Fuck me, Dan said, his mouth a tight line. Not another one.

Another one? Kate said. She didn‘t want to set him off again but this sounded interesting. And possibly relevant.

Happens all over the national parks, people thinking they can walk in and just disappear. They‘re right, mostly, but what they don‘t figure is that we have to go look for them anyway. Clueless assholes. The last two words were almost a shout and appeared to be directed at the now empty door. He got to his feet. Show me on the map.

A map of the Park covered most of one wall of Dan‘s office, color-coded for ownership—federal, state, Native corporation, urban, private. The yellow dots signifying land privately owned were barely visible in the sea of green that represented federal parks and wildlife refuges. Smith found the Step road, traced it down to the turnoff, and stopped about half an inch in.

Dan‘s sigh was heartfelt. Great, he said, just dandy. He tapped a red pin. Eddie saw a grizzly male thereabouts a couple of days ago. Big one, he said, he figures record size, gorgeous golden brown hide.

Thought Park rangers weren‘t supposed to think about Park bears in terms like record size‘ and gorgeous hide,‘ Kate said.

Dan snorted. Yeah. Like monks don‘t think about sex. He strapped a .357 to his waist and reached for the .30-06 in the gun rack next to the door. Let‘s go. The convoy of trucks rumbled down the hill and pulled up in back of the abandoned pickup an hour and a half later, good time due to the still semifrozen state of the road.

Kate found the registration in the glove compartment. Dewayne A. Gammons, she said.

Dewayne‘? Mark said.

Gammons‘? Luke said.

What‘s the A stand for? Peter said. Aloysius?

The Grosdidiers snickered en masse.

The glove compartment yielded further the vehicle handbook, a square of foil that proved to be a Trojan condom with a three-year-old sell-by date, and a box of cinnamon Tic Tacs with two left. A more extensive search beneath and behind the bucket seats turned up an empty pint of Windsor Canadian, a lug wrench, an oil filter still in its box, an air filter ditto, a book of matches from the Ahtna Lodge, a Suulutaq Mine flyer extolling Global Harvest‘s environmentally friendly policy that looked as if it had been used to swab oil from a dipstick, and a single round of ammunition.

The cartridge was maybe an inch long. Kate wasn‘t a gun nut, with two weapons to her name, the 12-gauge shotgun in the rack next to the door back home and the .30-06 in the gun rack in the cab of her truck. This was a much smaller cartridge for a much smaller weapon. She handed it to Matt, who flattened his hand and cradled it in his palm. The Grosdidiers crowded around.

CCI, Mark said.

Twenty-two, Luke said.

CB Long, Peter said.

They looked up at Kate and said in a chorus, Girly gun.