“I did,” Emerson said. “I was excellent.”
“As long as I’m the designated worrier, let’s think about this stolen Tahoe. We can’t ride all over creation in it.”
“We aren’t riding all over creation. We’re going to hike to Sour Creek Dome. Vernon is bringing the backpacks.”
“I understand your need to get to the bottom of this, but hiking to Sour Creek Dome is a dumb idea. There’s a psycho axe murderer and his small army after us. Even if we can get past them, there’s a bunch of hungry bears and wolves ready to eat us in Lamar Valley. Wouldn’t it be better to get out of Yellowstone and go to the police?”
“Which police?” Emerson asked. “The park rangers who turned us over to Tin Man? Or the Bozeman, Montana, police, who are eighty miles away, have worked with the U.S. Park Police
for years, and, in the near future, will most likely be informed that four dangerous fugitives killed a park ranger and stole his car?”
“How about the FBI?”
“Whatever we’ve stumbled upon is at the highest level of national security. Best case scenario is they’ll lock us up and throw away the key.”
Riley pawed through the stolen minibar stash and came up with a couple tiny bottles of whiskey. She gave one to Emerson, and she unscrewed the cap on hers.
“Here’s to good times on Sour Creek Dome,” she said.
“Good times,” Emerson said.
They clinked bottles and chugged the whiskey.
Riley felt the liquor burn her throat and warm a path to her stomach and beyond.
“I feel inspired,” Emerson said.
He grabbed Riley by her flannel shirt, pulled her close, and kissed her. There was some tongue involved this time, and when he released her they both licked their lips.
“You taste like whiskey,” Emerson said. “I could use more.”
“Whiskey?”
“Yes. That too.”
“I don’t think I have any more whiskey.”
“Well, then,” he said. And he leaned in for another kiss.
“I hate to be a party pooper,” Riley said, “but I keep going back to the part about us getting locked up and the authorities throwing the key away.”
“It’s very simple,” Emerson said. “We need to uncover the secret being hidden at Sour Creek Dome and expose it to the world. Without a secret to protect, Tin Man and the Rough Riders’ usefulness to the U.S. government will come to an end. I suspect they’ll become more of a liability than an asset.”
“What if it truly is a matter of national security?” Riley said. “What if we’d be endangering people if we went public?”
Emerson nodded. “I thought of that, too. I’m certain that back in 1903, it was part of a noble plan to protect the American people from something really terrible, but I’m equally certain that the plan has been corrupted over the years.”
Vernon rapped on the driver’s side window. He was carrying two large North Face backpacks. Wayan Bagus was standing next to him, holding a third pack and his little duffel.
“We might have a problem,” Vernon said. “The Park Police just showed up. I saw them in the lobby talking to the front desk, so we skedaddled out the back door.”
Vernon pitched the backpacks into the back of the SUV and climbed in after them with Wayan Bagus. Riley put the Tahoe in gear and drove out of the lot. She breathed a sigh of relief as she pulled onto the Grand Loop Road, and the inn receded into the night.
Fifteen minutes later, Riley arrived at the intersection of the Grand Loop Road and Yellowstone Lake. To the right was the South Entrance. To the north, Canyon Village.
“We’re literally at a crossroads,” Emerson said. “We can go north to Sour Creek Dome, or south out of the park and back to our plane waiting for us in Jackson Hole.”
“I’m not even sure we’re going to be able to get out of here at this point,” Riley said. “There are only four entrances to the park, and they could have roadblocks set up for us at each.”