“See, Cassie, it used to be that the Park Service wasn’t the neo-Nazi organization it is now. Now it’s full of true-believer bureaucrats who think their job is to keep people out of the park so the wildlife can frolic on their own. But somebody forgot to tell the wildlife because wildlife doesn’t frolic—they eat each other.
“Anyway,” he continued, “the Park Service used to tolerate locals and kind of look the other way when someone crossed the boundary a little bit to get their elk meat for the winter. In fact, there were some old cabins up there that were technically inside the park itself. The rangers knew about them but they didn’t spend any time kicking people out. They had better things to do with their time than to piss off all the locals. I don’t know if those old cabins are still up there or not but I figured it would be a good place to start looking. Frank used to ‘borrow’ one when he hunted up there. I heard him talk about it.”
Cassie said, “Did you take your hearing aids out so you could talk nonstop and not answer my questions?”
“Let me tell you about the other ways the Park Service plays God in Yellowstone…” Bull began.
Cassie used the opportunity to turn aside and punch Leslie Behaunek’s number on her speed dial.
*
“WE’RE HEADED THERE NOW,” Cassie said after briefing Leslie. Mitchell was still lecturing in the background. “I’m going to ask Bull to stop at the Park County Sheriff’s office in Livingston so I can let them know what we’re up to.”
“Good,” Leslie said. “It’s about time you involved actual law enforcement.”
Cassie let the dig go. She said, “I know the sheriff there from when I was chasing the Lizard King the first time. His name is Bryan Pederson. He’s a good guy and we got along well. I think I’ll have some credibility with him.”
Cassie could sense Leslie’s relief.
Leslie said, “We’ve got a conference call scheduled this afternoon with North Dakota and Montana to get everyone up to speed on this.”
“I won’t screw it up, I promise. If we locate Ron Pergram or Kyle we’ll back off and call in the cavalry.”
“I believe you won’t try to screw it up.”
“They might not even be in the area but my guide connects Pergram to the area through his father,” Cassie said. “If nothing else we can rule it out.”
“Your guide sounds like quite a character.”
“Oh, he is. He’s crusty and stubborn as hell. And believe it or not he’s going to try to get me on a horse.”
“Take a photo and text it. This I have to see.”
“Doubtful.”
“And call in as soon as you can so I can brief the task force.”
Cassie agreed and disconnected the call.
Bull said, “Crusty and stubborn as hell, huh?”
“You heard.”
“I put my hearing aids in just in time to hear you slander me.”
“It isn’t slander if it’s true.”
Bull stifled a smile as they—mercifully, Cassie thought—pulled off the interstate toward Livingston.
They were nearly into town when the pickup shuddered and the motor stopped running. The truck and tailer coasted down the exit ramp until Bull was able to guide it onto the shoulder.
“Well, shit,” he said.
*
“THESE OLD POWER WAGONS are mighty vehicles,” the mechanic said to Bull and Cassie as he wiped coal-black grease off his hands with a dark red rag, “but no matter how reliable they are they still need to be maintained.”
The mechanic had a clean-shaven head but a silver-streaked beard that was so long and full it nearly obscured the name DUB over his coverall’s breast pocket.
Bull growled and looked at the top of his outfitter boots in shame.
“The engine is fundamentally sound,” Dub said to him, “but you’ll need new belts, new air, oil and fuel filters, a thermostat, radiator flush, and a carburator clean-up. Then I think we can get it running again.
“How long has it been since you had it into the shop?”
“A while,” Bull grumbled.
“When can it get done?” Cassie asked Dub. She was trying not to let her frustration show—or her anger at Bull.
“Three hours at most to do the work,” Dub said.
Cassie looked at her watch. They could get into mountains by late afternoon. She said, “That’s not bad.”
“If we had the parts,” Dub explained. “It’s not like we have parts for a sixty-nine-year-old pickup in stock. Luckily, I know a guy in Billings who can get me what I need. He’s kind of a Power Wagon aficionado and he knows somebody headed this way later today who can deliver the parts.”
“So it’ll be ready tonight?” she asked.
“Make it tomorrow morning,” Dub said. Then: “Make yourself at home here in Livingston. Just don’t let the damned wind knock you over. It blows like a mother sometimes.”
She looked over at Bull. “It’s as tough as a damned rock,” she mocked.
He said, “You sound like Rachel. No wonder you two get along.”
While Bull and Dub worked out the logistics of fetching the horse trailer that was still back on the exit ramp with the tow truck, and where the nearest horse-friendly motel was located, Cassie took a deep breath and stepped outside the auto repair shop. Bringing the horses had complicated matters. And driving that old Power Wagon had complicated matters even further.
The mountains of Yellowstone dominated the southern horizon. She felt helpless. She was so close but had no practical way to get there. And she certainly didn’t know the backcountry where Bull wanted to take her. She was his prisoner in a sense.
Cassie pulled out her iPhone and queried the address for the Park County Sheriff’s Department. The map showed it was five blocks away.
Nobody walked anywhere in Montana, she knew. But the walk would do her good and calm her down.
*
SHERIFF BRYAN PEDERSON WASN’T in his office at the moment, according to the receptionist who spoke to Cassie through a slot in the thick Plexiglas. The receptionist was in her sixties and had short-cropped silver hair and cat’s-eye glasses that were so old they were back in fashion. Her nameplate said MARGARET.
“He should be back within the hour,” the receptionist said. “You can come back then.”
“I’ll wait here. Can you please tell him I’m here to see him?”
“And your name again?”
“Cassie Dewell.”
Margaret paused as she scrawled out the message. She gave Cassie a long second look. “Do I know you?”
“Maybe. I used to work up in Lewis and Clark County.”
Realization filled Margaret’s eyes.
“You’re that Cassie Dewell?”
“Yes.”
“The one who got in that shoot-out with the state trooper a few years ago?”
“Yes.”
A steel door next to where the receptionist sat required a key code to enter. Margaret noted Cassie looking at it.
“I’d buzz you right through if it were up to me,” Margaret said. Then she gestured toward the cheap plastic chairs that lined the long narrow lobby. “I wish I could do better.”
“It’s fine,” Cassie assured her. One of them was occupied by an American Indian man in a Carhartt jacket clutching a fistful of pink traffic tickets. Cassie sat down in one of the chairs across from him.