C. Box - Free Fire

Ashby stepped aside in the hall so Joe could enter a windowlessroom with a large round table crammed into it. Two men and a woman stood as Joe entered. Ashby shut the door behind them.

“This is Joe Pickett,” Ashby said, “from Wyoming governor Rulon’s staff.”

Joe didn’t take the time to consider the introduction-his staff, huh? Is that what Chuck Ward had told them? — but leaned across the table to greet the others. The atmosphere was instantly tense and uncomfortable and Joe surmised quickly that no one really wanted to be there. He recognized Special Agent Tony Portenson of the FBI out of the Cheyenne office. Portenson rolled his eyes at Joe as if to say, Here we are again . Then he smiled, which always looked like an uncomfortable sneer on him, like he was trying it out for the first time.

“No need to introduce us,” Portenson said to Ashby. “We know each other from way back.”

“Hi, Tony.”

“I thought I’d gotten rid of him for good,” Portenson said in a way that didn’t reveal if he was joking or not. “But here he is again, like a bad penny. Wherever I go I seem to run into Joe Pickett and then something goes wrong.”

Joe knew Portenson had been seeking a transfer out of Wyoming for years. He hated the state, its people, the quality of crimes he was in charge of. While the rest of the FBI was reshapingitself into a counterterrorism agency, Portenson had to oversee cattle rustling, crime on the Wind River Indian Reservation,and other mundane, career-advancement roadblocks. He’d complained mightily to Joe about it.

Portenson said, “What in the hell is going on now? You’re working for the governor of Wyoming?”

Joe nodded, not sure how much to reveal. He hadn’t expectedsomeone from his past to be in the room, especially not Portenson, who had made it a life’s goal to send Nate Romanowskito prison.

“Sort of,” Joe said.

“I’ve heard Rulon is a loose cannon, a damned maniac. He and the director have been going at each other for two years, ever since the election,” Portenson said. “The guy-Rulon-is power-mad, is what I hear. He thinks the Bureau should march to his orders. He probably thinks the same thing about the Park Service.”

With that, Portenson looked around the room, having quickly established Joe as an agent for someone who threatened everyone in it.

Joe winced. “Thanks, Tony.”

“You bet,” Portenson said, satisfied.

“Eric Layborn,” said a man in an impeccably neat park ranger’s uniform. “Special investigator, National Park Service.” Joe reached out, and Layborn gripped his hand so hard Joe winced. Layborn had a heavy brow and a lantern jaw, a close-croppedmilitary haircut, and a brass badge and nameplate that reflected the single light above the table. Even his gun belt was shiny. Layborn’s eyes were unsettling to Joe because one bored into him and the other was slightly askew, as if it were studying his ear.

“Ranger Layborn headed up the criminal investigation,” Ashby said to Joe.

“Whatever you want to know I can tell you,” Layborn said. “We’ve got nothing to hide.”

Joe thought it odd that Layborn would lead with that.

“This is Ranger Judy Demming,” Ashby said, gesturing towardthe woman at the table who had not launched herself at Joe as Layborn had. “She was first on the scene.”

“Nice to meet you,” Joe said, flexing his fingers to get the feeling back in them before shaking hands with her.

Demming was a few years older than Joe with medium-lengthbrown hair, wire-framed glasses, a smattering of freckles across her nose. She seemed pleasant enough, gentle, and it was clear to Joe she was ill at ease. He couldn’t tell if she was uncomfortablewith him, with others in the room, or with her role in the case. After shaking his hand she seemed to withdraw and defer to Ashby and Layborn without really moving.

Portenson and Ashby sat back in their chairs, signaling they were ready to start the meeting. Demming saw them and sat too. So did Joe. Layborn remained standing, his eye fixed on Joe and Joe’s ear. He didn’t say anything, but it wasn’t necessary. The stare was a challenge. Joe had seen it before from local sheriffs, police chiefs, Director Randy Pope. The look said, “ Don’t cross me, don’t second-guess me, don’t step on my turf. And I’m bigger and tougher than you .”

“Eric,” Ashby said sharply, “let’s get started.”

Layborn held the scowl for a moment longer, then eased back into his chair with the grace of a cat.

Message delivered.

Joe had brought the file folder the governor had given him. The letter from Rick Hoening was on the bottom of the documents,facedown. He didn’t want them to see it.

“Before we get started,” Ashby said, “I thought you might need some background on our job here and how we work. That way, we can save some time later.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Joe noticed Portenson had immediatelydrifted away and was studying the large-scale map of the park behind Joe’s head.

“Yellowstone National Park is a federal enclave,” Ashby said. “You are no longer in the state of Wyoming, or Montana, or anywhere else. This is literally the last vestige of Wyoming Territory, and we’re governed as such. There are two U.S. marshalsup here, just like the frontier days, and we’ve got a hundredrangers including four special investigators. Eric here is our top investigator.”

At that, Layborn leaned forward. Joe was still stinging from the “message” and fought the urge to ignore the man. Instead he acknowledged Layborn with a quick nod.

“Think of the park as a city of forty thousand people every given day in the summer and fifteen thousand people in the winter,” Ashby said. “But unlike a city, everyone is passing through, turning over. We’ll have over three million in the summer,a few hundred thousand in the winter. It’s a brand-new scenario every day, a whole new cast. Our job is to serve and protect these people and enforce the laws, but at the same time to protect the resources of the park itself. This place is like a church; nothing is to be disturbed. It’s a national shrine and no one wants to see harm come to it. It’s a hell of a tough job, unlikeanything else in law enforcement. Park rangers are the most assaulted federal officers of all of the branches because of the public interaction that comes with the job. No one has jurisdictionover us in the park, including your governor and the FBI,” he said, indicating Portenson.

Portenson, Joe noticed, appeared to be counting holes in the overhead ceiling tiles in boredom.

“Because we’re federal,” Ashby said, “we operate under two sets of laws-the Code of Federal Regulations and the Federal Criminal Code and Rules statutes-and we can pick and choose depending on the violation. Most violations are Class B misde-meanors,meaning six months in jail and/or a five-thousand-dollarfine. Half of the violations are ‘cite and release’-we give them a ticket and let them proceed. But the other half are the serious ones, and they include felonies, poaching, violations of the Lacy Act, and so on. Because of the transient nature of the population here, all sorts of scum pass through. Last year we nailed a child molester who’d brought a little girl into the park in his RV. On average, we make two hundred to two hundredfifty arrests a year and issue four thousand tickets.”

Joe raised his eyebrows. There was more action than he realized.

Layborn broke in. “Don’t be fooled by the numbers, Mr. Pickett. We aren’t just arresting tourists. Half of the arrests are of permanent residents-meaning Zephyr Corp. employees. I spend most of my time tailing those people. Some of them act like they left the law at home when they moved out here.” He said it with a vehemence that seemed out of place after Ashby’s sober recitation of facts, Joe thought.