Cry of the Wild

by Catherine Anderson

  "Tip's great. And the portrait is going to be wonderful. It was just—" She shifted her gaze, afraid he would see too much, read her too well. "I wasn't prepared, that's all."

  He watched her closely. Too closely.

  "Crysta..." His facial muscles tightened. "We both know I didn't bring you out here for a tour. Aside from the fact that you've got dozens of questions to ask me and would probably like to talk to the search coordinator, there's something I need to tell you before you hear it from some­one else."

  He looked so somber that she braced herself.

  "It's about the condition of Derrick's gear when I found it. It looked like a—"

  "Hey, Mr. Barrister?"

  Sam turned at the call, focusing on a weary-looking man in soiled jeans and a safety-orange shirt. As the man strode toward them, Crysta noticed he carried a dark green gar­bage bag in one hand. Her stomach tightened.

  Looking back at her, Sam said, "That's one of the searchers. Hold on a second, okay?"

  Crysta nodded and watched Sam walk down the slight slope. The two men met about twenty feet away from her, but it was so peaceful here that she could hear everything they said.

  "I wanted to report the news to you first thing. We fi­nally found him—or what little was left of him. Several miles downstream. I'd guess it was at least five miles from where you found his gear. Bear, no doubt about it. Must be a renegade in the area."

  The ground seemed to dip beneath Crysta's feet. Sam threw her a concerned look. "Jim, this lady is—"

  "Still no body, I'm afraid," Jim rushed on, inclining his head at Crysta to acknowledge her presence. "But we found plenty of bear tracks and blood at the scene. He was either completely ingested or dragged away. We'll probably never know. In the surrounding brush, we found remnants of his shirt. At least we assume it's his." Jim stuck his hand into the garbage bag and pulled out a shredded piece of red flannel. A pearlescent snap shimmered in the sunlight.’ The lab will run tests, of course, to check the blood type. I know there isn't much left of it, but could this be part of the red shirt you described?"

  A cry tore from Crysta's throat. Sam spun and hurried back to her. "Crysta—"

  "They're saying he's dead?" She couldn't drag her eyes from Derrick's shredded shirt. She would have recognized it anywhere. Had a bear's claws ripped it that way? "Der­rick's dead?"

  Sam gripped her arm, the pressure of his fingers firm enough to support her but strangely gentle. "Jim, this lady is Derrick's sister."

  "Oh, hey, I'm sorry. I had no idea."

  Crysta fastened pleading eyes on Sam's. "He can't be dead. I'd know it. I'd feel it. Don't you see? He can't be dead."

  Sam said nothing, and his silence drove the horrible news home. Crysta threw a bewildered look at the retreating searcher, her thoughts a jumble.

  "It can't have been a bear," she whispered. "I would have- known. I know I would have."

  "Crysta... Let's go up to the lodge, okay? I'll fix you some Irish coffee. Maybe you can lie down and rest."

  The silken tone of his voice made Crysta realize how hys­terical she must sound. She nodded, numbly following the lead of his hand. The searcher had sounded so positive. Surely they couldn't make a mistake like that. Bear tracks and blood. Maybe her dream had meant nothing, after all.

  "They—they could be mistaken, couldn't they?" she asked, looking up at him.

  "I—" He broke off and swallowed. "Jim Sales is one of the best trackers in the country. I've never known him to make a mistake. He wouldn't blame it on a bear unless he felt positive."

  The walk back to the lodge passed in a blur for Crysta. At some point, Sam put his arm around her, and she dimly re­alized he was not only steering her but allowing her to lean into him. His strength became her only reality.

  One foot in front of the other. She tried not to think. It hurt too much. A bear. Every time the horror of it skirted her mind, she shoved it away. Not Derrick. Please, God, let it be a mistake. Sam Barrister's lean strength and the warmth of his body gave Crysta something solid to hang on to. Derrick's friend. She didn't resist when he drew her closer to his side.

  She had a vague impression of the lodge as Sam led her through it, of his private quarters, of being lowered to a sofa. She was seeing it all through a layer of cotton. Sam spoke to her, his voice low and gentle. Tip's voice rang out intermittently. Crysta felt separated from them, not regis­tering reality because she couldn't bear it.

  Time passed. How much, she didn't know. Her mind be­gan to let the truth seep in, a fact at a time. Derrick was gone. Not just dead, but gone. No body. No funeral so she could say goodbye. Just gone, as though he had never ex­isted. A bear. She couldn't envision the animal—nothing in her imagination was monstrous enough. Then Sam whis­pered, "I'm sorry," and it became a reality. People didn't say they were sorry in a shaky, rough voice like that unless something unspeakable had happened. "I'm sorry." She tried to focus on his face. His being sorry didn't make it hurt any less. How would she ever tell her mom?

  Raised by proud, very private parents, Crysta seldom cried and never in front of people. She had broken her arm once in two places and hadn't shed a tear. At her dad's fu­neral, she had survived listening to the eulogy dry-eyed and with her head held high. But now her pride eluded her. The tears welled in her eyes, carried up from deep within her on the crest of a ragged moan she could not stifle. If only Sam and Tip would go away so she could be alone.

  Instead, Sam tried to take her in his arms. Maybe he had been Derrick's friend, but to her, he was still a virtual stranger. In addition, he was extremely handsome, defi­nitely not the type who could carry off a brotherly em­brace. Though she knew Sam meant well, she felt self- conscious instead of comforted, and she pushed against his chest. He backed off instantly.

  "I'm sad f-for you." Tip said softly.

  Perhaps it was Tip's lack of pretense, that he didn't say he was sorry or pretend to understand how she felt, just a tremulous whisper that cut straight to her heart, but Crysta felt her self-control begin to slip further. Looking at him, at his stricken brown eyes swimming with tears, was a mis­take. Her shoulders started to shake. "Oh, Tip. I don't want you to feel sad."

  "Why? You're sad."

  As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he sat next to her and drew her into his arms. His embrace was awkward, his hands clumsy as he stroked her hair, but Crysta buried her face in the crook of his shoulder. He was solid and warm, something real to hang on to while the horror of her brother's death sank in. Mauled to death by a bear. Crysta couldn't think of a more awful way to die. The images assaulted her mind, faster and faster, until a scream welled in her throat.

  No. She wouldn't do this to herself or Tip. Curling her hands into fists, she forced the pictures away and focused instead on the boy who held her. She breathed in and out, concentrating on the rhythm. Don't think about how Der­rick died.

  Her tears slowly dwindled, drying to stiff trails on her cheeks. When at last she felt more like herself, she straight­ened. She gave Tip's hand a gentle squeeze. Words didn't seem enough, somehow.

  "B-bears aren't bad," Tip whispered.

  Until that moment, Crysta hadn't realized she had spo­ken her thoughts aloud. A denial sprang to her lips, but she swallowed it back. Tip was right. All bears weren't bad.

  "D-Derrick liked the bears. They eat breakfast in our g-ga.rbage heap every day, and he liked to watch them. We gave them all n-names. There's Grumpy and Snaggletooth. And Hog, because he won't share. Derrick will be sad if you started hating them. He said the bears need f-friends to help protect them. Stupid people shoot them and make rugs out of their f-fur. I found a c-carcass yesterday." His eyes darkened with sadness. "They killed it for its head and f-feet."

  Crysta stared at him, not quite registering the words.

  "The t-teeth and c-claws can be sold f-for jewelry," Tip elaborated mournfully.

  Crysta could barely control a shudder. "I won't start hating the bears, Tip. I promise."<
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  As if he knew the shock had chilled her to the bone, Sam had built a fire, and soon the small living room was cozily warm. Though Crysta knew she should move away from Tip, she couldn't find the will. She had come here fired up with plans to find Derrick. And now there was nothing to find. She remembered how she had tried and failed to sense her brother's presence on the float-plane. Had that been a sign? Despite the fire, a cold numbness seeped into her mind and through her body.

  "I'm going to go talk to the searchers," Sam said softly. "I really don't think it's necessary for you to come. You can review the official reports later, when you feel more up to it."

  Crysta agreed with a nod. She couldn't handle hearing the gory details of Derrick's death, not yet. She sat straighter and finger-combed her tangled hair. Flashing both of them a quavery smile, she said, "I'm sorry for losing it like that. You scarcely know me. It was just such a shock to hear that—" She broke off, unable to put it into words.

  Sam started to speak, but Tip beat him to it. "We're fast f-friends. You s-said so."

  Puzzled for a moment, Crysta suddenly realized that to Tip her prediction that they would be fast friends meant they would become friends quickly. It followed that pre­tense between them was unnecessary. Patting the boy's hand, she said, "I guess we are, aren't we?"

  Tip beamed. "I'm glad. You make me feel nice."

  The feeling was mutual. Tip was special, and Crysta knew she was richer in some inexplicable way for having met him. Not even her grief over losing Derrick could completely overshadow that.

  Three hours later, when Sam slipped back into his apartment, he saw Crysta had fallen asleep on the sofa. A blanket was tucked around her—Tip's doing, he guessed. Sam pulled the blackout shades on the windows so the light wouldn't disturb her rest. At this time of year, from mid­night until around three in the morning, Cottonwood Bend experienced twilight, but darkness never descended. For someone unaccustomed to it, Alaska's midnight sun could make sleep difficult, and Crysta needed her rest. Tomor­row would be draining.

  After drawing the last shade, Sam turned from the win­dow. Shadows now obscured Crysta's features. He studied the outline of her face, a pale oval in the dimness. He felt an inexplicable urge to move closer. Something about her drew him, made him want to hold her, to—Sam cut the thought short, amazed at himself. He scarcely knew the woman. And he certainly was in no position to befriend her, not un­til this was over.

  With only a few words, he could have eased her pain somewhat, but he hadn't. And he wouldn't now. She might insist on staying until he told her everything. It was better that she believe Derrick the victim of a bear attack so she would go home, where she would be out of harm's way.

  Despite what the searchers believed, Sam didn't buy the theory that a bear had killed Derrick Meyers. He might have if it had appeared that Derrick had been killed near the site of his initial encounter with the animal. But Derrick's shredded gear had been found five miles from the scene of his death. The way it looked, the bear had taken exception to Derrick's presence in its territory, which wasn't unheard of, had torn up his gear and then chased him for five miles before killing him. No man could outrun a grizzly for five miles.

  Sam knew the searchers felt satisfied with the evidence. After all, grizzlies sometimes did strange things. Sleeping campers had been known to disappear, bedding and ail, never to be seen again. To the searchers, this was just an­other bizarre grizzly incident, and they were willing to call it a closed case as soon as the lab reports came back. They had no reason to suspect foul play.

  But Sam did.

  Straightening his shoulders, he went into the adjoining bedroom to check on Tip. When he was satisfied the boy was sound asleep, he slipped from the apartment and went to his office. From a cupboard along one wall, he withdrew a briefcase. Derrick's papers were inside. With luck, the name of his murderer would be there, as well.

  Dizziness swirled in Crysta's head. Light flashed before her eyes, and she felt as if she was falling. Mud. Cold and slick. It was everywhere. All over her arms, globbed on her hands. She was on a slope, an extremely steep slope, and sliding backward. Instinct took over, leaving her no time to wonder how she had gotten there. She looked down and saw white water surging around craggy boulders. If she lost her precarious hold, she'd plunge to her death. She clawed at the slimy earth. Pain. Like the mud, it seemed to surround her. White-hot pain so intense it took her breath away. She longed to rest but didn't dare. Panic filled her. She was slipping.

  Crysta dug into the mud with her toes and fingers. She scrambled upward, blocking the agony from her mind. The roar of the water below filled her ears. So cold. So tired. She found a foothold and rested a moment, her lungs convuls­ing. A shudder racked her. Lifting her head, she gauged the distance she must scale to reach the top of the mud slide. It wasn't far, and desperation drove her. Arm over arm, one toehold at a time.

  When she reached the top of the slope, Crysta rolled onto her back to rest. Turning her head, she spied a rickety log cabin nestled among some trees. It's chimney pipe rose above the roofline, one side badly bent. Smoke. They were still there. At the thought, her mind spun with questions. They? Fear clenched her guts. She couldn't waste time wondering who. Run, run, before they find you.

  She struggled to her knees. Pain exploded in her shoul­der and chest when she put weight on her left arm. She glanced down. Blood. Crimson ooze coming from a black hole over her heart. She gained her feet, still staring at the wound. The mud seemed to be staunching the blood flow. She took a step; knifelike pain shot through her right thigh. She gritted her teeth. There was a lake nearby, a deserted cabin. She'd be safe there.

  With a gasp, Crysta woke. The sofa cushion pressed against her face, the weave of its fabric warm and slightly scratchy. Still gripped by terror, she lifted her lashes. A blur of brown and orange swam before her eyes. She jackknifed to a sitting position and grabbed her right thigh. Her head reeled. For a moment, she hovered between nightmare and reality, aware of her surroundings but still able to see the mud and blood. Frantic, she began brushing at her chest and arms.

  "Are y-you okay?"

  Tip's voice made her start. She stared at him, her hands frozen in mid-movement. Then she threw wild looks around the room, taking in the plaid upholstery, the fire, her clean clothing and hands. Slowly the last traces of her nightmare disappeared.

  "Y-you scr-screamed," Tip whispered. "Y-you said you were b-bleeding. Did you cut yours-s-s-self?"

  "No." Crysta swallowed. "No, Tip. I guess I was having a bad dream."

  He relaxed his stance. "Oh. I have b-bad ones some­times. My dad'll let you s-sleep with him if you're still scared."

  Heat crept up Crysta's neck. "I'll be fine out here." Her gaze shifted to Sam's closed bedroom door. "Thanks for checking on me, Tip. I'm sorry I woke you."

  "I c-can tell you a story for a w-while. My dad's taught me some really good ones."

  Never had Crysta known anyone as sweet as Tip. "That's thoughtful of you. Maybe another time? I'm awfully tired. I'll bet you are, too."

  "Kind of." He looked reluctant to leave. "Good n-night."

  She watched Tip disappear into his bedroom. After his door closed, she rested her elbows on her knees and dropped her head into her hands. What was happening to her? Even now, though she was wide awake, her right thigh still throbbed, and her shoulder felt stiff. Crazy, so crazy. Or was it?

  A sudden flare of hope jerked Crysta's head up. She re­membered the explosive noise that had ended her last dream, her certainty that it had come from a gun. The blood. The black hole in her flesh. A bullet wound? She leaped from the sofa, nearly falling before she disentangled herself from the blanket. Pressing her hands to her cheeks, she stared into the dying fire. Was she losing her mind? Or could Derrick still be alive?

  Chapter Five

  If there was a possibility that Derrick was still alive, Crysta had to do something. Finding her brother was the first pri­ority, but she knew that only a fool w
ould strike off search­ing for Derrick alone in so vast a wilderness. She needed help—from someone who knew the country. Who better than Sam Barrister, who was, according to Derrick, one of the best guides in Alaska?

  When a soft tap on Sam's bedroom door failed to rouse him, Crysta ventured out to the front of the lodge, vaguely aware of a humming sound somewhere outside. A genera­tor? Watery light came through the dining-room windows. Crysta glanced at her watch. Two o'clock. For a moment, she thought she had slept through the night and into the next afternoon. Then she recalled that Alaska didn't have dark­ness at this time of year, only twilight. The feeling of night­time in Sam's apartment was due to blackout shades.

  A glow of lamplight spilled from a partially open door­way to her left, and through the crack she glimpsed some­one moving. She veered toward the door, raising her fist to knock. Then she hesitated. Through the opening, she saw Sam Barrister seated at a large desk, his dark head bent over a pile of papers, his forehead furrowed in a scowl.

  Rapping softly on the door, she gave it a push and took in the cozy work area at a glance. A gorgeous painting of an elk hung behind Sam's desk. It was unmistakably Tip's handiwork. The pine walls shone in the aura cast by the reading lamp, and the rich aroma of coffee teased her nos­trils. "Mr. Barrister?"

  Sam Barrister flinched at the sound of her voice and jerked up his head, his piercing dark eyes arresting her as she started to step across the threshold.

  "I, um, need to speak to you," Crysta said, feeling sud­denly wary. Why was the lodge owner so jumpy? His be­havior was completely at odds with the stories Derrick had told her about him. "Do you have a minute?"

  "Sure." With a casualness belied by the tautness of his mouth, Sam shoved the papers he had been studying into a familiar-looking brown briefcase and snapped it closed. He lifted it from his desk and stowed it in a drawer. "Come on in."

  He shoved back his chair and stood up, giving the bot­tom of his red sweatshirt a tug in an attempt to cover his smudged undershirt. Crysta closed the door behind herself, then immediately wished she hadn't, her hand tightening on the cool knob.