Endangered (9781101559017)

by Beason, Pamela

  He stood at the opening, scanning the close walls. “You’ve got to be kidding. This is only a crack. A claustrophobic crack.”

  “That’s one reason it’s not an approved trail.” She raised a finger toward the sunlight above. “Blue sky overhead; look at that if you find it claustrophobic. Take off your pack, hold it next to you, and come on.”

  He peered over her head, scrutinizing the passage beyond. “Haven’t there been earthquakes around here? We could be squashed like cockroaches under a shoe.” A solid rock wall loomed a short distance away. “It doesn’t look like it goes anywhere.”

  “It zigs. It zags. Then it opens up again. Don’t worry—it’s a short passage.”

  His rugged face was fixed in a frown.

  “Well, get out your map, Starchaser. Take the long trail to the ruins, and I’ll see you there in a couple of hours.” She started down the passageway.

  By the time she reached the bend in the path, Perez was thumping and muttering behind her. She glanced back. He shuffled sideways, his nose only inches from the rock wall.

  The sunlight sifted down from above in narrow shafts, illuminating the layers of rock. The hues were those a master artist would have chosen, blending subtly from one into another. Dove gray. Celadon. Mauve. Bronze. Cream. Buttercup yellow. Each shade represented hundreds of years of geological processes at work.

  “Aren’t the colors incredible?” she murmured.

  “Lovely.”

  His sardonic tone made her smile. “This is called a slot canyon, for obvious reasons,” she told him. “ZigZag Passage is just a tiny preview of the Curtain.”

  “The famous Curtain is another crack in the ground?” He reached the bend in the path where the walls were farther apart, set the pack down and turned to face her, his shoulders brushing the rock on either side. “I can hardly wait.” His inflection implied just the opposite. “I was never one for the sideways-shuffle type of line dances. We Indians like to move forward.”

  “I thought ‘Native American’ was the politically correct term.”

  “No tribe called this place America, so why should we call ourselves Americans? We Lakota called ourselves the People.”

  She scoffed. “Dozens of tribes called themselves the People.”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t say it was a perfect system. But according to my great-grandmother, it worked fine until you White Eyes started herding us around.”

  “Uh-huh.” She completed the short distance to the sunlit opening ahead.

  Perez emerged behind her, breathing a sigh of relief and stretching his arms wide.

  “You said that you dance?” she asked. “Do you go to the local powwows here in Utah?”

  “I’m Lakota.” Perez intoned flatly. “Well, half Mexican, half Lakota. Not Navajo, not Hopi, not Zuni.”

  Obviously a sensitive point. “I didn’t mean to imply that all tribes were the same,” she backpedaled. “I know you’re stationed in Salt Lake, so I thought you might be interested in local activities.”

  The rocky path, although bounded by huge slabs that had sheared away from the cliffs above, felt remarkably open after ZigZag. One of the bright yellow MISSING posters was taped next to the vertical slash from which they’d just exited, adjoining a crude arrow identical to the marking they’d found on the other side.

  At first the poster startled her, as if it might be a clue left by the kidnapper pointing to Zack’s location. Then the probable explanation occurred to her. “Outward Bound must have left this. They went through ZigZag yesterday, on their way to the Curtain.” Which reminded her how fast time was passing. She tried to pick up the pace but soon lost Perez and had to backtrack to find him. He was not far behind but hidden behind a petroglyph-covered spire of sandstone that he’d stopped to investigate. Cream-colored figures danced across a shiny vermilion background. Fat deer ran before three stick figures with enlarged heads. Jagged rays zigzagged down from above the stick figures; the point of origin two curious ovals covered with spots.

  “Aliens attacking earth?” he guessed.

  “Wouldn’t the FBI know all about that?”

  He rubbed his knuckles across the dark stubble on his chin. “That’s an intergalactic problem; CIA jurisdiction.”

  His face was stoic; only a spark of light in his dark eyes revealed that he was anything but serious.

  He compared his own hand with an etching of a hand on the rock. His was nearly twice the size of the painted one. “Fremont?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. The hand signature was a favorite of the Anasazi. The new park archaeologist, Georgia Gates, could tell you more.” She heaved a sigh. “Kent tells me the staff’s working on a plan to develop the archaeological sites here.”

  “You sound like you disapprove.”

  “I’m not keen on focusing on attractions like that, at least not in this park. People should come here to see nature, not man-made features. Have you been to Mesa Verde?”

  He nodded.

  “Then you know that it’s wall-to-wall people there. No wonder the cougars attack them.”

  He gave her a curious look and she knew her joke had not come off. “Okay,” she said, “Mesa Verde was made into a park to protect the archaeological sites. But Heritage was set aside to protect the beauty of the backcountry. More people will wreak havoc on the ecosystem.”

  “Aha.” He sounded pleased with himself. “They’ll scare away prey animals, leaving the predators hungry.”

  Hungry enough to eat two-year-old boys? Was that what he was hinting at? “I didn’t say that. The truth is, too many visitors scare away both prey and predators. If the park administration focuses on ruins, that means less money for natural resource protection, aka flora and fauna.” Kent would be a wildlife biologist with no funding for recovery or protection programs. “Pretty soon, all that’ll be left is asphalt and rocks and picnic tables.”

  His chin came up. “And Native American history.”

  She sighed. “C’mon, Perez, we’re wasting time. Let’s hike while we argue. We need to hustle if—”

  A trill of notes sounded from Perez’s chest pocket. He extracted the cellular phone and turned his back to her.

  She resigned herself to a break, took out her water bottle and phone, and punched in the number she’d found for Scott McElroy. It felt strange to be making phone calls in the middle of the wilderness, her butt parked on one boulder and her back against another as she watched a golden eagle riding a thermal way up in the sky.

  “McElroy here.” He pronounced it Mackelroy. She identified herself and mentioned Kent.

  The elderly man was more than willing to talk about Coyote Charlie. “He told me himself that was his name. Well, the Charlie part of it, anyway. I may have added the Coyote.”

  “You talked to him?” She was still having a hard time picturing Coyote Charlie as a normal, talking human. She took a swig of water.

  “Uh-huh. A couple of us were up on Table Mesa—now there’s a stupid name for you—”

  “Means the same thing, table and mesa.”

  “You’re a sharp one!” She heard him take a sip of something, and then he continued. “Anyway, we were camping out under this beautiful full moon, talking about nothing as usual, when up walks this stranger. Barefoot, no backpack, not even a jacket. Californian, I thought—one of those woo-woo types?”

  “Um-hmm,” she responded, wishing he’d hurry up. She decided the soaring wings overhead belonged not to an eagle but to Cathartes aura. What her Kansas relatives would call a turkey buzzard.

  “But no, he wasn’t Californian—he said he was from the old-growth forest in Oregon: he was emphatic about that. I’d guess he was in his twenties, early thirties at the outside. But he was certainly a woo-woo. Said he was living off the land. Likened it to the Garden of Eden.”

  Sam dropped her gaze to the surrounding rocky plateau. “Here?”

  “We all thought it was pretty strange. But he rattled off all the wild edibles, rig
ht out of the book—piñon nuts, juniper berries, cholla fruit. Told us he ate ant larvae and partridge eggs and jackrabbits and trout from the river in the canyon. Said the ancient Anasazi, who knew how to live in harmony with nature, showed him how to live. Even said he was a reincarnated Anasazi warrior, if you can believe that.

  “So I guess they got tutti frutties in Oregon, too. But, you know, he looked healthy. So maybe he knew what he was talking about, living off the land. Course, it was summer then. Not the one before last but the one before that.

  “Two years ago.” She took another sip from her water bottle, stood up, and stuffed it back into her pack.

  “Or was it three? Anyhow, after he left, we were missing a sack of macaroni and a packet of freeze-dried stew. Not to mention most of our matches. So Charlie’s concept of living off the land was probably a little broader than we supposed at first.” Another slurping sound.

  “But the weirdest thing was that when we’d more or less run out of conversation and were all sitting around just staring at the fire, the coyotes started to howl. They often do, up on the plateau like that, in the summer. And this guy, he just lifted up his head and howled along with them.” McElroy cleared his throat. “Made my hair stand on end, the noises he made.” He paused again for a sip. “But you know, I sort of wanted to howl along with him. So I did. We all did.”

  Sam knew the feeling. She was about ready to howl with impatience right now. “And his name was Charlie?”

  “Charles, Carlos, something like that. So we started calling him Coyote Charlie. I’m glad to hear he’s still up there. Nice to know that someone can still live so free. Maybe he is a reincarnated Anasazi.”

  Sam thought about Coyote Charlie’s regular performances. Everyone got a little wild now and then. But the phantom had made howling with the coyotes a monthly habit, almost like a religious ritual. “Since he’s been showing up every month for years, Mr. McElroy, do you think maybe he moved here, that he’s a local?”

  “Call me Scotty; Mr. McElroy sounds like a school principal. A local? Hmm. Coyote Charlie a local? Never really thought about that.” Sip, slurp, swallow. “Well, he couldn’t be really local, like from Floral or Las Rojas. I think I’d recognize him if I saw him again. Besides, I pretty much know everyone that lives around here, and there’s nobody his age who’s that nuts.”

  His comment made her wonder how many other nutcases lived around the park or just how crazy one would have to act to be considered that nuts. Had the Unabomber’s neighbors thought he was nuts? The Green River Killer’s? In her opinion, most people didn’t really pay much attention to others around them. The evening news was filled with citizens swearing that their good neighbor couldn’t possibly have committed the murder he’d just been arrested for.

  Scotty McElroy was still pondering her question. He finally said, “Maybe Charlie just visits once a month or so. You think he drives all the way from Oregon? That would be interesting, if he was somebody’s weird cousin who cruised in once a month to howl with the coyotes. Say, you looking for that poor little boy?”

  “That’s right,” she told him. “We think that maybe Coyote Charlie might know something.”

  “Hot damn. I sure hope this thing has a happy ending. I hope those cougars didn’t get him.”

  She started to protest his mention of the cougars, then decided to simply say, “Me, too.”

  “I’ll ask around, see if anyone knows anything more about Charlie, and get back to you.” He sounded happy to have a mission.

  “Thanks.” Sam ended the call. Old-growth Oregon forests. Anasazis. Scotty’s story reminded her of an article she’d read in the past, something she couldn’t quite remember, some vague connection between Native Americans and trees.

  Perez was still enmeshed in his own conversation, so she dialed her home number. A hostile male voice answered.

  “Blake,” she said, “it’s Sam. I need you to do something for me.”

  “What time is it?” he whined. Blake was a night owl and had been known to sleep until noon whenever he had the opportunity.

  “Nine thirty your time. You should have been up for hours by now. Sit up and get something to write with.”

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you were a wee bit dictatorial in the mornings?”

  “I’ll pay you for your time. Got a pencil?”

  “A little overbearing? A smidgeon strident?”

  “I need you to look through my clippings of environmental stories. They’re in the lower right drawer of the file cabinet.”

  “You mean those mountains of paper that slither out onto the floor every time you open the drawer?”

  “You don’t have to read them,” she said. “This could be really important, Blake. Just look for a newspaper clipping about activists trying to protect old-growth forests in Oregon. I think it was a couple of years ago, and I think the group had some weird name.”

  “Don’t they all?”

  “Maybe something to do with Anasazis.”

  “I’m writing this down. Anna who?”

  “Anasazis.” She spelled it for him. “Native Americans. Call me back tonight between nine and ten.”

  “Between nine and ten?”

  “I’m in the middle of nowhere with no electricity; I can’t leave this phone turned on all the time. But I’ll turn it on between nine and ten P.M., your time.” She ended the call and stuffed the phone back into her vest pocket.

  Perez had his phone jammed against his ear, so she couldn’t hear the other speaker. His end of the conversation wasn’t very informative, just a couple of “uh-huhs,” one “That’s interesting. So who’s keeping an eye on the Fischers?” A pause. “Oh, that’s great. Well, I guess you get what you pay for.”

  The next thing out of his mouth was, “Really? Me? Today?” He cast a sideways glance in her direction.

  That had to be about the website. A hot blush crept up from her collar and spread over her cheeks. She made a wrap-it-up motion with her hands, then jerked a thumb over her shoulder to indicate that they needed to hit the road.

  “The birth parents?” he asked, ignoring her.

  As he listened to the answer, he rubbed his fingers over the back of his neck. The park service backpacks rode high, tended to force the hiker’s head forward; his neck probably ached. She wondered how Special Agent Chase Perez would react if she offered to massage his neck. His muscles, she imagined, would be firm, well defined, his olive skin smooth and warm under her fingers.

  She brought that thought up short. What was the matter with her? How could things like that creep into her head now? She should be completely focused on finding Zack, which could save the cougars, as well as her assignment with SWF and her reputation.

  Perez turned and caught her looking at him. She quickly shifted her gaze to the laces on her boots. Surprisingly, they were different colors. Then she remembered that she’d broken one just before leaving home. Surely the new one came from a matched set. What had she done with its mate? Jeez, she was a mess. Little wonder that Perez would conclude that her thought processes were as careless as her grooming, especially when he was accustomed to immaculate Agent Boudreaux. This morning Sam hadn’t even glanced in the pocket-sized rectangle of polished metal that she used as a mirror. She quickly checked the fly of her canvas pants to make sure that it was zipped, then brushed a hand over her lips, checking for any remains of breakfast.

  Perez concluded his phone call with a promise to check in at seven that evening, then stuffed the phone and notepad back into his pockets. They strapped on their packs, and finally started hiking again.

  “What’s interesting?” she asked.

  He regarded her coolly. “You eavesdrop on everything?”

  “I have extra-sensitive hearing.”

  His steady gaze made her feel foolish. She blabbered on. “I hear wasps chewing wood to make their nests. Fluorescent bulbs drive me crazy.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

 
“It’s no blessing, believe me.” She bent to check a small shadowy area beneath a boulder. Nothing. She straightened and pushed a wisp of hair out of her eyes. “People treat you like you’re crazy when you hear things they don’t.”

  Perez studied a cleft in a nearby rock face as he said, “That’s a symptom of schizophrenia. Hearing things that others don’t.”

  The man could be damned annoying. Catching his gaze, she said, “Information, Perez, spit it out. I share mine, you share yours.”

  “I was talking to my partner.”

  Obviously. She gestured, a circular “continue” motion.

  “Preliminary tests on Zachary’s shoe have come back. No decent prints. But there were traces of animal saliva.”

  Not the cougar business again. She said, “There were dogs in the search crew. Or maybe the Fischers have one at home.”

  “Maybe. They haven’t yet determined the type of animal saliva.” He made a detour of a few seconds to inspect the backside of a boulder. When he returned, he said, “You were right about Fred Fischer and Buck Ferguson knowing each other. Ferguson was Fischer’s Scoutmaster for nearly five years up in Orem, when Fischer was a teenager. As a matter of fact, Fischer’s family credits Ferguson with straightening out Fred: saved him from the reformatory, they said.”

  Either Special Agent Boudreaux was spending all her time with her ear to the phone or she and Perez had a whole network of aides out there. Sam was jealous of the FBI resources. “What was Fischer up to that he needed straightening out?”

  He shrugged and walked on. “Juvie records take a little time to get into. We’re working on it.”

  “You think maybe Fred and Buck met up here on purpose?”

  “Jenny Fischer says she never heard of Buck Ferguson. More likely Fred’s just coming back to his old stomping grounds, like he says.”

  They rounded a bend into a new area and stopped to look around for minute. “The license check of vehicles in the campgrounds is complete,” Perez said. “Counting back two days before Zack’s disappearance, there’ve been three cars registered to felons. A Buick belonging to a child molester; Airstream camper registered to a guy in the habit of holding up convenience stores; and a Pontiac owned by a murderer.”