Endangered (9781101559017)

by Beason, Pamela

  He pulled a circle of black plastic from his sweatshirt pocket and thrust it in her direction. “Twuck!”

  The plastic piece was imprinted with a tiny tread pattern and had a center hole for a diminutive axle. “Looks more like a wheel,” she said, pushing it back into his hands. “I bet Mommy would help you find your truck and put this wheel back on it.”

  “Zack!” A man’s tone this time, deeper and closer. It sounded like he was only a short distance through the trees, standing on the edge of the road where it overlooked the river’s bend.

  The child stared uncertainly in the direction of the voice.

  “Now your daddy’s calling you, too, Zack.”

  The toddler thrust his thumb back into his mouth. Sam winced, remembering all the places that thumb had been in the last few minutes. She cinched the waist strap on her pack and huffed out an impatient breath. “Okay, we’ll go together. But we’ve got to make it fast.”

  Taking his hand, she pushed her way through the gap in the blackberries. A thorny branch snagged the netting at the side of her vest, bringing her to an abrupt halt. She let go of the little hand to free herself, and the boy darted into the shadowy cut between the brambles.

  “Wait, Zack! Take my hand!”

  The toddler disappeared amid the dark foliage. After several seconds of wrestling with the thorny branches, she tore herself free. Sucking on a bleeding knuckle, she took a step down the overgrown trail, squinting into the gloom. She was anxious to be on her way while she could still see the ground under her feet.

  His head and shoulders backlit by the glow from a kerosene lantern across the road, a man blocked the other end of the tree-lined path. Zack’s daddy.

  “Got him?” she shouted.

  The rush of the river drowned the man’s response, but he raised a hand in thanks. Sam waved back, then hurriedly retraced her steps to the trailhead lot. The hubbub of RV generators, crackling campfires, and excited squeals of children faded as she jogged over the bridge and up the rocky trail to the canyon rim above.

  2

  SAM followed the waning light to Sunset Canyon, where the sun rested squarely on Rainbow Bridge. The camera lens framed the burning orb, which appeared to have settled on top of the natural rock arch. The lineup of setting sun and arch was an autumn phenomenon the rangers kept to themselves, not wanting to encourage visitors on the steep trail at dusk. She carefully positioned herself and snapped a couple of photos. Even with the polarizer, the image would include sundogs—circles of light floating in space. But sometimes those imperfections made a photo more interesting. But nothing she saw through the lens was remarkable. Wowee, she reminded herself. She needed wowee.

  She freed herself from her pack and sat on a low rock, the camera in her lap. The best hope of spotting wildlife was to become one with the surroundings. A magpie flitted to the skeleton of a piñon snag ahead. Focusing a bright eye on her, it squawked a harsh note, no doubt after a handful of trail mix or some other such easy meal.

  Go away, she willed the bird. It abandoned the branch and hopped closer.

  Her stomach growled, the noise loud in the quiet canyon. She’d already eaten the cheese and crackers. Apricots in an hour, she promised herself, picturing the dried fruit she’d packed. As if reading her thoughts, a chipmunk skittered from beneath a nearby rock and approached her backpack with spasmodic movements. Leaning down slowly, she picked up a pebble for defensive ammunition. As she straightened, she saw a flash of movement near Rainbow Bridge.

  She let the pebble drop from her fingers and had her camera zoomed in when the big cat strolled out onto the rock arch, a black silhouette against the fiery orange sky.

  Oh, yes. Thank you, God. On her feet now, she snapped the photo, one eye on the rough path and the other on the cougar in the distance as she stealthily moved toward the rock bridge. If she stuck to the shadows, she might be able to get close without alarming Leto. It was Leto—even in the dim light, she could see a divot of fur missing from the female cougar’s left flank, the scar left from her bullet wound.

  Pricking her ears, Leto turned her head. Sam froze and held her breath. A second, smaller cougar emerged from the shadows onto the bridge. Judging by the size, it was Artemis, Leto’s female cub. Sam pressed the button and prayed the cats’ ears wouldn’t pick up the tiny ping of the shutter. The cub, now nearly as large as the adult cat, crouched low, hesitated a second, then pounced on her mother’s tail. Leto hissed and cuffed Artemis.

  Sam used the distraction to trot a few steps closer. She needed to put the sun behind her. As she passed beneath the bridge, the two mountain lions suddenly rose, their muscles rigid, their glowing eyes focused in Sam’s direction. Her heart skipped a beat; she was easily within their leaping range. She kept her gaze locked on them as she slowly walked backward up the canyon floor.

  On the other side of the bridge, with the sun at the proper angle, she paused and focused. The cats watched her silently, their amber eyes merely curious, not telegraphing the concentrated focus of hunters, at least not right now. Their calm was a little creepy. Was it possible they remembered her? Or were they so accustomed to people that they were unafraid? That didn’t bode well for human or beast.

  The white markings on the cats’ muzzles gleamed in the growing darkness. She snapped several more photos. The cougars tracked each movement she made. The intensity of the moment was almost painful. Awesome, in the true meaning of the word.

  The digital camera beeped to signal the memory card was filled. The cougars flinched at the noise but held their ground.

  The bottom pocket of her vest held two more memory cards. Moving slowly, she slid her hand down and pinched the zipper pull between her fingers. The hiss of the nylon teeth was barely audible. Then the zipper stuck. She glanced down at it, just for a second. When she looked up, the lions were gone.

  A quick perusal of the surrounding hillsides revealed no sign of the cats. Without a sound, they had vanished into the brush and rocks. It was a great magic trick, one she’d witnessed all too often. She let out her breath and, holding the camera in front of her, trudged back to her pack, checking the images on the camera’s tiny screen as she went.

  In the last picture she’d taken, everything was colored the same golden hue; the lions were nearly indistinguishable from the rock bridge. She sighed and pressed the Delete button. The next image was not much better.

  The third photo brought her to a dead stop. The shot captured the cougars just as they’d turned to look at her. Two pairs of mountain-lion eyes burned brightly, staring directly at the photographer. The burnished amber of the cats’ fur glowed against the cobalt of the darkening sky beyond.

  “Wowee! Yes!” She raised a fist in victory as she continued down the rocky wash.

  Twilight made the desert rodents bold. A kangaroo rat leapt across her path. As she hauled her pack up by a shoulder strap, a chipmunk burst from beneath the top flap, streaked up her arm and flung itself onto a nearby boulder.

  “Great.” Now she’d have to look for chew holes in her food packets, not to mention those disgusting black-rice droppings the little varmints always left behind.

  Before reshouldering her backpack, she dug out her halogen flashlight and moved the beam over the bridge and surrounding cliffs. Only the leathery flutter of a couple of bats moved within the circle of light.

  Twenty minutes later, she found the entrance to the tiny box canyon. Lowering herself to the first available rock, she unbuckled her pack. With camera and laptop computer inside, her load was at least eight pounds more than someone five foot one and 115 pounds should carry. After pulling a packet of ibuprofen from her pocket and a plastic bottle of Merlot from her provisions, she took a sip of wine to wash down the pills.

  She glanced at her watch. A few minutes after nine, Utah time; an hour earlier in Seattle. She’d have to hustle to make the nine o’clock deadline for SWF. She unpacked her laptop and, sitting cross-legged in front of it, powered it up. The screen readout told he
r that the laptop’s two batteries were strong. So far, so good. She switched off the flashlight. Using moonlight and the illumination from the computer screen, she opened the file containing the rough draft she’d begun earlier.

  Before leaving her office in Washington State, she’d written about Leto’s history, about how the female cougar had been found fourteen months earlier just inside the park boundary. She’d been crippled by a hunter’s bullet, her eight-week-old cubs trailing behind her, a feline trio nearly starved to death. Sam, Kent, and other volunteers had nursed the three cougars back to health. And although her seasonal ranger contract had been up, Sam had returned to Heritage in the autumn to release the cats. This was the backstory currently featured on SWF’s new website.

  She double-checked the article she’d started last night in the Idaho hotel, a story about coming to Heritage to search for the cougars. Her fingers flew over the keys as she added details of the sunset sighting, along with an emotional paragraph about how uplifting it was to see the lions now, when they were back in prime condition. She stuck in a couple of sentences about how cougars often cross paths with humans without being seen, using Kent’s information about Apollo’s prints on the riverbank as a prime example. Finally, she closed with the image of the bats circling in the dark over the bridge, emphasizing her feelings of loneliness and loss after the lions had vanished.

  Fifteen minutes to deadline. She downloaded three photos of cougars and the sunset from the camera to the computer. They looked even better on the larger screen.

  At first, the cell phone delivered nothing but static. She extended the antenna, dialed the satellite, and entered her access code. After connecting computer to phone, she dialed the SWF modem number and transmitted the text and photos. Long after the file names disappeared, she sat watching the message area in the corner of the screen. Finally, a popup appeared: 1 txt, 3 jpgs recd. Thanks, Sam!

  She turned off the phone and computer. She’d actually pulled it off. A day late, but if she’d come yesterday she might have missed Leto and Artemis and would have had to substitute God knows what, maybe a paw print or something lame like that. Looked like luck was on her side for once. She’d pulled off wowee.

  Which reminded her. She checked her watch; it was in between news broadcasts in Seattle. She disconnected the phone from the computer and dialed a familiar Seattle number.

  He answered his cell phone on the fourth ring. “Adam Steele.”

  “Greetings from the Utah wilderness,” she said.

  “Guess what? Tom broke his leg; I’m the anchor tomorrow: noon, six, and eleven.”

  “What a stroke of luck,” she said. “Except for Tom, of course.”

  “Yep, I’m on my way.”

  “Congratulations,” she said. “Did you by any chance promise SWF to put something about my cougar series on the news?”

  “I might have. We can always find space for interesting animal stories. But you had the job, anyway, babe. SWF was impressed by your pitch.”

  She wondered about that. Which was more persuasive, an “I can do it” from an Internet writer or a promise to get that Internet story on television?

  “You’ll knock their socks off,” he said.

  “I’ve already started.” She told him about the cougar photo.

  “All right! I knew you could do it. We’re a terrific team, Sam.”

  She wasn’t so sure about that, either, but it sounded good when he said it. “Good luck tomorrow, Adam. I know you’ll knock their socks off, too.”

  “Yes, I will. Dinner at DiAngelo’s when you get back.”

  He would pick the only restaurant in the whole Pacific Northwest with a dress code. “How about Hot Sauce John’s instead? Blake could come, too.”

  “No third wheels, babe; I want you all to myself. And who are you going to see in a barbecue joint? You want to reinvent yourself, you’ve got to meet the right people.”

  She suspected that DiAngelo’s would harbor more people who were “right” for him than for her, but who knew, his luck might rub off a little. And she loved the looks of the other women when she walked in on the arm of Adam Steele. “Good point,” she said. “DiAngelo’s it is. Now I’ve got to go. The raccoons are lining up for my autograph.”

  He laughed. “Good night, wild woman. Be careful out there.”

  “Good night, Mr. News Anchor.” She hung up and sat rubbing her forehead for a while. She wasn’t trying to reinvent herself, was she? Since graduating from college with her wildlife biology degree, she’d been a zookeeper, an environmental consultant, a seasonal ranger with the National Park Service, and a freelance writer. This technoid wilderness writer Sam Westin was simply an amalgamation of all the preceding Sam Westins.

  She breathed in the blessed quiet of pure wilderness. Reclining against a boulder, she sipped from the plastic bottle, swirling the wine in her mouth. Instead of a pleasant cherry undertone, the bouquet of her Merlot held a hint of formaldehyde. That’s what you got when you stored alcohol in plastic bottles.

  Mediocre food and drink were irrelevant in the larger scheme of things. Whether she owed this job to Adam or not, it was great to be back outdoors. If she’d spent one more day writing another insipid travel article in her office at home, she’d have been homicidal.

  This new cyber-reporting thing might pay off. It seemed like a crazy mix, computers and outdoor adventure, but if that’s what it took to get people interested in nature these days, she’d pack a laptop along with her granola.

  The Merlot tasted better with each sip. The stars overhead were brilliant, even brighter than she remembered from the Kansas fields of her youth. A canopy of diamonds twinkling against black velvet. Galaxies, foreign worlds. Beautiful. So incredibly beautiful.

  Then the phone buzzed. She stared at it in annoyance for a second, then picked it up. Her home number was on the screen. “Blake?”

  “Hey, roomie, where are you?”

  “The middle of nowhere. It’s wonderful.”

  Blake’s sigh rasped against her ear. “Are you in some podunk town where every man has three wives?”

  She laughed. Blake’s vision of Utah hadn’t progressed into the twentieth century, let alone the twenty-first.

  “I’m on top of a plateau in Heritage National Monument. You should see the stars; they’re unbelievable. And I saw the cougars, Blake! Almost close enough to touch.” She told him about the tremendous photo.

  “Fantastic. Your series is going to blow them away. Contributions will roll in so fast that SWF will pay you twice what they do now.”

  Blake fretted about her bank account nearly as much as she did. The guy made little more than minimum wage working in a greenhouse. The cabin they shared was hers; she cut him a deal on rent in exchange for his help with chores. He probably worried every day about the possibility of a rent raise, and truth be told, she’d been seriously considering one lately.

  “What’s up in Bellingham?” she asked.

  The rural area she’d settled in, just outside of a small college town eighty miles north of Seattle, was growing by leaps and bounds. The conflicts between the longtime residents and newcomers made for a volatile mix.

  “It’s raining, of course. And the Minestrones cut down another big alder.”

  Sam grimaced. “The Minesteros.”

  “You call ’em what you want. I told ’em they were ruining their property values. He just gave me one of those Ronald Reagan looks.”

  She chuckled. “I won’t even try to imagine what you mean by that. Any evening grosbeaks yet?” The migration of the black and yellow finches was an eagerly anticipated event each autumn.

  “Not even one. The Minestrones probably scared them off.”

  She hoped that wasn’t true. “Blake, I’m on battery power here . . .”

  “Oh yeah. I just wanted to tell you that Reverend Westin phoned. I told him you’d trooped off to Utah to save wild beasts from gun-toting good ol’ boys.”

  “What’d he say?”
<
br />   Blake’s voice slipped from his usual tenor to an imitation of her father’s baritone. “Good heavens! What has my Summer gotten herself into now?”

  A groan escaped her lips. “Did he want anything in particular?”

  “I don’t think so. We chatted. He asked if you were still dating Adam the Magnificent and if I thought you two would have any announcements soon. He—of course—mentioned yet again he wished you had a husband and children like normal women do. You know, a normal life. Then he remembered who he was talking to.”

  “Oops. Did you get the lecture?”

  “Not this time. Actually, he was quite restrained, considering I’m a pimple on God’s face.”

  “That isn’t right,” she said. “I think you’re an abomination against humanity—”

  “You do?” He sounded hurt.

  She snorted. “Of course not, Blake. I’m quoting Dad, or trying to quote him—”

  “I know, I know. He believes you’ll find your way back eventually.”

  She made a scoffing sound. “He would.”

  “Hey, he even has hopes for me.”

  “How kind of him.” She could hear her father now, cheerfully sharing with Blake what he thought were words of comfort.

  “Simon’s here beside me. Say hi, Si.” A startled meow filled the airwaves.

  “You twisted his tail!” Sam accused when Blake came back on the phone.

  “Did not. Anyhow, we’re baking cookies. Maple nut bars, to be specific.”

  Her mouth watered. “Save me some.”

  “I don’t know if they’ll last that long. Eric’s coming over tomorrow. Just for coffee, he says. But my maple nut bars will soften his heart, if anything can.”

  “Save me one!”

  “We’ll see.” A buzzer sounded in the background. “That’s the oven! Gotta go!” He hung up.

  “Bye,” she murmured to the dial tone. She turned off the phone and took another swig of wine to wash down the excess saliva in her mouth. Maple nut bars, indeed.

  A gentle breeze stirred, blowing a whisper of rapidly cooling air against her face. An owl hooted somewhere not far away.