Cry of the Wild

by Catherine Anderson

  She wandered listlessly, stopping to gaze at framed snap­shots of Tip and Sam, sometimes managing a smile be­cause the camera had caught them clowning. Tip was a very lucky boy, she decided, to have a father like Sam. Very lucky, indeed. In every photo, Sam's unconditional love for his son shone through in his expression.

  Setting her jaw, Crysta left the apartment to use the mo­bile phone, almost wishing that the thing wouldn't be working properly so she could put off this necessary chore. No such luck. The call went through without a hitch.

  "Have you got news?" Ellen cried.

  Crysta glanced up at the sound of a bell jingling and saw Steve Henderson coming through the front door of the lodge. He veered to the right to take a seat at one of the dining tables. As always, he looked sad and troubled.

  "No, Mom. Not much news, at any rate. Derrick is alive, though. I'm certain of that much. You mustn't worry."

  "He's contacted you again then?"

  Crysta's throat tightened. "Yes... a couple of times."

  "Oh, Crysta, darling, you can't know how glad I am to hear you say that. These last few years, I didn't know what had gotten into you. All that nonsense about distancing yourself from your brother and living your own life." She gave a relieved laugh. "Where is he? I've been worried sick."

  Crysta leaned against the counter and tightened her grip on the phone. "I haven't figured out exactly where he is, not yet."

  "What do you mean, not yet?"

  "He's all right, Mom. And I'll find him. Alaska covers a lot of territory. These things take time."

  "But you said he contacted you."

  "He did. But the pictures aren't—" Crysta closed her eyes. "I'm just getting blips. Not enough to pinpoint his location."

  "Have you tried?"

  "Of course I've tried. How can you ask that?" Crysta pushed away from the counter, struggling for calm. She mustn't lose her temper with her mother. "I'll find him, Mom, I promise."

  "Oh, darling, I know you will. Just knowing he's alive is a great relief." Ellen grew quiet for a moment. "I've been so worried—about Derrick and about you."

  "Me? I'm fine, Mom, really."

  The rest of the conversation passed in a blur for Crysta, the only reality the fact that she had promised her mother something she might not be able to deliver. "I'll find him, Mom, I promise.'' The same old trap was closing in around her.

  After hanging up, Crysta returned to the apartment. With the promise still ringing in her ears, she sat on the sofa and stared sightlessly into the fire, trying to clear her mind.

  Derrick? Can you hear me? Silence bounced back at her. She pressed a trembling hand over her eyes, remembering all the times she had gotten flashes of Derrick. Now, when his life depended on her, she saw nothing, heard nothing.

  What had she done? Dear God, what had she done?

  Less than an hour ago, Crysta had come to the conclu­sion that some things hurt so badly, tears were the only so­lution. Now she realized that some pain ran too deep for tears.

  She lurched up from the sofa, heading for Tip's gallery. When she opened the door, the sharp, heavy smell of oil paints wafted to her. Stepping into the room, she closed the door and moved slowly toward the easel.

  Tip was doing an incredible job of bringing Derrick to life on canvas. Looking into her brother's face, Crysta mo­mentarily lost her sense of identity. He looked so real, Crysta could almost hear him laughing, feel the wind whip­ping his curly, cinnamon-colored hair. She looked into his eyes. The sensation was very like looking into a mirror. How was it possible to love someone so dearly, yet feel chained to him?

  Her gaze trailed to the background of the portrait, tak­ing in the detail Tip had so painstakingly recorded. Incred­ible. Todd's Cessna was pulled up to the island. The cottonwood trees were blowing in the wind. Near Derrick's feet lay a string of gigantic king salmon.

  Sighing, Crysta moved about the room, admiring Tip's work, glad for a distraction from her thoughts. A canvas- back duck. A caribou. A wolf. A winding slough sur­rounded by a sweep of marshy grassland. Crysta had never seen such lifelike paintings.

  She paused before a portrait of Todd Shriver, smiling to herself when she noted that Tip had captured to perfection the weakness of the pilot's chin and the inexpressiveness of his eyes. Todd stood on the river island, the Cessna behind him. Tip had recorded every detail, right down to the lace hooks on Todd's boots.

  With an odd sensation that she was missing something important, Crysta shifted her attention to the luggage and cargo Tip had painted on the ground near Todd. Her gaze was riveted. Boxes of canned salmon. With building ur­gency, Crysta shuffled through the other paintings that leaned against the wall, searching for more portraits. She finally found one of Riley O'Keefe, also standing on the is­land. Once again, Tip had painted boxes of canned salmon sitting near the airplane.

  Crysta raced through the apartment and out the lodge door. She spotted Sam down by the footbridge, talking with Gary Nelsen, one of the men from Blanchette who fre­quently flew in to fish here with O'Keefe.

  Trotting down the slope, Crysta called, "Sam! Can I talk to you for a moment?"

  "Sure." Bidding Nelsen goodbye, Sam strode up the bank, his dark eyes searching her face. "Is something wrong?"

  Crysta could scarcely contain her excitement. "No. In fact, something might finally be going right. Can you come up to the lodge with me? I want to show you something."

  Sam stood back from the painting of O'Keefe, his gaze resting on the boxes of canned salmon, his forehead pleated in a frown. Then he looked at all the other paintings Crysta had dragged out.

  "I can't believe I never noticed how much canned salmon came and went around here," Sam murmured.

  "Kind of fishy, isn't it?"

  Sam's gaze flew to hers.' 'You think Derrick intended that comment as a double entendre?"

  "I'm certain of it." Crysta raised an eyebrow. "He has a twisted sense of humor sometimes. I'm convinced some­thing more than fish is being hauled around in those boxes, though."

  "I think you're right. It's the perfect cover. Boxes of canned salmon are as common up here as noses on faces. No one would ever question why you had them or what was in them."

  "Look at this picture." Crysta hauled a painting over in front of him. "It's of Jangles, but look at the background, Sam. Todd Shriver's climbing down from the Cessna. From the looks of it, he's just brought in a load of supplies."

  "He could be getting ready to leave with a load."

  "No. Look at the water behind the plane, Sam." Crysta touched a fingertip to the V-shaped wake that foamed be­hind the Cessna's tail. "He had just landed."

  "You're right," Sam whispered. "You've got quite an eye for detail, lady."

  Crysta laughed. "Me? Tip's the one with the eye for de­tail. His paintings are like photographs. That happens with the handicapped sometimes, you know. It's as if God com­pensates for their shortcomings in other areas by giving them some special talent. With Tip, it's a photographic memory and the ability to reproduce it." She trailed her finger to the cargo door of the Cessna. "Look inside, Sam."

  Sam leaned forward. "Canned salmon."

  "Exactly."

  Sam straightened and scratched his temple, looking per­plexed. "Salmon comes in, then it goes out. I think I must be slow on the uptake, here. It doesn't make sense to me. First we suspected that an illegal commodity was being transported inside the conduit crates. Now we're guessing that they're using these boxes of fish up at this end to smuggle something out? Are you saying—" His voice broke off. "That something illegal is slipping right past me?"

  She flashed an excited smile. "Sam, think about it! You just admitted that you never noticed how much canned salmon came and went. The reason you never noticed is be­cause everyone who visits Alaska is hauling it around! It's the perfect cover, absolutely perfect. Riley brings a few boxes to Cottonwood Bend, puts whatever it is he's smug­gling inside the boxes, and then flies them back out again to Anchorage to the w
arehouse. After business hours, he moves the illegal commodity from the canned salmon boxes into the crates of conduit, which are about to be returned to Seattle!"

  Sam whistled, his eyes taking on a glint. "No pilot would pay any attention to canned salmon. He'd haul the stuff around, no questions asked."

  "Exactly!"

  Sam took another long look at each painting. "Okay, I can buy it. I think you're on to something, Crysta, I really do. Now all we have to do is figure out what in hell he's smuggling. I can't very well call in the cops without evi­dence."

  Crysta threw up her hands. "I'm drawing a blank on that. I've tried and tried to think what, but I can't imagine. Why can't we just waylay Riley before he takes off on the plane next time and open the boxes?"

  "He's not planning to leave again until tomorrow. Time, right now, is something we're running short on." A distant expression crept into his eyes. "That night when Derrick came into my office, he was really upset. 'I'll hang the creeps'—that's what he said. Whatever it is that's being taken out of here, it's something he felt so passionately about that he risked his own neck. Secondly, if Riley's smuggling it in those boxes, it has to be relatively small."

  "Drugs, maybe? Derrick would be livid about that."

  Sam shook his head. "Look at it from a practical angle. It's too remote here for drug running. That usually occurs along the Coast, near a big city for ease of distribution, or along the Mexican border. And, if you're thinking of a lab, the chemicals needed would be far too bulky to be hidden among cans of fish."

  "Then what?"

  "I'm thinking maybe it could be animal hides. Derrick can really get angry about poaching, especially up here. The thought that the wildlife might be depleted infuriated him."

  "Do hides bring that much money?"

  Sam sighed. "I suppose you could turn a tidy profit, but not nearly enough to make it cost-effective when it would take so many trips to transport them. Not only that, but a sizable animal hide probably wouldn't fit in a box that size, not if you left in any cans as camouflage."

  "What, then?"

  Sam looped an arm around her shoulders. "Let's have a cup of coffee. I'm drawing a blank. Sometimes if I just let a problem rest, the answer will come to me out of the blue."

  While Sam went for the coffee, Crysta tossed another log onto the fire. When he returned, they sat together on the sofa, shoulders inches apart, taking reflective sips from their steaming mugs as they gazed into the flames.

  "I can't think what they could be smuggling that would bring enough money to bother with," Sam muttered.

  Crysta leaned forward to set her mug on the coffee table. "There has to be something. We're just overlooking it." She turned toward him. "Oh, Sam, we're not going to find him in time, are we? After all we've done, we're still going to fail."

  Looking into her eyes, Sam could see how frantic she felt. After placing his mug beside hers on the table, he ran his hand under her hair and curled his fingers around the nape of her neck. Her skin there felt as soft as down. Drawing her toward him, he leaned back against the cushions, pulling her head to his shoulder. "I don't know, Crysta. I just don't know."

  Pressing his cheek against her silken hair, he gazed into the fire, his heart twisting because he couldn't ease the pain in hers. Closing his eyes, Sam moved his arm down to en­circle her back, slipping his hand between her arm and her side. Beneath his fingertips, he could feel the fragile ladder of her ribs. Whoa, this was not the time to let physical de­sire cloud his thinking. Above all else, Sam was a practical man. But, practical or not, dammit, he wanted her.

  The realization struck him like a blow. Worse, wanting wasn't even sufficient to describe the emotions roiling within him. He wanted her, yes, but in a way he had never wanted any other woman. So much that he trembled. So much that he felt frightened. There was a rightness between them, a magical sweetness. Holding her like this filled the empti­ness within him, made him feel complete in a way he had never experienced. So perfect... yet so impossible.

  Sam came as a package deal, saddled with a troublesome man-child who would never mature to adulthood. Loving Tip as he did, he harbored no resentment and didn't feel in the least put upon that Tip needed so much attention. But he couldn't expect a woman who was not Tip's natural mother to be so charitable. Especially not Crysta, who had her own life in Los Angeles, a busy, fast-paced life that pre­cluded mothering a handicapped boy.

  Sam's first duty lay with his son. He couldn't allow him­self to forget that, even for an instant. And yet he had needs, needs he had ignored for far too long. Was it so wrong to steal a magic moment with this very special woman?

  He shifted his hand so the pads of his knuckles grazed the soft swell of Crysta's breast. An ache rose up his throat. Making love to her right now would be insanity. One taste, and he might never be able to get enough.

  To his surprise, she turned in the circle of his arm and tipped her head back, her eyelashes casting shadows over her cheeks, her lips parted. "Sam?"

  Sam responded to the question in her voice by lowering his head. Crazy, so crazy. But he couldn't stop himself. Just one sweet kiss. Surely God would grant him that much—one kiss to be remembered during the long, cold, empty winter nights to come. One kiss to last him a lifetime. His lips touched hers, so lightly, so gently, but the electricity was there again just the same. Two-twenty, with no ground, and he knew he was a goner.

  She tasted like toffee, her mouth warm and sugary from the coffee, her lips moist. Sweet, so incredibly, wonder­fully, impossibly sweet. Sam, usually so responsible, forgot everything—that the door wasn't locked, that Tip might walk in. His mind went blank, automatic pilot kicked in, and before he knew it, he had pulled her down beside him on the sofa.

  At five foot ten, Crysta fit his body the way a woman should. He wasn't even aware that the sofa wasn't long enough. If Sam had feet, he couldn't feel them. She moaned and let her head fall back over his arm. Sam accepted the invitation and feathered his mouth along the graceful slope of her neck to her collarbone. And then lower.

  The top buttons on her shirt opened as if he had magic in his fingertips. His heart slamming, he peeled the cloth back and trailed kisses down her chest to the shimmering mounds of her breasts, breasts that seemed to beg for his lips to ex­plore them above the lacy edge of her bra. Her skin was as flawless and as creamy-white as ivory, silken, warm, vi­brant.

  Sam stiffened, his hand frozen on her breast, his mind stunned. Ivory!

  Crysta heard Sam curse, and her eyes flew open. He was suspended above her, his body rigid, his eyes filled with what could only be described as disbelief.

  "Sam?"

  He shot up from the sofa and smoothed his hair, staring down at her. "Ivory, Crysta." He barked with incredulous laughter. "Your skin is as flawless as ivory."

  It wasn't a very original line, and Sam's delivery needed work, but Crysta accepted the compliment with as much grace as she could muster. Quickly buttoning her shirt, she said. "Thank you.... I think."

  "Ivory, Crysta! That's it, don't you see? That's what they're smuggling! I can't believe I was so dense! It's been making all the headlines recently. Walrus tusks. There have been several killing fields discovered, some on the islands, several up north!"

  "Ivory?" Crysta sat up, trying to gather her shattered composure. Then what Sam was saying began to register, and excitement coursed through her. "Ivory! Of course! They could make a mint on that!"

  "A mint? A head mount brings over a thousand dollars! One head mount, Crysta. Have you any idea how many 'they may have smuggled out of here? And that's only for start­ers. Scrimshaw would bring astronomical amounts. Have you any idea how much one small piece costs? Once they had the ivory in the States, they could commission some­one to work it into scrimshaw, then launder it somehow onto the open market."

  "Wh-what's a head mount?"

  ''The front portion of the walrus's skull, with the tusks still attached."

  Crysta recalled the magazine co
ver she had seen with its gory pictures of the beheaded walrus corpses littering a lonely beach. A feeling of revulsion swept over her. And something elusive tugged at her memory.

  "That bastard/ He's slaughtering walrus! No wonder Derrick was so upset!"

  Crysta pressed her fingers to her temples, her senses still reeling. She swallowed and closed her eyes. "Wait, Sam. We're not near the coastline. There are no walrus around here."

  "Of course not! He's flying them in. It's perfect, Crysta. He hits a beach, slaughters the animals, hacks off the heads and transports them here to be cleaned. He'd have to clean them before taking them to the warehouse in Anchorage. If he didn't, the smell coming from those conduit crates would bowl a person over. And what better place to do it than someplace near Cottonwood Bend? Daily flights out, lodg­ing, isolation!"

  "So he cleans them somewhere around here, hides them in the canned salmon boxes, then brings them to the lodge to be flown out to Anchorage? But, Sam, a walrus head with tusks wouldn't fit in a box two feet long."

  "It would if you removed the tusks. You can dismantle a head mount, then put it back together."

  "And if the mounts were concealed inside the canned salmon boxes, the pilots hauling the ivory would never even realize what they were hauling!" Crysta pushed up from the sofa. "Sam, you're a genius! It fits perfectly! Derrick must have discovered what Riley was doing!"

  "And probably followed him."

  She held up a hand. "Wait, we're forgetting something. In my dream, I saw three men. He must have helpers."

  ‘“That goes without saying. No one could do something on this scale without help. There's probably more than just three men involved. We've already deduced that there must be a contact in Seattle. Then there would have to be at least two or three guys working at the killing fields." Sam's ex­cited grin faded. "Crysta, from here on in, this can only get more and more dangerous. Until Riley's caught redhanded with some boxes that contain ivory, we don't have enough evidence to go to the police. I'm not so sure I want you in­volved."