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about?”
    â€œ You got bagged tonight. So did I. So did the environmental movement. I’m going to bag the minister back.”
    â€œWhat are you going to do?”
    â€œRemember that little off-the-cuff remark about locking up the enviros?”
    â€œYeah, the minister sounded like he’d had a glass of wine or two . . .”
    Charles pulled out his iPhone and touched the screen. A video of the minister offering to lock up environmentalists appeared on the screen. “It’s already on YouTube. Twelve hundred twenty-one views in the last thirty minutes. It will be on CTV and CBC news by now. I emailed it to every reporter on the Hill.”
    â€œYou’re kidding me.”
    â€œNope. This is how you play ball, Brian. If you can’t play ball, then get off the field.”
    â€œListen, Charles. I’m not here to play ball or bag people or score cheap political points. I’m here to get something done. I want to make a difference.”
    â€œAnd I want to beat these fuckers, Brian. Nobody in the movement thinks that you’re here to make a difference. You’re just trying to sidetrack us with talk of wind power. The real game is seizing power. The only way that’s going to happen is if we can defeat these bastards in the next election. This video will help.”
    â€œDoes the minister know you posted it?”
    â€œWell, it’s posted anonymously. No sense blowing my cover and getting the dippers in trouble. And if he doesn’t know it’s online, he will soon. What are you going to do, call him?”
    â€œIf you wanted to make the planet better, Charles, you would have put that in your pocket and asked for a meeting instead.”
    â€œThat might work when you’ve got political and financial connections, Brian. But right now we have neither, so we use what we got.”
    â€œGood night, Charles.” Brian pulled his collar up and dusted the snow off his hair. He could sense that Charles Wendell was watching him as he walked away.

TEN
    GLACIER NATIONAL PARK, MONTANA. JULY 10.
    THEY WERE HERDED LIKE CATTLE into the kitchen area of the camp while the investigating officers held a conference. Nine people in total—the seven remaining hikers and two guides—sat in what little shade the kitchen shelter provided, nibbling on trail mix and dried apples, watching as the RCMP , FBI , and Canadian and US parks agents formed a tight circle. In the last two hours, the superintendents of both Waterton Lakes and Glacier National Parks had arrived, as had the district commander of the RCMP from Lethbridge and the FBI special agent in charge, all the way from Salt Lake City. The mountaintop was starting to feel very crowded as four different helicopters and two separate search and rescue teams combed the rocky plateau for some sign of the missing guide Blake Foreman.
    Cole sat next to the lead guide. “Derek,” he whispered. “What the hell is going on with your man Foreman?”
    â€œI have no idea,” Derek whispered back.
    â€œIs it like him to just up and go walkabout?” Cole asked.
    â€œI don’t know.” Cole shot him a troubled look, and Derek continued. “I met Blake in the Two Medicine Grill last week. He looked the part. Hell, he looked like me. He had his papers from the Association of Mountain Guides, so I hired him.”
    Cole looked toward the confab of law-enforcement officers. His brother, Walter, was standing behind his park superintendent, listening. Walter looked at Cole, and their eyes locked a minute. Something in Walter’s eyes made Cole shiver despite the heat. At that moment, the discussion broke up and the special agent in charge walked back toward a waiting helicopter; its rotor blades began to spin. The noise and dust forced several of the weary hikers to cover both ears and eyes. When the bird was airborne, Special Agent Steven McCallum approached the group.
    â€œLadies and