Cry of the Wild

by Catherine Anderson

  "Abandoned cabins pepper the interior, but there are none nearby along the river. At least if there is, I haven't come across it. We aren't exactly in a metropolis out here." He raised one dark eyebrow. Clean-shaven, his strong jaw line complemented his striking features even more than be­fore, perfectly offsetting his prominent nose and angular bone structure.

  There was something about Sam Barrister, possibly the sheer size of him, that undermined her usual self-assurance. Under other circumstances, she would have deferred to his judgment. He knew this country; everything about him tes­tified to that. It would be foolish to disregard his warnings. Yet she had no choice.

  "Is there anything I can say to dissuade you?" he asked softly.

  Instead of answering his question, she replied, "I'll take every precaution."

  "If you lose your bearings, can you read a compass?"

  "I'm not expert at it, but it can't be that hard. Besides, there's always the sun to guide me."

  He laid his fork down on the edge of his plate. "You're forgetting we don't get the same sunrises and sunsets here that you're accustomed to seeing."

  "I'll figure it out."

  "You'll get lost, that's what you'll do."

  "That's my risk to take."

  "And my livelihood you're gambling with."

  "I said I would sign a disclaimer."

  He leaned forward, his eyes glittering. "I'll have it en­graved on your headstone, shall I? Do me one favor. At least get some rest before you go out there. Otherwise, you'll collapse five miles from the lodge."

  With that as a parting shot, he left the table, looking far angrier than Crysta felt he had any right to be. What did he care if she got herself killed? She didn't buy that his pri­mary concern was his reputation. It was a free country; he couldn't be held responsible for every ding-a-ling city slicker who ignored his advice and insisted on taking risks.

  It wasn't until after he was gone that Crysta realized he hadn't touched his meal. She eyed her own with mounting distaste. Only her realization that she needed nourishment prompted her to once again pick up her fork.

  After Crysta helped Jangles clean up the kitchen, she checked the boot cupboard to see if any of the spare rubber boots came close to her size. All were far too wide and would rub blisters. Disappointed, she abandoned the closet and followed her earlier plan of action, retrieving the map she had been studying from its rack on the check-in stand. Spreading it open on the table, she traced a finger along the spidery network of lines, trying to make sense of them. When she noticed the mileage scale in the bottom right cor­ner, her heart sank. An inch represented fifty miles? Crysta sat back, taking in the map with renewed dread. She hadn't realized until now just how large an area she was trying to familiarize herself with.

  Panic fluttered in her stomach. Sam was right; she had no business attempting a search on her own. She hadn't the vaguest idea how to find her way around out there. To her, one tree looked exactly like another.

  A picture of a wind-twisted spruce flashed in Crysta's mind, rekindling her determination. The tree of her dream had been growing along the bank of a waterway. She need only find it to know she was hunting for Derrick in the right area. The problem was that there were probably numerous rivers in this region, not to mention hundreds if not thousands of small sloughs. Which waterway had Derrick been following?

  So weary that she ached, Crysta slumped over the map, staring blindly. As she contemplated the enormity of the task she was undertaking, a frisson of fright coursed through her. She'd be risking her life out there, and if she got lost, as Sam predicted, her death might not be swift. Regardless, she had to search for her brother. If she didn't, she'd spend the remainder of her life hating herself.

  Black spots danced before Crysta's eyes. With a defeated sigh, she passed a hand over her forehead. Sam was right on another count: she had to grab a little sleep. If she didn't, she'd be dead on her feet before she had walked a mile. Her sleeve cuff brushed against her nose, and the strong smell of salmon hit her. Grimacing, Crysta drew back and glared at the stained denim. She needed another bath, thanks to Jangles's tub of fish.

  Wrinkling her nose, Crysta pushed to her feet and re­folded the map, tucking it under her arm. There wasn't time for another bath, not until she found her brother. After a couple of hours' sleep, absolutely no more than that, she had a search to begin. God willing, it would lead her to Derrick.

  Sam Barrister's bedroom was a reflection of the man himself, the colors earthy and quiet. Remembering her ex- husband's penchant for chrome and glass, Crysta decided she much preferred Sam's plain and simple approach. This was a place where one could stretch out and not worry about leaving fingerprints.

  His furniture was large and sturdy, the finish, like its owner, handsomely weathered and marred. The rumpled quilt on his bed, a wedding ring pattern, was hand stitched yet somehow masculine, the clean cases on his king-size pillows as crisp and white as Alaskan snow. The leather boots sitting neatly by the bedstead were stained mud- brown. Above the headboard hung a painting of the north­ern lights captured so beautifully in oils that Crysta stood mesmerized for a moment. Was it any wonder Sam loved Alaska?

  Crysta pictured him living a hundred years ago, a big, rugged man carving out an existence in the wilderness, his gaze always fixed on the horizon. Perhaps that was why he lived in Alaska, where the wave of civilization had not yet struck.

  She picked up the book on his nightstand. Scanning the title and blurb, she ascertained that it was about wolves and the human threat to their survival, the sort of material she might have found in Derrick's library. Clearly, Sam and her brother had a great deal in common.

  Everything led back to Derrick.

  Sighing, Crysta returned the book to its resting place, feeling lost and frightened. She knew why. There were no whispers inside her head. Was Derrick still alive? If so, why the ominous silence? Maybe he was deep in a dreamless sleep. Or unconscious. Please, God, let him be alive.

  As she turned from the bed, Crysta realized this was the perfect opportunity to search Sam's room. Not that he would have offered to let her sleep here if he had hidden anything from Derrick's briefcase in the drawers. Still...

  Methodically and thoroughly, she searched everywhere, even going so far as to run her arm under the mattress. She found nothing. Heavy of heart, she drew the blackout shade, plunging the room into darkness. Hold on, Derrick. I'm coming. I won't let you down. As she peeled off her clothes, Crysta thought of Sam in this room, tugging his shirt off over his head, sitting on the bed to doff his boots. The picture made her feel self-conscious, as if he were here with her, watching. The masculine scent in the room, his scent, added to that illusion, a pleasant blend of flannel and denim, fresh air and after-shave, laced with faint traces of musk. Cool air washed over her skin, making her shiver.

  She hoped Sam remembered offering her the use of his room and didn't barge in on her. Drawing on her flannel nightgown, she wriggled her toes against the braided rug and stretched her aching arms. A wind-up clock on the head­board drew her attention, its loud ticking reminding her of just how quickly each second passed. Time had become her enemy. And Derrick's. With numb fingers, she set the alarm so she wouldn't oversleep.

  Flipping back the corner of the quilt, Crysta slid into bed, pleased to feel that the crisp linen was stretched tight. From the rumpled condition of the quilt, she had half expected wrinkled sheets, one of her pet peeves. Punching the pil­low, she arranged it just so under her head and angled a forearm across her forehead, so exhausted that she felt wired. Determined, she closed her eyes.

  The sickening stench of dead fish crawled up her nos­trils. Crysta frowned and drew her forearm away from her face, wondering how the smell could possibly still be cling­ing to her. She had washed her hands and wrists thor­oughly, and now her soiled shirt lay in a heap by her suitcase.

  Rolling onto her side, Crysta drew up her knees, snug­gling her cheek against the pillow, bent on ignoring the odor
. She had more important things to worry about than personal hygiene. Warmth stole over her, and her muscles slowly relaxed. The hypnotic ticking of the clock began to soothe her. She closed her eyes, twisting her hips slightly so one leg was angled forward.

  Something cold pressed against her knee—something cold and wet. Crysta stopped breathing and lay motionless, her skin prickling. There was something in the bed. For an in­stant, the years rolled away and she felt like a child again, afraid of the dark and tormented by Derrick's stories of bloody hands reaching under the covers to grab her.

  It took all Crysta's strength of will to extend her hand to­ward the wet lump. Her fingertips encountered something cold and slightly rough. She slithered away, pushing up on her elbow. Throwing back the quilt, she stared through the shadowy gloom at a long, dark shape against the white backdrop of sheet. What on earth?

  Reaching behind her, Crysta grasped the shade and gave it a jerk, sending it into a rattling ascent on its roller. Sun­light spilled into the room.

  "Oh, my God!"

  Crysta sprang from the bed, eyes agape, frantically rub­bing her hand clean on her nightgown. A huge king salmon lay in the center of the mattress, its gill gaffed with a wicked- looking hook, its guts spilling forth from the jagged rip in its underbelly. Crysta glanced down to see that her gown was smeared with gore. She recoiled a step, stomach heaving.

  "Oh, my God..."

  Sam's office door flew open with such force that the doorknob cracked against the wall. He glanced up, amazed to see Crysta standing in the doorway, a white bundle clutched in her arms, her slender, jeans-clad legs spread wide as if she were trying to keep her balance on rocky seas, her auburn hair in a glorious tangle around her fury-whitened face, her hazel eyes afire. For a moment, he was so taken aback that he forgot he had Derrick's briefcase out on his desk, in plain view.

  "I want to talk to you, Mr. Barrister!"

  It was more a hiss than a request. And then she advanced on him like a general coming to do battle. There was no time to gather Derrick's papers. Sam snatched the briefcase off his desk and shoved it into a drawer, uncertain what had set her off but hoping, all the same, that she was so mad she hadn't noticed her brother's briefcase.

  As insurance, Sam decided diversionary tactics were called for and opted for counterattack. "Good, I've been wanting to talk to you, too. Now's as good a time as any. I was speaking to Tip a little while ago. You've been filling his head with nonsense about his paintings making a big splash in the art world." Sam shuffled papers, trying to hide those belonging to Derrick beneath some of his own. Then he shoved back in his chair, striving to look irritated rather than unsettled. "I want nothing more said to him on the subject. Is that clear?"

  Crysta swept around his desk. Anger became her, height­ening her color, adding a sparkle to her already beautiful eyes. With a cry of indignation, she tossed the white bundle at him, keeping one of her fists knotted in the linen. The sheet unrolled, and something heavy plopped into Sam's lap. When he saw what it was, he nearly shot from his chair. As accustomed as he was to salmon, he'd never had one dumped in his lap, gaff, guts and all.

  "What in the hell?"

  "I took you up on your offer to use your bed. Somehow, I found the other occupant offensive, to say the least!"

  Sam looked up to find a slender finger wagging before his nose. No one could ever say Crysta Meyers was easily in­timidated. She leaned toward him, and Sam had no doubt she was angry enough to punch him if he chose to stand up.

  "Your son and his wasted talent is your business. I won't say another word about his paintings. By the same token—" her finger drew closer "—my brother is my busi­ness, and your sick little prank won't change that."

  "This was in my bed?" Sam inched his head back as her finger advanced . "Crysta, I didn't—"

  "Get this straight, Mr. Barrister, once and for all. I'm not leaving here until my brother is found. It'll take more than bears and fish guts to scare me off. Is that clear?"

  It was crystal clear. Sam hadn't been confronted like this in years, not by a man, let alone a woman he towered over. "I didn't put this in the bed, Crysta. How could you think-"

  She grabbed a fistful of the papers on his desk and waved them before his face. "How could I think you'd do some­thing so despicable? What are these, Mr. Barrister? Papers from my brother's briefcase, which, according to you, didn't exist! I was in here earlier and found them myself. I've listened to enough of your lies!"

  Sam stared at the papers crumpled in her fingers. The game was up. Like it or not, he had to tell her everything. Her presence was making someone uncomfortable. The fish in her bed was proof of that. If he didn't level with her, she might blunder her way right into a deathtrap. "Please don't rumple those," he said quietly. "They may prove helpful in discovering what happened to Derrick."

  "Really?" She slapped the documents down. "You mean to admit, at long last, that a bear didn't make him his main course for dinner? Congratulations, Sam! The truth for once. Please, don't stop while you're on a roll."

  "We need to talk. But not here." Gingerly, Sam lifted the stinking salmon from his thighs and rewrapped it in the sheet. "Let's go to my apartment where we won't run the risk of being overheard."

  Dumping the linen-wrapped fish into the waste basket, he glanced up just in time to see the wary expression that crossed her face. Now that her anger was flagging, she was clearly having second thoughts about coming here. For all she knew, he might be planning to get her off alone so he could shut her up—permanently.

  That thought strengthened Sam's resolve to tell her ev­erything. Crysta wasn't the sort to avoid confrontations. She was more the type to say what was on her mind, the devil take tomorrow. It was a quality Sam admired and tried to cultivate in himself. But if Crysta confronted the wrong person, her straightforwardness might land her in a situa­tion she couldn't get out of.

  She retreated a step when he met her gaze, looking none too thrilled at the prospect of accompanying him to a more private setting. He didn't suppose he blamed her for not trusting him. He was doing an awfully quick about-face and, from her viewpoint, without any reason.

  "Crysta, the dining room is within yelling distance of my living quarters."

  She took another step back, giving her head a toss to get the hair out of her eyes. "If I was able to yell."

  Sam stood. Though she was tall for a woman, Crysta's head barely cleared his shoulder. And after their tussle in the woods, both of them knew he had the advantage physi­cally. Sam decided to challenge her pride. "Running scared, Crysta? Maybe you're not as much like Derrick as I thought."

  Her chin shot up, and her eyes flared. "Lead the way."

  Sam did, painfully aware that she wasn't about to turn her back on him.

  A log shifted in the grate, sending up a spray of sparks. Crysta, who had settled herself onto the sofa and was wait­ing for Sam to speak, stared at the fireplace, hands clasped in her lap, spine rigid, trying, unsuccessfully, to appear re­laxed. Sam sat in the recliner, arms braced on his knees, shoulders forward, feet planted wide, looking ready to jump up at any second. After their wrestling match in the woods that morning, she had no delusions. Sam was big, strong and fast. If he should leap at her, she didn't stand a chance of escaping him.

  "I don't know where to start," he said.

  The sudden sound of his voice in the brittle silence made Crysta jerk. He cast her a knowing glance.

  "Why not start with the quarrel between you and Der­rick?"

  His mouth tightened. "That's peripheral to the entire sit­uation."

  "So you say."

  His eyes narrowed. "If you must know, it was about Tip. Like you, your brother has an irritating habit of interfer­ing, and I told him so. We had words. End of subject."

  "Not the end of your friendship?"

  "Our friendship was as strong as ever. It wasn't the first time we've gotten into it over Tip, and pray God it won't be the last. Friends can agree to disagree, Cryst
a."

  Crysta took a moment to digest this new tidbit of infor­mation. "Am I right in assuming that the argument was over Tip's artistic talent? It's the only thing I've come any­where close to interfering in."

  "With a bang," he amplified, shooting her another look, this one bordering on a glare. "You have Tip all but ready to pack his bags and head for the big city."

  "He asked me a question. I told him the truth. Should I have lied?"

  "The truth as you see it. He's my son. I know better than anyone else what he's been through, and I know what's waiting for him out there. I've seen how people—" He broke off, his mouth twisting with disgust. Raking a hand through his hair, he sighed. "Like I said, my argument with your brother has nothing to do with Derrick or what hap­pened to him, so let's drop it."

  Crysta inclined her head, acquiescing. He was telling the truth about the quarrel. The fire in his eyes told her that. But if he was innocent, why had he hidden Derrick's brief­case? Why had he tried to sneak off downstream?

  "I see your point," she said softly. "The argument about Tip was none of my business, and I can see why you felt it unnecessary to tell me about it. I'm sorry I kept pressing you."

  He ran his fingertips along his jaw, making a faint rasp­ing sound on the growth of beard that had cropped up since his last shave. "Yeah, well... I should have just told you what it was all about. I'm sorry I didn't, but the truth is, it isn't easy even to think about it. We, um..." He turned to stare out the window, his voice going suddenly husky. "I let him leave without telling him goodbye. I was ticked, he was ticked. If he is dead, it was a hell of a way to end a ten-year friendship."

  Crysta returned her gaze to the fire, resisting the urge to comfort him. His pain was evident in his voice, but was it real? From the corner of her eye, she studied him, alert to his every move.

  "Why did you lie about having Derrick's briefcase? Why did you try to discourage me from coming here?" Crysta fixed him with a relentless gaze. "Why did you try to slip away from me? I want to trust you, Sam, but you haven't given me a single reason to."