A Noble Calling Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2020 by Rhona Weaver

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Two Oaks Press, Little Rock, Arkansas

  www.rhonaweaver.com

  Edited and designed by Girl Friday Productions

  www.girlfridayproductions.com

  Design: Paul Barrett

  Project management: Sara Spees Addicott

  Image credits: front and back cover photos © Bill Temple

  Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  Lyrics from “Nobody In His Right Mind Would’ve Left Her” used with permission from Dean Dillon.

  ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-7347500-0-3

  ISBN (paperback): 978-1-7347500-1-0

  ISBN (ebook): 978-1-7347500-2-7

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020909076

  First edition

  To Suzie

  Chapter One

  No, this day hadn’t gone well from the git-go—even before the red and blue lights swirled in his rearview mirror. He’d driven the last 176 miles from Billings in an early-April snowstorm, not the sort of thing a southern boy handled real well. The low-hanging clouds were as dark as his mood. Just a few months ago, this spring had held such promise: the opportunity to move up the ladder a notch to a prize posting at the Bureau’s New Orleans Field Office—so much white-collar crime and corruption in that city, it’d be like shooting fish in a barrel. The perfect posting for an up-and-coming agent ready to make a name for himself. Reasonably close to home and SEC football—not a bad city to start a family. . . . And then there was that. How had it fallen apart with Shelby? Had he been too focused on the job? Had med school consumed her passion? Had they—

  “Sir, I need to see your license.” Win heard the muffled voice through the frosty window. He hit the power button and the window dropped. The blowing snow and frigid air rushed inside as he struggled to form a coherent response. Standing in a near whiteout wasn’t improving the ranger’s mood. When he had to ask again, there was no “sir.”

  “I need to see your license. Do you know how fast you were going? The park is a forty-five-mile-per-hour zone.”

  “Forty-five? Out here? Uh, I guess maybe fifty-five . . . ,” Win stammered.

  “Well, try sixty-three miles per hour. That’s borderline reckless driving here. Step out of the vehicle, sir.” The cool blue eyes under the Smokey the Bear hat didn’t look a bit friendly. The ranger was near Win’s height and probably just past middle age. The close-cropped gray hair under his flat hat gave him a military bearing, and a deep scowl conveyed his thoughts. He clearly wasn’t pleased with Win’s lack of awareness.

  Win stepped out of his ten-year-old SUV and the wind cut completely through his jean jacket.

  The tall man in green now had a hostile stance that matched his tone. “Got your truck crammed full—one of the seasonal employees working in the park, are you? Guess you didn’t notice the big ‘45 MPH’ sign at the entrance? Or maybe you didn’t notice you were entering Yellowstone National Park? Not paying a lot of attention, are you?”

  The condescending lecture was jarring. No, Win thought, this isn’t going well at all.

  Another man in green approached from the other side of Win’s Explorer and leaned forward against the hood, seemingly oblivious to the snow dancing across it. He casually rested his gloved left hand on the truck, but the wariness in his alert eyes contradicted his easygoing approach. The man’s thin smile showed no warmth; Win knew his right hand was resting on his weapon. He was maybe in his early forties and much smaller than the first ranger, five eleven or so, but he moved with a quiet confidence that demanded respect. Self-pity and lack of sleep aside, Win quickly realized it was time to snap out of it or things could go downhill fast.

  He sucked in an icy breath and shifted his eyes back to the tall, older ranger. “Sir, I’m sorry I was speeding. I’m Win Tyler, the agent assigned to the park’s FBI satellite office. I just drove in from—”

  “Well, isn’t that special! Hear that, Gus? This boy is the new Fed they’ve assigned us. Where’s that ID, son? Let’s see . . .” He looked at the gold badge, then flipped open Win’s credentials. “Hmmm . . . says Special Agent Winston R. Tyler. Coming to Mammoth Hot Springs from, let’s see, license says Charlotte, North Carolina. Moving to the wilderness from the big city. What did you screw up to get shipped out here?”

  A rhetorical question, Win supposed. He suddenly wasn’t cold, and the snow seemed hardly a bother. This guy was hitting a little too close to home.

  The ranger handed back the credentials and driver’s license through the swirl of white and turned to the other figure in green. “Well, Gus, we’ve got real work to do.” He glanced dismissively toward Win. “Speed limit is forty-five. No matter who you work for.” He turned on his heel into the blinding flashing lights on his SUV.

  The smaller man was still leaning on Win’s old red Ford. “Slow it down, Sport. Oh, and welcome to Yellowstone. Mammoth is three miles up the hill.” There wasn’t a hint of welcome in the stern voice.

  Win hunkered down in his truck seat as their large white-and-green SUV pulled onto the highway. Obviously, these rangers had never heard of the brotherhood in law enforcement. On the other hand, he didn’t have a speeding ticket. Some consolation: It wasn’t going well, but it could be going worse.

  He shivered as the heater in the Explorer tried to keep up with the wintry air blowing in the open window. He hit the window’s power switch and watched the tire tracks of the rangers’ SUV rapidly fill in with snow. If he was going to make it up a three-mile hill in this weather, it was time to move on, as the highway was quickly turning white.

  What did you screw up to get shipped out here? The ranger’s exact words. Win tried to keep his mind from going there. No agent would volunteer to sit for two to three years in Yellowstone National Park unless they were on their way out. Nothing of note ever happened here. He’d joined the FBI to catch bad guys, save the country from terrorists and crooks, and maybe even build a successful career—not to be stuck in a two-agent office cut off from the world by snow and cold for seven months of the year, with only petty thieves and poachers to investigate.

  The Explorer fishtailed as Win cautiously drove up the mountain, now at well under the speed limit. Even with the poor visibility, focusing on the road was far easier than focusing on his downwardly spiraling life.

  * * *

  Normally, Win wouldn’t think of dropping in to any federal building, much less his new office, in anything less than slacks and a sport coat. But this wasn’t a normal day; this was his first day of exile, his first day somewhere he desperately didn’t want to be. He rolled the Ford into one of the many empty spots in front of the Yellowstone Justice Center. He’d looked it up on the internet, so he wasn’t surprised to see a modern two-story building constructed to more or less blend in with the surrounding historic stone-and-frame structures. The setting might be pretty, he supposed, but today everything was shrouded by low clouds and bands of blowing snow.

  Win had been told to check in at the FBI office and the resident agent would get him to his housing. He still had a few days of administrative leave remaining to get things settled. He drew a deep breath. Let’s ge
t this over with. The cold wind hit him as he sprinted up the steps to the front entrance. He made a mental note to find his heavy coat.

  He passed through the metal-and-glass exterior doors and heard a click as someone unlocked a second set of more ornate, inlaid wooden doors. The lobby was empty—no one was manning the security system. His glance took in gray slate floors, gold stucco walls, and black ironwork on the light fixtures and upstairs railing. The design was meant to convey a western feel, but bright fluorescent lighting, sterile stainless-steel security features, and nondescript wall adornments negated many of the efforts at originality. Maybe it was his melancholy mood, but the building felt no different than other small, modern courthouses he’d visited. The ubiquitous black directory was beside the single elevator. Win’s eyes scanned it quickly: Courtroom, Judge’s Chambers, Assistant U.S. Attorney, U.S. Marshals Service, and several other offices, but no FBI. That’s odd.

  A short, portly figure in green and gray moved into his sight from an office near the entrance. “Hello there. Looking for someone?” At least the man had a friendly voice.

  “Winston Tyler, FBI. Just been assigned here. I need to find the office and—”

  “Oh, you’re the speeder Chief Randall and Gus caught on the hill. Happy to have you here!” The man stuck out his hand and surprised Win with a strong handshake. He was wearing a Park Service uniform and carrying a firearm, but far past middle age and obviously not on a physical-training regimen.

  “Sorry if the hand is sticky—lunchtime, you know.” He pulled the hand away and wiped it on his pants. “I’m Bill Wilson, been here fifteen years, retired from the Nevada Highway Patrol way back when. I’m guarding the building till the U.S. Marshals and their security service get their contract worked out. Screwed-up mess in Washington! Supposed to have three contract folks standing guard here. Overkill, if you ask me. It’s not like we’re overrun with security threats.”

  The guy was a talker, and he’d already heard about the speeding stop less than fifteen minutes earlier. Win reverted to his southern roots. If nothing else comes to mind, talk about the weather.

  “Good to meet you, Officer Wilson. Terrible weather driving here this morning.”

  The man peered out the double set of glass doors at the snow with disinterest. “They call all of us rangers here, law enforcement or not. . . . Oh, that little snow squall won’t amount to nothing. We get those till June.”

  Win tried again. “So where’s the FBI office?”

  “You can call me Bill. Yeah, well, the FBI was supposed to be in this building, but there wasn’t enough funding to finish out their office space. It’s vacant. Couldn’t even finish the jail. Building went two million over budget and they still didn’t get it done.” He shrugged. “Federal budgets, you know.”

  “So where is the FBI office?”

  “Just down the street, in the Corps of Engineers Building, second floor. That little stone building was built in 1903 and used as the park’s courthouse for over seventy years. It was the smallest federal courtroom in the U.S.” The ranger glanced at his watch. “Let’s see, it’s after one o’clock. You can probably catch Johnson back at his office. No disrespect, everybody calls Agent Johnson ‘Johnson.’ He’s been here five years, nearly a permanent fixture. I think he likes being in the old building. Over there, it sorta keeps him out of the action.”

  What action? Win thought. It’s quiet as a tomb in here.

  Win moved toward the front doors as the older man followed, now talking about how long it took to construct the Justice Center. Win said a rushed goodbye and eased toward the exit. The wind nearly jerked the outer door from his hand before he dove down the steps to his truck. He scanned his surroundings again as wind and ice pellets assaulted the windshield. A few huddled pedestrians were moving quickly into buildings, probably coming back from lunch, but largely the parking lots and sidewalks were empty. Ranger Wilson, Bill, was waving to him from behind the double glass doors. Win weakly waved back. Everyone knew everyone else’s business here, same as back home. As an Arkansas boy, he was comfortable with that to a point, but today he felt a deep uneasiness. Do they know why I was sent here? He couldn’t shake the gloom.

  He drove up the street a couple hundred yards and pulled into the gravel side lot of a solid-looking, gray stone building with United States Engineer Office carved into the front cornice. There was nothing to indicate an FBI office was in the ancient structure. There was, however, a large black SUV with two antennas parked in the side lot—a promising sign.

  Win had to admit he hadn’t approached this posting with his usual attention to detail. Maybe it had been the shock of the disciplinary hearing or the suddenness of the transfer. He’d barely researched the FBI’s Denver Field Office or the Jackson Hole Resident Agency, much less this out-of-the-way satellite office where he might have to spend the next few years. Agent Johnson had been on medical leave with shoulder surgery most of last month and hadn’t returned his calls. Yellowstone had no FBI secretary or other support personnel to quiz. An agent in Denver told Win that Spence Johnson was considering retirement; he was a short-timer and wanted nothing to rock the boat. A second agent hadn’t been assigned to Yellowstone in nearly a year. Word had it Agent Johnson thought that was just fine.

  The snow was swirling in patterns across the wide concrete porch of the old building as Win climbed its granite steps. He braced to steady the wooden front doors from the gusting wind as he slid into the small space between the outer doors and the glass-and-oak French doors blocking his way to the lobby. He looked for a security keypad or intercom but found none, so he pushed on the inner doors. They silently swung open into the tiny lobby of the historic building. So much for Bureau security features. Walnut paneling was everywhere and the black iron chandelier in the high plaster ceiling gave off dim light. The narrow room smelled of polished wood and damp stone, and faintly of pine-scented cleaner. There was a stark contrast between this intimate, warm place and the modern courthouse he’d just left. Maybe Johnson’s reasons for staying in the old building went beyond wanting to be left alone.

  The constant hum of a printer was coming from somewhere up the substantial wooden staircase. Except for that sound and the ding of icy precipitation hitting the windows, there was silence.

  The stairs creaked under Win’s boots as he climbed them. The smooth oak handrail had brass fittings and good workmanship. He doubted they used the lowest-bid concept back in the day this was built.

  The second door on the upper floor was open, and harsh fluorescent light poured into the wood-paneled hall. A faded plastic sign on the wall simply stated Federal Bureau of Investigation. It was hardly impressive. Win stopped at the open door. The office was good sized, but it was hard to tell its dimensions since boxes, files, and random pieces of office equipment were stacked everywhere, some head high.

  “Geez, what a mess!” It was Win’s involuntary reaction; it was also a mistake.

  “Who the hell are you, Martha Stewart? Been here ten seconds and already bitching about your new office!”

  Win flinched and backed away. He hadn’t heard or felt the presence of anyone else in the room, yet from under the clutter rose a formidable man.

  “Down here under the desk trying to plug in your phone! And me with a bad shoulder. You can do the computer yourself. A grand entrance you’re making, Agent Tyler! You’ve already managed to tick off the Chief Ranger and his deputy by speeding. And I wouldn’t worry about this mess—you’ll have plenty of time to tidy it up. You can put up little yellow curtains when you finish, for all I care!”

  The voice was deep and harsh, and the big man seemed to just be warming up—lots of pent-up anger there. The guy reminded Win of too many old-school coaches during his football days. Time to brownnose a little.

  Win stepped forward and extended his hand over the boxes on the desk. “Winston Tyler, folks call me Win. Thanks for the help with t
he phone. Heard about your shoulder surgery; hope it’s healing well. I need to find my housing and, uh, get started in the office.” He kept talking fast, hoping the anger would defuse. Johnson accepted the handshake, but his eyes remained in a tight squint. Even though Win and Johnson were technically equals in the Bureau, Johnson had been here for five years, was more than twenty-five years older, and deserved to be treated as the senior resident agent.

  The big man kicked a box out of the way and moved past a pile of discarded printers. Win wasn’t small at six-foot-three, but Agent Johnson was at least two inches taller and much, much broader. He had short, dark-brown hair flecked with gray, a ruddy complexion, and heavy brows over narrow brown eyes. He had the look of a middle-aged fighter—one who could still fight. He also looked more like a hunter than an FBI agent in his heavy twill pants, leather combat boots, and green wool shirt. He wasn’t what Win had been expecting at all.

  For a moment, the hum of the printer was the only sound filling the background; then, mercifully, a telephone rang from somewhere beneath an enormous pile of file folders. Johnson dug out the phone. “FBI!” he barked. Then his angry eyes left Win as he focused inward, hearing what the caller was saying. His responses were clipped. “Okay, out at the Hoodoos. . . . Yes, the abandoned trail. . . . Bordeaux? He’s alone, they think. . . . Randall and Gus are there. . . . Okay. . . . Less than ten minutes.”

  Johnson hung up the landline and was all business. “Got a gunman up on the hill. Most of the park’s law enforcement rangers are at firearms training, hours away. Chief Randall may need a little help coaxing the guy out. Want to go?”

  Is he kidding? Given the reputation of Yellowstone, this might be his only real law enforcement encounter for the next two years. “Sure, yeah. My handgun is boxed in my truck.”

  “No time for that. You got your creds? You can use the shotgun or the MP5 from my vehicle. I can’t use them with my bad arm.” He moved out of the room, grabbed a dark coat from somewhere, and was jogging down the staircase before Win could react.