Frost sat on one of the benches in Memorial Park as if to watch the feral pigeons—rock doves, the locals called them—pecking seeds from grass already beginning to wither toward the golden-gray shade with which it welcomed the winter.
The birds walked with mincing steps and bobbing heads. Most were dark gray, some were checkered, and a few were pied.
Frost had been surprised to learn that although some pigeons would migrate south, many would stay here all year. He had thought a Montana winter must be too severe for anything other than the likes of owls, eagles, turkeys, pheasants, and grouse.
For three days, he had been in Rainbow Falls and the surrounding countryside, and as far as he was concerned, nights in early October already had too sharp a bite.
Although the digital clock at the First National Bank said the current temperature was fifty-six degrees, the day felt colder than that to Frost. He wore insulated boots, jeans, and a ski jacket, but he wished he had put on a pair of long underwear, as well. In spite of his name, if offered a meager retirement in a shack in some low warm desert or a rich pension tied to a palace in snow country, he would have taken the former with no regrets, subsisting on rice, beans, and sunshine.
Now thirty-five, he doubted that he would live to retire. A case could be made that he might be fortunate if he survived the next few days.
Anyway, old age had no more appeal to him than did living in an ice castle. The way this country was going, the golden years would be years of iron and rust for most people.
Frost had been pretending to be fascinated with the pigeons for almost five minutes when Dagget appeared on the winding walkway. He was eating ice cream on a stick.
The two of them had more in common than they had differences, and one thing they shared was the pleasure of needling each other. Dagget was as comfortable in Montana as in Key West, and he chose to emphasize that fact by strolling through the park in shirtsleeves.
Not far from Frost’s bench stood a trash receptacle, and Dagget stopped beside it as if to dispose of the stick and his paper napkin after he finished the ice cream, of which little remained.
No one else was nearby, so Dagget said, “Warm enough for you?”
“I think it’s getting warmer,” Frost said.
“Me too. Spent any time with your police scanner this morning?”
“More than the usual traffic,” Frost said, referring to the recent flurry of communications among the local police.
“Yeah. Very crisp, no chitchat. And what’s this code they’re using?”
“I don’t know. Tried working with it on my laptop. It won’t be broken easily.”
“So this time the whistle-blower blew some truth.”
Unfortunately, the information that launched this investigation had given them no sense of what was coming down in Rainbow Falls, only that it must be something of importance.
Frost said, “Chief Jarmillo’s been on the move. The hospital. Elementary school. High school. This country-western roadhouse out past the edge of town. Hard to see how any of it’s policework.”
They had placed a transponder on Jarmillo’s cruiser, which transmitted his constant whereabouts to an antitheft service on a commercial satellite, from which Frost periodically downloaded—hacked might be the more honest term—the chief’s itinerary.
Along the park pathway came a middle-aged man on a skateboard. His beard was unkempt, his ponytail tied with a blue cord. He wore khakis, two layers of flannel shirts, and a toboggan cap. Without glancing at either of them, he shot past.
“Only a loser?” Dagget asked.
“Definitely just a loser.”
“I keep thinking we’ve been made.”
“Why?” Frost asked. “Your room been tossed or something?”
Dropping the ice-cream stick and the napkin in the trash can, Dagget said, “No good reason. I just have this creepy feeling … I can’t explain it.”
Frost and Dagget were FBI agents, though a kind of which even the Director had no knowledge. Their names appeared nowhere on the official rolls of the Bureau.
“Personally,” Frost said, “I think no one’s interested in us. I was going to suggest we can start working together safely if you want.”
“Works for me,” Dagget said. “I get the feeling any moment now we’re going to need each other for backup.”
As one, with a furious beating of the air, the flock of pigeons flew.