"You're not the same woman I married," Randy says. Before 9/11, Rossmiller would laugh, watch Melrose Place. Now it's 24.

"You're right," Rossmiller says. "I'll never be the same."

Forts and serial killers

Rossmiller projects a down-to-earth style, from her deferential politeness to her attire - flip-flops and jeans. If you didn't know she's a mom, a wheat farmer's daughter, and a former cheerleader, you might guess.

But if you think that's all she is, you misread her entirely.

Breaking her pelvis is the first in a string of events that will lead Rossmiller, now 38, to become a highly valued al-Qaeda hunter who works with the FBI in an extraordinary partnership to expose terrorists, domestic and foreign. Recently, the FBI publicly acknowledged her efforts.

But much of Rossmiller's work is considered confidential, and federal law enforcement officials will not comment about it. Other law enforcement officials say Rossmiller has received death threats, and they monitor her to try to keep her safe.

In 2001, though, Rossmiller is only beginning to understand how terrorism works. One of the first lessons she learns is that many Arab extremists connect on the Web.

With the help of a translation program, she reads the Web sites and postings in Arabic chat rooms. Slowly weeding out the pompous and the blowhards, she homes in on radical Islamists who sound dangerous - though she learns to turn down the sound on the beheadings. This world of anger and hatred holds her in thrall.

Rossmiller can't sleep much. Never could, really. So her post-9/11 routine is to wake around 3 a.m. and monitor extremists.

Now moving around on a four-post cane, Rossmiller feels more capable, more daring. She wants to participate.

Her plan is to break through the wall of anonymity that the Internet provides and interact with the jihadists.

She knows she can't communicate as a woman, let alone an American. Women in extremist cultures are lower than the family goat, she says. So Rossmiller invents a persona, a young radical bent on the destruction of the United States.

In early winter, she posts some rudimentary Arabic online, basic "Death to America" cheerleading. And waits.

No one bites.

Come on, Shannen, you look like an idiot out there, she tells herself. Get it right.

Snow is falling, and the wind roars hard enough to make a woman rethink living in Montana.

Gusts seem to blow ceaselessly here at 3,900 feet, in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Pioneer diaries are filled with references to wind, how it can drive a person crazy.

This state can be a raw tableau, despite satellite TV and restaurants with goat cheese. Winters seem to last forever. Without a side interest or a lover, a person can run into trouble.

Twenty-five miles outside town, the Rockies give this land its lore and beauty. They're pretty but treacherous. Cars skid on quick-freezing roads and spiral into death plunges off non-barricaded highways. And the trackless woods are filled with wild animals.