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ChapterTwo

Poppy

The bearddefinitely helps him look pissed off. It’s close-cropped, so I can see the hard cut of his jaw as he grits his teeth. He’s clearly uncomfortable with being hunted down, and part of me feels bad—just for a second—about poking this particularbear.

It’s not like I don’t have sympathy for the ideals he claims to protect. It’s just that the truth is more important than political ideology.

I take a deep breath and try again. “Do you know TobyHunt?”

“We went to college together.”

“And you have visited him in San Francisco recently.” Not a question. I’ve done my research.

“Technically he lives in Palo Alto, not San Francisco.”

“Thank you for confirming your close relationship—”

“Go away, Ms. Lisowski. Nothing good will come of your nosing around here.” He drops his hands to his sides, and the muscles in his shoulders bunch and roll, big and strong.

How big and strong he is doesn’t matter in the least. I shouldn’t notice that he’s super tall, either. I’m not short, and he dwarfs me. So it’s not the smartest idea to march forward and get right into his space, but that’s what I do. I pull out my recorder, and ignoring the obvious shake in my hand, I turn it on. “Would you repeat that on the record?”

He leans in, his brown eyes sparkling for a split second before he shutters his gaze and directs his voice to the mic. “Go. Away. Ms. Lisowski.”

“And the threat?”

“I didn’t threatenyou.”

“You said nothing good will come of me nosing aroundhere.”

“Mighty big stretch to call that a threat.” He shrugs. “But sure, I said that. On the record and everything.”

“What do you mean, nothinggood?”

He straightens up and props his hands on his hips now. He’s constantly in motion, this park ranger. This rebel. This likely resistance leader. “What do you think you’re going to find here, littleone?”

I roll my eyes. First he tried to perv on me—which totally didn’t work—and now he’s being condescending? “You need to work on your scare tactics.”

He grins unexpectedly. “But you are little.”

“Not to most people.”

“Ah.” He winks. “Well, Poppy. I think you’re going to discover I am not most people. Now, I’ve decided this conversation isn’t more important than caffeine, so if you’ll excuse me, it’s my coffee break.”

He brushes past me and heads into his office.

That’s his prerogative, but I wouldn’t be a half-decent reporter if I left it at that. Also, there’s no way I’d be able to justify my flight to Colorado.

I’ve got two options. I can chase after him and keep asking him questions he doesn’t want to answer, or I can wait himout.

I like door numbertwo.

I plop my butt down on the porch outside his little log building and pull out my phone. I wonder what Mr. Alt Park Service is tweeting about rightnow?

They’re all the same, these alt accounts. Morally outraged, full of righteous indignation. Half of them shams to drum up extremist rhetoric and disguise the rapid dismantling of the bureaucratic state. The other half are preaching to the choir. That story has been written. It’s inspiring for the liberal base, and intriguing for journalists—for a hot minute.

But now what he’s tweeting isn’t nearly as important as where he’s tweeting from—this particular account gave a couple of subtle and accidental clues in early tweets, right after the election, that point to this group of national parks west of Denver—and how he’s doing it without getting caught.

Also, given the connections I’ve discovered in his background, who has helped him along theway.