Death Canyon (29 page)

At the entrance gate, the pickup stopped and the man showed his pass. Jake pulled up a moment later and did the same, but in that brief pause an RV squeezed its way between them from another lane. The caravan continued on deeper into Yellowstone country. They went up and over the first plateau and along the deep canyon scribed by the Lewis River.

Behind the slow RV, Jake soon lost sight of the truck. He was relying on the fact that this portion of the road had very few turnoffs. Most of the intersecting roads were service roads for park
staff. There
were
a few turnouts for views of the canyon and its waterfalls and rapids, but the truck would still be in sight from the road. He hadn't seen the truck, so his target was still ahead of him somewhere.

Is he going to the camp where the Impala ended up? This is a roundabout way to get there.

It didn't add up.

What kind of connection could there possibly be between me and these eco-nuts?

On the right, Jake passed the first geyser basin from the south entrance. The pickup, now leading a line several cars beyond Jake's, was observing the speed limit.

*  *  *

Signs for Old Faithful came and went. They were ninety-some miles from Jackson now.

Where the hell is he going?

Wherever he was headed, it was a long commute for a cup of coffee.

Jake knew the pursuit was about to get more complicated. In just a dozen more miles, the road network would get convoluted. Roads left the main artery and went to geyser basins, paint pots, and other attractions. Then more roads intersected from all directions, coming from Cody, West Yellowstone, and Montana. If Jake wasn't careful, he would lose his mark.

Jake was trying to formulate a guess on the destination of the man. West Yellowstone was most likely, he thought. It had the most businesses—hotels, restaurants. There wasn't much at the north entrance in Montana, and if the man wanted to go toward Cody, he would have turned before entering the park.

It turned out to be a moot point. Ten miles past Old Faithful, traffic came to a stop. The wide body of the RV totally obscured Jake's view. After two minutes or so, Jake put his SUV in park and killed the engine. He got out to look. A few hundred yards ahead a dozen bison were standing in the road, blocking both lanes of traffic.

Then, squealing tires. Bison hustled out of the way as the pickup floored it through the herd. Jake ran back to his vehicle and swung it around the RV. Dust from the disturbed herd filled the air. When it cleared, the gap made by the pickup had filled with more animals.

Shit!

Jake laid on the horn, but the behemoths didn't budge. He slammed his fist on the dash and turned around.

Jake tried to send a text message to Noelle: “Something came up early this morning—are you still home?” But he didn't have cell reception. He felt guilty leaving her in the cabin, but there was no choice, the coincidence was just too much to be ignored. The man in the truck had to be involved.

Jake ignored the speed limit on his way back. The temperature had climbed to the point that he could put the windows down, even up in the Yellowstone high country. He checked his phone while driving, something he hated to do, but there was still no reception.

Why in the world is he here?

He wasn't even sure whether the man was due to be out of prison yet.
How many years has it been?

They pressed for a more severe sentence, the prosecutors, and they should have gotten it. The defendant was extremely dangerous.

Jake and everybody else in the Philly Office knew that.

They hadn't even been after Makter in the beginning; they
were after Jan, and they had been for many years. Jan was the big fish.

In the end, they couldn't get any charges to stick to Jan.
All because of the damn informant.
He was the one who told Jake that some of Jan's runners were out selling in their free time; that they were trying to break free and start their own gig; that they would be willing to talk, just to put Jan and his boys out of business.

The informant was dead wrong.

The team got into position and waited for the transaction to take place. They'd been instructed to move in immediately after the money changed hands and arrest the dealers. Supposedly low-level street dealers. They were expecting an easy night.

When the two vehicles arrived, Jake recognized Argus and Makter immediately as they got out of the first car. He knew their faces well from his research.

“Shit! Don't move in! Back off!”

Jake knew if they took Argus into custody, it would only serve to spook Jan, force him even deeper into the shadows.

It was too late. The team was moving on the transaction, the radio call overpowered by their own short breath and beating hearts. Argus pulled his weapon first. He was immediately mowed down by the officers' automatic gunfire. Makter went for his pistol too but was tackled before he could fire. The buyer sped off into the night.

Jake ran from his car, down the hill, and onto the scene. Argus was down, bleeding everywhere.

“Goddammit! Listen to your fucking radios, people!”

Jake tried to get a response, but the boy was already unconscious. He looked over to Makter, who was writhing under the constraints of two officers and screaming, his hate-filled eyes focused on Jake.

“He was like a fucking son to me! I'm going to kill you!”

Thunder crashed, and the muggy Jersey air was cut by pouring rain.

Jake silenced Makter with a quick blow to the jaw.

*  *  *

Makter repeated the threat throughout the entire questioning process at the station. Among all the other threats Jake had received over the years, it seemed more visceral and the most real.

When Jake and his team gave up on Makter, who was elusive and indignant, they met to assess the situation.

“We have nothing,” Jake told the officers with a stern face, pacing back and forth on the tile in the office. Without testimony, there was no way to make Jan's charges stick. “We hoped for some rats, some information on our guy, and instead we almost killed his son. How does that help us? Why the hell didn't anybody hear my radio call?”

Nobody said a word. “Does anyone in here think that we're gonna get this asshole's son, who may be dead by the morning, to rat out his own dad? If you think this raid was a success, get the fuck out right now! Nobody?”

It was one of the few times that Jake lost his composure in front of his own team. But it wasn't entirely their fault. The informant had been a complete whack job looking to get in the office's favor. They were back at square one; Jan would lay low, hiding after the botched raid.

Part of Jake's anger that night had also stemmed from fear; there was something about the look in Makter's eyes, the way he screamed when he threatened him, that chilled Jake.

Makter wouldn't talk. Jake asked the prosecutor to charge him
with whatever he could. During the trial, Makter lashed out at Jake to the point that he had to be restrained and muzzled. Eventually, Jake was asked to leave the room so that the proceedings could go on without interruption.

The sentence wasn't as long as Jake had wanted. Sixteen years. Less if Makter behaved. Apparently he'd behaved. That was only eleven years ago.

As time went on and Jake headed West, he put Makter and the threat behind him. But now the threat seemed more real than ever. And now Noelle and J.P. were at risk too.

Back in the cabin, Noelle was starting to worry. She called Jake. Straight to voice mail.

Where the hell is he?

She wondered if whoever was out there knew where she lived. To be safe, she locked the door and drew all the blinds. She grabbed the shotgun. If anyone pulled into her driveway, she would hear them coming. She sat down with the gun and her phone.

*  *  *

Tourist traffic was slowing Jake down. He was still in Yellowstone, headed south on the park road, replaying the past and trying to connect the dots. There was a lot to work with, but he couldn't put the puzzle together. Had Makter really come here simply to exact
revenge like he'd promised so many years ago? How did that connect with the events of the last week?

For the first time in many years, Jake was starting to panic. He sensed that whatever crescendo was approaching, it was coming soon.

He wanted his life back. He wanted to be out on the river. Better yet, he imagined himself wading some tropical shoal, casting to shadows that gave away the presence of a bonefish or permit. It would be nice to get out of Jackson for a little while after all this. He pictured Noelle, bikini-clad and leaning against a coconut palm, her portrait backlit by the setting sun.

Still daydreaming, Jake came around a bend to an excited crowd on the side of the road. At first it seemed like some people were gathered looking at wildlife. A dozen folks, two. But then Jake realized something was wrong; people were waving frantically and shouting as he approached. Then a man covered in blood. Some were injured—grasping their arms or legs in pain, wailing. Others were writhing in the gravel. Jake could hear their screams through his open windows.

What in the world?

Jake jumped on the brakes and stopped the car. He got out and ran toward the group, looking from person to person, trying to assess what had happened. He had been the first responder on his share of crime scenes. His training kicked in.

Stay calm. Figure out who needs help first. Prioritize.

Before he could do so, he was interrupted. “Hey! Do you have a cell phone or walkie-talkie?!” A young man was yelling from the boundary of the basin. Jake snatched his phone out of his pocket. He looked at the screen.
No service. Shit.

The area was low-lying and geothermally active, like a prehistoric
marsh. Sage and a few burned pines were the only vegetation. Boardwalks installed by the park kept the tourists off the soft, boiling earth.

Jake ran through the crowd and found the man who'd shouted for him. A park employee, brown sweater, brown slacks. He looked frantic.

“I need your help, follow me! Hurry! Everyone ran!” Jake followed the man down the gravel entrance and to the geyser viewing area. They stepped up onto the wooden boardwalk, only a foot above the smoldering ground. “It's over here!”

Jake's mind was reeling.
Another attack? Makter?

“Grab his arms! Help!” The man was waving Jake over.

The scene was otherworldly. Near the signpost for a geyser, a long section of boardwalk had collapsed into the geyser basin below.

Pieces of two-by-four were bobbing in the boiling water. Other fragments lay on the moonlike crust around the water, smoldering. Jake saw a middle-aged man only a few inches from the break in the walkway. He was up past his waist in steaming water. His arms were stretched above him for help and a look of utter terror was plastered on his face. He looked too afraid to scream. The only signs of life were in his shocked eyes, which darted frantically from side to side.

The park ranger grabbed the man's left arm and Jake got his right. They pulled, but the man was heavy. In the background, Jake could hear pieces of the walkway splintering off into the boiling water. There wasn't much time.

Jake and the ranger counted to three and pulled with everything they had. This time, the man came out of the water. They backed up, but as they did so, the man's lower body slid across
the rough edge of the wood, peeling large chunks of flesh from his burned legs.

Nausea washed over Jake.

They dragged the man to safety, seventy yards from the collapsed boardwalk. Bits of flesh pulled away from his legs every step of the way.

Jake told him it was okay. That help was coming. That he would be fine. The man didn't respond. His wounds were so catastrophic that Jake didn't know where to start. The man closed his eyes and let out a few more strained breaths. Then he was silent.

His legs had very little skin or muscle left on them. The flesh that remained had the dark purplish-brown color of cooked meat. The smell was overwhelming. He had been burned alive.

“What the hell happened here?” Jake shouted to the ranger when he had gathered himself.

“I . . . I don't really know.” He was nearly hysterical. “Like an explosion. It . . . it came out of the ground. All of a sudden there was this hollow boom, then steam everywhere and water, even rock was high up in the air—a hundred feet, I bet . . . the boardwalk collapsed. People ran. Some of them were burned.” He nodded toward the group congregated on the road's shoulder. “But I don't think anyone else was like this.” The ranger looked over again at the lifeless man and had to put his hand over his mouth.

“Where's your radio?” Jake was looking at the man's empty chest holster.

“I dropped it. It's on the ground over there, but I can't walk over. The ground's not safe.”

Jake looked where the man pointed. About eight feet from the boardwalk, the radio was lying on the ground. Jake lifted a heavy rock. Still warm. Almost too hot to touch. He threw it hard at the ground near the radio. The earth broke and steam escaped in a small puff. The rock was gone, sucked into the boiling water below.

Jesus.

Dismayed, Jake gave up on the radio, and he and the ranger jogged to the crowd on the side of the road. The more capable victims had already loaded into their cars and gone for help. To Jake it looked like the survivors had suffered only minor injuries. Nothing life threatening.

Jake walked among them asking if anyone had a cell phone that worked. Nobody spoke up. Abruptly, a young girl stood up and walked over behind a sage bush and vomited. She held her head in her hands as she walked back.