Endangered (9781101559017) (20 page)

PEREZ rested his head on his rolled-up pants and listened to the quiet murmur of Summer Westin's voice. He could tell by the rhythm that she was using a two-way radio, but he couldn't hear the actual words. Briefly he considered walking closer to her camp, but in this bright moonlight, she was sure to spot him.

What a beautiful night. He hadn't camped more than once or twice since he was a kid. Summer Alicia Westin was a paradoxical combination of wilderness savvy and the edginess that he'd noticed in people with high-stress, high-tech jobs: like they had too many wires feeding into too few circuits.

He remembered an old Lakota legend about a wizard whose beautiful wife was repeatedly stolen away by supernatural animals—magic buffalo and thunderbirds. No animal would need to carry off Summer Westin; she'd follow any of them willingly.

The two kidnappings he'd worked on so far had ended in shallow graves in the woods. But then again, this might not be a kidnapping; the evidence didn't add up. Fischer's uncorroborated story of his whereabouts the night of his son's disappearance, and then again during his walk about town the next day. The ransom note. The shoe on the trail. Paw prints near the campground, near the shoe.

Westin was right, it would make his life and Nicole's easier if it turned out that a big cat had grabbed the kid—then it would be a case for the animal experts, not the FBI.

What a jumble of disconnected events and people: they needed more than just two agents on this. The local cops weren't good for much of anything.

There had to be a pattern in there somewhere; there always was. He closed his eyes to review what he'd learned so far.

 

SAM ran her fingers over a worn cross-stitched rose on the ancient pillowcase she always traveled with. It had been her first embroidery project at the age of nine. The feel of the thick cotton thread always brought back thoughts of the Kansas countryside where she grew up. And as always, a trickle of guilt intertwined with the memories of her family. According to their expectations, she should be a well-settled matron by now. Not Wilderness Westin, cyber-reporter in the midst of a major disaster story splashed across the television news by a man she previously thought of as a romantic interest.

What would tomorrow bring? At least by accompanying Agent Perez, she'd learn of any new developments about Zack. Poor little kid. This would be his third night alone. If he
was
alone. And if he was still alive.

He could be facedown in a creek. In the trunk of a car, gagged and bound. With some toddler-loving pedophile. And because he was still missing, trigger-happy good ol' boys were going to murder any cougar that showed up in their gun sights.

Quit it
. She closed her eyes, concentrated on seeing cougars free and healthy. She envisioned Zack safe and warm, playing with his toys, laughing with his mother.

Imagining Jenny Fischer conjured up Fred as well. Could he have intentionally injured his son?

Could Coyote Charlie be a villain? She'd always envisioned him as a vagabond who identified more with wild things than with his own species. A lost sixties type on a spiritual quest, sort of like the odd hiker she'd met this afternoon, but one who prowled around at night with other nocturnal animals.

Perez had hinted that Coyote Charlie might be psychotic. She'd read stories of Vietnam vets going berserk, murdering their families while reliving Viet Cong attacks in the middle of the night. What did the world look like from Coyote Charlie's eyes in the wee hours? Did he relive some mad past? Was he a gentle creature rambling in the moonlight, like the mule deer, or a predator who took advantage of the darkness to stalk his prey? Did he prey on children?

Predators of children. Wilson. LEGOs and animal crackers. Zack's red cap. There was something slimy about that man. He was a cave-dwelling salamander, pale and soft, afraid of the sunlight. But Perez had said that Wilson's record had checked out. And he didn't fit in easily with the shoe. She remembered the feel of Wilson's soft belly as she'd brushed up against him in his RV. Could he hike four miles without having a heart attack?

She pulled the sleeping bag up to her neck. The howling started up again. It sounded a mile or more away. Just coyotes this time. Natural predators, hunting natural prey.

Humans are so out of sync with nature, she thought. They hunt for sport, not for food.

Dread of the upcoming slaughter sat on her chest like a stone. Her mind continued relentlessly down the same depressing track. People as predators. Hunting animals. Hunting each other.

The last thought kept her awake for a long time.

DAWN was heralded by the rumble of yet another helicopter passing low overhead. Sam peeled away the warmth of her sleeping bag. She wove her hair into her usual loose French braid, then crawled out of the tent. To her surprise, Perez was seated cross-legged a few yards away. He'd used her stove and pot to make coffee.

His self-sufficiency earned him major points on her mental score sheet. She added another point to his total when he held a steaming cup out to her. A man who spontaneously gave neck rubs and made coffee was definitely a rarity.

“So we're off to the ruins this morning,” he said. “And, depending on what we find there, I may want to see the Curtain, too.”

He was certainly a bossy type first thing out of bed. She subtracted five points from his score.

“Let me rephrase.” He passed a hand over his face, changing his look of chagrin to a charming smile. “Good morning, Miss Westin. Could you please take me to the ruins this morning? And maybe later we could see the Curtain, too. At your convenience, of course.”

At least he was observant. And adaptable.

“You're in luck,” she told him. “I just happen to be going that way. After I check my e-mail.” Perez's coffee was a little weak for Sam's taste, but a big improvement over Tanner's sludge.

He held out an apple and a banana. “Fruit?”

She took the banana, sat down, and peeled it in silence. Although it was lovely to have a hot cup of coffee handed to her first thing, this was way too much conversation for this hour.

Hoo-hoo-hoooo. Hoo! Hoo!
As the call faded, Perez raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Great horned owl,” she told him.

She chafed her hands against her upper arms. The air was chilly, a reminder that winter was coming on. Zack had been missing for more than sixty hours now. If he were up here exposed to the elements, the chances for his survival were slim. It would be best if someone
did
have him. Someone who wanted a little boy to love as their own. The vision of the man at the end of the path played in her mind like a videotape in slow motion: he turned from the campground toward her, raised one hand to salute her. If only she could see his face.

The pink light of dawn unveiled dull skies and a cool breeze. Clouds drifted over the plateau, building up against the escarpment to the west. Sam hoped the storms would hold off for a couple of days, as predicted. Late tomorrow evening or early Sunday, Kent had said. The area was desperate for rain, but if Zack was huddled under a bush somewhere barely clinging to life, a cold drenching would end his chances for sure. The only consolation was that if a real gully washer developed, the planned parade of USDAWS killers might be postponed for a while.

Perez's phone chirped and he answered it. “Any progress?”

She turned on her laptop and satellite phone, checked her e-mail and the latest reports. Two news sites carried stories on cougar sightings near schools and playgrounds. “What does Wilderness Westin have to say about this?” challenged one site.

She brought up KSEA's page. Yep, Zachary Fischer was still listed under Feature Stories and the article included a video of last night's broadcast. Adam again, now looking more comfortable at the news desk, in front of a photo of SWF's home page with her article and a photo on it.
Her
photo, of Agent Perez bending over—a red shoe? What in the hell? “Today,” Adam said to the camera, “as this latest article on the Save the Wilderness website explains, a shoe was found on a trail in Heritage National Park. Is this all that remains of Zachary Fischer?”

“Damn it!”

“Something interesting?” Perez had ended his call and now sat watching her.

“Never mind. They find any trace of Zack down below?”

He shook his head.

She clicked over to SWF's website. They'd run the story she'd sent last night and used the photo of Perez inspecting the ground. Max had pumped up the colors: now the rocks were a deeper maroon and the vegetation was greener. And sure enough, a new element had been added: a small red sneaker now was the focus of Perez's gaze.

Mad Max was altering reality again. She clicked the photo credit. It reported “composite image” and listed her as photographer along with someone named Doug Grafton, who no doubt owned a photo of a toddler's red sneaker. Legal but definitely a little sneaky.

She wrote a quick update about USDA Wildlife Services being dispatched despite the lack of evidence of a cougar attack, about how taxpayer dollars would pay for the slaughter. In e-mail, she begged Lauren to add this information to the website ASAP.

When she clicked Wilderness Westin's e-mail icon, a message box popped up to tell her that the e-mail folder had exceeded its limit of eight hundred messages and that the surplus notes were stored in another file in the system. With some trepidation, she opened the e-mail folder. Judging by the headers, most of the messages were rants against nutcases that protected wild animals instead of people. Crap.

Kim, the SWF office manager, reported that the FBI had called to check Sam's employment status. She glanced up at Perez.

“What?” His expression was innocent.

“Never mind,” she said again, and turned her gaze back to the list. The capital letters of one header leapt out. I HAVE ZACHARY. She gasped.

She clicked the header. The message opened.

 

 

It had been sent by someone logged in as 102236. How helpful. She turned the laptop around. Perez read it, then reached for his pad and pen. “Who's 102236?”

“I'm a writer, not a tech-head. I don't know how to do a trace.”

“We'll check it out,” he said.

“Should be easy. You already have SWF's number.”

He raised an eyebrow quizzically. After a second, his expression relaxed. “It wasn't me,” he said. “We had the Seattle office check out this Wilderness Westin character.”

She turned the laptop back around, studied 102236's message again. “Think I should respond?” she asked.

“Couldn't hurt. String him along; maybe he'll come back with something more.”

Give me proof
, she typed to 102236. Her hands hesitated above the keyboard as she suddenly envisioned a severed finger, a small ear arriving via FedEx. After adding
Tell me something about Zachary that you couldn't learn from the news,
she clicked Send.

Moving to an online phone directory, she requested a number for Scott McElroy, the Sierra Club hiker Kent had mentioned. He was not in Las Rojas, as she'd originally guessed but lived in Floral, the small town on the opposite side of the park. She copied the number into her pocket notepad.

Perez buckled on his pack and Sam loaded her knapsack for the day, taking her minimum load of equipment: satellite phone, radio, camera, notepad, first-aid kit, snacks, jacket, water. She zipped the computer and the rest of the camping gear into the tent.

As she was crawling out, Perez said, “Is there any way . . .” He hesitated. “I'd rather not go across that rock bridge again. If we don't have to.”

His reluctance was charming. “Okay. We'll go via ZigZag Passage instead.” She didn't tell him that there was no way she would have taken him over Rainbow Bridge, anyway. Crossing the rock arch was expressly forbidden by park regulations; she couldn't risk being caught in daylight.

As they hiked, Perez quizzed her about the park's topography. “If there's a bona fide trail down to the ruins, why would Charlie travel up and down the cliff walls?”

“Maybe he does it for thrills, maybe just to prove to us that he can do it. Or maybe it's a shortcut, like Rainbow Bridge. Who knows? Why does he run around with coyotes?”

“Good question. And what does he do when he's not up here howling?”

“Anybody's guess, FBI.”

“Could you stop calling me that?”

“All right. Perez.”

“Chase,” he said.

“Does this new familiarity mean that you've decided I'm not a suspect?”

“I'm ninety percent sure.” He gave her one of his deadpan looks.

She laughed. “I don't know if I can call you Chase. What kind of a name is that, anyway? Chase Manhattan? Short for Charles?”

He leaned his head back and focused on the sky above, scratching the underside of his chin as he considered whether or not to enlighten her. Finally, he said, “In this case, it's short for, uh . . . Starchaser.” He checked for her reaction.

She willed her lips not to smile. “Starchaser?”

“My mother's full-blood Lakota—you'd probably say Sioux.
And
I have a sister named Raven. And a brother named Wolf.” His eyes dared her to laugh.

Uh-oh. She would never have suspected that he was one of those extra-sensitive Native American types. “That's interesting,” she said carefully.

His gaze lingered on her hair, her face. “I'll call you Summer. With your coloring, that name suits you. Do you have a sister named Spring or Autumn, or a brother named Winter?”