by Amy Waeschle
With the sun past its peak and the clouds moving in from the sea, Cassidy peeled her climbing skins from her skis and stored them away. She drank some water but still felt empty, her mind echoing with the pain. And then she packed everything up and stepped into her skis, the tight click of her bindings sharp in her ears. After one last glance at the peaks bowing to her from the horizon in all directions, she pointed her tips downhill and let the mountain lead her home.
THE END
Acknowledgments
This book has been an intense journey of the heart, and I would not have been able to travel its many peaks and valleys without the support of my family. I would especially like to thank my husband, Kurt, for his patience, eagerness to listen, and for the love he shows me every day. Thank you also to my children, my most loyal supporters.
Several experts guided me in this project: thank you to Jodie Prescott, BSN, RN, CCRN at Harborview Medical Center for the excellent details regarding traumatic brain injuries; thanks to paramedic Rick Ratcliff for sharing his experience treating acute anxiety; and a big thank you to Craig Isenberg, LMFT, who guided my understanding of human psychology and behavior and who made time to answer every one of my questions. Thanks to Dave Yacubian for helping me navigate San Francisco from afar. Also, thank you to my talented and thoughtful editor, Melanie Austin.
Finally, so many of my scenes and characters were inspired by my experiences as a skier and climber in the spectacular Cascade mountains that I am sending a prayer of thanks to the snowy peaks and ridges that continue to inspire me.
Also By Amy Waeschle
Cassidy Kincaid Series
Rescuing Reeve
Meet Me on the Mountain
Finding Izzy Ford (12/6)
Standalone Titles:
Going Over the Falls
Feeding the Fire
Memoir:
Chasing Waves, A Surfer’s Tale of Obsessive Wandering
Short Stories:
Swimming Lessons
The Call of the Canyon Wren
Father of the Bride
Finding Izzy Ford
Book 3 in the Cassidy Kincaid Series
Copyright © 2019 by Amy Waeschle. All rights reserved.
Publisher: Savage Creek Press
Genre: Adult Mystery.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the expressed written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
ISBN:
Editor: Ryan Hume
Cover Design: Cover design by Books Covered
Cover photographs: © Shutterstock
Author Photo: Josh Monthei
Other books by Amy Waeschle
Cassidy Kincaid Series:
Rescuing Reeve
Meet Me on the Mountain
Finding Izzy Ford
Failing Finn (June 2020)
Saving Sawyer
The Silent Search
Standalone Novels:
Going Over the Falls
Feeding the Fire
Memoir:
Chasing Waves, a Surfer’s Tale of Obsessive Wandering
Short Stories:
Swimming Lessons
The Call of the Canyon Wren
Father of the Bride
To the lost souls, may we find our way back
One
Wallowa Lake, Oregon
If only the scandal hadn’t broken until after field camp ended. Cassidy could have gone back to being anonymous and it wouldn’t have hit her so hard.
It started in the bar, of course. The geology students had packed up all the gear, cleaned up the campsite, then migrated to the resort on the edge of the lake for a celebration—a twenty minute walk from the Boy Scout property serving as their base camp. Cassidy let the students lead, and a line of them stretched out along the gravel road towards the lake.
After three weeks of managing twenty-nine geology majors—camping with them, preparing meals with them, chasing them all over the landscape, Cassidy felt relieved to have reached the end. Tomorrow, she and the students would part ways: the students back to Eugene, and Cassidy on to the University of Washington and her new career as a professor of geology.
The late-July blackberry vines lining the route hung heavy with fat berries, and popping the fruit into her mouth as she walked felt like eating pure goodness. Cassidy had taught the University of Oregon’s field camp on two previous occasions, both during her tenure as a postdoctoral student in volcano seismology at the University of Oregon. This summer’s camp had progressed with the usual mishaps—trips to the clinic in nearby Joseph for sprained ankles and strep throat, reprimands for pot smoking or partying, and managing dramas like breakups and fights, but overall nothing serious. Cassidy had almost enjoyed it.
Cassidy entered the bar, easily identifying her group of students in their trademark t-shirts, shorts, and flip flops, though Martin, one of her graduate students, wore his trademark Madras short sleeve button-down and high-tech running shoes. The students stood clustered together at the end of the bar, their volume already filling the space. As Cassidy crossed the room, she watched a cluster of them lean in to look at something.
“Whoa,” one of her students said as Cassidy neared. She gave them a glance while waiting for the bartender. Cody, a bright but lazy student, held his phone for the others to see, the bright light from the screen illuminating their faces.
Another student, Izzy, her blonde hair tied back in a messy knot, grabbed the phone and pulled the screen to her face.
“Who knew she was such a badass,” Izzy said. Cassidy was surprised to see mascara on Izzy’s lashes and wondered briefly why anyone would haul makeup to field camp.
“Who’s a badass?” Cassidy said. She had no intention of hanging out with the students that night while they blew off three weeks of steam, but knew they’d razz her if she didn’t at least share one beer. So she walked to the group, knowing that soon she would slip away to one of the picnic tables outside to nurse her second beer while clearing her inbox. Before things got rowdy—and they would—she would return to the camp. Martin and Bridget, her other graduate Bridget, would to keep an eye on things.
Everyone in the group turned to Cassidy, their faces a mix of surprise and alarm.
“You are,” Izzy said, flashing the phone at Cassidy’s face.
Lifting the offered device from Izzy’s hand, Cassidy scanned the screen. Instantly, her stomach liquified into mush.
It was a picture of Mel’s face.
Trying to hold her composure, Cassidy speed-read the passage.
The man, David “Mel” Tomlinson, an accomplice to three members of a Columbian family who lured young women as young as 13 years old to Costa Rica with the promise of good jobs, only to put them to work as prostitutes. All remain in custody as investigators attempt to unravel the complex case. Tomlinson and the three members of the Vasquez family have been charged with 50 counts of human rights violations and if convicted, will serve several life sentences.
Cassidy’s skin ignited with sudden heat. The fear of that moment in Mel’s treehouse came flooding back. Nobody was supposed to know about Mel. She could feel her students all looking at her like she was some kind of alien that had dropped out of the sky. Cassidy’s blood thumped past her ears as she scanned down to a side-by-side picture of herself and Reeve:
. . . two American victims were involved. Reeve Bennington, a California surf guide was killed while trying to smuggle one of the victims through Nicaragua, and Cassidy Kincaid, a geology student at the University of Oregon, survived an attack by Tomlinson who attempted to cover up his involvement in Bennington’s murder.
Kincaid was unable to be reached for this story, but a close family member revealed that Kincaid was
in Costa Rica to search for her missing stepbrother, then became tangled in Tomlinson’s web. Without Kincaid’s help, it’s unlikely the truth about Bennington would have surfaced. “He would have remained just another missing person in paradise,” ICE special agent Rick Terrel said.
The image of her face next to Reeve’s created a hollow feeling in her core. She imagined again the unmarked grave his killers had put him in. Would they have buried her next to him? Or dumped her body in the streets of Tamarindo to be labeled as just another overdose? Then she remembered Mel’s hands on her body, the first time he’d taken her to bed.
“So what’s the story, Doctor Kincaid?” Cody asked, his sharp expression intensifying.
Cassidy realized she was holding her breath and forced herself to let it out. The article offered no more information. She handed the phone back, noticing their hungry, glittering eyes.
“Well . . . uh . . . ” she stammered, wishing a breeze off the lake would whoosh in and cool her sweaty forehead.
The bartender, a man with a thick, graying beard and a pencil tucked behind his left ear tapped down several beer bottles for the group. In a snap, the memory of Mel behind the bar in Crazy Mike’s flashed into her mind and she had to hold onto the back of the stool for support. For weeks she had managed not to think about that terrible night, and now, here it all was, waiting for her.
Alice, Izzy’s faithful sidekick, adjusted her thick black glasses. “Is it true Dr. Kincaid?” she asked, her round, placid face so trusting. Alice was the quieter kid that never missed an assignment, scored near-perfect on every test. During field camp, she had risen as a kind of star, other students seeking her out for mapping help during the day. Cassidy knew that Izzy relied on it heavily.
Cassidy adjusted the strap of her bag against her shoulder. “Yeah,” she said finally. “It’s true.”
“No shit,” Izzy said in awe.
“Whoa. So, you almost died?” Cody said. He crossed his arms, making the tribal tattoo on his right bicep bulge. His gray t-shirt said “Rub My Rump, Then You Can Pull My Pork” above a graphic of a giant pig.
“So did you bond with your captor?” Izzy said, raising her eyebrow.
Cassidy flinched, as if she’d been hit. “No,” she managed, though a nauseous wiggle was tugging at the lining of her throat.
“How did you escape?” Alice asked.
“Did you press charges?” someone else asked. “I certainly would.” She recognized William’s steady voice.
“Sorry, this . . . is a surprise,” Cassidy said, telling herself that everything would be okay if she could just escape to a table outside to sit by herself. Remember the things Jay taught you. Breathe deeply. This isn’t real—it’s over, it’s all in the past. She should probably abandon her beer and go for a run instead, but she had already downed half of it.
“C’mon,” Cody groaned. “We haven’t read a newsfeed in eight days and we find out our professor broke up a sex trafficking ring singlehanded? Throw us a bone here.”
Cassidy attempted a weak smile, but it only shook loose a sense of failure and sadness. To her horror, she felt her throat thickening with tears.
“Lay off,” Izzy said, shooting Cody a loaded look. “I mean, her brother died.”
Cassidy resisted the urge to correct Izzy—Reeve wasn’t her brother by blood, but his sacrifice to save Jade somehow made that detail unimportant.
Meanwhile, the others seemed to draw back, as if a spell had been broken.
Cassidy squared her shoulders to the group. Most looked disappointed—Cody even looked suspicious, like he wasn’t letting this go so easily. “Thanks for understanding,” Cassidy said, and carried her beer outside.
Beyond the trees edging the lake, Cassidy noticed paddleboats and kayaks and could hear outboard motors come and go from the dock. A lone fisherman stood in his waders casting his line at the creek’s inlet.
She settled at a table on the corner of the deck and opened her laptop. The story wasn’t hard to find, and as she read it, slowly this time, her body clenched tighter and tighter until she felt like a coiled spring.
…Tomlinson and the three members of the Vasquez family have been charged with 50 counts of human rights violations and if convicted, will serve a minimum of 30 years and as long as several life sentences.
Tomlinson — who coordinated the sex acts using photographs and a website — is facing trial this week. He culled the victims, deciding which would stay in Tamarindo and which would be moved through Mexico to the United States, where they were put to work in massage parlors.
Federal officials agree that the trafficking of human beings as sex slaves is far more prevalent than is popularly understood. While saying it is difficult to pinpoint the scope of the industry, given its shadowy nature, Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) officials estimated that it likely generates more than $9.5 billion a year.
Last year alone, the FBI opened more than 225 human trafficking investigations in the United States. In a coordinated nationwide sweep in December, federal, state and local authorities made more than 640 arrests and rescued 47 children in just three days.
“These young women were either sold or enticed into working as a way to help their families, only to arrive in America and discover that what awaited was a nightmare,” said FBI special agent Bruce Keolani.
The 50-count indictment, unsealed Thursday, represents the largest sex trafficking case prosecuted in Southern California by the federal government in at least a decade, the U.S. attorney's office said.
This case is unique because two American victims were involved. Reeve Bennington, a California surf guide was killed while trying to smuggle one of the victims through Nicaragua, and Cassidy Kincaid, a geology student at the University of Oregon, survived an attack by Tomlinson who attempted to cover up his involvement in Bennington’s murder.
Kincaid was unable to be reached for this story, but a close family member revealed that Kincaid was in Costa Rica to search for her missing stepbrother, then became tangled in Tomlinson’s web. Without Kincaid’s help, it’s unlikely the truth about Bennington would have surfaced.
So, Mel was going to jail. Cassidy tried to examine her feelings on this but the memory of his brutal hands groping her arm for a vein shoved into her mind instead. Cassidy closed her eyes she felt the prick of the needle followed by the sudden rush of euphoria, as if her brain was a guitar and someone had just strummed the most perfect chord, the sound vibrating the most intense pleasure through every nerve. She had floated away on this cloud, all her worries left behind. The sensation quickly changed, however, and as the high faded, her body craved that violent sweetness again, her mind becoming desperate for another hit, even while it began to shut down. As the overdose took hold, her body felt limp, her skin burned, but she had been powerless to fight it.
And then Bruce had come.
A sense of anger boiled up from the hardened place behind her heart. Who had leaked her involvement? Not Bruce—they had a pact, and she trusted him. Thinking, she wiped the condensation off her beer glass stripe by stripe until the surface was clear. After scrolling back up to the top of the article, she found the name of the reporter: Larry Jeffers from the AP.
In her mind, she ticked through the people who knew about her ordeal besides Bruce: her roommate and closest friend, Emily, her brother Quinn, her stepsister, Rebecca and her stepmom Pamela. Of course, Jay, her grief counselor, knew all about it. She wouldn’t have been able to get through the aftermath without him.
Emily would never sell her story, same with Quinn. Jay and Bruce of course would never reveal her involvement. Rebecca was too busy, which left only one person.
Pamela.
Two
Cassidy felt the fight drain out of her. She took a long sip of her beer and looked out at the beautiful view down the lake valley framed by the textbook-perfect glacial moraines. The low sun’s rays created a mirror of a million lights on the water’s calm surface and warmed the colors of th
e hillsides from brown to a soft taffy.
Give Pamela a chance to talk about Reeve and she wouldn’t have been able to resist. After Cassidy returned from Costa Rica, Pamela had leaked Cassidy’s name. Now that the media had a new story about Mel’s trial, the press reached out to their old ally. But now the story was bigger, and surely, Cassidy’s phone would blow up all over again.
Because the Boy Scout camp and field area had no internet signal, she had kept her phone in airplane mode. Feeling a sense of dread, she toggled the phone’s settings and watched it search for a signal. Sure enough, her home screen flashed with a series of missed calls and messages, all from numbers she didn’t recognize.
Just as she set the phone down, it chirped, jolting her from an image of having to confront Pamela at their next family gathering. To her relief, it was Quinn, her younger brother and best friend.
“Finally made it back to civilization, huh?” Quinn said, the smile in his voice making the air around her feel lighter.
“Yeah, last night,” she said. “Tomorrow everyone goes home.”
“Don’t suppose you’ve seen the news yet?”
“I just did,” Cassidy replied, taking a sip of her beer.
