“What ambulance? I don’t need an ambulance,” I squawked.
“All ten of your fingers have frostnip,” Nick began. “And technically—”
I interrupted him. “‘Frostnip’? Is that really a word?”
“It is. A mild version of frostbite.”
“That doesn’t sound like it requires an ambulance,” I protested.
“Not on its own,” he responded, “but technically you’re still in hypothermia. Your temperature’s still below ninety-five degrees.”
“Crank up the heat for another ten minutes and it’ll be ninety-six,” I argued.
“Nick’s right,” said Stapleton. “You sit tight. Tell me where you think this shooter was, and we’ll take a look.”
I pointed to the large footbridge that spanned the Middle Prong, then described taking the unmarked trail that led to the narrow, I-beam footbridge.
He frowned. “That’s not actually a trail. Used to be, but not in years.”
“It used to be a pretty nice one,” I said, “judging by the view I had of Cades Cove just before I started bushwhacking.”
He whistled. “Hell, you were way up Thunderhead Mountain. No wonder we couldn’t find you last night. You got yourself good and lost, didn’t you?”
I felt an absurd need to defend myself. “Actually, I had a pretty fair idea where I was,” I said, and it was true, if you defined the term “pretty fair idea” rather broadly. “I came out on Laurel Creek Road right where I thought I would. It just took me a while to get there.”
“That’s some rough terrain you crossed in the dark. Cold night, too. You’re lucky you made it down alive.”
“When that guy was shooting at me, I felt lucky to make it up alive,” I pointed out. “He was on this side of the stream, ten or twenty yards downstream from the I-beam bridge.”
“Did you get a good look at him?”
“No. He was hidden by the trees.”
“But you saw enough to know that it was a man?”
“Actually, no,” I admitted. “I just assumed it was a man.”
Stapleton frowned at me for assuming. “Any idea who might want to shoot at you, and why?”
I had a very clear idea about that, in fact, but I wasn’t at liberty to mention Ray Sinclair or the FBI investigati
on. “I’ve helped put some people in prison over the years,” I said. “Maybe one of them just got out. Or maybe it was that student I gave an F to yesterday.”
Nick laughed, and that made me smile. But my smile evaporated when I saw a black Ford sedan pull in to the parking area and Steve Morgan get out.
Fifteen years before Steve had been an undergraduate student in my osteology class. Now he was a TBI agent. I’d kept in loose touch with him during the ten years or so since he’d joined the TBI; we’d even worked together briefly on the Cooke County corruption case. Now, though, I was a suspect, and that put a distinct damper on our relationship. As he approached the park-service vehicle and flashed his badge, his face looked grim and sad, and I was pretty sure mine didn’t look any happier. Stapleton got out and exchanged a few words with him, and then the ranger spoke to Nick. Both rangers stepped away to give us privacy.
Steve leaned down and spoke through the open window. “Dr. Brockton, I hear you spent a long, cold night in the mountains.”
“Hello, Steve. I did indeed. How’d you know I was here?”
He didn’t answer the question. “I need to talk to you about something. Let’s go sit in my car.” He opened the door for me, and I followed him to the black TBI vehicle. I halfway expected him to put me in the back, but instead he held the front passenger door for me. The car’s interior smelled of spilled coffee.
“The ranger also says you think someone tried to shoot you.”
“I don’t just think it, Steve. Someone did try to shoot me.”
“Any idea who, and why?”
It was the same question Stapleton had just asked, but this time I couldn’t deflect it with a joke. “I can’t tell you, Steve.”
“Because you don’t have any idea?”
“Because I can’t.”
“Dr. Brockton, this is difficult. I need you to tell me what’s going on here.”
I was just flipping a mental coin — did the circumstances justify breaking my pledge of secrecy to the FBI? — when the hand of fate snatched the coin from midair: Another government-issue Ford pulled up alongside Morgan’s, and out clambered Special Agent Ben Rankin. He showed Steve his badge, then asked for a word in private. They walked fifty yards down the gravel road, then turned around and walked back up to the vehicles.