Cry of the Wild

by Catherine Anderson

  Not to be deterred, Crysta pressed on, "Isn't bear track common up here?"

  "Of course it's common."

  "Was the bear track indicative of an attack?"

  A flush crept up the man's neck. "Everything was indic­ative of an attack."

  "Were the bear tracks just ordinary tracks? You men­tioned slide marks. Were any of those marks made by the attacking bear? Or were they all made by boots?"

  The muscles in his face tightened. "Ma'am, it was a clear- cut case of a renegade bear attack. There's no reason, ab­solutely none, to think otherwise. The authorities are satis­fied with our findings. Why can't you be?"

  "You found blood, but how do you know it's my broth­er's?"

  "Whose would you guess it to be, the bear's?" He pin­ioned her with a steady stare, then sighed. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. Tests will be run, ma'am. If it isn't your brother's type or if it's animal blood, we'll resume the search."

  "By then it will he too late!"

  "We'll get preliminary reports back this afternoon."

  "And if there's any question that it's his blood, you'll come back and begin another search?"

  "It's a promise."

  Crysta blinked and glanced away. Out at the island, she saw the redhead, Riley O'Keefe, disembarking from a boat. She wondered if he had been night fishing. Her brother was missing. How could people go on as if nothing had hap­pened? "I don't think my brother's dead. We're twins, and because of that, we're closer than most siblings. I'd know. You understand?"

  The search coordinator gave her a pitying look. "It's hard to accept, I know it is."

  "No, you don't under—"

  Crysta broke off, struggling to stop the violent shaking that had attacked her limbs. It was such a horrible feeling to pour out her heart to people and not be able to reach them. If only telepathic phenomena didn't make people so wary! But Crysta had learned long ago that she must guard her words. Saying the wrong thing could alienate this man even more than he already was. She felt badly about grilling him, but she had so many questions and so few answers.

  "Do you ever get a gut feeling? Deep down, you just know something, and you can't really explain how?"

  He continued to study her, clearly at a loss.

  Crysta leaned toward him, as though drawing closer would somehow convince him when words alone failed. "I know my brother isn't dead. He's out there somewhere, and every wasted second decreases his chances of survival. Please don't call off the search. Please."

  "Ma'am, the evidence is overwhelming. I can't keep these fellows here. Our organization would never sanction more expenditures to cover their wages, not on the strength of a gut feeling. I'm sorry."

  "Their wages?"

  "Like it or not, it's a consideration."

  An image of Derrick's face flashed through Crysta's mind. Her brother, whom she loved so dearly, and he was being written off because of expenses. Heartbreak prod­ding her, Crysta shot up from the stump and whirled on the coordinator. "So the bottom line is money, is that it? How can you place a price on a man's life? You can't just give up and leave him out there!''

  Her voice had risen to a wail. When she realized how she sounded, she swallowed and swiped her sleeve across her mouth, acutely aware that the surrounding tents probably sheltered sleeping searchers who needed and deserved their rest. She gazed upriver, fighting for control, watching Riley O'Keefe bounce along the footbridge toward shore. From the surreptitious glances he shot her direction, she guessed that he had heard her outburst and probably thought she was hysterical. Not that he was far off the mark. Derrick needed her, and her ignorance of the area held her trapped here, unable to make a move on her own.

  The sound of a snapping twig made Crysta glance around. A thin, brown-haired man in jeans and a powder- blue sweatshirt strode through the trees. For an instant she wondered if he had been eavesdropping on her conversa­tion with the search coordinator, then discounted the sus­picion as ridiculous. She couldn't distrust everyone she saw.

  Crysta swallowed again and took a bracing breath, re­turning her attention to the coordinator. "I—I'm sorry for raising my voice. I should be thanking you for all you've done."

  "Don't be sorry, ma'am. As hard as it is for you to be­lieve, I understand how you feel, truly I do. I wish I could continue the search, but I can't. Not without cause. If you'd like, you can call headquarters and see if they'll authorize our staying. Or the police in Anchorage. All I need is a go- ahead."

  A sense of futility swept over Crysta. Nothing she could say or do would change things, not even if she blurted out the entire story and gave them a blow-by-blow account of previous instances when she had experienced telepathic communication with her brother. Who would believe her? Except for her parents, Derrick and her aunt Eva, who had ever believed her? Not her ex-husband, certainly, not the family doctor, not her analyst. Why expect more from a bunch of strangers?

  "I don't suppose you'd be interested in hiring yourself out as a guide?"

  He gave her a regretful smile. "Like everyone else, I have a job I have to get back to. My boss excuses me for official searches, but when those end, he expects me back."

  Crysta swallowed. "Could you recommend a guide to me then?"

  "An easy dozen, but none will be available. Their time is usually booked up well in advance, sometimes as much as a year."

  "Where exactly did the bear attack occur?" she asked softly, hoping he would be more informative than Sam had been.

  His gaze sharpened. "You're not thinking about going out there, are you?"

  What did he expect her to do? Nothing? Crysta knew she was a lousy liar, so she chose silence as an answer.

  "No way." He jerked his pen from behind his ear, sud­denly all business, his body language clearly stating that, as far as he was concerned, their conversation was over. "I'm really sorry about your brother, ma'am. If you have any more questions, you know where I am."

  "I have a right to know all the pertinent facts."

  "If you wanna get yourself killed, you'll do it without my help."

  "You're withholding information from next of kin."

  He leveled a stubborn glare at her. Then, eyes revealing nothing, he pointed downstream. "The scene of the attack was that way."

  The sarcasm made Crysta want to shake him. "How far?"

  He seemed to consider the question. "Several miles."

  "Several meaning three, four, five? How many would you guess?"

  "More than two, less than ten. I didn't log the exact lo­cation."

  "Was it along the river, at the mouth of an inlet, along a slough?"

  He frowned, feigning bewilderment. "I think it was along the river, but then again, it could have been a slough. It was definitely along the Yentna somewhere, and it'd be hard to miss if you came across it. We flagged the area."

  Blazing with anger and fighting off tears, Crysta turned away before she lost her temper. It certainly wouldn't help Derrick if she alienated everyone who might be able to find him. As she walked up the slope back to the lodge, she weighed her options, trying to decide what she should do next. It didn't look as if she was going to convince anyone else to resume the search for her brother. She needed a map of the area.

  Weariness blurred her thoughts, and the maze of dis­jointed ideas in her head made her wonder if she wasn't losing her ability to be rational. Overwhelming evidence in­dicated that Derrick was dead, the victim of a bear attack. Was she insane to believe otherwise?

  A gust of wind caught Crysta's hair, whipping it across her face. She stared through the reddish-brown strands, wondering if she would ever again see her brother's hair gleaming in sunshine, ever again hear him call her name.

  As a greenhorn in rugged country, she would be taking a perilous step if she ventured far from the lodge alone. She must think things through, plan her strategy. If her dreams were accurate, there was a whole lot more than bears out there to worry about. She would need all her wits about her that was a certaint
y. Maybe a hot bath would clear her head.

  She slipped quietly into Sam's apartment and gathered fresh clothing from her suitcases, then slipped quietly out again, relieved that she hadn't encountered Sam. As she approached the sauna building, the hair on her nape prick­led. Hesitating, she glanced uneasily around. When she spied no one, she shrugged off the sensation, blaming it on exhaustion and raw nerves.

  Proceeding up the steps to the building, she flipped the sign over to Occupied, as Sam had told her to do, and opened the heavy outer door to the anteroom. After hang­ing her fresh clothing on the provided hooks, Crysta se­lected a few chunks of wood from the supply along one wall, then opened the stove door and refueled the fire. Grabbing soap, shampoo and a towel off the stack, she stepped through the interior doorway into the steam room, pulling the massive door closed behind her.

  Amazed at how effectively Sam's rustic sauna system worked, Crysta deep-breathed the steam. The structure had soaked up the mist until the foot-thick walls were swollen and airtight. Now she could appreciate Sam's reasons for not putting latches on the doors. The air was so hot and thick that someone less fit could easily stay in here too long and get woozy.

  Crysta felt as though a hundred years had rolled away. On one side of the room was a recessed area in the planked floor, bedded with rock that was somehow heated by the wood stove. A huge galvanized tub sat on the rock, the simmering water within sending up a continual mist of steam. Nearby was another tub, filled with cool water. The opposite wall supported handmade steam benches. The slatted floor provided drainage.

  She had always imagined coming to the lodge with Der­rick, to have him be the one to show her around.

  Remembering only sketches of Sam Barrister's instruc­tions, Crysta was on her own in figuring out the bathing procedure. Feeling uneasy because there was no latch on the door to guarantee privacy, Crysta undressed, then sloshed water over the rocks so she could enjoy the calming effects of the steam. She filled the large bucket by the tub of hot water, added cold water to get the temperature right, and dumped the contents over herself. Definitely not the Ritz, but she guessed that was the appeal of Cottonwood Bend. People came here to escape the strictures of their citified lives.

  After a brisk shampoo and scrubdown, she returned to the anteroom and dressed, forgoing makeup and giving her hair only a few cursory swipes with a brush.

  En route back to the lodge, Crysta spotted a flash of red down by the river. Riley O'Keefe. Remembering that Sam had said the Irishman worked for Blanchette, Crysta de­cided to talk to him, just to see if she might glean some new information. Stowing her damp clothing by the lodge en­trance, she struck off toward the river, shivering as a cool breeze whipped up off the water to cut through her denim shirt and jeans. For the first time since coming to Alaska, she wished she had on her thermal undershirt.

  Riley O'Keefe, who had been cleaning fish, smiled when she approached. Scooping a wad of chewing tobacco from inside his cheek, he shook his hand clean and spat. "Sorry to be caught with a chaw, but I wasn't expectin' company this time of morning. Nice to know I'm not the only night owl up and around."

  Appalled that anyone would stick a fish-bloodied finger in his mouth, Crysta hid a shudder and said, "It doesn't seem like night to me." She shot a glance at the sky. "It's kind of like twilight, isn't it?"

  "Yeah, but this time of year, it's the only nighttime you'll get. Makes for a great growing season, but newcomers often have trouble sleeping. It'll catch up with you, though, and when it does, you'll crash and sleep like the dead."

  The dead. Everything reminded her of Derrick and her race against time. Crysta raked her fingers through her wet hair, forcing herself to smile. "I understand you know my brother."

  "I knew him."

  Crysta flinched at his use of the past tense. "You work for Blanchette, Sam tells me."

  "That's right." Opening a Coleman cooler that sat be­side him, Riley fished out a dripping can of beer. "Want one? Might help you sleep, and I've got plenty more where this came from. I'm heading into Anchorage later. Shriver's making the loop today, so I can put in a few hours at work, pick up another rack of beer, then pull a U-turn and do more fishing. The life of Riley." He chuckled at his joke, then arched an eyebrow. "Wet your whistle with me?"

  Crysta couldn't help wondering how Riley O'Keefe could afford frequent trips to the lodge and all the beer he wanted to drink on a warehouse supervisor's wages. Maybe she was in the wrong line of work. "I'm not much of a beer drinker unless the weather's extremely hot. Thanks for offering."

  He pulled the can tab. Tipping back his head, he guz­zled, his larynx bobbing. For a moment, she thought he meant to drain the can. Giving a satisfied burp and an apologetic smile, he wiped his chin with his shirt sleeve.

  "I guess you're the type who comes prepared," Crysta said lightly.

  "How's that?"

  "Well, you have a stock of brew." She inclined her head at the cooler. "And I understand you even travel with your own phone. You lent it to Sam last week, didn't you?"

  "The mobile phone?" He nodded. "Yeah, I brought mine up. His was gone for repairs. In a remote place like this, a phone is a must. Never know when an emergency might come up."

  Crysta's throat tightened as she glanced downstream. "Yes, my brother's disappearance proves that."

  Riley finished off his beer, tossed the can into a sack be­side him, and promptly reached into the cooler for another. Nearby, Crysta saw a pile of discarded beer cans in the brush, and she was surprised that Riley's hadn't joined them. His regard for the environment made her reverse her first unfavorable impression of him. Just because a man had poor chewing-tobacco habits didn't mean he wasn't a nice person.

  "I'm real sorry about Derrick, by the way. Started to tell you so when you landed, but I wasn't sure what to say."

  The sympathy in his expression made a lump rise in Crysta's throat, and her eyes started to burn. To maintain control over her emotions, she gazed at the beer cans in the nearby brush. Alaska wouldn't remain beautiful and un­touched very long if people threw litter all over the place. She wondered why Sam didn't lay some ground rules for his guests. Perhaps he had, and some simply chose to ignore them.

  "I guess there isn't much anyone can say," Crysta finally replied, dragging her gaze back to Riley. After a moment, she asked, "You wouldn't happen to know exactly where my brother's clothing was found, would you?"

  O'Keefe gave her a knowing look. "Why don't you ask the search coordinator?"

  "I did, but he was rather vague."

  His voice gentle with concern, he asked, "You aren't thinking about going down there, are you?"

  "I might. That's my decision."

  "True. Unfortunately, I don't know the exact location. Just that it was downriver somewhere."

  Frustration seethed within Crysta, warming her skin. She had a hunch O'Keefe knew more than he was telling. "If you do know, I'd appreciate your telling me. I realize the risks."

  He gave her a pleading look. "Don't put me on the spot. It's not my business, you know? I'm just a guest here. If I get on Sam's bad side, my weekend retreat is shot all to hell, and I like coming here.''

  Crysta could see pressing him for more information would be fruitless. She understood everyone's concern and appreciated their reasons for trying to protect her, but it was frustrating, nonetheless. She decided to explore another subject. "I gather you come here a lot?"

  "Every chance I get."

  "Must be nice. Most people can't afford the rates or the air fare in."

  "All the pilots give me a break on my air fare, and Sam gives me a discount."

  "It still must be expensive. Especially if you bring your friend often. What's his name?"

  "Steve Henderson. He's not the only guy from work I bring, but I do bring him the most. It's all what your pri­orities are, I guess. Me, I'm single, don't have kids. I figure I may as well enjoy myself. And if a few weekends away help Steve to cope, it seems little enough for me to do, pay
ing his way up. Nice kid, Steve. Closest thing to a son I'll ever have."

  "It's good of you to care. Nowadays, too many people don't." Crysta focused on O'Keefe's wristwatch, wonder­ing if it was a genuine Rolex or an inexpensive look-alike. "I gather you and Sam must know each other well."

  He nodded. "Sam's good people."

  "You like him, then?"

  "Everybody likes Sam."

  "I know my brother did."

  Riley O'Keefe took another swallow of beer, sighing with satisfaction as he drew the can from his mouth. "Yeah, they got along real well. Most of the time, anyway."

  Crysta's skin prickled. "Most of the time?"

  O'Keefe shrugged. "Nobody gets along a hundred per­cent."

  "I wasn't aware they ever disagreed."

  "Wasn't any big deal."

  Crysta took a moment to phrase her next question, not wishing to sound too eager. "When were they on the outs?"

  He squinted and leaned over to retie the laces on his boot. Another green boot with a band of yellow at the top. "Der­rick had been coming up a lot lately, more than usual. You know how it goes. Too much of a good thing. Don't mis­understand—they were good friends. Hell, Sam's been half out of his mind since Derrick came up missing. They just didn't see eye-to-eye sometimes, that's all."

  That was news to Crysta. "I guess we all feel cross at times." She caught the inside of her cheek between her teeth, worrying the soft flesh, her gaze fixed on O'Keefe's ruddy face. "They weren't quarreling last week, were they? Right before Derrick disappeared?"

  He glanced up, his eyes sharpening. "What if they were?"

  Crysta shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans. "Just curious. That could account for Sam's reaction to Derrick's disappearance. He might feel a little guilty, which always makes losing someone hurt all the more."

  He seemed to relax. "It was no big deal. Something silly, I think. Sam was a little hot when Derrick left, but he would have been over it by the time your brother got back."