Endangered (9781101559017)

by Beason, Pamela

  KENT Bergstrom sat cross-legged on the warm rock, chewing a bite from a granola bar. His binoculars were fixed on a hawk perched on a gnarled piñon that jutted out of the cliffside. The raptor kept one wary eye on him as it ripped a gobbet of flesh from the dead rabbit it held under its talons. The bird raised its beak and downed the morsel with a single gulp.

  Suddenly, the hawk raised its wings as if to take flight, called out a shrill alarm. Kent scanned the area. A few mesquite bushes, nearly devoid of leaves at this time of year. A prickly pear, ripe with reddish purple fruit and a nest hole that had been carved out by an enterprising owl. No movement. The hawk settled down and was eating again. He lowered his binoculars.

  The mosquito buzz of a helicopter vibrated over near the escarpment. The rhythm didn’t sound right, but that was probably just the sound bouncing off the dozens of hoodoos between here and there. He hadn’t heard any news from HQ, and he hadn’t bothered to request any. This was the third day of the search, and without evidence that Zack was still alive, Thompson would end the official effort at sunset. It was the regs.

  If only they’d find Zack today, alive. Or, if the poor kid had to be dead, at least killed by something other than a cougar. He had never been as scared as he was yesterday, facing down those three armed men with nothing more than his citation book and pepper spray. One had sported a black Eagle Tours cap, no doubt a disciple of Buck Ferguson. Thank God it hadn’t been Ferguson himself, who had a way of inciting the guys around him to violence.

  But there’d be others. Earlier that morning, he’d heard Rafael’s call for assistance. His gut twisted with guilt at the memory. He’d been so relieved when Rangers Leeson and Taylor responded, so glad that he wasn’t within range to respond. Unbelievable how people worried about wild animals lurking in the bushes when their neighbors two doors down kept loaded semiautomatics under their beds.

  He remembered the terrible words buried deep in his job description, something about “dispatching problem wildlife.” He’d been so thrilled to land the ranger job, a job where he actually got to work outdoors with wild animals, that he’d skipped over the more onerous tasks on the list.

  He could put in a few days collecting garbage, writing reports, giving lectures to tourists who would never venture beyond the visitor center. But could he kill a cougar to keep his job? Was it his job to decide which animals qualified as “problem wildlife”? He doubted it. Thompson and Tanner treated him like a drone most of the time. He suspected that was why they’d sent him on backcountry patrol: they were leaning toward “dispatching” a cougar or two and they didn’t want their wildlife biologist around to muck up the works.

  The buzz of the chopper was nearing now. The pilot was flying exceptionally close to the ground. The hawk leapt into the air and flapped over his head as the helicopter thundered by, invisible beyond the far wall of the canyon.

  A cloud of dust rolled over the canyon rim. Then, amazingly, a mountain lion burst from the red haze, leaping down the nearly vertical cliff in twenty-foot bounds. A shower of pebbles shadowed the panicked cat, the noise of the rockslide growing louder as the roar of the chopper faded. If the cougar didn’t veer from its current course, it would pass right beside Kent. He waited, holding his breath.

  A deep-throated bark rang out behind him, the unmistakable bay of a hunting hound. “There!” someone shouted.

  Kent scrambled to his feet. “No!”

  The two hounds strained at their leashes, frothy strings of saliva flying from their mouths. Three rifles glinted in the sunlight. Kent’s brain barely had time to register the fact that he was positioned between the men and the mountain lion before the rifles went off.

  TWO faint cracks reverberated across the mesa. Damn well better not be gunshots, Sam thought. Did helicopters backfire? The rumbling whop-whop-whop of a distant chopper faded away, leaving only the wind moaning through the rock formations.

  “Did you hear that?” she asked Perez.

  He sprawled behind her on a rock, fiddling with his cell phone, a USGS map outstretched in front of him. “Hear what?”

  She checked the sky overhead. Thunder? Clouds were building against the escarpment twenty miles away, but only wisps of vapor drifted above their position. No rain nearby for a long while yet.

  She sat perched on the lip of the cliff, feet dangling over the valley below. “What now?” she asked. “Is Jeeves waiting with the helicopter just around the corner? Are you off to park headquarters to meet the Crime Scene team?”

  He shook his head. “I need to stay here and search the area. There might be more.”

  More. She clenched her jaw, envisioning caves strewn with bones. Would Zack be among the dead?

  “At least now you can call off the hunters,” she said.

  His gaze met hers. “Not my job. We’ve found no evidence of Zack. This could turn out to all be coincidence.”

  “Oh yeah. Cougars have been eating campers for years,” she said sarcastically. “Maybe this is a special spot where they bring the bones, kind of like an elephant graveyard—”

  “Okay, okay. This probably has nothing to do with cougars. But maybe Coyote Charlie’s been making a collection up here.”

  Oh God. The human howler had always been a joke, a source of entertainment, of even a certain type of envy. Could the entire park staff have remained completely oblivious while a serial murderer dumped his victims here? She pulled her legs up and hugged them to her chest.

  Perez flipped his cell closed with a sigh. “Dead battery.”

  She took him hers, punching in the satellite code as she walked. “Be my guest.”

  His fingers touched hers as he took the phone from her. “Your country thanks you.”

  “Now that would be a first.”

  He punched in some numbers. After a hesitation, he said, “Nicole—”

  A loud burst of static from the radio in Sam’s pack drowned out the rest of Perez’s words. She pulled out the instrument, trotted beyond the rock walls to the edge of the plateau again. Radio communications from the valley couldn’t reach this area. She hadn’t expected to intercept anything but maybe a message or two from a passing helicopter.

  “Three-one-one, three-three-nine.” Kent. The radio emitted a screech like chalk scraping across a blackboard, a rasping sound, and then the faint voice again. “Three-one-one. Oh please, three-one-one.”

  Three-one-one was the dispatcher at headquarters. Something was wrong: Kent knew better than she that radio communication was impossible between much of the high country and the valley below. She pressed Talk. “Kent, this is Sam.”

  She released. Nothing but static and what sounded like a gasp. She tried again. “Kent, do you read?”

  More static. Did he have his finger on the damn Talk button? “Kent? Kent?”

  “Sam?” His voice was thin, scratchy—it sounded like they were connected by tin cans and string. “Sam, I can’t raise HQ. I need HQ.”

  “I can barely hear you, and I’m a lot closer than park headquarters. Where are you? Over.”

  Heavy breathing. “Milagro Canyon . . . near Ghost Stack.”

  “Monument Ridge is between you and HQ. They can’t read you. You’ll have to climb up to the mesa.”

  A brief pause and a crackle of static. “Can’t climb. I need help. Need HQ.” He sounded disoriented.

  Her knuckles whitened on the radio. “Talk to me, Kent. Explain your situation. Now!”

  An intake of breath. “There’s been a shooting.”

  “Who’s been shot, Kent? Over.”

  A burst of static. Or was it coughing? “Mountain lion . . . here in front of me . . . still alive.”

  “Someone shot a lion?” So the cracks had been rifle shots, not distant thunder.

  A loud exhalation. “Me, too.”

  Her chest tightened. “Say again, Kent?”

  “Hunters . . . three guys. Shot a cougar.” A ragged cough. “And me.”

  A surge of adrenaline shot through her b
loodstream. “Are the hunters there with you?”

  A gurgle. “Just the cat and me.”

  “Hang on—I’m on my way, Kent. I’ll be there as fast as I can. Clear.”

  She tried to raise headquarters from her radio. As she expected, the signal was blocked. She sprinted to Perez and jerked the phone from his hand.

  “Hey!”

  She punched the End button and then speed-dialed the number for park headquarters.

  “Heritage National Monument Ranger Station.”

  “We need a medical rescue helicopter at Milagro Canyon—a ranger’s been shot.” She grabbed her knapsack and threw it over a shoulder.

  “What? Who is this?”

  She was already running down the trail. Breathlessly, she identified herself, then yelled, “Kent Bergstrom’s been shot! Get that helicopter up there. Milagro Canyon! Now!”

  15

  THE muscles in Sam’s legs were screaming. Would this nightmare never end?

  She had the phone pressed to her ear, listening to Tanner, who was telling her that the Civil Air Patrol choppers assisting in the search carried only rudimentary first aid and weren’t insured to treat patients.

  “I don’t give a damn if they’re insured or not!” she huffed. “They can land, they can pick him up, they can take him to the nearest hos—”

  Tanner interrupted. “We have liability issues.”

  Kent had been shot and his boss was worried about liability issues? Tanner told her that the St. George Fire Department agreed to send their helicopter, but they’d have to stop at park headquarters to pick up a ranger to guide them to the exact position.

  How long would that take? If she ran all the way, she could reach Kent in forty-five minutes. As a ranger, her friend had been trained in first aid. She prayed he was in condition to minister to himself.

  Perez’s footsteps pounded steadily behind her. They reached the turnoff point to Temple Canyon, skidded down a cliff-hugging series of switchbacks, and flew past the Anasazi ruins. Did Perez notice the stone buildings crowded under the dark overhang? Probably not. No doubt his eyes were focused on the rocky trail, as were hers.

  Her breath was coming hard; that was the altitude. Behind her, Perez was huffing, too. As they neared Milagro Canyon, they passed two MISSING posters, hung by Kent as he had made his rounds.

  After what felt like days of lung-bursting effort, she and Perez pounded across a shallow creek on an ancient log bridge, climbed a small rise, and finally reached the narrow walled-in area known as Milagro Canyon. The cross-country sprint had taken them forty minutes.

  She stumbled to a stop, holding her side, trying to catch her breath. Sweat ran down her backbone and trickled from her scalp over her cheeks. Beside her, Perez hunched over, still wearing his backpack, his shirt and face similarly soaked, his hands on his knees, gasping. Then she saw it. Amid the shadows and cracks in the stone surface, a wide swath of crimson gleamed wetly across the canyon floor.

  The trail of blood led them to the shade of a rock overhang where Kent lay. She fell to her knees beside him. The front of his shirt and right sleeve were soaked with blood. Her heart pounded in her throat. They’d arrived too late. All that blood—

  She squeezed her eyes shut, took a deep breath. Get a grip, Westin. Now. Opening her eyes, she focused on her friend. Kent’s face was pale and shiny with sweat. He blinked. Thank God. Still alive.

  Kent’s backpack rested against a nearby rock. While Perez checked Kent, Sam dug out her friend’s first-aid supplies—a ranger would have more than the basic Band-Aids and pills she carried. She burst the plastic encasing a metallic rescue blanket, shook it out, and covered Kent from the waist down, tucking it around his legs and feet. After two tries with shaking fingers, she used her teeth to rip open a package of sterile pads.

  “Went right through the arm,” Perez reported, “but there’s no exit wound from the chest. Probably the same bullet.”

  The injury to Kent’s right forearm had almost quit bleeding, but his chest wound was a red well of blood. She pressed two of the gauze squares to the ragged hole beneath the right collarbone. Blood soaked through the cloth, welled up between her fingers. She added two more pads, pressed harder, using both hands now.

  “Hey,” Kent wheezed. “How’m I s’posed to breathe with you squeezin’ the life outta me?”

  She was leaning on his chest to keep the life in him. She forced a smile. At least she hoped her expression looked like a smile. Her face felt paralyzed and tears blurred her vision.

  “Guess . . . should’ve escorted those hunters out,” Kent choked out. “Never should’ve trusted ’em to leave—” His blue eyes had the glaze of someone in shock.

  “What happened?” Perez asked.

  “I was . . . watching him come down . . . from up there.” Kent directed them with his eyes. About fifty yards away and twenty feet above them in elevation, Sam spotted a splash of blood on a narrow rock ledge that cut diagonally across the cliff face.

  “Oh Sam, he was . . . so . . . beautiful.” His shaky smile slid into a grimace. “Then . . . dogs . . . behind me.” He coughed, his forehead creasing in pain. “I stood up . . . blam! Next one got him.”

  Sam followed Kent’s gaze. A hundred yards across the canyon, a cougar crouched in the patchy shadow of a ponderosa. The big cat glared at them, panting heavily as though the air was too thick to breathe. The sinews in its neck stood out as it strained to lick the blood leaking from a ragged hole high in its hindquarters.

  She scanned the area, envisioning the whole episode. The hunters, low on the trail, training their sights on the cat on the hillside. They hadn’t realized that Kent was sitting just over the next rise. He had stood up at the crucial moment.

  Kent’s eyes were on her. “Bad timing, huh?”

  “What happened to the hunters?” Perez asked.

  “Took off.” Kent closed his eyes. “Bastards . . . Eagle Tours.”

  “What? What about Eagle Tours, Kent?” she asked. “Was it Buck Ferguson?”

  “Don’t think so,” he mumbled between rasping breaths. He opened his eyes again. “Just saw . . . Eagle Tours . . . black cap.”

  Nodding, Sam glanced at Perez. “Sounds like it might be Buck Ferguson. He’s been caught here with a rifle more than once.”

  Kent lay his head back against the stone. A bubble of blood formed at the corner of his mouth.

  “Sam.” He grasped her sleeve. “Save the cougar.”

  “I will if I can. Right now I’m more worried about you.”

  Kent coughed. “Save the cat.”

  Perez knelt beside her, placing his hand over hers on Kent’s chest. “I’ll take over if you want to check the cat.”

  Her eyes met Kent’s. His chin dipped in a single nod. “Please.” Then his eyelids closed.

  She slid her hand out from under Perez’s. Her palm and wrist were slick with blood. She wiped the wetness away on her pants and then pushed herself to her feet.

  Perez said, “Hang in there, Kent. There’s a helicopter on the way. It’ll be here any minute now.”

  She walked toward the cat’s position. Its yellow eyes widened. As she neared, the cougar spat and tightened its muscles to stand, but it wasn’t able to lift its hindquarters from the rock. A growing pool of blood stained the stone beneath the animal. Each agitated stroke of the cougar’s tail painted a fresh stripe of red in the dust.

  “Take it easy, boy,” she murmured, standing still. The cat was a large male. Leto’s mate? His fur had the same gray tinge as Apollo’s.

  He raised a massive paw, claws extended, and snarled, his eyes wild now. Sam backed away slowly and returned to the men.

  “He’s been shot in the hindquarters,” she reported. “I can’t tell how bad it is. He can’t walk, but he’s still pretty feisty. That’s a good sign, Kent.”

  Her friend’s eyes were closed. She couldn’t tell if he’d heard or not. Perez had rolled up his windbreaker and placed it beneath the ranger’s head. Even w
ith the roughness of two days’ worth of whiskers lining his cheeks, Kent looked so young.

  The faint sound of a distant helicopter drifted up the canyon. Thank God! It had made the trip sooner than she’d expected.

  Perez placed a gentle hand on Kent’s good shoulder. “The copter’s arrived. We’ll have you out of here in a few minutes.”

  Surprising them both, Kent opened his eyes and said distinctly, “I’m not going without the cat.”

  The helicopter neared, the thunder of the blades echoing in the narrow canyon. They’d have to land on the plateau above and bring the stretcher down.

  “I mean it,” gasped Kent. “I’m still pretty feisty, too.” He raised his left arm, his fingers curled into claws, and wheezed out a weak imitation of a snarl.

  “Knock off that crap,” Sam ordered. “I’ll see what I can do about the cat, but you’re going regardless.”

  “Dart him. Tranq pistol . . . my pack.”

  “I’ll dart you, too, if I have to, to get you on that copter.”

  The slapping of helicopter blades gave way to a low whine, then blessed silence. Sam ran to meet the two men who were struggling down the steep slope from the plateau above, bearing a stretcher with an emergency pack and oxygen tank lashed between the poles. Both men wore the navy uniforms of the St. George Fire Department. One sported a baseball cap with SUPER FLY embroidered on the front.

  “How many people can your chopper carry?” she demanded.

  “Six adults, tops. That includes the three of us.”

  “Do you have more than one emergency?” The other fellow touched her pants leg where she had wiped Kent’s blood off her hands.

  Park Superintendent Thompson, his face beet red from exertion, skidded down the slope in a shower of gravel to join them. He studied her bloody clothing with concern. “You okay, Westin?”

  “I’m fine,” she snapped, swatting the medic’s hand away from her leg. “It’s Ranger Bergstrom who’s been shot.” She pointed toward Perez and Kent. Then she gestured across the canyon. “And a cougar.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” said the pilot, staring at the animal. The cat had managed to pull itself up into a crouch. It snarled at the new intruders.