Endangered (A Sam Westin Mystery Book 1)

by Pamela Beason

  She walked back to Perez, wishing he’d throw open his arms so she could fall into them. Instead, he crossed them and leaned toward her. “They’ll be back,” he whispered into her ear. “Escape while you can.”

  “It’s over. It’s really over.”

  He turned his head toward the helicopter. “For you. I’ve got to go back up and get Davinski. And the other pack.”

  “Make her go instead.” Sam thrust out her chin toward a familiar figure strolling through the crowd toward them: Nicole Boudreaux, clad in tweed pants and a rust-colored turtleneck, her chestnut hair gathered neatly with a brown velvet ribbon at the nape of her neck. The woman was completely exasperating.

  Both FBI agents took off in the helicopter. Tanner wanted to drive Sam to the clinic but quickly gave in to her threats to write about cowardly park management if she didn’t take her to the hotel.

  “You never were a team player,” Tanner muttered.

  Then suddenly she was alone at the Wagon Wheel Motel, and her world was blessedly quiet. She even got the same room as before. A fruit-filled care package from the Las Rojas Women’s League was on the bedside table.

  From his wooden frame, the deer stared at her, wide-eyed, as if surprised to see her still alive.

  26

  By the time Sam finally emerged from a hot bath, all her gear had magically arrived at her room. Her computer lay on her bed, her camping gear was stacked on a plastic bag in a corner, and a tray of covered dishes wafted tempting aromas from atop the little table.

  Drat. She had no excuse now. Sighing, she sat down to compose her final article for SWF. The photo she’d taken of Zack tossing a rock down onto Karl Davinski was definitely a keeper, along with the photo of Davinski holding the little boy in the air. Even the picture Perez had snapped of her and Zack wasn’t half bad. She looked like a cat that had fallen in a drainage ditch, of course, but a very well-washed cat. The lighting had been dim enough to hide the crow’s feet around her eyes.

  Zack, naturally, was adorable. They could always edit her out of the photo if they wanted. The image of a handcuffed Davinski lying below his small smiling victim was dramatic: she wouldn’t be surprised if magazines picked up that one.

  She received confirmation of the files from SWF and shut down the laptop. After a couple of minutes of superb silence, her cell phone bleated from the bedside table. It hadn’t been plugged in long enough to recharge. The caller ID read simply Washington. SWF.

  Resigned to her fate, she answered. “Westin.”

  “I understand you’re mad, babe, but you’ll get over it.” Adam.

  She’d been expecting his knock at her door. “Where are you?”

  “Corporate jet,” he chortled. “We’ll be back in Seattle in a couple of hours. Tune in at eleven to see us both on the news.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “You can’t hate me forever. I made you a hero.”

  “After you dragged me through the mud. Not to mention nearly getting the cougars killed.”

  “That wasn’t me, Sam; that was what the public wanted. Welcome to the news business. So it was a trial by fire; now you’re one of us. And are we a dynamite team, or what?”

  “Good question.” She pressed End.

  The cell bleated again. She picked it up and pressed Talk without saying anything.

  “You did it, you really found him?” Lauren.

  “Just sent you the photos,” Sam told her. “And the story.” Phones were ringing in the background. She gazed wearily around the room before she realized that the sound was coming from SWF’s offices.

  Director Steve Harding came on the line. “And you were on the six o’clock news! Did you see it?” He laughed heartily. She heard other voices in the background. This conversation was obviously on speakerphone.

  “Good job, Westin.” That was Max. “What a rush!”

  “Guess what, guys? They’re going to show our website again on the eleven o’clock news!” Lauren said loudly for everyone to hear.

  “Eeee-hah!” General clapping and hoots.

  Sam’s back hurt. Her hands hurt. Her cougar-scarred leg, curiously, was the only thing that didn’t. “Guys?” she shouted to the din. “I’m shutting off the phone now. It’s almost dead. And so am I. I’m going to bed.” Her finger moved toward the End button.

  “Wait! Westin?” Harding shouted into the phone.

  She winced at his volume. “Yes?”

  “It was a great idea to do the series.”

  “Uh, thanks,” she said. “I’m hanging up now.”

  “WildWest!” Harding’s voice. “Wait! Wilderness! What’s her real name again?”

  A click. The background noise dissolved. Lauren had picked up the receiver and spoke to her without benefit of the surrounding crowd. “Think you can do it again?” she asked.

  It was Sam’s turn to laugh.

  Lauren backpedaled. “Well, I don’t mean exactly the same thing, of course. And you kayak, too, don’t you?”

  “Where?” Over Victoria Falls, through shark-filled surf at the Great Barrier Reef?

  “The committee hasn’t decided yet. Hey, we’re heroes now, and they want us to repeat the act.” There was a brief pause, then Lauren whispered through growing static, “Please don’t say no.”

  “Ask me again in six weeks.” Sam turned off the cell phone and crawled into bed.

  27

  A light dusting of snow frosted the sandstone of Milagro Canyon. It reminded Sam of her grandmother’s red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting. But instead of crushed walnuts, this layer cake was adorned with boulders and evergreens.

  “Are we ready?” The woman’s voice echoed in the narrow wash. Her black trench coat and high-heeled boots were distinctly out of place among the wilderness scenery, her ears were pink with cold. Spidery veins across her cheeks spoke of too many whiskeys in smoke-filled rooms.

  An assistant rushed forward with a makeup puff and patted it across the woman’s brow. “Almost ready, Ms. Secretary. The cougar’s not here yet.”

  She pushed the assistant away. “I can’t wait for some animal to show up. I’ve got to be in D.C. by eight tonight.” She eyed the knot of press standing a short distance away. “I’ll do my part now; you can patch it together later, all right?”

  At the nod of a cameraman, she began. “Today I’m pleased to announce that more than eighty thousand acres of national forest land have been added to Heritage National Monument.” The handful of reporters cheered and clapped loudly, making it sound as if a crowd were in attendance.

  The secretary acknowledged the applause with a dignified inclination of her chin. “This additional land will ensure that the wild creatures of this beautiful park, such as our treasured American mountain lion, will always roam free.” More cheers.

  After a brief handshake with Jerry Thompson and the television reporters, the secretary of the interior and her entourage were gone. The departing army helicopter stirred up a cloud of dry snow.

  What a difference a few weeks could make. Only a trace of brown darkened the sandstone floor of the canyon, a faint reminder of the pools of blood that had stained the rock a short time ago.

  The arrival of another helicopter prompted a new flurry on the mesa above. When the snow had again sifted to the ground and the reverberations of the rotor had faded, a new group of visitors descended from the mesa above, carrying a large aluminum cage. Sam’s heart lurched at the sight of a lean blond figure in the group. But it was a ranger she didn’t know. It couldn’t be Kent Bergstrom, at least not yet. Nerve damage had rendered his right arm useless for now: odds were that it would remain that way. She swallowed around a lump in her throat, focused, and snapped the photo.

  Supporting the other sides of the cage were Dr. Stephanie Black, the veterinarian, and the rescue pilot from St. George Fire Department. In the rear, both hands clutching the cage to keep it from descending too quickly, she was surprised to see Special Agent Starchaser J. Perez.

&nbs
p; Sam hurried forward. At the vet’s direction, she crawled into the cage and slipped behind the cat’s head, sliding her hands under its muscular shoulders. Velvety fur. The mountain lion’s head lolled over her upper arm; its breath was warm on her neck. Through the bars of the cage, her gaze met Perez’s. He winked at her.

  They stretched the tranquilized cat across the canyon floor. Sam was reluctant to let go. She smoothed the fur over the feline’s thick neck, stroked her fingertips across its black and white muzzle, caressing the silky coat and the stiff whiskers. A bittersweet wave of déjà vu washed over her. Less than two years earlier, she’d petted another sleeping cougar recently healed of gunshot wounds. Leto.

  She gently squeezed the rough black pads of the male’s huge paw, felt the razor-sharp claws against the palm of her hand. Good luck, Zeus. May the rest of your life be long and healthy; may your offspring be many and proud.

  Dr. Black readied a syringe. She held it up to the light and depressed the plunger to squeeze out the air. A drop of liquid gleamed at the sharp tip. She turned to the onlookers. “Now?” she asked. “It will only take a couple of minutes for him to wake up after I give him this.”

  She injected the sleeping cat. Sam stood up, pulled out her camera and positioned herself for a clear shot.

  Carolyn Perry walked toward the cougar, motioned for her cameraman to follow.

  “No,” warned Dr. Black.

  The reporter abruptly cut her short. “Shhh.” She knelt next to the cat, her microphone held in front of her.

  “This is the mountain lion that was shot a month ago by illegal hunters in Heritage National Monument.” The cat raised its head and glared at the cameraman, who stepped back a couple of paces. Carolyn continued unfazed. “As you can see, he’s alive and well and about to become a free cat once more.”

  Buck Ferguson was noticeably absent. According to the locals, he and his wife had spent most of the last month with their daughter in Boise. Sane World had, for now, switched its website’s focus to western ranchers’ historic rights to graze their cattle on government lands.

  The cougar lurched to his feet and stood blinking at the handful of onlookers. Carolyn straightened and backed away. The cat swished his long black-tipped tail back and forth uncertainly.

  Sam snapped another photo, then reached into the pack at her feet. She raised a pistol into the air, then pressed the trigger.

  The gun’s report was loud in the narrow canyon. The reporters ducked; the vet dropped the clipboard she’d been writing on. The mountain lion gathered his feet beneath him and leapt a good fifteen feet away from the crowd. He bounded up the steep slope toward the helicopter, and then, catching sight of the strange machine, veered off downhill to the south, racing toward the canyon’s exit. The muscles of his shoulders and haunches rippled under the tawny coat as he streaked across the rock; his long sleek tail streamed out behind him.

  Sam dropped the pistol into the pack, sat down on a rock ledge. Mutters of disapproval erupted all around her. Jerry Thompson and the TV crew glared. She plastered a cheery smile on her lips and waved. The hell with them.

  Perez sat beside her. “I see you’re packing heat now.”

  “Starter pistol,” she explained. “I borrowed it from a friend. I never want another cougar to get the impression that people are friends.”

  The FBI agent wore a fleece-lined leather jacket over an Irish fisherman sweater and blue jeans. The crease was gone from between his brows.

  “You look . . . relaxed,” she said.

  “You clean up pretty good yourself. Did Save the Wilderness Fund send you?”

  She nodded. “Follow-up story.”

  “I saw you on the news the night we brought Zack back.”

  “Us. You were there, too.”

  He smiled. “I read your last story.”

  “Mmmmmm.” She didn’t really want to talk about that.

  “How’d you get that underwater video?”

  Mad Max the video wizard, of course. Total panic, roiling water, our heroine about to fall to her death.

  “You’ve no doubt forgotten that I had Zack and the camera,” she told Perez.

  A familiar light sparked in the back of his eyes. “Of course. Wilderness Westin would never be without one, would she?”

  She felt a blush rising to her cheeks. In the last four weeks, she had thought more than once about trying to locate Perez in Salt Lake City but had rejected the idea as unprofessional. Cowardly was a more accurate term.

  “I assume you’ll be able to spare a few hours if we need you to testify?” he asked.

  So it was back to work. “Do you know when you’ll need me? I’m off to Kansas for Thanksgiving. My dad just got engaged, and some of the folks are throwing a party for him, so it’ll be more than just the usual holiday get-together.”

  She was looking forward to the event and dreading it at the same time. Her relatives would press her for details about a man—any man—who could potentially be husband material. She could hear the clucking now.

  Adam had been promoted to an anchor position in San Diego; she doubted that their paths would cross in the future. Maybe she’d tell them that she lived with Blake: that would give them plenty to talk about.

  She took a deep breath of the clean air. She’d take more photos after everyone had gone. Winter was a time of geologic pastels, bark and stone textures, gleaming water, crystalline snow.

  Perez spoke her thoughts. “This is such a beautiful place.”

  She could feel the warmth of his hand beside hers. Only a fraction of an inch away.

  “Strange location to choose as a Garden of Eden, though.”

  A hawk cried overhead. Such a lonely sound.

  “I feel sorry for Karl Davinski,” she said. She couldn’t bear the thought of such a free spirit being locked inside a cell.

  “Don’t waste your pity on him. He stands a good chance of being judged mentally incompetent. He may never stand trial.”

  She was glad that Karl’s crazy act was convincing to others. He'd probably end up in a mental institution, but he wasn't really violent and surely he'd be released before long. “He lost everything: Barbara Jean, David, his home.”

  “Barbara Jean and David are the ones who lost everything,” he countered. “Can you imagine living your life in a cave?”

  From the description she’d heard, Karl and Barbara Jean had their pocket of the Curtain fixed up pretty nice. They used the ruins for their patio, and the high mesas and canyons for their playground. It didn’t sound half bad to her. “You think it’s crazy to want to live in the wilderness?”

  “I think it’s crazy not to acknowledge reality. They weren’t living off the land; they were robbing campers. And Barbara Jean was little more than his captive.”

  “She wanted to be with Karl, according to her friends. She told them that he’d saved her, that he was romantic, that he swept her off her feet.” Coyote Charlie could be romantic, Sam knew. She remembered the grapes he’d given her, the way he’d stroked her hair. The vision of him howling in the moonlight, wild and free.

  “He brainwashed Barbara Jean,” Perez argued. “She was just a kid; she didn’t know better. If Davinski can be believed, it sounds like she died of pneumonia.”

  “I still feel sorry for him. His dreams got smashed; his loved ones died.” She sighed. “The blue demon that Davinski said he saved David from. It was Wilson, wasn’t it?”

  “Wallace Russell, you mean.” Perez shrugged. “He probably was the man you saw at the end of the path. According to Castillo, Russell gave some confused story about how he planned to take the boy back to his mother but got whacked over the head instead. And now he’s not talking at all. But then, it’s difficult with your jaw wired shut.”

  “Yeah.” She chuckled. “Rafael told me about that.”

  Perez made a huffing noise at the back of his throat. “I’ll never doubt your intuition again.”

  Again? That implied there’d be other times togethe
r. “What’s going to happen to Fred Fischer?” she asked.

  “He won’t get more than a slap on the wrist. After all, he didn’t kidnap Zack and he didn’t get the money. He just tried to take advantage of the situation to get his hands on some hard cash.” He shook his head. “Stupid man. Jenny and Zack were worth holding on to. Now he’s lost both of them for good.”

  “All those rangers on overtime, and Fischer had already hitchhiked out.”

  “Hazard of the business,” Perez commented. He ran a finger lightly along her jaw line. “What’s this?”

  Sam thought she’d concealed the bruise with makeup. But then Perez noticed everything. “SWF volunteers relocated a black bear up in the Cascades last weekend,” she said. “He wasn’t quite as tranquilized as I thought.”

  His eyes twinkled. “I should have guessed.” His thigh edged next to hers, radiating warmth. After a minute, he asked, “If I were an animal, what would I be?”

  “A hawk.”

  He drew his fingers down his long nose as if extending it into a sharp beak.

  She laughed. “No, it’s not that. It’s your eyes and the way you watch and wait. Resourceful, intense, wary.” She pressed her leg a fraction closer to his. “And which creature would you choose for me?”

  “An ermine.”

  A weasel? She frowned.

  “A small, quick, intelligent creature. Good at hiding.”

  Except for the intelligent part, that didn’t sound too complimentary.

  “Fierce. Independent. Changeable, with lovely snow-white fur in winter.” He pushed aside a strand of her platinum hair, his finger leaving a trail of fire across her cheek. “A beautiful wild thing.”

  “Rocky start,” she commented, “but a brilliant finish.”

  He leaned closer. “Going back to Bellingham tonight?”

  She swallowed, nodded. “My flight leaves six hours from now.” Ask me to cancel it; there’ll be another one tomorrow.

  The whine of helicopter blades cut into her thoughts.

  Perez looked toward the source of the racket. “Want to hitch a ride?”

  Sam shook her head. “I’ve had enough of helicopters to last a lifetime. I’m hiking down after I make sure Zeus is okay. Come with me. It’s a beautiful day.”