Endangered (9781101559017) (22 page)

Scotty McElroy was still pondering her question. He finally said, “Maybe Charlie just visits once a month or so. You think he drives all the way from Oregon? That would be interesting, if he was somebody's weird cousin who cruised in once a month to howl with the coyotes. Say, you looking for that poor little boy?”

“That's right,” she told him. “We think that maybe Coyote Charlie might know something.”

“Hot damn. I sure hope this thing has a happy ending. I hope those cougars didn't get him.”

She started to protest his mention of the cougars, then decided to simply say, “Me, too.”

“I'll ask around, see if anyone knows anything more about Charlie, and get back to you.” He sounded happy to have a mission.

“Thanks.” Sam ended the call. Old-growth Oregon forests. Anasazis. Scotty's story reminded her of an article she'd read in the past, something she couldn't quite remember, some vague connection between Native Americans and trees.

Perez was still enmeshed in his own conversation, so she dialed her home number. A hostile male voice answered.

“Blake,” she said, “it's Sam. I need you to do something for me.”

“What time is it?” he whined. Blake was a night owl and had been known to sleep until noon whenever he had the opportunity.

“Nine thirty your time. You should have been up for hours by now. Sit up and get something to write with.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you were a wee bit dictatorial in the mornings?”

“I'll pay you for your time. Got a pencil?”

“A little overbearing? A smidgeon strident?”

“I need you to look through my clippings of environmental stories. They're in the lower right drawer of the file cabinet.”

“You mean those mountains of paper that slither out onto the floor every time you open the drawer?”

“You don't have to read them,” she said. “This could be really important, Blake. Just look for a newspaper clipping about activists trying to protect old-growth forests in Oregon. I think it was a couple of years ago, and I think the group had some weird name.”

“Don't they all?”

“Maybe something to do with Anasazis.”

“I'm writing this down. Anna who?”

“Anasazis.” She spelled it for him. “Native Americans. Call me back tonight between nine and ten.”

“Between nine and ten?”

“I'm in the middle of nowhere with no electricity; I can't leave this phone turned on all the time. But I'll turn it on between nine and ten P.M., your time.” She ended the call and stuffed the phone back into her vest pocket.

Perez had his phone jammed against his ear, so she couldn't hear the other speaker. His end of the conversation wasn't very informative, just a couple of “uh-huhs,” one “That's interesting. So who's keeping an eye on the Fischers?” A pause. “Oh, that's great. Well, I guess you get what you pay for.”

The next thing out of his mouth was, “Really? Me? Today?” He cast a sideways glance in her direction.

That had to be about the website. A hot blush crept up from her collar and spread over her cheeks. She made a wrap-it-up motion with her hands, then jerked a thumb over her shoulder to indicate that they needed to hit the road.

“The birth parents?” he asked, ignoring her.

As he listened to the answer, he rubbed his fingers over the back of his neck. The park service backpacks rode high, tended to force the hiker's head forward; his neck probably ached. She wondered how Special Agent Chase Perez would react if she offered to massage
his
neck. His muscles, she imagined, would be firm, well defined, his olive skin smooth and warm under her fingers.

She brought that thought up short. What was the matter with her? How could things like that creep into her head now? She should be completely focused on finding Zack, which could save the cougars, as well as her assignment with SWF and her reputation.

Perez turned and caught her looking at him. She quickly shifted her gaze to the laces on her boots. Surprisingly, they were different colors. Then she remembered that she'd broken one just before leaving home. Surely the new one came from a matched set. What had she done with its mate? Jeez, she was a mess. Little wonder that Perez would conclude that her thought processes were as careless as her grooming, especially when he was accustomed to immaculate Agent Boudreaux. This morning Sam hadn't even glanced in the pocket-sized rectangle of polished metal that she used as a mirror. She quickly checked the fly of her canvas pants to make sure that it was zipped, then brushed a hand over her lips, checking for any remains of breakfast.

Perez concluded his phone call with a promise to check in at seven that evening, then stuffed the phone and notepad back into his pockets. They strapped on their packs, and finally started hiking again.

“What's interesting?” she asked.

He regarded her coolly. “You eavesdrop on everything?”

“I have extra-sensitive hearing.”

His steady gaze made her feel foolish. She blabbered on. “I hear wasps chewing wood to make their nests. Fluorescent bulbs drive me crazy.”

His eyebrows lifted. “I'll bear that in mind.”

“It's no blessing, believe me.” She bent to check a small shadowy area beneath a boulder. Nothing. She straightened and pushed a wisp of hair out of her eyes. “People treat you like you're crazy when you hear things they don't.”

Perez studied a cleft in a nearby rock face as he said, “That's a symptom of schizophrenia. Hearing things that others don't.”

The man could be damned annoying. Catching his gaze, she said, “Information, Perez, spit it out. I share mine, you share yours.”

“I was talking to my partner.”

Obviously. She gestured, a circular “continue” motion.

“Preliminary tests on Zachary's shoe have come back. No decent prints. But there were traces of animal saliva.”

Not the cougar business again. She said, “There were dogs in the search crew. Or maybe the Fischers have one at home.”

“Maybe. They haven't yet determined the type of animal saliva.” He made a detour of a few seconds to inspect the backside of a boulder. When he returned, he said, “You were right about Fred Fischer and Buck Ferguson knowing each other. Ferguson was Fischer's Scoutmaster for nearly five years up in Orem, when Fischer was a teenager. As a matter of fact, Fischer's family credits Ferguson with straightening out Fred: saved him from the reformatory, they said.”

Either Special Agent Boudreaux was spending all her time with her ear to the phone or she and Perez had a whole network of aides out there. Sam was jealous of the FBI resources. “What was Fischer up to that he needed straightening out?”

He shrugged and walked on. “Juvie records take a little time to get into. We're working on it.”

“You think maybe Fred and Buck met up here on purpose?”

“Jenny Fischer says she never heard of Buck Ferguson. More likely Fred's just coming back to his old stomping grounds, like he says.”

They rounded a bend into a new area and stopped to look around for minute. “The license check of vehicles in the campgrounds is complete,” Perez said. “Counting back two days before Zack's disappearance, there've been three cars registered to felons. A Buick belonging to a child molester; Airstream camper registered to a guy in the habit of holding up convenience stores; and a Pontiac owned by a murderer.”

“Good God!”

“We didn't count lesser offenses.”

He had mentioned a convicted child molester. “Was the pedophile Wilson? The guy with the LEGOs and the animal crackers?”

He shook his head. “I told you he checked out. Ranger Castillo got his driver's license; we ran it through the system. Orrin R. Wilson, no criminal history whatsoever; not even a parking ticket. Lives in Rock Creek.”

Rock Creek was a hamlet southeast of the park. Damn. She'd have bet Wilson had a sordid background. But he'd been in a camper, not a Buick, anyway. So much for her intuition.

“You and Castillo are fixated on this Wilson,” Perez accused.

“That's because Castillo and I have actually talked to him. Wilson's creepy.” She walked forward.

Perez stayed in step with her. “The pedophile is one Wallace Russell of Flagstaff. His car was registered at the campground two days before Zachary disappeared. No way to know for sure if he was driving it, though; the campground forms only ask for vehicle information.”

Child molesters, murderers, armed robbers. She'd keep an eye on her neighbors in campgrounds from now on and keep the pepper spray close at hand.

He told her, “The rangers and sheriff's department are checking those three licenses against hotel records, backcountry permits, and parking tickets now.”

They continued downhill, toward the ruins. Bluffs rose to both sides again, enclosing them in a shallow canyon. White stripes of minerals streaked the sandstone floor. Sam remembered how easy it had been to get lost here before she was familiar with the park. They separated briefly and walked the perimeter.

She saw nothing that might lead to Zack. And none of the details Perez had told her led anywhere. Then she remembered something he hadn't elaborated on, so when they met again down the path, she asked, “You mentioned Zack's birth parents?”

“Zack's birth mother lives in Colorado Springs. Agent Boudreaux called her. She was quite upset to have been identified and even more upset when she found out the reason.”

“And the birth father?” she prompted.

“She couldn't, or wouldn't, identify him. Just said she couldn't afford to keep the child. Looks like a dead end.” He aimed an index finger in her direction. “Your turn.”

“Coyote Charlie is a Charles or Carlos or similar name, midtwenties to midthirties, from Oregon. Has a fascination with Anasazis and living off the land, was first reported here three years ago.”

His eyebrows shot up.

She smiled and tapped the vest pocket that held her cell phone. “I have my resources.”

He whipped out his phone and told his partner to run a match for Charlie through NCIC, whatever that was.

Sam was glad she could provide some information, however vague it might be. Could Charlie provide the key to unlock the mystery of Zack's disappearance? She shook her head.

“What?” He stuffed his phone back into a pocket.

“All this information zooms off in all directions like a spiderweb. How do you know which strand to follow? Is any of it relevant?”

“Welcome to the world of crime investigation, Summer. Try to think of it like constructing a puzzle. You've got to lay out all the pieces and sort through them before you can see how they fit together.”

Sam wasn't sure she had the patience or the analytical ability to hold all the pieces of an intellectual puzzle in her head, let alone play around with them. Right now, it was a challenge just to keep up with all the events unfolding around her and to keep putting one foot in front of the other. And the deadline for the cougar hunt drew nearer with every moment they lingered, so she started hiking again, heading for the ruins.

Ten minutes down the trail, a gust of air wafted a terrible stench around them. Sam's ruminations on the growing list of suspects dissipated as the scent of rotting meat filled her sinuses.
Rotting meat.
Her heart skipped a beat even as she pinched her nostrils closed. “God. What
is
that?”

GUNSHOTS had been reported at Mirror Lake picnic grounds. Rafael Castillo caught two young men taking turns shooting at a post with a rifle. One was sighting down the barrel as he approached from behind, one hand on his service revolver.

“What the heck do you guys think you're doing?”

The fellow took his shot. The post shattered, sending bits of paper and wood flying through the air. They turned to face Rafael. They took in the park service shield, the service revolver in his holster. The one in back crumpled the beer can in his hand and shoved it into a jeans pocket.

The shooter either didn't recognize Rafael's uniform or was too drunk to care. “Shootin' cougars, man,” he said, waving in the general direction of the post. Rafael now recognized the tattered remains nailed to the post as one of the park service's cougar posters. “Doin' a public service.”

“You know, guys,” Rafael said in a mild tone, “we've got professional hunters coming tomorrow. We've got it covered.”

“Government hunters, I heard,” the can crusher snarled. “Probably couldn't hit the side of a barn with an M16.”

“Waste of time waiting for them,” the shooter said. “We're here to nail that cat.”

Rafael held out his hands. “Look, fellas, we don't—”

“No fuckin' cougar's gonna get away with eatin' a kid,” the shooter interrupted. He thumped the butt of the rifle on the ground. Rafael flinched, anticipating a blast that would take off the guy's head. He was a little sorry when it didn't happen.

So much for Mr. Nice Guy. Rafael put his hands on his hips, unsnapped the strap over his revolver. “It's illegal to discharge weapons in the park. And it's illegal to even carry one when you've been drinking.”

The shooter wiped his hand over his mouth. “Sorry about the beer, man.” But when Rafael reached for the rifle, the drunk pulled it out of his reach. “I got the right to bear arms.”

The other man nodded. “Constitutional right. It's the First Amendment.”

The shooter took a step closer. “Government pig.”

Rafael retreated to his truck, pulled the radio from his belt, and called for assistance from any other ranger in the vicinity. He wondered where Taylor, the other law enforcement ranger, was right now. None of the general rangers carried guns, but the sight of any other uniform would be welcome. He wondered if the park service would spring for a bulletproof vest. Or pay for his funeral.