“Ms. Embree?”
“Yes.”
“Good. We’ll be right there.”
The trio hustled south to close the gap. Liz recognized Wesley as the men approached.
“Is that you, Wes?”
Wesley waved. “Yes, Mr. Hebert and Ranger Kirchofer, too. You all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m happy to see you, Ms. Embree,” Wesley remarked as the men reached her. “We thought you might have been isolated by the explosion or lost.”
“I’m all right, Wes. South Arm station is a ruin, though.”
“I can just imagine. How did you get here?”
“I walked out to Grant Village. I came this way but I couldn’t get through with the car. The lake road is severed. I backtracked through the geyser basins to Mammoth and came down here first thing this morning to see the effects of the hydrothermal event.”
The park ranger advanced.
“Ms. Embree, have you seen anyone in a Park Service uniform down here?” the man asked.
Before Liz could respond, a shout swept in over the lake waters. The group turned and focused on the small boat.
“What have you got?” yelled the ranger.
A few seconds later, a voice reached them. “There’s a body here.”
Chapter Fifteen
In a clearing at the edge of the broad marches of Big Stone Lake Wildlife Refuge, a Minnesota Fish & Game officer set out a decoy. Abel marveled at the machine, fabricated to look exactly like a buck whitetail deer. Once the life-size model was in place, the men retreated to an elevated spot on the lower slope of the snaking glacial moraine and outwash sediments that formed the bluffs supporting Independency village a hundred feet above. Their vantage point overlooked the clearing. Officer Patrick Moody handed Abel a small wireless remote-control device with two levers attached to it, something like a computer game joystick.
“Flip the switch, Mr. Whittemore, and play with the levers. Now watch the deer.”
Abel, the gadget in hand, did as instructed. He moved the right lever and the mechanical deer’s head rose in elevation and turned as if scanning the environment. The man pushed the lever in the other direction and the head retreated toward the ground.
Tugging at the other stick, Abel activated the decoy’s tail. It swished back and forth, as if shooing flies.
“You think you have the hang of it?” asked the officer.
“Mmm, very easy. Does it fool people?” Abel wondered.
“Yes it does, so much that folks will shoot at it two and three times, then sit dumbfounded wondering why the deer didn’t collapse or run.”
Abel operated the device once more and nodded his head as if pleased.
“So you think tonight’s a good bet, Mr. Whittemore?”
“Yes. The moon’s almost full. It should be a fine night to drive without lights. I suspect he’ll be out tonight or the next few nights.”
“And the decoy, that’s on your land, right?”
“Yes, just over the line a few hundred feet.”
“Okay, I’ll be here. Remember, stay well clear of the target and out of sight. The others, make sure they do their job and get the hell out of here. Are you straight on that?”
“Perfectly straight, Pat. We’ll do exactly what you say.”
Chapter Sixteen
Men in a Park Service boat 300 feet offshore of the crumbing Yellowstone Lake Inn attempted to fish something heavy from the water without capsizing the small craft. There was a considerable struggle, but they managed the task. Ten minutes later, the boaters pulled the little vessel onto the shore rubble.
Arrayed about the gunwales of the aluminum craft, Liz and members of the search party stared speechless at a corpse in the bottom of the boat. The body that had been lifted out of the water was dressed in a Park Service uniform. The clothing had been savaged as had the man’s flesh. Swept up in the powerful waves that came ashore following the blast, the man had been slammed against structures and trees, then tumbled and ground to pulp in the retreating surf. He had been partially scalped by collisions with debris and bones in the face had been crushed and displaced. It was difficult to discern the facial features of the man, but his shoulder patch left no doubt who he was.
“Mercy,” Wesley mumbled and looked away.
“What in the world caused those injuries?” the park ranger gasped, pulling his hat down slowly from his head.
“The violent energy release from the explosion,” said Liz in monotone. “The great waves and their retreat back into the bay would account for such injuries. He took the brunt of what happened here.”
Wesley scanned the area for something to cover the body. He strode off and returned a minute later with a soiled throw rug.
“Why don’t you boys take the boat and Orin out to Fishing Bridge,” Wesley suggested. “See if you can get your second-in-command to get the county coroner in. We’ve still got hikers out, so there’s still a search to conduct.”
Wesley and Liz stayed behind at Lake Village in awkward silence while the park employees ferried out into the lake with Thresher’s body and motored north. The two ambled west and stopped before the hulk of Yellowstone Lake Inn.
“I’ve got the CVO alerted, Ms. Embree,” Wesley said after a long verbal drought. “The director, Fred Womack, is going to fly in for a look.”
“What about the park?” the geophysicist queried.
“Parks has closed Yellowstone for the time being, until they can assess the damage and the threat to the public.”
“The phreatic explosion released pressure, Wes. That danger is behind us.”
“I know that, Ms. Liz, but we’ve got to assuage the concerns of the powers that be and the press, too. Besides, Parks has a good deal of ruined infrastructure to contend with.”
Wesley turned his attention to the historic inn, studying its crippled form, shaking his head all the while. The sweeping manicured lawns and flowerbeds were a desert of stone rubble, sand, mud and trash. The familiar graceful white columns at the entrance were nowhere to be seen and the roof they supported had smashed down, rafted through the lobby, and was afloat somewhere in the lake. The lower exterior walls gone, nothing prevented the waves from removing every last article that had once graced the interior.
“Nothing to salvage here,” Wesley said with a shrug. “Not a damn thing.”
Chapter Seventeen
Two hours after sundown, Abel detected the hum of a vehicle engine approaching the Big Stone Lake marshes from the south along an abandoned wheel treadway used as a snowmobile trail in winter. Fish & Game officer Patrick Moody heard it, too, from his hiding place in the reeds across the rough lane from the clearing where the decoy deer stood. By the sound of it, the vehicle was creeping along. It did not show itself with headlamps.
A 4x4 pickup truck advanced directly in front of Moody’s position and stopped in the darkness. A roof-mounted lamp switched on, its glaring white light drenched the clearing. A deer at the far end of the opening raised its head.
Officer Moody stepped from his blind of reeds and cattails, slipped around the rear of the truck, crouched down, and inched forward along the passenger side. A rifle barrel rammed out of the passenger side window and a blast rent the air. Another followed.
“What the hell?” a voice barked from inside the cab.
Half a mile away, on the south end of an old plank bridge over Pheasant Creek, two ringers heard the gunshots. The reports were a cue. The men swung a heavy-dimension timber gate closed, slipped a chain around a post, and ran off on foot to the north.