Endangered (A Sam Westin Mystery Book 1)

by Pamela Beason

  Sam’s jaw dropped.

  “If we find evidence of a cougar attack on the missing child, hunters will be dispatched to take care of the problem.”

  Buck Ferguson nodded, looking pleased with himself.

  “Official hunters,” Thompson hastened to add. “Government-sanctioned hunters.”

  The smile disappeared from Ferguson’s face. “And how long will we have to wait for that?” he spat in the direction of the microphone.

  Ignoring him, Thompson reiterated, “And only if we find sufficient evidence of a cougar attack.”

  A blue van with the logo of an NBC affiliate from Las Vegas rolled into the space on the other side of Sam’s Civic, people pouring out of its doors even before the engine had stopped. Thompson, eyeing this arrival with panic, quickly strode back toward the ranger station. Perry smiled gleefully at her competitors as they rushed past in hot pursuit of the park superintendent.

  Sam rolled up her window and backed out of her spot. Strange how the reporter hadn’t mentioned the arrest of the two teens last night. She could think of three possibilities: one, the TV crew didn’t know about the event, which seemed unlikely in such a slow news area; two, another reporter was covering that angle of the story; or three, they didn’t want to divert attention from the killer-cougar theory. She hoped for scenario number two.

  The meadow across from the Powell Trail parking lot held a small red and white helicopter. A man sat in the pilot’s seat, clipboard in hand.

  She quickly stowed her laptop and food packets in her backpack, hoping she’d be well up the trail before the mechanical beast started up. While it was wonderful to have air support in the search for Zack, she knew how the machines terrified the animals in the park. She’d once seen a buck leap off a cliff when a helicopter buzzed him. Wildlife and helicopters did not mix.

  The missing poster had been taped over the trailhead signpost: she had to lift it out of the way to grab a registration card from the stack beneath. The poster also obscured one of the park service postings about cougars in the area. Someone had spray-painted a red X over the cougar notice. Blood-colored rivulets dripped down from the X. Damn. She touched a finger to one of the thin streaks. It came away wet. She lowered the poster to cover the disturbing image, noting with horror that she’d left a smudge of scarlet across Zachary’s cheek.

  She was penciling her license number and destination on the registration card when Agent Perez bounded up, a gray-green park service knapsack over one shoulder.

  “Wilderness Westin, I presume. Blogger extraordinaire. And television star.”

  Sam snorted. “I am not a blogger! And the television coverage,” she said, “was not my idea.”

  This morning Perez’s FBI badge hung from the pocket of a dark blue flannel shirt, which was tucked into a leather belt with an Indian design. In less than twenty-four hours, she’d seen him in a suit and wingtips, a black sweatshirt and jeans, and now he sported khakis and leather boots with deep lug soles. Did FBI agents carry an outfit for every occasion?

  “Do I pass?” He plucked off his badge, flipped the wallet closed, tucked it into a back pocket of his trousers.

  She turned her gaze back to the card. “Depends on what you’re up to.”

  He shrugged. “Hiking.” Over her shoulder, he read her scribbled destination. “OT near Sunset Canyon. OT?”

  “Off trail.” She pointed at the orange tag that dangled from her shoulder strap. “I have a special permit to travel cross-country.”

  “Trails not interesting enough for you?”

  “Like I told you, I write about wildlife. There’s more wildlife off the trails.”

  “Why did you choose this particular route this morning?” He shrugged off the borrowed knapsack, knelt, and rummaged through the pockets. He wore a pistol holstered on his right hip.

  “I heard at the ranger station that Zack’s shoe was found on this trail.”

  “And what do you intend to do with that information?” He extracted a gray-brown felt wad from his knapsack, slapped it on his leg, then crammed the crushed fedora onto his head. A raven-haired Indiana Jones.

  She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. When her voice was under control, she said, “I just want to have a look around, see if there’s any evidence of cougars.”

  “We’re running an investigation up there. We don’t need amateurs mucking up the scene.”

  She smiled. “I happen to know that dozens of volunteers have already mucked up your scene.”

  His expression darkened.

  “I’ll stay out of your way,” she promised. “Did you check out those tips I gave you yesterday?”

  “We check everything.”

  “The weird camper—Wilson?”

  “No criminal history; no warrants on vehicle or owner.”

  Darn. “How about the baseball cap?”

  “Mrs. Fischer confirmed that Zack had one like it; Mr. Wilson confirmed that he found it down by the river and that he washed it.” Perez’s clear brown eyes bore into hers. “You’re taking an awfully personal interest in this case, Ms. Westin.”

  “Remember, I saw Zack the night he disappeared. I was not mistaken about the man I saw—there was definitely a man at the end of the path, Agent Perez. And he definitely waved. But I still don’t know if it was Fred Fischer or Weird Wilson or someone else.”

  She shoved her permit card into the box. “And now I know that someone carried Zachary Fischer up this trail.”

  “Or something.”

  “You didn’t sound like you suspected a cougar when you were grilling the parents at park headquarters this morning.”

  Lifting one black eyebrow, he assessed her coolly for a long moment. If Special Agent Chase J. Perez were an animal, she thought, he’d be an owl. Or maybe a hawk. A sharp-eyed creature that knew how to bide its time. Finally he said, “That door was closed.”

  She shrugged. “Flimsy government construction. I have exceptional hearing. And I know an interrogation when I hear one.”

  “We call them interviews.”

  “Sounded like you were interviewing those poor parents pretty hard.”

  “Standard procedure. A lot of supposed kidnappings are murders or fatal accidents covered up by relatives.”

  She remembered Fred’s growl at the restaurant: Leave me alone. The man had been downright hostile. “Fischer could have lied about seeing me on the path because he didn’t want anyone to know that he’d taken Zack.” She thought for a minute about the timing. “There wasn’t enough time for him to carry Zack up the trail before going back to the campsite and reporting him missing, but he could have handed him off to someone else.”

  Perez shrugged. “Or hidden the corpse and then carried it up the trail later during the night.”

  Sam winced. “Why would anyone carry a body so far? He could have driven it anywhere.”

  Perez shook his head. “Rangers at the gates were checking cars. And we’re not necessarily looking for rational behavior here. People do weird things with corpses.”

  She wasn’t ready to visualize Zack as a corpse yet. “On the other hand, if Fischer didn’t take him, those boys last night could really have kidnapped him.”

  Perez looked startled. Behind them, the helicopter’s engine whined, beginning its warm-up.

  “It’s a small town, Perez; you can’t keep anything secret. Everybody knows about the arrests,” she said over the racket. She added hopefully, “If it’s a kidnapping, that would mean that someone has Zack, that he’s still alive.”

  “Unlikely. The boys were rank amateurs, and there’s been no further word from the supposed kidnapper. Right now, it looks like a couple of local teenagers decided to cash in on Zachary’s disappearance. But we’re keeping our minds open to all possibilities. Which I would suggest you do, too.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that the ransom-without-kidnapping scenario would work just as well if a cougar dragged the boy off.”

  She h
itched up her pack. The din of helicopter blades whock-whocketed through the atmosphere. Turning, she glared at the infernal noisemaker and noted that the blue van had pulled up near it. A reporter with a battery-powered microphone and a female camera operator waited just clear of the helicopter, expectantly looking their way.

  Perez spotted them. “Drat.”

  Sam smiled and shouted over the racket, “Have a nice day, Agent Perez.”

  He leaned close, wafting a whiff of a citruslike fragrance her way. Lime aftershave? “Stay out of trouble,” he said into her ear. Retrieving his knapsack, he trotted toward the chopper, studiously ignoring the reporter and camera.

  As the helicopter rose, Sam plugged her ears with her fingers. It quickly disappeared through the trees overhead. Perez would be at the shoe site within minutes. With a groan of self-pity, she started up the trail.

  The two-way radio rasped static from her pack’s side pocket. Tanner, informing park personnel that a suspicious vehicle had entered through the north gate. Two men, two dogs in a pickup with an empty rifle rack. “Everyone keep a lookout for these guys, just in case they have those guns with them. Utah license, TYG 898.”

  So it begins. Why weren’t these macho types volunteering to search for the child instead of picking up their weapons? Zack could be huddled under a bush somewhere up above, dehydrated, hungry, alone. Not nearly enough people were looking for him. It hadn’t even been two whole days, and people were ready to believe that the little boy had been eaten by a cougar. Even Perez.

  And Thompson was already buckling under pressure, promising to call in USDAWS. How would the government hunters decide which mountain lion was the perpetrator?

  She’d shown everyone the cougars, up close and personal. She’d identified the rock bridge in the photo. And then Adam had broadcast it to the world. They’d wait for the cats in Sunset Canyon. She’d even told the world that Apollo had been to the river, so close to the campground. They’d be after the male cub. But they’d shoot any cougar they could find. And probably more than one. And none of the bloodshed would help Zachary Fischer. She blamed herself for being so specific. And damned Adam for using it against her.

  * * * * *

  Nearly two hours later, she spotted Perez’s lanky silhouette at Dripping Rock. The place was a welcome oasis, where the air was cool, damp, and soft to the skin, refreshing after miles of intense sun. A hanging garden of chartreuse lichen and maidenhair ferns spilled down the limestone wall, dripping beads of moisture into the fine sand below.

  Perez blocked the trail, one foot up on the rock ledge that bordered the drop-off. The crease in his trousers was still sharp, she noted with irritation. Hers were streaked with red dust. Sweat stained the armpits of her turquoise T-shirt. Strands of hair had glued themselves to her sticky forehead; she wiped them out of her face.

  “This where Zack’s shoe was found?” she asked.

  He jerked a thumb toward a location up the trail. “Up there.”

  Uncapping her water bottle, she sipped the lukewarm liquid and surveyed the terrain. The cottonwoods and willows lining the valley floor were at the height of their brief color show. They’d be brown in two weeks, and then leafless within a month. The river was a shining ribbon, green against the red rocks that rose beside the water. October was her favorite month in the high desert: crisp mornings, sunny afternoons, golden leaves of cottonwoods and aspens glowing among the evergreens.

  “Nice scenery.” Perez’s voice was wistful. Turning, he motioned her to follow him up the trail. “Come on. I’ve got something I need a wildlife expert to look at.”

  9

  Sam and Perez rounded one of many switchbacks that zigzagged up the cliffside. Above them, high-pitched voices called Zack’s name. Rescue 504, still hard at work.

  The rocky slope dropped off steeply from the trail, broken here and there by cactus and mesquite and an occasional courageous juniper that had taken root in a crack. Perez stopped twenty feet above a yucca that bore a flag of orange tape. He stepped over the stones that marked the trail’s edge and slid down the slope, motioning her to follow.

  She discarded her pack, then sidestepped down to join him beside the yucca.

  “Is this cougar poop?” He pointed toward a patch of dark material on the ground.

  “Scat. It’s called scat.”

  “That’s the official name for animal poop?” His eyes had that glint again.

  She had to fight to keep a smile from her face. “Yes.”

  Kneeling, she examined the droppings. Reddish pulp, interspersed with tiny seeds. “This is probably from a ringtail; they’re fruit eaters. Cougar scat would contain fur, maybe bone fragments. No self-respecting cougar eats berries.”

  He frowned, his eyes still fixed on the droppings.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” she said.

  The ledge out of which the yucca grew was crisscrossed with dozens of shoe prints. “I see you’ve kept your evidence scene pristine.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “What kind of shoes was Fred Fischer wearing?” Sam asked.

  “Nike cross-trainers. Way too common.” He pointed to several smudged imprints in the dust that appeared to be Nike swooshes. “Half the volunteers are wearing them.”

  She thought about the Mickey Mouse camper. “What kind of shoes does Weird Wilson wear?”

  “I don’t think that man could hike uphill for four miles,” he said. “But I’ll check.” He sighed heavily. “Criminals should be required to wear custom-made boots with their initials cut into the tread.”

  Sam raised an eyebrow. “Maybe they could issue them on release from prison.”

  “It would be a good start.” Perez said, again with a perfectly straight face. Either the man had a wry sense of humor or none at all. “This is cougar territory, right?”

  She studied the surrounding area. A cougar could easily traverse the rocky terrain: they could run up nearly vertical slopes. “Could be. But why would a cougar drag Zack up here? It’s much more likely that the shoe fell down from the trail.” She pointed toward it. “Especially if an adult was carrying Zack. He might not even notice a shoe falling off.” Where would the mystery man take Zack?

  Perez seemed to read her mind. “Where does this trail go?”

  “Up past Jade Pool, through a canyon, past some ruins, on up and over the plateau. Tons of places for a person—not a cougar—to hide a kid. Speaking of which, I’ve got to go.”

  After gaining the trail, she took out the camera and snapped a couple of shots of Perez kneeling below, jotting notes on his pad. He glanced up, a frown darkening his handsome face. She waved and turned away.

  Public place, she thought as she hiked on. No expectation of privacy, no risk of lawsuit. Farther up the trail, the Rescue 504 scouts sprawled across rocks on either side of the trail, wolfing an early lunch from paper bags. All the teenagers were scratched and dirty from crawling over the hillside.

  A thin freckle-faced girl spoke in anger to another scout. “People deserve to get killed, the way they’ve treated animals. So what if a cougar eats a baby or two? There’re a lot more people than cougars.”

  “No animal is as good as a person,” a boy retorted. “Any mountain lion that comes near me is as good as dead. Right, Wanda?”

  The olive-skinned girl to his right nodded. The freckle-faced girl gave the boy the finger.

  The boy’s hand moved to his waist. His fingers wrapped around the hilt of a large hunting knife sheathed on his belt. The scoutmaster was nowhere in sight. Sam waded into their midst. “Hey, we’ve got to stick together and do our jobs, okay? For Zack.”

  She explained that nobody had found evidence of a cougar attack. Perez approached as she added, “It’s a crime to harm any animal in a national park.”

  Wanda was dubious. “So they’re just going to let twenty mountain lions roam around wherever they want?”

  “Twenty?” Sam squeaked. “There can’t be more than five, tops.”

  The
girl swiveled toward her boyfriend. “That Buck guy on the TV last night said that since they weren’t allowed to hunt here anymore, there were probably twenty mountain lions in the park.”

  A throb started deep inside Sam’s skull. “Buck Ferguson,” she said, painfully enunciating each syllable of the blockhead’s name, “doesn’t have a clue what he’s talking about.”

  “But he—”

  “I’m a wildlife biologist. I would know, wouldn’t I?”

  Sam addressed a question to the whole group. “Can you guess which animal in the U.S. attacks and kills the most people?”

  “That’s easy!” one boy scoffed. “Grizzly bears.”

  Sam shook her head. “Not even close.”

  “Dogs,” the freckled girl volunteered.

  “Right on.” Sam touched her index finger to the tip of her nose. She continued up the trail, hoping she’d given them something to think about. Perez rushed to catch her.

  “Did I hear that girl say that hunting was once allowed here?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Sam said, stopping. “It used to be national forest land. It’s only been a national monument and a wildlife preserve for less than a decade. What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I don’t know that it does.” It was annoying, the way the man could talk in circles. “Do you know this Ferguson well?” he asked next.

  She wrinkled her nose. “I know him better than I want to. I met him when I worked here as a seasonal. He runs an outfit called Eagle Tours, passes himself off as a ‘wildlife expert’ and a tour guide.” She snorted. “Before Heritage was protected, Eagle Tours regularly took wealthy clients through here on hunting trips.” She pictured Leto when she’d first seen the mother cougar, barely able to crawl, ribs outlined through blood-spattered fur.

  Perez was thoughtful. “On the news this morning, he did seem knowledgeable about the area’s wildlife.”

  “Did he happen to mention that hunters pay him a thousand bucks a head to shoot cougars?”

  Perez’s clear brown eyes said no.