“Don’t forget the ice,” Sam said through the open window. “It was fun. Thanks for inviting me.”
“What about my writer interview?” Lili asked. “We still need to do that.”
“Yes, we do,” Sam agreed. “Let me look at my schedule and I’ll call you, okay? See you guys later. Lili, you were great.”
“I’ll be even better next year,” Lili shouted at Sam as she walked toward her pickup.
Joe turned the key in the ignition. “Feet on the floor,” he said automatically, then he glimpsed a mark on Lili’s left ankle. “Wait.”
He leaned over and pushed down her left sock. Although he’d halfway been expecting something like this, he could hardly believe it had already happened. “What the hell is that?”
“What does it look like?”
The tattoo was the color of dried blood. An unusual circular design, sort of an upside-down peace sign with a curving vine on each side.
“It looks like a tattoo,” he said. “Where did you get this? Don’t you know that tattoo needles can kill you? You could get hepatitis or AIDS. And now you’re marked for life. When you’re a grandma, you think you’ll want a—”
“Chill, Dad.” She pulled up her sock, covering the tattoo. “All the girls have them. It comes off with baby oil.”
At least the last part was a relief. He let out a breath. “Where’d you get it?”
She looked out the passenger window.
“Lili?”
“Five.”
What the hell did that mean? “Five what?”
“Five,” she repeated sullenly, refusing to look at him.
Fuming, Joe started the car. Lili was only thirteen and already she was becoming an alien. Laura seemed almost as mystified as he was. Maybe Sam could find out what the heck five meant in teen lingo these days.
As they pulled out of the playfield parking lot, Martinson and his son and the older boy called Rocky were walking toward the cars, each carrying worn duffle bags full of gear. Lili raised her hand again as they drove past the group. “He is hot,” she murmured, so quietly he could barely make out the words.
Joe glanced sideways to see Gale Martinson’s pale eyes light on his daughter. The man smiled and nodded. Lili grinned in response. Joe’s stomach sank to the floorboard.
GARRETT Ford had just opened the door of his diesel pickup when he saw Summer Westin approaching hers. He slid in quickly, hoping to pull out of the spot before she noticed, but she marched over and even had the nerve to smile as she tapped lightly on his window.
He frowned and pressed the button to lower the glass.
“Hi!” Her voice was lower than he’d expected for such a small woman. “I saw you in the stands. Have we met?”
“Never.” He narrowed his eyes and did his best to radiate hostility.
Damn if she didn’t thrust her hand through the open window. “I’m Sam Westin.”
“I know who you are. I’ve seen you on TV.” He glared at her outstretched fingers. Such a little hand. He could just zip that window right back up, bite off her puny troublemaking arm at the wrist. His finger was still on the button.
An uncertain look flitted across her face, and she yanked her hand back outside. “I’m sorry. I didn’t get your name?”
“Ford. Garrett Ford.”
“Glad to meet you,” she said. “I didn’t know I was going to be on TV; I was just as surprised as everyone else.”
“I’ll bet,” he said. He turned the key in the ignition.
She stepped back. He rolled up the window and peeled out of the parking lot. In the rearview mirror she looked so bewildered that he couldn’t help smiling.
14
WHEN Sam arrived at the bunkhouse, she found the trail crew out back, huddled around a crackling campfire.
“Missed you at dinner,” Tom Blackstock said as she sat down next to him. “Guess you heard about Lisa?”
She nodded. The kids were subdued. They all stared into the flames or poked at the coals with sharpened sticks. If they’d been older, she might have offered them wine. In this case, the best she had to offer was dessert. She held up the grocery bag. “I brought the makings for s’mores.”
Roasting marshmallows perked up the group. When they were into seconds, Blackstock, in counselor mode, encouraged the teens to talk about what they wanted to do in the future.
“Live on a yacht in the South Pacific,” spouted one boy. Several of the others made scoffing noises. Sam frowned at their instant dismissal; she wanted to enjoy the dream of a boat in the tropics for a little while.
“I’m gonna be a rapper,” said another. More chuckles. A few gangsta hand gestures flashed around the circle. “It could happen,” he insisted.
“I’m moving to Tennessee, gonna drive on the NASCAR circuit,” volunteered the shaggy-haired youth beside the rapper.
Silence reigned for a minute as the rest of them reflected. Sam wondered what Lisa Glass had planned for her future. Had Tom chosen this subject because of Lisa’s abrupt lack of future? Or would this be a lead-in to what was to become of the trail crew after they went home in a few weeks?
Ben Rosen shifted his marshmallow to a more advantageous position over the fire. “I want to be a counselor for people with drug problems,” he murmured quietly, keeping his eyes fixed on the fire.
“Great idea,” Blackstock encouraged. Others nodded in approval. How many of these kids had a crack-addicted mother at home or an alcoholic father on the streets?
Maya cleared her throat, then said, “I want to be a teacher for kids with learning disabilities.” Her gaze traveled around the circle as if daring the boys to challenge that idea. They all simply nodded.
Sam was touched. She’d been thinking of them only as troubled kids, not as the adults they would soon be. Blackstock helped them brainstorm about how best to achieve their goals. They talked a little about school, and while none of them looked forward to going back, they all said they’d stay in class this year or, for the two boys who were over eighteen, get their GEDs.
“Ranger Westin went to college,” Blackstock announced. All faces turned toward Sam. “Tell them about what a difference it made in your life.”
“Well.” Bad choice, Tom, she wanted to shout. What to say? “In the first place, call me Sam, not Ranger Westin. I’m classified as a tech, actually, not a ranger, and this is a temporary job for me. I’m only here for three months.”
“But you did go to college?” Blackstock pressed.
“Yes.” For all the good it did. “I have a degree in wildlife biology.”
“So you studied all about wild animals. And what do you do when you’re not being a ranger—er, tech?”
She told them about being a freelance writer. None of the teens had remarked on the wildlife biology degree, and nobody said, “Oh, cool,” when she mentioned writing about conservation and nature, either. This was her greatest fear—that the younger generation simply didn’t care about wilderness.
“How much money do you make?” Ben asked.
Why was that always their first question? Lili had asked, too. “I chose variety and freedom over security,” she told them honestly. “I don’t make much money. Most of the time I’ve been okay with that, but now that the economy’s bad, it’s hard. I’m self-employed, so when I don’t have a contract, I have no income. Nowadays I wish I had a steady job and a paycheck hitting my bank account every two weeks.”
“Like a steady job’s easy to find,” one commented.
“To help pay the bills, I have a housemate,” she added, so they’d know that everyone didn’t have to have an executive’s salary. “His name is Blake.”
“Housemate. Right.” One of the boys nodded knowingly. Another rolled his eyes.
Were they envisioning some sort of sugar daddy? “Blake’s gay,” she said. Why did she feel compelled to explain herself to these kids? She had to find a way to pay Tom back later for this.
To her surprise, there were no nasty retorts about
sharing her home with a gay man. The world had changed a lot since she was their age.
After everyone had showered and retired to their respective rooms, Sam turned to Maya, who sat on her bunk clad in a blue undershirt and boxers, massaging lotion into her feet. “I told everyone about how I ended up here, Maya. How about you?”
“B and E.” The girl cracked the joint of her big toe. “You know how there’s like a couple hours between the time school gets out and people get home from work? That’s a great time to hit houses in the good neighborhoods.” She looked up and smiled. “You’d be amazed at the stuff you can pick up.”
“I’ll bet.” Sam was glad she had a housemate with an unpredictable schedule watching over her home.
Maya pulled her legs into a lotus position and sighed wistfully. “Those were the good old days.”
“Except for the people you stole from.”
The girl shrugged. “Those people had so much stuff that most of the time they never even missed it.”
Sam reflected on the families she knew whose garages were so packed with possessions that there was no room for cars, and was inclined to agree with Maya. “Still,” she said, “it was their stuff.”
Maya stood up and grabbed her MP3 player from the top bunk. “I’d never take anything from someone who was poor.”
“Nice to know I’m safe.” Sam tugged back the blanket and loosened the sheets on her bunk.
“And I don’t do it anymore, anyway,” Maya added, as if she’d just remembered that she was now reformed. She slid into her bed.
“Good for you. I think being a teacher is a much better plan than being a cat burglar.” Sam grabbed one of her pillows and pummeled it, trying to even out the lumps.
Maya laughed. “Give ’em what they want to hear. Queso has his reports to do.” Pushing earbuds into her ears, she closed her eyes and nodded her head to music only she could hear.
Sam observed her for a moment. Which was the real Maya—the street-smart burglar or the wannabe teacher? They were scary creatures, these teenagers. Good thing she didn’t have one at home. A cat was mysterious enough.
“Lights out!” Blackstock called from the hallway. Sam grabbed her penlight, flicked off the wall switch on the way out. They met at the front door, and crept out to his truck for a drink.
A wolf howl startled Sam awake the next morning. Her left foot got hung up in the sheet, and she practically fell out of the bunk, banging her injured knee on the bed frame. The invisible wolf howled three more times as she groped her way toward the little table that held her cell phone and charging unit.
“Westin,” she croaked.
“Hey, Summer! I didn’t wake you, did I?”
Who in the hell? She waited, rubbing her bandaged knee, blinking sleepily in the dim room. Her head ached and her mouth tasted like a possum had denned up there overnight. She licked at the stitches in her lip.
Maya’s bunk was made and her hiking boots were gone from the alcove that served as their closet. Sam felt a little uneasy; she hadn’t even cracked an eyelid as her roomie had dressed for the day. Maya and her burglar buddies could have stripped the room and she would not have known.
“Hello?” the male voice said uncertainly.
“Who is this?”
“It’s Richard Best, your old friend at The Edge.”
“Of course. The guy who told me to get lost.”
It took him only a second to recover. “I’m the one who hired you. And then I gave you a little rest break, but hey, that’s the business, you know? Now I’m hiring you again.”
“Where’d you get my cell phone number?” Hoyle wouldn’t give it out.
Her call waiting signal beeped and—speak of the devil—it was Peter Hoyle calling. She decided to let him go to voicemail and deal with it later.
“I’m hurt that you forgot to give me your cell number,” Best was saying. “Anyway, where’s that contract for the endangered species gig?”
“What do you care about this ‘endangered species gig’? What happened to spas and rich people?”
“It’s supposed to be a big conference, and the press will be there. Believe it or not, people still remember you from that cougar thing last year. And we took a poll. You’d be surprised how many of our target audience are environmental types.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
He ignored that. “Did you sign the contract? Is it in the mail?”
The chill of the old wooden floor was seeping through her thin pajamas. She stood up. “You really want to hire me just to write a paper and speak at a conference?”
The contract stipulated less than a week’s worth of work. With everything going on around the park, a speech seemed almost too inconsequential to bother with. But then again, her contract with the park service was up in a few weeks. And unless Blake had collected phone messages from clients that he hadn’t yet shared with her, there was no other work waiting for her in the wings.
“I suppose we could cover expenses, too,” Best said. “But it’s local, so really, there shouldn’t be anything more than maybe a meal or two.”
Her head ached, making her regret the bottle of wine she and Blackstock had downed in her truck last night before turning in. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, a natural accompaniment as they shared their feelings of guilt over Lisa’s death.
“Summer? You still there?”
“You need to cover your butt, don’t you? You already told the media I’d do it.”
He laughed. She couldn’t tell if it was forced or not. “We were sure that you’d want to, and you weren’t here to ask. It’s your kind of thing; it’s a wildlife conference.”
It crossed her mind that she might not need The Edge at all; she could probably just contract with the conference organizers. Whoever they were.
As if he could read her mind, he added, “If this goes well, we might start a weekly column about outdoor adventures.”
She noticed he didn’t actually promise any work beyond the conference. Public speaking was not her forte. As a matter of fact, most of her encounters with a microphone and the public had been disasters. But, she argued with herself, she’d be prepared this time. It was another payment on the mortgage for her cabin. What could happen at a conference, for heaven’s sake? The greatest threats would be overbaked salmon and watery coffee.
The Edge might surprise her and come through with other offers. At the very least, once her name was out there again, she’d get a few more writing assignments from the conservation organizations and maybe some of the outdoor sports magazines as well. And the park service and forest service and BLM had publications, too; maybe some of those could be a new source of revenue after those organizations knew about her.
“So, is the contract on its way?” Best prompted.
She sighed, resigned to her fate. “As soon as I get to a post office.”
“Just fax it.”
“All right,” she told him. “Work on that weekly column idea. And don’t make any more promises to the media on my behalf.” She pressed the End button. The phone sang its voice mail-waiting ditty, and she switched over to voice mail.
“Westin?” Hoyle sounded more annoyed than usual. “Where are those reports I asked for?” Click.
Whoa. She’d better hightail it to the district station and type up the reports first thing this morning. Right after coffee and a shower. As soon as she’d set down the phone, it howled again. She stabbed the Talk button. “What?”
“Maybe I’ll just call back later.”
She smiled at the familiar voice. “No, it’s okay, Blake. I just haven’t had my coffee yet and my phone keeps howling and there are creeps in the woods and people are dropping dead—”
“More people? I read about that poor trail worker girl in the paper this morning.”
“Well, then, not more people, I guess.” How had she managed to make Lisa’s death sound trivial? “Hey, you called me. What’s up?”
“I don’t want to add to
your woes.”
“But?”
“The kitchen sink’s dripping.”
“You mean the piping under the drain’s leaking? Or is water running down from the faucet? Or the sprayer? Or is it a fitting around the garbage disposal?”
“How would I know?”
“Well, you have to dry everything off and then watch where it’s coming from.”
There was a long silence, then he finally said, “Or I could just call a plumber.”
In rural Kansas, people knew how to fix things. Especially men. One of her grandfathers had done his own welding, for heaven’s sake; the other constructed whole buildings out of rock. Her father had built wheelchair ramps and installed railings and shower seats for her mother. And her grandmother had helped him. How could any adult male not know how to fix a leaking sink?
“Never mind,” she groaned. It was her house, after all. And she was not about to foot the bill for a plumber. “Stick a dishpan under it. I’ll fix it when I come back in a day or two.”
“Okey-doke,” he said.
Okey-doke? That didn’t sound like one of Blake’s expressions. “Have you been talking to my father?”
“Just the once, a couple of days ago. He said he was praying for me; I told him, likewise. Didn’t he call you?”
“Yeah,” she said, remembering. “About the wedding. Any other calls for me?”
“Does a solicitation from The Red Cross count?”
“Definitely not.”
“Then no. Go get that coffee. Don’t bite anyone.” He hung up.
While pawing through her daypack for her hairbrush, she uncovered Lisa’s Bible and her mind abruptly leapt back to the case at hand. Guns, mines, explosives, terrified bears, and a young woman, dead. Garrett Ford—was he simply an irritable local rattler she had run across, or was he up to something? Did any of these pieces fit together? Maybe Paul Schuler had been right; if you hung out in the woods long enough, you’d encounter every form of shady activity.
She decided she’d left her hairbrush in her truck and padded to the kitchen. A cup of coffee, a few minutes to pack, and she’d be on her way to the Marmot Lake area. The sheriff’s department and the park rangers would pursue interviews about Lisa’s kidnapping and the illegal gunplay in the area. At least she hoped they would. The FBI would handle the autopsy. They had the resources to track down Lisa’s relatives and associates.
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