Kent jammed a package of freeze-dried food a little harder than necessary into his pack. “I’d like to stuff his head! We’ve seen him carrying rifles in the park three times just this year.”
“Well, you be careful. There will be more nutcases out there with weapons. Speaking of weapons,” she said, “where’s yours?”
“I hate guns, you know that.” He zipped up a pocket. “Thompson’s been wanting to send me to law enforcement training, and so far I’ve said no. But now that the yahoos in Washington gave their blessing for the whole world to carry guns around the park, I’m beginning to think that it might not be a bad idea to carry a pistol. For the people, not the animals.”
“Just bury them deep, at least a hundred yards away from trails and water sources.”
They both laughed; it was the standard instruction for handling human waste. “I’m on my way up Powell,” she said.
“Good. Maybe you can prove that Apollo didn’t carry the kid up there.” He stood up, hefted the backpack, snapped shut the buckle of his waist strap.
“Hey, Kent, did you hear the forecast?”
“Cold front rolling in slowly from the west. Scattered showers predicted late Saturday night or early Sunday morning.”
She tried to visualize the calendar.
“This is Thursday,” he added helpfully.
“And you call me a smart-ass. Keep an eye out,” she said. “You don’t want to be caught on the mesa in a thunderstorm.”
“Don’t worry, Mom.” Kent raised both arms, flexed to make his biceps bulge. “I’m Superman.”
“Don’t forget your radio, man of steel.” She held it out.
He clipped it to his belt, beside a large canister of pepper spray. Liquids inside his pack sloshed as he turned. “I’m outta here.”
“Just remember—”
“Bury ’em deep!” he shouted as he slipped out the back door.
“Be careful, you fool,” she murmured.
She exited the crew room. As she scooted past the park superintendent’s office, she caught a quick glimpse of Thompson, Tanner, and the FBI agents gathered around the desk inside. The Fischers were gone.
In the reception area, Ranger Gates was on the phone. Assistant Superintendent Tanner came into the room, spotted Sam. Her brow instantly bunched up into a frown. Sam pulled the Rescue 504 kerchief and armband out of her pocket and pressed them into the woman’s hands. “Just wanted to return these, Meg.”
The woman’s expression softened. “Thanks for helping out.”
Sam opened the door to the whock-whock-whock of a helicopter passing by. As she slid into her Civic, a familiar white van pulled in next to her space. KUTV News 9. Carolyn Perry climbed out of the front passenger’s seat. Did that woman never rest? Several other people with a variety of equipment spilled out of the back, including Buck Ferguson, who was dressed today all in khaki, except for a VFW flag on his collar and a black Eagle Tours baseball cap. He held a hunting rifle casually in one hand. The crew immediately set up for a shoot, taking no notice of Sam sitting in her car.
“Get Superintendent Thompson out here,” Perry commanded a woman holding a clipboard. The minion disappeared into the building.
The reporter positioned Ferguson next to her, then signaled for the camera to roll.
“Two-year-old Zack Fischer has been missing for two nights and a day now. We’re here in front of Heritage National Monument Headquarters to find out what’s happening. With me is Buck Ferguson, local wildlife expert. Mr. Ferguson, why do you think the search is taking so long?”
Ferguson made a big show of engaging the safety on his rifle before parking it under his elbow and focusing on the camera. “The FBI is spending all of its time persecuting the kid’s parents instead of focusing on the real culprits.”
The reporter edged her face closer to his. “You believe that cougars are the real culprits?”
Sam admired the woman’s technique. Carolyn Perry was always careful not to state a personal opinion of her own.
“That’s right. That’s why they’re not going to find him: no little kid could survive a cougar attack.” Ferguson looked at the reporter for the first time. “Since the government outlawed hunting here, the mountain lions have multiplied like rabbits. They’re a menace to society.”
Thompson burst from the ranger station, right into Carolyn’s ambush. “Superintendent Thompson!” She shoved the microphone under his nose. “Some have made allegations that you have killer cougars in your park. Do you plan to do anything about these animals?”
He swallowed and turned toward the camera. “I’ve just been on the phone with the USDA’s Wildlife Services branch.”
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.”
The reporter, surprised, was speechless for once. 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 turned and 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 bored 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, by the way, I would suggest you do as well.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that the ransom-without-kidnapping scenario would work just as well if a cougar dragged the boy off.”
She hitched 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 besi
de 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 face was impassive, but 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 mostly 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?”
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