Cry of the Wild

by Catherine Anderson

  Whatever his argument, Crysta knew she had no choice but to fly north. It wasn't just that her mother wanted her to go; Crysta loved her brother far too much to let his fate be decided by a bunch of weekend Rambos. No matter how she tried or how much she wanted to, she couldn't forget her dream.

  With grim determination, she flipped the phone book back open. Within five minutes, she had reserved a flight to Anchorage. After that, she called Rosanne, asking her to take over at the shop until she returned, then quickly packed a bag and went to spend the night at her mother's. They both needed a little comforting.

  Chapter Two

  Sam rapped the phone receiver on the counter, then lis­tened for a dial tone. Nothing. He gave it another rap, then heaved a frustrated sigh. With his luck, Derrick's sister would think he had hung up on her, and if she was any­thing like her brother that would be all the impetus she needed to book the first possible flight to Anchorage. He glared at the phone, cursed under his breath and slammed the receiver into its cradle. There were days when nothing went right, and this was one of them.

  He walked to the window, bracing his shoulder against the frame to stare through the steamed glass at a stand of cottonwoods. He considered sitting down for a moment but quickly discarded the idea. As if he had time to rest.

  The lodge's main room, dining and sitting area com­bined, was filled with the delicious aroma of fried salmon cakes and Jangles's wonderful homemade yeast rolls. His stomach turned. He massaged the muscles in the nape of his neck, tipping his head back to ease the tension. The crack­ling of the fire usually soothed him, but not today.

  What would he do if Crysta Meyers flew up here? Maybe he should have told her about the condition of Derrick's gear. The shredded backpack and scattered contents pointed to a bear attack, except for two minor things: no blood and no body.

  That bothered Sam. Derrick was fast on his feet, but not that fast. He couldn't have outrun a grizzly for long, so there should have been at least some blood nearby. Not only that, but bears rarely attacked people in this vicinity unless provoked, and Derrick was too bear-smart to be that stu­pid. Sam couldn't, in good conscience, intimate to Der­rick's relatives that Derrick had been the victim of a bear attack until there was more conclusive proof. Especially not when he had reason to suspect that Derrick had been mur­dered by men, not animals.

  Heaving a sigh, Sam turned from the window and strode toward his office. He had to get started going through those papers in Derrick's briefcase. That alone would be a two- day chore. Maybe he was barking up the wrong tree, but he couldn't rid himself of the feeling there was far more to this than met the eye. If he didn't turn up anything, then a flight to Anchorage was in order.

  Meanwhile, Sam could only hope Crysta Meyers took his advice and stayed at home in Los Angeles... where she would be safe.

  Alaska from the air .

  At any other time, Crysta might have thought this state beautiful, perhaps even mystical, but today her only reac­tion to it was dread. How could she hope to find Derrick out there? For too long now, the closest thing to a road she had seen was a moose trail. The tundra, dotted with small dark lakes, seemed to stretch into infinity, the snow-draped peaks of Mounts McKinley and Foraker standing sentinel, so im­mense their tops were wreathed in clouds.

  As the tiny plane veered north, she stared down at a tannish-brown glacier river, the Big Susitna, according to her travel pamphlet. Along the river's banks, she saw several uprooted trees, bulldozed by nature when the ice had bro­ken.

  "The Yentna River's up ahead," the pilot, Todd Shriver, yelled, trying to make himself heard over the engine noise. "We'll follow her course right in to the lodge."

  Crysta craned her neck to see. She had expected some­thing more than spruce, cottonwoods and undergrowth.

  "Aren't there other lodges out here besides Cottonwood Bend?"

  "A few. You have to remember, though, that a real close neighbor in these parts is at least five miles away."

  To Crysta, a wilderness area was a well-marked nature trail. Ordinarily, she might have enjoyed visiting a remote lodge. But knowing Sam Barrister wasn't going to be happy to see her made the isolation rather unnerving. To locate her brother, she needed to be here. What if Barrister refused to let her stay?

  To take her mind off that unsettling possibility, Crysta tried to concentrate on the landscape. The shaking and shuddering of the Cessna made it impossible. The Cotton­wood Bend brochure, which she had picked up at the Lake Hood Airport, had called the float-plane flight up the Yentna a once-in-a-lifetime adventure; it hadn't mentioned that it could well be her last.

  She had only herself to blame. Rather than wait until to­morrow, she had bribed Shriver for passage on a supply run this afternoon, not realizing what she was bargaining for. Despite her mother's favorite aphorism, ignorance was not bliss. Her fellow passengers were numerous crates and two fifty-gallon drums of fuel for the lodge's generator. Behind those, she caught a glimpse of a partially open carton bear­ing an animal skull with macabre black holes where its eyes had once been. She couldn't shake the eerie feeling that it was staring at her. Doubtless Shriver often hauled hunters and their grim trophies to and fro from Anchorage, but she wished she hadn't encountered a victim on her first pon­toon-plane flight. She was nervous enough as it was.

  Crysta often made buying trips for her dress shop and considered herself a fairly seasoned traveler, but she flew in large jets. Being a passenger on this glorified tin can with no landing wheels was a new experience. The pilot, tall, blond and tanned to a leathery brown, looked as if he should be posing for a macho cigarette advertisement. And he lived up to the image.

  In the two hours since meeting her, he had already tried to hit on her, flirting blatantly and inviting her out for a "night on the town." Crysta assumed "town" was An­chorage. No matter. She wasn't here for a fling. Even if she had been, Shriver wasn't her type. She supposed he was lik­able enough, but when it came to dating, Crysta preferred men of a more serious nature. The handsome bush pilot struck her as the type who probably had a girl in every port—or, in this case, behind every bush.

  "Um, excuse me, Mr. Shriver, do you think it's wise to be smoking? The gas fumes are awfully strong back here.''

  "Not to worry, honey. I haul fuel all the time, and, as you can see, I haven't blown up yet."

  Somehow Crysta didn't find that very reassuring. Reach­ing inside her blouse, she tugged her floral-print thermal undershirt away from her skin, hoping for a whisper of air. As her travel-tips pamphlet had warned, the temperatures here took dramatic swings, and, as advised, she had dressed in layers. Now the chill of the morning was rapidly giving way to steamy afternoon warmth, and she had already dis­carded her sweater vest and jacket.

  The plane shuddered again, making her forget her dis­comfort. She clutched the edge of her black vinyl seat.

  "Won't be much longer now," Shriver called back to her. "You anxious to start catching those big old king salmon?"

  "I didn't come to fish. My brother is missing. Derrick Meyers. Maybe you know him?"

  He threw her a surprised look. "You're Derrick's sister? You know, I thought you looked familiar. You were twins, weren't you?" A frown pleated his forehead. "Hey, I'm re­ally sorry about Derrick. Enjoyed visiting with him. He knew this country, I'll tell you that. A helluva nice guy. Having him along always spiced up the trip. He was one of my favorite passengers."

  "Was?"

  "Like I said, he knew his way around out there. He should have been back by now unless he met with an acci­dent or—"

  "My brother isn't dead."

  In response to that, Shriver shrugged and faced forward again.

  Unwilling to let the matter drop, Crysta said, "If he had met with an accident, the searchers would have found his body."

  "Not necessarily. You have to remember how many predators are out there."

  A wave of revulsion washed over Crysta. She hadn't thought of that. Averting her face, she pretended s
udden interest in the Yentna River below. Cottonwoods and an occasional spruce lined its banks. She found herself watch­ing carefully for anything that looked familiar. A lone, wind-twisted spruce in particular. Or a splotch of red flan­nel.

  "Look, ma'am, I didn't mean to upset you. I speak be­fore I think sometimes. I liked Derrick. Why, I've even flown some of the searchers in, free of charge."

  Crysta dug her nails into her palms. "I appreciate that. It's just hard, you know?" She studied the back of Shriver's head. "Tell me, have the police considered the possi­bility of foul play?"

  "Foul play?" He nearly twisted his neck off to stare at her. "You serious? Who'd want to hurt Derrick?"

  "I'm not certain." Crysta hesitated, then asked, "How well do you know Sam Barrister?"

  "Well enough. If you're saying... Well, you can forget that. Sam may be the rough-and-rugged type, but violent? No way."

  "How about his guests? Are there many regulars?"

  "An easy dozen. Hey, look, if you want to learn more about that, I suggest you question Sam. He knows his guests better than I do. As for foul play, honey, I think you're way off the mark. It's one big happy family out here. You want mystery, go to the city."

  Crysta forced herself to leave it at that. Could Shriver be right? Was Derrick dead, his remains devoured by ani­mals? Perhaps that was why Sam Barrister had discour­aged her from coming. Had he been trying to spare her? Crysta had been praying for a happy reunion with her brother, clinging to the belief that he would be found alive. Now grisly images flashed through her mind.

  Fear made her hands start to shake. She couldn't start thinking like that. Not about Derrick. He was too much a part of her. If she lost him... Well, it didn't bear thinking about.

  Squeezing her eyes closed, Crysta tried to block out ev­erything—the gas fumes, the heat, the roar of the engines, the shuddering of the plane. None of that mattered. Der­rick was all that counted—finding him by whatever means she had, even if it was self-destructive. As well it might be. Her failed marriage testified to that.

  Derrick? She listened to that secret, inner part of herself, praying she would hear something, feel something. Der­rick, answer me. Oh, please, please, answer. There was nothing. Just a horrible, dead silence.

  "Check your safety belt," Shriver called over his shoul­der. "We're about to land."

  The plane began its descent. Pressing her cheek against her window, she spotted a bend in the river where a large log building perched on a rise, surrounded by rustic cabins. The lodge, she guessed. In a clearing nearby, she saw a group of tents, which she presumed were for the searchers. Minia­ture people were scurrying about on shore, some shading their eyes to see the plane, others waving.

  The aircraft tipped crazily to one side, then the pontoons touched down. Crysta braced herself for a shuddering de­celeration, but the landing felt more like gliding on glass. In the center of the river, joined to shore by a footbridge, was a small island, where several aluminum boats were moored. Todd Shriver cut the engines and coasted the plane toward the strip of land. She felt a jerk when the pontoons hit bot­tom.

  "Safe and sound," Shriver called as he slid out of his seat. "When you get out, be careful. Not to say I'd mind fishing a pretty little gal like you out of the water, but that river's like ice."

  A pretty little gal? Crysta nearly groaned. The pilot def­initely needed to be metropolitanized. He wouldn't last a day among the women's activists in Los Angeles. Keeping her expression carefully blank, Crysta unfastened her seat belt and scrambled forward to the cabin door. Following Shriver's example, she stepped out onto a pontoon and leaped from there to semidry land. Had Derrick once stood in this very spot?

  As she got her balance and turned to look shoreward, a stout man with a shock of grizzled red hair ran up, his arms laden with two large boxes. He didn't spare her a glance as he set the boxes down and struggled to assist Shriver in un­loading a heavy barrel.

  She scanned the tree-lined riverbanks, glad to finally be here. True, arriving was only a start, but Derrick was out there somewhere. He had to be. And she was determined to find him.

  She heard Shriver and the redhead talking, their voices low. She strained to hear what they said, but the brisk breeze snatched their words away. She turned and spotted her lug­gage, tossed down on the soggy dirt alongside a gas drum and a galvanized tub filled with salmon, bloody water streaming down its sides. Caring less about her expensive suitcases and more about having clean, dry clothes to wear while searching for Derrick, she quickly pulled the suit­cases to dry ground.

  As Shriver removed the last crate of supplies from the Cessna and set it down by the others, he said, "Well, I wish you luck, hon. Hope you find him, hale and hearty."

  As he headed back toward the plane, Crysta called, "Thanks for making room for me."

  "No problem."

  The redhead stowed his boxes inside the airplane, then turned to look at her. From the curiosity she read in his ex­pression, Crysta guessed that Shriver had told him who she was. His unwavering regard made her uneasy. At a loss, she turned away.

  The scenery seemed familiar, very much like the terrain in her dream. People fished the river in boats, but otherwise, there was nothing, just water and dense cottonwoods. Her one link to civilization, the plane, was about to leave.

  "Urn... Mr. Shriver. Hold up a sec."

  The pilot doubled back, blue eyes quizzical. "Problem?"

  "No, not exactly. I was, um, just wondering. I may have some business to take care of in Anchorage. If I call you, can you pick me up that same day?"

  "Depends."

  "On what?"

  "We fly VFR out here."

  "What's that?"

  "Visual Flight Rules. If I can't see, I don't go. Rain storms, low clouds."

  "Oh." Anchorage suddenly seemed light-years away. She might want to visit Blanchette Construction's warehouse there if Derrick wasn't found soon. Just to see if the build­ing in any way resembled the one in her dream. "And how often does inclement weather interfere?"

  "That depends on Mother Nature. Like most females, she's pretty unpredictable. For the most part, though, I fly in at least once a day."

  "Then I can catch a ride?"

  "If there's room, you bet. I never turn down a pretty passenger." He gave her shoulder a consoling pat. "Hey, if there's anything I can do to help—fly you around so you can search from the air—anything, you let me know."

  Ignoring the unwanted intimacy, Crysta asked, "How expensive would that be?"

  "If it's worked in around my flight schedule, I'll only charge for the fuel."

  "I may take you up on it."

  "I hope you do."

  The wind picked up, dragging wisps of her long hair across her eyes. Through the reddish-brown strands, she studied Todd Shriver's features. In the sunlight, she could see things she hadn't detected inside the plane: a smattering of freckles across his nose, a chin that wasn't quite squared enough to offset the sharp angle of his cheekbones. All in all, though, it was a nice face. A little too cookie-cutter handsome for her tastes, but nice.

  Except for his eyes. Maybe it was their ice-blue color, but they seemed expressionless to her. Her aunt claimed the eyes were windows to the soul, and Crysta guessed that might be true in Shriver's case. With his lighthearted outlook on life, she doubted many serious thoughts crossed his mind. The lack thereof showed in his gaze. She thought of Derrick's expressive eyes, which reflected grief as well as joy. Her heart grew heavy at the comparison.

  "Again, my thanks, Mr. Shriver, for everything." Her voice sounded a little shaky, but she couldn't help it.

  Shriver clasped her shoulder, flashing her a smile. "Thank me when there's something to thank me for, hm? And forget what I said earlier. Positive thinking can work miracles." Dropping his hand, he swung around and strode toward the plane. "See ya, Riley. Don't clean the river out offish!"

  The redhead chuckled. "It'd take a better man than me. You have a safe flight."
<
br />   "Always. Hey, buddy, keep an eye on the lady for me, would ya?" Shriver jumped onto the pontoon, his footing sure from long practice. Crysta fastened her gaze on his rubber boots. Military-green with yellow trim. Catching the door frame, Shriver swung one leg through, pausing to add, "If she needs anything, help her put a call through to me, okay?"

  Riley nodded. "Sure, I can do that. If I'm here, any­way."

  As Shriver disappeared inside the plane, Crysta glanced at Riley's feet. His boots were the same avocado green, trimmed with yellow.

  The plane's engines roared to life. Loneliness knifed through Crysta as the Cessna pulled away from the island. Thus far, Shriver was the only person she knew in Alaska. Now that he was gone, she was on her own. Shoving her hands into her jeans pockets, she took a deep breath of astonishingly pure air and headed toward the footbridge. No sense in putting it off. She might as well confront Sam Barrister now.

  The footbridge felt unsteady when she stepped onto it, and she found herself wishing for handrails.

  "Hey, lady!" Riley yelled as he shouldered a box of sup­plies. "You forgot your gear."

  Crysta had hoped the lodge would have an employee to carry guest luggage ashore. She sighed and started to re­trace her steps. As she did, the bridge gave under addi­tional weight.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she saw a tall, dark-haired man striding toward her, his every step making the water- soaked structure bounce and sway. Preoccupied though she was with keeping her footing, she noticed three things about him. He was without question one of the biggest men she had ever seen. He was as attractive as he was tall. And he looked angry.

  Chapter Three

  Crysta turned to meet the man head-on. It was a narrow bridge, and the approaching stranger took up most of its width, not with fat but sheer bulk, every centimeter lean muscle. There was an air about him—the loose-jointed way he walked, the set of his broad shoulders, the gleam in his brown eyes—that made him seem at home in the rugged country around him. She sincerely hoped the unlucky per­son he was so furious with was somewhere behind her.