"You're right," Demming said. "We should close the trail."
"We'll be okay in a few weeks," Stevens said, "when the snow comes. We've had twelve feet by Halloween in the past. That'll give us the winter to make our case."
Joe thanked Stevens and left with Demming. "Why did you take the register?" Demming asked.
Joe showed her the page with Clay McCann's name on it. Above his name were signatures from the day before for R. Hoening, J. McCaleb, C. Williams, and C. Wade. They listed their destination as "Nirvana."
Joe said, "If he wanted to make sure they were here, all he had to do was read the register."
As they stood near the Yukon they both looked at the trailhead,as if it were calling to them.
"I don't know, Joe…" Demming said cautiously.
"I want to see the crime scene," Joe said. "It'll help me get my bearings. You can wait for me here if you want."
She thought about it for a few seconds, looking from Joe to the trailhead and back before saying, "I'm going with you." The sign at the fork in the trail indicated it was thirty miles to Old Faithful to the right, two miles to Robinson Lake on the left. The trail on the right fork was more heavily traveled. They went left.
The forest closed in around them. Because there was no plan or program to clear brush in the park, the floor of the timber on both sides of the trail was thick and tangled with rotting deadfall.Joe was struck by how "un-Yellowstone-like" this part of the park was. There were no geysers or thermal areas, and they'd seen no wildlife. Only thick, lush vegetation and old-growthtrees. He studied the surface of the trail as he hiked, looking for fresh tracks either in or out, and stopped at a mud hole to study a wide Vibram-soled footprint.
"Someone's been in here recently," he said.
"Great," Demming whispered.
There was no delineation sign or post to indicate where they crossed the Idaho border. Joe assumed they had because the line, according to his map, was less than two hundred yards from the ranger station and they'd gone much farther than that. The trail meandered at a slight decline, but it was easy walking.
He heard it before he saw it.
"Boundary Creek," Joe whispered. They were now in the Zone of Death.
Joe felt his senses heighten as they crossed the creek, which was wider and more impressive than he'd guessed from looking at the map. He hopped from rock to rock, spooking brook trout that sunned in calm pools, their forms shooting across the sandy bottom like dark sparks. On the other side, as they pushed fartherinto the trees, he tried to will his ears to hear better and his eyes to sharpen. His body tingled, and he felt, for the first time in months, back in his element. Robinson lake was rimmed with swamp except for the far side where trees formed a northern stand. The trail skirted the lake on the right and curled around it to the trees where, Joe guessed, the campers had set up their tents and been murdered. As they walked, he tried to put himself into Clay McCann's head. How far away did he see their tents? Where did he encounterHoening? Did he smell their campfire, hear them talkingbefore he got there?
As they approached the stand of trees and an elevated, grassy flat that had to be where the camp was located, Joe heard Demming unsnap her holster behind him. She was as jumpy as he was.
The camp had been cleared months before but the fire ring revealed the center of it. Logs had been dragged from the timberto sit on around the fire. Tiny pieces of plasticized foil in the grass indicated where a camper-or Clay McCann-had opened a package of snacks.
In the campsite, Joe turned and surveyed the trail they had taken. From the camper's perspective, they must have seen McCanncoming. There was no way he snuck up on them unless they were distracted or oblivious, which was possible. Since Williams had been found near the fire ring and McCaleb and Wade had been killed coming out of their tent, he assumed McCannwas literally in the camp before he started shooting. So was Hoening, whose body was found on the trail, the first or last to die? Again it struck him that the sequence of events really didn't matter. There was no doubt who'd done it.
"Joe…" Demming whispered.
She was staring into the timber, her face ashen, her hand on her gun. Joe followed her line of sight.
The man aiming his rifle at them was dressed in filthy camouflage fatigues and had been hiding behind a tree. At fifty feet, it was unlikely he would miss if he pulled the trigger.
"That's right," the man said to Demming, "pull that gun out slow and toss it over to the side."
She did as told.
Because his back was to the lake, Joe figured the man with the rifle hadn't seen the Glock in his belt. Not that it would help them right now, since in order to use it he'd need to pull it, rack the slide, and hit what he was aiming at. In the time that would take, the rifleman could empty his weapon into the both of them.
"I seen you coming half a mile away," the man said, stepping out from behind the tree but keeping the rifle leveled. "I was in the trees taking a shit when you showed up."
He was short, stout, mid-thirties, with a blocky head, wide nose flattened to his face, dirt on his hands. His eyes sparkled with menace. Behind him, in the shadows of the timber, Joe now saw a crude lean-to shelter, a skinned and half-dismembereddeer hanging from a cross-pole lashed to tree trunks. A survivalist, living off the land in a place with no law.
"You need to lower the weapon," Demming said, her voice calmer than Joe thought his would be at that moment. "Let's talk this over before you get yourself into any more trouble."
"What kind of trouble?" he said. "There ain't nothing you can do to me here."
"It doesn't work that way," Demming said.
"Sure it does," he said, and showed a tight smile. He was missing teeth on both top and bottom. "It worked for Clay McCann."
Joe and Demming exchanged a quick glance.
"I wrote him a letter but he never answered," the man said. Joe tried to determine the man's accent. His words were flat and hard. Midwestern, Joe guessed.
"Where you from?" Joe asked. "Nebraska?"
"Iowa."
"You're a long way from home."
The Iowan looked hard at Joe for the first time and narrowed his eyes. "This is my home. And you two are trespassing. And the way I got it figured, I could shoot you both right now and walk 'cause no court can try me."
"That's where you're wrong," Demming said. "How long have you been here?"
"Month."
"Then you don't know that Congress passed a law," Demmingsaid. "You're now in the Idaho district. This is no longer off the map."
Joe admired Demming's quick thinking. The lie sounded credible. It produced a flicker of doubt in the Iowan's eyes and the muzzle of his rifle dropped a few inches.
"Let us leave," Demming said, "and no harm will come to you. There was no way you could have known."
"They really passed a law?" he asked.
Demming nodded. Joe nodded.
"And the president signed it?"
"Yes."
The Iowan looked from Demming to Joe and back, digging for a clue either way. Joe hoped his face wouldn't reveal anything.Seconds ticked by. A bald eagle skimmed the surface of the lake and just missed plucking a fish out.
"Naw," the Iowan said, raising the rifle butt back to his shoulder,"I don't believe you. If that was the case there would have been some rangers patrolling out here, and I ain't seen nobody."
The heavy boom, an explosion of blood and fingers on the forestock, and the rifle kicking out of the Iowan's hands happenedsimultaneously and left the wounded man standing there empty-handed and wide-eyed.
Demming screamed, Joe froze.
Another shot took the Iowan's nose and part of his cheek-boneoff his face. When he instinctively reached up with his now-shattered left hand, a bullet ripped through the back of his camo trousers at knee level, no doubt slicing through tendons, collapsing him backward into the grass like a puppet with strings clipped.