Endangered (9781101559017)

by Beason, Pamela

  ZigZag Passage appeared below, then the yellow markers and two blue-coated workers of the FBI forensics team, shoulder to shoulder, discussing something. They looked up and, spotting Perez in the front passenger seat, waved.

  The canyon fell away beneath them, and the pilot hovered over the chasm briefly, searching. Perez was the first to spot the hunt. “There.” He pointed to the ridgeline.

  Just east of Rainbow Bridge, two tawny shapes hurtled over the rough terrain toward the canyon lip. Sam sucked in a breath. Leto, Artemis. From the maze of hoodoos farther back, a third cat appeared, running full out after the others, with a pair of spotted hounds fifty feet behind. Oh God, Apollo, too.

  Zack wriggled in her lap, digging a hard little kneecap into her thigh as he pressed closer to window. “Cougie!” he chirped. “Cougie run!”

  The mountain lions were only a hundred yards or so from the hoodoos when the men appeared, four of them in desert camouflage gear, galloping after their dogs. One of them paused to sight down his rifle barrel, gave up, continued the pursuit on foot. The baying of the dogs was audible even inside the helicopter.

  Perez picked up the radio. “Hunters below, hunters below. This is the FBI. Stop the hunt. I repeat, stop the hunt! Lay down your weapons!”

  The chase below continued without interruption. The female cats had reached the rock bridge now and streaked across, running low and close to the wet rock. Steam rising from the arch rendered the scene surreal, mountain lions speeding through desert fog. Sam hoped that the arch escape route would finish the chase, but Apollo stopped at the eastern end and turned to face the hounds on his tail. A hundred yards back, the hunters halted. Two dropped to one knee. They raised their rifles.

  “Set this thing down!” Sam yelled. “We’ve got to land.”

  The pilot shook his head. Apollo and the dogs danced close together, the hounds rushing in to nip at the cat, then retreating from the bared teeth and razor-sharp claws. They were directly overhead now and the cacophony of barking was loud.

  “You have a public address system on this thing?” Perez shouted to the pilot. The man flipped a switch and handed Perez a set of headphones with a tiny microphone attached.

  “Federal hunters below!” Perez shouted. “FBI. Cease fire! This is the FBI. Cease fire!”

  One hunter looked up briefly. But then a puff of dust erupted from the rock near Apollo’s feet, and the hunter sighted down his own rifle barrel again.

  “Max volume!” Perez ordered.

  “That’s it,” the pilot told him. “Maybe it’s not working right.”

  “Cease fire! Lay down your weapons!” Perez bellowed into the mike.

  He might as well have been shouting out the window for all the impact it had. Sam watched in horror as a hunter shifted from his rifle’s recoil. Another puff of dust exploded under Apollo’s belly. “Damn it!” she yelled in frustration.

  Zack shifted under their mutual seat belt and started to cry. Sam’s gaze searched the interior of the chopper, landed on a bright yellow nylon sack just to the left of her feet. The word EMERGENCY was printed on it in large block letters. Well, this was an emergency. She leaned over, dug her fingers into the slick material. Zack, squeezed beneath the seat belt in her lap, screeched. She hauled the sack up onto the bench seat next to her. Heavy.

  Two more shots sounded below. Zack sobbed and kicked her as she struggled to drag the yellow bag across them both.

  The pilot turned in his seat to look at them.

  “Perez!” she yelled. “Open your door!”

  He stopped his litany into the microphone.

  “Open your goddamn door!” she shouted over Zack’s screams.

  “No!” the pilot yelled.

  “Chase! Just do it!” Sam screeched.

  Perez’s form shifted to the right. Something clicked, and the door swung out. The dogs’ barking was louder now, but nothing in comparison to Zack’s screaming. The bag stuck in the confined space between seat and door. She punched it into position with her feet, booted it out into space.

  The yellow bag hurtled down, spinning as it fell. It landed between Apollo and one of the dogs with a loud whump. Dogs and mountain lion all leapt into the air as if propelled by the impact, the dogs turning away toward their owners and the cougar launching himself from the canyon rim. At the corner of her vision, Sam registered the upright hunter stumbling, startled by the bag’s impact, but her gaze was centered on Apollo, who seemed to hang suspended in midair as he leapt for the bridge. For an instant, the distance seemed impossible, the fall to the sandstone canyon floor below a certainty. But then his forepaws impacted the rock arch. The cat swung his hindquarters around, skidding slightly to the side as he corrected his course, then bounded across the bridge to disappear between the boulders at the far side.

  The wind buffeted her face. Zack screamed into her ear. The pilot was swearing, something about a life raft and thousands of dollars. In the midst of the cacophony, she heard Perez ask, “Are you done?”

  “I think so.” She patted him on the shoulder in case he couldn’t hear.

  He closed the door with a thump, cupped his hand over the microphone, and issued the cease and desist orders again. The hunters finally responded by shouldering their weapons.

  “Return to base,” Perez’s voice said over the loudspeaker.

  One of the hunters raised his arms in a questioning gesture.

  “Zachary Fischer has been recovered.” Perez answered. “Alive and well.”

  At the mention of his name, the little boy stopped screaming. “Me Zack,” he said softly. “I want Mommy!”

  Sam ruffled the silky hair on the top of his head. “Okay, Zack. Let’s go find her.”

  Their arrival had obviously been announced; a crowd awaited them in the headquarters parking lot. Even from five hundred feet above the valley floor, Sam could make out Jerry Thompson’s rotund shape. Tanner’s grizzled head was bent close to Jenny Fischer’s bedraggled figure. Carolyn Perry’s crimson KUTV blazer stood out like a flame. And worse, a blond man in a navy windbreaker and handsome enough to be an actor stood close by, holding a microphone and talking earnestly at a camera in front of him. What was Adam doing here? Walking backward, he positioned himself between the camera and the helicopter as they touched down on the asphalt.

  As soon as the rotor slowed, Thompson was at the door.

  The little boy tugged on Sam’s braid. “Mommy?” he whispered hopefully.

  Turning Zack around, Sam pointed into the crowd. “Mommy’s right there. Why don’t you wave at her?” She grasped his tiny hand and waggled it back and forth.

  Jenny Fischer staggered forward, her hands clutched to her chest. The young mother’s face was rigid with the tension of hope too long suppressed. She trotted toward them, her eyes fixed on her son. When only a hundred feet remained between them, Sam set the toddler on the ground.

  “Zack?” Jenny’s voice cracked.

  “Mommy!” The little boy ran toward Jenny, then tripped on the long shirt and fell to his knees on the rocky ground. But his mother was there before the first sob could come out, wrapping her arms around him, lifting him up.

  “Oh Zachary, Zack, Zack!” she cried, fiercely kissing the blond curls as she rocked him back and forth. “Mommy missed you so much! So very, very much.”

  She raised her eyes to Sam. Tears streamed down her face. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you.”

  The press pushed in around them. Sam was conscious of the multiple TV cameras focused on the scene. A microphone was in her face now, so close it was only a silvery blur. “Summer Westin, you’re the hero of the day. What can you tell us?” Adam’s voice. She pushed it away and crawled out of the helicopter, staggering on stiff legs.

  “Babe?” Adam said in a low tone. “Are you all right?” Then his arms were around her. “I am so damned lucky! I came down for the cougar kill, but you delivered the real story. Are we the dream team or what?”

  Over Adam’s arm she could s
ee Perez observing them, his expression cool, inscrutable. Thompson came forward to escort Jenny and Zack through the crowd; the TV crew and onlookers followed the reunited family toward the parking lot. Adam turned his head in that direction. Sam roughly pushed him away. After a surprised glance at her, he followed the media hounds, gesturing for his cameraman to shadow him.

  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 articles 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 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.

  The last file name disappeared from the queue. Sam sat staring at the blank blue screen, knowing she should unplug the modem line and reconnect the phone, but she dreaded the calls that would inevitably come afterward. After a couple of minutes of superb silence, her cell phone bleated from its recharger on the bedside table. When had she plugged that in?

  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 phone 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 the computer, 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.

  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 and 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 on one knee 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.”