“But if you ever get this and actually listen to it, I want you to know something. You need to find them-the pack trip your son is on-and call in the location. I’ve got the Park Service and the Feds alerted. They know what I know, and that this thing is bigger and worse than either of us thought. I’ve almost got it dialed in. And man, you’re not going to believe it. You’re in the middle of a shitstorm neither one of us anticipated. It goes back to the dead alcoholics, and I’m honing in on the explanation. But I’m sure as hell not going to leave it on your fucking message mailbox. So call me. I can’t say all is forgiven, but you don’t know what you’re getting into. It’s worse than-”

The message time ran out. Cody felt the hairs stand up on the back of his scalp. He took in a long quivering breath and punched the buttons on the phone for the last message. Larry whispered.

“I don’t know where you are or even if you’re getting this, Cody. But the shit has hit the fan. They know you’re gone and where you are. You’re fucked, and so am I. I never thought it would come to this. Call me.”

There were no more messages from Larry on his satellite phone.

Cody withdrew the last cigarette from his pack and lit it and inhaled it as if it were angel’s breath. Either Larry was the best actor in the world, or his messages were genuine. He leaned slightly toward the latter.

31

It had been thirty minutes since Cody thought he’d heard gunshots. Two of them, two distant heavy booms, far up ahead of him. If the wind had not died to a whisper a few minutes before, he thought, he might not have heard them at all.

They’d come just seconds apart. He’d reined in his gelding and cocked his head and listened further but there was silence. And slowly, with the sound of water pouring over smooth river rocks, the breeze picked back up in the treetops and returned with a whispery white noise just loud enough to swallow up any more distant sounds.

Since then, he’d questioned himself as to what he’d actually heard. The forest was full of creatures and sounds. Having grown up around hunting and guiding with his father and uncle in Montana, he’d never put any stock into the old saw, “If a tree falls in the forest and there’s no one to hear it…” Because in his experience, nature could be raucous, sloppy, and loud. Especially in a place like Yellowstone that teemed with large-bodied ungulates and bizarre natural phenomena. Although gunshots were the most likely, the faraway sounds could have been trees falling, branches snapping, rocks being dislodged, or thunderclaps. He’d heard that big grizzlies searching for grubs to eat were known to knock over big rotten trees and uproot small ones, and moose sometimes scratched themselves so vigorously on trunks and outcroppings that they knocked them over. Plus there was the internal pounding coming from his own body.

He wished his head was clear and his guts and muscles weren’t screaming for nicotine to bring them back to level. Blood that seemed thin and panicked and needy coursed through his ears and whumped at his temples, trying to burst out of his veins as if they were a ruptured hydraulic hose. His vision had constricted and he saw black curtains closing and cutting down his peripheral vision. He knew he was capable, right then, of doing just about anything for a cigarette or a shot of bourbon or both. He cursed his dependency and his weakness while at the same time justifying it to himself because of the situation he was in.

At the time that he’d heard the sounds he’d withdrawn the AR-15 from his saddle scabbard and jacked in a.223 cartridge and laid it over his pommel. He kept riding while the churned-up trail of hoofprints turned deliberately off the main trail toward a copse of trees to his right.

That’s where he saw the red bandana tied to a branch and wondered why Jed McCarthy had left the trail and where he was taking his clients. And why someone had left a marker.

* * *