He sloshed forward, surprised by the brute force of the current against his thighs. Staring directly down into the flow, he began to sway, the river to spin. Before losing his balance, he turned quickly around and splashed back toward the bank where he fell into the field grass and scampered on all fours away from the water. He lay still with his head buried in the weeds and dug his fingernails into the dirt. When he rolled onto his back, the sun warmed his face and he placed an arm over his eyes for shade until his breathing returned to normal.
Blood stains.
Blood splattered on the sidewalk and curb and street. Fran’s lifeblood in a Philadelphia gutter. But she was just another big city statistic, another thirty-second clip on the Channel Six news. Her attacker’s nine millimeter brass-jacketed hollow point round had penetrated four and a half inches into her brain. If only he’d taken the time to drive her downtown that day. If only he had taken the Dodge wagon in for transmission work the day before. Or the day after. For the rest of his life he would live with a million if onlys. Francine Duval, the only woman he had sworn to have and to hold until death ripped them apart.
He jumped up and trotted for the truck, his boots squishing with each jolt on the ground. Rusty barked a welcome back through the open window and he drove up the highway until he found the phone booth he’d passed earlier. The Gallatin County Sheriff’s office answered: they would send out a squad car, pronto. He should meet it back at the bridge.
EIGHT
The deputy sheriff dispatched from Big Sky stuffed the blood-stained hat into a plastic bag and tossed it into his patrol car. He had walked with Dieter to the point across the river from the scene, using the same route Dieter had traveled. After returning, the deputy asked him to explain his whereabouts since he’d left his cabin that morning.
While Dieter spoke, the deputy took meticulous notes on a small spiral tablet. He asked him to talk through every detail of locating the body, beginning with parking at the bridge. He asked Dieter to repeat twice why he didn’t take the cleared trail on the other side, why he was trying to wade across the river, but then turned back.
After running out of questions, the deputy got all of Dieter’s contact info and dismissed him. Dieter dashed to his truck and as he pulled away, he spotted a National Park Service truck arriving behind him. He hit the accelerator and sped away.
Ranger Bantz Montgomery hiked behind the Gallatin County deputy sheriff along the trail that followed the Madison River. Chief Ranger Jack Corey brought up the rear. Montgomery had received the call on the radio as he and Corey returned from the Pendleton llama ranch back to Mammoth Springs headquarters. Someone had reported a bloody body on the banks of the Madison, three miles northeast of Colter. Although the body was located inside park boundaries and technically within Yellowstone and federal jurisdiction, it was also in Gallatin County. In the case of a violent crime, the county provided assistance to the Park whenever requested and it always was. The Park had no problems letting the county take charge in these cases that could go on for months.
When the three men reached the yellow crime-scene ribbon, they stooped for a closer look at the body. Judging from the size of the crimson slurry along the shoreline, the pallid body had lost most of its blood. Where once there was a neck, there was now only a tangled mass of blazing scarlet flesh.
The deputy sheriff flipped his cigarette into the weeds and crushed it out with the toe of his boot. He spoke with the raspy voice of a chain-smoker. “Slashed up pretty bad. First murder around here in nine years. Do you recall the Skeeter Wilkins crime up in—”
“Was there a vehicle around?” Corey asked.
Interrupted in the middle of his yarn, the deputy changed his expression to one of all-business. “We found a white Suburban with an Arizona license plate.”
“How about footprints?”
The senior deputy broke in. “Only the victim’s were fresh. At least on the side of the river where we located him. The guy who spotted the corpse had hiked along the other bank.”
“Who was that guy?” Corey asked.
“The new veterinarian in Colter. He’s got an office over on Bridger Avenue. I let him go just before you got here.”
Montgomery glanced at Corey, who stared down at his feet and rubbed the back of his neck.
“I’ll call Bozeman,” the senior deputy said. “We’ll store the stiff at Winslow’s until the autopsy. The ME won’t likely be here before Saturday though. He’s just part time. Works mainly weekends.” He looked over at Montgomery. “What do you think of all this?”
Montgomery preened his mustache as he thought. “Well, it looks to me—”
“We don’t have any idea,” Corey said. “We’ll wait and see what the pathology report says. Right now I’m afraid we have another appointment.”
Corey focused on the senior deputy. “Tell me more about this guy.”
“Apparently a photographer. I found his professional-looking camera and tripod.”
“No, I mean that veterinarian who found the body.”
“Told you what I know, Chief.”
Corey scratched at his neck. “What do you suppose he was doing out here?”
“Told me that when he stopped to take a leak, he spotted a hat floating near the shoreline. When he picked it up, he saw the blood stain. He followed his curiosity upstream until he was startled by the discovery of the body on the other shore. He certainly didn’t appear to be holding anything back.”
“You didn’t consider taking this guy in for questioning?” Corey asked.
“No real reason to.”
Corey held his stare on the deputy long enough to make his point.
The deputy nodded. “I’ll give the sheriff your suggestion.”
“You do that. And be sure he knows where it came from.”
Corey rode shotgun while Montgomery drove back through the Park along Yellowstone’s Grand Loop. He steered with one hand resting on the wheel and the other fidgeting with his blond handlebar mustache which curled twice at the tips. In his fifteenth year as a law enforcement ranger, Bantz Montgomery was in his early fifties, ten years older than his boss. At one point in time he figured he had a good shot to be the next chief ranger. But when the job became available eight years before, the Yellowstone superintendent selected the senior ranger at Glacier National Park—Jack Corey. Within a month Corey appointed Montgomery his deputy when he’d discovered that both had served in Nam and fought in the Easter Offensive.
Montgomery knew the ropes and the local politics. But he was too close to all the aggravation the chief ranger endured. The hours he had to put in. Having attended too many of Corey’s briefings, he’d memorized the numbers. The chief commanded fifty-eight rangers responsible for patrolling the highways, campgrounds, and backcountry trails scattered throughout a two million acre national park, twenty-four hours a day, every day of the year. The rangers provided all the emergency services for millions of Park visitors and investigated thousands of criminal incidents every year.
Montgomery wanted no part of the headaches that Corey took home most days, sometimes not getting to bed until after midnight, even though he was on duty every morning of the workweek by seven. When he had to work on Saturday or Sunday, which was at least twice a month, he usually slept in and arrived at seven-thirty.
He glanced over at his boss, annoyed by his lockdown attitude and never certain what his cold attitude meant. “That new veterinarian in Colter must get around.”
The truck’s radio blared out the classic country voice of the senior Hank Williams. Leaning back against the headrest, Corey stared straight ahead with his arms folded, bobbing his head to the beat.