“But there’s also, BS is BS. ‘Being smart is being safe.’”

“I’m staying,” Kira said. “Unless you’re kicking me out?”

“Yeah, right,” Fiona said. She touched the remote and the movie continued.

Kira settled back into the couch and pulled the bowl of popcorn into her lap. “I love it when they go to Paris,” she said.

But not Yellowstone, Fiona was about to say. She didn’t.

With Beatrice leading the way, Walt, Fiona, Tommy Brandon, and Guillermo Menquez followed a game path through a dark forest of fir, white pine, and aspen on a north-facing slope. Beatrice was not actually leading, but following a scent from a can of evaporated milk found by Fish and Game Deputy Ranger Menquez a hundred yards from the Berkholders’ stucco home. That the can carried a scent, and that that scent led them deeper into the woods, encouraged Walt that they were onto something.

“No bear tracks that I’ve seen,” Menquez said. He was a stocky man with a thick mustache and an oily face.

“No scat,” Walt said, agreeing. “No fur caught in the shrubs or on the stumps of old branches-”

“Show-off,” Fiona said.

Walt ignored it. “No evidence that any of the food in the kitchen had been consumed.” He expected Beatrice to lead them to a camper, a squatter, and Menquez, a bear expert, was along in case they encountered one-or, if Walt’s theory proved right, the “bear” required a translator. The Hispanic population had exploded in the valley over the past decade. Increasingly, his office and Fish and Game dealt with Mexicans squatting in the national forest while moving from one menial job to another. With the collapse of the economy had come whole settlements of twenty, forty, sixty day laborers in illegal campsites. Fiona was along to record whatever was found, and because for the past several days she’d come out of her cocoon to repeatedly badger Walt about finding and removing whatever-whoever-was living in the woods near the Engletons’.

Walt extended his arm, stopping the others, and dropped to one knee, focusing on the brown pine straw that covered the barely discernible trail.

“Brandon! A stick,” he said, reaching back with an open palm.

Tommy Brandon found a fallen limb, cracked off a dry branch, and delivered it to Walt like a nurse to a surgeon. Walt reduced it further.

“Photo, please.”

Fiona sneaked forward and made several pictures of the area in front of Walt. “It might help,” she said, “if I knew what I was photographing.”

“Right here,” he said, using the tip of the stick to gently lift the edge of a fallen leaf. He pushed the leaf away, pinched it, and tossed it behind him. “Another photo,” he said.

“What is that?” she asked. She zoomed in on the pine straw and for the first time saw through the lens that half a dozen of the brown needles were cracked and broken. “You couldn’t have seen that,” she mumbled.

“Here,” he said, using the stick to point out a small frown of discoloration. “It’s a toe impression,” he said. “A boot or Vibram sole-something stiff and inflexible. Not a running shoe.” He looked down at his own boot. “Size ten or eleven. We’re lucky it hasn’t rained in the past couple of weeks.” He looked up the trail and whistled for Beatrice to stop. Once the dog was looking at him, Walt made a hand gesture and she sat on the side of the trail. “We don’t want her disturbing things. It’s a man.” He looked behind him. Then he took hold of Fiona’s hiking boot and lifted it up and moved it. “He’s over a hundred and…” He sized up Fiona, “twenty pounds, and less than one-eighty.”

“Jesus,” she gasped, amazed he nailed her weight.

“Six feet or a little more.”

Fiona glanced back at Brandon, who nodded as if to reassure her that the sheriff was for real.

“Beatrice,” Fiona stated. “You saw a change in Beatrice as she passed by here.”

“Very good, Ms. Kenshaw,” Walt said.

“Her nose? Her tail? What?”

“Both,” Walt answered. “She’s my Geiger counter. She’s the one in charge at the moment, and she knows it. Look at her up there.”

The dog sat proudly on the side of the trail, with an expression that seemed to ask what was keeping them.

“You ever seen anything cuter than that?” Walt said. “She’s impatient with us!”

“Truthfully, I’m a little freaked out,” Fiona said.

“It’s what I do,” Walt said. “What Bea and I do. No big deal.”

“Unless you happen to see it in action,” Fiona said. “The height? How do you get that?”

Brandon answered. “Shoe size combined with weight. Big feet, not very heavy. Tall and thin.”

“Not Hispanic,” Menquez said. “Not very likely if he’s over six feet.”

“No, Gilly,” Walt said. “How do you feel about going off trail?”

“Point the way,” Menquez said.

Brandon, reading a topo map, said, “There’s a half-acre bench ahead, maybe two hundred yards.”

“Water source?” Walt said.

“An intermittent stream, spring fed on the backside of the bench.”

Walt looked up into the trees. “Running northwest to southeast,” he said.

“Exactly,” Brandon answered.

“You are showing off, aren’t you?” Fiona said to Walt. “You’ve been here before.”

“Doubtful,” said Brandon before Walt could answer.

Walt silenced her with a look. “We go in silent,” he said, addressing them all. “Brandon, you’ll go upstream from this side.” He pointed. “Gilly, we’ll give you a headstart. You’re to the north and I want you to come up over the lip and onto the bench the same time as I do. We’ll use channel six. I’ll give you two clicks. If you’re in position, you’ll return with two; if you need another minute, three clicks; two minutes, four.”

Menquez nodded and took off into the woods without anything more said. He moved as silently as a cat.

“You,” Walt said to Fiona, “will stop when I motion for you to stop. I want you behind a tree in case any shots are fired. You’re not to move until I call for you. The best way you can help me right now is not to think; just follow orders. I know that runs against your grain-against your brain-but…”

“No problem. I get it.”

“Okay. Good.” He addressed Brandon. “Let’s go.”

Walt received three clicks from Menquez, kept an eye on his watch, and sent the two-click signal a minute later. As two clicks were returned, Walt pushed up the final incline and popped out through the forest into the gleaming sunshine. The effect on his eyes was as if he’d left twilight and stepped into the glare of spotlights. He slipped on his aviators, picking up Menquez in his peripheral vision.

Brandon, who’d beaten them both to the site, stepped out from behind a tree near the trickling stream fifty yards to Walt’s left.

At the back side of the small clearing, near the stream and against the hill in a copse of aspens, was a fire ring of stones producing steam, some litter, a lean-to, and a small stack of sticks and firewood. The men came at it from three sides, an adrenaline-charged spring to their steps.

Walt dropped to a knee, placed his hand first on the firestones, then into the steam and charred wood at its center. He held up five fingers on his right hand: five minutes. He silently signaled Brandon, directing him up the hill. Brandon took off.

Walt turned around and motioned at the woods, and Beatrice came running toward him at full speed. He dropped her into a sit with a second hand signal, recharged her nose with the can of evaporated milk, and pointed into the woods.

“Find it!” he whispered.

The dog hurried off in the same direction as Brandon had gone.

Walt stirred the litter with a stick, looking for an expiration date, but found nothing.

“Our boy?” Menquez asked, studying the inside of the open lean-to.

“Someone… two people… bedded down here. Recent enough that the wind hasn’t disturbed it.”