“Good God!”
“We didn’t count lesser offenses.”
He had mentioned a convicted child molester. “Was the pedophile Wilson? The guy with the LEGOs and the animal crackers?”
He shook his head. “I told you he checked out. Ranger Castillo got his driver’s license; we ran it through the system. Orrin R. Wilson, no criminal history whatsoever; not even a parking ticket. Lives in Rock Creek.”
Rock Creek was a hamlet southeast of the park. Damn. She’d have bet Wilson had a sordid background. But he’d been in a camper, not a Buick, anyway. So much for her intuition.
“You and Castillo are fixated on this Wilson,” Perez accused.
“That’s because Castillo and I have actually talked to him. Wilson’s creepy.” She walked forward.
Perez stayed in step with her. “The pedophile is one Wallace Russell of Flagstaff. His car was registered at the campground two days before Zachary disappeared. No way to know for sure if he was driving it, though; the campground forms only ask for vehicle information.”
Child molesters, murderers, armed robbers. She’d keep an eye on her neighbors in campgrounds from now on and keep the pepper spray close at hand.
He told her, “The rangers and sheriff’s department are checking those three licenses against hotel records, backcountry permits, and parking tickets now.”
They continued downhill, toward the ruins. Bluffs rose to both sides again, enclosing them in a shallow canyon. White stripes of minerals streaked the sandstone floor. Sam remembered how easy it had been to get lost here before she was familiar with the park. They separated briefly and walked the perimeter.
She saw nothing that might lead to Zack. And none of the details Perez had told her led anywhere. Then she remembered something he hadn’t elaborated on, so when they met again down the path, she asked, “You mentioned Zack’s birth parents?”
“Zack’s birth mother lives in Colorado Springs. Agent Boudreaux called her. She was quite upset to have been identified and even more upset when she found out the reason.”
“And the birth father?” she prompted.
“She couldn’t, or wouldn’t, identify him. Just said she couldn’t afford to keep the child. Looks like a dead end.” He aimed an index finger in her direction. “Your turn.”
“Coyote Charlie is a Charles or Carlos or similar name, midtwenties to midthirties, from Oregon. Has a fascination with Anasazis and living off the land, was first reported here three years ago.”
His eyebrows shot up.
She smiled and tapped the vest pocket that held her cell phone. “I have my resources.”
He whipped out his phone and told his partner to run a match for Charlie through NCIC, whatever that was.
Sam was glad she could provide some information, however vague it might be. Could Charlie provide the key to unlock the mystery of Zack’s disappearance? She shook her head.
“What?” He stuffed his phone back into a pocket.
“All this information zooms off in all directions like a spiderweb. How do you know which strand to follow? Is any of it relevant?”
“Welcome to the world of crime investigation, Summer. Try to think of it like constructing a puzzle. You’ve got to lay out all the pieces and sort through them before you can see how they fit together.”
Sam wasn’t sure she had the patience or the analytical ability to hold all the pieces of an intellectual puzzle in her head, let alone play around with them. Right now, it was a challenge just to keep up with all the events unfolding around her and to keep putting one foot in front of the other. And the deadline for the cougar hunt drew nearer with every moment they lingered, so she started hiking again, heading for the ruins.
Ten minutes down the trail, a gust of air wafted a terrible stench around them. Sam’s ruminations on the growing list of suspects dissipated as the scent of rotting meat filled her sinuses. Rotting meat. Her heart skipped a beat even as she pinched her nostrils closed. “God. What is that?”
13
GUNSHOTS had been reported at Mirror Lake picnic grounds. Rafael Castillo caught two young men taking turns shooting at a post with a rifle. One was sighting down the barrel as he approached from behind, one hand on his service revolver.
“What the heck do you guys think you’re doing?”
The fellow took his shot. The post shattered, sending bits of paper and wood flying through the air. They turned to face Rafael. They took in the park service shield, the service revolver in his holster. The one in back crumpled the beer can in his hand and shoved it into a jeans pocket.
The shooter either didn’t recognize Rafael’s uniform or was too drunk to care. “Shootin’ cougars, man,” he said, waving in the general direction of the post. Rafael now recognized the tattered remains nailed to the post as one of the park service’s cougar posters. “Doin’ a public service.”
“You know, guys,” Rafael said in a mild tone, “we’ve got professional hunters coming tomorrow. We’ve got it covered.”
“Government hunters, I heard,” the can crusher snarled. “Probably couldn’t hit the side of a barn with an M16.”
“Waste of time waiting for them,” the shooter said. “We’re here to nail that cat.”
Rafael held out his hands. “Look, fellas, we don’t—”
“No fuckin’ cougar’s gonna get away with eatin’ a kid,” the shooter interrupted. He thumped the butt of the rifle on the ground. Rafael flinched, anticipating a blast that would take off the guy’s head. He was a little sorry when it didn’t happen.
So much for Mr. Nice Guy. Rafael put his hands on his hips, unsnapped the strap over his revolver. “It’s illegal to discharge weapons in the park. And it’s illegal to even carry one when you’ve been drinking.”
The shooter wiped his hand over his mouth. “Sorry about the beer, man.” But when Rafael reached for the rifle, the drunk pulled it out of his reach. “I got the right to bear arms.”
The other man nodded. “Constitutional right. It’s the First Amendment.”
The shooter took a step closer. “Government pig.”
Rafael retreated to his truck, pulled the radio from his belt, and called for assistance from any other ranger in the vicinity. He wondered where Taylor, the other law enforcement ranger, was right now. None of the general rangers carried guns, but the sight of any other uniform would be welcome. He wondered if the park service would spring for a bulletproof vest. Or pay for his funeral.
SAM and Perez scanned the canyon. They both knew the sickly sweet stench was the smell of death.
“There.” Perez pointed to a pile of brush twenty yards away.
Oh please, God, don’t let it be Zack. Sam took shallow breaths though her mouth as Perez lifted away the topmost branches. Her heart lurched at the sight of a moist brown eye. Dull now, the light gone from behind the pupil.
Flies rose and buzzed around Sam’s head. She clenched her teeth to keep from inhaling the insects. Perez brushed away a layer of dried leaves. The head, neck, and legs of a mule deer lay flattened against the sandstone, the stomach and back haunches chewed away.
“Cougar kill?” Perez’s words were pronounced through the collar of his shirt, which he had pulled across his nose and mouth.
“I think so,” she confirmed. “Cougars hide their kills if they can’t eat the whole thing. They usually stick close by.”
She brushed flies away from her forehead with the back of her wrist and shaded her eyes. Turning slowly in place, she surveyed the ground around them. A mottled lizard rested in the sparse shade of a mesquite bush. She lifted her gaze to the bluff nearby.
A sudden link with piercing yellow eyes jolted her. An adult cougar stood in a shadowy niche in the cliff just above them. A sharp intake of breath informed her that Perez had seen the animal, too.
The cat glared, flicking its long tail, its gaze locked with hers. She couldn’t inhale. Her lungs burned. The black and white markings on its muzzle were striking. So beautiful, so
fierce.
Then the cat snarled, revealing daggerlike teeth. The low-pitched sound echoed faintly against the opposing cliffside, as if another angry cat stood across the canyon behind them. Sam’s scalp tingled. Her skin prickled into goose bumps as if a blast of cold air had just passed over her.
The sensation released her from her catatonic state, and she sucked in a breath of warm air laden with the taste of rotting flesh. “Back away slowly,” she murmured. “Keep your eyes on him. Don’t turn your back on him, no matter what happens.”
They walked backward, feeling for the uneven ground with hesitant footsteps. The cat snarled once more, then leapt down from its shallow cave. In her peripheral vision, Sam saw Perez grab for his pistol. After one last nervous glance at them, the cougar bounded away down the canyon, its tail outstretched behind its body, its padded feet making no sound at all on the hard rock.
“Wow.” Perez lowered his pistol.
“Yeah, wow,” Sam agreed. “That was a close one.”
“Wilderness Westin was scared?”
She batted a fly away from her temple with a shaking hand. “You’d be crazy not to be scared. Cougars are big predators, and we’re intruding on this one’s territory, right next to its kill. That cat weighs over a hundred pounds, and although he’s still young, he’s a hell of a lot better equipped for close combat than we are.”
“He? Have you seen this cat before?”
She nodded. “If I’m not mistaken, that was Apollo.”
“Apollo?”
She made a dismissive gesture. “We named them. Apollo is twenty-two months old; just taking off on his own, staking out his territory. His mother, Leto, and sister, Artemis, are probably close by.”
Perez rapidly surveyed the rock walls around them.
Sam folded her arms across her chest and took a deep breath. “Now that Apollo’s gone, you don’t need to worry, although I wouldn’t hang around these remains too long. Cougars care about three things: territory, prey, and self-preservation. Usually, all you need to do is stand tall and slowly back away. They don’t kill for revenge or for pleasure. Unlike people.”
Perez relaxed slightly and turned his attention to the long dark brown stripes that trailed away from the carcass. “Looks like that lion dragged this deer a long way. I thought you said they didn’t do that.”
“I said they didn’t carry their prey far unless they were worried about other predators or scavengers. Remember all those coyotes last night?”
“So they can drag a large animal quite a distance.”
She shrugged. “If they feel they have to.” She knew he was hinting about Zack again.
His gaze explored the cliff the cougar had leapt down from. “There’s something up there.” He gestured toward the niche with his pistol.
“Would you please put that thing away?” She backed up so she could match his line of sight from her shorter perspective.
A mound of red plaster filled one end of the niche. “Looks like an Anasazi storage bin. There are hundreds of those all over the park.”
She walked to the wall and pointed to small indentations in the rock below the shallow cave. “These are finger-and toeholds, the Anasazi version of a ladder.”
Perez tested a small depression with curved fingers, then hefted himself up toward the niche.
“Hey!” she protested. “All Native American ruins are protected, off limits. It’s the law.”
He continued to climb, dislodging a shower of loose sand and pebbles from a toehold in the rock wall. The mottled lizard dashed from its resting place across the canyon floor to wedge its thin body into the dark safety of the nearest crack. One of Perez’s larger pebbles came to rest only inches from the lizard’s new position.
Sam threw her arms up in exasperation. “Oh, I forgot, FBI agents are above the law. They go wherever they want to.” She skirted the corpse of the deer and scrambled up the cliff after Perez.
He had pulled himself into the shallow cave and stood bent over, crouched beneath the sandstone ceiling. “We’re not above the law—we are the law. You’re damn right we go wherever we want to,” he reminded her. “And this bin is big enough to conceal a two-year-old.”
She crawled into the shallow cave and stood up, the ceiling a few inches above her head. There were a few advantages to being petite.
The grain bin was nestled into the corner of the sandstone pocket, protected from rain. Perez knelt to examine it. She crowded in beside him and peered through a break in the wattle-and-daub covering, holding her breath. The dust in that bin was God knew how many centuries old. Mouse droppings were scattered like pepper over lumps of dirt and sand and bits of broken pottery. She wondered how long hantavirus remained active in rodent scat.
She picked up a triangular shard of pottery. The outside of the reddish clay had been painted white, overlaid with a black design of zigzags and triangles. “That’s typical Anasazi design,” she told him. “Geometric patterns and stripes.”
He rose to his feet, but had to stay hunched over because of the low ceiling. The heel of his boot crunched on a pile of wind-driven sand in the back of the shallow cave. As he stepped away, the sliding sand revealed a white object beneath the red grit.
“More pottery?” he asked.
Sand jammed up under Sam’s fingernails as she dug into the pile. The object felt large and rounded, like a bowl or a pitcher. An unbroken bowl was unlikely, especially outside the protective cover of the storage bin, but it would be an exciting find. Aiding the FBI was probably a legal justification for violating park service regulations. And Perez was half Lakota. Maybe a member from one Native American tribe had the right to handle artifacts from others.
The object finally broke free of the packed sand.
“Got it.” She blinked dust out of her eyes. The object was definitely not a bowl. It was strangely shaped, round on top, squarish at the bottom. A pitcher? She brushed at the clinging dirt, turned the white object around.
Two eye sockets stared blankly up at her.
14
THEY both stared at the skull that Sam held. On one side of the thick bone, a scrap of dried skin was plastered, with a few light brown hairs straggling out.
“Damn it!” Perez growled. “Why’d you touch that thing?”
“You asked if it was a ceramic pot, remember?”
“Well, try to remember exactly how it was positioned, and for God’s sake, don’t move your fingers. Don’t get any more prints on it than you already have.”
He pulled out his pocket camera and snapped two photos of the skull in her hands. She waited while he made notes. It felt wrong to hold the skull up in front of her, as if it were a prize to be awarded or a main course on its way to the table.
Her stomach churned. This was someone’s head. The skull had once belonged to a person who felt and breathed. Her own head felt too light for her own body, and she hoped she wasn’t going to pass out. Or throw up. “Is it—”
He read her thoughts. “Not Zack, no. Unless the flesh was all peeled off immediately.” He bit his lip, considering. “I suppose that’s possible—”
She stared at him in horror.
“Possible, but not likely,” he concluded. He bent his knees, lowered himself beside her to peer closely at it. “But the skull is small, so it could be a kid’s. Put it down exactly how you found it.”
His condescending tone grated on her. “You want me to cover it up with sand again?”
“No, just position it as closely as you can remember to the way it was when you first touched it.”
Sam knelt and placed the skull on its side in the dirt. She noticed a sharp ivory point jutting out of the pile a few inches from the skull. The spike of a vertebra bone? Feeling suddenly chilled and a little dizzy again, she wrapped her arms around her chest. “At least it’s not Zack.”
Perez ran a dirt-rimmed fingernail across the stubble on his chin, making a scratching sound. “I’d be happier if it were.”
“Jeez, Pe
rez.” Could he get any more callous? She frowned, wiped her fingers on her pants legs.
“We still don’t know what happened to Zack,” he explained. “And now we have another victim.”
Dear God. What a horrible thought. As she followed him down from the shallow cave, she was conscious that every touch of a finger, every scrape of a boot might contaminate valuable evidence.
“I’ll have to get a Crime Scene team up here ASAP,” he informed her as they walked away. “I don’t know if an ID can be made—but you never know. Maybe we’ve stumbled on someone who’s been on the missing list for a couple of years. Maybe someone who was camping and”—he snapped his fingers—“Coyote Charlie got pissed about an invasion of his territory. Or this might be the work of that cougar we saw. There may be teeth marks on the bones.”
“You think a cougar dragged a kid up here and then buried the skeleton?”
“The cat was standing right here, wasn’t it? I think it’s possible that a cougar dragged the body up here, and then wind buried the bones.”
“No!” She shook her head. “There’s no rogue man-eating cougar. A cougar didn’t kill whoever that is”—she pointed at the niche above—“and even if a cougar killed Zachary Fischer—”
His head snapped up.
“All right, I said it!” she admitted angrily. “It’s possible that a cougar got him but not likely: we’ve found no remains. And what about the shoe, found miles away from where he disappeared? Trust me on this, at least: it’s completely impossible that a cougar would drag anything up here from the valley. We are more than eight miles away from the campground where Zack disappeared. These aren’t six-hundred-pound man-eating tigers, Perez. I refuse to believe that we have some killer cat preying on little kids!”
His face was grim. “Summer, if it’s not a cougar, then it’s going to be something worse.”
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