Endangered (9781101559017) (27 page)

Both boys barely glanced at the picture. “We don't know nothing about the ransom note,” Billy enunciated carefully, as if he were speaking to an idiot.

Mrs. Wiley picked up the photo. “Isn't this that poor baby's mama? She's so young. 'Cept for that big red blotch there, she looks a little like Suzanna.”

Patrick flinched noticeably.

Nicole perked up. “Who is Suzanna?”

The woman touched her son's arm. “Suzanna Christensen. Pat's girlfriend. They go to school together. She wasn't involved in this foolishness, was she, son?”

Patrick stared at the ceiling.

Perez recovered the snapshot. “Thank you, Mrs. Wiley. We'll talk to Suzanna.”

Nicole laid photos on the table, snapping them crisply like a card dealer. “Wait until they're all out before you say anything.”

Twelve photos, in three rows of four, depicted men in their thirties and forties, some with earrings and beards or mustaches, all with longish hair.

“Did any of these guys hire you?” Nicole asked.

The youths scanned the pictures carefully. Billy picked one up. An old jail photo of a baby-faced man. Long dark hair combed over a balding crown, then rubber-banded into a limp ponytail. The magic mushroom's old parole photo.

“This guy seems kind of familiar,” the youth said. “I think I seen him over at the Burger House.”

Patrick glanced at the photo in his friend's hand. “Doesn't look familiar to me. You're losin' it, buddy.”

The sheriff peered over the boys' shoulders, then raised his gaze to Perez's and shook his head. He resumed his position against the wall.

Billy slid the photo back into its position in the grid. Patrick tapped an index finger on the middle photo in the lowest row. The boys exchanged glances. Billy nodded.

Patrick held the photo out to Nicole. “This is the guy.”

Billy agreed. “He hired us to pick up the money.”

Perez and Nicole examined the photo the youths had chosen. Fred Fischer's face smiled up at them from the slick paper.

 

JENNY Fischer sat alone in a booth in the Appletree Café. She held a coffee cup in her hands, stared into the black liquid. It was blessedly quiet, except for the whoosh of the vacuum cleaner that the waitress was running over the threadbare carpet between the tables. She couldn't take any more phone calls from the press. There'd even been someone from a talk show on TV. They all wanted to know how she felt.

How did they think she felt? She'd lost everything. Her parents had never liked Fred. She raised her hand, cupped it over the birthmark on her cheek. Why couldn't they understand that an ugly girl like her didn't have options? Worse, they'd been right; marrying him was a mistake. He'd been good to her for almost three years, but now, at the first sign of trouble, he disappeared. What kind of a husband was that?

Zack's orange plastic truck, missing its wheel, was on the table in front of her. She stared at it, the last thing her baby had touched. Why, oh why, hadn't she been playing with Zack, holding him, instead of fussing with that damn camp stove?

The FBI agents seemed to think that Fred might have something to do with her baby's disappearance. And Fred had been gone all that time after she'd discovered Zack was missing. And this whole cougar business. Fred had really started it by bringing them here, by pointing out the posters; hadn't he? Could she really have been that blind? That stupid?

“Mrs. Fischer.”

She raised her head. The two FBI agents stood next to her table.

The female agent slid into the booth beside her. “Where's your husband?”

When Jenny didn't respond instantly, the agent turned to her partner. “I can't believe the sheriff sent the deputy off to some hunting accident; I specifically told him a twenty-four-hour watch.”

The man slid into the opposite seat. Even though his expression was solemn, his clear brown eyes looked kind. “Where's Fred, Mrs. Fischer?” he asked.

“He told me he was going out for a cinnamon roll,” Jenny said.

They both just stared at her, waiting. She slammed the cup down, slopping coffee over the red and white checkered oilcloth. Tears flooded down her face. “He's gone!” she choked out. “He's been gone since nine o'clock this morning.”

She flung an arm onto the table. The spilled coffee seeped into the sleeve of her pink blouse, but she didn't care. Her fingers curled convulsively around the tiny truck. “I don't have Zack; I don't have Fred; now I don't even have a goddamn car!”

THE trail slanted uphill another mile to the mesa. Sam made herself keep looking in every crevice and under every bush. She tried hard to keep her focus on finding any hint of Zack, but it was hard to think of anything other than Kent and the cougar and how much her feet hurt. Her thigh throbbed with each step, and soon her head joined in. Each jolt was accompanied by a slosh from her water bottle and a metallic ting from objects clanging together inside her knapsack. A symphony of aches and pains.

Above her position, over the crest, helicopter blades reverberated. The racket grew louder, the noise hanging in the air. Sounded like the machine had touched down near ZigZag Passage. After five minutes, the low roar changed to a high whine, and the copter buzzed by overhead. A quick peek at her watch confirmed that more than four hours had passed since the rescue helicopter had left Milagro Canyon. Enough time to bring in Crime Scene investigators from Salt Lake City?

She envisioned Perez directing a team of thick-lensed forensic experts to the location of the skull. Or would Agent Boudreaux take charge of the investigation? She hoped Apollo hadn't come back to his kill; she didn't trust either FBI agent not to shoot the lion on sight.

She stopped to check a shadow under a low bush. Nothing but dust. She straightened and went on.

“Zack!” she yelled, for good measure. “Zachary!”

She stopped for a minute to listen and heard the only response she expected, another shrill cry from the red-tailed hawk circling overhead. It sounded like one of this year's fledglings. They were always noisy when they were learning to hunt. Maybe they just couldn't contain their excitement at seeing the world spread out beneath them.

“Zack! Hey, little buddy, where are you? Answer me.”
If you can,
she silently added in her thoughts. After finding the skull and seeing Kent and the cougar bleeding into the dust, it was hard to keep up the hope that Zack would be found alive and well.

The hawk screeched again. If only she shared that raptor's view now. Could the hawk see the investigators uncovering more bones? Coyote Charlie skulking through the canyons nearby? Could the hawk see Zack?

A dark crevice in the cliff wall nearby caught her attention, and she walked over to peer into it. It went back only about four feet, and no little boy huddled in the shadows there. She trudged back to the trail and resumed her uphill march.

She'd passed the two MISSING notices on her hike back from Milagro Canyon. She was beginning to despise those posters. If Zack had stayed with his parents, she would be earning her pay by writing about wildlife, ecology, the beauty of nature. Kent would be happy and healthy, and so would the cougar. There'd be no MISSING posters fluttering from rocks. There'd be no helicopters drowning out the birdsong. There'd be no teams of sharpshooters on their way to murder the cats. This was all Fred and Jenny Fischer's fault.

Then she remembered the young mother's anguished face. And she recalled the moment when she'd freed herself from the brambles and found the dark path empty in front of her. If she had just taken the time to talk to Zack's parents that night . . .

If that little boy was dead or in the clutches of some pervert, how was she going to live with that?

“Zack! Zachary!” No response except a faint echo from the surrounding cliffs. Even the hawk had gone now.

She checked her watch; she had a couple more hours of daylight. Temple Arch loomed to the east of the path, a blind arch where centuries ago, a half-moon of rock had fallen away from the overhanging curve of the cliff overhead. Tucked into the snug indent were the Anasazi ruins she and Perez had headed for this morning.

This was the canyon into which Coyote Charlie had disappeared. She shaded her eyes and peered at the steep cliff down which he'd vanished. There was no obvious path, but a closer inspection might reveal a line of ancient Anasazi footholds linking the protruding rocks that zigzagged up the vertical slope.

Coyote Charlie might be making a collection up here
, Perez had said. It gave her the creeps to think he could be nearby, watching her right now.

“Zack! Answer me, Zachary!” Please.

She stood at the junction of Goodman Trail and Milagro Trail. Below her, three hundred feet down, Village Falls fell in a long horsetail from the cliff. The noise of the waterfall was barely audible, like the white noise of distant traffic. She licked her chapped lips, thinking of that clear cold water. But the round-trip to the falls would take at least thirty minutes out of the remaining two hours of sunlight: she couldn't afford it.

The stale liquid from her water bottle left a metallic taste in her mouth. She poured the last few drops into her palm and rubbed her face and neck. Her hand came away streaked with brick red smears. Kent's blood.

She pulled out her phone and called park headquarters. Jerry Thompson told her that Kent had come through surgery and was in intensive care; that he'd dropped Perez off at Las Rojas Police Station; that yes, an FBI Crime Scene team was working up above; and that no, he didn't know about the cougar.

Didn't give a damn about the cougar, she thought bitterly as she hung up. He'd been more than ready to shoot the wounded cat on sight. The superintendent struck her as more politician than conservationist; he'd no doubt cooperate fully with the “wildlife control officers” dispatched from USDAWS, even if he believed that killing the lions was pointless.

She called Lauren at SWF. Her voice mail answered. Was Lauren avoiding her now? She punched in Max Garay's number.

“Yo.”

“Max? It's Sam. How's it going up there?”

“It was nice while it lasted,” he said in his lazy fashion. “Easy come, easy go.”

“Harding hasn't fired us, has he?”

“Us? Speak for yourself, WildWest. I'm a permanent employee; I'm the only one who can show Harding how to work his computer. And I've got about eleven thousand more photos to digitize here. But the answer you're looking for is, no, not quite yet.”

“There's been a development since this morning.”

“Found the kid?”

She hated to squash that hope in his voice. “No. But illegal hunters shot a ranger and a cougar this afternoon.”

“Send it in,” he said wearily. “Are the photos any good?”

Oh God.
She was supposed to remember to take a picture of her friend bleeding to death in the dust? “I didn't get any.”

“Uh-huh. I see. Get thee to the unemployment line, girl.”

She hastily described the bloody events of that afternoon. She wanted to give him the skull, too, but remembered Perez's warning, so she stuck with Kent and the wounded cougar. “You could come up with something, couldn't you?”

“Yeah, I can see it. Maybe a bloody cougar—we've got enough archive shots of those—or maybe a long-distance shot of rescue guys packing someone out on a stretcher.”

“Just don't lie—make sure it's legal.”

“Always.” He sounded annoyed. “I can handle the visuals. But what about the story?”

“I just told it to you. You or Lauren have to write it.”

“You know I can't write.”

“Max! This is an emergency.”

“Oh, all right. Hang on.” Something rustled in the background. “Okay, I'm ready. Just sum it up for me again, okay? Say it the best you can, like dictation.”

She sighed with impatience, took a deep breath, and enunciated carefully, “This morning, three armed men invaded Heritage National Monument with the intention of illegally shooting cougars. These vigilante hunters wounded not only a mountain lion but a park ranger who attempted to stop the shooting.”

“And that's Wilderness Westin, reporting live from Heritage National Monument,” Max intoned. “Got it. On tape, loud and clear. Audio has much more impact than just words on the screen. I'll have it up in half an hour.”

Wow. “I'm truly honored to be working with you, Mad Max.”

“Likewise, WildWest. We could have been great.”

She scuffed her boots in the dust. “It's not over yet.”

An object at her feet caught her eye. She picked up the small piece, turned it over in her fingers. Black plastic, flat, with a hole in the center. Some kind of button? No, the size was right, but a button would have two holes. A wheel. The missing wheel! The round bit of plastic looked suspiciously like the toy wheel Zack had shown her, right down to the tiny tread impressions.

How many toy wheels looked like that? And how many would be way up here on a hiking trail? It had to be Zack's.

“You still there? Sam?”

“Max, you won't believe what I just found! Turn on that mike again.” She stated, for the record, that she had just discovered a toy wheel, identical to one missing from Zachary Fischer's truck, near Temple Rock ruins in Heritage National Monument.

“We're back!” Max shouted into the phone.

“Stay tuned,” she told him.

“Me and the whole world. Adam Steele keeps calling to find out what's new.”