What little money Winner Woodworking did bring in got ripped off in taxes. Other countries got things for their taxes, like health care or endless paid vacation. But not Americans: no, every day, the damn American government just handed their taxes to millionaire bankers at home or camel riders or Jews overseas. At the same time, the feds cooked up more ways to be sure hardworking Americans couldn’t make a decent living anymore. Now they were talking about taking away Social Security, and everyone he knew had been paying into that since they were teenagers. And the reporters didn’t even have the guts to call it robbery.
Hurricane Katrina had been the perfect example of how little the U.S. government cared—leaving all those poor people to die. He would have thought that would finally make people wake up and see how bad things were in this country. But no, they continued to vote in the same government that bailed out bankers and Wall Street brokers and gave tax breaks to millionaires. The feds didn’t do one damn thing to help out the common man who couldn’t find work or couldn’t get enough to pay the mortgage. Small business owners like him couldn’t even get unemployment pay. They were just shit out of luck. Americans needed to wake up. This government that was supposed to be of, by, and for the people was of and by the big corporations, and for everyone else except the American people.
He and Allie talked about this all the time. She’d been so angry about the way the Veterans Administration had treated her dad, refusing to consider his knee problem service-related just because it’d gotten worse later. She’d had to go all the way to Seattle to find a job that paid more than starvation wage. His vision blurred with sudden tears. He gritted his teeth and tried to think about something else. Like the money that he was going to come into in a few weeks. Should he use it to try to improve his business here or to finally escape from this place?
“What’s this for?”
Jack looked up from the Sunday paper he’d stretched across his drafting table to see Philip King tracing the indentation in the front of a podium.
“A plaque goes in there. Stewart’s in Port Angeles is making them up; they’ll be ready at the end of the month.” Jack pulled the design from beneath the newsprint and waved it in his friend’s direction.
“You mean like a carving? I could have done that.”
King’s carvings were hardly professional quality. Jack ignored him and turned back to scanning the news section. His throat was dry, and he wished he’d brought a Mountain Dew to the shop with him.
King moved over behind him, breathing down his neck, trying to read over his shoulder. “Anything?”
“Get off me, man.” Jack elbowed him away. “I’m looking.”
Finally, in the section reserved for local news, there was a tiny blurb on page two. FIRE IN OLYMPIC NATIONAL PARK. “Here it is.”
“What’s it say?”
“The fire burned fourteen acres.”
“Is that all? I thought it’d be bigger.”
King pointed to the paper. “Is there anything about…”
Jack quickly summarized. “The fire was intentionally set, a park service employee was severely injured. There’s nothing here about Allie.” He was surprised he could say her name so easily. He rubbed his fingers over his arm. It was chilly in the shop this morning. He should go find his sweatshirt.
King ran walnut-colored fingers through his close-cropped hair, leaving a dark stripe through the blond stubble. Jack examined his own hands. There was a little stain under the nails, if you looked close, but otherwise they were clean.
“The fire musta burned everything up,” King said. “That’s good, that’s real good.” He stopped himself. “I’m sorry, man; I didn’t mean that…”
Jack shrugged, scratched his nose. “She should have—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard before saying, “We couldn’t have done it any other way.” But he wondered about that. He’d been completely stunned when King and Roddie told him Allie was dead. Then they were setting the fires and yelling the cops were coming and running through the dark forest, leaving her behind.
King punched him in the arm. “There are always casualties, man.”
“I guess.” It felt wrong to dismiss Allie so easily. Was there any chance that she’d made it? The paper hadn’t mentioned anything about a body. But that could be a trick. He couldn’t go back to check, not yet. Rangers would be crawling over everything out there. He looked at King. “What did you do with the lantern?”
“It’s back in my garage where it belongs.”
That made sense, Jack guessed. Coleman fuel was everywhere; a lot of people had those lanterns for camping.
“Old man Craig’s been wandering around town looking for Allie. Did I see him in here yesterday?”
“Yeah.” Jack folded the paper, rose from his stool, and tossed it into a nearby trash bin. “Don’t worry, he doesn’t know shit.”
“What’d you do with her car?”
Jack glared at the other man. The less he knew, the better. King was a fair carpenter and a good marksman, but he was none too bright, and he had a tendency to shoot off his mouth when he’d downed a six-pack. “Don’t worry about it. I took care of it.”
“This little glitch doesn’t change anything, right?”
Little glitch? He clenched his fists and considered slugging King for calling Allie that.
“We’ve got the perfect target now. Much better than a stupid old VA office. The plan’s still on, right?”
King was right. It was more important than ever to be part of it now. “The plan’s still on.”
7
THE hospital was every bit as depressing as Sam had thought it would be. A tiny dark-skinned nurse led her to Lisa’s room while telling her that Lisa had not regained consciousness, but might at any moment. Or might not for days. One eardrum was broken, and the girl had a severe concussion in addition to her bruises and burns.
An oxygen mask covered Lisa’s nose and mouth, but thankfully she was not on a respirator. There’d be no mechanical breathing to listen to. The hissing and clicking always made Sam feel as if the device was trying to breathe for her as well as for the patient.
“Press the call button if anything changes, yes?” The tiny woman’s English was heavily accented—Philippines, India? Sam couldn’t tell. The nurse came up only to her shoulder, making Sam’s five-foot-two seem tall.
She ate a stale ham-and-cheese and greasy chips, sipping her Diet Dr Pepper slowly to make it last. She hadn’t seen any signs about not using cell phones, so she pulled hers out to call her housemate Blake. Maybe he’d seen last night’s news story and would fill her in. The recorder answered in Blake’s cheery voice. Hi, Sam’s out of town and Blake’s off doing God knows what right now. Leave a message and we’ll call you when we get back.
A great message for would-be burglars. She left a snide suggestion that he should at least add a statement about pit bulls on patrol.
The hospital room had a damp, oily smell. Body fluids seeping through Lisa’s gauze dressings? Or maybe the burn ointment? She hoped it was the latter.
She spent two hours alternately staring at the bandaged body on the bed and trying to wade through the first chapter of the mystery she’d purchased. Finally she put it down and tried to imagine delivering a speech in front of hundreds of people in Seattle. Or would it be thousands? The thought of standing at a podium looking out into a sea of faces made her stomach churn.
How had this all come about, anyway? What had prompted the television station to air the old news clips? Her cell phone was blinking its low battery warning, so she pulled out her reserve phone card and used the hospital room phone to call directory info and then KSTL, Channel 8, in Seattle. After being questioned by a series of gatekeepers, she found herself talking to an assistant producer who sounded like she should be in middle school with Lili instead of working in a TV station.
“The lead-in was the Western Wildlife Conference,” the high-pitched voice told her. “Not much by itself, but there’s a lot
of controversy right now about the Endangered Species Act, and then when we found out you were the featured speaker, we knew it could be a public interest story. A lot of people still remember the Zachary Fischer incident and—”
“Who said I was the featured speaker?”
“Just a minute.” Sam could hear the faint clicks of keystrokes in the background. “Well, the conference organizers said you were invited—hmmm—oh, here it is. Someone at your place of employment—a Richard Best—told us you accepted.”
Damn the man. “He didn’t have my permission to do that. I haven’t agreed to speak.”
“Really?” The producer sounded concerned. More clicking sounds, then, “Oh, good. We just said you were scheduled. So we’re okay.” She gave an audible sigh of relief.
Sam gritted her teeth. Modern media. As long as they couldn’t be sued, they didn’t care what they put in front of the public. “Where did those photos of me come from?”
More key clicks. “Those belonged to the network. I see ten seconds from archived wire-service tape labeled ZACHARY FISCHER CASE, from last year. We made stills from the video.”
“Okay. But I understand that there was a photo of me in a national park uniform? Where did you get that? I’m not a ranger, you know.”
“Oh. Well.” A pause. “Oh, here. The photo was from an NPS employee record book dated several years ago. From Utah.”
The summer she’d been a seasonal ranger in Heritage National Monument. Her first brief stint in NPS green.
“That’s a government document, so it’s public record. And we didn’t say you were a ranger. We just said that you were currently working in Olympic National Park. You are, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
Another sigh of relief. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Sam considered for a second. There wasn’t anything she could do about this, was there? She’d just have to hope that the locals would quickly forget they’d seen her face on TV.
“Ms. Westin, are you working on that incident where the girl was injured in the forest fire? Because we’d love to talk to you about that.”
Sam’s breath caught in her throat. She shot a guilty glance at Lisa’s sleeping form in the bed. It was bad enough that KSTL was showing footage of her involvement in the old Fischer case on TV, but if she was outed on this case, Peter Hoyle might look for a way to cancel her contract before she finished her twelve weeks.
“I’m not a ranger, remember? I’m only a temp. You need to talk to the park’s public relations officer.”
“But I see that you’re calling from the Port Angeles hospital—”
Sam slapped the receiver back into its cradle. Damn caller ID. She glanced at the door, half expecting a television camera and reporter to dash in, stick a microphone in her face, and demand that she tell what she knew about this incident. How did she always end up attracting the attention of the news? She was nobody.
And now her name was on some conference schedule as a featured speaker. They’d be expecting Wilderness Westin, the intrepid beauty who had been promoted with slick marketing language and a doctored photo. And they’d get short, insecure, thirty-seven-year-old Summer Westin who was beginning to sag around the edges.
If she didn’t accept the invitation, this would all fade away. The few who saw the television broadcast had probably already forgotten her latest thirty seconds of fame. But then again, the invitation was an honor, the biggest she’d ever received in her life. And if she didn’t make the speech, it was a good bet that everything would fade away. She’d certainly never work for The Edge again.
She didn’t like either choice. Her plastic chair grew increasingly uncomfortable as she squirmed on it. When she stood up to stretch, the form on the bed moved.
Lisa Glass opened her eyes to narrow slits. At first, the girl’s gaze didn’t seem to focus; she stared blearily in Sam’s direction. Then her eyes flew open, her jaw dropped, and her whole body tensed under the sheets.
Sam hastily leaned forward to place a hand on the young woman’s exposed wrist. “It’s okay, Lisa.”
She tried to make her voice sound soothing. “I’m Sam Westin, from the park.”
Lisa pulled her wrist away and tugged the oxygen mask down onto her neck, keeping her gaze fixed on Sam. Her irises were ice blue. They were disquieting, those piercing eyes, one lashless, nestled among puffy lids and yellow-stained gauze, the other framed by long lashes, a light brown eyebrow, and pale freckled skin.
“You’re in the hospital,” Sam told her. “You had an accident.” Then, thinking that Lisa’s reaction might be from her own appearance, she said, “There was a forest fire. I was there when we found you. That’s why I look like this.” She gestured to her lip and the Band-Aid on her temple.
Lisa’s gaze broke away from hers and she glanced nervously around the room. Remembering the girl’s shattered eardrum, Sam asked, “Can you hear me, Lisa?”
A quick dip of the chin.
“Good.”
Sam scanned the area above Lisa’s head for the call button, but didn’t see it. Two electrical leads snaked over the mattress and disappeared under the sheets. Sam peeled the sheet down a little, and saw that the lines paralleled Lisa’s neck and disappeared under the hospital gown. Leads for the monitors. The girl inched away from Sam’s prying fingers. Sam leaned back. “We called your aunt in Philadelphia, but we haven’t connected yet. Is there someone else we should call? Do you want to call someone? I could hold the phone for you.”
Lisa lay so still that at first Sam thought she hadn’t heard her, after all, but then the girl slowly shook her bandage-swathed head. She licked her blistered lower lip.
“Are you thirsty?”
With lips pressed together, Lisa slowly moved her head up and down, just a fraction. Poor thing. It probably hurt like hell.
Sam poured a cup of water from the pitcher on the bed table, then held the bent straw to Lisa’s lips. “Do you remember what happened?”
The girl swallowed painfully, took another sip before answering in a barely audible croak. “No.”
Sam told her about the loud bang and the fire, about Mack finding her facedown in the dirt beside Elk Creek. The pale eyes remained fixed on her throughout the story. Didn’t this girl ever blink? Maybe she really couldn’t hear at all; maybe Lisa was reading lips.
She should go call the nurse. But how long would Lisa be conscious? Sam was afraid to leave her.
“Do you remember the fire?” she asked.
Again, the barely discernable shake of the head.
“What were you doing at Marmot Lake, Lisa?”
The icy gaze remained firmly on Sam’s face for a moment longer, then Lisa looked away.
“Were you setting off firecrackers? Because that’s okay; but you need to tell me.”
Lisa seemed to be considering. Or trying to remember? Or maybe making up her mind whether to tell. A white coat flashed by the doorway and Sam thought about chasing down the wearer. But then, the girl looked at her again. Through swollen lips she whispered hoarsely, “Kidnapped.”
Kidnapped? Sam had a wild urge to grab the girl by the shoulders and shake the story out of her. She grasped the bed rail, forced herself to take a deep breath. Go slowly. Don’t scare her off. She reiterated, “You were kidnapped, Lisa?”
“Made me go.”
“Who? Why?”
Lisa’s eyes stared at the twin hills formed by her feet under the sheets. Her chest rose as she inhaled deeply. The blue eyes closed.
“You’re not going to get anything more from her now.”
The deep voice startled Sam. She hadn’t realized the doctor was there in the doorway. He was a handsome man, with sideburns silver against his walnut brown skin, contrasting with the tight ebony curls that covered the rest of his head. He strode into the room.
“Did you hear what she said?” Sam asked.
“Something about going with someone.” He stood beside Sam, looking down at Lisa. �
��I’m amazed she spoke at all,” he said. “You should have called a nurse immediately.” Reaching down, he pulled Lisa’s oxygen mask back into place. “Why didn’t you press the call button?”
“I couldn’t find the dang thing.”
The doctor slid his hand along the lowered bed railing, plucked off a tiny gray rectangle with a lighted button. “It’s clipped to the rail. That way it doesn’t get lost.”
Assuming you knew what the thing looked like and that it could be clipped to anything. “Aha,” Sam muttered.
“Did she seem oriented? Coherent?”
“She didn’t say much. But she seemed to be thinking as she talked.” As a matter of fact, it seemed to Sam that Lisa had thought too long before she said anything.
“Hmm. I wouldn’t put much stock in what comes out of her mouth just yet. Smoke inhalation makes people very disoriented. And that was a powerful blow she took to the head. Do you know what she got hit with?”
“Looks like it was a falling branch.”
The doctor nodded, his eyes on the page in front of him. “That would fit with the debris we found in the wound.”
“Will she wake up again soon? We really need to know what happened.”
He looked at his watch, made a notation on the page, then flipped the chart closed. “It’s impossible to say. Head injuries are unpredictable. And then there’s the smoke inhalation. She could sleep for minutes or hours. She could slip back into unconsciousness and stay that way for days.”
Days? Now Sam had the urge to shake the doctor. She chewed on the knuckle of her index finger instead.
“Waking up is a good sign,” he said. “Press that button if she comes to again.” His foam-soled shoes didn’t make a sound on the tile floor as he left the room.
Bear Bait (9781101611548) Page 7
