Exodus 2022 (43 page)

Collins shut the tailgate and asked, as casually and conversationally as he could, “Just you and the kid manning the store today?”

“Yup,” Harlan replied. “Not that busy right now, with the holiday and all. “Boss took the week off.”

Collins drove to the front again and went back inside. Harlan was at the counter, waiting for him.

“So,” Harlan asked. “What else you need?”

Collins glanced at his phone. “Tranquilizer rifle. Best one you got.”

Pimple Boy snickered, louder this time, and Collins glared at him. “I say something funny?”

The kid kept his eyes on his computer screen, but Collins could see a smirk on his face.

Harlan smiled. “Tranquilizer guns aren’t called
rifles
. They’re called
projectors
.

Collins nodded. “Okay. Lot’s to learn. So show me a projector. Top of the line.”

“What kind of predator they dealing with”—Harlan waved vaguely out the window, as Collins had done—“at that ranch of yours?”

“Cougar,” said Collins. “Big mother, apparently.”

Harlan nodded and headed for a row of floor-to-ceiling shelves.

Collins turned 360 degrees while Harlan was gone. Scanned the walls and ceiling. No interior surveillance cameras. Not that he could see.

Harlan returned with what looked to Collins very much like a rifle. It was wrapped in clear plastic and festooned with tags and labels. Harlan set it on the counter.

“This is the X-Caliber, by Pneu-Dart,” he said, as he slid the gun out of the bag and handed it to Collins. “Most popular gas-based dart projector on the market. Versatile, pressure-gauged, full-volume dump. Lightweight, but without sacrificing range or accuracy.”

Collins hefted the gun and looked through the scope. It smelled new, felt new, and was definitely lighter than a hunting rifle.

Harlan said, “Quiet, accurate. Got the 416R stainless-steel barrel, dichromate seal, of course, which cuts down on bore residue.”

Collins nodded like he knew what Harlan was talking about.

“Comes with a hard-shell case, ten twelve-gram CO
2
cylinders, a pack of ten-cc darts and a pack of one-cc practice darts. Pretty much the only projector the Fish and Wildlife guys use anymore. For cougar. Black bear. Even grizzly.”

“How much?” Collins asked.

“Two thousand one hundred and twenty-two dollars and eighty-three cents,” said Harlan. “Not including tax.”

Collins nodded. “Great. I’ll take two. Please.”

Harlan gawked, and Pimple Boy, for the first time, lifted his eyes from his computer screen.

“Seriously?” Harlan asked.

Collins set a credit card and driver’s license on the counter. “Completely. And some fentanyl or M-99 to go with. A good supply—in case there’s more than one cougar.”

Harlan stiffened slightly. “Sure. Need to see a prescription for that. From a local-area vet.”

Collins had anticipated this demand and had his reaction ready. He stared at Harlan blank-faced. Played dumb. “A prescription? For animal medicine?”

Pimple Boy chortled into his sleeve this time, but Harlan stayed serious. “Oh, most definitely. Those are powerful narcotics. Barbiturates. One drop of M-99 can kill an adult man in a couple minutes—if you don’t give the antidote.” He looked at Collins. “I can sell ya the guns without much paperwork, but not the drugs.”

Collins nodded. “Gotcha.” He scratched his chin like he was thinking it through. “Okay. Well, they didn’t tell me that. Lots to learn, like I said.” He smiled. “Ring up the cage and the projectors, and we’ll come back for the meds later.”

Harlan nodded, retrieved another X-Caliber projector from the back shelf, and returned to the register.

Collins raised his iPhone. “I have an idea,” he said, as if it had just dawned on him. “Could I take a picture of the different drugs—whatever you recommend for a big cougar—so that I can show the boss the options?”

Harlan shrugged. “Sure. I guess.” He stepped to a refrigerator against the nearest wall, took a key from his pocket, and unlocked the padlock on the door. Pulled out some boxes, shut the fridge, and returned to the counter. Positioned the boxes in front of Collins and lifted one of them.

“Etorphine hydrochloride,” he said. “Also known as M-99. Made by Novartis. Probably the best for a big predator, but definitely ask your vet.”

Collins took a picture of the boxes and said, “They probably know how to load the darts, up at the ranch, but could you show me anyway?”

Harlan shrugged again and removed one of the one-cc darts from its plastic-wrap package. “Premeasured capsule goes here,” he said, pointing with his finger. “Dart hits the animal, and the momentum makes the little steel ball at the rear of the injector fly forward and drive the syringe plunger. Needle injects the dose, and the drug causes torpor and prostration within minutes. Gotta monitor the animal’s vital signs after that and be ready with the antidote.”

He held up another box. “This is the antidote for the M-99. Large Animal Revivon it’s called. Technical name, Diprenorphine. But your vet or Fish and Wildife rep will know all this.”

Collins smiled. “This is really helpful. Thank you.”

Harlan nodded and began gathering up the little boxes. There was a loud click, and when Harlan lifted his eyes again, he found the barrel of a Glock 19 a few inches from his face.

“This is a handgun,” said Collins. “I think they still call it that.”

Harlan froze, eyes wide behind his battered glasses. He lifted his hands slowly then, without being asked.

Pimple Boy had the same kind of shocked expression, the smirk finally absent from his acne-riddled face.

“Get your hands up, too,” said Collins, “Or I’ll shoot your pal here in the head.”

Pimple Boy complied. Raised his hands high.

“Great,” said Collins, turning and fixing his eyes on Harlan once more. “Now. Think carefully. Is there anything else we might need to tranquilize and detain a large, aggressive predator?”

Harlan kept his hands elevated and shook his head slowly, swallowed twice, and said, “No. I think this would cover it.” His eyes flicked to the pile of merchandise on the counter. “This is really all you need. More than you need.”

Collins nodded. “Great. Good. Thank you.” He glanced at Pimple Boy, then back at Harlan. “And thanks for the attitude, as well.”

Harlan’s mouth opened in an awkward smile, like he didn’t understand the compliment. A vein throbbed in his neck, and sweat glistened on his pale forehead.

“Makes it easier to kill you,” said Collins.

He shot Harlan in the face, twice. Then turned to find Pimple Boy frozen in his chair, as the roar of the first two rounds faded to silence. Collins fired again—three quick shots this time. The kid flew puppetlike against a filing cabinet and crashed to the ground, tumbling out of his wheeled office chair as he hit the faux-tile floor. The boom of the shots faded once more and the cheery, brainless Muzak continued as if nothing had happened. As if it were just another boring day at Gallatin Veterinary.

Collins put the Glock away, stuffed the drugs into his pockets, and grabbed the “projectors” off the counter, along with his credit card and ID. He walked outside and got in the truck. Exited the gravel lot at normal speed and two minutes later was on I-90, bound for the Buffalo Jump exit, twenty-three miles to the west.

THE SOLO HIKER STRODE
toward the helicopters. A big guy wearing a sun hat, long-sleeved shirt, and shorts, and carrying a daypack. They all watched him approach, and Ella felt a flicker of hope.

Beck crouched in front of Ella and Joe. Looked them in the eye one at a time. “Keep your mouths shut. Guy says anything to you, just give a short, friendly answer and leave it at that. No long conversations.”

Ella said “How are we supposed to give short, friendly answers with our mouths shut?”

Beck leaned closer. Glared at Ella. “Make this difficult, princess, and you’ll suffer more than ever. That’s a promise.”

Beck turned to Dodd and said, “Give me your hat.” 

Dodd removed his baseball cap, reluctantly, looked at it, and tossed it to Beck. Beck passed it to Joe. “Put it on,” he said. “Keep it on. Keep your bandages covered.”

The hiker was only a couple of hundred yards away now, and they could see that he was young—mid-twenties—and tall. He had a long, loping gait. 

He stopped fifty yards from the nearest helicopter and took a picture with his iPhone.

“Nice rides,” he called. “What’re you guys up to?”

Beck stepped from the shade of the nearest helicopter and gave a little wave. “Film crew,” he said. “Making a documentary.”

“Whoa! Sweet.” The hiker came forward and shook Beck’s hand enthusiastically. “Edwin Kohl,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same here,” said Beck.

The hiker grinned. Looked around. “This is
so
cool!”

His gear looked brand-new. Fresh from REI or L.L.Bean. New long-sleeved hiking shirt. New sun hat. New boots. New daypack with a
100 Best Bozeman Area Hikes
guidebook jutting out of a side pocket.

He reminded Ella of a big, friendly puppy. A nice guy. And a bit of a nerd.
Engineer
, she thought.
Maybe a software guy. Probably new to Bozeman. Maybe new to the West.
He’s exploring his new home.
Seeing the sights.

Edwin Kohl lifted his iPhone for another picture. “So you guys filming from the air or just using these to get around?”

“Both,” said Beck. “Taking a break at the moment—waiting for the light to get better.”

“Got it,” said Kohl.

Ella caught Kohl’s eye as he was finishing his picture.

Smiled at him. He smiled back.

“Hi,” he said, ambling toward her. He swung his pack down in front of Ella and Joe and fished a bag of trail mix out of the top compartment. Offered it to them. Joe declined, but Ella scooped out a handful of nuts and raisins and M&M’s. Then, instead of handing the bag back to Kohl, she set it inside the top of his open pack—the note she’d written on the Erebus jet folded into a little square underneath.

Ella looked up slowly, worried that Beck or one of his men had seen what she’d done, but no one seemed to be watching.

Kohl was turning this way and that, gawking at his surroundings. “A film, huh?” he said enthusiastically. “What about?”

“The Plains Indians,” said Beck. “The people who used to live here.”

“Cool.” The hiker removed his hat, revealing curly, dark hair wet with sweat. “So where’s your gear? All your cameras and stuff?”

Beck waved at the tarp covering the weapons. “Under cover. Keeping it out of the sun, you know.”

Ella feared Kohl might ask to see the gear, but he said nothing more, just looked around, munching on trail mix and smiling.

Donaldson and Wicks were still sitting in the Bell 206L4. Talking quietly with the doors open.

Kehler and Dodd were resting in the dirt, staring absently at the plain, avoiding eye contact with Kohl, or so it seemed. Wilden was busy scanning the prairie with a huge pair of binoculars, tracking two coyotes as they zigzagged through the tall grass. Ring was beneath the open-sided tent, tapping away on a laptop—also not paying Kohl the slightest heed.

“Solo trip today?” Beck asked the hiker, in his most relaxed, congenial tone.

“Yep,” said Kohl. He laughed. “I hike fast. Tend to leave my buddies in the dust. Solo’s easier.”

“Gotcha,” Beck replied. 

Kohl looked at Joe and seemed to notice the exhaustion in the priest’s face. “They make you carry all the gear or something?” he asked, laughing.

Joe peered up at him. Smiled. “Something like that.”

Kohl laughed again, stuffed everything back in his pack, and cinched it shut.

Ella guessed the note had fallen to the bottom of the pack. Kohl would find it when he got to his car. Or back home. Hopefully.

The hiker gulped some water from a bottle and glanced at Ella again. “Man, I’d love to stay and watch you guys film, but I’d better be gettin’ back.”

Alarms were ringing inside Edwin Kohl’s big, gregarious skull, and he wanted now only to leave the helicopters and the odd group of people assembled around them and to hike directly back the way he had come.

The scene just didn’t make sense. For one thing, Beck’s team didn’t
look
like a film crew. The big guys sitting in the dirt looked like bodybuilders. Tough guys. Soldiers.

The couple was weird, too. The guy looked sick. Sick enough to be in a hospital. And the gorgeous woman? She was smiling, but didn’t seem happy at all.

The leader was strange, too. Another military guy—but with a crazy gleam in his eye.

Edwin Kohl felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as he shouldered his pack. Then berated himself for being fearful.

I’m in a state park, for God’s sake. The sun is shining. There are tourists just below the cliffs. I’m overreacting.

 Still, he wanted to leave.

“Okay,” he said, tightening the straps on his pack. “Good luck to you guys. Hope the filming goes well.”

Edwin Kohl glanced at Ella one final time as he turned to leave. Beck wasn’t watching—no one was watching—and her expression had changed utterly.

Help us!
She mouthed the words. Eyes wide.
Help us!

The hiker’s Adam’s apple jumped, and he gave a small nod.

“Okay,” he called cheerfully, backing away. “See you guys.”

Kohl had gone about three paces when Beck said, “Wanna see the camera we use?”

Kohl turned toward the tarp Beck had pointed out earlier. “Oh, thanks. But I better be gettin’ back.”

Beck smiled. “Camera’s in the helicopter.”

He gestured to the Bell 206B3 “Just take a second. The lenses are all laid out on the seats. Pretty cool setup.”

The hiker hesitated. Stood there in the sun, trying to decide whether to run or play it cool. 

He relaxed. What could it hurt to look in the window of the chopper? 

Beck walked to the far side of the Bell. To the back. Away from Ella and the others.

“We use all German lenses,” Beck was saying as the hiker leaned toward the window.