Cry of the Wild

by Catherine Anderson

  "I never read mysteries." Two could play this game. Crysta shrugged. "I saw you coming out here and decided to join you. Nothing mysterious about that, either, is there?"

  His expression registered touche as clearly as if he had spoken. Pushing to his feet, he regarded her steadily. Then, with a half grin, he reached to pluck a leaf out of her hair, his hand lingering longer than was necessary, his thumb grazing her temple. "You not only look like Derrick, you act like him."

  Crysta had the uncomfortable feeling that he was trying to distract her, and she was loath to admit that the tactic might work. The notion and all it implied frightened her in some indefinable way she didn't have the energy to deal with right now. "Why do I get the feeling that isn't a compli­ment?"

  His grin broadened. "Possibly because you know Der­rick as well as I do. When they came up with the word bull- headed, it was with him in mind."

  Drawing on the store of maxims her mother used so fre­quently, Crysta quipped, "Birds of a feather flock to­gether. According to Derrick, you two were very close." She paused, gauging the seconds so her next words would catch him off guard. "Is that why you quarreled, because Der­rick's bullheaded?"

  His face tightened. "Like I said, that's not your con­cern."

  "If my inferences bother you, why keep secrets? Your having a quarrel with Derrick looks bad. Even you have to admit that. If it was over nothing important, why hide it?"

  He arched an eyebrow. "Excuse me, but do I in any way resemble a bear, Crysta? A quarrel wouldn't look bad if you would take things at face value."

  "Face value isn't good enough, not when my brother's life rides on it. I want answers, and I'm not getting them, not from you or anyone else. You've no right to keep se­crets from me."

  His eyes gave her no quarter. "And you've no right to accuse me of things without proof."

  "But I do have every right to see where my brother's gear was found, where this alleged bear attack occurred. Yet you refuse to tell me where either of those places is. And you've seen to it that no one else will tell me, either. I resent being treated as if I were a child."

  "A child? This is Alaska, not the Los Angeles zoo. A renegade grizzly could spot you in his territory from a mile away and go into attack mode. Grizzlies don't cotton to in­terlopers at the best of times. Hikers learn to respect their habits and go out of their way to accommodate them. But a crazed bear? We're talking totally unpredictable."

  "Then why don't you escort me downriver? I'd be safe with you, and I could satisfy my curiosity."

  "You wouldn't be safe with me, that's just it. Do you see a large red S emblazoned on my shirt?" The sound of a snapping twig caught his attention. He glanced over his shoulder, looking uneasy. Crysta wondered if his behavior was a ploy calculated to frighten her. She scanned the woods behind him. When he looked back at her, she met his gaze. "I couldn't protect myself from a grizzly, let alone you," he finished.

  "Come on, Sam. Derrick's told me what an expert guide you are. You're as at home out here as in your living room. You don't let grizzlies or any other bears stop you from hiking."

  "Under ordinary circumstances, no. It's safe enough, if you know what you're doing. But these aren't ordinary cir­cumstances, and that's no ordinary bear out there. And, contrary to what you seem to think, I'm a very ordinary guy. Besides, I told you flat out before you came that I didn't have time to escort you downriver."

  "Yet you have time for a walk?" Shaking with anger, she gestured upstream toward the lodge. "Shall we head back? Or do you want to stroll a little farther?"

  Sam bit back a frustrated groan. She had pluck, he'd give her that. But there was such a thing as being too fearless for one's own good. If he was correct and Derrick had fallen victim to foul play, the last thing Sam needed was a daring and stubborn sleuthing partner. He wanted Crysta on the first flight out, safely away from here before she followed the wrong man into the woods or pressed the wrong person for answers. So much for re-examining the spot where he had found Derrick's gear.

  "We may as well head back," he growled.

  She glanced around. "How much farther is it?"

  So exhausted that he was operating on automatic pilot, Sam said, "It's about—" and then caught himself. She had almost nailed him. "You don't give up, do you?"

  "Would you?"

  Her hazel eyes lifted, filled with such pain and fear that Sam yearned to comfort her. The answer to her question was no, if it was his brother missing, he would never give up, but he couldn't admit that. Nor could he acknowledge, even to himself, that her expression tugged at his heart.

  Over the last ten years Sam had formed a vague picture of Crysta from Derrick's stories about her, but even so, she'd been little more than a name to him. Now the reality of her was hitting him like a well-placed blow to his solar plexus. She was a living, breathing, feeling person, grappling with grief and terror. And he was helpless to do anything about it. The fact that she appealed to him more than any other woman ever had made the situation he found himself in even more difficult.

  Once back at the lodge, Sam dropped Crysta off at the door and went down to the river, presumably to oversee his paying guests but in actuality to think and wait for a more opportune moment to sneak away. Until he was certain Crysta wouldn't follow him, he didn't dare go downstream again.

  A feeling of helplessness dogged Sam everywhere he went. Derrick. He couldn't get his friend off his mind. "Some­thing fishy." What had Derrick meant by that? And whom had he suspected? Sam was totally in the dark. Surely Der­rick had come across an illegal activity of some kind within his company. But what? "Something fishy up here in Alaska," he had said. "I'll hang the creeps." Derrick had suspected something serious, definitely. Something so seri­ous that the perpetrators had killed him to protect their an­onymity.

  Or had they? "I don't believe my brother is dead. I know he isn't." Sam sat on the riverbank, arms braced on his knees, shoulders slumped with weariness. There was only one consolation in all of this. If Derrick was indeed alive, he was an expert woodsman and could survive in the Alaska interior for quite some time. Unless, of course, he was badly hurt. In that case, he probably wouldn't have lasted this long.

  More determined now than ever to search for her brother on her own, Crysta returned to her map the moment she got back to the lodge. She was deeply engrossed when Tip's voice snagged her attention. She glanced up to spy him walking across the dining hall, hair rumpled from sleep, his cheek fined from where it had pressed against his pillow.

  "H-hi, Crys. Wh-what are you d-doing?"

  His shy smile made it impossible for Crysta to say she was busy. She patted the table across from her. "I'm looking this map over. Have a seat."

  "Am I b-bugging you?"

  Crysta forced a smile. "Certainly not. Whoever said such a thing to you?"

  "Lots of people." He swung a jeans-clad leg over the op­posite bench and sat astraddle the wood, one elbow propped on the table's edge. "I don't bug my dad, but he loves me."

  Crysta was pleased to note that the boy's stuttering had stopped, a sign that her warm welcome had put him at ease.

  "Well, I like you. Does that count?"

  His cheek dimpled as he smiled, giving Crysta an idea of what Sam might look like if his expression wasn't so stern all the time. Cocking his head, Tip regarded the map. Jab­bing a finger at a spot upriver from their location at the lodge, he said, "I walk to that place a lot."

  "Do you?"

  It occurred to Crysta that Tip might know the area well enough to give her some direction. But before she could pursue that train of thought, he jerked her offtrack.

  "D-do you really think my p-pictures are good enough to sell?"

  The return of his stammer told Crysta just how impor­tant to him her reply was. Recalling Sam's disapproval of this subject, she hesitated, but she couldn't bring herself to lie. "I not only think they would sell, but for premium prices. I believe you could become famous if you showed your work."

&n
bsp; Beaming with pleasure, Tip shot up off the bench. "I'm going to go paint."

  Crysta gazed after him, momentarily distracted from her worries about her brother. Tip clearly wanted to display his paintings, yet Sam wouldn't allow it. Crysta couldn't imag­ine why. Surely Sam could see that his son wanted and needed to excel in something, that he yearned to be ac­cepted by others as an equal. It was cruel to keep him se­cluded here, exposed only to the guests. In addition, many people who patronized an establishment seemed to feel it acceptable to snipe at those who worked there. As a de­signer and dress shop owner, Crysta had been on the re­ceiving end of such behavior. Someone like Tip couldn't understand that the jabs made at him weren't personal.

  With a weary sigh, Crysta eyed a nearby window. As much as she might like to champion Tip and to make Sam understand his son's needs, she didn't have time right now to play family counselor. Pushing to her feet, she sidled over to the glass and peered out at the river to see if Sam had tried sneaking off again. Sunlight glanced under the eaves, mak­ing her squint. It should be dark outside at this predawn hour, yet it wasn't. Was Derrick out there somewhere, gaz­ing at that same river? Hurt, possibly, and growing weaker? The thought made Crysta ache, and the need to be doing something hit her with such force that she stiffened.

  She saw Sam Barrister in one of the boats out on the river, helping a guest wield a large fishing net. As she watched him work, it occurred to her that as long as he was thus occu­pied, she had a perfect opportunity to snoop.

  A tingle crept up the nape of her neck as she turned from the window to contemplate the closed office door. Was it locked? Her heart picked up speed. Invading someone else's privacy wasn't something she felt comfortable doing, and yet, how could she not? She wouldn't rest until she exam­ined the familiar-looking sienna briefcase she had seen on Sam's desk. Was it Derrick's, as she suspected, or a look- alike?

  The few feet to the office seemed like a mile as she moved across the rustic planked floor. Checking over her shoul­der, Crysta made sure no one was watching before she tried the doorknob. It turned easily. Afraid of being discovered, she pushed quickly into the room and eased the door closed behind her, leaning her back against the wood. Her heart­beat resounded in her ears while she stood there, half ex­pecting someone to burst in after her.

  To her dismay, she felt no lock button when she glided her fingers over the cool surface of the doorknob. Someone might walk in and catch her there. She sped to the desk. The more quickly she checked the briefcase and got out of there, the better. A good plan, except for one thing: she felt like a common thief. When she reached to open the drawer, her hand hovered over the handle, fingers trembling.

  Her love for Derrick strengthened her resolve. This was no time to be a faintheart. Taking a deep breath, she jerked the drawer open. Disappointment coursed through her when all she saw was a thick, leather-bound book, the same shade of brown as Derrick's briefcase. Was this what she had seen on Sam's desk?

  No, she distinctly recalled Sam shoving papers back into a folder, closing the briefcase and pressing the latches. She had been tired, yes, but not so exhausted that she had started imagining things.

  Was this a plant, then? Had Sam hoped she would come here, see the brown book and believe her eyes had tricked her? The thought unsettled her. If such was the case, she was dealing with a very crafty fellow. Removing the book from the drawer, Crysta flipped it open.

  The heavy pages parted about a third of the way through. Crysta stared at a lock of dark hair affixed to the paper with clear tape. To the right of the hair was a notation, written in bold, masculine longhand, Eighteen months. On an­other page was a tiny tooth, stained a peculiar lavender shade, with the footnote, Tip's first tooth, lost at six years when learning to blow bubbles with grape bubble gum.

  Feeling an irresistible need to learn all she could about Sam Barrister, Crysta leafed through several more pages. Snapshots of Tip. Crayoned artwork done by a child's clumsy hand. An arrowhead. Dried flowers. All annotated in that manly script. Crysta's mouth inched into a reluctant smile. A scrapbook, filled with a father's treasured memo­ries.

  She could almost see Tip, as a much younger child, eyes bright with excitement, scurrying into the lodge with sur­prises for his dad. It said a great deal in Sam's behalf that he had not only saved everything but had so painstakingly recorded the memories. One of Tip's crayon drawings de­picted a stick-figure man holding a child on his lap, a sto­rybook opened on his knee. Knowing Tip's penchant for detail, Crysta guessed Sam must have read to his son fre­quently. Was a man without feeling capable of loving so deeply? Crysta didn't think so.

  Shoving the scrapbook back into the drawer, she checked all the other desk compartments, then went to the cup­boards along one wall. Door after door revealed nothing but lodge-related paper work—daily sheets, receipts and past years' tax documents. Dust burned in her nostrils as she shifted stack after stack of papers.

  Then Crysta opened a middle cupboard. The edge of a brown briefcase peeked out at her from beneath a pile of yellowed folders. She recognized the case by the deep, Z- shaped gouge at one corner, put there by Saksi, her moth­er's Pekingese, during one of his puppyhood teething fren­zies. Derrick had teased Ellen for weeks about the damage.

  With quivering hands, Crysta pulled the case off the shelf, all sense of guilt vanishing. Sam Barrister had lied to her. Not only had he lied, but he had tried to throw her off by planting a sentimental scrapbook in the drawer where he had known she would look first.

  Was he a loving father, as he clearly hoped she would be­lieve, or a killer?

  Shaken by the implications of her discovery, Crysta car­ried the briefcase to Sam's desk, emboldened by her sense of outrage. Now if Sam caught her in here, he would have as much explaining to do as she did. As she popped open the brass latches and lifted the lid of her brother's briefcase, another thought ricocheted through her mind. Sam wouldn't have hidden this unless there was something in­side he didn't want her to see. But what?

  Crysta spent the better part of a half hour trying to find an answer to that question. The documents in Derrick's file folders were simple and unmysterious, records of Blan­chette business transactions, inspections sheets, purchase orders, job assignments, return credits, jotted notes. Noth­ing Sam Barrister should have been afraid for her to see.

  So why had he hidden the briefcase? Maybe there had been something in one of the folders, something incrimi­nating, and before Sam could remove it, she had burst un­expectedly into his office. Put on the spot, he had been forced to say he hadn't seen the briefcase, and once he had lied, he had no alternative but to keep the case hidden, even after the incriminating evidence had been removed.

  The slamming of a door outside the office brought Crysta's head up. Heavy footsteps crossed the dining hall. Heart pounding, she closed the briefcase and returned it to the cupboard where Sam had hidden it, expecting him to walk in on her at any moment. All her bravado evaporated.

  If Sam was involved in her brother's disappearance—and it certainly looked as if he might be—it wasn't likely that raised eyebrows would stop him from getting rid of her if he thought she was on to him.

  When the footsteps faded away, she felt limp with relief.

  Since she hadn't been discovered, Crysta saw little point in abandoning stealth now. The less Sam knew of her activ­ities, the more chance she would have to watch him. She crept to the door, tensing at the smallest noise. After a final glance at the room to be certain she hadn't left anything out of place, she slipped out of the office and wandered over to the sitting area, pretending interest in one of the maga­zines.

  Her skin prickled. The picture on the front cover of the magazine was of a beheaded walrus. Crysta had never seen anything so gory. An inset in the upper right-hand corner of the cover showed a lonely stretch of Alaska beach littered with similarly mutilated corpses. The headline read: Wal­rus Killings Continue. Repulsed, she let the magazine drop from her fingers back onto the tabl
e.

  Had anyone seen her sneak from Sam's office? She didn't want to appear suspicious by glancing over her shoulder, so she brazened it out, half expecting a heavy hand to clamp over her shoulder.

  When no one confronted her, Crysta allowed herself to relax a little. Then it occurred to her that Sam might won­der what she'd been up to during his absence. After their run-in downriver, he'd never believe she'd been lounging around reading, no matter how convincing her act.

  She should look busy, but doing what? The clatter of pans from the kitchen reminded her that she had promised to help out in any way she could. There was nothing like killing two birds with one stone, and she had a feeling that Jangles, the cook, would be a font of information, if only she could be persuaded to talk.

  Striding toward the rear of the lodge, Crysta pushed open the swinging door to the huge, antiquated kitchen. Jangles spared her only a glance before returning her attention to the batter she was stirring inside a gigantic metal mixing bowl.

  "I was hoping you might let me help," Crysta offered in her friendliest voice. "I promised Sam I'd carry my own weight while I was here. Could you use a hand? I under­stand you've been overworked since the searchers arrived."

  "I've survived worse," the Tlingit woman replied. "And I only have one more meal to get through before they all fly out."

  "Still, the work load has been heavier than usual, and you must be running behind. Maybe I can help you catch up. I'm pretty good in a kitchen." In actuality, Crysta's forte was designing fashions for the problem figure, not preparing the calories that created it. Playing it safe, just in case she might be asked to cook something unfamiliar, Crysta added, "I can fetch and carry, wash dishes, scrub floors. Just name it."

  Jangles's dark eyes gleamed with unspoken challenge. "You can clean those fish behind you."

  Heart sinking, Crysta rolled up her sleeves and ap­proached the double utility basins along one wall. One tub was chock-full of salmon, all of them staring at her with round little eyes that made her skin crawl. The fish she had encountered up to now had already been beheaded, cleaned and arranged attractively on beds of ice at the neighbor­hood market.