Two thousand feet up the mountain wall, National Parks Service ranger Owen Barber stood beside his jacked-up pickup, watching the headlights of the Tahoe as it climbed up slowly through the dry prairie grass and lodge pole pine. After another minute, he lowered his binoculars, laid them on the hood of the truck with a clunk and turned.

On the other side of the ridge saddle he was parked upon was a descending hollow of exposed rock that looked almost lunar in nature. Beyond the hollow in the northwestern distance stood a line of immense mountains, high and jagged against the paling sky like the graph of some volatile company stock.

Barber rapped on the side of the pickup with a knuckle as he gazed out at the sublime landscape.

He’d been to Iraq and Afghanistan with the 101st Airborne, but west Wyoming was beyond anything he’d ever seen.

It was coming on fifteen minutes later when the Tahoe finally arrived. The first one out of it was small and bald. Teton County sheriff Jim Kirkwood.

“Morning, Owen,” Kirkwood said, handing Barber the warm steel thermos he held in his hand.

“Morning, Jim. Thanks,” Barber said, turning and looking over at the FBI agents Kirkwood had just chauffeured up the off-road slope.

There were two of them, a man and woman, sitting in the sheriff’s vehicle talking to each other. Through the windshield, Barber could see they were wearing navy-blue windbreakers just like on TV.

Barber was pouring out his second coffee when they finally emerged.

The man was a burly individual in his early forties with some muscle on him. The female agent was younger, Barber saw, about thirty-five. She was a little on the short side but quite pretty. Even with her brown hair pulled back tight.

They were both wearing fleece under their raid jackets as well as hiking boots.

So maybe they weren’t completely stupid, Barber thought as he tipped the camp cup to his lips.

“Hi, I’m Dennis,” the male agent said. “Dennis Braddock.”

“Owen Barber,” the ranger said, raising the cup lid at him.

“Thanks for standing post until we could get here, Owen. It really means a lot,” Braddock said, looking him square in the eye.

Barber nodded again then sipped some more coffee.

Former military, he decided. Man had some grit. Or at least a passable appearance thereof.

“Which one is Grand Teton?” Braddock said, looking to the northwest above the hollow at the slightly off-kilter peaks.

“It’s that one there,” the FBI woman said, suddenly standing beside them, pointing.

“Right?” she said, turning to Ranger Barber with a radiant smile.

Barber looked down at her in the waft of the wind. At her light brown eyes. The spark there.

“You’re right,” he finally said with his own smile back. “That is it.”

“This is Agent Hagen,” Braddock said.

“You can call me Kit,” she said to Barber with another smile.

A man could get used to those, Barber thought.

“How far down are we looking?” Braddock said, gazing over the ridge saddle down into the blue-shadowed hollow.