Clingmans Dome: Aroostine Higgins Novels, #6

1

Great Smoky Mountains National Park

June 4, 2009

The reporter stood in front of the makeshift headquarters for the ATF, FBI, and local police. The law enforcement agencies had set up their temporary control center in the parking lot behind the visitor center. Their choice of location was fortuitous.

From his perch across the creek, wedged between two craggy rocks, Alan Steven Reynolds turned the dials on his binoculars, increasing the magnification. As the woman came into clearer focus, the sight of her trademark wavy red hair resting on her shoulders sent a thrill of surprise and recognition coursing through him.

He’d expected a reporter from the local network affiliate to show up. Maybe a stringer for the newspaper, too. But Nora Ryan was famous. He watched her on the national evening news. Her presence could only mean that everyone was covering the story. No, covering his story.

He clenched his right fist and pumped it in muted celebration. South Atlantic Home Bank had ruined his life. Now, he’d finally get the chance to explain what happened, tell his story, and reclaim his former life. Maybe someone would finally do something about all the banks foreclosing on loans and turning people out of their homes onto the street. Do something about the fallout and upheaval—financial ruin, destroyed marriages, jobs lost from the stress.

He edged out from behind the rocks and strained to catch the reporter’s words. His vantage point was good; it allowed him to monitor the activity in the busy staging area. But his ability to hear depended on which way the wind was blowing and how many engines were running.

It was relatively quiet at the moment. The field agents had paused in setting up the big floodlights that would power their search for him after the sun went down. He wondered if they’d stopped to let the reporter do her stand-up report in peace.

He hinged forward as if he might inhale the bits of phrases that floated across the hollow to him:

Quiet ... loner ... acrimonious divorce ... political statement ... radicalized. Financial difficulties ... eviction ... job eliminated … estimate nearly two hundred dead, seventeen in critical condition.

He sucked in a breath, and his gut twisted. Two hundred dead? She was wrong. She had to be. How could there have been over two hundred people in the office tower on a Saturday afternoon? The mortgage processing center was closed on weekends.

The wind shifted direction, and the next words rang out as if Nora Ryan were standing next to him, speaking directly in his ear.

Authorities say the South Atlantic Home Bank office tower was filled with mortgage center employees who’d volunteered to work overtime to process loan modifications and forbearances in an effort to stem the tide of foreclosures and evictions that have rolled across the region since the worst financial meltdown since the Great Depression.

Bile rose in his throat, and he pressed his hands against his knees, hunching over in case he was going to vomit. He trembled and moaned, a soft keening sound of disbelief.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t what they’d told him would happen. The bombing was supposed to bring attention to their cause. No one would be harmed, they said—it was a statement, not an attack. The reporter’s next words both chilled his blood and snapped him out of his panic:

Authorities are convinced that the alleged bomber won’t last long in the wilds of this great national park. They predict that Mr. Reynolds will be taken into custody before morning.

He was a wanted man, a mass murderer, a domestic terrorist. Now there was no way he could make a statement, explain why he’d done what he’d done.

He pressed himself against the rock and stilled his nerves. When his breath was even and his legs were relatively steady, he slipped back into the shadows and melted into the gray light of dusk. As he cut a course through the rocks and roots, he took care to avoid the rough paths carved out by decades of tourists. When he reached a narrow crevice between two sheer boulders, he turned sideways and sidled through the opening. He squeezed his way to the mouth of a cave, ducked inside, and surveyed his new home.

2

Great Smoky Mountains National Park

The present day

Kurt Jenson removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. The rows and rows of budgetary numbers swam before his eyes. He squeezed them shut for a moment and hoped for a miracle. But when he reopened his eyes and returned his glasses to his face, the numbers were still there. It didn’t matter how long he looked at them. The figures were not magically going to add up. As usual, the Great Smoky Mountains National Park’s annual operating expenses far exceeded its budget.

Kurt sighed heavily and flopped against his chair. It was a recurring problem that had only become increasingly dire as the park had grown in popularity. Now one of the busiest in the nation, it still was hampered by its woefully insufficient budget.

The Friends of the Park worked tirelessly to raise money, and Kurt wrung pennies from every corner of the budget, like his Depression-era grandma, who used to iron her wrapping paper for reuse. But the facts were what they were: He couldn’t stretch the budget far enough to adequately serve the millions of visitors who poured through the gates.

The entrance gates.

Kurt gritted his teeth in frustration. There was an easy solution, one that helped many of the national parks throughout the system stay on their feet. But it wasn’t available to him. Thanks to a quirk of law, dating back to the 1930s, The Great Smoky Mountains National Park was forbidden from charging an entrance fee or a parking fee.

He had no way to recoup any money from the visitors—now averaging approximately a million each month—who benefited from the park. He was held hostage by the Tennessee state legislature. Newfound Gap Road, the only road running north to south through his park, had originally been a joint construction project between Tennessee and North Carolina, paid for by the states and their local governmental entities.

When the National Park Service went to the two states and asked them to deed over Newfound Gap Road as part of the planned park, North Carolina handed off its portions of the road with no restrictions. But Tennessee included a deed restriction that provided that the federal government would never impose a toll or license fee to travel on the roadway. And for the past ninety-odd years, that had been that.

It would take an act of the Tennessee state legislature to lift the deed restriction and enable the park to charge an entrance fee. And Tennessee had told every park superintendent who’d asked to go pound salt, Kurt among them. What was most aggravating about the mess was that he’d had countless meetings with both the Tennessee and North Carolina legislators whose districts abutted the park. And they both agreed privately that the inability to charge a fee hampered their shared jewel, the lure that drew all the tourists to Gatlinburg and Cherokee in the first place.

But publicly both politicians tucked their tails between their soft, governmental behinds and promised the voters what they wanted to hear: the park would always be free. Their sniveling cowardice made Kurt want to puke. And worse, it tied his hands.

Maybe the law firm will find a loophole, he told himself. Even to his ears, the idea rang of wishful thinking—empty words rather than an actionable plan.

His expression darkened as he stared down at the budget. He was boxed in, and there wasn’t a single thing he could do about it. Not one blasted thing.

He gripped his pencil, ready to snap it in half out of frustration. A childish impulse, he knew. But he also knew that the satisfying crack of splintering wood would likely be the only productive act to come out of his budget review.

The firm rap of knuckles against his office door interrupted him, and he stopped mid-snap. He rested the pencil on his desk, cleaned his glasses on his shirt, and returned them to his face before calling out, Come in.

The door creaked open, and a head poked through the opening.

Superintendent Jenson, can you spare a few minutes?

He studied the vaguely familiar face for a moment before placing the man as one of the Park Service’s handful of criminal investigators. A frisson of relief washed over Kurt, and he suppressed a chuckle. Most of his fellow park superintendents would greet the appearance of a special investigator in their office with a sense of doom. But Kurt found himself glad to see someone who could only be bringing news of crime, not more financial problems.

He waved him into the office. Special Agent Banks, of course. Come on in.

Pat stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind him. The superintendent half-rose to shake his hand. Agent Banks, this is a surprise. Have a seat.

Pat lowered himself into the guest chair and stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles. I know you’re busy, sir. I only need a few minutes of your time.

Please, I could use the break. The superintendent gestured toward a sheaf of spreadsheets fanned out across his desk.

As he swept the documents into a folder and stowed them in the drawer behind him, Pat saw enough to learn two things: one, the superintendent was elbows deep in balancing his park budget; and, two, the financial situation was ugly.

Still, I’ll keep it short.

I don’t suppose there’s any chance this is a social call, is there? I hope you’re not here to tell me a terrible crime’s been committed somewhere in the park.

Pat smiled. Well, this isn’t a purely social visit, but, as far as I know, the park is crime-free.

Even as Jenson’s shoulders relaxed, he fixed Pat with a shrewd look. "Now, you and I both know that’s not true. Over half a million acres, spread out between North Carolina and Tennessee? There’s bound to be some illicit activity going on within the borders."

The man had a point.

That’s fair. It’d be more accurate to say I’m not here with regard to an active criminal investigation.

Good, good. Then what can I do for you?

Pat leaned forward. It’s more a matter of what I can do for you, sir.

Is that so?

Sure is. You don’t need me to tell you that you’re running one of the busiest parks in the nation.

No, I surely don’t.

I met with your rangers earlier and went over the statistics for last year. The park had an uptick in injured hikers, which was unavoidable, given the increase in use.

Jenson nodded.

There was also an uptick in lost hikers.

Another nod, followed by a small frown. Also unavoidable.

Pat paused. To an extent, yes. But the time to find lost hikers in your park is longer than the average.

The superintendent interrupted before he could elaborate. Now, look here. When Joe and Janey Public find themselves with a six-day vacation to one of the jewels of the National Park Service, they understandably want to cram as much into that experience as they can, even if it might mean taking some hikes that are above their skill level or going into parts of the woods that they’re not familiar with and may not have the tools to navigate. That happens at all the major parks. Take the Grand Canyon, take Yellowstone. And, for crying out loud, the Utah parks—

"Sir, back up, please. I don’t disagree. And I want to be clear that I’m not faulting your park rangers. Your search and rescue teams are finding missing visitors, and the education staff has ramped up programs to teach visitors to avoid the issue in the first place. But the fact remains, when people do go missing, they’re missing for too long."

My men and women do the best they can to cover that massive acreage. You surely know that we’re chronically understaffed.

I do, yes, sir. But your park has a particularly high percentage of day hikers. And day hikers make up the overwhelming majority of missing and injured hikers who end up as dead hikers.

Jenson grimaced. Bite your tongue.

You and I both want to avoid dead hikers, so I have an idea that will help put the search and rescue folks to better use. Think of it as stretching your resources, he added quickly as a shadow crossed the superintendent’s face.

Pat could just about hear the man wondering how much this idea was going to cost.

What’s your idea?

The Investigative Services Branch has an interest in clearing our cold case backlog. We have a lot of missing hikers in those files. So we’ll cover the cost to have an expert tracker present a masterclass for your rangers. Not just the search and rescue teams, but everyone in the park. They’ll leave the workshop better equipped to help find hikers who go missing, and maybe they’ll even solve a cold case or two in the process.

Who’s this expert?

Her name is Aroostine Higgins. She worked with Ranger Painter and me last year to track down that missing mother and daughter from Crossfire Creek. And she found the mother’s killer hiding in the forest.

Recognition lit in Jenson’s eyes. I remember. Did you know Luke, er, Ranger Painter, has gone through the process to adopt the girl officially? The folks over at the Qualla Boundary are helping him out with the legalities.

He nodded. I heard. Luke’s a friend. And Aroostine is coming into town to be here for Joy-Lynn’s adoption ceremony. So, since she’ll be in the area, you might as well take advantage of her expertise.

The superintendent bobbed his head from side to side, clearly intrigued by the possibility of free training. What arm of law enforcement is she with, this Ms. Higgins?

Uh, none.

Jenson’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

Pat explained, She’s more of a freelance consultant. I believe she was formerly with the Justice Department and then the Office of Tribal Affairs.

An investigator?

Mmm, no. She was a prosecutor and then some sort of liaison between Tribal Justice and Indian Affairs.

And she just happens to be a tracker?

Pat shrugged. I guess so. Her husband died in a car accident, so she took some time off and apparently spent that time finding missing women and girls. I don’t know the details, but I know she found Marlene and Joy-Lynn.

Jenson rocked back in his