James Smith: Hybrid

Montgomery pulled off his headset. “What the hell do you mean?”

“Give me two hours. Then meet me back here.” Corey turned and jogged away.

Montgomery jumped down from the chopper and gave chase. “Hey, Boss! Please…” He grabbed him from behind by the arm.

Corey pivoted around—his face contorted and his fist cocked behind his head—and threw a roundhouse punch straight into Montgomery’s jaw.

The force of the blow knocked him onto the ground and shook off Corey’s hat, sending it tumbling with the wind toward the bank and flying into the river.

“Damn you!” Corey shouted. He turned to watch his hat float away while massaging the knuckles of his right hand. “Now see what you did, asshole.”

Montgomery rubbed the side of his face and tested the movement of his lower jaw. Then he marched toward his boss and rammed his nose into his face. “Look, Jack. Don’t you ever place a hand on me again or I’ll bash your—”

Corey’s underhand punch was direct to the solar plexus. Montgomery reached for his stomach and collapsed. Before he could catch his breath, Corey straddled him like a bronco and squeezed his throat with both hands. Montgomery grabbed Corey’s wrists and shoved, staring into a vacant gaze as if looking into the eyes of a corpse. With all the strength he could gather he hurled Corey back into the dirt and then lay exhausted, struggling to breathe. When he looked up, Corey was aiming the rifle between his eyes.

“Go ahead; do it!” Montgomery screamed. “Shoot me, Jack. Shoot the only guy who’s willing to take up for you no matter the stupid crazy things you do. Try counting the number of people who’ll stand by you when times get tough. Go ahead and shoot. I don’t give a goddamn anymore.”

Corey stood fixed like a statue except for his heaving chest.

“What’s the matter, Jack? You some kind of chicken shit?”

Corey lowered the rifle to his side. “I’m not going to shoot you, idiot. I just want you to shut up. I want everybody to shut up. I know what I’m doing.”

“You don’t need me around anymore then. I’ve had it with being your ‘yes’ man, Jack. You’re dead wrong this time.”

Corey sneered. “Wrong about what?”

“Don’t you see the wolves didn’t work out? There’s at least one killer on the loose, maybe more.”

Corey stared straight through him without responding.

“Listen to me,” Montgomery said. “Hundreds of hikers and fishermen are in the backcountry this weekend. We don’t have a single warning posted. And you let the Boy Scout campout go on as planned! Do you have any idea what’ll happen if there’s an attack on a kid?”

“You don’t have to yell. I can hear you.”

“I know you can hear me. But do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

“Exactly what is it you’re trying to tell me, shithead. What’s your goddamn bottom line?”

“Operation Wolfstock failed, Jack. We didn’t take into account the possibility of bringing a hybrid into the Park—a renegade killer. We screwed up big time.”

Corey’s face turned from anger to disgust. “Get out of here, Montgomery. Fly your chopper away and don’t come back. Don’t ever come back. You’re a fucking waste, just like the others.”

Montgomery massaged his jaw. He’d been there with Corey too many times over the years. When the chief park ranger got into one of his outbursts, it was as if he had submerged himself inside a steel cocoon to fend off the rest of the world. He should follow Corey’s orders and fly away, but his gut told him to ignore his boss’ ranting. The man needed help or else he was going to do something tragically stupid. Something that Montgomery would likely have to pay for, like so damn many times before. Only this time could be so much worse.

“I’m flying over to West Yellowstone, Jack. I’ll fuel up there and wait out the squall. Keep your radio open.” He looked down to see if Corey’s walkie-talkie was still fastened on his belt.

Corey moved quickly away, his rifle strapped over his shoulder.

When Montgomery brought the chopper down at the West Yellowstone airstrip, he hurried into the cover of the hangar and radioed to the ranger on duty at headquarters. He told him he’d dropped off his boss by the Gallatin River.

Yes, it must have been along the Bighorn Pass trail. Of course it was a dumb thing to do, but who the hell could tell Jack Corey that? Once the front passes over and the winds settle down, he’d go back for him. Yes, Corey had his walkie-talkie on.

“We have at least three hours of daylight,” Montgomery said. “That should be—”

He was interrupted by the ranger on the other end.

“No,” Montgomery shouted. “Who’s on call?… Where’s the superintendent?… Do not call Greta McFarland… There’s no emergency, dammit. I’ll give you a call back in another hour with a weather report. Remember, there’s no need to bring McFarland in—”

The other radio shut off before he finished.

Dieterand Josh trudged down a path meandering through the pines beside a rushing stream. Josh’s limp, an old trapper’s gait, contrasted with Rocko’s bearing, Dieter thought as he followed directly behind the llama and marveled at how lightly the grand animal stepped along. His footpads were as soft as a kitten’s, barely leaving a mark. He wished for Rusty by his side. At times, he glanced at the metal box tied onto Rocko’s pannier just below the antenna mounted on the saddle horn. The red light on the top of the box never gave a hint of flashing. He wasn’t sure of the device’s range or even if it was working.

Whenever they neared water, Rocko grew nervous and moved with caution. Josh said llamas were scared silly around a stream or river, a fear born of wisdom since they couldn’t judge the depth and weren’t swimmers. They’d hiked at least two miles before they stopped to rest on a flat boulder. Clouds whipped across the sky as blue jays and ravens cackled in the trees.

Dieter took measure of Josh. What was it that drew the old trapper to him? Who else could have lured him into a freezing storage bin used for a corpse? Josh knew nature and wildlife more than anyone he’d ever met. Always looking for adventure, he was old enough to be his father. But he was different from his own dad in every way. For one, he was sober. Although he lived alone he never claimed to be lonely. Many could only dream of the life Josh lived. When he wasn’t fishing or hunting for his dinner, he was tending to the llamas he loved or sitting in his front yard contemplating his world by day or watching a moonrise by night. Whatever the tie binding Dieter and Josh, it was growing tighter each day.

A bull elk bugled in the distance. A narrower trail split off the main one. Overgrown with weeds and clearly not well-traveled, it was more a path than a trail. Walking down it a short distance, fresh wolf tracks appeared.

“He’s going for the river, Doc. This is just a short spur leading south to the Gallatin. That’s where we’ll hit another trail down from Bighorn Pass.”

“Does it go all the way across the Park?”

“Not that far. But if you take it east, it follows the river up through the Bighorn Pass to the center of the Park. If you head west, you go back to Highway 191 where we came from. The renegade could be making just one big circle.”

“But if he took the trail through the pass, where would he end up?”

“Indian Creek. There’s a campground at the—”

“My God, Josh, Indian Creek is where Michael and the Boy Scouts are this weekend.” Dieter brushed a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. His gut was right about keeping Michael away from the Camporee. Or maybe he was too protective. Maybe Amy was right. He was hovering too much over the kids. That’s something that Fran would never have accused him. She did the hovering for both.