Cold Trail

by Janet Dawson

  Here the road forked. Dan, Donna and the ranger continued up the road, bearing left and heading uphill. Donna and the ranger were headed for the gate leading to the fire road. Dan’s destination, the Pond Farm Pottery, was beyond that.

  I took the right fork of the road, which led to a parking area, another rest room, the park volunteer office and a maintenance facility. I got out, locked my bag in my trunk, and tucked my cell phone in my pocket. Then I shouldered the pack and set out.

  The Waterfall Trail was a short and easy hike. I crossed a bridge over Fife Creek and headed up the trail. When I reached the T-junction where East Ridge Trail went north and south, I stopped and took my water bottle from my pack. I took a drink. Then I cupped my hands around my mouth and called my brother’s name, hoping, just hoping, that Brian would hear me.

  No response.

  I put the bottle into the pack and started walking north toward my eventual destination, the junction where the trail intersected with the fire road and Fife Creek. The trail undulated through forested hills. I climbed and then descended, and climbed again. I was glad of the shade provided by the canopy of trees, because the afternoon was hot. I felt sweat trickling between my shoulder blades.

  At the top of another hill, I stopped and drank some water. In the distance I glimpsed a mountain. I consulted the map and identified this as McCray Mountain. It was on private property, just west of the park boundary and north of the Fife Creek headwaters. Then I raised my binoculars to my eyes and scanned the trees, searching the dappled shade of the forest for movement. I saw a scrub jay flitting from branch to branch in a tree, and behind me I heard the rat-tat-tat of a woodpecker.

  I took another drink, then I stowed my water bottle in my pack and did some stretches. Despite the fact that I’d hiked with Dan only last week, the muscles in my legs were aching.

  And I was tired. I hadn’t been getting enough sleep, what with my week-long search for Brian. Tension, worry, late nights, early mornings—all of these were taking their toll.

  I’d felt an adrenaline burst earlier today, when I was sure Brian was being held prisoner at Tony Busto’s pot plantation. I was right, but now the euphoria had departed. Once again, I’d gotten close to the truth—and my brother—only to find that the prize was still elusive.

  Now doubt crept in. Brian had gotten away from his captors, but my theory that he was hiking west into the park was just that, a theory. I had nothing to base it on. I was going with my gut. If it were me, that’s what I’d do. Would Brian do it?

  Even if Brian was headed for the park, what if he was confused, unsure of his location? What if he’d headed in a different direction? What if he was more badly injured than I thought, having difficulty managing this terrain?

  What if? What if? Stop it, Jeri, just keep walking.

  I called out to Brian again. No response. I started down the hill. Then my cell phone rang, reminding me that, hills and forests notwithstanding, I was still close enough to civilization to get a signal. I stopped and hit the button to answer the call.

  It was Dan. “I parked at Pond Farm Pottery. Now I’m headed south on the East Ridge Trail to where it meets up with the fire road. I’ve been calling out, hoping Brian might hear me. But I haven’t seen any hikers up here on this section.”

  “Thanks. I’ve been calling out, too, but I haven’t heard anything. No hikers, either. I’ll check in with you later.” I disconnected and called Donna.

  “I’m at the fire road, where it crosses the creek,” she said. “No sign of Brian, or any other hikers. Ranger Ellis checked in. She’s moving north and she hasn’t seen him on her section. She encountered some hikers heading south, and they hadn’t seen him either.”

  “Thanks for the update,” I said. “Dan’s on the trail from Pond Farm, heading your way. I’m about halfway up my section of the trail.”

  “Okay,” Donna said. “There’s an intermittent stream here, a little creek that feeds into Fife Creek, but it’s dry right now. I’m going to hike upstream here, at least for a ways, and see what I see. Then I’ll start down the trail to meet you.”

  I tucked my cell phone in my pocket and continued down the hill, then up another. I called out to Brian over and over again, but the only sounds I heard were my own footsteps, and birds singing in the trees. A breeze came up, rustling the branches of the trees, a welcome respite to the heat. I lost all sense of time as I walked.

  Finally I emerged from the forest. I was at the edge of a meadow that sloped downhill. From this vista point, I looked down into the densely forested canyon where I’d started this journey, thick with tall, majestic old-growth redwoods. A turkey vulture coasted overhead, riding the thermals.

  I raised my binoculars and scanned the scene. My pulse quickened when I saw movement in the trees at the edge of the meadow. But it wasn’t human. A mule deer, a common sight here in these oak woodlands, stepped out of the trees, its black tail twitching, This one was a doe, and she was followed by a good-sized fawn whose spots were fading. The deer paused, then moved slowly across the meadow and disappeared into another stand of trees.

  I turned, keeping my binoculars in front of my eyes, sweeping my gaze along the edge of the meadow. Down below I spotted Fife Creek and the fire road. I didn’t see Donna, though. I scanned uphill, looking for movement.

  Nothing. But wait. I saw movement in the trees. It was another mule deer, this time a buck. He was young, his antlers small. He trotted out of the trees and stopped, poised for movement. It was as though something had startled him, something that was still in the forest.

  I lowered the binoculars and set off walking down the slope, shouting Brian’s name. My voice galvanized the buck into flight. He took off, running toward the creek. I called out to Brian again. I waited. Called again. Then...

  What was that? I thought I heard something. Again I shouted, “Brian!”

  A human voice called in response, hoarse, unarticulated, but definitely human. At the spot where I’d seen the buck, a lone figure stumbled out of the trees into the meadow. I raised the binoculars and focused on the figure, impatient to see who it was.

  Brian.

  He had a week-old beard and his face was dirty, streaked with sweat, dust, the leaves and duff of the forest floor. His T-shirt and khaki hiking pants were filthy. Even at this distance I could see the effects of weariness, dehydration, lack of food, and the head injury. He moved toward me in a slow, shambling walk, stumbling but determined, putting one foot in front of the other.

  I quickly untied the red bandanna, pulled it from my neck and tied it to one of my hiking poles. Then I lifted it high, waving it back and forth.

  Had Brian seen me? Yes, he had. He raised his arms and waved back.

  I started down the slope again, moving as fast as I could. When I reached Brian, I dropped the poles and threw my arms around him. I felt his arms encircle me, hugging me tightly, as though I was a life preserver.

  Thank God, I thought. Thank God.

  Then I laughed. “Hey, baby bro, you’re smelling a bit ripe.”

  He chuckled. Then he said in a raspy, tired voice, “Hey, sis. I knew I could count on you to find me. And make some wise-ass remark.”

  Thirty-Seven

  I sat Brian down on the grass. I knelt beside him and opened my pack. I took out the extra bottle of water and twisted off the top, handing it to him. “Don’t drink that too fast, or it’ll come back up.”

  He took the water and tilted it back to his mouth. He sighed with relief, waited, then took another drink. “Food?” he asked between sips. “You got anything to eat? I had some, but it’s long gone. Good thing I was studying up on edible mushrooms. That’s what I ate this morning.”

  “Granola bars, apples, some jerky.” I pulled them from the pack, opened the jerky, and tore off a small strip. “For starters, just suck on that for a while.”

  He put the jerky in his mouth. I opened one of the granola bars and broke it into small pieces, setting it on the grass next to h
im.

  I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and called Donna. “I found him. I’m in a meadow, must be near the fire road.”

  “Yes, you are,” Donna said. “Dan’s with me and we’re heading your way.”

  I saw movement at the lower end of the meadow. Two people, Donna and Dan. I grabbed the hiking stick with the bandanna tied to the top and waved it.

  Donna’s voice crackled from my cell phone. “I see you.”

  “He’s hurt, dehydrated,” I said. “We need to get him some medical attention.”

  “I’ll head back to my vehicle and call the rangers. Dan’s coming up to help you.”

  The two figures at the bottom of the meadow separated. Donna headed back to the fire road. Dan kept climbing, moving quickly to cover the distance between us.

  “I want to hear all about it,” I told Brian. “But first we need to get you to a doctor.”

  ——

  I made sure to tell the medical staff at the emergency room in Santa Rosa about Brian’s penicillin allergy. Then I went outside with my cell phone in hand and called Sheila. When I told her the news, she screamed, and then shouted, “I’m on my way.” I called Dad next, getting much the same response.

  Then I called the Sonoma County Sheriff’s Department. “Good work,” Griffin said. “I’m glad your brother’s okay.”

  “My guess is, they’ll keep him here at the hospital overnight,” I said. “He’s got a concussion and he’s dehydrated.”

  “We’ll be over later to talk with him. Things are popping here, so it will probably be tomorrow morning. He’s no longer a suspect, but he’s a material witness to Harry Vann’s murder. I’m hoping he can identify Scott Cruz as the shooter.”

  My parents and Aunt Caro arrived first, since they were here in Santa Rosa. But Sheila wasn’t far behind. She had the children with her, the two youngsters talking excitedly about seeing their daddy. Caro took them in charge, assuring them that they could visit with Brian as soon as the doctors had finished working on him.

  One of the ER doctors came out to talk with us, giving an update on Brian’s condition. He’d had an X ray for the head injury and now he was getting fluids. The doctors were admitting him to the hospital, an overnight stay, just to keep an eye on him. “If he does well over the next twenty-four hours,” the doctor said, “he can go home tomorrow.”

  Once the ER had him stabilized, Brian was moved to a room. The other bed was empty and the family gathered around. Brian looked exhausted, ready to sleep. He held Sheila’s hand and after a while told her to take the children and go home. She did, promising to be back first thing in the morning. Caro left as well, taking Mother and Dad with her. I lingered, out in the hospital corridor with Donna and Dan. Finally they, too, departed. I sat in the hospital room next to Brian’s bed, watching him sleep. He woke up around seven-thirty, looking at me with a wobbly smile.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked.

  “My head still hurts. And I’m really tired.”

  “You’ve had quite an ordeal. Two detectives from the Sonoma County Sheriff’s Department will be here sometime tomorrow, to interview you.” I paused. “I need to hear what happened. Before you tell the detectives.”

  He fumbled for the control on the side of the hospital bed and found the right button. He pressed it and raised the head of the bed. “How much do you know? About me and Sheila?”

  “A lot. When I get into investigation mode, I dig out everything I can. It doesn’t matter if you’re related to me or not. I know you two have been having some problems and I know why. I also know why you left Sonoma. I’ve talked with Sheila, at length. I’ve also talked with Lance and Becca. Nancy Parsons over in Sonoma told me about your problems at your last school, and the student. And I talked with Willow.”

  He sighed and closed his eyes, his face pale against the pillow. Then he opened his eyes again. “I was upset that Sheila has been spending so much time away from home. And I feel guilty for feeling that way. Does that make any sense?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “I know she’s had a rough time with her father being sick. But with all the stuff going on at my last school in Sonoma, I felt like she wasn’t there for me. I’d try to talk with her, and she tuned me out. She didn’t understand, or she didn’t want to understand, that I had to get out of the job in Sonoma. I told her I was going to look for another job and I didn’t care where. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t take me seriously.” He paused. “But I was serious. When the position came up in the Petaluma schools, I jumped at it. I didn’t think Sheila would react the way she did. She was so angry about moving. It took me by surprise.”

  Communication, I thought, or lack of it. It was so damned important in any relationship, and in this case, both Brian and Sheila had dropped the ball.

  “Tell me about Willow.”

  “It wasn’t a romance, really. I had a feeling Willow would have liked it to be. But not on my side. You’ve got to believe that. I love Sheila, even if we have been going through a rough patch these past few months.”

  “I know that. But Willow was someone sympathetic to talk with.”

  “Yes. That’s exactly it.” He stopped and reached for the water container, taking a sip. “I met Willow last spring, at a craft fair in Sonoma. She had some nice-looking pottery. A lot of it was too expensive for my blood. But I bought a coffee mug. She kept looking at me and finally she told me I looked a lot like her brother. I stood there talking with her for a while. That was that. I never thought I’d see her again.”

  “But you did.”

  “Yes. It was just a few weeks later, after that student I was so concerned about tried to kill himself. I ran into Willow in downtown Sonoma. She said I looked terrible and asked me what was wrong. So we found a place to have coffee and we sat there and talked. I told her about my student, how I was sure the kid had attempted suicide because he was being bullied, and I couldn’t get my principal to listen to me. I said the job in Sonoma had gone sour and I was looking to get out. I thought, I’m talking to this woman I hardly know. What’s wrong with this picture? But Willow was listening to me, and Sheila wasn’t.”

  “You had coffee with her several times after that,” I said. Willow had already told me this, but I wanted to hear it from Brian.

  “Yes. We started texting each other. I always deleted those texts.” He shook his head, and winced at the movement. “Looking back on it, I see that...well, it’s water under the bridge. So yes, we met again when I came over to Petaluma to interview for the new job. After the interview, I wanted to talk about it. I couldn’t talk with Sheila. I knew she was opposed to moving. She didn’t even know I’d applied for the job. I could have talked with Lance. But he was out of the office. So I texted Willow. She drove down from Occidental and we met downtown. Becca saw us. So that’s how she knew. From the look on her face, I was sure she thought Willow and I were having an affair.”

  “Sheila thought you were,” I said.

  “How did she even find out?” Brian asked. “Did Becca tell her?”

  “No. Willow wrote you a note, when you moved to Petaluma.”

  He looked chagrined. “The note? I thought I’d gotten rid of it. I remember reading it, then tossing it in the recycling bin.”

  “Amy found it. She thought the picture of the bird on the front of the card was pretty. So she fished it out of the bin and took it to her room. Sheila found it there and read the note.”

  “Hell,” Brian said. “It was just a friendship.”

  Just friendship, but Brian hadn’t felt he could tell Sheila about it. From my conversations with Willow, I thought perhaps she had hoped for more, despite her protestations to the contrary. It was possible Brian’s feelings for Willow weren’t as innocent as he claimed. I wasn’t going to put my two cents in about his relationship with the potter, though. He’d been through enough already. Brian and Sheila would have to sort out the trouble in the marriage on their own.

  “A couple of
weeks after we moved to Petaluma,” he said, “Willow texted me and invited me over to the gallery in Occidental, to see her pottery. So I went. I looked at the gallery, then we went down the street and had coffee. She’d moved into the house at the ranch her grandfather left her. She’d built a kiln and was turning the barn into her workshop. She invited me to the ranch to show me what she’d done, but I said no. I thought it was a bad idea. I didn’t see her again until a few days after Sheila left for Firebaugh.”

  “How did you wind up going to the cabin on the ranch?”

  Brian took another sip from the water container. “I was really pissed when Sheila extended her trip. I had to cancel our camping trip to Plumas County, after I’d booked the campsite and made all the plans. So I decided to go camping on my own. But...it’s summer, close to the weekend. Every place I checked, all the campsites were taken. So I thought I’d just do some day hikes locally. That Thursday, I drove up to Sebastopol and hiked the West County Trail, from Occidental Road to Forestville and back. On the way home, I stopped at Andy’s Market to get a few things. While I was shopping, I ran into Willow.”

  Thirty-Eight

  Brian parked in the lot at Andy’s Market on Highway 116 north of Sebastopol. He took a couple of canvas shopping bags from the stash in the back of his Jeep Wrangler, grabbed a shopping cart, and wheeled it past a display of new-crop Gravenstein apples.

  I should have stopped at Cousin Pat’s place, he thought. She grows Gravensteins. She would have given me a bag of apples.

  But truth be told, he didn’t feel like talking with anyone in the family. There would be the inevitable questions about Sheila and the kids. He was pretty sure he’d mentioned the plans for the August camping trip up to Plumas County when he was at Aunt Caro’s Fourth of July barbecue. Now that the trip had been canceled, he didn’t want to talk about it. Or the fact that Sheila had gone away yet again, extending her trip even longer. He was tired of the whole damn ball of wax.