seem to be the criminal type. He seemed too prissy, wound too tight. But he might be convinced to cooperate. Allison said his wife Edith left him suddenly a year ago. What if she didn't leave him, but was instead taken as hostage to force him to help? That made a lot of sense. Get the ranger to be compliant with their needs in the National Forest. If that was the case, then there was a high degree of urgency. There might be a hostage to rescue. If Pine was being coerced, his wife must still be alive to keep him cooperative. I was glad then that my call to Jeff had impressed upon him that this was important.

All that had happened since I arrived in this town a week ago raced through my wandering mind. I didn't come here for this, but it all found a way to me. The body on the trail, the fortress in the forest, the missing Mrs. Pine, the hasty departures of Cortina Perez and Joseph Custer, the Afghan prisoner, the AWOL soldiers, the opium poppy farming. It was all connected. While the phrase conspiracy theory was overused, I suspected that was precisely what was going on here. A conspiracy to use forced labor to produce opium. I had to act on it because there were crimes being committed. But I also had to do it for my own salvation. I needed this to heal my shattered confidence. My sense of worth, of having a purpose, was still alive in me.

There was something else, though, that bothered me. If Cortina and Joseph went missing because my probing had made them unwitting victims, then why was I still roaming around free? It seemed Cortina and Joseph could disappear without a lot of fuss being made. They had no family here. While their absences from work were noticed, no one seemed to be worried about it. And no one seemed to be really trying to find them either. So maybe they were easily expendable.

Then I should be expendable too. I had no family ties here. I didn't even have any work that would make my disappearance noticed. After all, I was an unemployed drifter. And if they had gotten rid of me early enough, the disappearances of Cortina and Joseph would not have been necessary.

Then again, maybe me disappearing was more complicated for them to pull off. I was an ex-cop. Even ex-cops usually had connections with lots of other police officers. I had Ed Garvey. OK, so I didn't have a lot, but they didn't know that. I also had the connection to Allison, a cop's sister, though that had not progressed to a strong bond until just in the past couple of days. I would be missed, at least I hoped. Regardless, messing with a cop, and likely even with an ex-cop, might be risky business. It mobilizes those in blue to defend their brethren. I had seen that happen many times.

Then a thought occurred to me. I had been pursuing the bounty hunter and Hispanic angles pretty much from the start. Those were mis-directions of my own creation. And everyone knew about them because of the active gossip wire in Willow Run. Enid Powell and the guys in the valley might have liked those scenarios. Let me run myself ragged looking for links to bounty hunters and Hispanics. Those took the focus away from what was actually happening. They might have found that amusing.

Then again, maybe I was still walking around because they had some other plan for me, how to deal with me, something more sinister in mind. Well, if they know about me and what I'd learned, then bring it on. Let's get it out in the open and finish it.

While I was juiced up by all this, I was also feeling frustrated. I found the evidence, but felt hemmed in by my lack of standing. If I was an employed cop, there were avenues of investigation that could be followed because I would have a connection to the system and access to resources. Ed Garvey had been my only source, and now I had already pushed our relationship to the breaking point.

I couldn't wait for Jeff to arrive, even though it would only be a couple of hours. I had to keep driving this investigation. I decided to have a conversation with Andrew Pine. Now.

Chapter 38

I hopped into my car and headed north toward the National Forest entrance. I pulled into a parking spot in front of the Ranger Station. A mini-bus was parked there also. The letters on the side read _Green Valley Retirement Community_. Inside the building, a dozen gray-haired geriatrics lumbered through the displays, squinting with great effort and concentration to read the information signs. Field trip day. They created an obstacle course of haphazardly oriented canes, walkers, and wheelchairs. The walkers all had wheels in the front and slit neon-green tennis balls affixed to the bottoms of the legs in the back. I guessed that let them slide more easily over the floor. There seemed to be only one caregiver responsible for the entire group. She had a difficult task, and it seemed she was doing it with great skill. Skilled at herding cats.

Ranger Pine stood behind the counter, ready for the onslaught. But none of the visitors was occupying his time. They were all intent on the displays as the caregiver loudly and slowly gave them a quick summary of each display and patiently repeated it all when one of the old men asked, in a too-loud crackly voice, "What did she say?" Nonetheless, Ranger Pine stood ready to aid them if the need arose.

When he saw me, there was a clear sign of recognition in his gaze. I wouldn't describe it as a glad-to-see-you're-back kind of look. It was far more neutral than that.

"Good morning," I offered.

He simply nodded a greeting in return, then refocused his attention to his crowd of guests, waiting, almost hoping, for them to ask him for help.

"Ranger Pine, can we talk in private?"

"Talk about what?"

"About Spring Valley."

"I told you before, that area is restricted," he said sternly.

"Don't worry. I haven't been in there," I reassured him. "But I have been doing some further investigation. And I do know what's going on in there."

He flashed me a patronizing grin. "Well, you can believe what you like."

"If you don't want to talk about it in private, then maybe we can talk right here," I suggested.

He was still emotionless. He paused for a moment, and then stated flatly, "I'm kind of busy right now. Perhaps you can come back when I don't have so many visitors."

"Well, since I'm here already, let's talk about _Papaver somniferum_." On the counter between us, I placed one of my printed pages from the library. It was a picture of a poppy with its Latin scientific name underneath.

The caregiver for the Green Valley group tour glanced our way. It was unlikely that she would know that Latin name. Maybe she was just curious about our conversation regarding plant species.

Ranger Pine did not respond. He just stood there. His eyes were glassy, like he was searching for a way to quietly get rid of me. But it was clear that he knew what the plant was. Maybe I should have come to him with my bag of plant parts, instead of driving all the way to the university in Missoula.

Since he didn't reply, I decided to up the ante, speaking quietly.

"Well, maybe you know this plant by its common name: opium poppy."

In spite of my whispered comment, the caretaker turned her head again in our direction. She probably didn't hear everything I said, but it was enough to make her a little nervous.

Pine was now standing rigidly and a bit wide eyed, his face turning a shade paler. Then he gave his same old stern advice. "I told you to stay out of that area. The trail is closed, and a lot of the surrounding forest is off limits while healing continues."

"Well, I don't listen too well. And I'm tired of whispering. Shall I just let all these folks hear what I came to ask?"

His discomfort was now clearly visible. There was strain in his face and a slight tremor in his hands. He didn't want to talk to me, but he was also giving in. The growing of opium poppies was the weak link in my scenario. After all, I had little hard evidence to go on. But his reaction confirmed for me that the scenario was correct. Spring Valley was being used to grow them.

"Let's go in the office," he whispered. I followed him into a small room. He closed the door behind me. He could still look out into the visitor area through a large pane of glass in the upper half of the door, and he glanced that way often. He shifted his focus from me to his tourist guests every few seconds.

I didn't wait for any pleasantries. I got right to the point.

"Ranger Pine, as I told you on Tuesday, I'm the one who called 9-1-1 to report finding a body on Monarch Trail. No one wanted to believe me, but screw that. I kept looking for answers. I've been back out there and know exactly what happened. I know about the chain-link fence around the Spring Valley, the opium poppy growing, the AWOL soldiers, and the Afghan prisoners." I paused for effect. "So why are you helping them? For the money?"

Unconvincingly, he responded, "I don't know what you're talking about." But he kept looking past me to his visitors outside the office. He couldn't look me in the face when he said it. He was lying.

"Look, Pine," I blurted. Then I continued pressing him, my voice rising in intensity. "There's no way all that activity can be going on without your involvement. The building of the fence, the shipments of opium out, the late-night deliveries of materials into the forest. How big is that operation in there, anyway?"

He sat stiffly, with perspiration beading on his forehead. I thought he wasn't going to respond at all, but he finally repeated his previous statement. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're such a bad liar, Pine." Now I was feigning anger. The volume of my words was rising such that the visitors outside the door must be able to hear at least some of it. But I didn't care. I was looking for answers. Forgotten for me was the fact I didn't carry a badge. It didn't matter. I was drilling into him anyway. "Look, I saw your car and saw you open the gate for the military truck on Thursday night. I was there, just yards away from you." After a few beats, I added, "I'm going to the cops with all this today, so you might as well tell me your side of it before this all buries you. I know a lot of law enforcement people. Maybe, just maybe, I can help you." My last statements were deceptive, since I didn't have any kind of network. But I was feeling bulletproof with the progress being made in unraveling the mystery I'd been pursuing for a week.

I didn't know which part of my statements triggered what happened next. But the strain was really showing on Ranger Pine's face now. The beaded sweat ran down his temples and dripped off the tip of his nose. He made no attempt to swipe it away. He just sat there, hyperventilating slightly, and slowly crumbling. He was hiding something. And he was also afraid of something.

He started to whimper softly, his shoulders heaving. It was as if emotions had been bottled up inside for a long time, and now the door was open for them to escape. He swiveled in his chair so that I couldn't see his breakdown. I had not expected this sudden collapse. While my brief encounters with Ranger Pine suggested he was wound a bit too tight, perhaps that was only because he was bottling something up inside. I had not pushed him that hard just now, and I had no authority, except my concocted story about being a private investigator. And unless he was completely out of the Willow Run gossip wire, then he knew that was a charade. Yet even these gentle prods were clearly enough to tip him over the edge of whatever cliff he had been balanced on.

Now I had to deal with the consequence of my pushing. I was never good at offering support during moments of grief, but I did my best to sound sympathetic. I spoke quietly. "Ranger Pine, tell me what's going on and maybe I can help. I really was a cop. I have contacts. I can make things happen." I was grossly overstating my influence and connections. But he wouldn't know that. I just hoped it would lead him to open up.

He wiped the tears from his eyes with the heels of his hands, and then wiped his hands dry on his trousers. He took several deep breaths to compose himself. Then he swiveled his chair around to again face me squarely.

"Sorry about that," he croaked, his face red and tears still clinging to the lower lids of his eyes.

"It's OK." I waited a few beats before urging him on. "Tell me."

He took another deep breath, and then started in. "They just showed up. They seemed to know about the valley and knew the terrain. They knew that it would be perfect for their operation. At first they just threatened my wife and me. There were so many of them that I was afraid for our lives. So I helped them. Then they thought I was going to tell someone, so they kidnapped my wife to make sure I cooperated." He paused since he was choking up again. After several long moments, he was able to continue. "They told me she would be fine, as long as I did what I was told. So I've done whatever they asked. I keep the tourists and the other rangers away from this part of the park. I work seven days a week just to guard this entrance for them." He stopped again to wipe his eyes. "I'm so worried about my wife."

"Do they let you talk to her?"

"Not very often and only for a minute on the phone. But at least I know she's OK."

I sensed that he wanted to talk more about his wife, but there wasn't time for that. I needed to press on.

"Who else is helping them?"

"I don't know. I just do what they tell me," he responded helplessly.

"What about the 9-1-1 call? I called from National Forest property. Why did you transfer jurisdiction to Willow Run?"

"They said one of their prisoners had escaped, and I should be on the lookout for him. When the 9-1-1 call came in, I called them. They told me to transfer the call. I don't know why."

I knew why. The 9-1-1 Operator must have given Pine the location of the body. Pine's call to the guys in the valley informed them where to look for their runaway, which they were probably glad to hear was a body. Dead men tell no tales. They retrieved it. Transferring the call to Willow Run was a way to get the responsibility off the National Forest. If there was any follow up to the 9-1-1 call by anyone, the responsibility would be on Willow Run to deal with it. Get the problem off your plate and onto someone else's. That is how so many people deal with problems. Pass them along so the spotlight is off you.

But they also had Deputy Powell on their payroll. So the call went to Willow Run. The Sheriff wasn't a concern. It was Sunday, the Sheriff's day off. That's what he said. So Enid took the call and removed me from the scene. Then the whole thing was ignored by the Willow Run police. It never happened. Except I kept digging.

"I've been afraid to tell anyone," Pine added. "But now I guess there's no choice."

"That's right," I agreed. "There is no choice. I have to report all of this."

His expression sagged in acceptance. "I knew this would happen, sooner or later. The police have to realize my wife is being held prisoner. Please help me get her back."

"Yes, I know. Do you know if she's being held in the valley?"

"I don't know," he moaned. His response was filled with so much pain and agony and panic and concern. All of it showed in his face, too. He was on the verge of breaking down again. But he gathered himself to ask, "Who are you going to tell? I don't want a bunch of cowboy cops going in there and getting my wife killed."

I didn't want to reveal my suspicions about the Willow Run police department, and thus why I wasn't telling the Sheriff. So I said, "I think to handle a situation of this size, I have to go at least to the county level. I'm going to talk with Jeff Wells right after I leave here."

"You know Jeff Wells?" he said with a note of surprise.

I thought, he really is not tapped into the gossip grapevine. I answered, "Yes, I know Jeff."

He seemed nervous, but appeased by my choice. "Jeff's a good man, a good cop." He paused a few beats, and then pleaded for guidance. "So what should I do now?"

"Just continue as usual, only for a couple more hours. The county police will be in contact with you later today."

"Well, they have to be careful. Those guys in there are watching me. And they still have my wife."

"Yes, I know. I'll call you right after I talk to Jeff. OK?"

"OK," he managed to croak out. With a shaking hand, he wrote down his cell phone number on a slip of paper and handed it to me, saying he preferred to get the call that way rather than through the National Forest line. That line might be answered by another ranger. I wrote down my number for him.

A face then appeared in the glass window of the door. It was one of the old men holding up some postcards, tapping continuously on the glass with his cane. He said in a gravelly voice, "Isn't anybody going to ring me up?"

I nodded reassuringly to Ranger Pine, got up, and left the office. As I walked away I heard him reply shakily, "I'll be right with you, Sir." He was continuing as usual, at least for now. I hoped he could hold it together for just a little while longer.

Chapter 39

I drove back to the motel assuring myself I did the right thing by confronting Ranger Pine. On the one hand, I learned why he was cooperating. His wife was the leverage to coerce him into participating in the operation in the valley. She did not leave him, as the folks in Willow Run had been led to believe. She was kidnapped. She was not from Willow Run originally and had not become an integral thread in the fabric of the town, so her disappearance seemed to be accepted as just another marriage falling apart.

On the other hand, Andrew Pine was now on edge. He was at risk of falling apart over concern for his wife. Understandable. But he had become a liability. Mixed with his fear was a glimmer of hope. He needed to keep his wits about him for just a while longer, and everything would work out fine. At least I certainly hoped so. But deep within me was the concern that I might have dragged yet another hapless victim into my wake.

Of course, there was nothing I could do about it now except talk with Jeff. There was no taking back my visit to Pine. It was done, and on balance I felt it was still the right thing to do. The visit confirmed the opium poppy connection. It helped to reveal a bit more about how this operation was tethered together. Through intimidation and pay offs, it seemed they had the cooperation of key people in the area: the Ranger and Deputy Powell. There could be more. That was why now I was truly ready to hand this investigation over to someone else. Probing any deeper or hanging on any longer might put me in way over my head.

At the motel, I sat on the concrete walkway in front of my room. Waiting. I had not rehearsed what I was going to say, but knew in general the flow I wanted to follow. I rehearsed that in my head. Jeff's vehicle finally appeared and parked next to mine. He got out, and I gestured for him to come into my room for privacy.

"OK, Nathan. I'm here on my break. I can't stay long because I have to get back on patrol. So please tell me what you have to say quickly. I have a job to get back to."

I had a feeling he wasn't going back to his patrol duties as soon as he saw all that I had to share. So I ignored his abruptness. "OK. Jeff, I already told you about the fence."

"Yes, and we'll go see that on Monday. You hiked out there, but I can borrow an ATV. The trip will be a lot faster."

"Good. I'm glad you still want to do that."

"You said this was urgent, so you must have something new to offer."

"Yes. I found a dog tag in the National Forest and had it checked out through a friend of mine." I held up the dog tag so Jeff could see it clearly. "The soldier that belongs to this tag is supposed to be in Afghanistan, but he's here. Right here in Willow Run. He's AWOL. There's a federal warrant for his arrest."

Jeff took the dog tag from my hand and examined it for several seconds, mouthing the name imprinted on it. He looked back at me. "Since you were a cop, I suppose it's not surprising you might have some contacts to help you."

"Yeah, I've been calling in a lot of favors to dig up information."

Jeff nodded in understanding. He probably also had such contacts who would help him if the need arose. He asked, "Where did you get the tag?"

"Do you really want to know?" I asked in a tone suggesting that he did not want to know.

He pondered my question and then replied, "Yes, I do want to know."

"Let's just say I found it around the neck of an unconscious man who was armed and wearing a camouflage uniform. He was next to the chain-link fence in the National Forest. He didn't stop me from borrowing the tag, so I had it checked out."

Jeff peered at me intently for several seconds before saying, "I guess you're right. I really didn't want to know." He fell silent. Perhaps he was considering whether to arrest me for assaulting a member of the military. But then he continued. "Anyway, what's so urgent about it? It's just one guy, this Jeremy Mason."

"He's not the only AWOL guy. His entire platoon is AWOL. They're all supposed to be in Afghanistan. I saw other guys in uniform in Spring Valley. I saw them through the fence and I saw them coming in and out of there in military vehicles." That was a stretch, but this seemed necessary to keep the discussion rolling. "Odds are they're all right here, in Spring Valley. Here's the federal arrest warrant." I showed him the pile of fax pages. "The list of AWOL guys is on this page." I placed that list on top of the stack of pages and handed it all to Jeff.

Jeff peered intently at the names, crinkling his brow and rubbing his chin.

"Do you recognize any of the names, Jeff?"

He refocused on the list, his eyes moving from top to bottom of that list, but he shook his head. "No, can't say that I do." He rolled the sheets up into a tube shape and held them in one hand like a baton. "I'll need to double check this, of course."

"Of course," I agreed.

He seemed to be thinking of other angles on this, and his next words confirmed it. "Could there just be some secret operation going on in there?"

"I don't think so. If it were a secret military operation, why would there be a federal warrant for their arrests? They wouldn't be listed as AWOL. The military would know where they are and what they're doing. And it makes no sense to have a secret base in a tourist area. No, this is something else."

"What then?" Jeff challenged me.

"First, there's something else you should see." While I had given Jeff the stack of pages, I had held one back. "When I found the body on Monarch Trail, near the body I also found a piece of paper. The Sheriff and Deputy Powell had no interest in it because they didn't believe there was a body. So I sent it off for fingerprint analysis. I had thought all along the body was of a Hispanic man. But he wasn't. He's an Afghan." I referred to the page to say the name. "An Afghan man named Salah bin Tariq Al-Fulani. He was captured in Afghanistan, but now he's here." I handed Jeff the page I had held back.

There was not a lot on the page, just the fingerprint, name, age, a few details about his capture and detention, and a picture of his face. The picture did not transmit well, but it might be possible to match it up with the image on my cell phone. I realized then that was something I had not done. I held back on that omission. Yet in spite of the paucity of material on the page, Jeff studied it a long time.

I hoped this was going well. So far it was hard to read Jeff's reaction. But I felt he was connecting the dots.

"OK, so you're saying we have an Afghan terrorist in Montana? Do we have a bunch of disgruntled AWOL soldiers and a terrorist planning an attack on US soil?"

I had not considered that scenario, so it threw me off stride for a moment. On hearing it, that was not a surprising supposition. But I had to lure him and myself off that train of thought and back to what I knew in my gut was going on here and what the whole body of evidence indicated.

"No, Jeff. I don't think it has anything to do with terrorist activity."

"What then?" he challenged.

"Opium."

"What?"

"Growing opium poppies," I asserted.

"Isn't that a bit far fetched?"

I shook my head. "Not at all. I have one other piece of evidence to show you." I retrieved the print outs from the library. I had also pulled from my bag of plant parts only those that I suspected were leaves and stem from an opium plant. Except for them being brown and wilted, they matched well with the pictures. These items I handed to Jeff.

"I found these plant pieces with the paper having the fingerprints. I checked them against pictures on the Internet." I stabbed my right index finger at the pictures. "I talked to a botanist at the university in Missoula." My intent was that Jeff would interpret this as confirmation from a professional that the pieces were from an opium poppy. That interpretation was, of course, a stretch of what actually occurred, but I wanted to ensure that Jeff was fully bought into what I was saying. It was urgent that he mount a response to this because at least one life, that of Ranger Pine's wife, was at stake. So I wasn't concerned by a bit of embellishment of the evidence that I had. Action seemed more important that complete accuracy at this point.

"Jeff, it all fits. All these pieces tell the story. AWOL soldiers move into the burned out Spring Valley. They put up a huge fence around it to keep everyone out. They bring over a bunch of Afghan prisoners to plant and harvest opium poppies." Jeff looked intently at me, and I added one more item. "They even intimidated Ranger Pine to cooperate with them by holding his wife hostage."

"What? Where did you get that?"

"I talked with Ranger Pine this morning. He told me."

He looked annoyed at me. "Nathan, I thought you said you'd keep this quiet to avoid setting off a panic. Now you've brought in someone else."

"It's OK. Pine was already in it. He's a victim here. He has no reason to tell anyone else."

"Then why would he tell you anything?"

"That doesn't matter." I didn't want to embarrass the man any further by relating his breakdown. "What does matter is that he told me, this morning, in his office. It's tearing him apart. He's keeping it together, but I don't know how long he can hold out. We have to get into that valley and get his wife back. Hell, there could be other hostages in there."

Jeff was not responding. He rubbed his chin, considering all that I had told him.

"Jeff, there are other details we can talk about." I could tell him about the letters ME on the paper, which I thought was for LIME, an important chemical in processing opium. I could tell him about my surveillance of the vehicles going in and out of the National Forest after hours. And about Ranger Pine opening the gate for the truck to pass. And the disappearances of Cortina Perez and Joseph Custer.

Instead I said, "But I don't think that's how we should be spending our time. There's enough here already to get a search warrant, go into Spring Valley, save any hostages, and shut them down. Let's just do it." My voice was rising in volume. It was part intentional, but also just came naturally as I pressed even harder to make my points. I was done with the agenda for this conversation that I had outlined in my head. The main points had been made. Now I was just rolling with the momentum, trying to impress upon Jeff the urgency of acting now.

Jeff was still not responding with the enthusiasm I had hoped for, so I felt a need to press harder, to get Jeff thinking like I was. "Look, they're hiding in there growing their fortune in illegal drugs. They probably won't be in there much longer. Winter's coming. When they're finished, they'll be rich and probably go their separate ways. They'll disappear forever. When they leave, anyone who might be a witness will probably be killed. We have to get in there now."

Jeff stared at me unblinking for several seconds. I returned the stare. Then he nodded his head, as if finally accepting it all. "OK," he said. "You've made your case."

"Good, then let's do it. Where do we start?"

"Not so fast. You have a lot of good points here. Since they weren't collected properly, some of the pieces might be considered tainted as evidence in a trial and maybe even for the purpose of getting a search warrant. But there's still probably enough here to get the ball rolling. There's a question of jurisdiction since this involves National Forest land. We can't just go charging in there without bringing in the feds."

"Understood," I said. "So let's call the DEA and whoever else needs to be involved. But let's not wait. Let's do it now." I was eager to get this rolling. The continued thought of at least one hostage being held in the valley was weighing more heavily on me the longer we delayed.

"Nathan, be a little patient. This is not going to happen today. If there is a platoon of soldiers in there, they are probably heavily armed. Some surveillance will be needed to devise a plan. We don't want a shootout that could get a lot of innocent people killed."

I nodded that I understood.

"I don't suppose you have any speculation on how the AWOL soldiers got from Afghanistan to here undetected? Or how they got the Afghan workers? Or where they got all the opium poppy seeds? Or how they have gone undetected in the valley for almost a year?"

"Yeah, so there's a few holes in the puzzle. It gives you something to work on."

He seemed to be pondering the task ahead, maybe not so much as a chore, but perhaps actually anticipating the investigation, like a mystery to be unfolded. "You said Ranger Pine is being coerced. Do you have reason to believe anyone else is involved?"

I hesitated before answering. "For various reasons, I suspect that Enid Powell may be part of it," I stated with conviction.

"Enid? You must be joking." But I could see that he wasn't really believing his own doubt. Then he asked a question, in a tone that seemed to concede I could be right. "Why do you suspect him?"

There were lots of reasons I could mention. But I stated just one. "Two of the names on that list of AWOL soldiers are old buddies of Enid." I handed Jeff the print out of the bounty hunter news story on which I had circled the names Ross Browne and Joey Hammons. "I suggest cross-checking the entire list of AWOL soldiers against Enid Powell to see if there are any other points of intersection in the past. Maybe in school or somewhere else."

I then decided to add something else. "I've heard that Enid was angry about missing his big chance in football. Missed all that fame and fortune. Maybe his greed made him do it. Greed is a great motivator."

Jeff seemed to think about these for a while, and then offered, "OK. As much as I hate to admit it, Enid is worth looking into." Hesitantly, he also asked, "Anyone else?" He probably was worried about who else among his acquaintances might have gone bad. I could understand the sentiment. No one wants to hear this about his friends and neighbors.

"None that I know of. That's it, Jeff. That's what I think. What do you think?"

"I think it's time for me to recheck this AWOL thing. My department can do that very quickly. If it checks out, I'll tell the feds. I have to get them involved. This needs the kind of manpower they can muster. If I can make it a joint effort, then credit also goes to the county, Willow Run, and of course you."

I was glad to hear that my name might stay associated with this. While I felt guilty about feeling that way since innocent lives might hang in the balance, I had to surrender to the feeling that this kind of publicity would open doors for me. "Thanks, Jeff. So now what?"

He smiled before responding. "Well, for one, I don't think there's any need for you to show me the fence. Don't need to waste time on that detail, not with all this other material." Then he looked deep in thought for a few seconds before continuing. "We need to keep this contained for now. Have you told any of this to anyone else?"

"No, you're the first to hear it all put together." Not even Ed knew all of it. I hadn't even told him specifically where all this was happening.

"Good. We don't want them, whoever is in the valley, to be alerted before we can take action. Right now I think we should contact Sheriff Tyler."

"Why?"

"If the Feds are going to be swarming all over the area because of a phone call I make, he needs to hear it from me first. It's a simple courtesy. Won't take long. You just have to tell your story to him just like you did to me. Are you up for that?"

"Is that wise?" I asked skeptically. "The Sheriff hasn't exactly been my biggest ally. And he talks to everyone, including Enid. The word might leak out."

"I've known the Sheriff a long time. He's not stupid. He won't talk about it to anyone, not even to Enid. I'll make sure of that."

I was still a bit skeptical about the wisdom of this move, but Jeff and the Sheriff surely had a long history together in this small town. They certainly knew each other long before I ever showed up here. It was a small town. Go with the gut of the local guy.

"OK," I said, accepting yet another delay in momentum.

As if sensing my disappointment, he added, "Don't worry. As soon as we finish talking with the Sheriff, we call in the cavalry. OK?"

"OK," I replied with more enthusiasm.

Seeing there was no phone in the room, Jeff pulled out his cell phone. "I'll step outside for better reception."

I stayed in the room, pacing in anticipation. It was always like this for me when there was downtime before a bust. I would be nervous until the action started. But once it did, then the nervousness vanished, and I could focus on the task at hand. Unfortunately, even though I had brought this to light, I realized there probably would be no place for me in the action. I was a civilian. I would be out. There had to be a way for me to be involved. Jeff seemed my best ally and hope for that.

I remembered then that I'd promised to call Ranger Pine immediately after talking with Jeff. So I flipped open my phone. It went right to message, which seemed odd since Pine was the one who wanted me to call. But then maybe he was like me, a guy who often left his phone off for long periods of time. I left a simple message that the discussion with Jeff had occurred, and I'd try again later.

After I closed my phone, I overheard Jeff on his cell phone through the open door of my room.

"Sheriff, this is Jeff Wells."

After a pause, "Allison is doing fine. Thanks for asking. Sheriff, I was just shown some information that I think you should see. I suspect this is a federal matter, but I want to make you aware of it since it is happening in your back yard."

Another pause. "You want to know who is the source of the information?" Jeff said the statement as a question while looking at me for approval to reveal my name.

I hesitated for a moment. But I wanted the credit. Credit was going to help me get noticed, help me in my comeback. So I nodded.

"It was Nathan Parker," Jeff responded into the phone. "What he found has to do with some serious illegal activities in the National Forest. I'd rather not say anything more over the phone. Can we meet now, just the three of us?"

There was then a long gap as Jeff listened. He occasionally interjected a brief response, but I could not hear the specifics of the conversation. I still did not like the delay of waiting to talk to the Sheriff, to inform him about the chaos that was about to rain down on his domain. But if Jeff could arrange this meeting, then the Sheriff was finally going to listen to my story. He couldn't ignore it any longer. He might finally have to do something other than just sit on his ass and be the good old boy. It would soon be in his face, and he would have to deal with it, all of it.

Finally Jeff spoke again. "At your cabin. OK. Thanks." He hung up the phone.

"Why at his cabin?" I asked.

"He's in the middle of a plumbing repair at home. He has a water leak that he's almost done with. His cabin is kind of secluded, but it's an OK place to meet. Besides, we can go up there right away." He paused for a long moment, hanging his head down as if thinking. Then he looked up at me and spoke with difficulty, as if he were confessing to me.

"Nathan, I've been a bit rough on you. It was only out of concern for my sister."

"I realize that. I'd be protective too."

"Yeah, well, maybe I was too protective."

I didn't reply since there seemed to be more he wanted to say. He paused for another moment, and then continued. "Anyway, you've done some good investigative work here. I must admit that I underestimated you. Must have been tough doing it alone."

"Well, not entirely alone. I had help from friends."

He nodded in approval. I sensed that my relationship with Jeff was taking a big turn for the good. He had been belligerent toward me before. But ever since Allison had stepped in, he was more accepting. And now my findings convinced him I had worth to the world. Maybe we wouldn't ever be best friends, but a bridge between us was forming. It meant I was worthy of being in the company of his sister.

This was turning into a fulfilling day for me. It was to be capped off tonight by having dinner with Allison. A home-cooked meal, my first in many months. Maybe the schedule for the rest of this day would change, be out of our hands. So we might have to postpone that dinner. Regardless, it all gave me the feeling I was back from the brink of ruin where society had tossed me.

"Thanks, Jeff," I said in response to his nod.

He stuck out his hand, and we shook firmly, completing the last link of the connection between us.

Chapter 40

As we left the room for the drive to the Sheriff's cabin, the guy from the motel office walked down the sidewalk carrying a large envelope. He thrust it toward me.

"Came in the mail," he said, then spun around to return to the office.

It was addressed to me in care of the motel. The return address was Joseph Custer, and the postmark was Willow Run. So he had stuck something in the mail before he vanished. It had to be about what he discovered and wanted to talk to me about. He never got the chance, wherever he went. The letter had certainly taken a long time to reach me, but then it might have sat in the motel office undelivered since the desk clerk was not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed. I wanted to rip it open and read it right there. But Jeff was already climbing into the passenger seat of my car and waving me to hurry up. So I threw it on the dashboard to read later, after talking with the Sheriff. The information could then be added to the pile.

Jeff directed me where to drive. We went into Willow Run, and turned north on a gravel road, which climbed upward into the woods. Jeff indicated it was the only road to the Sheriff's place, a quiet spot up near the top of the hill. As we drove away from town, the spacing on the few scattered houses got farther apart. Jeff told me some of the cabins up this way were rentals used by tourists. If I weren't in my current unemployed state of poverty, I could be staying in one of those, rather than the run-down motel that I now called home. That kind of up-grade would be welcome.

That reminded me that I needed to extend my stay at the motel. I was supposed to check out today. Or I needed to find a camping area, at least until the cold weather arrived and made sleeping in my car impractical. Or perhaps there was a low cost sleeping room in town that I could rent. I would have to consider my financial situation carefully. How long could I afford any of these options? Regardless, I knew I was going to stay longer in Willow Run, even if I wasn't certain where I would reside. I also had to do some laundry. I was down to my last few clean garments. Funny how such mundane chores crept into mind even during this high I was riding. And this high was making me feel good about myself, my future, my affection for Allison, and even my improving relationship with Jeff. I was coming back from the brink, and it felt good.

In a heavily wooded section of the road, a car sat in the ditch with its right rear jacked up. A man sat on the rim of the open trunk of the car, his arms folded. When he saw us approach, he stepped out in the road and waved his arms over his head.

Jeff said, "Duty calls. Better stop so we can give him a hand."

I wanted to press on to the Sheriff's cabin and get this legal ball rolling. But I knew he was right. We couldn't just drive on past a stranded motorist. I pulled in behind the car and killed the engine. Jeff got out, and I followed as soon as I set the parking brake.

"Good morning. No spare?" Jeff asked.

"Thanks for stopping. No spare. I guess I should rent from a better agency next time."

"Up here on vacation?" Jeff asked.

"Yeah. Just going up to check into my cabin," he said.

Then all of us did what men are supposed to do with mechanical things. Go look at the problem, the flat tire, as if that alone would be sufficient to fix it.

"We can take the tire off, throw it in our car, and give you a ride to a service station. Can probably have you back on the road in thirty minutes," Jeff offered.

That would delay meeting with the Sheriff. I was still churning inside, wanting this thing to get going. I had found a thread and started pulling it. I wanted to see the whole thing unravel. But we had to do the right thing by this hapless tourist also.

Just then Deputy Powell pulled up behind my car. This seemed like an unwelcome coincidence. If he was really part of the activity in the valley, I didn't want him anywhere near when we talked to the Sheriff. But then again, since Deputy Powell was on duty, and there was a stranded motorist here, we could just let him handle this situation. We could then go meet the Sheriff.

"Hey, Jeff," Enid said in greeting. "Mr. Parker," he said with a heavy dose of animosity. "Can I help?" He came up beside Jeff to inspect the flat, joining our group.

It was then I noticed something out of place. There was no luggage in the vehicle. There hadn't been any in the open trunk, and there was none on the seats or the floor in the passenger compartment. Even a minimalist tourist about to start a vacation would have at least one bag. This didn't seem right.

I had made many traffic stops as a cop and was always on the lookout for the inconsistencies in the situation. On several occasions, what started out as a traffic stop ended up with an arrest for other violations involving drug possession, illegal firearms, and once even a kidnapping. Jeff stood next to me. I turned toward him to point out this inconsistency.

A hand firmly grabbed the left side of my face and rammed the right side of my head against the top edge of the car. A streak of pain shot through me, and my knees buckled as I started to feel faint. The hand that had grabbed my face pulled me back from the car and rammed my head again into the car. Since my knees were giving out, this time the blow was against the car window. I struck outward with my left arm to knock away my attacker, but my swing had no aim and no strength.

Though pain was echoing in my skull, I heard commotion around me, lots of commotion. Jeff had been next to me, and I felt him pushing up against me. While someone was pounding me, Jeff was involved in a struggle of his own. It had to be a struggle with Enid. That meant the guy pretending to be a tourist was attacking me. There were grunts as fists landed on flesh and the shuffle of feet on gravel trying to get solid footing.

I hadn't yet seen my attacker. That strong hand still had a firm grip on my face, covering my left eye, and I couldn't see out of my right. The blow against the car opened a gash in my temple. Blood flowed into my right eye, blurring my vision. I used my right hand to push myself away from the car to face my opponent, but he brought a knee up into my gut that doubled me over, expelling all the air out of my lungs. His hand came free from my face as I fell to my knees, but I was helpless to do anything. I was gasping to take a breath. My diaphragm wouldn't respond.

The roar of a gun nearby deafened me. Had I been shot? I didn't feel any new pain. But there was loud ringing in my ears. Then there was a second shot. And a third. But they seemed muffled, as if they were far away. I turned my head to see who was shooting and who had been shot. I hoped it was Jeff shooting the attackers. There was another shot. But before I could turn completely, a fist struck downward onto the left side of my face. I fell face down onto the gravel. All I could see were boots inches from my eyes before everything went black.

Chapter 41

I awoke face down on the floor. Pain shot through my head, and my ears were ringing. I felt nauseous. When I tried to move my head, the pain and nausea worsened, so I lay still with my eyes screwed shut. I tried to move my arms and legs, but they felt paralyzed. I tried to move by rocking gently from side to side. Slight movement was possible, but my shoulders and hips were bumping into something on either side, like I was wedged in. And I had difficulty breathing, like my chest was compressed.

The ringing in my ears had to be from the gunshots. Someone was shot. Who? It wasn't me, I was reasonably certain of that. Jeff? Enid? The other man?

Why won't the ringing stop?

But the ringing was actually more like a humming. It seemed to be coming from under me, from under the floor. The floor of what? In spite of the pain, I had to open my eyes and figure out where I was. The left side of my face was against the floor, so I did what would require the least effort. I looked to my right. It was dark. It had been morning when Jeff and I drove up toward the Sheriff's cabin. Had I been unconscious all day?

The room seemed to lift upward a few inches, then the floor fell away briefly, and I slammed back down onto it. I realized then that this was not a room. I was on the floor of a vehicle. The humming was road noise: the engine, transmission, tires on asphalt. We had hit a bump in the road. I was probably strapped down for safety and was being transported to a hospital. Maybe I was on the floor of my own car.

After that revelation, I stopped struggling with my position on the floor and drifted in and out of consciousness. I was jolted back when the vehicle rolled over more bumps. I heard a voice say, "Open up." Did I know that voice? My brain was too fuzzy to focus. No, probably not. It didn't matter. I was thankfully going to a hospital. Then there were many more bumps that went on for what seemed forever. I was being bruised and battered all over again. I groaned. Soon, I heard that voice again, "Open up." Then it all finally stopped.

I anticipated the tender caring hands of doctors and nurses in sparkling clean surgical gowns, gently hoisting me onto a stretcher to whisk me away to the marvels of modern medicine. I heard the door near my head open and could see light flood into the vehicle. It blinded me and forced me to close my eyes to narrow slits. It was still daylight. Then the compression of my chest released, and I could take a full breath again. Through my blurred vision I saw that someone got out of the car. I was on the floor of the back seat of a car. Someone had been on the seat right above where I lay on the floor. I was filling the floor space. That person must have placed his feet on my back compressing my chest. I tried to shout, _Why did you do that?_ But the outrage I heard in my head came out as a muffled, "Wha....."

Hands came into the car and grasped my upper arms. I couldn't help them get me out. My limbs were still not functioning. I expected when they pulled me up off the floor that my arms would spread out, something I myself could not do. But they didn't. There was just pain shooting through my wrists and up my arms. Why did my wrists hurt? I realized it was because I was handcuffed. What the hell was going on? I'm supposed to be the wounded hero in my story. Discovered the conspiracy, attacked in the climax scene, adored by the grateful damsels who nursed me back to health, lived happily ever after in Willow Run.

Instead, I was struggling to stay conscious and stay vertical, my arms were cuffed behind my back, and someone roughly pushed me forward. At least my legs now worked, a little. I was then shoved into a brightly lit metal hut. There was a small office space with a desk. Beyond it stood a doorway leading to a much bigger space.

Standing next to the door was a tall man in camouflage outfit and boots. He was clean-shaven, tanned, and had closely cropped black hair. At the sight of me, a dark scowl formed on his face. It exuded an unspoken message: mess with me, and you're a dead man. The name sewn into his short-sleeved shirt was Mason. Unless there were two Masons, he might be the man I assaulted in the dark, the one from whom I took the dog tag. I had imagined seeing him and his colleagues in jail today. Now I was his prisoner. How ironic.

"Parker, you son of a bitch," Mason said. "You chipped two of my teeth. I will get even." So he knew, at least now, that he did not run into a tree in the dark.

Mason grabbed me by the collar, ran my face into the doorframe, and then shoved me through the inner doorway. He slammed me onto a chair in front of a desk. Behind that desk was a man also wearing a short-sleeved camouflage shirt. He appeared to be short, but powerful in the arms and shoulders, with a square jaw line outlining a clean-shaven deeply tanned face. It was topped by a stubble of ash-colored hair. He was quietly writing, but exuded an aura of command. He ignored me for several seconds, and then abruptly looked up from his writing.

"So you're the pain in the ass I've been hearing about," he barked. He stood up. He was indeed short, probably just slightly more than 5 feet, but broad in the shoulders, with a thick neck and legs like tree stumps. He walked from behind the desk to stand at its edge. Even in that short distance, his stride was more like an arrogant swagger, like he was the big dog. He had small hands, even smaller than what I might expect for a guy of less than average height. And stubby fingers. But I had no doubt those hands had a grip that could break bones if your handshake was not firm enough.

"Looks like you had a rough day. How are you feeling?" he asked.

I didn't reply. I was still having trouble focusing, and brief waves of nausea swept over me. I could feel blood trickling from my nose onto my upper lip, courtesy of Mason and the doorframe. My lack of response did not seem to deter him.

"Well, no matter." He walked around to be directly in front of me. He stooped over slightly, and I saw his hand come up swiftly toward my midsection. I was too hurt to react in defense. His fist slammed me in the gut. I doubled over in the chair. It was several seconds before I could sit up, and even then I was leaning over, as if I might fall face-first to the floor at any moment. All I could see were tiny points of light.

"That was just to make sure you know where you stand in the pecking order around here." He spoke slowly, enunciating each word forcefully. "You are at the bottom."

"But where are my manners. I have not introduced myself. Mr. Parker, I am Lieutenant Matthew Gates. I command this post, and that means I command you. I own you."

I remembered seeing the name Matthew Gates on the list of AWOL soldiers that Ed had sent to me. So now there was absolutely no doubt in my mind that the entire group of AWOLs was here. Not that there was anything I could do about it. But there was some tiny sense of satisfaction in being right on that point.

Gates strutted around to a point behind my chair. He grabbed the collar of my shirt and pulled me up into a seated position. He leaned over me, and I felt his hot breath in my ear. "Now back to business."

I was having trouble staying vertical again. I leaned forward to get some blood flowing back to my brain. He kicked my chair. It seemed to be an unspoken command. So I sat upright. He walked around in front of me and sat on the edge of his desk. "If it was up to me, you wouldn't be here. You would be dead and buried. But someone has a soft spot for you. Since I am stuck with you, it is important that you realize your role here. You are here to work. You see, with the untimely death of that runaway at the cliff, we actually are one worker short in the fields. You are going to take his place. Any disobedience on your part will have swift and severe consequences."

He continued. "We found some interesting items in your car, Mr. Parker. The missing dog tag of one of my boys. He actually thought he had run into a tree in the dark. Now we know different, and I suspect he will be paying particular attention to your needs." He smiled evilly. "I insisted that the boys wear their dog tags. To keep military discipline, to maintain order, to stay focused on the mission. But I made an error in judgment there. I suspect that dog tag gave you too much information. But no matter now. You are here, and the problem is contained."

"And we also found a fax listing the names of all the men in this unit." Holding the sheets of paper, he leaned forward until his face was only inches from mine. "Where did you get this?" he demanded.

I said nothing. The heal of his hand struck me in the forehead, sending me and my chair spilling over backwards. I wanted to just stay there on the floor until the world stopped spinning. I wanted to just fall into a pain-induced sleep and remain there on the floor forever.

"No matter. We'll find out. You have a lot of interesting stuff on your computer about your stay in Willow Run. That will be enlightening to read."

He abruptly strode back behind his desk. "I'm sure you have all kinds of questions. And I want to be an accommodating host. So we will talk later. It is a bit lonely out here, surrounded by horny GIs and a bunch of illiterate rag heads. You can be my guest for dinner. In the meantime, you will be introduced to your new occupation. Mason!" he bellowed.

Mason's camouflage-clad form entered. "Yes, sir."

"PFC Mason, please escort Mr. Parker to the fields so he can begin to appreciate his new home."

"Gladly, Sir." Mason roughly grabbed the handcuffs encircling my wrists, yanked me up from the floor, and pushed me ahead of him toward the door of the hut. I was taking only baby steps since I still did not have full control of my limbs. He slapped the back of my head a few times, chuckling each time I winced. "How does that feel, asshole?" he hissed in my ear.

What did Gates call them? Illiterate rag heads, a derogatory name for Arabic peoples. So another piece of my conspiracy theory was confirmed. There were probably many Afghans working as slaves here. Yet, knowing that now did not help my situation in the least.

Mason had run me into the doorframe coming into this hut. Even in my dazed condition, I realized he probably would do it again on the way out. I figured we were already even. Besides, if I was going to die in this valley anyway, I might as well exact a little revenge in advance. My mind was starting to clear, and anger was brewing deep inside me.

He had one hand on the handcuffs pushing me, and the other over my right shoulder steering me. As we approached the door, I could feel him picking up the pace so that my impact with the door would be greater than it was when we came in.

I slightly pulled my head back and my shoulder forward. Just as he propelled me into the sharp edge of the doorframe, I twisted my shoulder another notch, adding that torque to the force of the collision. His exposed hand on my shoulder took all the impact, not my face. A smear of his blood painted the metal entryway. He yelped in pain and withdrew his hands from me to tend to his wound. I smiled to myself and walked through the door unguided and alone.

"Mason," Gates quietly commanded. "Enough. Just put him to work."

If Gates had not been there, I would have taken Mason. Even handcuffed, I was certain I could get the best of him. He was strong, in shape, and in better health than I was at the moment. But he was also a hot head who let his emotions control his actions. I wasn't so sure about Gates. He was powerfully built. But given the chance, I would get even with him too. His minor show of compassion in controlling Mason was not enough to make me feel grateful in return. I might pay a price for my impulsive retaliation on Mason, but I had to make a statement. It was not so much a statement to them, but to myself. They had me imprisoned, but I was not giving up.

Outside, I forced myself to be observant of my surroundings. Any information might help me later. What I saw were mounds of earth. Each was about three feet wide and perhaps seven feet long. There was a row of them a short distance from the hut. They were overgrown. So they were not new. But they were probably not more than a year old. These mounds were probably the graves of the Afghans, the ones who were worked to death last year.

What bothered me most were the unmarked mounds that were nearer. They were fresh, probably just days old. I slumped to my knees next to one of the mounds and felt a new wave of nausea. The nausea was not from the blows to my head. It was knowing that I had caused these deaths. These people had died because they were caught up in my wake, innocents who died because of my actions. There were four fresh graves.

My guess was these graves held the bodies of Cortina Perez, Joseph Custer, and Salah bin Tariq Al-Fulani, the dead man I found on Monarch Trail a week ago. The person in the fourth grave was someone I had never met, but I knew who it might be. Ranger Andrew Pine's wife. I felt terrible for Andrew Pine because he had trusted me to help save his wife. I, of course, didn't know when she died, but there was clearly no helping her. Yet Pine still cooperated with these bastards, thinking his efforts were going to save her life. Gates was a cruel son of a bitch. Maybe he kept her alive for a long time, but at some point he must have decided to tidy up loose ends. Eliminate a problem. He would soon enough find a reason to erase me from his list of loose ends.

And that made me consider Andrew Pine himself. I had called him after talking to Jeff, as promised. Yet my call went directly to voice mail, just as all my calls to Joseph Custer had gone to voice mail. Would there soon be a fifth fresh grave, one for Andrew Pine, added to this row of mounds?

At least I now had a job. It is the same job of all the people who are incarcerated. My job was to escape.

Chapter 42

I stayed on my knees next to the fresh mounds, paying my last respects to the dead. But as insensitive as it felt, I knew there was no time to dwell on what I could not change. More important was taking this time to gather some intel.

Even though it was still early in the day, there was only dim light due to the camouflage netting draped over everything. I saw several Hummer vehicles, the hood of a truck sticking out from behind another hut, and a tanker trailer up against the fence line. The word _ammonia_ was emblazoned across the tank. Ammonia was one of the components for processing raw opium. My brain wasn't completely scrambled. I remembered that fact.

All the vehicles were painted in standard military drab, except the dark-colored sedan, which had just brought me here. It was the car with the flat tire and stranded motorist. I should have recognized it before the ambush, even though I had only seen it once previously. I had seen it while parked outside the National Forest entrance waiting for a tree-planting crew to exit. I had been so intent in looking for a truck or van full of day laborers that the sedan with four guys in it had slipped out right in front of me. So I could have avoided being ambushed and being imprisoned by just being more observant. But then it was dark, and I wasn't looking for it, not thinking about it. I was only thinking about seeing the Sheriff, getting on with exposing this whole affair. I had not prepared myself for any deviation from just getting it done. My mistake.

Further down, I saw at least three other huts. Those were probably living quarters for the captors and their captives, which now included me. All of these huts and vehicles were encircled by a high chain-link fence, topped with razor wire. This roughly square fence was maybe 100 feet from the gate. There was also a gate in this inner fence. It was like a small prison within the bigger double fence line that imprisoned the entire valley. There was also fencing that ran from the small inner prison to the outer perimeter fence, making a corridor maybe 10 yards wide between the gates. All this was an imposing barrier to those trapped inside.

I heard an engine running somewhere behind the first hut. It was probably a gasoline-powered generator to run the lights and other equipment since there were no visible power lines coming in. Not far away was a stream that flowed outward. That would be the waterway marked on the topographic map I examined. The stream didn't appear to be very deep, maybe two or three feet at most. The double fence line ran through the water, dipping down a bit in the deeper water, and probably contacting the streambed. That portion of the fence had two vertical rows of razor wire on top of it so that the entire fence line retained its full seemingly unscaleable height around the entire area.

Mason finally grew tired of waiting for me to get up. He roughly grabbed the handcuffs and yanked me to my feet. I felt much better now. Just that short period of rest helped revive me. Mason shoved me forward.

I thought further about the dead man on Monarch Trail. His Afghan comrades in this compound must have been sorely disappointed when he was brought back dead. Gates probably made sure all of them saw the body so that they would realize the consequence of escaping, even though Gates' men had not actually killed him. It didn't matter. The Afghans wouldn't know that. So the message he wanted to deliver came through loud and clear. If you escape, you die.

"If you don't keep moving, you can join your friends right now," Mason threatened. He pushed me forward, and I complied. The camouflage netting became much less dense, so it was considerably better lit here. I was soon wading through rows of tall flowers. Poppies. They were everywhere. If they filled the valley, there would be hundreds of thousands of plants, maybe millions of them. Among this sea of plants were several dark-skinned workers, all of them wearing turbans. Some were pulling weeds. Some were hauling buckets of water to feed the plants. Others were slitting flowers, a step in the harvesting process I recalled reading about on the Internet. They were all under the watchful eyes of men in camouflage uniforms who carried rifles and side arms. This operation might be crude, but it was huge.

Mason said, "Soon enough you will be working alongside them. But right now we need you over by the river planting trees. That's what we're supposed to be doing here. Gotta keep up appearances."

There was no camouflage netting over the river. They had to keep that clear in the event someone flew over and looked down. The stream had to be visible. A river that disappeared in a burned-out valley might be noticed. The netting over the rest of the valley would likely go unnoticed from any significant height. It would take very close scrutiny to detect it. There were a couple other workers along the river also planting trees. They wore hats over top of their turbans. Part of the cover. Turbans were not normal attire in Montana. A hat was crammed onto my head by Mason.

He attached ankle cuffs to my legs to hamper my movement. He made sure they were so tight that I winced with the grip. In my condition, these shackles really weren't necessary. While I had recovered some of my faculties, I wouldn't be able to run far without falling down. But for Mason, any pain he inflicted on me was deriving him pleasure. He flashed me a toothy grin. At least he undid the handcuffs so I could work. I wanted to rub my wrists to ease the pain and restore circulation, but I really didn't have the energy for even that simple task. I did, though, point to the river, and asked, "May I?"

He nodded. I staggered over to the creek, got on my knees, removed my hat, and splashed water over my head and neck to clear the cobwebs. I filled my hands again and again to awaken my foggy brain. I then drank water from my cupped hands. It was cool and sweet. I felt better.

"Break's over," he barked.

I stood up, watched the other tree planters briefly, and then hobbled over to a box of pine seedlings. I poked a long-handled trowel into the ground to make a hole, stuck the roots of a plant in the hole, and lightly tamped the earth down.

"Well done, Mr. Parker. Cooperate like that, and I'm sure you will do just fine here." Then he stepped up very close and whispered, "But before I put a bullet in your brain, you are going to know pain for what you did to me."

Being on Enid Powell's _S_ list now seemed trivial compared to this. Today had started on a high. This morning, I was on my way with Jeff to reveal all this illegal activity right here in Spring Valley. I had a plot for my book. I was meeting Allison later for dinner. I felt like my litter label was coming off, and a new confident life was emerging.

But now the full realization hit me. This day had turned to shit. I really was litter again.

Chapter 43

We were finally pulled in from the fields as the sun started dipping over the rim of the valley. I had no idea what time it was, but guessed it was near seven. Except for a quick breakfast, I had not eaten today. I was thirsty, hungry, hot, and tired. All of us were wearing the ankle chains, so our steps were noisy with the jingle of metal-on-metal, and our steps were faltering as we trudged along, prodded by the guards. No one said anything. We were too exhausted.

One of the guards grabbed my arm and pulled me toward a tank of water. The tank was a 50-gallon drum, which had been cut lengthwise and propped up on crossed wooden legs. A grimy towel was tossed over my shoulder.

"Clean yourself up. You're having dinner with the Lieutenant in ten minutes."

I filled my hands with water and drank deeply. I was so thirsty I didn't care if the water was clean or not. My head throbbed from the blows I had taken earlier, and the skin there was tender to the touch. I splashed water in my face, on my neck, and over my head. I did it again and again. Life was returning to me. I patted dry and then was grabbed by the arm and steered into the same hut as when I arrived.

Gates was seated at one end of a small table, and he motioned for me to sit across from him. "Sorry we can't offer you something more luxurious, but we do the best we can with what we've got." As hungry as I was, the fare of beans, mashed potato, ham, and biscuits looked and smelled like a gourmet meal. "Please help yourself."

I wanted to dive into the food, feast greedily, belch, and then fall asleep. But I also didn't want to appear desperate. So I spooned a few things onto my plate and forced myself to eat meagerly, as if to say, _I'm not really hungry, but I'll have something just to be polite_.

Gates seemed amused by my show of pride. "Don't be shy. There's plenty."

I paused and swallowed what I was chewing. "What happened? Why am I here?"

He smiled and leaned back in his chair. "Oh, you must mean that scene on the road. Unfortunate. Not something that we planned for. But we were able to improvise and make it work for us." He paused for a few beats. "No matter. Stuff happens. People die. The world says you are the killer. You are a wanted man."

Killer? I recalled hearing four shots fired in the ambush. From what Gates was saying, at least one person was shot and died. Jeff? Enid? I didn't know. But I didn't expect the part about me being called a killer, a wanted man. So I blurted, "What do you mean?"

"I suppose you did miss a lot of the action since you were knocked unconscious. Let me give you a quick summary of today's events. You got in a fight with the local law. Everyone is saying, what was that Parker thinking? But then, he was just an unemployed drifter, angry at the world for his misfortune. So sad that he took out his anger by shooting the local law, leaving so much blood on the side of the road. That's what they'll say, or something like it. Now you've gone missing, and your car was seen heading south. So who do you think everyone is looking for? Not us. And where are they looking? Not here. All the attention is somewhere else, as long as you stay missing. So here you are."

I felt another wave of nausea sweep over me. It was not from the concussion I likely suffered earlier today. It was from thinking about what I had done, the things that I had set in motion, dragging people into this mess and getting them killed. I managed to ask, "Who was shot?"

He swiftly leaned forward in his chair. "You don't remember who you shot? So sad. Now he claims amnesia," Gates mocked and put on a wide grin. "But who died really doesn't matter, does it?"

I let it sink in. I was a dead man walking. If I escaped, I would likely be shot on sight by the first lawman that saw me. If I didn't escape, I would die here.

For a brief moment, I considered that Ed Garvey would figure it out and try to find me when I didn't contact him. But I was deceiving myself. Ed told me to go off the grid, get lost. So, here I am, lost, off the grid. He was not going to look for me. Besides, he disappeared too, taking his family on a primitive adventure. He would not even know I really had stepped in over my head for at least another week. Would the dog tag search and the hit on the dead Afghan's fingerprint trigger a federal response? Now I hoped it would bring in the feds, in spite of the blowback that might occur. Yet I hadn't even told Ed specifically where the dog tag and fingerprint came from. So, there really wasn't a good place for the feds to even begin looking. I was on my own.

I wasn't worried about Gates finding Ed. This was a crude operation run by AWOL soldiers. They probably didn't have enough of an organization to go after him. Ed was going to be OK as long as I did not talk.

I thought for sure that Gates was going to lay into me about who else I might have talked to about his operation here. He had my cell phone and computer. I could see them on his desktop. But he didn't say anything about that. Instead he picked up a large envelope that had been near his plate and ripped it open, then leaned back in his chair.

"Since you did not have a chance to see this, let me summarize it for you." He was talking about the letter from Joseph Custer that had been sent to me at the motel. He scanned over it, his eyebrows rising in apparent surprise a couple of times. He flipped through a couple of additional pages, and then peered at me. "I guess Joseph Custer was worried. He found something and sent it to you. We didn't know he did that. Somehow he dropped this in the mail before we could nab him. Too bad you did not read this yourself. You might have been able to save yourself." He peered at me more intently. "Why didn't you read this?"

I knew why I hadn't read it. The lazy desk clerk had not bothered to bring it to my room until this morning. It was too late. I threw it on my dashboard, unopened, before we headed to the Sheriff's cabin and the ambush. But I didn't say anything about that.

"Ah, well, maybe the Post Office was just slow in delivering it. That's probably it," he said, grinning as if it had been part of his plan all along. The arrogant twit.

I finally asked, "What do you plan to do with me?"

"Well, Mr. Parker, you have put yourself in an awkward position. It was bad luck for all of us, including you, that you found the body and also happened to be an ex-cop. You got too nosey, so here you are. You should have just done your hiking, written your book, and forgotten about the body on the trail. I'm sure being nosey is just in your nature, being a cop and all. But now you left us with little choice. And you being a lawman actually worked in our favor in the end. You are skilled with a handgun. You clearly used that skill this morning. Not a wise move on your part, now was it?"

Up until last night, I must not have been a significant threat. I might even have been useful to them, diverting attention in the direction of Hispanics. But I had finally gathered enough pieces of information to make me a liability, one they could not afford to have running loose any longer. But how did they find out about it? Had Gates intercepted my phone calls? I doubted it. This was a crude operation. It didn't have sophisticated eavesdropping capability.

I had suspected Enid Powell all along. Jeff called the Sheriff, and then Enid showed up. Probably the Sheriff called Enid. Enid was there at the ambush this morning. He could easily have been part of the ambush. And I had talked with the Sheriff on several occasions. But then Willow Run had an active gossip wire, and everything I did in that town seemed to end up on that wire, open for the world to hear. Yet the key people seemed to be Sheriff Tyler and Enid Powell, perhaps partners in crime.

The Sheriff was a surprise. He had played the laid-back country boy to perfection. I told him many things about what I had found. Not all of it, but enough that he knew what I was doing. So he could have arranged the ambush. Did that mean Jeff was killed in the ambush? Probably. And then I was sent to this hell. In my mind, I placed crosshairs on the foreheads of Enid Powell and Sheriff Tyler and pulled the trigger, one shot for each of them.

Gates continued. "To be honest, I wanted to kill you right away and add you to the row of graves outside. But I was convinced otherwise. You could be useful later if we need to divert attention away from here, maybe have you show up in some other part of the state or the country. Can you imagine the chaos that would result? Every cop in the area would be swarming over wherever you were reported to have popped up. That would divert attention away from us. You're our insurance policy should some one come snooping too close. In the meantime, I will use you until we are finished here."

"And then you kill us all?"

"Mr. Parker," he scolded mildly. "Don't be so dramatic. Once we are done here, I really have no reason to kill you, as long as you cooperate. If you survive the labor and the lack of a decent medical plan, we can just leave you behind when we go."

I didn't believe his attempt to hide his intentions. I would be killed, probably along with anyone else that might be a threat. Just like Cortina Perez, Joseph Custer, Andrew Pine's wife, and all the Afghans.

He continued. "You see, we don't plan to be here that long. We made this operation big so that we only needed one growing season to get what we want. That's just one year from when we started until we finish. That's not too long to keep a secret. Now we only need another month, and all of us will be set for life." He leaned over the table as if he was relaying a secret, though his voice was not hushed in the least. He was simply doing it for emphasis. "Do you have any idea how much money there is in opium? I'll tell you. Billions of dollars. We won't get it all, but we're gonna get a bunch of it."

"But you'll be pushing those drugs onto Americans, teenagers, and children. And you've killed innocent people. Doesn't that bother you?"

He rose and started pacing. "Those American kids are going to get their heroin somewhere anyway. There is no stopping that. If people want something, they will find a way to get it. Right now they buy their drugs, and the money goes to foreign drug lords who then finance terrorism. At least when we sell it to them, they will be buying their heroin from Americans. We are keeping that money at home in America. That can put the foreign drug lords out of business. And that helps shut down terrorism."

What he was saying was one of the scenarios I'd considered, but had dismissed it: put the drug lords out of business to reduce terrorism. A twisted attempt at redefining his scheme as a noble cause. I had dismissed it for good reason. It was just an excuse for what these AWOL soldiers wanted: the money.

He continued. "As for those other so-called innocents, their deaths were just collateral damage in a greater cause."

He must have seen the disgust in my expression.

"Mr. Parker. Let me tell you a story, our story. We fought hard in Iraq and Afghanistan. I watched my boys get killed. We were there for a one-year tour. Then they extended it to fifteen months, and then eighteen months. More of my boys died. Those god-damned IEDs."

I knew that IEDs were Improvised Explosive Devices, which caused so many of the US casualties in Iraq and Afghanistan. IEDs were placed along patrol routes of the military vehicles. Roadside bombs. When a vehicle was near the device, it would be set off remotely. They were devastating to the vehicles and their occupants. Many died. Many were critically injured and went home less than whole. It was dirty warfare over there.

"They finally sent the remainder of us home. For what? A pat on the back, poverty-level income, and poor medical treatment when we got here."

"But we endured that. We were told our duty had been fulfilled. The war was over for us. So we stayed in the service. Then they decided to send us back to that shitty war, back to that third world toilet, again. So we went back, and more of my boys died. That's when we decided we were through with those hopeless wars. We deserved better for risking our lives every day for nearly three years over there."

"You call that justification for what you're doing?" I accusingly responded. "You went AWOL. You turned your back on your sworn duty."

"I am a patriot!" he bellowed, pounding his fist on the table.

A guard rushed into the room. "Is everything OK, Sir?"

Gates was silent for a few seconds as he stared at me, his fist still pressed against the tabletop. His face was tight and had turned red with anger. I thought he would give me another beating. With my ankles still chained, I would be an easy target. But he did not come around to my side of the table. He simply breathed in slowly, exhaled, and went calm. "Yes, Sergeant Grimes. Everything's OK." The guard left.

Gates sat down, placing his elbow on the arm rests of his chair, crossing his fingers in front of him, and composing himself. "Mr. Parker, we are getting off to a bad start here. My men and I have built a thriving enterprise. We are quite proud of it, though we do not get a chance to boast about it. We have to stay under the radar. So please indulge my ego. Perhaps you have some more civil questions to ask?"

I did. While I did not want to feed his ego, I was curious enough to ask some questions anyway. "OK. How did you get home from Afghanistan?"

He uncrossed his fingers and gestured with his arms for effect as he spoke. "That's easy. A couple of the boys who were too wounded to return to combat landed in office jobs in the army. Do you know how many guys go into the military and never see combat? Probably half the army is assigned to procurement, transportation, mechanics, weather prediction, driving, sitting behind desks generating paperwork. All necessary functions in the grand scheme, I'm sure. And very useful if you want to get stuff. So we got fake leaves of absence from our boys back here and sent ourselves back home. And then we started sending stuff to ourselves: vehicles, Quonset huts, fencing, food, fuel, anything we wanted."

He boastfully continued. "Mr. Parker. Do you have any idea how much stuff is being shipped out for the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan? Millions of tons of it. All the materials we need. It's going out every day from all over the country. So a few truckloads get lost, or goods get damaged and discarded, or the paperwork goes missing. No one has time to monitor it all."

"What about the Afghans? How did you get them here?" I asked.

"That was so much easier than we thought. Did you know, Mr. Parker, that over 100,000 prisoners have been taken in Afghanistan alone? That is something that does not make the headlines. These prisoners get swept up in military maneuvers. They all go to jail. And many of them are poppy farmers. All that experience, which we can use right here. All those prisoners, with limited places to keep them. When a few go missing over there, they are just assumed to be escapees. No big deal. The Afghan prisons are overcrowded and like sieves."

"We then just put them in US uniforms, doped them up, wrapped their whole bodies in gauze and tape so their faces can't be seen and so they can't talk, and shipped them home on military transport planes as wounded GIs coming home for treatment. Once they get to US soil, we shuttled them here."

Clearly using the Afghans as slave labor didn't bother him in the least, but I had to ask. "Doesn't it bother you to use humans as slaves?"

"Those are the enemy out there. I feel no remorse at all for using them to further our cause. At least they are working rather than rotting in some jail cell. Remember. I own them. Just like I own you."

I did remember, all too well.

"Where did all the opium poppy seeds come from? You must need hundreds of pounds of them, maybe tons for all the plants you have growing here."

He smiled broadly. "Did you know that you can buy opium poppy seeds on the Internet? Ain't this country great? You can buy the seeds through an on-line store, but they warn you that it is illegal to actually grow them. Like, why else would someone order them? As topping for bagels? Give me a break."

He rose from his chair, clasped his hands behind his back, and started strutting around the table.

"But you're right. We do need lots of seed. However, the army supplies that, too."

I must have presented a very puzzled look on my face since he continued without prompting.

"You seem surprised. Well, back in Afghanistan, the military is capturing huge shipments of seeds as they try to shut down heroin production. Confiscate all the seeds, and no more heroin money is generated to feed the insurgency. So what happens to all those captured seeds? Supposedly they are destroyed. But we divert them to here on the same planes with our fake wounded GIs."

"It's been a good year for us. The summer was unusually warm, great for growing poppies. Some might call that luck. But luck favors the prepared mind and the prepared plan. I take it as a sign that we were destined to succeed."

Destined to succeed? What conceit. Does he think there is divine intervention assisting him? His ego did not need any boost from me. He had more than enough already without any assistance from me. Yet I had to know more.

"So you set up your perimeter fence in the fall using Afghans as laborers. You didn't spend the winter in this valley, did you?"

He smiled. "We brought some Afghan heroin home with us. It was enough to pay for vacationing in warm places for the whole winter. Had to show my boys the luxury they could live in for the rest of their lives if they committed themselves to this project. I am a firm believer in proper motivation of my troops. They are definitely all very motivated and all very loyal."

"After that first shipment, we couldn't ship any more heroin here since drug control in Afghanistan was really tightened. But that actually worked in our favor. Because then my boys had to commit to work hard here to get their free ride for the rest of their lives. They had no choice. Broke and AWOL. Again, motivation," he said, tapping his temple to impress on me how clever he was.

"So you have built this enterprise all out of thievery, with no money out of your own pockets."

"You bet your ass. Pretty slick, ain't it? So here we are, sod busting to make a fortune. My father and grand dad, and all their ancestors before them were farmers. Poor farmers. They never would have guessed you could get rich by farming. They just weren't growing the right crop."

All during this discourse, I ate. Small bites, a little here, a little there, but eating until I was full. It felt so good to be stuffed. I could feel the strength returning to my tortured body.

Meanwhile, Gates had taken his seat. He sat there with a very satisfied-looking grin on his face. Having me as an audience had fed his ego sufficiently that I could ask about the innocent victims outside.

"The old graves out there. I suppose they are the Afghans who put up the fence and then were....." I hesitated, then said what I intended, "Sacrificed for convenience."

His gaze burned through me for a few seconds, seemingly angry that I had strayed from feeding his ego to accusing him. But then he decided to indulge me. "Yes. Housing them all winter was a strategic problem, so there have been those contributions to the cause," he said as if it was a trivial matter. "Besides it was easy to get replacements in the spring to put up the huts and camouflage netting and then to plant poppies."

"Why did Cortina Perez and Joseph Custer have to die?"

"That was really your fault. You kept pressing on the supposed Hispanic guy, so we tried to make it seem like a guy was just hurt and found his way home. But that wasn't enough for you. You kept pushing. Then you had to draw the newspaper guy in."

So they were dead and buried outside. I could feel the guilt building inside again. If I had not pressed, then Cortina and Joseph would still be alive. And what about Jeff? He too would be fine, not shot and left dead on the side of the road. And I would be having dinner with Allison right now, instead of hearing about Lieutenant Gates' ill-gotten gains. I felt ill myself. I did not pull the trigger, but I had caused the deaths of several people who had unwittingly been drawn into the web I'd stepped into. At that moment, I wanted to die myself. I would gladly lie in the ground if it would bring back the dead of Willow Run.

"I considered keeping Cortina alive. You see, I have a camp full of horny GIs. But there was just one Cortina. Not enough to go around. And besides, it would be a distraction. We need to keep focus on the mission. A shame. She really was a handsome woman," he mused.

I felt disgusted with this pompous ass. He had now unwittingly revived a reason to live. Revenge for the dead of Willow Run. I wanted to dive across the table to strangle him on the spot for killing the innocent. But that would be a dumb move. I was trapped inside a prison, surrounded by guards. This was not the time. It was better to play along, feed his ego, and choose a better time. So I changed the topic.

"I can understand why you chose here. Very isolated. The valley is perfectly shaped for this operation. You guys must have started the fire. It wasn't coincidence."

"Let's just say that our association with Ranger Andrew Pine has been most accommodating. He has worked with us and provided us a fine place for our enterprise, cleared the land for us, and kept prying eyes from interfering. Of course, until you came along. But now even you have been solved as a problem."

I had noted there was a large safe in the far corner of the room. I gestured toward it. "Is that where you keep all the drug money?"

"Why yes it is. Each shipment of drug we take out of here brings back cash and a load of supplies. The money all stays here until we are done. Then we split it up and go our separate ways." He seemed pleased when mentioning the cash, but grew more melancholy afterward. It appeared he was not really looking forward to this enterprise ending. It would end his command. He would have no post, would have no purpose. I knew the feeling. Being unemployed had haunted me for most of the past year. But in his anguish I found another reason to survive. I wanted to hasten the end of his command, to add to his torment.

Gates was now looking at the ceiling as if he was distracted. He might be musing on the end of his days as a platoon leader. Maybe I wasn't feeding his ego sufficiently enough to suit him. Perhaps he would indulge me by answering one more question.

"There has to be someone in town helping you. Is it the Sheriff?"

He raised his hand to stop me. "Enough. You are beginning to bore me. Sergeant Grimes!" Gates returned to his desk, and Grimes took me away quickly.

I had a lot to think about. My missteps that had caused unintended death were weighing on me. The situation I was in and how I would escape it. But not tonight. My head was throbbing, and I was exhausted. I yearned to lie down anywhere and fall into an endless sleep.

I was led to a hut. The space was filled with mattresses laid on the floor, occupied by the Afghans who had been working in the fields all around me. The hut held nothing else except the dirty ragged sleeping forms on the floor. No windows, no shelves, no furniture. Nothing. The soldier didn't go past the entry but simply pushed me toward an empty spot in the corner. I lay down, heard the guard exit and lock the door, and was instantly asleep.

Chapter 44

I groggily awoke when someone pounded on the door of the hut. He yelled, "Everybody up!" Words were then shouted in a language I did not know. Presumably it was Arabic. So at least some of the guards spoke a language that the Afghans understood. Regardless of the language, it was clearly our call to work in the fields. I still felt like crap, but at least the nausea that had consumed me yesterday was gone, and the throbbing in my head had subsided to a dull background pain.

A prisoner head count was taken as we emerged from the gloom of the hut, the security of our shackles was checked, and we were marched over to a short wooden table that held three large food containers. Breakfast consisted of oatmeal, salted crackers, and water. The Afghans gorged themselves greedily. Though I was still full from stuffing myself at Gates' expense the night before, I followed their lead and ate.

I was certain these first few days of labor would be physically demanding, until I got past the soreness of strained muscles and became conditioned to the tasks. That was nothing compared to the demands on my state of mind. I felt depressed as the hard realization of my situation hit me. Trapped inside a seemingly impenetrable barrier. And the outside world thought I was a killer. No one out there even knew I was in here.

My surge of hate and vengeful feelings last night had subsided. But they had not been entirely extinguished. I had to sustain that a long time, looking for the right moment to make a move. I had no clue what or when that move would happen, but it had to happen or I would die here. Today was a day of observation. Get the lay of the land, fall into the flow with the other prisoners, and avoid pissing off the guards.

My work was switched from planting pine seedlings to watering duty. I recalled reading in my Internet searching that poppies are hardy plants, which will grow in many climates, as long as they get sun and water. The creek was a ready source of water. It was fed by a spring. The water bubbled out of the ground upslope of much of the poppy field, so irrigation trenches had been dug to feed many of the plants.

I was given a shovel to clear out any trenches that had collapsed so that water continued to flow to the plants. Some of the ditches were a couple feet deep, forcing me to bend far down to reach the bottom, push the shovel under the wet soil, wiggle it back and forth or right and left so the suction of the mud would release its grip on the blade of my spade, then dump the small pile of debris down-slope. As young and as fit as I thought myself, it was not long before my back, legs, and arms burned from the effort. For hours I dug the muck from the ditches. And it only grew more difficult as the sun grew warmer, beaming mercilessly down on me even through the partial shade of the camouflage netting.

While I worked, I also observed the Afghans at work. Their labor with the poppies was oddly familiar, even though this was my first exposure to it. It was another thing I had read in my Internet searching. The planting of poppy seeds was finished long before I arrived here. Early on, weeding to eliminate competition for the young plants would have been a constant chore, but now it was a secondary need. The immediate need was water.

I recalled reading that from planting of poppy seeds to harvesting was about three months. With this being late August and planting probably being late May this far north, harvest time was in high gear. The key steps in harvesting involved slitting the bulbous seedpods and then collecting the sap. These steps required the use of short curved knives. Since the Afghans seemed to be very proficient at this task, several of them were issued knives for that work. They were sequestered from the rest of the workers, presumably so the whereabouts of the knives could be more easily monitored. Even though all of them were shackled at the ankles, the guards kept their distance and did not molest these workers. Wandering too close to a desperate man with a knife is a ticket for early departure from this life.

Yet, in spite of this risk, I could see why the soldiers gave them knives. The Afghans seemed adept at this poppy farming, swiftly slicing a pod or collecting the sap and then moving to the next plant. It was a skill that any of the soldiers could learn, but they probably would not reach the level of proficiency of the Afghans for harvesting such a huge crop in the one planting season available to them.

From first light, I spent the day mentally concocting all types of weapons out of the materials available. I wanted desperately to get my hands on one of those small curved knives. But since I was without the skills of the Afghans, a knife was never closer than many yards away. Other than the shovel I used to clear irrigation ditches, I had not seen any metal objects. There wasn't even a spoon for the oatmeal at breakfast. We had eaten that with our fingers, dipping them into the liquidy gruel, or slurping it down from the rim of the cheap plastic bowls. The bowls were collected and counted after breakfast, so even taking one of those, smashing it with a rock, and using the chards as weapons was not an option. As for the shovel, I could see no way to conceal that or easily stash it as a weapon.

There were no windows in the hut where we slept, so there was not even glass to be broken from a pane to use as a crude knife. The one light bulb in the hut was covered by a small metal cage, which was bolted high into the ceiling. Nothing there. The mattresses on which we slept did not have springs. They were just cloth coverings stuffed with something that was lumpy. And I had not seen any other obvious weapon-grade materials, except small rocks and wood. There were bits of tree branches on the ground, and I did pick up one and hide it inside my shirt. The end might be ground down to a point on a rock. A rough stake knife for sure, but certainly lethal up close.

There may have been better weapon options available. But I was not experienced in finding them. This was my first time as a prisoner. And probably all the good choices had already been snatched up by the Afghans. They had been here for weeks or months. They surely were thinking about and preparing for escape as much as I was. After all, one of them did manage to get out of here recently. That gave them hope that it was at least possible.

And the soldiers realized that too. During breakfast, outside under the watchful eyes of several guards, other troops went into our hut and searched it. They were in there a long time and emerged with a small sack containing items confiscated during their search. I assumed they were crude weapons, perhaps like my stick, though I could not see the contents of their sack. I supposed that was the same in any prison facility. Anything hard that can be honed to a sharp point becomes a knife: pencils, plastic combs, toothbrushes, wood, metal. Anything.

Lieutenant Gates made his appearance in the fields late in the morning. Overseeing his domain, no doubt. He strutted about, talking to his troops, pointing and nodding, admiring his empire. His men seemed to be obedient to his commands and respectful of his authority. I had to admire someone who had that kind of commitment from his charges. Even though he had no real enforceable authority over them, they seemed to respect him and maintained the chain of command. Inspiring leadership skills, though they were misdirected toward evil purposes.

Or maybe it was not about respect and obedience. Maybe it was just that he would be making all of them filthy rich if they followed the plan. So they were obedient and true to the cause. It would only be a matter of a few weeks, and then they would be done here. All the poppy harvesting would be done. Then they would go their separate ways, on vacation for life. I suppose anyone could maintain an external show of obedience for a short time for the sake of the big prize. And I suspected that as soon as the cash was doled out, these guys would disperse like dust in the wind. Take the money and run, no longer tied to Lieutenant Gates or any other authority figure.

Finally, there was a water break from our work. I guessed from the height of the sun that it was around noon. Head counts were taken before water was provided. But there was no food. I suspected then that our next meal would come at the end of the day. The Afghans, of course, knew that. They had grabbed extra crackers and even wet oatmeal, stuffing it in their coat pockets for later. I didn't. Already, the grumble of hunger roared loudly from my stomach. It was a gnawing made worse by having to watch them nibble on their stashes in the field. I stared in envy at their hoards, but they were not inclined to share. It was a lesson learned.

For the afternoon, I was given a different task. For those plants in higher places where gravity would not deliver the water through the irrigation trenches, I carried it in buckets. Fill two five-gallon buckets, haul them upward to the plants, water the plants, back to the spring to refill the buckets. It didn't take long before my arms ached from the strain and felt like they had been pulled from their sockets. Even lifting them to wash the grime and sweat off my face at the spring sent searing pain through my strained arm and shoulder muscles. But at least I did not lack for drinking water. It was the only positive about this muscle-tearing task.

As I was returning yet again to the fields with two buckets of water, I heard a booming voice behind me.

"What do you think of our enterprise, Mr. Parker?"

It was Lieutenant Matthew Gates, apparently hoping for another ego boost. He had come up behind me and was now just a few yards away. He had a confident yet inviting look on his face, as if he was expecting me to offer praise for his accomplishment. I was not in the mood. I was hot, tired, and hungry. And he was the enemy.

I stopped walking and turned toward him. He stood with the sun on his back. When I looked up at him, I had to squint from the glare. That put him in a superior position, something he would naturally plan for.

I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. Instead I said, "Has my pizza order arrived yet?"

His tight-lipped grin suggested he was not amused by my comment. "I suppose it's comforting for you to maintain your sense of humor. You'll get over that soon enough."

He gazed around again at his empire. When I didn't say anything, he continued unprompted. "It has been a great adventure, building this from scratch. I love it when a plan comes together." I still was not biting on his ego trip, but he didn't let that bother him in the least. "You are surrounded by a couple billion dollars worth of opium, Mr. Parker. Most of the world's population works their entire lives and never comes close to achieving that level of financial success. You should feel humbled by the scale and achievement of this operation. You should feel honored to be a part of it."

The words _fuck you_ came to mind again, but I only said, "As you wish."

Since I did not feed his ego, he abruptly turned and strode away. He probably wanted to gloat to all the other prisoners in the valley also. If only they understood English.

The man was a megalomaniac. However, he was going to fall hard when all this was over, and he had no empire to boast about. But then perhaps he would find some other cause to feed his expansive ego. I had known people that were like that. No matter how far they had fallen, there was still that king-of-the-hill attitude about them. I guess it's one way to deal with failure. Refusing to face failure then means that everything was a success, in spite of the facts. I hoped I could, even in some small way, bring him back to hard reality.

Chapter 45

At the end of the day, the Afghans who had been issued knives were lined up, and the knives were collected. The count showed one of them missing. The Afghan who did not turn in a knife was held from behind and strip-searched. He didn't have the knife, so was beaten severely. Blows to the nose, chest, arms, and mid-section rained down on him. He bled profusely from a broken nose, the blood running in a stream over his lips, down his chin and neck, and over his torso. Still conscious in spite of the beating, his knees sagged. He remained standing only because he was held up from behind. He probably would still be able to work tomorrow, but would be in pain for days. The guards had doled out punishment sufficient to make their point, but not so much as to make the man unable to perform his work in the fields.

The guards then systematically held and roughly strip-searched each Afghan, working their way down the line of those who had been issued knives in the morning. When they finished with that group, they started on the rest of us, working down the line from the left until they came to me. I was grabbed by the shirtfront and pulled forward roughly, by Jeremy Mason.

Using his one-handed grip on my shirt, he shook me violently. He slapped me across the face several times with his other hand. He stopped slapping me to remove his rifle that he had strapped over his shoulder. I presumed he did that to provide more leverage to strike me harder with a closed fist. "I'm gonna enjoy this," he seethed nastily.

But he never got the chance. The Afghan man to my right lunged at him and plunged the knife into Mason's left upper chest. Mason staggered backward a step, screaming, grasping his wound as blood spilled between his fingers. The Afghan followed up with a swing toward Mason's neck. But his charge was abruptly stopped by the butt of a rifle smashing him across the bridge of the nose. He crumpled to the ground, bleeding but conscious.

Mason was wounded, yet it did not look life threatening. He would live, but was going to be out of action for a few days. PFC Jeremy Mason had messed up. He was so eager to get at me that he let his guard down. He wasn't paying attention to the other prisoners nearby.

The Afghan was hoisted off the ground, held up, and beaten in the face and stomach until he collapsed back to the ground unconscious. The Afghan had to know this would be the outcome. With the shackles on his legs, there was no way he could get very far.

But then I realized that immediate escape was probably not the intent. It was resistance. It was retaliation. This was a battle of attrition. I knew a common ratio of prisoners to guards in a penal system is about four to one. Here there were maybe 50 Afghans and perhaps two dozen guards. That's a ratio of about two to one. That seemed like a favorable ratio for the guards.

Yet, if each of the prisoners took out a guard, when all the soldiers were dead, or at least wounded too seriously to function, most of the prisoners would still be standing. Even if not all the guards were out of action, just taking out a third or a quarter of them would leave too few of them to do the job of watching over the prisoners 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. And this was a more dangerous situation than a prison where all are contained within a small area. This valley was huge for such a small band of guards to control the situation. After a battle of attrition, the Afghans would have lost a lot of their numbers, but they would win. One for one, maybe even two for one, is acceptable when you outnumber the enemy. So many battles and so many wars have been decided that way. Attrition works for those willing to make the sacrifice of so many of their own.

While the beating of the Afghan was intended as punishment and deterrence, it would not deter desperate men who knew their remaining time alive on this planet was short. Besides, the Afghans grew up in a country torn apart by war, internal conflict, and invasion for decades. Intimidation was everywhere everyday. It probably didn't work on them any more. They were accustomed to bullying and had learned to tolerate it, perhaps even to thrive in the face of it. So I suspected this would not be the last incident of a missing knife or an attack, regardless of the bad odds.

The guards were tense and looked ready to open fire, to wipe out the whole lot of us. But they held their ground, waiting for orders. That military discipline driven home by Lieutenant Gates was keeping them in check. Even in their rage, they also probably realized they still needed the skills of the Afghans to fulfill their dreams of riches. So we stared at each other unmoving. Lieutenant Gates made his appearance and surveyed the scene.

"Attend to Mason," he said with concern. "Then get these rag heads fed and in the hut," he growled in our direction. He glared at us for a long time, hatred blazing in our direction. Yet there was also a hint of concern in those eyes. This clearly was not the first time this had happened. He certainly had to be aware of the attrition strategy. He surely had seen it over there, in Iraq and Afghanistan, and now he was experiencing it again on US soil. He knew he would lose if it continued, but there was nothing he could do about it. Maybe there was a crack forming in this seemingly impregnable fortress.

Mason was taken to a hut for medical attention. After the unconscious Afghan was dumped in our hut, the rest of us were fed. The evening meal was MRE, Meals Ready to Eat. The meals come sealed in individual serving size bags. The upgraded versions are self heating by a chemical packet affixed to them. The guards got those. We got the non-heated version that contained cold beans, crackers, cold vegetables, rice, and cheese. It didn't matter. Hunger has a way of making ordinary seem gourmet.

While we ate, I resumed surveying my surroundings. There was a hut for processing the raw poppy sap into heroin. A few of the Afghans worked in there. I had not seen the inside of that building, but I could smell the ammonia emanating from it. I recalled that chemical being part of the purification process. And there was plenty of it in the tanker truck parked near the fence.

I didn't see bags of lime, but they could well be stashed in the processing hut. Ammonia and lime would be easy to obtain. They are standard agricultural chemicals, probably used in every state. But I recalled there were other chemicals in the processing of raw opium that were unfamiliar to me. Was it acetic anhydride? I did not know what that was, but guessed it wasn't something one can buy everywhere. So it was likely they were processing raw opium as far as they could with their limited chemical inventory, then trucking and selling the crude product to someone else. Someone with money, lots of money, to fund the early retirements for the entire platoon that Gates commanded.

As I continued to survey the area, a truck was being loaded, presumably with the partially processed opium. It was packaged in brick-size chunks, each wrapped in plastic. I could see that several bricks were then bundled and tied with twine. The bundles were being carried from the processing hut to the truck. After it was loaded, the bundles were covered with a tarp, and two armed guards got in the back. Only the guards loaded the truck. None of us were allowed near it. The undercarriage of the truck was inspected, I suspected to ensure there were no stowaways. Then two other guards got in the cab and drove off, ready to leave as soon as the sun set over the horizon. Another shipment leaving, another sale, one step closer to their early retirements. One step closer to all of us becoming permanently discarded litter.

I noticed that in my thinking, I started referring to the Afghans and me as us. As different as I was from them, there was the common bond of captivity. So different, but so much the same. Even though we could not communicate with each other, we were in this together, for better or for worse, until death do us part. But I was not willing to accept that fate.

After eating, we were marched toward the hut, and a head count was taken. The security of our shackles was checked as we entered. When the last of us had been counted and shoved into that dark, dank place, the door was locked. The dim overhead light stayed on for a few minutes, then it was shut down.

In my mind, I still schemed escape plans. Probably all of us were. The Afghans spoke quietly among themselves. They could share information, knowledge, strategies, and escape options. The language barrier kept me out of the loop.

The hut gradually quieted as tired bodies flopped onto grimy mattresses and breathing faded to the deep sleep of exhausted souls. I too drifted off.

Chapter 46

The next few days were a blur, one running into the next, each indistinguishable. Each day was the same routine. Up early when the guard bellowed, "Everybody up!" Off to breakfast. Then it was to the fields. I tried to keep track of the day of the week and the number of days, to stick with some semblance of normalcy. But I was so hungry and tired and desperate when the sun went down, that I lost track. Was this day four or five? Or maybe it was less than that. I didn't know. It didn't matter. Tomorrow would be the same.

Head counts were taken several times a day. Everything was repeatedly being counted: heads, breakfast bowls, the curved knives, buckets, shovels, everything that we touched. A constant taking of inventory to assure nothing was being used to make weapons.

We were always chained and taunted. I could count on being hit or kicked by a guard at least once a day for no apparent reason. A slap to the head, a rifle butt in the gut, a boot in the butt. All were routine. "Back to work," was a common verbal reminder of our role here. PFC Jeremy Mason paid particular attention to me. He returned to duty, though his left arm was in a sling. He wasn't carrying a rifle with just one useable arm. He only had a side arm. That was still lethal enough. He took particular glee at being my sworn tormentor, using that weapon to hit me in the back whenever he had the opportunity.

Many of the guards knew enough of the Afghan language to speak a few words, which were spat out periodically during the day. These utterances were likely grave insults based on the facial expressions of the recipients. There was anger and hate in the eyes of the Afghans when the guards were not looking. The soldiers kept us in our place, making clear the pecking order: guards at the top, all of us at the bottom. Disobedience was not tolerated.

The guards themselves were not living in the lap of luxury. They worked long days watching over us. They ate well, though. The dinner I had with Lieutenant Gates on the first night might not have been typical, but it was leaps and bounds above any fare we received. The guards didn't have the hollow cheeks and the baggy eyes that we did. Their bellies were full.

The guards also had clean camouflage outfits periodically. New clothing came in their shipments into the valley. The old ones were simply tossed into a growing pile of garbage.

We did not get clean clothes. I wore the same things I wore when I came in here. The Afghans, who clearly had been here much longer than me, were clothed in ragged filthy garments. We didn't get to bathe except to splash water on ourselves or when we got caught in a brief rain shower while in the fields. When the sun went down, we crawled onto soiled mattresses that reeked of dirt, sweat, degradation, and fear.

My dreams were filled with images of all the people who had been enslaved over the millennia by other humans. Hundreds, thousands, millions of people whose lives were reduced to endless toil and suffering at the bidding of uncaring overlords. I could see my face among them. Yet, it was as if I watched from a distance, watching someone else fall into despair. Then I was no longer at a distance. My whole being was dragged in, and I felt the hopelessness of being enslaved.

I had no further contact with Lieutenant Matthew Gates. Every day he strutted around the grounds, surveying his empire. But he did not approach me again. There was no point. I had not fed his ego enough. So he avoided me completely.

While I spent long hours each day contemplating how to escape, I also had plenty of time to think about how I got in here. I thought a lot about the ambush that had put me here. I felt Jeff fall against me during the struggle. Enid must have attacked him. Jeff must have put up a mighty struggle. I heard several shots fired, yet the fight continued. He was a big strong guy. But in the end, Enid's greater size and strength must have overwhelmed him. The thought of Jeff lying dead on the side of the road sickened me. Jeff and I were starting to form a bond. Now he was gone.

Allison must be crushed. She lost her only sibling. And since the world was calling me a killer, she must hate me. Even though I didn't kill him, I caused it. I drew Jeff into this. I didn't pull the trigger, but I got him killed. I was disgusted with myself for that. I had let myself believe that Montana was feeling like home. It felt a lot less like home now.

It was so easy to slip into despair. I constantly had to remind myself there was nothing I could do about events that were already past, no matter how much blame seemed to fall on me. I could only hope to do something about the future. It was a very uncertain future, but I was the only one who was going to help me shape that future for the better. That drove me to face my failures, analyze the situation, and use that to my advantage. I had to focus on how I could survive, escape, and make things right.

Chapter 47

I was working in the fields for yet another day. My fingertips were rubbed raw, and the palms of my hands were covered in blisters from the incessant labor. But in spite of these, I was beginning to feel stronger physically and more determined than ever to leave this place.

I fashioned several knife weapons from sticks found in the fields. I chose short branches that were half an inch to an inch in diameter. Strong enough to be used as stabbing tools. When sharpened on a stone, they could be driven into flesh. Not wanting them to be confiscated on the daily search of our sleeping hut, I buried them at various spots in the fields, marking the locations with light-colored stones that would be easy to locate. I hoped at some point to be able to use one of them in a run for freedom.

There had not been any new incidents of Afghans attacking a guard. Perhaps the knife incident I had witnessed was an aberration, but at the time it seemed like part of an intentional campaign by the Afghans. Perhaps they were lying low, waiting for the guards to become complacent again. Then they would strike. I hoped there was some plan brewing among them, though I had no way of knowing.

While Gates' troops were AWOL soldiers, they continued to maintain their military discipline, keeping an iron vigil over all of the workers in the fields. They were focused, but the grind of this project was beginning to show in their faces. They were being worn down. They were probably mentally counting all the millions each of them would get from this enterprise. But were all of them completely dedicated to this cause? Might one of them be susceptible to reason?

While in the fields, I talked to one of the guards. I did not talk _with_ him, just _to_ him since he didn't respond. But something in his eyes suggested to me that he was a partly sympathetic ear. So I tried to win him over just a bit. The name above the breast pocket on his shirt read _Wilson_.

I suspected that he had probably been a willing participant with this project when the prisoners were Afghans. After all, they were the enemy, the enemy that had killed his comrades over there. He was trained to kill the enemy, so probably there was no deep moral issue for him in exploiting them. But having an American citizen, a civilian, as a prisoner might be weighing on his mind. That might not be what he signed up for. And perhaps he witnessed or was even ordered to participate in the sacrifice of Cortina Perez, Joseph Custer, Pine's wife, and all the others in the graves. Those could well cause second thoughts to creep in. Even the thought of millions of dollars might not override a tortured conscience. I might be able to use that growing guilt to my advantage. Of course, the only advantage of value to me was escape. Anything less just ensured my death sentence when Gates was done here.

In these monologues with Wilson, I asked him about where he was from, how long he had been in the military, if he liked Montana. I told him about growing up in the Midwest, working in Cincinnati, coming to Montana to hike and write a book. While he did not respond, he let me talk quietly without interruption. At times he took a short breath as if he intended to reply, but he hesitated and remained silent. Yet I felt this connection was beginning to have a positive effect.

I took care to talk to him only when no other guards were near. Talking was not tolerated in the fields. I had seen the consequence of the Afghans communicating, even briefly, when they thought they were not being observed. The swift kicks and hard blows from rifle butts ended each such infraction quickly. So I was very careful.

Working this relationship over two days, whenever Wilson was near, I gradually made comments about this enslavement not being right, about producing drugs to sell to kids, about killing civilians, about the unpleasantness of life on the run even if your pockets are full of cash. Today I made headway with him. It showed in his eyes, the guilt weighing on his mind. It showed because he did not walk away from me. He stayed near and continued listening. He wanted to respond to me. I didn't know what this would lead to, but I hoped that when I made my escape, he would simply turn his back, rather than shoot me.

I was still talking to him when a boot came crashing into my rib cage. The blow sent me sprawling face down onto the ground. A knee landed in my back, and I felt hot breath and spittle on my ear. "Shut up!" Grimes ordered. "Back to work." I expected more retaliation for my infraction, but there was none. They needed us to be fit enough to work, so the message was clearly delivered with a single kick. I winced from my new injury and went back to work.

Then Grimes directed his orders elsewhere. "Wilson, stay away from this prisoner. Go watch those rag heads over there."

"Yes, Sir," Wilson responded nervously and promptly left. I had lost. That glimmer of hope faded. I went back to work and back to contemplating other escape strategies.

The glare of the sun did not let up. While we were shaded in part by the sparse camouflage netting, the air got hot as the sun migrated overhead in the late morning and into the long afternoon.

The day dragged on, and I brooded constantly about the missed opportunity with the soldier named Wilson. Maybe it never would have amounted to anything, but I had put so much hope into that connection. Finally we were pulled in from the fields, fed, counted, and shoved into the stifling sleeping quarters.

I lay awake a long time. I thought about how close I had come to forming a meaningful bridge with Wilson. I didn't even know his first name. Just Wilson, the name that was stitched on his uniform. I scolded myself for continuing to brood over it. Nothing I could do. Just find another way. Exhaustion eventually overtook me, and I drifted off into the mist of deep sleep.

Sometime in the night, I heard the sound of the door to the hut being unlocked and opened. The faint scrape of metal on metal as the key turned in the lock caught my ear. The hushed creak of the hinges followed. My eyes were open, but my vision was blurred, the effect of rousing from deep slumber. I sat up. None of the Afghans came awake. They were all still soundly sleeping. Wilson entered the hut, caught my gaze in the beam of a flashlight, and motioned for me to follow.

I stood and pulled my feet as far apart as they would extend so that the metal links of the shackles were pulled tight. That way they would not make any sound as I walked. I kept them taut while walking stiffly like a robot toward the door, left, right, left, right. Wilson grew impatient, urging me to move faster by motioning with his arm. I finally met him at the door. I felt the shackles come free from my ankles. They made a low metallic clank when they landed on the floor. I then went through the entryway silently, able to take full strides for the first time since being put to work in this hell hole.

Wilson had vanished into the night. But I had one of my sharpened stakes in my right hand. Another guard stepped out from behind the next hut. I lunged forward, placing my left hand over his mouth to silence him, and driving the stake deep into his side. I thrust it upward toward his lungs and heart. He stiffened for a moment, and then flopped face down. I landed on top of him, pressing on the stake until he went completely still. I grabbed his handgun, and ran toward the inner gate. It was open. Wilson must have opened it. I still couldn't see him, but I didn't wait.

I ran as fast as I could, but my pace was sluggish. The abuse of forced labor had sapped me of strength to escape. But I pushed onward, driving myself forward. I saw that the outer gate was also open. A guard stepped out into a crouched position, bringing his weapon around to shoot at me. I stopped and fired the handgun, hitting the guard with three rounds in the chest. He dropped like a stone. I had never killed anyone before, but had no feelings about what I had just done, no feelings at all.

The open gate was so close now. The misty forest was just beyond. My legs were pumping like pistons. I would soon be free. _Fuck you, Lieutenant Gates_ , I thought.

"Everybody up!" The shout roused me from my dream, as the guard pounded on the door to the hut. This couldn't be! It had felt so real. I had escaped and was running free. There had to be a mistake. "Everybody up!" More pounding on the door.

I buried my face in my hands and silently wept in despair. My shoulders and arms shook uncontrollably. Several Afghans stared at me as they arose and left the hut. There was no emotion in their stares, just silent acknowledgement of what I was enduring. They had probably already been to this dark low point of hopelessness and had found a way to move on.

I waited until all the Afghans were up and shuffling out of the hut before getting to my feet and exiting behind them. I was the last one out the door, using the extra time to compose myself. I had to cage my emotions before facing the guards and the labor for another day.

Chapter 48

I forced myself to refocus on scheming to escape this place.

There seemed four direct ways out of the valley: under the fence, over the fence, through the front gate, or down the river. The front gate was guarded all the time. No matter the time of day, I always saw at least one armed guard there. Stealing a vehicle to crash through the gate was impossible. There was not time enough to find a key or hot-wire a vehicle before that guard would shoot me.

Alternatively, I could hide somewhere in the truck, say in the undercarriage. Then when it left to deliver opium to their buyer or to pick up supplies, I would simply go along for the ride. But there did not seem to be a regular schedule for any of the vehicles to leave the camp. If I had to hide for any significant time period, I would be missed at the next head-count, which was taken several times a day. And being Caucasian among the dark-skinned Afghans, my absence would be noted immediately.

Down the river was appealing since I could float right past much of the compound and be far from where I should be working in the field. But there was the problem of the double line of fencing that went right to the bottom of the streambed. That meant I would have to climb up and down the first fence and then up and down the second fence once I reached the barrier. It was very near the guarded gates. That route was too visible in the day, and too noisy regardless of time of day. The reverberating echo of each handhold and each foothold on the fence would send metallic vibrations a long distance along the fence. It would be enough noise to alert any guard, regardless of the time of day.

That left the fence surrounding the fields. Simply getting to the fence was challenging, considering the steepness of the slopes of this valley. But there were spots where the grade was gentler.

Could I go under the fence? On my first encounter with its chain links, I had started digging a hole under it. The digging was difficult since the fencing extended below the ground surface, and the ground was rocky under the thin soil. And I would have to dig two holes, one for each fence. That would take quite some time. Would I have that long before being discovered by a guard? Probably not. And what was I going to use as a digging tool?

So going over the top seemed the remaining option. Avoiding serious cuts on the razor wire would require some careful footwork or maybe some padding to make it over. I remembered the slices in the clothing of the body on Monarch Trail. They were most likely from the razor wire. That guy apparently did make it over the fence safely. But he didn't have shackles on his legs. How did he get rid of them?

I looked down at my ankles. I had not paid particular attention to the shackles before, but now I scrutinized them closely. The metal clasps around my ankles and the chain between them looked new, not scratched, dirty, or tarnished from long use. Perhaps they were a new precaution because of that previous escape. So maybe he did not have shackles on at all. That just made my escape even more difficult. Unless I could find something to pick the lock, I was stuck with the shackles, which made climbing up the slope and over the fence near impossible. At best, my running pace would be slow and awkward.

Then there was the question of when to escape. During the night would give me plenty of time, but how would I escape from the locked hut? The hut had a dirt floor. I would only have to tunnel vertically through the floor, under the wall, and outside. Just a short distance, a few yards total, to simply get out of the hut. Then I could easily get to the inner fence. Then what? A climb over the inner fence surrounding the huts, a climb up the slope, and then another climb over the perimeter fences. And with the damn shackles on my ankles.

But I had to get out of this valley or die trying. If not, I would probably die here anyway, so I might as well go out on my terms, trying to escape. The clock was ticking. Probably only a couple of weeks until the poppy harvesting was done. Then I would be sacrificed along with all the Afghans.

If I did get out of this valley, where would I go? I had no car, no money, no phone, nothing. Who could I trust? And why would anyone trust me? I was a fugitive, accused of killing a cop. I hoped with all my mind and body that at least Allison would not believe me a killer. Yet why should she believe in me? We'd only known each other a week. Wouldn't she believe others, those who had been life-long neighbors and acquaintances in Willow Run, those accusing me of the crime? Then she would think the worst of me, that I am a criminal, one who is responsible for bringing death to her hometown. In the end, if escape from the valley happened, I would have to put my fate in the hands of whoever I could find. Escape meant at least a chance at life.

I peered intently again up the slope toward the top of the ridge, imagining the fence line not far from the top. I pictured in my mind scrambling up the slope, still shackled, dodging behind bushes and rocks to avoid detection. I fantasized digging my fingers into the chain links of the fence and clawing my way upward. I saw myself lithely squeezing between parallel rows of the razor wire to stand on top of the fence before I jumped into the space between. Then I could see myself repeating the process on the second fence, landing in the darkness of the forest and hobbling away. It didn't feel as satisfying as last night's dream of escape, but it was still a beautiful vision.

My view was blocked by the shadow of one of the guards as he passed between the ridge and me. He stared in my direction with an angry glare in his eyes and started walking my way.

Oh, shit, I thought to myself. I had been staring upward, forgetting that guards were watching me. My thoughts of escape must have been obvious. I was going to get another beating. I turned from his gaze and busily went back to work. He got closer. I could see out of my peripheral vision that he was swinging his weapon out in front of him. He was going to use it as a club on me. I wanted to curl up into a protective ball on the ground to cover my head and stomach. He was so close now. I held my breath and tensed my muscles in preparation for the blow.

But the guard just kicked my legs out from under me, toppling me over, and stormed right on past. As I scrambled to get back on my feet, I turned my head to glance in the direction he went. He rushed right up to an Afghan a few yards farther away. The Afghan had stopped working and was simply standing there with his arms outstretched shoulder high and chanting softly. The guard rammed the barrel of his weapon into the Afghan's stomach, doubling him over where he stood. A kick to the back of the legs sent the Afghan tumbling onto the ground. The guard bellowed something in Arabic to the man and then turned back in my direction. "Back to work."

The guard turned his back on the Afghan and stormed up the slope. The man fixed his eyes, dark and unblinking, on me. His blazing stare silently screamed, _That was to protect you, and now you owe me._

Why would he put himself in jeopardy to help me? I could imagine one explanation that made sense to me. Maybe I did have an ally, perhaps a reluctant ally, in this hell hole. In spite of our inherent distrust of each other and our inability to communicate with each other, perhaps there was middle ground for cooperation.

At the end of the day, after all of us had been herded back into the sleeping quarters, most of the Afghans huddled at one end of the dimly lit hut in a circle. Two of them stood facing me, apparently to block my view. Not that it mattered. I did not speak their language. In hushed tones, they talked, debated, argued, and gestured with their hands and arms.

They spoke quietly enough that any guard listening from the outside would not be able to hear them. They surely didn't want to share their discussion with the enemy. But I was also the enemy, another American. Yet the Afghans must have decided I was not a threat to them. They must have decided that I was not a spy amongst them, that I was truly a prisoner just like them. Maybe I was not entirely alone in here after all.

After a lengthy discussion, the group dispersed. The Afghan who had taken a beating in the field for me glared in my direction. Whatever they had discussed, I interpreted his glare to mean I was part of it. I just didn't know what my part was.

Chapter 49

Whatever the outcome of the Afghan summit the night before, it apparently still was not yet time for them to approach me. We ate our breakfast, filled our pockets with crackers for lunch, and trudged out to the fields for another day of labor.

The morning dragged on like yesterday, the day before, and the day before that. Focus on the work, avoid pissing off the guards, think about escape. Yesterday I had gazed upward toward the perimeter, thinking about my glorious escape over the fence. To get up to the ridge, I would have to weave upward, using cover to reduce my visibility to the guards below and to the guards walking the fence line above.

From my current position, it was maybe 100 yards up to the fence. A diagonal line upward would increase the total distance traveled but make the climb less difficult. Yet the best cover, a few bushes and rock outcroppings, appeared to be a more vertical route. Either way, it would be a very tough climb. In my weakened condition and with shackles, I suspected covering the total distance would require several minutes. That was a long time with guards around. That amount of time would require a diversion.

OK, so how do I plan for a diversion? I probably couldn't. It would have to be spur of the moment. Perhaps when a plane went overhead, there would be an opportunity to slip away. Whenever a small plane flew over, the guards went on alert to ensure no one ran out from under the camouflage nets in that direction. That left the opposite direction open. Or perhaps when a guard was busy abusing one of the Afghans. I had noticed that the focus of all the guards shifted to the assault. That left a brief window of time. Not a lot of time, but maybe enough. Then when a guard realized I was gone, I might already be over the fence.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone approaching from behind. While I had been contemplating an escape plan, I must have slowed my pace of work. A guard was going to kick me for sure. I turned back to my work and stiffened my body for the blow that was sure to come.

But there was no kick. No rifle butt. No punch to the ribs.

"Escape."

Did I hear correctly? Or was it just wishful thinking echoing in my head? A heavily accented voice had said that one word. Turning my head only slightly to the right, I glanced sideways. It was the Afghan who had covered for me yesterday, who had taken blows to protect me from the guard, and who had stared at me last night in the hut after their summit. He had come up from behind me and was now working in the row of poppies next to me.

He said, "You escape." He seemed to have more to say but had difficulty finding how to say it. He finally came out with, "Sun," and swept his arm in a short arc from horizontal until his fingers were pointing overhead. It was such a quick motion that I couldn't be certain that it had anything to do with his words. He gave me that stare again. It was penetrating, serious, urgent. I hoped with all my being that I had interpreted his intentions correctly. I nodded once.

"See," he said, pointing with his fingers at his eyes, continuing to stare at me intently. Then he tossed a small metal object next to me and drifted away into another row of poppies as a guard wandered our way. I slowly covered the object with a hand, scooping it up out of the dirt. I knew without looking what it was. I could tell by the shape and size and feel.

Could this be happening? The Afghans want me to escape? They wanted me to escape when the sun is overhead, at noon when we take a water break. That's when the guards also take a break to eat meals they had brought out into the fields with them. No time was ideal for escaping from here, but that seemed as good as I could imagine under the circumstances.

I didn't know how the escape would unfold. But he had given me a critical tool. He had given me a key. It looked like it was fashioned from a length of wire. It had been painstakingly folded, twisted, bent, and ground down, perhaps on a stone, to the required shape. It would have taken days, maybe weeks to do it. This key would unlock the leg shackles and let me run free.

When had they done this? It could have been before I even arrived here. Why hadn't they used it already for themselves? I would have used it immediately, with no real plan in mind, and probably gotten myself shot running away. They had patiently waited for the right time. I became part of their plan.

Could I trust them? I decided there was no other option. The Afghan had seen me gazing at the fence. He knew that a plan had been running through my head. He knew I was the one to help them. So the Afghans had entrusted to me something they had worked hard to produce: a key. They might have given it to me because I was not like them. One of them had already escaped this year. Correction. I _knew_ of one. There may have been more. Regardless, that man had succeeded in getting out of the valley, but had failed to bring help for his comrades. Being a Caucasian, I was more likely to get help in Montana than a non-English-speaking Afghan. An Afghan would more likely be shot on sight.

The Afghans gave the key to me because I was their best hope. I would not let them down, though the enormity of this responsibility weighed on me. Not only was I risking my own life, but likely the survival of all of them. I could feel my heartbeat going faster and the blood pounding in my temples. It was the beginning of an adrenaline rush, something that I would desperately need for the climb up the slope and over the fence.

Yet surely they must have more of a plan than escape at noon. How would I know when was the right moment? He had pointed at his eyes, so presumably he was going to give me some kind of signal when the time was right. I had to watch him closely when the work break came around.

Finally a guard signaled it was time for the noon break. Heads were counted. I grabbed a nearby water jug and drank deeply. That might be the last drink I took for hours if I was going to escape and make a run through the forest. I then sat down and sipped more water slowly, holding the jug with one hand. I cautiously scanned around me and noted that no guards were directly watching me. They were simply moving about, rotating positions in the field. With the other hand, I inserted the makeshift key into the lock on the shackles on my right ankle, and turned it. The Afghans had done well. Their key moved smoothly and released the grip around my ankle. I then did the same for the left. I didn't remove the shackles, but instead just let them hang loosely around my ankles. If the escape was going to happen soon, I could be out of them in a second or two. If something interrupted the escape, then I could just as quickly relock them.

With my fingers, I scooped out dirt between my feet and buried the key a few inches deep. I covered the disturbed dirt with a triangular light-colored rock. I looked around to get an approximate fix on this spot. I was certain I could find this rock and the key under it again if necessary. I watched the Afghan closely, waiting for his move. He was a bit down slope from me. After a couple of minutes, he returned my gaze, holding it for several seconds. Then he starting yelling, stood up, and gestured wildly with his arms. He punched the guy next to him, and jumped on top of him. A tangle of arms and legs followed, then all hell broke loose. All the other Afghans gathered around the fight and started howling encouragement to the combatants, and other fights broke out nearby.

The guards rushed toward the scene. Their attention was focused entirely on the fight. No one was left up slope of me. I hesitated for a second because there was one guard still to my left. He then took several steps down slope, a spot where he would not be able to see me even out of his peripheral vision. I slipped out of the shackles, rolling over onto my hands and knees. I tossed the shackles aside, away from where the key was buried.

I stayed low using the scant cover of the poppy plants and scrambled up the slope, aiming toward an outcropping of rocks that ran downward into the valley. The sound of the fight below faded in volume as I climbed upward and broke free from the poppies and camouflage netting. I looked back and saw that the netting itself was shielding me from direct view of the guards below. So I got to my feet and ran uphill. In several more strides I would be completely out of sight of those below.

The slope was steep, and the ground was rocky. The rocks shifted with each footfall, and I feared I might sprain an ankle. Game over. I was just a couple of steps from the cover of the outcrop when the rock under my right foot slid sideways, and I came down hard on my forearms and knees. The pain shot through my upper arms into my shoulders and through my lower legs, causing my feet to tingle with the shock. But after a moment, I gathered my feet under me and crawled to the line of the rock outcropping and ducked down behind it. I took a few seconds to view my situation and catch my breath.

I could hear distantly that the fight was still going on below. I could not count on that distraction continuing for much longer. So in spite of the pain and tingling in my legs, I continued the upward climb. Within seconds I found the fence. I looked both ways down the space between the two fence lines and saw no guards inside.

The guards would soon enough realize this Caucasian face was missing from the valley. I had to go over the fence now. I jammed my fingers into the chain links, scrambled to dig my toes into the fence, and pulled myself up toward the razor wire at the top. The fence rattled loudly, sounding like an alarm. The guards were sure to hear it if they were anywhere near. I pushed harder to reach the top.

Up close, the razor wire was intimidating. The spacing between coils was narrow. I could sense the pain that would be inflicted by the sharp edges before I even made contact with it. With this spur of the moment decision to climb the fence, I had no plan of how to get through it without being slashed to a bloody pulp. The coiled wire overhung the fence by at least a foot and towered over me. It was unclimbable. I would have to go through the coils. But that was impossible too.

Then I saw a slim chance. Since the fence was embedded in the forest, the branch of an evergreen tree leaned over the barrier. It was a long thin branch, but might be strong enough and flexible enough to hold my weight. I moved laterally down the fence a couple of yards, grabbed the branch with one hand, braced by feet flat against the chain links, and then grabbed the branch with my other hand. It immediately sagged downward until my upper body was below my feet, which were still planted firmly against the fence. But the branch held. I pulled furiously, hand over hand, to get my head up. At the same time, I walked my feet up the fence.

I repeated this process of pulling with my arms to get my head above my feet, and then walked up the vertical surface of the fence. I did this until the toes of my boots were touching the bottom of the razor wire, then pulled with my arms until my head was above the top of the wire. I gingerly placed a foot on top of the fence, between two coils of the wire. As I pulled myself completely vertical, my other foot reached the top between adjacent coils. I was now standing on top of the fence. I kept my balance with my fingertips pressed against the tree whose branch had been so helpful in getting me up here.

Then I heard the heavy footfalls of someone coming my way. "Shit," I said under my breath. I had been spotted. There was no time to plan my next moves. I had to get off this fence and over the second one in the next few seconds, or I was going back to that hell hole in the valley. A failure.

I bent my knees and sprang off the fence toward the ground below. I felt the razor wire cut into my left pant leg and through my skin. It knocked me off balance so that I landed hard on my right leg and fell onto my back. It felt like my right leg had been shoved upward through my hip. I rolled onto my left side and came to a stop in a low spot in the ground up against the outer fence. There was no time to scale that barrier. How could I hide here in this narrow space?

There were downed branches and evergreen needles all around me. I quickly scooped them on top of me in the low spot and lay perfectly still. The pounding of someone running came closer and closer. If he had seen me on top of the fence, I would be easy to locate. If he hadn't seen me, he was going to step right on me. I tensed my muscles, preparing to grab a leg to tackle the guard if I was discovered. I also grasped a sharpened stick in my right hand. It was one I had fashioned and stashed in the fields. I had retrieved it this morning, tucking it inside my shirt, in the event it would come in useful.

The guard's run slowed, but he didn't seem to know where I was. Otherwise, he would already be all over me. Then he was walking. He was searching for me. He must have seen me climb up the slope or scale the fence. So he knew approximately where I should be. I lay on my stomach, my face turned in the direction he was walking, with my palms pressed against the dirt in a push-up position. I was right there in front of him, but he couldn't see me through the branches I'd used as cover. A boot landed inches from my face, and then the other came down just beyond me.

I straightened my arms to bring my chest off the ground, quietly pulled my knees up under me, and sprang upward. I grabbed him above the ankles and pushed him down face first onto the ground. He twisted around to face me and already was bringing his weapon into a firing position. At this close range, he could easily shoot me in the top of the head. I squeezed his legs with my left arm. I extended my right hand and drove my sharpened stake into his side.

He screamed in pain, grabbing for his side with his left hand. But he continued to bring his rifle around into a firing position with his right. I twisted the stake and drove it further into his flesh. He screamed in agony. His blood flowed down his shirt and over my hand. The stake became slippery, and I was losing my grip. So I let go of it. I grabbed his shirt with my right hand and dragged my body up on top of him. I used my weight to pin the rifle to his body and press him to the ground. I then used my knee to drive the stake deeper into him. He tried to yell, but the only thing that came out was a gurgle as blood gushed out of his mouth. In seconds, he lay motionless.

He was the first person I had ever killed. Yet I felt no guilt. I felt nothing at all except relief for having survived. Now I had his weapon, which I would not hesitate to use.

I wanted to just rest there. I was exhausted from my struggle to get to this spot and the fight with this guard. But it would not be long before another guard came along. So I slung the dead man's weapon over a shoulder, and clawed my way up the outer fence. The metallic rattling of the chain links announced my location again. When I had nearly reached the top, there was another overhanging branch that I was able to grasp. I rested for a moment, holding on to that twig like a lifeline.

The sound of boots hammering on the ground signaled more guards coming my way. They were coming from the same direction as the one I had just killed. And there were shouted orders, as if the running guards were being directed where to look.

I had to trust in that thin branch. I grabbed it with both hands and pulled upward like I was climbing a rope. It drooped downward, bouncing me off the fence. But it held. As I climbed, my forearms were raked by the bottom edges of the razor wire, and as I climbed further my shins were sliced. The cuts were stinging from the dirt and salty sweat on my skin seeping into the open wounds.

I didn't bother with standing on top of the fence. I climbed up that branch until I was hugging the trunk of the tree above the razor wire. Shimmying to the opposite side of the tree put me outside the fence. I slid down the trunk, but my foot caught on the stub of a branch, propelling me away from the tree and down the steep slope. I landed hard on my right shoulder and bounced up against the base of a tree.

I lay still, not by choice, but out of necessity. I lay there to take stock of my battered body. My right shoulder and back absorbed most of the impact from the fall. They were sore. My forearms and shins were sliced and bleeding, leaving streaks of blood on my grubby clothing. My face was scraped from sliding down the tree trunk.

I lay still also because guards, first one and then another a couple of seconds later, came from my left and stopped near the spot where I went over the fence. They bent over the body of their comrade.

"He killed Rodgers!" the second one to arrive spat out in rage.

"Did you see him?" the first one yelled.

"You mean you didn't?" the second one howled in amazement. "Did he go over the fence? Or is he still inside?"

"I don't know," was the other's response. "Fuck!"

They both leaned up against the outer fence and silently looked down the hill in my direction. I held my breath and lay perfectly still. They made no indication that they'd spotted me. The forest floor was dimly light, and I was so filthy that even my pale-skinned face wasn't visible to them.

"I don't see him, and I can't hear anything down there. He must still be inside."

They both continued in the direction they had been going, probably hoping to run me down between the parallel fences. They barked status reports into their walkie-talkies.

I looked around for the weapon I had confiscated. But it was nowhere in sight. I pushed the ground debris around for a few seconds looking for it. Nothing. Then I looked up. It was clinging to a branch of the tree that had helped me climb over the fence. I rushed up to the tree to retrieve it, but the guards were returning, yelling to each other that I must have gone over the fence near the body. So I ran and tumbled down hill. Tree branches ripped at my clothing and skin. I heard the guards still yelling from up on top of the hill. When I got to the barbed wire fence at the bottom of the slope, I hurtled it without breaking stride. I was now another one of Jake Monroe's running men.

Chapter 50

It was late, approaching midnight I guessed. I was tired, hungry, hurting, filthy, and desperate. My time in the valley, my escape, and the run through the forest had reduced me to this.

I had expected to find help long before this. After escaping the valley, I had run from the fence toward Jake Monroe's cabin. I got lost. It took me a long time to find it. That was time I did not have to spare. I had only been there once before. It had been near dark, and Jake was leading the way. I felt relief at finally sighting it nestled in its clearing, surrounded by a dense growth of pine trees. It was a safe haven. Jake might not provide shelter, but he probably would provide me transportation to a safe place, or at least give me supplies and a weapon to get there myself.

But Jake wasn't there. His truck was gone. The cabin was unlocked, but there was nothing there to help me. No phone, no Internet connection, no weapons. He had cut himself off from the world in his attempt to escape his Vietnam nightmares. He probably kept his weapons in the truck. He would want them close at hand just in case the nightmares became real again.

I couldn't risk waiting for him to return. Gates' troops were certainly out looking for me. If I could find my way here, so could they, by following my trail. I had to stay on the move. I continued my run.

As the sun faded away for the day, I struggled to find my way through the tangled forest. Then it was dark, and I had no guide to keep me on an eastward course. Finally the moon appeared. I could use that to continue going in a straight line. When the moon went behind passing clouds, I became disoriented. Without that beacon of light, I unknowingly wandered randomly. Each time the moon reappeared, I realized my direction was wrong and had to get back on course.

Time was my enemy as much as Gates' men in pursuit of me. All this random walking was making it easier for them to catch up to me. And it might bring me directly into their path. So to make up for those times of being totally lost, I ran whenever the moon was visible. Running in the dark to escape my followers, just like Jake's running man. Might I run right off a cliff and die? Maybe. But capture meant death, so I ran anyway. I had to get far away quickly.

My destination was Willow Run. I had to find help there since I didn't have the strength to get to anything farther away. I wasn't even sure where the next nearest town was. North? South? West? I guessed that it was probably 20 miles or more over the rough terrain of the forest. Even getting to Willow Run was proving much more difficult than I imagined. I couldn't use the roads. Gates' troops, Deputy Powell, and Sheriff Tyler would surely be looking for me there.

I had to get help, for the sake of the captive Afghans and me. Those prisoners had entrusted their futures to me. They gave me the key to the shackles, a key that they had so tirelessly fashioned. And they provided the distraction I needed to go over the fence. I owed them.

But where should I go in Willow Run? I was a wanted man. Everyone might be out gunning for me.

I could go to Andrew Pine, but I didn't know where he lived. I would have to wait until he appeared for work at the National Forest entrance in the morning. The ranger station was too far away. And daylight was too many hours away.

Could I go to Allison? I didn't think that was a good idea, not if she thought I was a killer, the man who killed her brother.

I had met other people here. There was Janice the waitress, the motel desk clerk, the guy at the convenience store. But I did not know them well enough to put my life in their hands. And even if I did roll the dice by trusting them, just like Ranger Pine, I didn't know where they lived. I would have to wait until morning and meet them where they work. I didn't have that much time. I could feel the noose tightening. And even though I had not seen any of my pursuers, my skin tingled with the sense that they were close.

Yes, Willow Run was a land mine of problems for me. But here I was finally just outside of town, looking down Main Street. Everything was closed and dark. Walking down the street was too risky. So I jumped down a slippery bank and walked through the creek. It was the long way around, but it seemed the best chance to avoid being seen. The rocks were wet and slippery, and I fell several times as I fumbled in the dark trying to find firm footing. Many of the rocks were smoothed by millennia of rushing water. But even smooth rocks are hard, leaving me with new bruises. On the positive side, I didn't lack for something to drink, and some of the grime and dried blood from my imprisonment and escape washed away.

When I judged I'd gone far enough, I peered over the shallow bank of the creek. I saw several houses in the dim light of the moon. In one, there was a light on in a lower level window. There was a seated figure on the back porch. I crept silently up toward the house, using a line of bushes as a shield. I stopped periodically to see if anyone else was around. All seemed quiet. No one seemed to be laying in wait for me. Within a couple of minutes, I reached the side of the porch undetected. I crouched down below the railing.

"Allison," I said softly.

I was drawn to her. While we had known each other for only a short time, I had felt a strong connection. It was a bond that I had not felt with another person for a very long time. We were entangled, at least in my limited view of the world of relationships. So I put all my trust in this connection. I hoped my trust was well placed.

She turned toward my voice, swiveling in the porch swing. She wore blue jeans and a white short-sleeved shirt. Even in the near darkness, the contrast of her flaming red hair against the shirt was a glowing beacon in the night. It was the most beautiful image I could imagine.

"What? Nathan?" she croaked in surprise.

I feared that she would hate me. And why not? The world seemed to think I was a killer. If Allison believed that, then there would be no place in her life for me. But when she just spoke my name, I didn't hear the hatred I had feared might be there.

Even though she probably couldn't see me clearly, I smiled weakly. I gazed in her direction and nodded. "Yes, I'm here." I got up, walked around the outside of the railing and up the five steps onto the porch. She rose from her seat and came swiftly toward me. I had dreamed of our reunion being this perfect, with her falling into my embrace. I put out my arms to catch her, to surround her. I longed for the tenderness of her touch.

Her fist came out of the darkness and struck me hard across the jaw. As I stood there stunned, she kicked me in the groin, doubling me over. Then she planted a foot against my shoulder and launched me off the porch onto the concrete pad below.

I landed on my back with a solid thud. My head didn't hit the concrete only because I was still doubled over in a curled position from the kick in the groin. Through the pain and my blurred vision, I propped myself up on my elbows to gaze at her. I could see the rage in her face. Creases formed between her eyebrows and her face was contorted as she snarled like a rabid dog.

She glared at me and yelled, "You bastard!"

"What?" That was the only defense I could muster through my pain.

"You killed him. You bastard," she repeated. Then she broke into sobs, plopping onto the porch floor, and pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes.

In my pain, lying there on the ground, I started to protest. But I stopped. I had drawn people from Willow Run into my wake, and people had died. She must feel betrayed. She had every right to hate me.

I got into a seated position on the concrete but still was in too much pain to stand up. "Allison, I didn't kill anyone." Then I considered that my statement was not entirely accurate. I had killed the guard in the forest. But he didn't count.

"Liar!" she screamed through her tears. "You killed Enid and shot Jeff. Everyone is looking for you. I hope they find you and shoot you."

I was stunned by what she said. Both Enid and Jeff had been shot. That possibility hadn't even entered my thinking. Enid being dead didn't bother me. He deserved what he got. But Jeff being alive was unexpected good news. He must have put up a mighty fight with Enid, getting wounded in the process. He must have been so seriously wounded, though, that he could not tell the story about the ambush. He could not alert the world to the evil occurring in Spring Valley. So in spite of Jeff being alive, now I was concerned that the situation was still not good.

She drew in a deep breath to continue her outpouring of emotion. "Why did you come back? To torment me? Just go away." Then she broke down into tears again, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed.

Her shouts of rage at me were going to wake the neighborhood. It was late, and everyone was probably long ago in bed. A dog next door started to growl and bark, but no lights came on in the adjacent houses.

I stood up with effort, still in pain from her attack. "Allison. Is Jeff OK?"

Her sobs had quieted to weak whimpers, but it seemed the pain in her heart was still there. And her hatred of me was probably growing.

"What do you care?" she snarled. "You shot him. He almost died. He's still in the hospital."

"Allison. I didn't shoot anyone. Please hear me out."

I awkwardly got up, walked toward the house, and painfully sat on one of the steps leading up to the porch. I reached out to touch her arm, but she waved her arms wildly to slap my hand away. That's when she finally really looked closely at me and must have noticed my filthy condition. Even in the dim light from the kitchen bulb, I must have been a strange sight. I was dirty, unshaven, bloodied, wet from falling in the creek, and covered with cuts and contusions. I probably didn't smell all that appealing either after so long without a bath. Her eyes went wide.

"What happened to you?" In spite of her apparent disgust with me, there was a hint of concern in her voice. I even imagined there might be a touch of doubt about what she thought she knew about my involvement in the shootings.

"Allison, whatever you heard or may think of me, please believe that I did not shoot anyone." When she didn't protest, I continued. "Please let me tell you what happened."

She got up abruptly from the porch floor and plopped back down in the swing. She crossed her arms across her stomach and scowled at me. She was still fuming inside. But she was silent, waiting for me to plead my case. I didn't feel I could take the liberty of sitting next to her in the swing, so I took the empty chair, leaning forward to speak softly.

I told her about meeting with Jeff, driving toward the Sheriff's cabin with the evidence, the ambush, and my imprisonment in the valley by the AWOL soldiers. I told her I didn't know what happened in the ambush, just that I heard gunshots and was knocked unconscious. I left out a lot of the story. There was no time to go into all the details. I needed an ally in this town. I needed an ally quickly before Gates' troops found me. I needed a phone. Allison was my best hope.

But I had a concern. I might have inadvertently led Gates to Allison's door. Certainly they would get around to coming here, if they hadn't already. I just needed to win Allison's trust enough that she could help me stop this now.

Allison listened without interrupting. She clearly was not ready to accept my story. It was all too unbelievable. But she didn't reject it either. She was quiet. Everything she heard was probably swirling in her head, and she was trying to make it all fall into place. Surely it had to be the most bizarre story she'd ever heard. There were hints of recognition in her eyes as she listened. A lot of what I said was in those Internet searches. She had seen the print outs of those items when she handed them to me after each of my visits to the library. Those had to be giving her pause. She simply had to believe in me or I wouldn't survive this day.

"Allison. I need to use your phone to call for help. Even though I didn't shoot or kill anyone, I will turn myself in. Let the chips fall where they may. But please let me use your phone."

Her eyes were fixed on me. They no longer glared at me. Instead, they probed me for understanding.

"They told me that you got angry at Enid and Jeff. It was an argument over me. You were tired of them interfering with us. They said you grabbed Jeff's gun and shot both of them." She choked for a few seconds. "Then you just drove off in your car. You left them by the side of the road." Tears welled up in her eyes again before she regained her composure. "Your car was found south of Butte at a rest area. It was out of gas. The gun was in the back. They said your fingerprints were on it."

I had been set up, just as Gates boasted. A crime of passion. They were looking for me far from here. All the police in the area were probably down there searching. That drew attention away from the activity in the valley.

"Allison, you said they told you all these things. Who are they?"

She looked down at her hands, seeming afraid or maybe ashamed to say the words. "The Sheriff and Jeff."

Chapter 51

This new information hit me hard. I had to rethink my assumptions. New thoughts raced through my mind, all gelling in seconds. Jeff being alive and telling Allison I shot him and killed Enid meant Jeff was lying. He was the bad cop. I hadn't expected that. Did that mean he was part of the opium operation with Gates?

It must have shocked him that I had gotten so much information, yet he didn't let it show. So he helped set up the ambush. He had played me well. His animosity toward me kept me off balance. He had to figure I would try to mend our relationship since I was dating his sister. Then he got in close, pretending to mend the fences between us, making me believe he was on my side. I had bought it all. I wanted it to be real, and that blind trust got me in deep trouble.

I had so thoroughly convinced myself that Enid was the bad cop that I didn't even consider other options. I was wrong. I screwed up. So Enid's past association with the bounty hunters Joey Hammons and Ross Browne was just that, a past association. It was just history that I twisted into a misdirection that misled me.

Allison said that the Sheriff and Jeff told her that I shot Enid and Jeff. So I still couldn't trust the Sheriff either. On the morning of the ambush, Jeff called him to set up our meeting. Instead, it was probably a signal for the Sheriff to set up the ambush. So while we drove up to his cabin, the trap was set. The guy in the sedan and Jeff. And I drove right into it. So did Enid Powell.

Enid might have just been following me, like he had done before. Jeff surely had not counted on that. That made it two against two. Enid was a big strong kid. He did not go down easily. Jeff got shot. But in the end, it cost Enid his life. It was not the plan. But as Gates said, they made it work for them. They improvised. They put the blame on me and made it work for them.

I couldn't just blurt out that her brother was lying. I had to take a gradual reasoned approach.

"Allison, I don't know what happened in the ambush. I was knocked unconscious. Jeff was shot. Maybe he can't be certain about exactly what happened. But please believe me, I did not shoot anyone. What I told you about the ambush is true."

She didn't say anything right away. I took that as a good sign.

"Why did they take you to the valley?" she asked.

I gave her the poppies that I had grabbed and stuffed in my pocket before I scrambled up the slope and out of the valley. Like the Afghan who escaped before me and died on Monarch Trail, I too carried out plant parts as my evidence.

"This really is not the time for flowers," she said with irritation.

"But these aren't just any flowers," I said softly. I had to admit they were a bit shabby after my trek through the forest, but they were still recognizable. "A week ago I didn't know anything about them. They're why people are dying. Opium poppies."

"What?" her eyes widened in shock. "Someone is growing opium right here?" I could tell she now recognized them, the thick stem and the bulbous pod on the end. Many news reports about Afghanistan on TV cover the growing of poppies in that country. Pictures of the tall, thick-stemmed, bulbous-headed plants have appeared in the news many times over the past several years.

"Yes. They took me to the valley to work in the poppy fields along with about 50 other prisoners." I told her more about the valley, the fences, the row of graves, the soldiers, and the drug money that was their prize. She didn't say anything. She just lowered her head as if in shame for her town. Or maybe she just could no longer look at me, a bold-faced liar.

"Allison, I know this is all very difficult to believe. But it's true." I waited a few beats, and then repeated my earlier request. "I need to use your phone to call for help."

I didn't recall seeing a land line in the house. She probably only had a cell phone. After a few seconds hesitation and without a word, she reached into her pocket and gently dropped her phone into my outstretched hand.

"That won't be necessary, Parker. Put the phone down."

I had not heard him approach. I screwed up. I should have pressed Allison harder right away to use her phone and maybe even her car. But I let my caring for her, caring that she think well of me, cloud my judgment. That error was going to cost me my life.

"Jeff?" Allison said in surprise. "You're supposed to be in bed in the hospital. What are you doing here?"

"I was tired of being cooped up there. And it looks like I came just in time before Parker lied his way back into our lives."

He stood on the concrete pad at the bottom of the steps. Even though it was dark, I could see him quite clearly since he was standing in the rectangle of light flooding from the lit kitchen. His left shoulder was heavily bandaged, and that arm was in a sling. He also seemed a bit unsteady on his feet. But the pistol gripped in his right hand was still menacing. It pointed at me.

"Jeff," Allison said calmly. "Nathan has a very different story to tell than what I've heard from everyone else. Please tell me what's going on." Allison was calmly challenging what she'd been told.

"What's going on is that Parker is a liar. He's a worthless drifter just like I told you. He took my gun. He shot me and killed Enid." He turned his attention back to me. "Parker. Put your hands up."

I needed to stall, to say something in defense of myself. I had no hope that it would convince Jeff to tell any part of the truth, let alone the whole truth. But any slight admission might help to further win over Allison. She was the only ally now that would keep me alive. Inside, she must be torn apart. Her brother or the drifter. I didn't like my chances.

But in stalling, there was the danger that Jeff would have help on the way to take me down. Yet Jeff really couldn't afford to have Lieutenant Matthew Gates and company come into town. Even if they didn't come in their Hummers all dressed in their camouflage outfits, they would be conspicuous. Just like me, they were outsiders. Easy to spot. And a gang of them coming noisily into town at night would wake people and draw attention.

I noted that lights had already come on in the adjacent house. All this late-night conversation was waking the neighbors. Too many witnesses. Jeff seemed to realize that also. I hoped that a neighbor would call the Sheriff about us disturbing the peace. I hoped the Sheriff would come because I now had doubts that he was involved in Gates' scheme. Jeff was wounded. If he had the Sheriff as an ally, he would not have come alone. They both would be here. So I needed to stall. I stayed seated.

I didn't want to accuse Jeff of wrongdoing because that might anger him. But I saw no other choice. I had to keep Jeff talking. "Jeff, you know that's not how it happened. I don't know who killed Enid. You know it wasn't me. I was knocked unconscious and imprisoned by your friends in the valley."

"Parker, you are such a bad liar. You shot us and just drove away. Now put your hands up."

Even though I didn't put my hands up, Jeff couldn't shoot me. I wasn't threatening him, and I was unarmed. He couldn't just shoot me in front of his sister. That would not end well for him.

"It must be hard for you, Jeff, taking orders from that short lieutenant. For a little guy, he certainly has a big ego to feed. Does he stand on his tip toes and point with his stubby fingers when he tells you what to do?"

Jeff stood there unmoving, but there was a slight change in his expression, a nervous twitch in his jaw. I had hit a sore spot. It had been a shot in the dark, but Jeff must be taking orders from someone. It had to be Gates. Gates was not going to take orders from anyone. That was out of character for someone with his large ego. The whole thing was his operation. He boasted about _his_ operation.

And Jeff also seemed to be someone who liked to be in control. So taking orders from Gates had to be intolerable. Being tall, towering over others, intimidating them with his size. Like he tried to intimidate me. It was so out of character when Allison had given him what for. He had cowered to her, his sister. He permitted that because he must have seen it as a way to lure me in. But having to bow down to Gates had to be insufferable for him. He did it only because, like all the others, he was chasing the big prize: millions of dollars. There was no loyalty. It was all about the money.

"Is the lieutenant the one who ordered you to kill Enid? And what about Joseph Custer? Did you kill him, too?"

"Joseph is dead?" Allison asked with disbelief.

"Yes," I said. "And the maid from the motel and Ranger Pine's wife. They're all buried in Spring Valley."

"Shut up, Parker," Jeff spat. The twitch now rippled faster along his jaw line. "Now put your hands up or I'll shoot you where you sit."

"Can you shoot an unarmed man in front of your sister? Did he order you to do that too, Errand Boy?"

He clenched his teeth and nervously worked his fingers on the gun's grip. I hoped that Allison saw this. I did, though, put my hands on top of my head in surrender. He surely wouldn't shoot me with Allison there, but I wasn't taking any chance. At the same time, I had to push him harder. Jeff was clearly affected by the mention of Gates. I didn't know where they intersected in the past, but they clearly had joined forces.

"It must have really pissed you off when Matthew Gates made lieutenant, and you were still just a county patrol officer."

"Matthew Gates?" Allison asked in surprise. "You knew him in college, didn't you, Jeff?" Then she turned to me. "Nathan, where did you meet Matthew Gates?"

I had struck pay dirt. I should have mentioned Gates' name at the start. I could sense that I was winning Allison over, a little bit at a time. But it had to be tearing her apart inside, not knowing whom to really believe. Believing me meant suspecting her brother to be a monster. That would be unthinkable. And even if she chose to believe me, she might still hate me for revealing that dark side of Jeff. Yet I sensed she was beginning to doubt him.

"Jeff?" Allison persisted.

"He's making stuff up to confuse us," Jeff said defensively.

"What happens when Gates decides he doesn't need you any more?" I pressed. "Shoot you like he did all those dead Afghans in the valley?"

"Shut up, Parker!" Jeff roared.

I could see a few neighbors peering out of their back doors in our direction. Only their heads poked out, as if to check if it was OK before venturing further.

"Get up and turn around." As he gestured with an upward movement of his gun, I hesitated, then slowly stood up.

"Jeff," Allison said hesitantly. "Is what Nathan says true? What about these opium plants?" she asked, holding out the samples I had given her.

"Oh, come on, Allison," Jeff groaned. "He's a killer and a liar. He'll say anything to get out of this mess." Then, taking another step up toward the porch, he bellowed to me, "I said, turn around."

"Jeff, if you're taking Nathan to jail, then I'm going along, too," she insisted.

Forcefully he said, "You don't need to be there."

"But I want to go," she protested. "I have to know what's going on."

"You can visit later after I get him locked up," he stated firmly.

"Jeff. What are these opium poppies doing in Willow Run?" she demanded, tossing the plants at his feet.

"Stay out of it, Allison," he barked.

"Jeff...." she started.

"Shut up!" Jeff roared, glaring at her with fierce dark eyes. Now doubt was painted all over her face, dark doubt about her brother.

He was furious and fed up with being challenged by his little sister. But I could see the anger boiling within her, the stern look, the flushed face, and the piercing eyes. She didn't like being trivialized. Her face turned the color of her flaming hair, though she kept her seething inside as Jeff stared back. His glare held her in check.

Then turning his attention back to me, Jeff took one more step up toward the porch and ordered, "Parker, this is your last warning. Turn around and keep your hands on your head."

Jeff stepped up onto the edge of the porch as he gave me the orders, so the gun was less than six feet from me. He steadied it with his good right arm, but it still bobbed as he breathed hard from the tension and the exertion. With a badly wounded left shoulder, he probably didn't have much stamina for this confrontation.

I had little doubt about my prospects. I was alive at his moment only because Allison was here. He had to get me away from this witness. Then he could claim he shot me when I tried to escape. I knew what I had to do.

I turned deliberately, taking small slow steps, inching closer to him until I could feel the barrel of his weapon touching my back. He now had a problem. In order to handcuff me, he needed to put away his gun, since he only had one useable hand. Or he could have Allison handcuff me, while he held the gun. But I didn't think that Allison would cooperate. She was still quietly seething. He hesitated, and then I felt the pressure of the gun barrel leave my back. I heard the metallic rattle of the handcuffs and knew that he was reaching for them. At that moment, there was no weapon pointing at me.

I bent my knees slightly and pushed backward with all the strength in my legs. On level ground, even in his weakened condition, Jeff could have simply put one foot back, stopping my backward flop with his larger size and strength. But since he was at the edge of the porch with nothing behind him but open air, he went flying with me toward the ground below.

"Jeff! Nathan!" Allison cried in alarm.

I bent my right elbow and jabbed it backward into his gut. We landed with a thud on the concrete pad at the bottom of the steps, with me on top. Jeff let out a loud burst of air as my elbow dug into him. I twisted counterclockwise and swung my left elbow up into his lower jaw. There was a loud crack of teeth smashing into teeth, and Jeff let out a low groan.

I scrambled to my feet, looking for the gun. I couldn't find it. I turned to run, but his right hand put a vice grip lock on my ankle. I twisted in a complete circle and broke free from his grasp as I staggered away from him. Then I could see the glint of light on metal. The gun was under his right leg, and he was reaching for it.

"Run, Allison!" I yelled up to her. She froze for a moment, seeming to decide which one of us to trust. The brother she had known all her life, or the new guy who had only brought turmoil into her life. She dashed down the steps toward me. I reeled backward, not sure if she was coming to me or coming at me again with her fist.

She grabbed my hand but still seemed unsure what to do next. I pulled her toward the street. The roar of Jeff's gun tore through the night, ripping a hole in the corner of the house where we had just been. Two more shots followed.

The sleeping occupants in all the houses nearby awoke. Lights came on, dogs barked, and figures appeared at windows and doors. The neighbors were all awake now. Someone would surely call the Sheriff.

Chapter 52

There was no time to get in her car and drive away. Running to a neighbor's house would not help either. Jeff was too close behind. And in this small town, the word would soon be out: Nathan Parker, the murderer, is running loose in the neighborhood. And now he had a hostage: the county cop's sister. We had no choice but to outrun him.

Allison slowed and began to protest. "Nathan, where are we going? Why are we running? You just hurt my brother. We have to go back." She then stopped, wailing in despair. "What's going on?"

I pulled her behind a darkened house and tried to calm her. "Allison, your brother just shot at us. Not just at me, but at you too. Why are we running? Because your brother is going to kill me for sure. And maybe you."

"Jeff wouldn't do that," she said, but I could see the doubt in her face. Her eyes were tearing up again.

"Allison. I'm so sorry. It's all my fault this is happening. I should have just left it alone." She was still crying, but more softly now. "Allison, you should just go to someone you can trust in town and hide. Call the state police. Tell them everything. You'll be OK. But I have to go. Just call the state police. There's no one who will listen to me."

She was suddenly calm. "I listened, Nathan. I'm here. We're in this together." Even in the near darkness, I could see the resolve forming on her face. She had committed to help me.

"Allison!" It was Jeff searching for his sister. "Parker, if you hurt my sister, you are going to die."

She took my hand and led me through the yards of neighborhood houses, dodging around bushes and finding breaks in hedges that I would have struggled to get through. This was her territory. She knew it well.

Jeff's shouts faded as we put distance between him and us. Allison finally stopped in a small park, and we ducked down behind some bushes. She opened her cell phone. Even in all the commotion, she thought to pick up the phone off the porch. She dialed 9-1-1. The phone beeped. The digital display read _low battery_.

"Damn," she hissed.

We were on Main Street, not far from the center of town. No lights glowed in the darkness. It was quiet. Then I heard a car approaching. We ducked into an alley between two stores. The car went past and turned. It was quiet again. We both breathed noisily.

"Where else can we get to a phone? Right now?" I asked.

She again took my hand and led me along the row of storefronts. We were heading toward the library.

"Do you have the keys?"

"We won't need them," she said. It was then I noticed she had a brick in her other hand. Where did she get that? Back in the alley?

As we neared the library, bright lights erupted from across the street and blinded us. It was the high beams of a vehicle. Then a spotlight burst upon us, creating such an intense light that our images must have been imprinted on the wall behind us. We both froze, not knowing which way to turn to escape the glare. Or escape the gun that was surely trained on us from only a few yards away.

"Parker!" It couldn't be. How could Jeff have gotten here already? He must have been in the car that went past. I didn't hear it stop.

"Parker!" This command was louder. But it wasn't threatening. It was Sheriff Tyler. "Get over here." It was more of an urgent request than a command. "Please," he said.

Could we trust him? He could be one of the bad guys. He could be a good guy. I didn't know for certain. With the glare from the lights, I couldn't even see him. If I could see his face, I could probably judge better whether to trust him. I finally decided that I needed to trust him because there seemed nothing else to do.

The Sheriff turned off the spotlight. He stood by the open driver side door of his SUV, which was parked crossways in the street. The front end pointed nearly directly at us. We cautiously came around to the passenger side door. Even though I was unarmed and the car afforded little protection, having the vehicle between him and us made me feel a bit more secure. Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness again, I saw that the Sheriff had laid his weapon on the roof of the vehicle. Not menacing, but within easy reach if needed. I felt even more secure.

"Sheriff," I said evenly. "If you aren't going to kill me or arrest me, then can we please get out of here? Jeff is shooting at us."

"I'm not going to kill you. And I'm not going to arrest you. And don't worry about Jeff. I can handle him."

"Why aren't you arresting me?" I asked puzzled. "The world seems to think I'm a killer."

He hesitated briefly before answering, rubbing a hand over the stubble on his chin. "I listened to Jeff and made myself believe you killed Enid. But it just didn't fit. Sorry, Allison, but your brother lied."

Allison didn't say anything because her lips were trembling, squeezed shut to hold back tears. But I saw her head nod once in silent acknowledgement. In the span of a few minutes, two people had said terrible things about Jeff. Those words were tearing her apart inside. She now had to accept this new truth about the monster that was her brother.

"When did you figure that out?" I asked.

"Just now," he admitted with shame in his voice. "Yesterday I finally took your advice and hiked out to that fence you tried to tell me about last week. I didn't do anything. Just thought about it. Today I thought about the other things you told me and about Joseph Custer disappearing. And then I asked Allison to show me all the stuff you were reading on the Internet."

I glanced at her for confirmation. She still fought back tears. She didn't say anything, but simply nodded. I realized then that Allison had probably also told her brother many of the same things. Just casual conversation at home, telling him about her day. Not her fault. She had unwittingly fed information to Jeff about my activities. It might even have contributed to me being imprisoned in the valley. Not her fault. I didn't know if she realized that possibility, but now was not the time for that discussion.

The Sheriff hung his head and sighed heavily. "Then when Allison's neighbors started calling to say Jeff was shooting at you and Allison....well, I finally realized there were problems with Jeff's story. I was going to check it all out in the morning." He paused again. "I've been such an old fool."

"Sheriff, there's no time for this. We have bigger problems. Jeff is after us, and he has about twenty friends who are looking to kill me. So can we just get out of here?"

"Don't worry. I can handle Jeff," he said, falling back on his laid-back ways.

"What about the twenty other guys? Can you handle all of them, too?"

"No," he said slowly. "No, I can't."

"Then let's get out of here," I said forcefully. His inaction was going to get us killed. "Now!" That came out sounding like a command.

The Sheriff hesitated only for a moment and then said, "Get in."

I reached for the handle on the passenger side door. The Sheriff picked up his gun and prepared to get behind the steering wheel.

Then another vehicle came around the corner behind Allison and me, and screeched to a halt with its headlights shining on us. Even before the driver exited, I could see that it was Jeff. I took Allison's hand and pulled her to the rear of the Sheriff's car for cover.

Jeff stood there, again holding a gun pointed in my direction. But something was different. The bandage on his left shoulder had an expanding red stain. His wound had opened.

"Going to the library to return some overdue books, Parker?" He laughed. "It was such an obvious place to find you."

Of course it was, but we didn't have a lot of options.

"Please resist arrest again," Jeff taunted. "I really would like to finish this right here."

Allison stepped in front of me. I tried pulling her back, but she slapped my hand away. She was having none of that. "Are you going to shoot me too, Jeff?" she yelled accusingly.

"Allison, there's no need for this. Just come over here so I can arrest this worthless drifter." I was tiring of him calling me that. "Everything will be fine."

"Why are you doing this? For money?" she screamed in desperation.

"Shut up, Allison!" he roared.

"Jeff!" It was Sheriff Tyler. He had his weapon in his hand, aiming across the roof of his vehicle. "This ends now. Drop your gun."

Jeff swung his weapon away from us and onto his new focus. "Sheriff. What are you doing? I have it all under control. We have our murderer. No problem."

"Jeff!" the Sheriff hollered. "Enough. Drop the gun." The Sheriff now had both hands tightly gripping the pistol and aiming it at Jeff. Jeff was exposed, with only the vehicle door to protect him. The Sheriff was behind his vehicle. Not much better protected, but it certainly looked more formidable.

There was a long hesitation as the two continued to point their guns, the Sheriff at Jeff and Jeff now back at us. Jeff released a heavy sigh. "OK, Sheriff. Have it your way. You can arrest this worthless drifter." He lowered the gun to his side, squatted down, and placed the weapon gently on the street.

I didn't realize until then I had tightened all my muscles and had been holding my breath, as if that would stop a speeding bullet. Allison must have done the same. We both expelled a sigh of relief. It was over.

She started to whimper and lunged to go to Jeff. But I caught her around the waist to hold her back. She struggled briefly, then surrendered, falling back against me, crying. "Jeff!" she wailed.

Bam! Bam! Bam! The shots came from behind the Sheriff.

Why wasn't he turning around and firing back. He just stood there not moving. I realized then it was because he had been hit. Blood was spilling out of holes, forming red rivers down his back.

"Sheriff?" Allison croaked weakly.

He was held up by his elbows, which rested on the V created by the vehicle frame and the partially opened driver's side door. He was still alive, but dying quickly.

From out of the gloom of the early morning darkness stepped a figure holding a revolver at his side. Andrew Pine.

Chapter 53

Ranger Pine was clearly not the spineless wimp I had thought him to be. And he certainly had not been coerced into helping the opium operation in the valley. He was as involved as the rest of them. He so easily shot the Sheriff in the back. Now there was no wavering in his gait or unsteadiness in the gun in his hand. He had killed before. He probably killed his own wife. Maybe she overheard something that spurred Pine to execute her. No matter now. I was looking at a cold-hearted killer.

"You wuss, Sheriff," Pine taunted. "It's time to finish this." He started walking towards us, his gun swinging from the mortally wounded Sheriff toward me. Jeff was also bending down to retrieve his weapon. We were caught between the two of them with our only protection being the back end of the Sheriff's vehicle.

"Jeff," Allison pled. "This has to stop. Now."

"Sorry, Sis," Jeff crowed. "Now it's gone too far to stop."

We were trapped and unarmed.

"I'm sorry," the Sheriff gurgled as blood sputtered out of his mouth. He shoved his gun down the roof of his vehicle. It stopped just inches from my face, spinning a half turn on the smooth metal surface. The Sheriff then crumpled down to the ground and lay still.

I lunged for the gun and got into a crouched position at the rear of the vehicle. I didn't have time to aim. I fired once around the right rear of the car in the direction of Jeff. The shot missed, but Jeff went scrambling around to the front of his car. I swiveled quickly and fired a shot around the left rear of the Sheriff's vehicle toward Pine. It also missed, but sent him scurrying toward cover in an alley.

As he ran, I took more careful aim and fired. Just at that same moment he turned partially sideways into the alley, reducing his size as a target. But as fast as he was running, he could not outrun a bullet. He yelped when it hit him high in the chest area, spinning him around to face me. I saw the left side of his shirt turning red. I aimed to fire again, to finish him off. Even though he was probably seriously wounded, he was not out of it yet. But he started shooting first, the thud of bullets peppering the back half of the car and shattering the brake light just inches from my face. Fragments of the red plastic light cover sprayed my face. That knocked me backward to the ground.

I instinctively brought my left hand up to my face where the plastic fragments had struck me. I could feel trails of blood trickling down my left cheek and between my fingers. But my eye was undamaged. I could still see to shoot.

I got back up and fired a shot toward Jeff. I heard the roar of Jeff's gun at the same instant that something tore into my left arm. It spun me around, and I lost the grip on the gun. It clattered under the car.

Allison stared at me lying there on my back in a pool of my own blood. A look of anger came over her face, and she dove under the car to retrieve our only defense. She didn't come back out. She stayed there. Since I was flat on the ground, I could see her lying on her stomach, propped up on her elbows, steadying the gun with both hands, and aiming at her brother.

She fired three evenly spaced shots. The first twanged off the hood of the car. The second hit the spotlight on Jeff's car, shattering it in an explosion of glass and sparks. The third must have at least grazed Jeff because he fell backwards with a yelp of pain. He wasn't out of it, though, since he soon fired back.

Bullets were then coming from Pine, plunking into the side of the car. Allison, still under the car, spun to her left and returned fire. Then we were greeted by a hail of bullets coming from both directions. We were in a hopeless crossfire. Still lying on her stomach, Allison inched her way out from under the car to escape the flying metal that pinged all around her. She emerged feet first and lay there prone, probably waiting for a lull in the barrage so she could rise up and fire.

By now, the entire population had to be awake, grabbing their guns, and heading this way to defend their town. Such a scene may have played out before, back when survival on the wild frontier meant taking such matters into one's own hands, not waiting for the law to handle all the dirty work. And while gunfire in the streets of Willow Run had probably not been heard for more than a century, I was certain any response from the citizens would involve every gun they could lay their hands on.

I hadn't counted how many shots Allison fired, so didn't know how many rounds were left in the gun. There were more clips of ammunition on the Sheriff's belt, but his body was too exposed to retrieve them. And we couldn't stay here for long and survive.

I rolled onto my unwounded right side and grabbed Allison's ankle with my right hand to get her attention. She turned into a seated position, her back up against the rear bumper, aiming the gun toward me. She seemed ready to fire until she realized it was me who had grabbed her. Even in this hail of bullets, she was completely in control of her emotions. Hot with anger, but cool under fire.

Long tendrils of her red hair dangled across her dirt-streaked face. The façade of neatness and tidiness was gone. Her eyes were unblinking, blazing with focus. This was a new side of her, a deadly serious and furious side. I just felt relief knowing she was on my side.

The hiss of her breathing came in bursts through clenched teeth. "What!" she spat out more as a statement than a question, as if wondering why I interrupted her life-or-death concentration.

"Allison, we have to get out of here!"

She stared unblinking at me for only a second, then nodded in agreement. I rolled over to get my legs under me. She got into a crouch, the gun still in her hand. I grabbed her other hand. We had to run across twenty feet of open ground to get to a narrow gap between two buildings. Twenty feet. Less than ten running strides. We could squeeze through there and disappear into the early morning darkness.

"Go!" I urged, and we both shot away from the car like two sprinters. Still holding Allison's hand, I reached the gap first, just as another roar of a gun exploded behind us. Something thumped into my back, and I thought I'd been hit again. But there was a cry of pain from Allison. The impact of the bullet had propelled her into me, and she was draped over me like a blanket. She had her hands interlocked over my shoulder and around my neck for support.

I didn't stop, just kept on running down the alley, though my pace was slowed by Allison's weight. We went out of the alley and across a gravel parking lot. We continued on past another building that looked like a garage. I leaned her up against the back wall of the building.

"Allison, are you OK?" I asked with concern. "Where are you hit?"

"Nathan, it hurts," she grimaced. "My leg."

I looked down and saw the trail of blood down her left leg, onto her shoe, and on the ground. The wound was not pumping blood, so the bullet probably had not hit a major artery. But she needed treatment soon.

"Allison, we have to keep moving." I pulled her left arm around my neck, wrapped my right arm around her waist, and started moving again. She could still walk on her right leg, using me as a crutch to support her wounded left leg. We were both bleeding and desperately in need of help.

But we weren't going to find help in this town. I was a fugitive. Now they would probably say that I killed the Sheriff. Every armed resident would be out gunning for me.

We pushed on. We stayed in the dark shadows of bushes, fences, and parked cars. But our pace was slowing. Allison's wounded leg was dragging behind. And I also felt weak-kneed from my wounds. We came to a small cemetery. I pulled her down behind a headstone. She doubled over, collapsing onto her right side, retching. It had to be the first time she had seen someone get killed. I had seen plenty of bodies in my former life as a cop. That provided me a certain amount of immunity. I rubbed her neck gently as she continued to vomit on the ground, but we couldn't wait long. We needed to get to safety.

A vehicle approached, its searchlight scanning the roadside. Jeff, no doubt, looking for us. We stayed hunkered down. The car stopped, and the glare from the light swung like the beam from a lighthouse across the cemetery, from left to right and then back from right to left. The light danced across the tops of the tombstones and stopped, highlighting the stones around us. I was certain that we'd been spotted and waited for the shots. But then the light moved on and so did the vehicle.

I silently cursed myself for stupidity. I came back to Willow Run looking for help. Yet here I was again running for my life, and I had dragged Allison into it. Now I had to get her to a safe place.

Screw it. It was time to stop looking for help. It was time to be my own help. I knew then what I had to do. I had to take the fight to them.

"Allison, I have to get you to a safe place. It can be in town or elsewhere. Either way, I have to end this. I know what to do."

She had regained her composure now and stared hard at me. "Then end it. But I'm not staying in this town."

I smiled, kissed her on the forehead, and said, "Let's go."

The courthouse and jail were not far away. And there I would find what I needed. We hobbled in that direction. Allison used me as a crutch again, but her energy level was greater now. Resolve had returned to both of us. We limped across the road and through yards, staying in shadows as much as we could. We stopped just before reaching the courthouse, looking both directions to make sure Jeff wasn't near. I could hear commotion in front of the building. It was probably the citizens of Willow Run viewing the scene of the shooting on Main Street. But there seemed to be no one in site of the police department parking lot. And there I spied our method of escape, parked right where I'd last seen it.

When Enid had brought me to the courthouse in handcuffs, I recalled he had left the keys to the off-road vehicle in the ignition. The keys were still there. There was no need to even take the cursory precaution of hiding them under the floor mat. This was a small town. Everyone trusts everyone. Well, probably not anymore.

We grunted with the strain, but succeeded in pushing the vehicle off the trailer. I boosted Allison in. "Please start," I begged quietly. I turned the key, and it fired up immediately. I gunned the engine, flipped on the lights, and we shot out of the parking lot, spitting gravel.

We came out from behind the building. I saw the townspeople gathered in two small groups, one near where the Sheriff had fallen and the other at the front of the alley where Ranger Pine had fired at us. That meant that Pine must be badly hurt, or maybe dead, from our exchange of gunfire. I felt no remorse for that.

I turned right and gunned the engine. We zoomed down Main Street away from the gathering crowd. They shouted and some ran after us, and a few shots rang out. But soon they all faded away far behind us as we left town and headed into the tree-draped road leading west. We passed the _Welcome to Willow Run_ sign and then the access road to the National Forest. We were in the clear.

But not for long. The bright lights of a car approached from behind, dimly at first, then more brightly as it narrowed the gap between us. The car bore down on us and gained ground quickly. Jeff or a zealous citizen. It didn't matter. We had to get off the road soon. Whoever was chasing us would quickly overtake us.

Allison must have read my mind. She pointed to the right. "Take the path there," she shouted over the whine of the engine.

So I swerved to the left and then turned hard right, leaving the road. We flew over the sloping berm and landed with a hard bounce as we sped into the forest. Allison groaned with the shock on her wounded leg, and I winced with the strain on my bleeding left arm. Bushes and downed limbs crunched under the tires. Tree branches thwacked on the sides of the vehicle and our exposed arms and cheeks. I slowed to avoid hitting trees, but kept the vehicle at as high a speed as I could manage to put some distance between our pursuers and us.

The path pummeled both of us, but that couldn't be helped. Though I had not been on this particular path, I was certain I knew the way to our destination. Once I got over the ridge ahead, I simply had to turn left and follow it. It paralleled the road we had just abandoned. That road ran in approximately the direction I wanted to go. Being over the ridge would shield us from the road so that no one would see us from there.

It wouldn't be long before Jeff or others in town would mount off-road vehicles of their own and pursue us. But since it was dark, I hoped they would not be able to readily track us. They might just follow the path we had been on, which continued north. We were now going west. And if Gates' troops were called out to intercept us, they would head south on that same path. I hoped.

Yes, they were all out there somewhere searching for us. But soon I would be searching for them. That is what happens when you take the fight to them.

Chapter 54

It took us a long time to get there. Each hard bounce of the ATV was followed by a groan of pain from Allison, and my wounded arm sagged from the jolt. So I slowed our pace to minimize the discomfort. But I had to keep pressing forward to get her to safety.

When we finally arrived, the first hint of daylight was just filtering through the tops of the trees. After parking next to the cabin, I jumped out and bolted toward the front door. Before reaching it, I noticed a figure standing partially behind a tree. A rifle pointed at me. Being on the wrong end of a gun was getting to be a common experience for me. But this time I didn't even flinch.

"Jake." I knew he would not be taken by surprise. With our noisy approach, the dead would be awakened. "Put the gun down."

"What's your hurry, man?" He inspected me more closely. "What the hell happened to you? You look like shit." He didn't have the wild look in his eyes. He was thankfully alert and rational.

I smiled at his colorful language. "I guess I didn't watch my ass like you warned."

He looked past me, and said, "Who's that with you?"

"A friend from town. She needs help. You said you were a corpsman. She's been shot."

"Shot? Who's shooting women in Willow Run?"

I didn't really want to feed his paranoia, but it seemed a way to spur him to action. "The military. They attacked us in town." It was close enough to the facts for my needs.

His eyes went wide. "Those bastards."

"Can you help her?"

He barged past me over to Allison and inspected the wound. "She's lost a lot of blood. It's not good, but I've seen worse, a lot worse. The bullet didn't come out the other side, so it's still in there. I can patch it up for now, but she's going to need a hospital."

He dashed off to his cabin and returned with a medical kit. The thought of him, a gimpy unkempt hermit, actually having medical training was hard to swallow. But he threw off his gloves to reveal his spotlessly clean hands. As I held a flashlight from the medical kit, he expertly trimmed her pant leg to expose the wound, cleaned and disinfected it, covered the hole with a bandage that wrapped completely around her thigh, and gave her a shot of pain killer.

As he worked he asked, "What the hell is going on?"

I gave him the two-minute version of the story. That was all the time I had since he was finished with the wound. I stared in awe at his display of skill, and he caught my gaze.

"What?"

"You said you'd been a corpsman, but it just seemed so out of character. You really were a corpsman."

"Something like that. In Vietnam, I had to do this with people shooting at me. You learn how to do it fast or die trying."

Allison was conscious, but barely. Her limbs were like those of a Raggedy Ann doll as we gently carried her and placed her in the passenger seat of Jake's old truck. I kissed her lightly on the forehead, and she squeezed my arm.

"He's my brother," she said weakly. "Please don't....." She didn't finish. She bit her lower lip and just looked at me through tears.

I knew she wanted to say _please don't kill him_. But I couldn't promise that. I had to do what needed to be done. There was nothing I could say to her. I just held her gaze and then kissed her firmly for a long moment on the forehead, her shoulders shuddering as she silently wept.

"What about you, Nathan?" Jake asked as he surveyed my bloodied arm and face. "You could use a couple of patches."

I wanted him to patch me up. The wound in my arm was throbbing, and my fingers were going numb. The skin of my face burned and was tight with dried blood. I wanted to stay with Allison. I was tired, thirsty, hungry, and sick of this whole thing. But I said, "No time."

I told him about my plan. "Right now, Jeff Wells and his military pals are out gunning for us. They know we came out this way, so they probably have all the roads on this end of town blocked. Just wait for my signal, an hour at most. After that, those guys will be too distracted to bother you and Allison. That's when you can drive her to the nearest doctor."

He nodded. "Give 'em hell, Parker."

Chapter 55

In the ATV, I followed a nearly dry trickle of a creek. Jake said it would take me to my destination. There was enough light now that I could see the terrain well. And I could scan ahead for any of the enemy. I pushed hard, nearly at full throttle, rushing between trees and through bushes, skidding around rocks, bouncing over downed limbs, and jolting in and out of depressions in the ground. It was a rough gradual climb.

I tried to get help in town. That failed. All I needed was a simple phone to call for help outside of Willow Run. That failed. I needed a more reliable signal, a bigger signal, something that would attract the help I sought.

I also needed some luck to avoid detection by Jeff and his armed cronies. The noise of the ATV was a concern, since it would draw attention. But it was much faster than I could walk or run, and I needed the fast pace it provided. And Jake had to get Allison some medical care soon. I needed to provide the distraction to let him do that. Speed was the key.

As I drove, I recalled reading somewhere that death comes in the morning to many. It had something to do with the surge in blood pressure and heart rate increase when people wake up. That leads to a high rate of heart attacks, strokes, and death. In my brief time in Willow Run, death came in the morning to a lot of people, but it came by other means. More people were probably going to die this morning, but it would not be by heart attack. And I was not going to be one of them. I was done with being a victim, done being litter. I was ending it. Today.

In about 20 minutes, I arrived at the single strand of barbed wire at the bottom of the slope. I parked the ATV there and slung the pack from Jake over my left shoulder, wincing from the pain shooting up through that wounded arm. With my good right hand, I grabbed the spare can of gas from the vehicle, stepped over the triple strand of barbed wire, and started up the slope. I was returning to that hell hole of a valley, but I didn't intend to stay long this time.

The climb up the hill had been a difficult scramble previously when my only load was a small backpack. It was proving to be much more difficult now. The sack of gear thumped against my back. The gas can was heavy. And I had a nearly useless left arm. But this hill and I were getting to be old acquaintances. And I was highly motivated. I knew I'd reach the top in spite of these obstacles.

I worried about the unintended noise from the metallic echoing of the gas can as it banged against the ground. Would a guard still be patrolling the perimeter fence and hear it? It was something I couldn't worry about seriously. All I needed were a few more minutes.

Then I heard the buzzing of a dirt bike near the bottom of the slope. It was running along the barbed wire and coming fast. I hoped it was just someone out for an early morning ride, but I feared the worst. It could be one of the guards checking for the ATV. Surely Jeff had broadcast to them that I had stolen it and was headed this general direction.

I pushed harder to get up the slope. I was over half way to the top when I saw the dirt bike. The sun was now clearly peeking over the hills to the east, and the long shadows in the forest were melting away. Since I could see the bike, its rider would be able to see me. If not, once its engine was killed, then the rider would hear the hollow thump of the gas can as I continued pushing upward.

The bike braked to a stop next to the ATV, spraying dirt and pine needles in a wide arc. This was not a casual rider. It was not a guard. It was Jeff. And he pulled a walkie-talkie off his belt.

"He's here in the forest on the south end of the perimeter," he barked. "Get your patrols over here now."

He pulled his gun and headed up the slope. "Parker, you're a dead man," he shouted as he climbed.

As more daylight flooded into the woods, it would not be long before he spotted me clearly. The boom of his gun signaled that moment. Bark from a tree just upslope from me exploded in a shower that rained down on my head, and the shot echoed through the forest. I veered to be shielded by a thick trunk and kept on climbing. Two more shots rang out, hitting just to my left, kicking up pine needles. He was adjusting his position to get a better angle on me, moving left as I had. And he was gaining ground on me. I could hear his churning movement getting closer behind me. Even though I was just yards from the chain-link fence, I wasn't going to reach that target ahead of him.

I was breathing hard. My throat and lungs felt like they were on fire, and I thought my pounding heart might explode in my chest. I had to turn and fight.

I slammed the can and pack to the ground, wedging them up against a tree to prevent them from tumbling back down the hill. Facing downhill now, I moved left, the opposite direction I had been going, and plopped down behind a broad pine.

As tired as I was, I could see now that Jeff was doing worse. He had been gaining on me, but now I could hear him wheezing terribly. He was a big strong man who in a street fight would pound me into mincemeat. But he was handicapped. Like me, he was wounded in the left arm. But his was worse. I could see a large ring of red over the entire front of his shirt where the old wound had re-opened and bled freely. And Allison must have hit him in the right side of the neck with one of her shots since his collar on that side was soaked in blood. Jeff had also probably spent too much time in his cruiser patrolling the county. He was out of shape for this kind of wilderness trek.

In matters of life and death, so-called fair fights are out the window. I was going to take full advantage of my position above him, shoot him down if I had to. And I would have to. He wasn't going to stop. He was not going to show me any mercy. Allison had started to plead with me to not kill him, but she knew this was going to end badly. He had killed innocent people. He shot at Allison, his own sister, and tried to kill me. So, yes, I could kill him, without remorse, regardless of the consequences.

He looked up toward me, his face red with fatigue. He was only ten yards away. He raised his gun, hand unsteady as it bounced with his heavy breathing. He fired three shots in my direction, all of them well off the mark. He kept pulling the trigger, bullets flying randomly around me, until the clip was empty. He leaned up against a tree for support and reached to his belt for another clip to reload.

"Jeff, we don't have to do this. Just give it up, walk away. If you don't, I will shoot you."

At Jake's cabin, I had inspected the Sheriff's weapon and found I had only one bullet left. The only gun Jake had was his hunting rifle, and I left that with him. He might yet need it on his run to get Allison to the hospital. So I had to get a clean shot. I wanted to continue panting like a dog, but forced myself to slow my breathing. I steadied the pistol on a low branch and sighted down the slope. Jeff's breathing was now more controlled, and he was steadily raising his arm with the reloaded gun. The fierce rage in his eyes burned through me. His finger tightened on the trigger, and I squeezed mine. In unison, the guns jumped and recoiled in our hands.

I missed. Jeff was still firing his gun at me, one shot burning a streak across my right arm, leaving a trail of blood oozing from under my shirt. And another shot grazed my right cheek. But then the shots stopped.

I looked down the slope. Jeff still leaned against the tree, but the gun dangled at his side. He was slowly sagging to the ground. He croaked, "You're a dead man, Parker." Then I saw a rapidly expanding red stain on the front of his shirt. His breaths came in bubbly reddish gurgles, and he showed more surprise than pain in his facial expression. I knew he wouldn't be chasing me uphill any more.

Sliding downhill the short distance to Jeff, I grabbed his gun. It was still clutched in his fingers, and he wouldn't let go, even as life left his body. His grip finally went slack, and I retrieved the weapon. There was still a chance I might need it this morning.

I returned to my task, picking up the can and pack, now wincing at the pain in both arms. I aimed my trek uphill for a spot where there was a small break in the trees. That would give me a clearer path to get past the fence. Now, I was just yards from my target.

There was a small nearly level spot just outside the fence. I plopped down there. From the pack, I removed some old rags. Since my left arm was painful, I used my teeth and right hand to tear them into strips, wrapping them around the tips of Jake's arrows. I opened the wide-mouthed gas can and dipped the wrapped tip of each arrow into the can. I stuck one arrow feather end down vertically into the soil and lit it with a match to make a torch. I then strung an arrow on Jake's bow, ignoring the pain in my left arm. I lit the gasoline-soaked tip with my improvised torch, pulled the bow back as far as it would go, and fired the arrow over the fence, through the opening in the trees, and into the valley.

I knew nothing about archery. I probably couldn't hit a proper target even from close range. But the valley was a different matter. It was huge. That was a target I could not miss. I was going to hit it with every one of my shots. And there would be many shots. Jake had given me a large bundle of arrows. I ignored the pain in my damaged left arm and fired several more of these flaming torches over the fence.

I heard guards approaching fast from both my right and left, running between the two parallel rows of fencing. They were shouting into their walkie-talkies and at each other. They could easily find me and finish me off.

But I wasn't worried about them any longer. Their attention was elsewhere. They were watching their fortune go up in flames. They scrambled back into the valley through the gates in the inner fence. They might be going to fight the fire before it ignited all the camouflage netting, its supporting posts, and the plants underneath. Soon they would see how impossible fighting it was. Panic and confusion in the ranks would set in. Gates' military discipline would break down. Orders would go unobeyed. The rats would grab the drugs and the money and run, getting as far away from here as they could.

One set of pounding footsteps, though, kept coming in my direction. He screamed, "No!" in a panicked voice. "Stop!"

It was Matthew Gates. The arrogant confidence was gone. His troops were abandoning the cause to save their own skins, and he was on his own to continue the mission. He fired his weapon as he ran. The bullets sprayed randomly around me, thwacking into trees and pinging off the fence. It's impossible to fire accurately while running over uneven ground, and he was proving it. He continued shooting until his weapon was empty. Then he stopped about 20 yards from me to reach into his pocket for another clip to reload.

There was no time for me to retrieve Jeff's pistol from the ground where I had laid it, even though it was not far away. I was no archer, but I had a flaming arrow already strung on the bow. I poked it through the fence, pulled back the string, and let the arrow fly.

Gates was just bringing his gun up to fire when the streaking flame struck him in the chest, embedding itself deeply in its target. The impact sent him backward against the inner fence. He bounced back toward me as if sprung off a trampoline. For a few moments, he stayed upright. His shirt was on fire, engulfing his face in flame. He screamed and waved his arms wildly, as if trying to brush the flames away. Then he suddenly stopped and plopped face down on the pine needles.

I continued firing arrows over the fence, spraying them left and right, until they were all gone. Then I stuck a long rag into the gas can, lightly screwed the cap on, lit the rag, grabbed the can with both hands, and heaved the flaming object over the fence. It cleared both fences, bounced twice, hung on the rim of the ridge for a second, and then rolled down into the valley.

It left a trail of flame from spilled gasoline, igniting some dried pine needles into a smoky crackling blaze. Then all was quiet for a second, before a loud whoosh echoed through the forest. A ball of flame and smoke shot upward, pushing a wall of heat outward that singed my skin. The blast of hot air pushed me backward. But the fingers of my right hand were dug into the chain link fence, so I stayed upright. I stood there, admiring the early morning sky over the valley. It was filled with thick black smoke. I needed a bigger signal and got it. The blast would be heard and felt a long distance from here, and the smoke would be seen for miles.

I watched in awe for several more seconds and then turned downhill. I slid to a stop next to Jeff. He was in a seated position, a bubbly trail of glistening blood drying on his lifeless lips and chin. He had stopped breathing. His eyes stared at me unblinking. He wasn't angry about his sister dating an unemployed drifter any longer.

I noticed a bulge in his shirt pocket. I reached in and pulled out a bloodstained cell phone. It had plenty of battery life. Finally a working phone. If I had known, I could have just taken it from Jeff after shooting him and simply made the call. Maybe I didn't have to light up the valley. But it seemed fitting to end it with fire, just as it had all started with fire.

Chapter 56

I made the call at nine in the morning. A couple of weeks ago, I had been surprised that there was cell phone service this far out in the forest in Montana, but I was not surprised this time. Here I was again, a cell phone in hand, calling 9-1-1, standing over a dead body.

"9-1-1, Teton County. What is your emergency?"

It wasn't the same operator I talked to previously. This one sounded professional, but had an edge in her voice, as if she was tiring from answering too many calls that weren't emergencies. No matter. I calmly told her the situation. Two dead bodies on the south rim of Spring Valley. Foreign prisoners being held illegally in the valley by heavily armed AWOL soldiers. Big fire burning a field of opium poppies. The row of graves dug in the dirt next to the huts in the valley. Large stash of cash in a safe. The operator kept asking questions, probing about all these improbable events, clearly choosing to be extremely skeptical about all of it. I just plowed on, repeating it all, throwing in names of those involved, such as Andrew Pine, Jefferson Wells, Matthew Gates, and Jeremy Mason. I told her my name and gave her the cell phone number from which I was calling.

She was overwhelmed. This was probably the biggest call she would ever take. It might be bigger than all the other calls she ever received combined. She told me to stay right where I was until emergency response personnel arrived. I politely told her that I was in the wilderness and was not going to wait. I couldn't wait. I needed to transport two wounded persons to medical help: Allison and me. She protested, and I said something about the signal breaking up, and then hung up in mid sentence. I turned the phone off. She might try to call back. But when she couldn't get through, she might simply conclude the signal had been lost or the phone battery had died. I hoped she wouldn't consider it a crank call. But I didn't think so. I had told her about so much mayhem that she had to report it to someone.

I reached the bottom of the hill, climbed over the barbed wire fence, and picked up Jeff's walkie-talkie. There were no voices yelling any longer. There was just the crackle of static. They were all busy fighting the fire in the valley or packing up their opium and cash to run for their lives. They'd know that the valley soon would be swarming with fire fighters, county and state police, EMTs, and eventually DEA agents.

I fired up the ATV and headed for Jake's cabin. On the ride, the reality of what had just occurred struck me. Before yesterday, I had never used a weapon of any kind on another human. Now, I had done more than that. I had killed people. All of it was justified, and I felt no remorse for them. They brought it on themselves. And I wasn't keeping a tally as a badge of courage, though it gave me a certain sense of pride that I had fulfilled my sworn oath, to protect and to serve. Yet they were bad experiences that I could easily go without repeating.

While I didn't regret these justified killings, one of them would haunt me. Allison might be forever angry with me. She had to believe me completely now. I had been right. But what was the cost? So many had died in my wake. And what hatred might she harbor when she learned I had killed her brother? Regardless of the outcome of that, I hoped that Jake had felt the blast and heard or seen the bigger signal. Then he would have taken Allison to a doctor. I would be forever grateful to him if he did.

There was less light now in the forest as I drove the ATV toward Jake's cabin. The thick black smoke was blotting out the sun. When I got to the cabin, Jake's truck was gone. I sighed with relief. With Allison safe, now I felt like it was finally over.

A wave of fatigue hit me like a tidal surge. I was dead on my feet, bleeding from wounds in my body and face. I was tired, filthy, thirsty, and hungry. It was time to follow Jake to town for medical help.

When I arrived in Willow Run, the town seemed deserted. Many were probably heading toward the National Forest to fight the fire, just like they did a year ago. I parked in front of the medical clinic next to Jake's truck, walked through the front door, and collapsed just inside. I saw a blurred flash of two white-coated figures hustling toward me, and then slipped into blackness.

Chapter 57

I awoke lying in a bed of clean white sheets. A nurse stood over me checking the line that ran from a bag of fluids into a needle piercing my arm.

"Welcome back," she said flatly. There was no warmth in her comment. There was instead a hard edge to her voice. I supposed with all the havoc I had created in this town, her use of the word welcome did not carry any heart-felt friendliness. But she carried on with her responsibilities by asking, "How are you feeling?"

I didn't really care about answering her question. "Where's Allison?" I asked groggily.

"What?" she asked.

Clearing my throat and raising my voice, I persisted, "Where is Allison Wells?"

Probably accustomed to grumpy patients, she calmly responded, "I'm not permitted to discuss the whereabouts or medical condition of other patients. Privacy laws." She smiled that patronizing grin that made me want to rip her throat open. But I didn't need to.

"She's just down the hall."

The nurse spun around to see who spoke. It was Jake.

"But they're gonna take her to a hospital in Butte for more treatment," he continued.

The nurse huffed and stormed from the room. She glared angrily at Jake as she left.

"Allison is doing fine," Jake added. "Complete recovery in a few weeks." He sounded remarkably lucid for a loony vet living in the woods.

His words reassured me, and a wave of relief swept over me. None of it would have been worth the effort if Allison were not safe.

Jake had stayed until his two patients were tended to. Mission accomplished. I wondered if he did the same in Vietnam, treating the wounded and then following up to ensure they were safe. Perhaps so. Now he was turning to leave.

"Jake," I called to his back as he got to door. "Thanks for everything." He had played a critical part in Allison's survival and in mine. I could never repay him.

Turning to face me, he smiled. "Watch your back, man." Then he was gone.

He would probably return to his life of privacy in the forest, still trying to come home from a war that everyone wanted to forget. His solitude, though, would likely be interrupted a lot in the next few days and weeks as the investigation proceeded. Maybe he would have to move on to escape from his past again.

I felt tightness in the skin on my face and my left arm and shoulder. I ran my right hand over those areas. The tightness was from bandages. The clinic had treated my wounds, leaving me with bandages covering large areas of my body and face. The IV drip continued to feed fluids into my arm. I was beginning to feel like a new man. I was a new man. Regardless of how the nurse in this clinic or anyone else felt about me, I was no longer society's litter. I was back from the brink of despair. I still had value in this world. I would thrive again.

I had spoken for the dead man on Monarch Trail. I found out why he died. Others had died too. I had to live with the lost lives of Cortina Perez, Joseph Custer, Enid Powell, and the Sheriff. Their faces would haunt my dreams. They were innocent, but got swept into my wake and died for it. Even though I had not killed them myself, they were dead because of me. If I had just let it all go, just walked away on that first day, they probably would still be alive. Yet, I couldn't do that. Deep down, I was still a cop. I had to uphold my oath to protect and to serve.

Rationalization was one way for me to cope with the deaths. I could try to convince myself it was not my burden to carry forever. Their demise was an unintended consequence of my actions. Besides, if those innocents had not been victims, then might others have died because of the illegal opium operation? Probably. Certainly all the Afghans would have, and many of the users of the drugs being produced in the valley. So my actions saved more lives than were lost. But in the end, I knew deep down I would regret the loss of the innocent victims from Willow Run. It was something I would live with every day and every night.

While I had no direct sources of information on what happened in Willow Run last night and what was happening now in the National Forest, I learned a lot just lying here in bed. No one told me anything. But I could overhear the nurses whispering outside my room and down the hall. In such a tiny clinic, voices traveled throughout the structure. Secrets are hard to keep in the small town of Willow Run.

The Sheriff had died in the street after being shot in the back by Ranger Andrew Pine. He probably died right in front of my eyes. But he had used the last ounce of his life to push his handgun across the roof of his vehicle to Allison and me so we could defend ourselves. I had used that gun to shoot at Ranger Pine. I knew that one of my shots hit him in the chest. Shortly after that, he had died in the alley where he took cover.

Excavation of the graves in Spring Valley had started. The bodies of three people had already been identified as Ranger Pine's wife Edith, Cortina Perez, and Joseph Custer. An unidentified fourth body had also been recovered. That fourth victim had to be the dead Afghan man I had found on the trail. His body had been taken back into the valley and buried. Whoever was excavating the graves would surely also be digging into all the other burials in the valley, all the Afghans who had worked, been slaughtered, and then unceremoniously dumped into shallow holes in the ground last year.

The deaths of so many residents of Willow Run were probably unimaginable to its remaining citizens. Joseph Custer, Cortina Perez, Andrew Pine, Edith Pine, Sheriff Tyler, Enid Powell, Jeff Wells. Most of them were innocents caught in the crossfire. Two of them, Andrew Pine and Jeff Wells, were locals gone bad, gone very bad. Regardless, all of this would leave a huge hole in the heart of Willow Run. Healing would be slow and painful for this small town.

Then there were the deaths of Matthew Gates and one of his men. I had killed them. It was easily justified. I would lose no sleep over their losses. Yet, while they were not sons of the town of Willow Run, the mere fact of their deaths in the back yard of this small town would add to the wounds and the slow-healing scars that would follow.

I heard more whispered conversation from the nurses. There was chaos in the valley after the fire started. Townspeople poured into the area to fight the fire, just as they had a year ago. At the same time, Gates' troops were streaming out of the valley in their vehicles. There were collisions of vehicles pouring in opposite directions. But Gates' men didn't stop. They just fled as fast as they could.

The firefighters were stunned to find the fenced-in compound in the valley. Most of them were the same ones who fought the fire last year. Seeing how the valley had been transformed from a burned over area into a flourishing drug-growing operation must have been quite a shock.

Some opium was recovered in the valley. Gates' troops must have taken all the rest of it with them. No safe was found, so it and its content of cash were hauled off, too. While the soldiers disappeared for now, I suspected many of them would be captured in the not too distant future. At least some of them were escaping in military vehicles. Those would be easy to spot on the long open stretches of highways. And even if they did get past the initial roadblocks that were being set up in the area, their names, faces, families, and home addresses were all known. They probably would not be hard to find. So their dreams of life-long riches might end soon enough when they ran out of money or had nowhere left to hide.

When the firefighters entered the valley, the gates to the fenced-in compound were open. They found a throng of dirty, underfed men jabbering in a foreign language. With smoke billowing around them, they watched the fire intently, smiling, dancing, and cheering. They must have felt the worst of their ordeal was over. I owed them a huge debt. They had made my escape from the valley possible. I hoped that their liberation from the soldiers was adequate payment for that debt.

Yet with their liberation from their captors, it seemed that most of them made no move to escape. It made sense. They were lost in a foreign country. They had no transportation. They did not speak English. They must have stayed to wait for whatever future might follow. My actions saved them from one prison, but they would probably soon be put into custody in another. Their fates would be uncertain for a long time until their names, countries of origin, circumstances of their capture in Afghanistan, and militant status could be sorted out. At least, I hoped, they would be treated better than they were in the valley by Lieutenant Matthew Gates and his troops.

Soon enough, legal entanglements from all this would confront me. I expected at any moment to see a cop or DEA agent walk through the door and read me my Miranda rights. _You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will_....... But I really didn't expect an arrest to happen.

There was certainly a long enough list of offenses to choose from. For one, assaulting an officer of the law and eventually killing him. But Jeff was a crooked cop. That charge would be a tough one to make stick. If I hadn't fought back, I would be dead. So it was self-defense.

Another crime was stealing a police vehicle, the ATV. But that was to escape dying at the hands of the crooked cop and to get a wounded civilian, Allison Wells, to medical assistance. Another tough one to make stick.

A third was burning the valley. That was justified under the circumstances, I thought, as a way to signal for help. It worked. Anyway, how would the DEA have destroyed all the confiscated poppies in the valley? With fire, though certainly in a much more controlled burn. I just saved them the effort, though I was certain the Willow Run residents who were battling the blaze at this very moment would offer a different opinion.

There was probably a long list of other laws I broke. But the police and federal agents were certainly preoccupied, dealing with the fire, Afghan prisoners, opium, and AWOL soldiers running loose. I too could run loose. No one was guarding the door. If I wanted to, I could just get up and walk out. But where would I go? What little I had owned in the world was gone: my car, my computer, my clothes, my phone.

That reminded me to call Ed Garvey. I owed him that call. He might get a reprimand for using department resources for my investigation, but his efforts helped reveal a substantial crime. That had to count for something. Ed had been angry with me the last time we spoke. I couldn't blame him. He probably felt used and put into a vulnerable position. I had to set things right between us. To me, he was still my partner, regardless of my unemployed status. I hoped he felt that I was still his partner, too.

I had to write my book. I now had a story. It had morphed from a novel to a non-fiction story. The spectacular facts were probably all over the news already. A follow up book with all the details had potential. Who best to write it than the one who discovered the illegal activity and lived through it all? But even if I didn't write a book, I was certain that my involvement in all this might elevate me to the status of a celebrity, at least for a short time. Perhaps that alone would lift me out of my unemployed situation.

Yet even I didn't have all the facts about what I had just been through. There were lots of holes in the story, though I was certain they could be filled. I mentally ticked off some of the holes.

What was the point of intersection of the conspirators? Allison said something about her brother and Matthew Gates knowing each other from college. Probably many young men in the whole area went to the same school, the university in Missoula. That's where Enid went. It was likely that Andrew Pine, Enid's bounty hunter buddies, and maybe even others who were under Gates' command all went there. These were all things that would be easy to check.

And Gates had mentioned that some of his comrades, who were too wounded to return to combat, were working in the supply chain in the military. They had been funneling materials to the operation in the valley. Those men were still out there too. But they also would be easy to find just by following the trail of those who had been in Gates' command in Iraq and Afghanistan.

I wondered what Joseph Custer learned that got him killed so quickly. Joseph certainly must have had connections in the area to gather information, and he knew the history of many of the people here. I suspected he must have found some of the points of intersection, perhaps between Jeff and Matthew Gates. He too might have found the connection to the AWOL soldiers. That's what led to me being imprisoned in the valley. So that same tripping point might have doomed Joseph Custer.

But none of that really mattered. What did matter to me is that my self-esteem was back. Though at great cost, I had accomplished something. I had value. I was no longer society's litter. I had hope for a future.

Yet the most important thing to me, above any of the rest of it, was Allison. I decided to leave and find her down the hall. I painfully sat up in bed, pulled the IV line from my left arm, swiveled to my right, and placed my feet on the floor. I wore a hospital gown, which was open in the back, and I could feel a draft along my spine. Not the most fashionable attire, but so be it. I stood and walked unsteadily toward the door, seeing my reflection in a small mirror that hung near the door. The left side of my face was heavily bandaged, with only my undamaged eye showing. I looked like the Phantom of the Opera.

From what Jake said, Allison would recover from her physical wounds. How would she cope with the invisible wounds, such as the loss of her brother? Would she hate me for revealing his guilt, for killing him, and for shattering the quiet life in her beloved Willow Run? Only she could answer that.

The nurses were no longer whispering outside my room. They must have gone to the front of the building. I hobbled down the short hallway toward what appeared to be the only other patient room. I poked my head through the doorway and saw Allison. Her red hair framed a face that appeared to be at peace with the world. Perhaps that meant she had dealt with the demons of the past several days and had come to accept them. At least I hoped that was what it meant.

She glanced my way. She didn't say anything or reach her hand out to me. But a faint smile appeared on her lips. I took that as an invitation to enter her room. Standing as erect as my wounded body would let me, I slowly entered to start the healing process between us. Was there still a chance we might have a future together?

Only she could answer that. She might not be able to answer today, but in time perhaps she could. In the meantime, I would stay in Montana to learn her answer. Big Sky Country was my new home. I was no longer a drifter. I was here to stay.

###

**About the author:** Don Bissett is originally from New England, growing up in Massachusetts and Connecticut. He attended the University of Connecticut and Michigan State University. During his career in industry, he published extensively in journals and textbooks, nurturing a passion for writing. In addition to writing, his activities include consulting with industry, travel, hiking, and fossil collecting. The author currently resides in Cincinnati.

Titles in the Nathan Hale Parker series:

_Death Comes in the Morning_ , published 2011

_Dying at a Premium_ , will publish in early 2012

_Scheduled to Die_ , will publish in late 2012

**Learn more:** www.nathanhaleparker.com

**Contact the author:** nathanhaleparker@gmail.com

