don’t allow oil or energy companies in here to drill, or lumber companies to come in and cut down the trees. This is a national park! But for some reason, we allow bioengineering firms to come in here and take the microbes. We’re talking about thermophiles that have made millions and millions of dollars for the companies that use them. And who knows what other uses are being made of the species here? It’s a damned crime. Hypocrisy too.”
“Hoening got worked up for the same reason,” Cutler said. “He talked to me about it several times. He thought it was outrageousthat a big company could come in here and take resourcesfrom the public and profit from it. He was kind of a Commie at times, I thought.”
Joe hadn’t thought of it that way. “Who lets them?” he asked.
Demming and Cutler exchanged a look. “The Park Service,” Demming said. “They negotiate contracts with them, two or three years’ exclusive use of the microbes obtained from certain hot springs. The companies pay a few hundred thousand dollars for the rights.”
“Does the Park Service or the government get a royalty on what’s found?”
“Of course not,” Demming said.
“Then why do they do it?”
She shrugged. “They just do. The NPS will do anything for cash since we’re so underfunded. Or so we say.”
“Who has the contract for Sunburst, then?”
She shrugged, looked at Cutler. “I can’t remember the name,” he said. “But it’s foreign, I know that.”
Joe stopped abruptly.
“What?” Demming asked.
“This might turn out to be something,” Joe said. “If Hoening was worked up about bio-prospecting, and his complaints were too loud, it might be a reason to silence him.”
Her eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed as she thought about it. “I’d like to think that, Joe. But as much as I don’t like it, there’s nothing illegal going on here. Nothing worth killing about, for sure. The bio-mining operation is perfectlylegitimate, even though I think it’s a stupid idea that goes against park policy.”
Her words deflated him somewhat. He said, “Still, though, this is the only thing we’ve found that might be a motive.”
She shrugged. “So where does Clay McCann fit into this?”
“He was the lawyer who filed the application for the permit.”
“I can’t imagine that kind of legal work would be so lucrativehe’d kill to keep the business, can you? He was probably hired because he’s local, and probably didn’t have many bill-ablehours.”
“Let me think about it,” he said.
It was almost evening as they approached the turnoff back to Old Faithful. Joe, Demming, and Cutler had batted around the theory Joe had advanced, but nothing new or solid came from the discussion. After a while, each lapsed into their own thoughts.
Joe wished Marybeth and his girls would be waiting for him, but their reunion was still days away. He wondered if Nate had turned up anything talking with Zephyr people. He tried not to think about George Pickett. Instead, he pushed his father’s appearanceout of his mind, as far away as he could push it. He was unsuccessful, though. He felt a sense of growing dread the closer they got to the inn.
He thanked Cutler for making the time that day.
Cutler didn’t answer, his eyes on the rearview mirror.
“Damned if I don’t see that red truck behind us again,” Cutlersaid.
“Pull over after you’ve made the turn,” Demming said. “Let’s see who’s been following us all day.”
“Cool,” Cutler said.
They took the turn to Old Faithful and in the first stand of trees that couldn’t be seen from the highway, Cutler drove off the asphalt and hit the brakes.
Joe and Demming bailed out the passenger door. She drew her weapon, glanced at Joe.
“Where’s your gun?” she asked.
He felt his face flush. “In my daypack in the truck.”
Her eye roll was brief but damning.
“Let me get it,” he said.
“Forget it, Joe,” she said, stepping out onto the road and slippingher pistol back into her holster. “He’s gone. The red truck never made the turn.”
Joe was greeted at the desk by two messages. The first was a flyer reminding all guests that the Old Faithful Inn would close for the winter the following day at noon. The second was from Dr. Keaton and George Pickett, inviting him to dinner at the employee cafeteria.
PART FOUR
YELLOWSTONE GAME PROTECTION ACT, 1894
AN ACT TO PROTECT THE BIRDS AND
ANIMALS IN YELLOWSTONE NATIONAL
PARK, AND TO PUNISH CRIMES IN SAID PARK,
AND FOR OTHER PURPOSES,
SEC. 3. That if any offense shall be committed in said Yellowstone National Park, which offense is not prohibited or the punishment is not specially provided for by any law of the United States or by any regulation of the Secretary of the Interior, the offender shall be subject to the same punishment as the laws of the State of Wyoming in force at the time of the commission of the offense may provide for a like offense in said State; and no subsequent repeal of any such law in the State of Wyoming shall affect any prosecution for said offense committedwithin said park. (U.S.C., title 16, sec. 25.)
15
“DID THEY SEE YOU?” MCCANN ASKED BUTCH TOOMER after the ex-sheriff had returned from the park in his red Ford pickup and entered the law office. McCann had asked while ushering him into his office past Sheila, who eyed them both with open suspicion. When he closed the door he heard her cry, “Hey!” but ignored it.
Toomer had an annoying habit of wearing his aviator shades while he was working, so no one could see his eyes. He sat heavily in the chair across from McCann and lit a cigarette. “Yup,” he said. “I’m pretty sure they saw me.”
McCann felt a sharp pain in his chest. He placed his hand over his heart and rubbed it as he spoke. “I thought you were going to be inconspicuous.”
Toomer waved his cigarette, dismissing McCann. “It couldn’t be helped. There’s no one in the park-no traffic. Of course they saw my truck, but I don’t think they saw
McCann breathed a little easier. It made sense. “What did they do?”
The ex-sheriff withdrew a notebook from his jacket pocket. “Started the morning at Old Faithful, like we thought. Then they switched vehicles on me and I almost lost them. They got in a Park Service truck with the manager of the area by the name of Mark Cutler.”
“You’re sure it was Mark Cutler?” McCann asked, his mouth suddenly dry.
Toomer seemed to be studying him, but McCann wasn’t sure. He wished he’d take off those damned sunglasses.
“Sure enough,” Toomer said finally, as if annoyed at being questioned. “He’d changed into a Park Service uniform, though, sort of doing a switcheroo on me. But I’d seen him beforeand confirmed it was him by calling the
