Stormwalker
❖
Dallas Schulze
Published February 1987
First printing December 1986
First Australian Paperback Edition May 1987
ISBN 0 373 16185 9
Copyright © 1987 by Dallas Schulze. All rights reserved.
Philippine copyright 1987.
Australian copyright 1987.
New Zealand copyright 1987.
Prologue
The single-engine Cessna was coming in too low. The sleek red-and-white body barely skimmed over the mountain, almost brushing the treetops. There was an ominous catch in the engine—a missed beat in what should have been a smooth roar. Only an occasional mule deer heard the sound, cocking their graceful heads at this noisy invasion of their retreat before bounding deeper into the pine forests.
Heavy gray clouds formed a thick blanket over the mountains. The small plane bucked, fighting to retain some altitude. For a moment the nose tilted up, and it looked as if the plane might win the battle to stay airborne. But it was only a momentary victory.
The clouds seemed to press down on the fragile craft and it plummeted earthward. Struggling to keep its nose up, it twisted its way into a narrow valley. A wing sheared off against a granite wall. The craft spun away and continued its mad journey until the nose caught on a shallow ridge. The plane tilted upward, poised for a moment on its nose like an oddly graceful bird before tipping over, almost in slow motion, to land on the other side of the ridge.
The landing gear pointed uselessly into the air, the wheels spun madly until they gradually slowed and then came to a halt. Where moments before the mountains had been filled with the grinding of metal as the craft died, now there was only silence.
The mountains had seen many things. Death was not new. Death was the way in which all things returned to the earth that had borne them. Eventually, the metal of this strange creature would dissolve and flake into the soil. It might take decades or centuries, but the mountains had time.
The first snowfall of the season began to drift down, sifting a powdery covering over the gay red and white of the wreckage.
Chapter 1
"You're not making any sense."
"I'm making perfect sense," Sara said firmly.
"What do you think you can do that the authorities haven't already done?"
"I'm going to find Cullen."
"See? You're not making any sense." David Turner paused in his pacing and faced her across the bed. "Stop packing for a minute and look at me."
Sara glanced up and smiled. "Don't try for the macho image, David. It doesn't suit you. I'm listening, but I have to finish packing or I'll miss the plane."
He glared at her for a moment before giving up. In the three years he had known Sara Grant, he had never yet managed to win an argument with her, except when it came to business. She was willing to listen to anything he had to say about her career, but on everything else she went her own way.
"Sara, be rational." He abandoned firm masculinity for an appeal to reason. "The search-and-rescue people in Colorado have already done everything possible."
"They've done everything they have the time to do," she said as she folded a pair of heavy jeans and laid them next to a stack of warm shirts.
He came around the end of the bed with the quick stride so characteristic of him and caught her hands, forcing her to abandon the suitcase and look at him.
"Honey, you're asking for more pain. It's been over a week since the plane went down. There's almost no chance anyone would still be alive."
"Almost no chance. It's the 'almost' that keeps me going, David." Her fingers tightened around his and she reined in her impatience to be gone, trying to make him understand how she felt. "I can't give up as long as there's any chance at all. If Cullen survived the crash, he's going to know that I'll find him. I can't let him down."
"You can't search the Rocky Mountains by yourself, honey. What are you going to do? The search-and-rescue people have already told you they can't do anything more."
"I don't know, but I'll think of something once I'm there."
"Let me come with you."
For the first time in days, her delicate features lit with a smile. "Now I know you really do love me. Only true love could possibly drag an offer like that out of you. You get hives at the very thought of the great outdoors. You're the only man I know who can zero in on poison oak and fall into the only patch of it in a hundred-mile radius. Thanks for the offer, but I wouldn't ask that of you. Besides, you've got commitments here."
She flexed her captive hands and he released them reluctantly. He watched her continue packing, feeling as if a chasm were opening up at his feet, separating them forever.
Sara sensed his despondence but there was nothing she could do about it. All her thoughts were centered on Cullen—on his need. It was almost as if he were calling to her, reaching across the miles between them. Her soft mouth set stubbornly. Cullen was alive, and she was going to find him come hell or high water.
She rolled a pair of thick socks and tucked them into a corner of the suitcase. Catching David's mournful expression, she gave him a strained smile. "It's not as if I'm going off without any plans at all. When I told John Larkin I was flying out to continue the search, he said that he could give me the name of someone who might agree to help me. He doesn't work cheap, but I don't care what it costs. I'll pay anything to find Cullen."
Her delicately plucked brows came together in a frown. "As soon as we get back, I'll apply for a second loan on the house. I just hope whoever he is, he'll be willing to wait on his money."
"Oh, hell, I'll give you the money." David ran his long, graceful fingers through his shaggy brown hair. "If I can't talk you out of going and you won't let me go with you, at least let me bankroll the expedition."
Sara stopped packing to look at him, blinking back the first tears since the crash. "Just a loan," she managed to say firmly.
"Just a loan. Look on me as your friendly neighborhood banker, eager to lend a helping hand." He gave her a crooked smile and reached out to cup his hand around her cheek. "I may think this whole thing is crazy, but I care about the boy too, you know. I hope you find him."
"Oh, David." His name was a choked whisper as she went into his arms, letting him hold her close. She rubbed her face against the soft cashmere of the sweater she'd given him for his birthday and inhaled the combination of scents she always associated with him: the pipe he'd started smoking when he gave up cigarettes, the cologne he always wore, a whiff of the chemicals he used to develop his pictures. This last thought made her smile. No matter what the occasion, or how elegant his clothing, David always smelled like a photographer. Sometimes she had the whimsical idea that if they ever X-rayed him, they were going to find a jumble of camera parts.
She pulled away, dabbing at her eyes. "You shouldn't be so nice. You'll make me cry and you know how you hate red eyes."
His thumb tilted her chin up, and he looked down into her face, his expression brooding. "You would be the most beautiful woman in the world, even with red eyes."
Sara smiled up at him, uncertain in the face of his intensity. David Turner usually reserved that emotion for his work. Away from the cameras and his studio, he was the perfect laid-back Californian.
"It's nice to know you feel that way, but I doubt if your clients would agree. It's hard to sell mascara when the model's eyes look like she's been on an all-night binge."
Whatever strange mood had gripped him, he seemed to shake it off. His hand dropped away from her face. "You can always fall back on selling nail polish, unless your hands get red when you cry, too."
"Not that I've noticed." She turned back to the suitcase, pushing aside his odd mood as she quickl
y tucked in the last few items and shut the lid, snapping the latches closed. "I think I've packed everything I'm likely to need. I'll buy anything I've forgotten once I know what I'm up against."
She let David carry the suitcase out to her car, sensing his need to help in this small way. But she was firm in her refusal to let him drive her to the airport. "I can park the car in long-term parking. You've got a shoot scheduled this afternoon. You don't have time to run me to the airport."
"I can cancel it."
"There's no reason to."
"I just feel like I should do something useful."
"David, you're doing something immensely useful in offering me a loan if I need it. I have no idea who this guy is that John Larkin thinks might help me. I may need to lay my hands on the cash right away."
Reluctantly, he lifted the suitcase into the trunk of her compact car. Impatient to be gone but sensing his need for reassurance, Sara sought for the right words. "I really do appreciate the loan, David. It's going to make things a lot easier for me."
"No problem. I'll instruct my bank to let you draw whatever you need." His hands came up to catch her by the shoulders, his fingers pressing into the soft fabric of her shirt. "Take care of yourself."
"I will. Don't look so worried. I'm not going to do anything stupid."
"See that you don't."
She raised her head as he drew her closer. There was a strange desperation in his kiss, as if he expected it to be their last. She responded by putting her arms around his neck and holding him close, offering him reassurance without words. When he drew back, his eyes searched her face intently for a moment, asking questions she couldn't read.
"I'd better get going." She didn't understand his mood, but at the moment she didn't have the emotional strength to question it. All her emotions were tied up with Cullen. There was little left to offer David.
She slid into the driver's seat and started the car. "I'll call you as soon as I know anything. It may take some time, so don't worry if you don't hear from me right away."
He leaned in the window and planted a hard kiss on her mouth before stepping away from the car. "Take care."
She backed out of the driveway, lifting her hand in a brief farewell. David stood on the small lawn and watched until the little red car turned a corner and was out of sight. He hunched his shoulders against the cool autumn breeze, his slender hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans as he stared after her.
Why did he have the feeling that they'd just said goodbye forever?
❧
He came awake suddenly, instantly alert and on guard, as if there were danger nearby. For a moment he lay absolutely still, absorbing the silence of the old house. He relaxed slightly. There was nothing nearby. He swept back the light blanket, which was his only concession to the autumn chill, and swung his feet to the floor. He stood up, arching his back in a light stretch. He was not going back to sleep, and lying in bed wouldn't change that. It was time he was up anyway. He left the bedroom and moved through the dim house easily, his bare feet making no sound on the worn hardwood floors. In the kitchen he stirred the coals in the old wood-burning stove, which provided both food and heat in the winter.
Sullen light caught on his sharply chiseled features. A wide forehead, dark brows, a nose that stopped just short of hawkish and a sensually molded mouth above a strong jaw covered with dark stubble. Heavy black hair cut with shaggy disregard for style and worn just a little too long fell onto his forehead. Thick black lashes shielded eyes of a startlingly dark and brilliant emerald green.
Crouched in front of the fire, he was a figure more pagan than modern. The light flickered over a lean body, a muscled chest lightly dusted with curling hair, corded thighs that lifted him easily upright as he slammed the firebox shut and stretched again. Morning's first tentative light slid ovef the rise to the east and slipped in through the uncurtained window, gilding his naked frame, adding a golden glow to the warm coppery tint of his skin.
He turned to the window and lifted his hand as if to capture the fleeting rays of dawn that sifted through his fingers. With a half smile, he turned away and began to prepare the morning coffee, carefully grinding the beans and setting them to brew with a care that would have seemed appropriate at a gourmet restaurant. In the scuffed-wood surroundings of the worn kitchen, the modern whir of the grinder was as out of place as a rocket launcher next to a covered wagon.
With the aroma of coffee filling the room, he crossed the buckled linoleum floor to the back door. The hinges squealed a protest as he opened the door and went out onto the porch. His hands leaned on the rail, his eyes never leaving the mountains that loomed across the valley.
Something was wrong up there. The dream that had awakened him so abruptly had left him with only fleeting images of twisted metal and towering peaks. A plane crash. The faint shudder that twitched his shoulders had nothing to do with the chill in the air. Whatever had happened, it was going to have an impact on his life. His nostrils flared slightly as if he could smell change on the wind.
With a faint shrug, he turned away from the silent mountains. Whatever was going to happen had already been set in motion. There was nothing he could do to change it. He pushed the door shut behind him, shutting out the mountains and the dream images of tortured wreckage and eyes the color of mountain columbines.
❧
Sara forced her hands to ease their death grip and relax on the arms of her seat. The DC-10 taxied smoothly down the runway toward the terminal and she began to feel as if she could breathe again. She had never liked flying. Even as a child she had felt vulnerable suspended in midair with only a thin metal shell between her and the clouds.
When her brother, Evan, and his wife died in a plane crash when Sara was twenty-three years old, it had confirmed her distrust of the machines. She had never been able to understand how Evan's son could retain his love of flying, but she hadn't tried to discourage him. Now another plane was down, and she might have lost her nephew. He was all she had left and he might be dead.
She shook her head as the people around her began to gather up briefcases and overnight bags. She had to think positively. Cullen was alive. All she had to do was find him.
She exited the plane with a feeling of having beat the odds. Only the urgent need for speed had driven her to get on the gleaming monster, and she felt a certain sense of triumph at having arrived safely. Cullen would laugh when she told him how she'd felt.
She followed the crowd toward the luggage pickup area. Her boot heels clicked briskly on the hard floors as she wove her way around strollers and luggage carts. She waited impatiently for her dark brown suitcase to appear on the carousel. When it finally arrived, she stepped forward to lift it off, only to find herself forestalled by a middle-aged man wearing a suit complete with cowboy boots and Western string tie.
She summoned up a smile and a murmur of thanks, shaking her head politely when he offered to carry her luggage to her car. She lifted the heavy suitcase easily and headed for the car rental booths. She was used to men who thought she needed protection. At five-foot-two, Sara had a slim, fragile look that made men think of delicate flowers. She capitalized on that look for her modeling, but she was more than capable of carrying her own luggage.
It seemed to take forever to rent a four-wheel-drive vehicle and get out of the airport. It was early evening before she pulled the truck to a halt in front of the small tract home in a suburb of Denver. She had called from the airport and John Larkin had given her directions to his home.
Walking up the path to the front door, Sara zipped up her jacket. It was a lot colder in Denver than it had been in Los Angeles. She tried not to think about how much colder it would be in the mountains that loomed above the city. Cullen had been camping all his life. He would know how to keep warm.
John Larkin was a rather ordinary looking man in his late thirties. Somehow, Sara had been expecting someone who looked more like Indiana Jones, complete with battered hat. His leade
rship of a search-and-rescue team had conjured up visions of derring-do and adventure that didn't quite suit the smallish, slightly balding man who introduced her to his wife and baby son.
"We have a rough idea of where the plane went down, but we couldn't see any sign of it from the air. It must have gone down somewhere in this general vicinity, judging from the last radio contact they made."
He drew a red circle around a dauntingly large portion of the map that lay spread out on the dining room table. Sara took a sip of her coffee, trying not to be discouraged by the size of the area he had marked.
"Why couldn't you find the wreckage?"
He shrugged. "That's a big area. There are a lot of canyons and valleys. We covered the area by air, but there's always the possibility that we missed the crash site. More likely, the plane's out of sight under an overhang, or resting so close against a cliff that the shadows would keep it hidden. And the high country is getting the first snows of the season. Nothing too deep yet, but even a light snow layer would cover the wreck enough to blend it in with the scenery."
He sat back and picked up his coffee cup, letting her digest what he had told her for a moment before he spoke again. "I have to be honest with you, Ms Grant. I don't think there's much chance of any survivors. Small plane crashes..." His voice trailed off and he shrugged. "I'm afraid even if your son survived the crash, there's not much chance of him surviving for very long alone in the mountains. A kid his age..." Again he let the sentence finish itself.
"He's not my son. Cullen is my nephew, and he's a wilderness freak. He and Bill, the man who was flying the plane, have been going on hunting and camping trips since Cullen was ten years old. That's eight years of experience. I think he's still alive."
John Larkin shrugged. "I can't blame you for hoping. I wish we could do more, but we've had several lost hikers and another light-plane crash to contend with. Our people will continue to keep an eye out for any sign of the plane, but we just don't have the men to keep looking full-time."
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