Endangered (9781101559017) (30 page)

The wattle and daub around the hole felt solid, strengthened by the network of juniper roots that spiderwebbed over the original plasterwork. She grasped the slender tree trunk and pulled herself up. Kneeling on the adobe roof, she set the candle down beside her and surveyed her surroundings.

The candle flickered madly now, down to the last few millimeters of wick and wax. Its intermittent light revealed the stonework of the adjoining structure to her left, a solid wall of rock in back of her. The curve of the limestone arch began somewhere in the darkness above her head and descended down to her left, where the cliffside was furry with moss. She crawled to it and pressed a finger to the lumpy growth, feeling the velvety dampness. The ruins backed up to the underground chambers of the Curtain. The wall here must have cracked in the last earthquake, allowing the continual dampness inside the cavern to seep out into the ruins. Was that the sound of trickling water? She was probably listening to the creek inside the Curtain.

With a last waft of smoke, the candle flickered out, leaving her in the dark, literally now as well as figuratively. The breeze was dying down. Between gusts, the nightly chorus of tree frogs drifted up from the canyon below. This was the end of the road, at least for tonight. No hidden stairways. No Coyote Charlie. No Fred Fischer. And no Zack.

Clouds blotted out most of the light from moon and stars, but the puffy billows were on the move, rolling quickly across the sky. A faint scent floated on the air: Camembert cheese?
Sure, Summer.
Her empty stomach had translated the acrid odor of the burnt candle wick into the smell of food. Damn thief—at least he could have left her something to munch on.

She checked her watch. Ten twenty. An hour earlier in Washington State. She suddenly remembered her request to Blake, switched on her phone, and dialed home.

“Deep Throat here,” he answered. “Meet me in the southwest corner of the parking garage in two hours.”

“Knock it off, Blake. I've got limited battery power.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you're no fun?”

“Did you find anything in the files?”

“Maybe.” She heard the rustle of paper from the other end. “There's an article about sustainable logging on Indian reservations.”

“In Oregon?” she asked.

More rustling. “No, it says Montana.”

“Then that's not it. Next?”

“Native Americans claiming rights to shellfish harvesting along the Oregon Coast?”

She sighed. “Didn't I say that I was looking for something about old-growth forests?”

“It has the words ‘old growth,' ” Blake argued. He quoted, “The tribe once lived on these beaches, where the old-growth forests grow right down to the surf line.”

The line was growing staticky. The Low Power icon was blinking; pretty soon it would glow constantly in warning. “Anything else?”

“One more. I found a clipping about these tree-sitters. They called themselves Earth Spirits, and lived in the old growth to—quote—‘save the trees from the demons with chainsaws who worship money more than Mother Nature.' Unquote.”

She straightened. “Read on.”

“There's nothing specific that says anything about Native Americans, but they gave themselves kind of tribal-sounding nicknames: Eagle Kovich, Wolf Davinski, Fawn Bronwin, Panther Pederson, Kokopetti Dane.”

“Kokopetti? Sounds more Italian than Indian.”

“Uh, just a minute, let me turn on the lamp. Koko . . . it's Kokopelli, not Kokopetti. Kokopelli's that Navajo hunchback god, isn't he?”

“I don't know if he's Navajo or if he's a god, but yeah, he's some kind of southwestern Indian figure. No Charlies or Carloses?”

“Just animals and Kokopelli.”

“All men?”

“It's kind of hard to tell for sure from this photo. Looks cold; they're all wearing stocking caps or hoods. But I'd guess three guys, two girls. Does it mean anything to you?”

“I'm not sure yet. Thanks.”

“You'll be back in a couple of days?”

Assuming I survive the night,
she thought. But she said, “Yeah, a couple of days. Pet Simon for me.” She turned off the phone.

Could Coyote Charlie be an Earth Spirit? It sounded possible, even probable.

Avoiding the damp patches of moss and lichen, she positioned herself with her back against the vertical cliff wall, her knapsack at her side, and her legs straight out in front of her. One foot rested on the top rung of the ladder. She'd feel the vibrations if anyone started up, dowse him with the pepper spray she held in her lap, kick him in the head if need be. Was that a decent plan? She was so punchy with fatigue and hunger that it was hard to judge.

The surroundings were colorless in the patchy moonlight. The ruins, cliffs, boulders, and rock floor were all flat, dark gray; the trees and bushes black skeletons whose shadows lent the only depth to the monochromatic landscape.

Stars and wispy clouds mingled in a patchwork sky out over the valley. The heavens looked cold, but she felt warm enough in her sheltered location. The cougar scratches on her thigh were red hot and swollen, bulging through the rip in her pants. Damn. Why hadn't she grabbed the antibiotic ointment from Kent's first-aid kit? The fingers of her left hand throbbed where the wax had dripped over them. The muscles in her neck felt like wire rope that might break under the strain at any moment.

She'd thought that yesterday had been horrible, but today definitely took the prize.
Might be more skeletons up here
, Perez had said. Maybe a serial murderer had been operating in the park for years. Maybe nobody had noticed before because he'd picked off homeless people, like the Mexican family she'd seen by the river, like the pregnant teenager Kent had mentioned. Maybe Zack was the first that anyone had missed.

Fred Fischer was on the run. The man had a history of violence and a convenient job, truck driving. Did he return to his favorite area periodically to hide his latest grisly trophy? The connection between him and Ferguson was troubling. What had Fischer been up to in his youth that Ferguson had “saved” him from? And how had Ferguson saved him?

And how was she going to keep the hunters from the cougars tomorrow? The questions were endless. Her answers, nonexistent.

 

HE inhaled slowly, analyzing the air for her scent. She was so tiny, so tired, so sad. He thought about going to her, stroking her hair while she was sleeping. Hair the color of moonlight. He would not have taken her things if he'd known who they belonged to. Then he'd heard her voice. Good thing the boy had been asleep, then. He looked over at the still form next to him, was startled to see the blue eyes looking back now.

“It's okay, son.” He smiled at the boy. “Everything's going to be okay. I'll never let them get you.”

He wished he felt as sure as he sounded. The helicopters, the hunters. They'd violated the Canyon of Souls, handling his beloved like she was garbage. He fingered the pistol that lay in his lap. He'd never shot one before; he didn't even know if this one worked.

The boy was sitting up now. The dim lantern light revealed the swallows returning from their sundown hunt and settling into their nests with high-pitched chirps. Then the child's wide blue eyes turned toward the water burbling below them. He held out a chubby arm in the direction of the shining liquid and raised himself onto his knees.

The man grabbed the boy's sweatshirt. “Don't you even think of going near that water!” the man growled. “How many times do I have to tell you? You could die there.”

 

A wave of dizziness swept over Sam. She pulled her legs up, wrapped her arms around them, lowered her forehead onto her knees. The fabric of her pants was scratchy, stiff with dried blood. Kent's blood. Cougar blood. What she wouldn't give to have Perez's magic fingers massaging her neck right now.

She wanted to hate Adam, but she felt only numbness toward him. He'd challenged her to prove that a cougar hadn't killed Zack, and so far she'd failed.

What a horrible world. She'd come to Heritage National Monument to write happy stories and take pretty pictures to show that nature was a precious jewel, that wildlife deserved to be protected. She felt as if a tornado had touched down and sucked her up into a vortex of missing children, skulls, pedophiles, self-serving TV reporters, and trigger-happy hunters.

A trio of twinkling lights moved slowly across the sky in a steady line, passing in and out of the clouds. Strange to think of people flying at hundreds of miles per hour while she had labored all day to hike a dozen on earth.

The chorus of tree frogs rose in volume. It was a comforting sound, a nonhuman sound, the true music of earth. She shouldn't sleep, she really shouldn't. Zack was still missing. Fred and Charlie were out there somewhere, their secrets still intact.

Kent and the cougar had been shot, and the USDAWS hunters were coming at noon tomorrow. And she'd accomplished nothing. How could she sleep?

Her head was spinning, her ears humming with tiny fever voices. Her leg throbbed. The deep rhythmic croaking enveloped her. She dreamed of trying to catch packages falling from helicopters overhead. On close inspection, the fallen objects turned out to be corpses of babies and cats.

A gentle percussion woke her. Tap. Tap-tap. Distant gunfire? Had the slaughter begun before sunrise? Raising her head sent a sharp pain through her neck and shoulders. She shook out her hands and lowered her legs, gritting her teeth as she straightened her injured leg. The thigh was swollen with infection, but bearable; she could make it back to camp and doctor herself there. She was glad to be alive; grateful that the rain of bodies was only a nightmare. The helicopter, though, was real; she could hear the rumble of its engine fading away down the valley.

The sky was a dark mauve. Dawn would be brightening the eastern edge of the mesa above, but the sun had not yet pierced the shadows of the Temple Rock overhang. She leaned toward the edge of the roof on which she sat. Her hand brushed something metallic. She picked it up. Her energy bar, intact in its foil wrapper. How strange. Had she had it with her all the time? A pile of cashews was heaped beside it. A chill ran down her spine. She hadn't been carrying any nuts. She glanced around, her eyes wide.

A movement in the brush beyond the ruins caught her attention: a fawn, its hooves echoing a hesitant trail across the rocks. Tap-tap, tap-tap. Ready to bolt at any moment, probably spooked by the helicopter. It sniffed the air delicately. Had the racket scared off the doe, leaving the white-rumped baby alone? The dark nostrils flared. Sam wondered if the fawn smelled her; she was certainly fragrant enough.

The fawn tensed and pricked its ears, its liquid eyes focused on the plaza below her. Probably waiting for a signal from its mother. Sam shoved the nuts and energy bar into her vest pockets, rolled onto her hands and knees, and crawled carefully to the edge of the roof to get a look. Instead of another deer on the plaza, a man slunk toward the ruins.

WITH the rising sun still behind the cliff, the man was in deep shadow; she couldn't make out his features. Fred Fischer? Coyote Charlie? She had to get a look at his face.

After leaping down the ladder, she hugged the wall as she crept to the doorway. There. Only a few yards away. He would cross in front of her in a matter of seconds. Crap! Was he coming
inside
? Coming for her?

She leapt out of the doorway, landed with her feet spread shoulder width apart, the pepper spray clutched in both hands and trained on him. “Freeze!”

The figure stopped, his arms dropping to his sides, a shapeless hulk in the dim light. Clothing rustled. Was he pulling a gun? The blood roared in her head.

Her finger pressed against the trigger of the pepper spray. “I said freeze!” Thank God her voice sounded stronger than she felt.

“This is as frozen as I get.”

Chase Perez.

She ran to him, threw her arms around his waist. His nylon jacket parted and she laid her cheek against his chest. The flannel shirt he wore underneath was soft as velvet. Her fingers slid beneath his daypack, identified the holster at the back of his belt. She breathed him in. Soap, deodorant, shaving lotion. Then her thoughts flashed to her own strong scent, to her filthy hair and bloody clothes. What the heck was she was doing?

Abruptly, she broke away, stepped back. The dawn air was frigid on her neck and hands. Only her cheeks were hot. “Sorry,” she said.

“Don't be sorry.” He grinned. “I can't remember when a woman was so glad to see me.”

His cheeks and chin were freshly shaven, his dark hair barely tousled from the breeze. She must look a wreck. Her braid had slithered down inside her vest during the night. She pulled it out, patted down the wisps at her temples, and clasped her hands in front of her. Her fingernails were filthy, she noted with disgust. She tried to make her voice casual. “I've had a rough night.”