Morning Light (14 page)

“You actually
saw
him?”

With a start Clint realized that he'd gone from dubious to completely sold between one heartbeat and the next. How could he not believe this woman? The pain and lingering horror that he saw on her face would have convinced anyone. Now he understood why she had so many dead bolts on her doors and a dog the size of a horse. After living through something like that, any halfway intelligent person would beef up home security.

She finally lifted the cup but didn't drink. Instead she gazed into the murky contents as if searching for answers to questions he couldn't even fathom. “Yes, I saw him.” She tossed away the liquid. “Saw him, heard him, and
felt
what he did to her. My picture of him was so clear I later worked with a sketch artist, enabling the authorities to apprehend him.”

The coffee Clint had just swallowed tried to push back up his throat. “Sweet Jesus.”

“Anyway, Mr. Blain felt we had enough then to call the police. Sadly for Cheryl, the officers who answered the call didn't believe my story. They took notes and were polite, but it was obvious to me as well as to the Blains that they were struggling not to laugh. John Blain was furious. His daughter was in danger of being killed, and the police thought it was a joke.

“He made some more phone calls. I was horrified when I realized he was speaking to members of the media. I pleaded with him not to give out my name, but in that moment all he cared about was Cheryl and causing such a stink that the police would have to do something. He wanted the story plastered on the front page of every newspaper in the greater Seattle area, and he wanted television stations to broadcast it as well. He wasn't going to let his daughter die without one hell of a fight.”

“No, of course not.” Clint tried to imagine what it must have been like for Loni, but he simply couldn't. “So the story went public, and your name was in the newspapers and on all the newscasts. That must have made your life difficult for a while.”

“Worse than difficult—it was pure hell. To make a long story short, the police came under fire for not following up on the leads, and they finally started visiting all the small airports in the area, looking for the canal and shed I described. Sadly, all the media hype spooked Cheryl's captor. Three days after the story went public, her body was found in an irrigation canal near a small airport. She'd been missing for over six months, but she'd been dead for only twelve hours.”

Nausea burned in the pit of Clint's stomach.

“The instant her body was found, the media noted how similar the location was to the one I'd described, and overnight I became the hottest news story the area had seen since the manhunt for the Green River Killer.”

Clint was finally beginning to understand her reluctance to seek out the search coordinator. “Is that why you ended up in Crystal Falls—to escape all the publicity?”

“The media are like vultures picking at a carcass. They wouldn't leave me alone. I had frantic parents calling and coming to my shop, begging me to help find their missing children. I would have if I could, but that isn't how it works. The visions come or they don't, no matter what I touch. They'd shove things into my hands, and I tried, I really
tried
, but nothing would happen. But they refused to believe that. They offered me money. They grew angry. One father even got physical, convinced I wouldn't help because he had only ten thousand dollars.”

“Oh, Loni.”

“It's never been about financial gain. If I could, I'd sell everything I own and spend every dollar I have to be
rid
of this. Most of the time it doesn't feel like a gift. It feels like a curse. And it was especially bad after Cheryl's death. I'd think the worst was over, and then another child or teenager would go missing, kindling interest in me all over again.”

And now she was about to step forward and let the vultures have another go at her. Clint tossed out the cold dregs of his coffee. The liquid hissed when it hit the rocks. “And now you're afraid the same thing could happen all over again.”

A silence fell over them, the only sounds a whisper of breeze and birds twittering to greet the day. “Gram says I can't run from this. I'd rather not speak to the coordinator, but if I can convince him I'm telling the truth, it may save Trevor's life. Like you said, we may be able to find him on our own, but having some help sure wouldn't hurt.”

“Maybe we can get around telling him your name.”

She shook her head and pushed to her feet. “Trevor is all alone out there. I've
seen
him, heard wolves. I know how frightened he is. He'll be found much faster if I can make that search coordinator believe me, and the only way I know to do that is to tell him about Cheryl. By making a few phone calls, he can verify the story. Maybe this time because of Cheryl, it will be different. Maybe this time my gift will actually save someone.” She lifted her hands. “I've got to try. No matter how it turns out, I've got to try. Trevor needs me to do this for him.”

Clint couldn't argue with her reasoning. He only wished he could think of some way to protect her.

T
en minutes later Loni and Clint were down at the water. About a dozen people worked exhaustively to drag for Trevor's remains. Even well below the rapids in what appeared to be calmer water, the swiftness of the current made the job difficult. People on both banks manned anchor ropes, trying to keep an aluminum riverboat, equipped with an outboard motor, from drifting downstream. Iron grapnels and gaffs were being tossed overboard, then hauled back up again. Loni felt particularly sorry for the two divers. Even with wet suits to protect them from the icy water, they had to be chilled to the bone.

The search coordinator, a Crystal Falls policeman named Richard Conklin, had joined the local search-and-rescue team years ago and was now a knowledgeable veteran. He seemed to be a decent man. Despite his obvious disbelief when he heard Loni's story, he maintained a courteous, professional manner.

Directing a look at Loni, he asked, “What did you say your name was again? I didn't quite catch it.”

“Her name is Loni MacEwen.” Clint thrust out his hand. “I'm Clint Harrigan, a local rancher.”

“Harrigan?” Conklin frowned slightly. “You related to Samantha Harrigan, the gal whose quarter horses were poisoned last year?”

“My sister.”

“So you're Hugh Harrigan's nephew?”

“I am. You know him?”

“Back when I was a state boy, we used to patrol the same stretch of highway occasionally.” Conklin grinned. “I know him rather well, in fact. We've shared many a thermos of coffee. You raise horses, too?”

“It's what you might call a family enterprise,” Clint replied. “That's why I'm here, actually, because I have a stable of horses. When Ms. MacEwen told me her story, I offered to take her in on horseback to look for the boy.”

Loni met Conklin's gaze straight-on when he turned to look at her again. “I've never had the honor of meeting a real psychic.”

As the policeman spoke he smiled politely, a little too politely, in Loni's estimation. She'd seen that expression on the faces of two other law enforcement officers in the not-so-distant past. “I know it's a lot to take in and that you may have your doubts, but the validity of my story can be verified.” She gave him a brief account of the Cheryl Blain case. “Call anyone in law enforcement in the greater Seattle area, and they should vouch for me.”

Conklin nodded. “I may radio in and have someone do that.”

“Trevor needs help
now.
”

Conklin rubbed his jaw. “This is a huge rescue attempt, with a lot of law enforcement officers involved. I'm only in charge of this search team. Convincing my superiors to stop dragging the river to hare off into the mountains on a psychic's say-so isn't likely to happen. We've found no evidence that Trevor Stiles or the dog ever made it out of the water.”

“But he did make it out,” Loni insisted. “I've had several visions of him. He and the dog are traveling north.”

Conklin removed his knitted cap and stuffed it into the pocket of his parka. “I'm not questioning your sincerity, Ms. MacEwen. I'm only saying we've combed each side of this river in both directions.”

“How far upstream?” Clint hooked a thumb at the raft, which had been pulled up onto the riverbank the previous day. “That thing could have drifted for miles before it caught here on the rocks.”

“Trust me, starting from where the Stiles family was last seen by their rafting buddies to a point several miles downstream from here, we've walked every inch of shoreline. No one has seen any footprints to indicate that the boy survived. A child and a dog that size would surely have left tracks or disturbed earth somewhere if they'd made it out of the water.”

“Maybe it was rocky where they climbed out,” Clint suggested. “You also have to remember that the soil in this area is comprised mostly of volcanic ash. It blows in the wind like talcum powder. Isn't it possible the boy's footprints were faint by the time your searchers came upon them, possibly so faint that they weren't noticed? They were searching with flashlights, weren't they?”

“We covered the same ground again yesterday morning in broad daylight.”

“
After
God knows how many people walked through, obliterating any evidence.”

Conklin squinted against the brightening sunlight. “Most of my volunteers are very experienced.”

“Most, but not all?” Clint countered. “What if a less experienced person covered the stretch of ground where the Stiles boy left the stream? Isn't it possible that something could have been overlooked?”

“Possible, but not probable,” the coordinator replied. Smiling at Loni again, he added, “I'll tell you what. If we find nothing in all the hot spots where bodies traditionally hang up, I'll consider your suggestion that we should concentrate north of here. I'll also call the King County police to verify your story. Does that ease your mind any?”

Loni felt Clint move away from her. She was too upset to glance after him. “Trevor is running out of time. If nothing else, can you at least have a helicopter equipped with a heat sensor comb the northern woodlands?”

“Do you have any idea how much one of those helicopters costs per hour?” He shook his head. “I'm sorry, Ms. MacEwen, but I need some physical evidence that the child left the stream to justify a request for more aerial searches. We've combed the terrain on either side of the river, both on foot and from the air. We've found zip.”

Clint returned to Loni's side just then. She clutched his shirtsleeve, signaling that she was ready to go. They thanked Conklin for his time and trudged up the slope back to their camp.

En route Loni said, “He isn't going to search north of the river. He didn't believe a word I told him.”

“No, I don't think he did either. Pisses me off how narrow-minded people can be sometimes.”

As recently as last night Clint had been as reluctant to believe her as Conklin was. Grateful for his support, she said, “Thank you for backing me up down there.”

He flashed her a sheepish grin. “I can be slow to make up my mind, but once I do, I don't waffle.”

Each of them smiled as they covered the remaining distance to camp. Once there Loni was surprised to see what looked like sweat streaming down Clint's darkly tanned face. With the mountain chill still riding the morning air, she couldn't help but be concerned.

“Are you all right?”

He plucked off his Stetson. “Right as rain. Only a little wet.” Reaching into the bowl of the hat, he plucked out a small brown blob that dripped water through his fingers. Proffering it to her, he said, “I saw this in the raft. No one was paying any attention, so I swiped it. You reckon it might be Trevor's?”

Loni's heart caught. The object he held was a small, waterlogged stuffed animal. “I can't believe you took that. You could get into serious trouble.”

“Trevor's already in serious trouble, and I'm pretty sure they aren't going use it. I didn't see any tracking dogs, anyway. I know there's no guarantee you'll see anything if you touch it, but I thought it'd be worth a shot.”

Loni stared hard at the toy. “Oh, Clint, I think it's Boo.”

“Who?”

“Boo.” Loni took the wet blob from his hands. “Trevor's stuffed bear.”

When Loni's face went suddenly still and her eyes became unfocused, Clint knew what was happening even before she swayed on her feet. His first instinct was to grab her by the shoulders to keep her from falling, but he stopped himself. She was obviously picking up on something by touching the bear, and he didn't want to jerk her back to reality by making physical contact.

Each second that passed seemed to last a small eternity. Loni didn't appear to see him now—or even be aware of him. It was the eeriest experience he'd ever had. Watching her made his skin pebble with goose bumps.

Finally she pressed the soaked teddy bear between her breasts, and her eyes refocused on him, however blearily. She weaved on her feet like a drunk. “He's still okay,” she whispered, smiling tremulously. “He and Nana were sharing a bag of corn chips.”

Unable to stop himself now that she was mentally with him again, Clint caught her by the arms. “Are you okay?”

“Just a little dizzy and disoriented.” Her eyes fell closed. “It'll pass in a moment.”

Clint could understand why it might make her feel disoriented. In a very real way she'd just had an out-of-body experience.

Her lashes fluttered up again. “Better now,” she said with a smile that dimpled her cheek. “He's okay. That's the important thing. He's still okay.”

It took over a half hour to load all the horses and gear back into the truck and trailer before moving to the north side of the river. Then Clint spent another hour putting Decker packsaddles and half-breeds on six of the animals, which he followed with boards and manties that had all been carefully weighed the previous night at his ranch.

Loni sat on a rock, nibbling on a piece of jerky while she watched Clint work. He moved with an unconscious grace, bending, crouching, and then pushing to his feet with seeming ease. The muscles across his back created a tantalizing play of movement beneath his shirt, stretching the blue cloth tight whenever he strained to lift something. She also liked his hands, broad and square at the base, his fingers long and thick with calluses. For just an instant she recalled the sturdy grasp of those fingers over her ankle when he'd treated her heel last night—how their warmth had penetrated her skin, how firm and heavy his leathery palm had felt.

Dismayed by the train of her thoughts, she asked, “Is there anything I can do to help?” Trevor was out there somewhere, and she was anxious to get going. “Four hands can accomplish more than two, and I'm a quick learner.”

“I know it probably seems like I'm taking forever, but careful attention now may save us a heap of time later.”

It all looked unnecessarily complicated to Loni. “I saw you weighing and tagging everything that went into the packs last night. Why is that?”

“It's important to keep the loads on a packsaddle the same weight on both sides,” he explained. “It's all deadweight, and if it gets off balance it's unnecessarily hard on the horse.” He patted the contraption on one horse's back. “These packsaddles and boards allow me to balance the weight to some degree, but as we consume our supplies, we'll be lightening the loads. It's easier to repack the manties if everything in them is already weighed and tagged.”

“You'll have to repack along the trail? The process took hours last night.”

“It'll be much faster now.”

Loni could only hope he was right. “So when will we check in at a ranger station?”

He gave her an odd look. “Why would we do that?”

“Isn't there a law requiring it?”

“No law that I'm aware of. Inexperienced hikers sometimes check in as a safety precaution, and smart mountain climbers do as well, but I'm an experienced trail rider. We also have no idea of our precise destination or how long we'll be gone.”

“So we'll just ride in there, and no one will know where we are?”

“I'll know where we are,” he told her with a grin.

“What about our search for Trevor? Do we need permission or anything?”

“I don't think so. The more people looking for him, the better, and in an unofficial way we did notify that search coordinator of our intentions.”

A few moments later he drew the horses into a single-file line, tying them together with lead ropes lengthened with pieces of cord that looked like heavy twine.

“What are the strings for? They don't look strong enough to hold.”

“Good observation. They're called breakaways. If anything goes wrong with one horse, they snap, keeping the other horses safe.” He flashed her a slow grin. “Breakaway strings have saved my ass more than once.”

“Don't the horses figure out that the strings won't hold?”

“These horses are all trained for the trail. They know the breakaways won't hold if they throw a fuss, but they rarely do. Hagar, a sorrel mare back at the ranch, is never taken on trail rides because she's a string jerker. I was never able to break her of it.”

Hagar struck Loni as being a strange name for a horse. “Wasn't Hagar the handmaid of Sarah, Abraham's wife?”

“Know your Bible, do you?”

“I can't quote chapter and verse, but, yes, I've read it a few times. Evidently so have you.”

“I'm Catholic. We read scripture at every Mass. I've also done a lot of reading on my own.”

He said
Catholic
as if it were a private club he belonged to. Loni was tempted to burst his bubble by telling him that she, a clairvoyant, practiced the same faith. But she decided to err on the side of caution. He was only just now coming around, and she saw no point in needlessly complicating matters.