River of No Return : A Jake Trent Novel (9781451698053) (14 page)

After about six cast-and-swing presentations, Jake had seventy feet of line out. Enough to reach the boulders.

Nothing.

Jake stepped downriver two steps. The next cast landed five feet downstream from the first. The fly swung right on top of the rock. No tug. No whack.

Jake stepped down two more. This was the money shot—the fly would be swinging right behind the first boulder, where the river's strong current was momentarily relieved.

Nada. Jake worked his way down, cast by cast, two-stepping to the next boulder.

It didn't take long for the sense of tranquility to come. The waders were holding up, and the air temperature was a pleasant fifty degrees. The repetitive motion of the cast and the swing eased Jake's mind. A smart steelheader was resigned to being unsuccessful, and so could achieve a kind of inner peace. Sometimes the strike of a fish interrupted that Zen moment, but the indignity was quickly forgiven.

By the last boulder, Jake had experienced no lucky interruption. His mind was churning on the previous day's conflict. He walked slowly back toward the boat when he finished, thinking it all through. He had to admit that killing a man was easier than
the innocent might imagine. At least the act of it. The aftermath was different. Self-doubt came pouring in like a spring tide. Justification meant nothing in the following days. Over the years, Jake numbed himself to it as best he could. But now, as magpies flitted about in the skeleton trees and ravens' screams echoed through the canyon, he had to strain to keep it from his mind. He was uncertain and regretful. Wondering what he could have done differently to spare a life.

Higher up in the run, Don was still working the second boulder. He didn't need to ask if Jake saw any action—he would have heard the hooting and hollering. “Jump back in behind me if you want. I'll be just ten more minutes.”

“I'll wait. I'm enjoying myself.”

Jake sat on the bank and admired the guide's cast: efficient, powerful, and graceful. No wasted effort, yet something workmanlike about it. Unfortunately, his proficiency for casting didn't impress the fish. Don finished the run without a take.

“Let's get moving. Plenty of good water before the takeout.”

It was 1:30 p.m. now. Back in the drift boat.

“You have heaters in this thing?” Jake had followed a silver tube along the gunwale down to a propane tank.

“People get softer and softer every year. Pretty soon we'll have indoor fishing.”

Jake laughed—he was feeling better indeed.

“So what're you doing here anyway, if you didn't come to fish?”

“A friend of mine was having some personal problems—love-life stuff, bullshit like that.” Jake didn't want to get into it. Didn't want to get called a hero again for acting like an idiot. So he spoke in terms a fishing guide would appreciate. It worked.

“Shit, man. Bummer. Anything a bottle of brown water wouldn't
fix?” Don had put on jets, rowing powerfully, and glaring at a boat that was trying to pass them.

“Not really.”

“Good.”

“What's new with you anyway? Still got that hot Smokey-the-Bear chick I met at the fly-fishing film tour?”

Jake looked down. “Not sure if I ever had her, to be honest.”

“Man, she seemed pretty taken with you.”

“You think?”

“Hold on.” Don stood at the rowing station. “Fucking assholes!” he yelled at the fishermen in the other boat, who had successfully cut him off. One held up a silent middle finger and a dry smile. Don laughed at them and yelled, “All right! Well played!”

He turned to Jake again. “Hey, sorry. What the hell do I know? I'm divorced.”

Jake wouldn't go there. “You have Amy now.”

Don smirked. “True. Best part is Morgan didn't get my boat.”

“Or the old Ram,” Jake chuckled.

That set the tone for the rest of the afternoon. Jake and Don. Two bachelors out enjoying a damned beautiful afternoon. Fishing.
What could be better?
Jake needed that, considering the gravity of the prior day. Don brought out a bottle of Wyoming Whiskey and it was just like a played-out country song.

* * *

Later, at the takeout, Don could say only one thing: “Wasn't your fault, man; he just let go. You did great.”

“I lifted my rod tip.” Jake appreciated the cheerleading.

“I didn't see it that way.” Don had brought an average-sized male, six pounds, to the net on the purple Hobo Spey that Jake had
so quickly chopped off. The black fly had turned one fish too, who grabbed excitedly, but came off when Jake tried to set the hook.

“I trout-set him. I've gotta learn to keep that rod tip down when they grab it.”

“Everyone screws up the first of the year.”

It was getting close to dark by the time Jake arrived back at his vehicle in town. After about fifteen minutes of convincing, he agreed to hit up Bertram's for rib night with Don. Jake was cold and tired, and the offer to spend the night at Don's was accepted as well, after some cajoling. Visiting Allen could wait a day.

At the brewery, Jake's phone lit up with an incoming call. Divya Navaysam. He clicked ignore, and turned back to Don and his plate of ribs.

27

GRAND TETON NATIONAL PARK. OCTOBER 24.

7:45 A.M. MOUNTAIN STANDARD TIME.

Park Ranger Noelle Klimpton was moving up in the ranks. She'd spent her first several years in Grand Teton National Park as an Interpretive Ranger Supervisor, but her role in solving the previous summer's crisis had landed her a full-blown enforcement role. Law Enforcement Ranger Noelle Klimpton. Total police power.

She had more freedom now, which she loved. A new truck too—a gleaming white 2013 GMC Yukon with LED emergency light bars and an oversized engine. Her dilapidated cabin remained largely the same, although the extra $15,000 a year had gone toward some new furnishings—primarily IKEA from the Salt Lake store, the most exciting addition being a cabinet and counter set that she was able to install around the pre-existing sink.

Over the winter, Noelle attended her mandatory SLETP (Seasonal Law Enforcement Training Program) in Rangely, Colorado,
and a Search and Rescue course in the Tetons. Getting to know her new sidearm proved both empowering and intimidating. Truth be told, she preferred the laser-sighted taser.

By the end of September, her first high season in law enforcement had begun to wind down. It had been uneventful. Fifty-some DUIs, about a zillion firework citations, warnings for illegal campsites or fires, and a half-dozen marijuana busts. More speeding tickets than she cared to remember—always locals who acted offended to be pulled over. The tourists were too occupied with the wildlife to even approach the speed limit, which was occasionally worth a warning too.

She was parked just south of Deadman's Bar, where the speed limit dropped from fifty-five to forty-five. No speeders yet, but it was only 8 a.m.

Suddenly, her phone buzzed. Jackson police. Odd this early in the morning.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Klimpton?”

“Noelle. Can I help you?”

“Deputy Layle Statler here. Ranger Yowlitz gave me your cell number.” Fran Yowlitz was her supervising ranger—a brute of a woman with cropped hair and a Navy Seal demeanor. Noelle got the sense she wasn't Yowlitz's favorite new hire.

Layle waited for her approval.

“Go ahead.”

“You're aware of this wolf carcass down here?”

“Sure. The mystery wolf.”

“Something like that. Anyway, a lot of the guys that work for Game and Fish like to clean their elk in the big fridge down here. They're running out of room, bugging the hell out of us, and I'm wondering what the park service wants to do with the animal.”

“Ranger Yowlitz didn't give you any instructions?”

“Not really. She figured it was good to go . . . be incinerated, but wanted someone to look at it first. She said you were the expert.”

Dammi
t,
Noelle thought. Old Fran was being sarcastic. Ever since the bear-tooth incident last summer—it turned out to be fake—Noelle's animal-identification skills had been the butt of frequent jokes among the rangers. Now she had to drive thirty miles out of her way and play with a frozen wolf carcass to temporarily satisfy her boss's resentment.

She sighed loud enough for Deputy Layle to hear.

“Is that okay?”

“I'll be there in forty-five.”

“Great. I'll see you there.”

Noelle flipped on her lights and spun a U-turn. She grabbed her wide-brimmed hat from the passenger seat and put it on—Yowlitz didn't like rangers without hats.

Noelle had altered the unflattering uniform's tan top and green pants to fit her figure. The button-up blouse was always left open two buttons short of the collar, not for the errant sightseer's benefit, but so that she could feel a touch of individualism in the regimented organization. The green work pants were snugger than uniform code, but not in a tawdry way. Her wavy hair was kept up on most days, with just a coil or two peeking out the front of her hat.

She sighed loudly again.
Of course everyone going the speed limit has to
slow down to thirty when a cop is behind them.
She flipped on her siren and passed the slow-moving caravan.

* * *

Waiting to turn left into the visitor-center parking lot from Cache Street, Noelle ruminated over the wolf carcass. She didn't know
much except that a tracker system had detected a radio signal similar to the ones given off by the collars the national park used on moose, wolves, elk, and bear. The Game and Fish department had performed a necropsy, as it sometimes did for research purposes, but instead of finding a collar, the examiners had found a transmitter embedded between the wolf's shoulder blades.

Noelle pulled into a gravel parking lot through the back of the visitors' center. Layle was waiting for her, leaning on his unmarked black Dodge Charger. He was young like Noelle, early thirties probably. He had sandy-blond hair and stood an athletic five feet eleven. His hands fidgeted around, indicating anxiety—something Noelle noticed because of her SLETP training.

The building was a large brick warehouse built in the 1920s. Double-tall garage doors adorned the front. Around the side there was a gray steel door. After introductions, Layle led her inside. Backhoes and graders occupied the cement floor in the front of the building. They walked between them toward the back corner.

Here, there was one small office for the mechanic, and an enormous walk-in cooler. Hanging outside the sealed doors were a few Carhartt insulated jackets and heavy gloves.

The deputy held a jacket out for Noelle, who refused. “We won't be in there for long.”

“Sure.” Layle was already wearing a navy police-issue sweater. He grabbed two pairs of gloves.

It took a moment for the light to warm up and illuminate the cooler. A scent that reminded Noelle of livestock and a butcher's shop filled the air. She buttoned her shirt up to the collar. Layle took note of this and handed her the gloves.

“In the back. Watch the hooks.”

Heavy meat hooks hung from the ceiling, connected to a roller track. All but a few of them were occupied by elk carcasses—Game and Fish employees' trophies, in various stages of butchering. Fifteen or more.

“These guys like to hunt.”

“No kidding,” Layle replied. “One of the perks of working at Game and Fish, I suppose; free butchering facility.”

In the back right corner of the fridge was a stainless lab table on wheels. Its contents were hanging over the edges and covered with a black tarp.

“It's still in fine shape. They're just short on room, as you can see.” Layle unwrapped the wolf.

“He's huge.”

“Hundred and fifteen, believe it or not.”

“Was he in a populated area? What kind of food source would sustain that weight here? That's Alaskan-sized.” Noelle actually did know a few facts about wolves.

Layle nodded. “He was up by Moran. Suppose he could've hit the Dumpsters there, but they're all bear-proof, right?”

Noelle nodded and then walked to the table and stroked his fur. She felt his waist, which was hollowed out from the autopsy, but would have been as thick as a keg of beer.

“Did he have a benefactor?” This was the park-service term for a person who fed a specific wild animal.

“Nobody up there admits to it.”

“'Course not.” Noelle struggled to lift up the front end of the beast. “Anything you wanna point out?”

“Help me flip it over,” Layle said. They put the frozen wolf on its side. “Right here between the shoulders is where they found the transmitter.”

Noelle ran her fingers over a small patch of shaved skin with an incision across the middle. “What did the biologist say?”

“He consulted with a vet. Blunt force from the vehicle killed him. He did have fluid in the lungs too.”

“Pneumonia?”

“I guess.”

Noelle felt pity for the animal. A prince of the western high country, second in the pecking order only to the grizzly bear, overfed and done in by human contact.

“Is there risk of an outbreak in the wolf population?”

“Biologist didn't mention that, no.”

“I think I'm finished. Where's the chip?”

“In my cruiser. Let's get out of the cold.”

Noelle followed Layle back past the elk carcasses, through the warehouse, and into the parking lot. The sun was up high over Snow King Mountain. Town was starting to bustle, though the commotion didn't approach the chaos of tourist season.

Layle popped the trunk to his cruiser, where there were three file boxes. He grabbed one, closed the trunk, and rested the box on the hood. From among the paperwork, he produced a small Ziploc evidence bag. He pulled on a pair of blue rubber gloves and handed Noelle the same.

“Fingerprints?”

“None. These are more for disease control.”

The “chip” looked like a triple-A battery that had been slightly shrunk; a long, thin pill. Layle handed it to Noelle.

“Little different from modern radio tags.” She looked up at Layle for confirmation.

He shrugged. “I don't know much about them. The radio specialist from Game and Fish agreed, though. He took the back off
here”—Layle pointed to a tiny panel—“and said the antenna apparatus was bigger than usual, and there was an especially powerful battery. Hence the size.”

“Radio transmitters don't need much battery life?”

“That's what he said.”

“Then what is it?”

“Outdated, he figured.”

Noelle handed the silver pill back to Layle, who tucked it into its bag.

“Where does it go from here?”

“It'll live the rest of its life in evidence, along with all this stuff.” He motioned to the file box. “Town doesn't have the resources to waste its time pursuing what looks like an illegal-species charge at most.”

Noelle thought for a second. Yowlitz seemed to think this thing was open-and-shut, and Noelle had no reason to disagree.

“Go ahead and incinerate the carcass.” Noelle pulled off the gloves and tossed them in the can by the garage doors. “Hold on to the chip.”

“Don't worry; we can't dispose of it if the case isn't resolved. It'll be in evidence.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks for coming down.”

Noelle put on her Ray-Bans and started toward the car.

Then she stopped and turned. “Oh, how's the chief?”

Layle clammed up, then stuttered. “H-he's good. On vacation as we speak.”

“Give him my best.” Noelle got in the Yukon and sped out of the lot toward the park.