“Found him? He’s not dead after all?”

“No, he’s dead, all right,” she said, continuing to read. “I mean they finally found his remains. He-” She suddenly sat up straight. “Oh, my God, he was eaten by a grizzly bear! Can you believe that? Isn’t that bizarre?”

“Not much of a way to go.”

“No, I mean… a bear? Remember, when that couple was killed in Montana-”

“The Borbas.”

“And Edgar just… What did you say?”

“The Borbas. That was their name.”

“Amazing.” She lowered the paper. “Now why would you remember something like that? It was three years ago.”

“It’s a gift, I suppose. An infallible memory. Comes in handy in my line of work.”

“Yes, well, I wish your gift would kick in once in a while when I ask you stop for milk or veggies on your way home.”

“Well, you know, it comes and goes,” he said, smiling. “What were you saying about Villarreal?”

“Well, when those people, the Borbas, were killed, people pretty much blamed him for bringing the grizzlies back-didn’t one of the families sue him?-and he just shrugged it off.” She mimed a mock yawn. “ C’est la vie, one of those things.”

“I remember, yes. It did seem a little cold-blooded.”

“A little! Brr. And now the same thing’s happened to him. It’s almost like… fate. Just desserts.”

“I see what you mean. And some people say there’s no such thing as poetic justice.”

“But it’s not only that, it’s just that fatal grizzly bear attacks are practically nonexistent these days. They just don’t happen anymore.”

Gideon nodded. Julie was a supervising park ranger at Olympic National Park, back home in Port Angeles, Washington, and she knew whereof she spoke. “I may be wrong,” she said, “but I’m pretty sure the last people killed by grizzlies in North America-outside of Alaska, anyway-were those same two people in Bitterroot. And maybe a couple of deaths in Alaska since then, no more. And now Edgar. It’s-I don’t know, it’s almost too much of a coincidence.”