door. He watched Joe continue up the hall. Joe—average height, grey hair, and dressed in a navy blue suit—still had a ranger’s presence for a man his age. Jack took notice of his own attire. Similar, with dress shoes he only remembered wearing in this town.
He ducked into the bathroom, wet a paper towel, and wiped the sweat from his brow. Damned humidity. He slipped back into the hall, the towel folded and concealed in his hand.
Continuing into the wing, he stopped at the plaque for employees who died in the line of duty. He scanned the columns and paused at a name. “Hello, old friend,” Jack whispered. “Here, again. Trouble. Again.” He chuckled, a nervous laugh among friends. “Not simple times. Not like the old days. You would’ve handled this better than me.” He stared a moment more, then turned. “Water under the bridge. Wish me luck.” He headed down the hall.
He joined Joe at the receptionist’s desk. To the right, the Director’s office. To the left, the Deputy Director’s. The receptionist, a young woman, African American, in a black wool suit.
“We miss you around here, Mr. Morgan,” she said.
Joe smiled. “Thank you, but it’s good to be back in the park.”
“I’m sure. Can I go with you?” She flashed a smile.
“Love to have you, but your first job would be human shield. Protecting me from the director.”
She laughed.
Jack pointed at the open door behind them, the director’s meeting room. “We in there?”
“No.” She gave a nod toward the director’s office. “In there. It’ll be moment. He’s in a meeting.”
The door sprang open. A silver-haired woman, in a blue pastel suit, stepped out and stopped, looked at Joe, did a double take at Jack, then stepped back to the office door. “You did not tell me you had them coming to Washington. And today, no less.”
The director appeared, and walked her back into the hall. “Goodbye, Nancy.” He stepped around her. “Come in, Joe.” He locked eyes on Jack. “You, too.”
The woman watched as they entered. The director, in shirt sleeves and tie, closed the door. His suit coat lay thrown over the arm of a chair against the back wall. “Have a seat.” Hair mussed, he went around his desk and sat.
Joe chose the seat to the left.
Jack took the one to the right, glancing around the room as he sat. Big desk. Plaques on the wall, things engraved on them that didn’t seem to matter at the moment.
Benjamin Lucas sat back, ran a finger across his brown and gray-tinged mustache, and stared across the desk at Jack. “Well,” he said, finally. “You sure managed to become the center of attention. Today, you’re a big name in town.” He dropped his hand.
“That good or bad?”
“It’s not good.” He let out a sour chuckle. “I take that back, a bit. I spent the morning with my counterpart from BLM. The director of BLM is your biggest fan. He knows that today, he and his agency would have been tarred and feathered by one particular side of the political spectrum, except for one Mr. Jack Chastain.”
“Director,” Joe said. “Give me a minute to explain the background.”
The director laughed. “Joe, I know the background. The Secretary and I heard it all from BLM. Whole story. I could recite details. Court records, everything.”
Jack raised a hand and wiped the sweat from his brow. A headache began pounding between his eyes.
The director turned back to Jack. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I screwed up.”
The director sighed. “Actually, I don’t know if you screwed up or not. My question is, why was my employee standing in front of the cameras, opening his mouth about something that didn’t concern him? On an issue I knew nothing about.”
“Long story.”
The director glanced at his watch. “Interesting thing . . . I’ve got time. And I should tell you, as of this morning I thought I’d be dragging both of you to the White House for twenty questions from the Chief of Staff. I’ve settled those waters a little, but when I say I want to hear the whole story, I think you owe me the whole story.” He rested his arms on his desk. “Was this guy in the park?”
“It’s not easy to explain,” Jack said. “Turns out, the rancher’s cattle have been known to trespass on park land.”
“But we weren’t taking corrective action. BLM was.”
“Correct.”
“Then why is the face of my employee all over television? In Park Service uniform?”
“They pointed guns at my friend. A trusted colleague from BLM. Native American. A man of few words. Manson didn’t understand that, or didn’t care. They were pushing, attacking. Paul came through for me on a fire, years back. I had to come through for him. To protect him.”
“By stepping in front of crazies with assault rifles?”
“Seems stupid, doesn’t it?”
“Very.”
“Didn’t seem that way at the time.”
“I’m not sure why.”
“Well, . . . no one ever said I was smart.”
Lucas held his tongue.
“You were angry, because Manson threatened Paul?” Joe asked.
“More to it than that. This rancher Manson acts like it’s his land, not public land. He’s spreading discontent, when BLM’s only doing their job. He’s overgrazing the range. We’re in a drought.”
“It supposedly rained yesterday,” the director interjected.
“And Paul and I were nearly killed in a flash flood. Doesn’t mean the drought’s over.” Jack twisted in his seat. “I have no data supporting what I’m about to say, but I believe because of his grazing, the runoff was more severe than it would’ve been.”
“No data, but you’re sure?”
“Fairly certain.” Jack sighed. “Haven’t had time to talk to a hydrologist, but I will. I was on the river when the wall of water came down, nearly killing two raft-loads of people. All because nothing’s on the ground to slow the runoff.”
“That fueled your rant?”
“That and AR-15s pointed at Paul.”
“Well, people may not know your name, but today, yours is the second-most seen face in America, after our rancher friend’s.”
“I was not trying to bring attention to the agency. Especially not bad attention.”
“I
