In the pocket of the surplus army jacket Carolyn Van Slyke was caught dead in, the jacket they were pretty sure belonged to William McCaskil, was a piece of note paper. "B amp; C" was written at the top. Below was a list of numbers. Boone and Crockett and the measurements of a trophy animal, Anna was willing to bet. In the morning she would radio Ruick and get him to check it out.

What, if anything, it had to do with Van Slyke's murder, she couldn't fathom. Had Carolyn seen and photographed this animal and so been killed and mutilated, her film stolen? Glacier didn't have trophy-sized bears, but there were other creatures: moose, elk, mountain lion. That didn't account for the omnivore food. And who would kill and mutilate a photographer for taking a picture of the animal? How would one be caught in a compromising position with a trophy-sized animal? It was feasible the poacher could pack the kill out. They needn't take the whole animal. Just the head.

Now there was a grisly picture.

Anna shook her head in the dark. By dint of great mental strain, she'd solved one more small mystery: what the list in the army jacket meant. And nothing but nothing was cleared up.

"You asleep, Joan?" she whispered on impulse.

No answer from the neighboring tent.

"Goodnight then," she said and resolutely shut her brain off for the night.

Work was good: hard, hot, deerflies biting. Wretched scrambles through cutting brush with a heavy pack on was what Anna was good at. Like fighting wildland fire, it was deliciously mindless in that just staying on one's feet and doing one's job took total concentration. Joan Rand was an added blessing. When Anna had a boss she trusted, she found enormous relief and contentment in just following orders.

Shortly after two p.m. they had the DNA hair trap assembled. Rory predicted the pickings from this site would be slim. He expressed the opinion that the North American grizzly was too intelligent to work as hard as they had just to roll in essence of rotted fish and eat a few huckleberries.

Rory was showing signs of being a kid and not the scared, suspicious shadow of an adult that Anna'd seen when they'd first met. She was beginning to enjoy his company. Joan always had, but then when it came to adolescent boys she saw through the eyes of a mother. Anna's were more akin to those of a parole officer.

The eighty feet of barbed wire stapled in a rough circle around a place that was only flat in Joan's imagination, they began the butt-and-heels slide down to the trail.

The next site to be disassembled was back the direction they'd camped. A luxury-since they'd be several nights there, they didn't have to carry all their gear on their backs during the day.

With a minimum of cursing and scratches, they regained the trail. As they caught their breath, the radio crackled out Joan's call number. It was the chief ranger asking for Anna.

"You got a fax," Ruick said. "From some gal at the Tampa tourism office. Looks like a brochure for Fetterman's Adventure Trails. Nothing on it clicked with me. I'm guessing the alias was a fluke."

"Describe it for me." Anna waited while Harry marshaled his thoughts.

"Nothing out of the ordinary. It's a fax. The resolution isn't all that great. Fetterman's looks like a lot of those tourist trap places. Fun for the whole family sort of thing. There's a picture of what's probably an alligator. Let's see. Animal shows. Souvenirs. Looks like a kind of swamp tour thing with nutria being fed to gators. Kind of a mom and pop operation. There's a group picture on the back. Faces are a blur. Underneath. Let's see… 'Looking forward to new friends, George and Suzanne Fetterman, Carl Micou, Geoffrey Micou, Arthur Gray and Tunis Chick.'

"The gal who sent it has written in the margin, Adventure Trails was closed down after George Fetterman's death earlier this summer.' "

"How old is the brochure?" Anna asked. "Can you tell?"

"Hmm. Lemme see, lemme see. Here. Nineteen ninety-six. Old. I expect nothing much changed in Adventure Trails from year to year."

Anna gave the radio back to Joan. Harry had just called as a courtesy. The brochure held little interest and less information. Neither she nor he had any desire to waste airtime playing twenty questions to figure out what if anything a derelict roadside attraction in Florida had to do with a dead and mutilated Seattle divorce lawyer in Montana.

In fact, Anna's mental gears had been sufficiently shifted over to the DNA project that they had hiked two miles down the trail before she figured it out.

"Joan! Stop!"

Joan and Rory turned to look back at her. Anna had stalled in the middle of the trail.

"Tell me about that boy you've been e-mailing. The one making the map," she demanded of the researcher.

Normally it would have been a hike of four hours or more from where they were to the tiny meadow where they had camped nearly a week before. They covered the ground in just over three, arriving an hour before sunset.

Having left tents, stoves, sleeping bags and the rest of their camping gear behind, they traveled light and moved quickly. Without the amenities the night would be uncomfortable but Anna had not wanted to lose the time it would have taken to return and strike camp then climb back up to the plateau on Flattop carrying the added burdens.

In truth she'd not wanted the added burden in the persons of Joan and Rory but, after she'd traded her theory for Joan's information, they refused to be left behind. It increased her sense of responsibility, yet she was glad not to be alone. Because she suspected the park radios were being listened to by people other than rangers, she'd made the decision not to call Ruick to send backup.

The decision was not as foolhardy as it appeared on the surface. No one could start for the high country till morning anyway. Anna had all night to change her mind.

Leaving the trail before it neared Trapper Peak, Anna, Joan and Rory followed the slope in a southerly direction along the side of Flattop. This flank of the mountain was west-facing and caught the brunt of the afternoon sun. Several tiny lakes, carved an eternity before by glaciers and fed by small streams carrying snowmelt, provided water. It was prime huckleberry country and the berries were at the height of their season.

A half-mile or so beyond their old campsite, on an upthrust of rock, Anna stopped. Partly she was motivated by the sounds of heavy breathing behind her. She'd set a punishing pace. That she, too, was breathing hard was of no consequence. If she was right, time was of the essence, not only to save a valuable life but to see a sight that she would never forgive herself for missing.

A grunt and sucking sound told her Rory had dumped his pack at the base of the rock and gotten out his water bottle. Joan crept up beside Anna, aping her pose, elbows on the higher stones, body crouched behind. The researcher's round face was alarmingly red. The hair that curled from beneath her ball cap was glued to her cheeks with sweat, and the upper regions of her oversized glasses were beaded with moisture. Despite the physical costs, Joan's first words were, "Do you see anything?"

"Not yet. Tell me again about the e-mails," Anna said.

"Okay. Right. Let me think." Breathewould have been as apt a word. Anna waited while Joan recovered and lined her thoughts up for a round of scientific reasoning.

"First e-mail about six weeks ago. Maybe more. The screen name is Balthazar. He says he's a high school student doing a research project on grizzly bears. He wants to know their ranges, denning habits, eating habits, if they're protected at Glacier, or if we allow hunting. Sensing an acolyte, naturally I fell all over myself to answer."