Cry of the Wild

by Catherine Anderson

  "I thought the guys cleaned their own fish down at the river," she ventured weakly.

  "Some do, others don't. My pay is the same no matter what the work, so I do not complain."

  Planting her hands on her hips, Crysta stared into the tub and wondered how one went about cleaning a salmon. It wasn't something the average Los Angeles woman learned. Behind her, Jangles bustled about the kitchen, opening oven doors and banging pans. Ellen Meyers's voice piped into Crysta's mind. "Use that head of yours for something be­sides a hat rack, Crysta." Cleaning a fish couldn't be that difficult. Nauseating, perhaps, but not difficult.

  Picking up the knife that rested on the edge of the sink, Crysta advanced on a dead fish, her gorge rising as she be­gan the nasty task. If it hadn't been for her brother's plight, she might have begged off. But getting on Jangles's good side was crucial.

  One fish later, Crysta was mentally calculating ways Der­rick could make this up to her. Dinner at Navaho's, one of the glitziest restaurants in her neighborhood, would be nice. By the time she finished the second fish, she was thinking more along the lines of a Caribbean cruise, all expenses paid. It was a cheering thought, imagining Derrick, alive and well, trying to make good to her on a debt. And he would definitely owe her when this was over.

  "When you get finished, it would be nice if there was some meat left to eat," Jangles said matter-of-factly.

  The sound of the other woman's voice so close to her el­bow made Crysta jump. She turned and raised an eyebrow. "Can you give me some pointers?"

  Jangles's mouth quirked, but she didn't smile. Taking the knife from Crysta's hand, she picked up another fish and, with a few deft strokes of the blade, gutted and scaled it. "It is simple," she said as she tossed the cleaned salmon into the other sink. "When you finish, rinse them all, and then we will fillet them and cut up the steaks."

  Crysta eyed the next fish, none too eager to resume her chore, but determined. She read Jangles as being a woman who had little use for wimps. Not that Crysta did, either. It was just that in her environment, it wasn't considered wimpy to do one's fishing over a meat counter.

  A soft knock at the outside door brought Crysta's head up. It would be just her luck that the caller was a guest bringing more fish. Sighing, she returned to her task. Jan­gles threw a wary glance over her shoulder as she went to answer the knock. Then, the instant she cracked the door, the Indian woman stiffened.

  "What is it?" she asked in a sharp voice. "I told you not to come here."

  A masculine voice replied in a language Crysta couldn't understand. Jangles abandoned her use of English and re­sponded in kind. Then, after throwing a worried look at Crysta, she opened the door wide enough to slip outside.

  Crysta rose on her toes and angled her body across the utility sink, trying to see out the window. She glimpsed Jangles and a stoutly built Indian man hurrying away from the lodge. Before Crysta could get a clear look at the man's face, the two entered the trees. There, beyond earshot, they stopped. It looked to Crysta as though they were arguing. Heatedly. Jangles kept casting glances over her shoulder, as if she feared she might be seen.

  Perplexed, Crysta rinsed her hands and turned to regard the various pots Jangles had left unattended on the stove. She turned down the flame under a huge skillet of frying potatoes, then gave them a cursory stir with the oversize spatula. What could the man have said that was so impor­tant that Jangles had dropped everything to talk to him?

  Crysta wandered back to the sink and looked out the window to see Jangles scurrying back to the lodge. When the Tlingit woman reentered the kitchen, she looked breathless and agitated. Crysta busied herself cleaning another fish.

  "I turned down the flame under the potatoes."

  "Ah. Thank you."

  Crysta hoped Jangles might explain who the man was, but she didn't. "A friend of yours?"

  The Indian woman threw Crysta a stony look and didn't answer. Crysta wondered if perhaps the man was Jangles's lover. Maybe Sam had rules against his employees socializ­ing during the work week, and the woman feared that Crysta would tell on her. It was difficult to imagine the plump lit­tle Indian woman caught up in a torrid affair, but what other explanation was there? If the man had come to the lodge for a legitimate reason, Jangles wouldn't have re­acted the way she had.

  Crysta grabbed another salmon and went to work on it, trying not to think about the cold, scaly skin against her palm. In between fish, she threw longing glances out the window at the dense cottonwoods, wishing she had the know-how to strike off on her own to search for her brother. If only Derrick had become lost in intercity Los Angeles, where she maneuvered like a pro, then she wouldn't be wasting precious time, elbow-deep in raw salmon.

  It was little comfort knowing that she had come in here not to waste time but to pry information from Jangles. Though Crysta made several attempts at conversation, the Indian woman remained distant. When the fish were all cleaned, Crysta stood beside the Tingit at a large work center in the middle of the room, watching to see how she filleted the pink meat. When Crysta felt she had the tech­nique down pat, she began filleting herself.

  After several minutes had passed with no conversation, Crysta could bear the silence no longer. "Have I done something to make you dislike me?"

  Jangles continued slicing salmon steaks without pause. "I like you fine. I think you should leave, that is all. Derrick would want you to."

  Crysta considered her next words carefully. "Why do you feel I should leave, that my brother wouldn't want me here?"

  Jangles at last stopped working to pin Crysta with her black gaze. "Because you are in danger here."

  "Other people are here. Are you telling them to leave?"

  "They are different," the woman rasped. "You are walking in shadows, courting death."

  "That's nonsense."

  "Is it? I speak seldom. My silence makes many forget that I have ears. Leave, Crysta Meyers, before it is too late. You cannot help your brother now."

  "What have you heard?" Crysta pressed. "Oh, please, Jangles, tell me. My brother isn't dead. I know he isn't. I need your help."

  "And I am giving it. Leave."

  "You believe someone harmed my brother, don't you? You don't think it was a bear that got him. Have you told anyone? Mr. Barrister, the search coordinator, anyone? You must, Jangles, you must. They're abandoning the search for him. He could be alive out there!"

  "I know nothing," the woman said. "Bits and pieces that make no sense. There is nothing I can do, nothing you can do. You take great risks staying here, asking questions and following Sam. Desperate people can be dangerous. Leave before it is too late."

  Desperate people? "Convince me." Crysta met the woman's gaze. "Stop talking about birds and shadows. Tell me something concrete."

  Jangles averted her face. No matter how Crysta tried to prompt her, she refused to say anything more. They fin­ished filleting the salmon in taut silence, Crysta so frus­trated she wanted to cry. Jangles's vague references to having overheard something suspicious was the closest thing to a clue Crysta had unearthed. How could she give up and leave the kitchen when she knew Jangles had information that might save her brother's life?

  Chapter Seven

  In the end, Crysta felt she had no choice but to stay to help Jangles prepare breakfast. "Desperate people can be dan­gerous.” The woman's words replayed ceaselessly in Crysta's mind. She tried not to reveal her disappointment when the Tlingit woman refused to say any more about Derrick's disappearance.

  When the meal was cooked, Crysta remained true to her word about making herself useful and busied herself car­rying food to the dining room, arms aching from the heavi­ly laden serving trays as she maneuvered her way through the doorway and down the aisles between tables. Hotcakes, salmon and beef steaks, cottage fries, eggs, toast, biscuits, sweet rolls. Cholesterol heaven. She couldn't believe the variety or the amounts of food Jangles had provided.

  Guests and soon-to-be-departing searchers trailed in to
eat as the items were placed in the warming pans along one wall and on the tables. Crysta tried not to get angry about the aborted search for her brother. Her mother having often reminded her that one could attract more flies with honey than vinegar, Crysta forced herself to smile at each man who offered her his condolences.

  The rich food smells made her feel a little nauseated, probably a result of not having eaten in so long. Now that she came to think of it, she couldn't recall her last meal.

  When she had finished helping Jangles, Crysta filled herself a plate and sat at an unoccupied table, determined to eat at least a few bites. As she chewed a piece of steak, she felt someone staring at her. Glancing up, she met the gaze of a lanky, brown-haired man with worried blue eyes. She recognized him as the same young man she had seen in the woods earlier when she was conversing with the search co­ordinator.

  The intent, anxious way he watched Crysta unnerved her. The meat in her mouth turned to sawdust. With an effort, she managed to swallow. Averting her gaze, she studied the remaining food on her plate, her determination to eat van­ishing.

  "You have to get something under your belt," a deep voice chided her. "You can't run on willpower and caffeine for long. Trust me, I know."

  The sound of Sam's voice made Crysta leap. As he sat down across from her with his plate piled high, she prayed he wouldn't read the guilt on her face. Had he gone to his office yet? Would anything out of place clue him to her visit there? "It's hard to eat when I feel I should be doing some­thing." She met his gaze. "Time is slipping by, and so far, I've accomplished nothing."

  "You've only been here—" He glanced at his watch. "It's only been about twelve hours, tops."

  "It seems like days." One table down, a fisherman hooted with laughter. Distracted by the sounds of merriment, Crysta glanced in that direction, then back at Sam. "It's my brother out there. I keep telling you that, but it doesn't seem to sink in."

  After a lengthy pause, he replied, "Oh, it sank in, be­lieve me. It's just that there's nothing you can do. I tried to tell you that over the phone before you wasted air fare coming here."

  Visions of Derrick swept through Crysta's mind, and she felt angry tears welling in her eyes. "I disagree. I think there's plenty I can do, and I intend to."

  Crysta knew that was an overstatement. She had failed to convince Jim Sales to continue the official search. There were no guides available. At the moment, her only option seemed to be searching for Derrick on her own. She knew that doing so would be dangerous and that only a fool would try it. She was no fool. But she was desperate. Des­perate enough to risk her life if she had to.

  "Why don't you start by trusting me?"

  Trust him? If Crysta hadn't been so upset, she might have hooted with laughter herself. She had to hand it to him; the husky concern in his voice sounded so real, he deserved an Oscar. She wished he truly did care. Never had she needed a friend more.

  The scalding tears in her eyes spilled over onto her cheeks. She made an angry swipe at them, outraged with herself for losing control again in front of him. He wasn't what he seemed. The proof of that lay hidden in a cupboard in his office. For an instant, she considered telling him that Jan­gles might know something, just to see his reaction, but caution ruled that out. She mustn't betray Jangles to any­one—least of all to him.

  "You expect me to trust you?" she countered. "Why won't you trust me? You could start by answering my ques­tions. No one here will so much as point me in the right di­rection so I can look for Derrick."

  The dark depths of his eyes eddied, the swirl of emotion revealed there too fleeting to identify. His jaw tightened. "I don't think you're equipped to look for him on your own. Do you?"

  Crysta knew she wasn't, but she couldn't bring herself to admit it to him. It struck her as ironic that a brief pontoon flight had plucked her out of a world in which she felt ca­pable of handling almost anything and had deposited her in a place so foreign to her that she was rendered all but help­less.

  "You're very frightened for your brother," Sam went on in a soothing, reasonable tone. "Fright can lead anyone to make unwise decisions."

  "If so, then the consequences of those decisions would be my own fault."

  "And mine for allowing you to make them. You're in unfamiliar country and under a great deal of stress. You're also exhausted. You can't be thinking clearly right now."

  "Do you always take responsibility for other adults?"

  The corner of his mouth lifted in a halfhearted smile. "Only when the circumstances dictate. Besides, you're not just anyone—you're my best friend's sister."

  "Yes, and your best friend is lost out there, possibly dy­ing. How will you live with it if you don't do something to save him?"

  He studied her for a long moment. "Don't judge me on appearances, Crysta. Derrick trusted me. Why won't you?"

  "Because you—" Crysta bit back the words. She had nearly mentioned the briefcase. An ache of exhaustion spread across her shoulders.

  He sighed and shoved his plate to one side. "Crysta, why don't you fly back to Anchorage with the volunteers? Why torture yourself like this? Let me handle the search for Der­rick."

  "What search?" she cried, a little more loudly than she intended. The dining room went suddenly quiet, but she was beyond caring who might hear her. "Show me one person who's been out there looking for him today!"

  "What if I were to promise I'd go on looking? Would you consider leaving then?"

  Once again thinking of the briefcase, Crysta could scarcely credit how worried about her he looked. His du­plicity made her long to reach across the table and slap him. A dozen accusations crawled up her throat. She voiced none of them. "If you're going to search for Derrick, there's not a single good reason I can't accompany you."

  "No, there are more like a dozen—the first, a killer bear. I'll have my hands full just keeping my own hide safe."

  Passing a hand over her eyes, Crysta glanced down the table. The man with the worried blue eyes was still staring at her. "Who is that man? He keeps staring at me."

  Sam followed her gaze. "Steve Henderson. He's proba­bly not staring so much as spacing out. He's the fellow with the sick son."

  Crysta's heart caught. No wonder there was such a wor­ried expression in his eyes. She felt a sense of kinship with him.

  "I'm surprised he's not at home, spending every spare moment with his son," she whispered.

  "He says the doctor advises that family members con­tinue with their regular activities. If not, the kid will sense how desperately ill he is and may not respond as well to treatment. He doesn't enjoy himself here, as you can see. Half the time, he just sits, gazing at nothing. When I try to imagine how he must feel..." The muscles in Sam's face tightened. "Sometimes I feel guilty because I'm so glad it isn't Tip."

  Crysta curled her hands around her coffee mug, wishing she could do something to help Steve Henderson, knowing she couldn't. Just as no one seemed able to help her. "Is there any hope?"

  "Maybe a bone marrow transplant. They're waiting for a match, and then he'll be flown down to Seattle for the procedure. If they can afford the initial fees, that is."

  "Won't it be horribly expensive?"

  "More than a hoister driver like Steve can afford. His in­surance had a ceiling amount per illness, and that's been exhausted. From what Riley O'Keefe tells me, Steve's in debt already." Sam poked at a clump of scrambled eggs with his fork, looking none too hungry. "We took a collection last month for a television and VCR for Scotty's bedroom, so he can watch movies when he's too ill to leave his bed. But that's only a scratch on the surface. He wants a Nin­tendo. He wants to visit Disneyland. They'd like to buy him some tutoring videos so he won't fall behind in school. The costs are endless."

  Pictures of Steve Henderson and his wife hovering at their dying child's bedside filled Crysta's mind. The pain they must feel. A knot lodged in her throat. She didn't even know Steve Henderson and his little boy, Scotty. It was insane to feel so perilously
close to weeping.

  "Crysta..." Sam's voice trailed off, and he reached to grasp her wrist, his fingers curling around her flesh like heated bands of steel. "You're exhausted. Why don't you he down for a while. My bed has fresh linen on it. If I get a chance to rest, I can bunk in Tip's room."

  Gazing at his handsome face, Crysta decided he was the epitome of the romantic hero: tall, dark, powerfully built, and irresistibly attractive—the proverbial bridge over trou­bled water, the sort a woman could fancy herself leaning on. But what lurked beneath the facade Sam Barrister pre­sented to the world? Was he as mysterious on the inside as he was on the outside? It occurred to her that if she ac­cepted his offer, she might be using the bed of her brother's murderer. The thought made her skin crawl.

  "I couldn't take time for sleep." Crysta blinked and straightened. "After I help Jangles clean up, I want to study one of those forestry maps again."

  "Why? So you can go out and get lost? Do you think Derrick would want that?"

  Crysta wanted to say that Derrick had called to her, pleading for help, but that wasn't within Sam's scope of re­ality. Her dreams were her curse, never to be shared with anyone, unless she wanted her sanity questioned. "I'm go­ing out to look for him. I don't suppose you have any spare pairs of rubber boots?"

  He gestured toward a wall cupboard with his chin. "They're mostly men's sizes. I don't know if any of them will fit you."

  Crysta made a mental note to check the boots later. "Be­fore I go, I need to study the area, so I have my bearings." She turned her mug within the circle of her palms, forcing Sam to release his grip on her wrist. Recalling her last dream and the ramshackle structure she had seen in it, Crysta licked her lips and let her gaze trail past Sam's shoulder. "Are there any cabins downstream from here?"

  "No. Why?" His voice sharpened, compelling her to look at him.

  "In case I need shelter," she lied. "There must be a cabin out there someplace."