Free Fire

22

With electric peak to the northwest, bunsen Peak to the east, and Swan Lake ahead on her left, Demming’s tires sang on the thin strip of roadway across the meadow with the peculiar, discordant note that came from the chips of sharp black obsidian that had been mixed into the asphalt by a long-agoroad crew that probably included her husband, Lars. It was twilight, twenty minutes from Mammoth and home. She was headed north; it was an hour past the end of her shift but she wouldn’t claim the overtime because she didn’t want to explain to anyone why she was running late.

Her laptop was on the seat next to her in the cruiser, filled with downloaded videotapes from the West and North entrance gates. She hoped Joe had been as successful.

Because she was driving the only car on the road, she goosed up her speed to fifty, five miles over the park speed limit. The brilliant flashes of white on the leaden surface of the lake ahead were, in fact, trumpeter swans. Thus, Swan Lake. She’d be good at interpretation, she thought. She noticed things.

Like the black SUV with the smoked windows ahead of her. It was headed north also, and she could feel her heart race as she slowly closed the gap between them. She hadn’t seen where the SUV came onto the road, and could only assume the driver had seen her because he was careful to keep to the speed limit as she neared.

There was no way to determine if this was the black SUV she had seen the day before, other than the fact that the hairs on her forearm and the back of her neck were standing up. She got closer.

Wyoming plates, County 22. Jackson Hole. On closer inspectionshe could see a sticker on the back window from Hertz. A rental. So the driver could be from anywhere and likely chose Jackson since it had the biggest airport of the park gateway cities and the most arriving flights.

When the last shafts of the sun hit the SUV just right she could see two people in it. Men. She recognized neither of them by profile, but noticed the driver had his head tilted up and to the right as he drove. He was watching her approach in the rearview mirror. She wished she could see his eyes or part of his face but the glass was too dark.

She slowed to maintain a cushion of a hundred feet and plucked the mike from its cradle on the dash. She tried to speak calmly.

“Dispatch, this is YP-twenty-nine, requesting backup. I’m in visual contact with a black SUV that matches the description of the vehicle reported yesterday near Biscuit Basin. I think it’s the same one we issued the BOLO for yesterday. Repeat: requestingbackup. I’m northbound to Mammoth at Swan Lake. I’d like to pull it over and see who’s inside.”

“Roger that,” the dispatcher said. “Backup is on the way.”

“ETA?”

“Five minutes.”

She let out a long breath in relief. Five minutes was good. Because of the distances in the park and two-lane traffic, it wasn’t unusual to receive ETAs of fifteen and twenty minutes. She eased the cruiser ahead, narrowing the space between them to fifty feet, sending a signal. There would be no doubt now to the driver of the SUV that he was being pursued.

Trying not to make rapid movements, she reached up and unsnapped the buckle of the twelve-gauge pump mounted on the console. For reassurance, she patted her handgun on her belt, rubbed the leather of the holster with her thumb. Then unsnappedit for quick access.

As the two vehicles slowed to round a corner, she looked ahead on the highway as far as she could see for headlights, assumingthat her backup would arrive head-on, dispatched from Mammoth itself. The highway was clear.

She was both pleased and surprised when an NPS Crown Vic cruiser appeared suddenly in her rearview mirror. The backup had arrived much sooner than she anticipated, and she was now ready.

Snapping the toggle for the wigwag lights on the roof light bar, she said, “Let’s see who you are.”

Behind her, the backup cruiser did the same, flooding the insideof her car with explosions of blue and red.

The black SUV continued on, without speeding up or slowingdown. After thirty seconds, she began to worry. Of course, it had happened before. Citizens who were straining to look for wildlife or simply unaware of their surroundings sometimes claimed they hadn’t seen her behind them. But she knew the driver had been watching.

As she reached up to whoop the siren, the brake lights flashed on the SUV and it slowed. She did the same, closing to within twenty yards. Finally, the vehicle swung into a pavement pullout. The driver was courteous enough to park at the far end of the pullout, leaving enough space for both NPS cruisers to park off the road.

“Okay, then,” Demming said to herself. She was trained to emerge slowly, keeping part of her body in the cruiser in case the driver ahead decided to gun his engine and make a run. She paused, as trained, behind her open door while she fitted her hat on. The parking lights lit on the SUV, a good sign. The tailpipe burbled with exhaust, meaning the driver hadn’t killed the motor.Not such a good sign.

At once, the driver and passenger doors opened and a man swung out of each.

“Get back in the vehicle,” she said, surprising herself with the force of her command.

The driver wore glasses and had silver hair and an owlish look on his face. He was tall, probably mid-fifties, dressed in jeans, a white shirt, and a blazer. He didn’t look like a man on vacation. The passenger was shorter, with a smaller build and an eager, boyish face and dark, darting eyes. He looked vaguely familiar and seemed to know it by the way he avoided her.

Then things happened rapidly, but with absolute, terrifying clarity.

The driver turned and reached for his door handle, but the passenger didn’t. Instead, he fixed his gaze on Demming’s backup, behind her and to her left. Demming fought the urge to look over her shoulder, but she did when the passenger seemed to signal something to her backup with an almost imperceptible nod of his head.

They knew each other.

Demming snapped a glance over her left shoulder, saw the ranger she recognized with a gun leveled on her-not his serviceweapon but a cheap throw-down-heard the sharp pop, and felt as if she’d been hit in the ribs with a sledgehammer. She didn’t feel her legs give out but knew they had when all she could see were the dull black glints of obsidian chips in the pavement inches from her face. A flash of white-her hand- on the cold asphalt, scuttling across her vision like a crab for the weapon she’d dropped when she was hit. Where was it?

“Again,” the passenger said. His voice was clear.

Demming turned her head to see the black hole of the muzzleof the weapon two feet from her face and the coldly determinedlook on the face of the shooter. She wanted to ask, “Why you?” Closing her eyes tightly, she clearly saw Jake and Erin at home, watching the clock, waiting for dinner.