Dedication
For Spencer Wiklund, my ESARian chum
October, 1988. 4:30 a.m.
Kenneth Holbrook smiled. The river would be all his.
In the darkness, rain lashed Ken’s apartment building with frigid torrents. Rushing wind pressed into his kitchen window and rattled the blinds as he finished his coffee. Not for the first time, his lights flickered.
This was exactly the weather Ken wanted. A perfect Pacific Northwest morning. He could wade into the icy water and stand solitary, casting his fishing line upstream or down. He could smell the clean rain fall into the turbulent Green River and watch as the steady wind made the evergreens wave to him from the banks. The other fishermen would stay home.
With his tackle already stowed in his truck, Ken set the empty cup in the kitchen sink and reached for his backpack. He slung it over his shoulder and took one step toward the front door.
His telephone rang.
For a moment he just stared at it, willing the shrill noise to stop. Each ring brought him closer to memories of lying in bed in the dark, listening to his phone ringing, dread pooled in his stomach. He was wide awake now, but that same feeling returned to him. He didn’t want to answer it, but like all the other times the dread came to him, he did.
“Hello?”
“This is South County Search and Rescue calling for Kenneth Holbrook.”
Ken’s jaw tightened. He could barely acknowledge the operator with a grunt.
“I’m putting through a call from the field. Please stand by.”
“What?” This was not usually what happened when these people called. South County Search and Rescue had ruined more than one day of fishing or weekend of backpacking, but never had they patched in a call from off-site.
There was an audible click on the line, then the hiss of static.
Ken’s eyebrows knit together. “Hello?”
A voice answered him, as if from the bottom of a well. “Kenny? Kenny Holbrook, is that you?”
He cringed. He hated being called Kenny. But his annoyance became an undercurrent as he recognized the voice. “Bruce? Bruce Hayden, you old goat. Christ, you sound like you’re calling from Hell. Collect.”
“Yeah, well, you ain’t far from the truth.” There was an uncomfortable pause. “Listen Kenny, I’m up to my eyeballs in some serious shit and I was wondering…”
“No.”
“Oh, for crying out loud Kenny, will you at least let me finish?”
“No, Bruce, you don’t have to. I know how this one ends. ‘Kenny, I need you, blah blah blah, been lost forty-eight hours, you’re my only hope.’ I’ve listened to this crap since I was fourteen, Bruce. The answer is no.”
“Aw, come on, Kenny. We do need you. I need you.”
“Look, I’m sorry, it’s nothing personal, but I’ve seen enough, okay? Call somebody under twenty-one for a change.”
“Oh, so that’s what this is about? Did you take your name off the active list because you’re afraid you can’t hack it, or because you’re jealous of those teenagers who can pull their own weight when you can’t?”
Ken switched the phone from one ear to the other and threw his backpack on the floor. “Now you wait a Goddamn minute, mister. I was a searcher for over ten years. I can’t count the times going out on searches ruined my personal life. And for what, Bruce? To find some moldy, half-eaten body? To crawl on my knees through poison oak and blackberry bushes looking for finger bones and hair fragments? Jesus, Bruce, I’m pushing thirty. I want to go back to college, finish my forestry degree, get a job with the Parks Service. I want my life back. Can’t you see that?”
“Dammit, I know all that. Do you think I’d be calling you if I had a choice?” The static hissed like the swaying trees outside. “Kenny, I’m up shit creek here, and I don’t have a paddle or a boat.”
Ken sighed. “Where are you?”
“Blackchurch—sort of. We’ve got a missing family—Mom, Dad, twin girls—we found their car at a trailhead. They’re overdue from their day hike and something feels very wrong. These are tourists, Kenny. No outdoor experience. The father’s an accountant, for Chrissake.”
“So? You can’t tell me you’re short on live bodies.”
“No, but I am short on experienced ones. I’ve got a dozen teens standing around because I’ve got no one to lead them into the field.”
“There’s a first time for everything.”
“Oh, come on, I can’t just send these kids out there with a radio and say ‘have at it.’ It’s hunting season out here. Some of these kids aren’t even smart enough to wear safety orange.” The static overwhelmed the phone for a moment. “Look, I know you’ve seen a lot of bad shit. So have I. But do you remember that lumberjack who broke his leg? Do you remember how happy he was to see us? Christ, he nearly French kissed us both.”
Ken remembered. He felt the flush of pride rise within him. After a second he felt an awful twisting inside his chest and the warmth vanished. “That doesn’t make up for it, Bruce. Not for me.”
“Dammit Kenny, you’ve never turned down your duty before.”
“This is not my duty anymore.”
Ken was astonished to hear Bruce’s voice shake. “Kenny, please.”
Ken didn’t speak.
“I swear to you, on my mother’s grave, this is the last time.”
In the next few seconds, Ken’s entire Search and Rescue career tumbled through his mind. Heroic, grotesque, the images rushed through his brain like a painkiller, blotting out his pride and responding to the guilt.
Ken’s voice was barely audible. “When?”
“As soon as you can. I’ll have someone waiting at the old Rocket gas station in Blackchurch.”
“Fine.”
“Bring your big pack.”
“Fine.”
“And wear as much safety orange as you can find.”
“Fine.”
“And Kenny—thank you.”
“Fine.” Kenneth Holbrook hung up the phone and kicked his pack across the kitchen, clenching his fists.
“Goddammit!” he shouted.
The rain eased as Ken pulled off the highway into the rural town of Blackchurch. His backpack slid around the truck bed of his battered Ford Courier as he cornered and stopped. Normally he’d secure it, but not today. Today he’d be lucky if he could get his fingers free from the steering wheel.
Ken drove through the deserted streets past blank storefronts and rundown Victorian houses. He found the Rocket station, a two-pump affair with a Buck Rogers-style spacecraft streaking upward from the top of a rusty pole, only half lit by old-fashioned clear light bulbs. He killed the engine and checked his watch. Seeing no familiar people or vehicles, Ken hopped out of truck and walked to the men’s room.
The dull mirror reflected his stubbled, drawn face and dark brown hair. He had to stoop a little to see himself. His eyes, always named as his best feature, showed gray rather than green. He rolled up the sleeves of his plaid flannel shirt and flexed his fatigued hands, feeling them fill with strength again. He washed them and wiped them on his scratchy wool pants.
When he came out, someone was sitting cross-legged on the hood of his battered truck. “Hello trouble,” she said.
“Paula?” Ken tried to keep his mouth closed as he looked over the woman. She was of medium height, with blond hair piled under a Greek fishermen’s cap. She wore a yellow rainjacket, dark blue wool pants and stout-looking boots, which was unusual. It had been years since Paula Carter, a dispatcher and radio technician, had gone out into the field.
“What are you doing here?”
“Picking you up. Who were you expecting?”
Ken almost forgot his sour mood as he laughed. He hugged her. “Christ it�
��s been a long time.”
“You’ve always known where to find me.”
He released her and looked into her maple eyes. He gestured to her clothes. “Apparently not, by the looks of it.”
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, her eyebrows furrowing. “It is such a mess up there. I’ve been out leading teams while Bruce has been map marking and running the radio room all by himself.”
“It’s just you two?”
“We have one other guy, a retiree named Marti, but that’s it. He went out with my team so I could come get you.”
“Jesus. Well, fine, let’s get this damn thing over with and get you back into a nice dry radio room.”
Paula started toward her car, a Pontiac Fiero, which Ken now noticed across the lot. “I’ve been told I’m an easy girl to follow.” She started away and then turned back. “Ken?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you could make it.”
Ken’s faced flushed. He had a soft spot for her—one he shared with every other searcher over the age of puberty. She was the impossible girl, too smart and too pretty for mere mortals. She would flirt with you if she liked you, but that was all. He frowned.
To drive the knife in further, he called, “How’s that gigantic boyfriend of yours?”
“We broke up.”
Ken closed his door and almost smiled.
Hidden down ten miles of unpaved roads, the radio truck—actually a truck camper perched atop a surplus Forestry Service pickup—sat in an ancient logging truck turnaround. The cars of the searchers lined the road, along with a Suburban from the South County Sherriff and two television news vans. Ken spotted Bruce’s mud-splattered AMC Eagle and smiled.
Paula pulled her Fiero behind the last car and Ken moved his truck in behind her. He locked the cab and opened his canopy to fish out his pack. Paula joined him.
“It’s been six months now,” she said.
Ken dropped his tailgate and kneeled on the edge to capture a loose water bottle. “Six months?”
“Since we broke up.”
“Oh.” Ken put the fugitive water bottle in his pack. “We’re still on that, are we?”
“You asked,” she said, looking wounded.
Ken frowned. “I know. I’m sorry, about everything. I’m just in a rotten mood, that’s all. Just ignore me.”
“It’s hard being single after so long,” she said, walking with him towards the radio truck. “It’s hard to find things to do by myself that don’t make me feel pathetic.”
Ken paused. “Have you been dating?”
“Well, yeah,” she nodded. “A little. Some.”
Ken must have looked doubting.
“Okay,” she said. “No, I haven’t.”
“You realize, of course, that most of Search and Rescue would fight off a pack of rabid dogs to go out with you.”
“Go to bed with me, you mean. You should see how Bruce treats me. He’s worse than the fourteen-year-olds.”
Ken laughed. “Yeah, Bruce isn’t the subtle type, is he?”
“The Neanderthal type is more like it. I don’t know. I know I could go out with these guys, but I just got done doing that.”
“Your ex isn’t here, is he?”
“Nah, he quit.”
Ken stopped suddenly and took both of her hands in his. “Look,” he said, “how about when this is all over, you and I go out for coffee or something, my treat. It doesn’t have to be a date. You could call it a…date rehearsal.”
Paula pulled one hand away to cover her shy smile. “You know, you were the only searcher who didn’t ogle me like the blonde bimbo radio dispatcher everyone thinks I am.”
“Oh, make no mistake, I ogled you, but I was discreet, that’s all.” Ken felt his smile building and let it. “You’ve been a good friend to me for a long time. In fact, you are the one consistently good thing I associate with all of this. And I’ve missed you.” Ken started to walk, leading her along by the hand. “Well, how about it?”
She nodded several times. “Okay.”
The two of them picked their way through a knot of reporters and policemen. The phrases “no progress” and “critical period” dressed the lips of the crowd. Beyond them were groups of searchers, resting from their time in the field or waiting to get out there and comb the brush. Looking at the younger ones, the ones whose packs were nearly taller than they were, and weighed just as much as they did, it was easy to understand why they called all those who graduated from Explorer Search and Rescue training Brush Monkeys.
The interior of the radio van was a claustrophobic clutter of short-wave radios and mapping tools. Portable radios stood at the ready, each bearing the scars of fieldwork. Every available storage area that didn’t have a radio was filled with rolled up maps. A poster, a still frame from the famous 1967 Patterson footage of Bigfoot, clung to the wall. At the bottom it read Seek and Ye Shall Find.
Bruce looked up from the mapping table. He was Ken’s age but sported thinning hair and a prematurely gray goatee. “Hello my darling. Be a good girl and get me some coffee, would you?”
Paula stood aside to reveal Ken looking on. He gave his familiar greeting. “Bruce Hayden. You old goat.”
“Kenny Ho-ho-holbrook. Thanks for coming, man.” Bruce stood and hugged him tight. Ken hugged him back and said nothing.
Bruce stepped back and looked him up and down. “You look like shit.”
Ken’s eyes narrowed. Bruce held up both hands. “Kidding,” he said with a laugh. “I’m glad you came.”
“I’m not,” Ken said, “so let’s get on with it. Who are we looking for?”
“Like I told you, a family of four. The Petersons. They’ve been missing now for,” Bruce checked his watch, “thirty-six hours. They told relatives they were going on a day hike. Very little outdoor experience. The father is Joseph, an accountant. The mom is Cindy, a teacher’s aide. Both are in their early forties. Twin girls, Becky and Bridget, nine years old.”
“What led them clear out here?”
“We’re just west of Ghost Mountain State Park. They found their car at a trailhead a few miles from here, but for some reason it looks like they went off-trail and headed out of the park. This is Forest Service land. They lease it to logging companies. Hunters and shooters come out here too.”
“How wide is the search area?”
Bruce walked him to the table and sat down. As he explained the search perimeters to Ken, the radio went off. “Alpha Team to Search Base. Alpha Team to Search Base.”
Paula keyed the mic. Ken listened to her, held rapt by her breathless serenity. “This is Search Base. Go ahead, Marti.”
“We have a girl’s patent leather shoe, section G-eight.”
“I’m on it,” Bruce said, finding a thumbtack.
“That’s a patent leather shoe, section G-eight?”
“That’s affirmative, Paula. The location marks an animal trail.”
The three of them shared an uncomfortable look. Bruce gestured to the map. “They’ve found other clothing articles here and here.” He didn’t say anything more. He didn’t have to. All three knew that animals that dragged their prey back to their lairs seldom cared if a shoe—or worse—was left behind.
The radio crackled and broke the silence. “Search Base this is Alpha Team requesting a voice check.”
Paula looked to Bruce, who nodded. “That’s affirmative, Alpha Team.”
There was a pause, then, “Voice check on three. One, two…”
The trio stayed silent, like the search team would after they called the subject’s name in unison at the top of their lungs. The radio truck seemed to grow smaller as they waited.
The radio crackled. “Alpha Team has no contact.”
“Proceed on your present bearing, seventy-five-foot spacing.”
“Roger, bearing two-six-zero, spacing at seventy-five feet. Alpha Team out.”
Bruce studied the map and looked at Ken. “I want you to lead a team from here,�
�� he gestured, “at bearing eight-zero.”
“That would send me right towards Marti and Alpha Team.”
“Yep. If that animal trail veers off, we can work that as it comes. But if it keeps moving west, towards this stream, and you come in from the east…”
“I might get there faster,” Ken completed. “I see. All right. Let’s rock.”
Bruce flashed him a piece of paper. “This is a map of the area. You’ll have to truck your team up there yourself.”
Ken nodded and selected a portable radio the size of a brick.
“Which one do you have?”
“Omega.”
Bruce handed him another piece of paper. “This is your team. I don’t think you know any of them.”
Ken took it and glanced at the names. “Nope.”
“At least you’ll be unbiased.”
Ken started for the door.
“Good luck,” Paula said. Ken turned and saw her beaming.
“Thanks.”
The smile slid off his face as he looked at the knot of searchers eating dehydrated food and swapping gossip. He shouted to get their attention, called out the six names on his list and ordered them to follow him to his truck. When he got there, he herded them into his truck bed, U-turned and followed the map to their starting point.
Ken didn’t really look at his teenage search team until they piled over his tailgate. He watched them interact and listened to what they said to each other, his annoyance now pronounced and sitting tight in his clenched jaw.
He noticed the tall one first. He was six foot three, probably eighteen, with blond hair and a light mustache and beard. The hair reached a little beyond his shoulders. Something about him reminded Ken of a Viking. He was clad in standard ESAR attire: mismatched garments of blue and green wool, warm and serviceable. Even under his three layers of clothes, you could see his muscles defined as he helped another kid out of the truck.
The kid he helped was his exact opposite. Maybe five foot two, with short dark hair and a stubby frame, he wore metal-rimmed spectacles that wrapped around his ears and orange raingear. His face was a red holocaust of acne. This kid, no older than fourteen, thanked the blond and hefted on a pack nearly as big as he was.
Lost and Found Page 1