A Cry from the Dust

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  The ground disappeared under my pounding feet.

  I pitched forward over a precipice. I clutched at air, flipped, banged my knees, grabbed at shrubs, slowed, then finally slammed into a scaly trunk.

  I lay motionless, trying to breathe.

  A flashlight wavered above me, probing the drop-off. “You’re sure she ran this way, Sheriff?”

  Sheriff?

  I edged around the tree until hidden by its trunk, then pulled my knees to my chest. My legs, arms, ribs ached. The thick jacket absorbed some of the fall, but not enough.

  A sheriff was responsible for the ambush? Could they have known they were shooting four ancient men and a fellow law enforcement officer? And me?

  “We need to find her.”

  I jerked my head back so hard I smacked the tree.

  “Did you hear something?” The flashlight whipped in my direction.

  “I didn’t hear a thing.”

  The raspy voice belonged to the sheriff, the one I’d kicked. Terrific. Assaulting a cop.

  A killer cop.

  A snap, then the squeak of leather. “Suppose she’s armed like the others?”

  “Put your pistol away,” the second man said. “Keep looking.”

  Footsteps crunched above me and to my right.

  My heartbeat pounded a tattoo in my chest. Sweat soaked my shirt. Armed like the others? It started with a single shot. Had that come from the cabin? Only Deputy Howell appeared to have been armed.

  I closed my eyes and replayed the raid on the Avenging Angels. No. Not Howell. The gunfire was near the parked cars. Someone outside the building pulled that trigger. Itchy trigger fingers, expecting trouble. One shot would have started the frenzy.

  They must have followed the men up from Utah. Or had they tracked Howell? Did they see me get into Howell’s car? Could I have led this batch of good ole boys to the evil Avenging Angels? Were the men dead because of me?

  Bile rose in my throat.

  Other flashlights now pierced the darkness, flickering between the lodgepoles. They were coming from every direction.

  High overhead, orange fireflies darted through the tree limbs.

  If I were the bait, that meant they knew I was here. They started that shootout, believing I was inside that cabin. Did I know too much? Was I getting too close to . . . what?

  I crouched, ready to spring. As soon as the searching lights retreated downhill, I’d run.

  Wait a minute. Fireflies live in temperate climates, not in the mountains at six thousand feet. The pines in front of me became visible, bathed in a copper glow, as a crashing sound grew. Roaring, booming. Thundering hooves. Louder, closer. A mammoth elk tore past me.

  I stumbled forward, legs wobbling, arms shoving tree limbs. Two deer, the eyes showing white, bolted after the elk. A locomotive roared above me, turning the trees orange.

  The forest fire crested above me.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SIX

  I PLUNGED AFTER THE DEER AND ELK, AIMING downhill. I was hounded by the roar of exploding pines and waves of heat. A black bear caught up, then passed. The hellish light illuminated the ground. Sparks prowled on the breeze, seeking the next lodgepole, landing, flaring to a blaze, sending fireworks skyward.

  I ran.

  My eyes burned from smoke, my vision blurred. Two raccoons joined my headlong rush. Glancing behind me, the dense smoke glowed orange, silhouetting the pines. A downed tree limb caught me in the shin and sent me sprawling. I crawled to my feet and raced on, ignoring my throbbing leg. Go, go, go.

  I splashed in water. A small stream, frigid from melting snow, ankle deep. Follow it? The fire lit up my answer. Downed logs crossed over the water’s trail. I raced on. My left shoe caught in a snag. Leave it.

  I burst through a line of dense shrubs. Space opened up. More trees ahead. I’d made it to the road. No longer able to run, I held my burning side, turned, and jogged, still heading downhill. The fire raged behind me.

  The vehicle came out of nowhere.

  I dodged. Not enough.

  My hip felt like a sledgehammer struck it. I rolled up the hood, slid off, hit the hard, packed earth. Air flew from my lungs. Tarred-blackness lapped around my consciousness. I sank into its depths.

  Dave’s head throbbed in spite of the painkillers. The doctor finally released him from the hospital, but instead of his wife, Andrea, driving him to the station, she’d ignored his pleas and headed home. As she opened their front door, the smell of fresh coffee and chocolate chip cookies greeted him. She’d moved his usual clutter of departmental files from the table by the door. The living room was empty of visitors. Good.

  He maneuvered his crutches through the door and headed for the sofa, not wanting to tell her how exhausted he was. Or how much he hurt.

  She turned on the television. “Want something to drink?”

  Dave nodded. He watched for a few minutes, then dozed off. He awoke to Andrea gently covering him with a blanket.

  “Oh,” Andrea said. “I didn’t mean to wake you. You have company—”

  Louise bustled in and placed a steaming cup of foul-smelling tea on the oak coffee table. “Now, you just drink this. I made it myself. For healing. Started with dried mandarin orange peel—”

  “Stop!”

  Louise’s eyes widened.

  “I’m sorry, Louise.” Dave shifted, sending shooting pain down his side and launching the pounding in his head. “Where’s Craig?”

  Andrea handed him two pain pills and a glass of water. “The doctor said rest. You’re not to do any work for at least another week.”

  “That’s right, dearie.” Louise patted his arm.

  He wanted to dump the tea on her shoes. “I need to know what’s going on. I need to talk to Craig and Gwen.”

  Andrea folded her arms and squinted at him. “You’re not talking to anyone just yet. Craig is perfectly capable of taking care of things, and Gwen’s checked in on you several times.”

  Andrea would be leaving for work. He could get to the phone and make some calls.

  “Oh no, I know that look on your face,” Andrea said. “Louise will be staying here and watching out for you.”

  The older woman bobbed her head and grinned at him. “You can go back to work in a week.”

  Dave rubbed his face. A week could be too late.

  My hip throbbed. My head felt like someone was jabbing an ice pick into my temple. What a crazy dream. A cabin. Forest fire. Run!

  I opened my eyes.

  The stark white ceiling seemed a mile away. I shifted my weight. Squeak-aa. Bedsprings? I hadn’t heard that sound in years. A musty smell rose from a faded, handmade quilt pulled to just under my chin. I carefully turned my head, mindful of the stabbing headache. A window across the room allowed harsh daylight to bake a rectangular section of the floor. Daylight? How long had I been unconscious? Pushing away the quilt, I discovered I was fully dressed, down to the bandanna still holding my wig in place. Pings and jabs of pain from various parts of my body said move slowly. I gingerly swung my legs from the mattress and sat up. The world spun. “Ooooh.” I grabbed the bed and held on. Don’t puke.

  While waiting for my brain to stop spinning, I noted one muddy shoe on the floor. That’s right. I lost a shoe in the woods. Someone had peeled my socks off and placed a Band-Aid on a cut on my big toe. So, maybe someone doesn’t want me dead just yet.

  The twirling in my head dwindled enough for me to raise myself up. The room, obviously a bedroom, featured heavy, dark-oak molding. As stark as a monk’s chambers, the chalky-white walls held framed photographs and what looked like cross-stitched samplers. A battered table with one drawer sat next to the bed. The room was otherwise barren.

  I untied the bandanna, straightened my wig, then slowly stood. I still wore the oversized jacket Howell had given me. My arm burned as I unzipped the jacket, then removed it. Under a minuscule drop of dried blood on my forearm I found an injection site. Scumbag. I’d probably been tranquilized. For h
ow long? A quick peek at my hip revealed the granddaddy of all bruises running from my waist to my knee.

  The sight made my stomach lurch. At least nothing is broken.

  I stood and hobbled to the door. Locked. I jerked on the knob a few times just to make sure, then placed my ear against the wood. Silence. The closet was empty. Not even a clothing rod, let alone handy wire hangers. The stark window was without curtains or drapes softening its outline. I limped over and looked out.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  BETH CHECKED HER WATCH. “FOUR THIRTY. TOO early to call anyone.”

  Dad pulled off the freeway to an all-night restaurant. “We can have an early breakfast. Aynslee, are you awake?”

  “Yeah. Where are we?”

  “Bellevue,” Beth said.

  After walking Winston, Aynslee put the dog back in the car and joined them at a window seat. Except to order, no one spoke.

  A pot of coffee later and a picked-at breakfast, they were back on the road. Beth finally reached someone on the phone and agreed to meet the FBI agent at one of the loading docks of the convention center. They turned off the 405 freeway, passing under emerald-and-white banners announcing the Peace Conference. Early-morning street vendors hawked glitzy souvenirs. Winston soberly watched out the window, now partially opaque from pressing his nose against the glass.

  The street was a cul-du-sac. The convention center, an eight-story, ebony marble structure with copper-tinted windows, loomed on the right, next to a new, partially finished office complex. Ahead was the skeleton outline of an abandoned condo building surrounded by a tottering, plywood barrier. A cream-stuccoed, modern hotel was on the left, directly across the street from the center. A garnet-and-gray uniformed bellman at a curved desk watched them. Beth pointed at the barrier in front of the condos. “Look at the graffiti. Shameful. Makes the whole area look . . . disrespectful.”

  News vans from Seattle’s KIRO, KOMO, KING, Fox News, and other stations with satellite dishes mounted on the roofs, parked at the front of the huge entrance to the center. Newscasters, with microphones in hand, cheerfully addressed their cameramen while a gaggle of tourists watched. Dad followed Beth’s terse directions to the side of the building and up to a set of large, roll-up doors.

  A slender woman with short, auburn hair, in a navy blazer and khaki slacks, waited next to a metal door. She glanced at her watch as they parked. Without waiting, Aynslee jumped from the backseat, followed by Winston. The dog trotted to a nearby cement wall and hiked his leg.

  “A Pyrenees!” The agent’s face lit up. “My folks used to have one. May I pet him?” she asked Aynslee.

  “Sure. His name’s Winston.” Aynslee slipped on her backpack after first patting it. Package intact.

  With one hand on the dog, the agent turned to Beth. “I’d love to give you a tour, but the building’s secured. I’ll take custody of the sculpture out here.”

  Beth removed the box from the back of the SUV and made sure the forms were properly filled out. “I have tickets, so I’ll go when it opens. It looks like this will get substantial news coverage.”

  The agent gave a wry smile. “It’s been a logistical nightmare. Security is beyond tight. Everyone will have their purses and bags screened and pass through a millimeter wave unit—”

  “What’s that?” Aynslee asked.

  “A screening machine. Religious leaders, the ACLU, the Atheistic Society, you name it, are planning on attending or protesting. Now we even have this.” She held up the box.

  “I hope this works the way Mike planned,” Beth said.

  The agent shrugged. “We’ll place it near the window on the second floor so everyone coming and going will see it. Agent Brown’s working on another angle, so we may not even need to display it if he’s successful.”

  “What other angle?” Beth asked.

  “He didn’t say.” Holding the box carefully in her arms, she walked to the door and tapped it three times with her foot. A second agent let her in.

  As the door swung shut behind her, Beth turned to Aynslee. “Let’s find a dog park for Winston, then see if we can check in to the hotel.”

  “Here.” Dad handed Beth the car keys. “I’ve done my duty. I’ll take a cab. I’ve got a . . . friend in Bellevue. See you later.” He strolled up the street without even saying good-bye.

  Aynslee’s vision blurred and a lump formed in her throat. Oh, he’d pay big-time for walking away.

  I pinched myself. Nothing changed. Coral morning light shone between the soaring pines, casting dappled light across a dirt road. A cedar-shingled roof below me suggested a porch. From the height of my window, I appeared to be on the third floor.

  A wagon, burdened with feed bags and pulled by two bay mules, trundled past. The driver wore an Indiana Jones slouch hat, white shirt, and denim overalls. Across the road, a woman hung laundry on a clothesline. Her biscuit-colored, calico dress hung to her ankles and a sunbonnet hid her face. Nearby, a small girl, also dressed in eighteen hundreds clothing, played with a puppy.

  I searched for a film crew and additional actors.

  The wagon passed from sight, replaced by a man on horseback.

  I blinked.

  The man wore a black suit, silk vest, high collar, and crimson cravat. The woman paused in her laundry duties, and the man tipped his bowler hat to her before kicking his horse to a canter.

  Fingers slithered between my shoulder blades.

  I need to get out of this time warp. Find a weapon. After crossing to the door, I moved left, carefully examining every square inch of the room. I opened the drawer of the bedside table. Inside was a worn, leather-covered Bible. The cover page noted that it was the Joseph Smith translation. Well, Sherlock, that eliminates the Amish as kidnappers. Next to it rested a book of classic Mormon scriptures. I placed them on the bed. A dull pencil, digital thermometer, and calendar—dated two years ago—were the only other contents, and I lined them up on the bed next to the books.

  I continued my search. The bed was stripped down to the mattress pad, and the pillow just blue-and-white ticking. Under the bed, dust bunnies hovered and danced around an empty bedpan. Charming. The floor was scarred oak and apparently solid.

  A bell pealed in the distance and I stepped to the window. Two more ladies joined the woman hanging the wash, each with an overflowing wicker basket of wet laundry. All three paused and looked up the street.

  I heard it too. Laughing and loud chattering.

  First came the girls, maybe seventy-five or more, all wearing long dresses and small ivory coverings over their braided hair. The boys followed in a sea of denim overalls, cropped hair, and bleached white shirts. They all appeared to be under ten or eleven years old and each carried a small book. As they spotted the three women in the yard, they fell into an unnatural silence. I counted as sixteen children left the group and entered the house across the street. About the same number disappeared into the house I was in. The rest continued down the road.

  School wouldn’t have even started this early in the morning. Some kind of children’s church service?

  I returned to my search of the room, this time checking the items hanging on the walls. A cross-stitch between the windows helpfully informed me, “On earth as it is in heaven.” Opposite the bed was a photograph.

  I stopped dead, then tried to yank the image off the wall, but it seemed to be secured like hotel art. Printed on inexpensive paper was what looked like a photograph of none other than Joseph Smith. He had a scar on his left cheek and appeared to be in his late forties.

  The image was the exact duplicate of my reconstruction.

  After a quick trip to a nearby dog park, Beth parked and they entered the lobby of the conference hotel. The receptionist stared at Winston, but made no comment about allowing dogs in the rooms, nor about the early hour. After Beth checked in, she pushed the overloaded brass luggage cart to the elevator. Aynslee and Winston followed. As the door slid open, Winston crowded ahead and buried
his nose into the front of an unsuspecting businessman.

  Aynslee stifled a giggle and hauled the dog off the red-faced man. At least Winston has a sense of humor. Their room, on the fifth floor, featured white bedspreads with navy trim, not the best color combination for a shedding Pyrenees with grubby feet. Aynslee set up Winston’s mesh crate in the corner of the hotel room, then flopped onto one of the two queen-sized beds. Beth unpacked her suitcase, hanging up her clothes by color. Aynslee watched for a few moments, then closed her eyes.

  I paced to the window, then back to the bed. My stomach informed me that food had been something well in my past. I rattled the doorknob, then banged on the door. “Hello? Anyone? Hey! Somebody call the police!” Back to the window. Maybe I could get the attention of the women hanging wash. I whacked on the glass. One of the women paused, turned, and stared at the house. I jumped up and down, waving my arms like a crazed cheerleader. She finally seemed to notice my antics. Carefully, she reached for another sheet from the laundry basket, then turned her back on me.

  I sank to the floor. Apparently all these escapees from a bad western were in on my kidnapping.

  What about Mike? He might wonder where I’d gone. Eventually. Or he might figure I’d headed to Seattle instead of going home. Beth might start calling if I didn’t show up. Dave? No. For all I knew, he could still be in the hospital. It was up to me.

  Even if I used the small table and threw it through the window, there was still the problem of being three stories above the ground. And I wouldn’t exactly find help and shelter once I found a way out.

  I pushed off the floor, grunting at the chorus of aches and jabs from offended nerve endings. Once again I circled the room, this time tapping on walls. No hollow thwacks. I ended up by the bed. The calendar had numeric daily entries, obviously for temperature if the digital thermometer was any indication. Birth control? Not with a bajillion children. The opposite then, an ovulation calendar that some woman had used to record her basal body temperature. She’d apparently wanted to know when she was the most fertile. I’d read that in some polygamous groups, husbands wouldn’t sleep with their wives unless there was a chance of a pregnancy. Nice. Reminded me of a dairy farm, where the cows needed to be constantly pregnant in order to produce milk.