“Where next? What’s your vote?” Nicole’s sleek auburn hair swung forward as she bent her head to take a sip of water.
On the table between their plates lay a folded map, copies of police reports, computer printouts, communiqués from the SACs in Salt Lake and Seattle.
“Despite the fact that this one was a wash, I still think the pattern generally holds. Small towns with big money and small police forces. Diversionary tactics minutes before the robbery. I choose La Conner.” He tapped the dot on the Washington map. “Small town, a lot of well-to-do citizens and vacationers. Most available law enforcement preoccupied with a bomb threat at the local high school at the time the bank was robbed.” He pushed the map back toward his partner and wound up another mouthful of linguini.
Nicole nodded. “Agreed. I’ll let Seattle know we’re headed there. Like the pasta?”
“Perfect choice.”
Chase had spent his childhood in cookie-cutter housing developments in Montana and Idaho. With his Lakota mother, his Mexican-American father, his brother and sister and all his parents’ relatives, his home had been happy and stimulating. But it was never immaculate, and rarely quiet. He’d dreamed of marrying an elegant, refined woman with a decent salary. They’d both have interesting careers and a home that was a refuge of peaceful sophistication. They’d talk about books and go to lectures and concerts.
It was probably some sort of lesson in humility that he’d been partnered with just such a woman. She made being an FBI agent look easy. He’d learned a lot from Nicole over the last six years. She seemed to manage a happy home life, too, if the persistent smile on her husband’s face was any indication. But Chase was not the least bit sexually attracted to Nicole.
He took another sip of the pinot gris. How could it be that this expensive, delicate wine was not nearly as delicious as the cheap Chianti he’d shared with Summer last night? The time he spent with her always seemed so…refreshing. Which was a ridiculous thought, now that he stopped to analyze it, because when he was with her, they were forever scrambling over rocks or wading through rapids.
How had he gotten involved with a woman who slept in fire towers and tramped around in the wilderness for a living? Had he ever seen her without a smudge of dirt or a scratch or bruise on her face? Damn that Greg Jordan! If he’d only shown up at the fire tower a couple of hours later.
“Chase?”
He looked up.
Nicole’s eyebrows lifted. “You’re thinking about her, aren’t you?”
It was embarrassing, how easily his partner could read him.
“How long have you two been playing this game? It’s been nearly a year now, hasn’t it? Just go for it, partner,” she told him. “Take her on a romantic vacation.”
A snort escaped his nostrils. “Right. That’s worked out well so far.”
He’d scheduled a rendezvous last November, but then the Bureau sent them to Boston on a supposed emergency that turned out to be totally bogus. Then he’d set up a ski trip in March, but Summer had been sent off to write up a bird-watching event in Oregon and he’d been shipped off to Homeland Security training at Quantico. The two of them seemed destined to revolve around each other like two moons locked into separate orbits.
“Well, keep trying,” Nicole advised. “In the meantime, send her a fantastic gift to show you care.”
Easy for Nicole Boudreaux to say. Jewelry, clothes, art would suffice for her. But what could he buy for Summer Westin, who was more impressed by sunsets and bears than gold and silk?
Although she wasn’t nearly as tough as she liked to believe, Summer was a strong woman. He worried about the hazardous situations she jumped into, but the truth was, she could handle herself pretty well. She didn’t really need him. He understood that: he didn’t really need her, either. But sometimes he wanted her so badly it hurt.
Nicole’s cell phone chimed. She slid it from her purse, glanced briefly at the screen, and mouthed “SAC” to him before answering in a low voice, “Boudreaux.”
She listened quietly for a moment, glanced at her watch, and then said, “We’ll be there before midnight.” As she slid the phone back into her purse with her right hand, she used the left to wave to the waitress across the room, then pointed to herself and to him and mouthed Coffee.
The waitress nodded and headed for the counter. Chase hurriedly shoved another forkful of pasta into his mouth and chewed.
Nicole turned back to him and explained, “Hot off the press—bank robbery in Rock Springs, Wyoming, minutes after the train derailed in the middle of town.”
“Sounds like our guys,” he said. “I suppose they got away?”
“You suppose right.”
“So we’re off to Wyoming?”
She shook her head. “We just caught an attempted armored car robbery near Blaine, up by the Canadian border, called in fifteen minutes after an arson fire at a local hospital.”
Either coincidences were spreading like fungus or they were definitely following a large group of operatives. He poured the last of the pinot gris into his glass.
She raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you hear me say we’re off to Blaine?”
“Yep. It’s your turn to drive.”
As she glowered at him, he tossed back the wine, swallowed, and wound up another forkful of pasta. “You said an attempted robbery. Cops in Blaine catch the perps?”
Nicole shook her head again. The waitress arrived with coffee. He asked for the check as she poured. Nicole waited until the waitress had moved away. “The robbers escaped into the countryside; cops are still searching. But they captured their vehicle.”
“The key,” he murmured wishfully through the last of his linguini.
“Let’s hope. We’re getting closer.” She checked her watch. “The next ferry leaves in twenty minutes.”
They both reached for their coffee cups.
SAM shook her head at her mental meanderings about Chase. They lived hundreds of miles apart. There’d been no promises made between them; the man was free to go out whenever he wanted, with whomever he desired.
As was she. Unfortunately, she couldn’t think of any other man she’d recently been attracted to. Every time she thought about men, she thought about Chase. And he wasn’t there.
But it wasn’t as if she was cloistered or anything. She knew plenty of males, even if most of them were just friends. Blake was gay, but he still counted. Kent and Rafael in Utah, Joe Choi here. She was in a man’s apartment right now, even if the man wasn’t there. Mack was sitting with Lisa Glass until 9 P.M.
The light was blinking on Mack’s answering machine. The Play button activated Peter Hoyle’s voice. “Lindstrom, this is a message for Westin. I assume she’s staying with you.” The pause that followed was probably meant to indicate Hoyle’s disapproval.
“Westin, I need you to sit with Lisa from seven to nine tomorrow morning; the regulars have a staff meeting then. You can work late to make up for it. I left this message on your voice mail, too.”
Sam grimaced. Damn! She wouldn’t be at Marmot Lake at first light, after all. The message continued, “If either of you know anything more about Lisa, now is the time to spill it. The emergency contact number we have on file for her isn’t valid. And Lindstrom, about the meeting tomorrow, try to be on time for once—it begins at seven forty-five, not eight, not eight fifteen.”
Sam reset the machine. As she was writing a note for Mack, her cell phone began its distinctive wolf howl. “Westin,” she answered.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
Hearing Mark Westin’s voice surprised her; her father usually called on Sunday afternoons. “Hi, Dad.”
“I was sitting here reading before I went to bed and thinking about you when suddenly it occurred to me that I could check on you, now that you have a cell phone.”
Oh, great. She struggled throughout the week to think of safe topics to talk about on Sundays and now he was going to start calling at other times, too? She’d finally bought a cell
phone for business reasons, but carrying one around had its drawbacks.
“You’re still coming to the wedding, aren’t you?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Although a formal wedding in the August heat in Kansas wasn’t an event she could actually look forward to, even if it was about time her father and his “lady friend” tied the knot. In western Washington, it was easy to forget that summer was proceeding full blast in the rest of the country. She’d compared temperatures in the paper yesterday: Seattle, 72; Wichita, 99. She wilted just thinking about jetting into that oven.
“And remember, Zola wants you to come a couple of days early. She’s made you a dress in your size, but she says there’s a final fitting. I know how you girls are.”
Sam winced at a mental picture of herself in a lavender chiffon spaghetti-strapped concoction, with her half-tanned, muscular arms exposed for the church ladies to critique. “I’ve made reservations for August twentieth, Dad, so there’ll be plenty of time. Is Zola there?”
“Of course not, Summer. It’s after ten o’clock here.”
She felt like a naughty teenager, to have imagined that his fiancée would be in his house that close to bedtime. He’d always had a way of reprimanding her with only a few words. “I know it’s late, Dad. Anyhow, tell her I’ll be there on August twentieth.”
“Give me your flight number. We’ll come and pick you up.”
“I’m not home right now, Dad, I don’t have it with me.”
“I’ll get the flight number later, then.”
“No, Dad, it’s too far to Wichita. I’ll rent a car.” She’d go berserk trapped there without transportation of her own. At least she could drive herself out to the lake and howl at the moon when she needed to. “My plane gets in around noon, so I should be there around two.”
“If you’re sure you don’t want me to come…”
“I’m sure, Daddy. It’s too much trouble.” There was a brief, uncomfortable stretch of nothing but background static, and then she said, “Well, good night, Dad. Say hi to Zola for me.”
“I will, Sugar. Good night. God bless.” He hung up.
She sat cross-legged on the carpet, listening to dead air for an instant, then sighed and pressed End. That air of unspoken dissatisfaction had always existed between them. She was nearing forty, unmarried, childless, flitting from one peculiar job to another, sharing her small home with a gay man. She knew it was hard for Reverend Westin to find anything about his daughter’s life that he could even mention to his friends, other than the stories and photos she had published.
If she were a featured speaker at the wildlife conference, that would be a source of pride. She could send him a brochure with her name in it. A soft groan escaped her lips. She had to take that offer.
Her cell phone began its wolf howl. That had to be Chase. She eagerly raised it to her ear again. “I hope you’re studying those special agent tricks, FBI,” she breathed into it.
“Uh.” A childish voice. “Is Summer Westin there?”
Lili. “It’s me, honey,” Sam said, embarrassed. “I thought you were someone else.” She had to start checking the caller ID before answering.
“I guess so. You know someone in the FBI?”
“I have a friend who’s an FBI agent.” She wasn’t about to share her love life with a thirteen-year-old.
“Sweet.” Then there was a hesitation. “But an FBI agent is a fed, right? So maybe that’s not so sweet.”
“Trust me, Lili, he’s pretty sweet.” And then she was exasperated at herself, because now she was sharing her love life with a thirteen-year-old. “But I’m sure you didn’t call to talk about that.”
“Remember my career project? I wrote down a lot of questions about being a wildlife biologist. So I was wondering, can we get together tomorrow after school?”
Sam planned to spend most of tomorrow looking for more signs of trouble at Marmot Lake. “Well, Lili, I have to work.”
“And I have to go to school,” Lili retorted, her tone long-suffering.
Good point. She had promised to help. “You’re right. What time is ‘after school’?”
“I get out at two.”
Well, that was darn inconvenient—smack in the middle of prime survey time for her. “Lili, how’d you like to come out and do some fieldwork with me?”
“Really? That’d be cool! Maybe we could find a bear.”
“Maybe we could; I’m looking for one. Think your mom or dad might be able to deliver you around three?”
“I’m walking over to Dad now; you can ask him.”
“Wear your boots and bring a water bottle.”
“I will. Thanks, Aunt Summer! See you tomorrow.”
After making a deal with Joe to rendezvous with him and Lili at a forest service campground, Sam ended the call and wandered around the living room. She pulled the power knob on his old TV. Nothing happened. She checked the plug and gave the antique device a solid whack, clicked it on and off a few times. Nothing.
She perused Mack’s book collection, which consisted of military thrillers, truck catalogs, and botany textbooks, reminding her again that her friend might be a fellow outdoor enthusiast, but he was a guy, and a young guy to boot. She felt like a salmon that had leapt the wrong waterfall and ended up in an alien pond.
She plopped onto the floor, pulled her duffel to her, and rummaged through it, finally extracting a plastic bag that contained an embroidery hoop, fabric, and a small stack of quilt blocks. She dumped the bag’s contents out on the floor. The finished blocks were the beginning of an album quilt. Her grandmother had made one for her mother: a record of the milestones in Susan Crawford Westin’s short life. Squares commemorating childhood events, high school graduation, engagement, marriage, and the birth of her only child, Summer.
Her mother’s album quilt was traditional. Her own would be a record of a very different life. And with her mother and grandmother both in their graves, Sam would have to finish it herself.
The top square had been stitched by her mother. Sam couldn’t remember ever seeing her with a needle and thread, so she must have sewn this shortly after Sam was born, before ALS had robbed her hands of their strength. A yellow-haired baby sitting cross-legged on a Bible, reaching toward a black-and-red butterfly that fluttered just out of reach. Sam knew that she was the baby, that the Bible represented her father. And the butterfly her mother? Had the poor woman been that perceptive? Sam sighed. She’d never know.
The next four squares had been pieced together by her grandmother. One showed a small figure in a tree filled with birds. Until her grandmother had produced this, Sam believed that her favorite hiding place was a secret. There was a square showing a girl on a galloping pinto, the horse’s mane and tail and the girl’s hair flying in the wind. Just looking at the appliqué image made Sam remember the happiness she’d felt riding Comanche through the prairie grass and wildflowers.
The next square was a girl in cap and gown: high school graduation. Then one of a college diploma clasped in the huge paw of a grinning grizzly bear. Her grandmother’s gentle humor, representing Sam’s college degree in wildlife biology.
Sam had sewn the last square herself, as evidenced by its uneven stitching. But at least the subject was original: a blond woman standing with a shovel in hand, shadowed by an ostrich. This square stood for her brief stint as a zookeeper. She’d added a malevolent squint to the ostrich’s embroidered eye. The giant African birds were not to be trusted; she still had a scar on the back of her neck to prove it.
She fingered the plain-colored squares of cloth at the bottom of the stack. What next? Did she really want to memorialize her first Internet reporting gig for the Save the Wilderness Fund? She’d certainly never forget it, and both a ranger friend and a cougar bore old bullet scars as permanent reminders. Several people had almost died, including a two-year-old boy. She shivered. No.
She didn’t really feel like sewing or even thinking about a design for a quilt block. S
he stuffed the squares back into her bag, went to the kitchen, and poured another Negra Modelo for herself. Ten forty-five. Mack should have left the hospital at nine. He was probably out with Jodi or one of his buddies. Or maybe avoiding his apartment because he feared she was there? Tomorrow, she’d take herself out of his hair.
Yawning, she dumped out the last third of the beer. She took a shower, and after leaving Hoyle’s message on Mack’s pillow, she folded out the futon and made up the lumpy mattress with the same wad of sheets she’d used a week ago. She woke only once, a little after midnight, when a square of light from the hallway spilled onto her face as Mack opened the door.
9
THE next morning, Sam found Lisa reclined in a half-sitting position in her hospital bed, cradling her head in her hands. Twenty questions for her immediately leapt to Sam’s mind. Take it slow, she reminded herself. She smiled. “I’m glad to see that you’re awake this morning, Lisa.” Thrilled was more like it.
Lisa looked at Sam, her gaze unfocused. She didn’t smile back. Sam plopped into the visitor chair. It hadn’t gotten any softer since the previous day. “Remember me? Sam Westin? How are you feeling?”
A tiny moan escaped the blistered lips, then Lisa croaked, “Head hurts. Bad.”
“Did they give you something for it?”
Another half nod.
“Well, then, it’ll probably get better in a little while.” Sam slid the chair closer. “If it doesn’t, we’ll see if we can get the nurses to give you something else.”
The chair creaked as she leaned forward. No wonder the previous visitor had had a hard time meeting the girl’s gaze. Some of Lisa’s bandages had been removed, and her skin had been cleaned or scrubbed, or whatever torturous thing they did with burns these days. The right side of Lisa’s face was smooth white skin; the left half was bloodred jelly overlaid with white cream. Sam clasped her hands in her lap to keep from patting her own cheeks to make sure they were okay. “Lisa, last time I was here, you told me that you’d been kidnapped.”
Bear Bait (9781101611548) Page 9
