by Joanne Pence
“Then what I said goes double, damn it! I’m busy. Send her to Salmon City.”
He bent low over a drawer and rummaged through it for a box of staples when he heard a far different voice from his deputy’s tenor. “And here I believed it when people told me Idahoans were friendly.”
He looked up to see Mallick fleeing out the door as a tall woman approached. She carried herself stiffly, head high, expression stoic. Her coloring was fair yet wan, as if she suffered from a weighty fatigue. She was dressed sensibly, but her clothes looked so new he expected to see price tags dangling from them. Something about her made him immediately suspicious. For one thing, most federal bureaucrats reeked of undeserved cockiness, and she didn’t.
Extending her hand, she said, “Charlotte Reed.”
He stood to shake her hand. She had a strong grip, her demeanor formidable. “What brings Customs out here?” he asked. “Are you with the border patrol or immigration?”
She turned and made sure the deputy had gone. The sheriff’s harsh glare could have been a weapon. “Neither. My job has to do with art smuggling and forgeries.” She showed her credentials. “I also have a concealed-carry permit and”—she laid her 9 mm Glock 19 on the table—“I'm armed.”
He studied her ID. It looked legitimate. “You're in Idaho now.” He gestured for her to sit on a rigid wooden arm chair, as he sat again behind his desk. “Concealed carry's not a problem. What brings you here?”
She put her gun back in her handbag as she took a seat. The sheriff clearly felt no love for Feds, and regarded her with cold calculation. Lying had never been her strong suit. “We’re trying to track down an ancient manuscript. An incredibly valuable manuscript. Lionel Rempart allegedly knows something about its whereabouts. I need to question him.”
“Your timing is peculiar, to put it mildly.” Jake wondered even more what her game was.
“I know he's missing, but I don’t want to take the chance of him getting away,” she said, doing all she could not to appear nervous. “I need to be there as soon as he’s found.”
“You’ve got more confidence in our success at finding him than most of those vultures camped outside.” Jake gave a caustic grimace.
She saw no humor in the remark. “Perhaps.” Her fingers tightened on the arm of her chair. “What have you been told about Rempart's reason for going into such a remote area?”
He leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, elbows out as he studied her. Her story sounded like a crock of B.S., but for the moment, he played along. “Nothing useful. Just verbiage to cover their collective butts.”
Her lips tilted wryly at his honesty. “Some reporters are saying that since Rempart is an expert on Lewis and Clark, he must have come here because of them.”
He snorted. “Idiots. Makes you feel warm and fuzzy about journalists, doesn’t it?” He turned serious, yet continued to make her feel like a bug he’d just pinned to a whiteboard. “Look, Ms. Reed, people who study Lewis and Clark are fanatics, the sort who can tell you the phase of the moon on every night of the expedition from the time it started in May, 1804 until it reached the Pacific in November, 1805. But you’ve got to head a good deal north if you want to walk in their moccasins. Rempart knew they were never out where he went.”
Michael Rempart stood in the doorway behind the Deputy and watched the exchange between the hard-faced local sheriff, and the pale, tense woman. The Deputy seemed loathe to interrupt, but Michael couldn't pass up the opening.
“The name’s Rempart,” he said as he strode into the room. He watched the sheriff's quick assessment of him, “Seems I’m in the right place.”
Jake rose to his feet, a grimace covering his face. “You sure as hell aren't the professor.”
Michael surveyed the former storage space, now search headquarters, as he dropped his leather duffle bag on the floor, and his Oakley sunglasses atop it. “I'm Michael. Lionel's my brother.”
“I'm sorry, Sheriff,” Deputy Mallick said, still hovering in the background. “I had to let him in to get him away from those news people. They’re going nuts out there!”
“Son, you got a gun,” Jake said with a scowl before facing Michael again. “You can leave a phone number or some way to reach you. We'll keep you apprised of any news.”
Michael turned toward Charlotte. “Please pardon my interruption,” he said with a slight nod.
“No problem.” As Charlotte held out her hand, Michael heard relief in her voice, as if she might be glad that someone else would deflect the sheriff's bad humor. “Charlotte Reed, U.S. Customs.”
“Customs?” Michael asked as they shook hands.
“It’s a long story,” she said.
Michael stared a beat too long as he remembered the Chinese director Zhao mentioning the U.S. government’s interest in his dig. Was she part of that interested group of Feds? He then turned back to Jake. “I didn't come all the way from Ulaanbaatar to sit in a motel room. I'm here to find my brother.”
Jake bristled at the tone. “Can't say I know or much care where Ulaanbaatar is. In fact, I don't care much about customs agents or brotherly love. Right now, I need to get back to work, so listen up.” He strode to a large U.S. Forest Service area map taped to the wall. In brusque, no nonsense terms, he explained where the search teams were deployed. “We suspect the university group got on the Salmon River and headed to who knows where. There's nothing for you to do but wait.”
“Hell, no.” Michael spat out the words as he moved closer to study the map. “If that's where they've gone, I’m going after them. I've never met a river I couldn't run.”
Jake took a deep breath, strained to remain calm, but each word grew louder. “We've already sent teams up and down the river. Did no good. It's the size, the number of inlets, tributaries, creeks. They could have turned off at any one of them. I'd invite you to look for yourself, but I'll be god-damned if I want another Rempart lost out there. As for Customs”—he faced Charlotte—“I don’t give a rat’s ass about it. If you have official business here, Ms. Reed, you go through channels like everyone else or, to me, you’re just another civilian.” He glared at them. “You two can leave now.”
“I don’t think so,” Charlotte said, as she scowled back every bit as fiercely as the sheriff.
“I know my brother's ways and scientific methods,” Michael said. “Look, he studies the western expansion in the U.S., which means he spends most of his time in small towns, museums, and libraries. Roughing it is a visit to a national park. He almost never goes anywhere that's in its natural state. I'm the one who does that.”
“The way I heard it from the University,” Jake said, “he was Daniel Boone and Kit Carson rolled into one. At the same time, the fired guide claimed Rempart didn't know which end of horse has a tail. I should have known who to listen to.” His mouth curled in disgust.
“When is the next search party going out?” Michael asked.
“Listen to me and get this straight.” Jake was beyond exasperated with all the Johnny-come-latelies who kept showing up at his office door. “I've already got three search teams and two helicopters out there. There's nothing more for you to do. I don't know why either of you came all the way to Idaho, but you are not wanted here.”
As the sheriff's gaze turned to Charlotte, she said, “I told you my reason.”
Jake grimaced. “Did you?”
She turned away from his steely green-eyed stare, and looked at Michael.
“I'm here for my brother,” Michael stated.
“And what else?” Jake asked.
Michael’s jaw clenched. “I have no idea what you mean.”
Jake reminded himself not to give in to his anger and annoyance. It wouldn’t be “professional” as the County Commissioners warned him when they first offered him the job of sheriff. “As I said, if you'll both excuse me, I have search teams to coordinate.”
Charlotte joined Michael at the map, and Jake used the time to cool down and study them.
>
Michael Rempart seemed an arrogant SOB with a reckless air that Jake found disturbing. Charlotte Reed was altogether different. She had a strained look about her, as if she held something deep inside. And a sadness to her eyes when she thought no one looked. Yet, he liked something about those eyes, an intelligence and—although she worked hard to hide it—a genuineness and warmth.
Not that such things mattered to him anymore. Not at this point in his life.
“One person,” Michael said, interrupting his thoughts, “would be hard to find out there, even two. But this is eight, most likely all moving together, not going anywhere fast, having to light fires, eat, fish. They could be hurt. Dying. We’ve got to hurry. I don't see how you've failed to find them.”
“I don't give a goddamn what you see.” All his good intentions about his temper vanished. Jake drew himself up to his full height, still a good three or four inches less than Michael's angular, six-foot-two frame, but he wasn't about to hear his search tactics second-guessed. He knew this land—it was in his soul—and he knew how it could swallow up a person, and there was little anyone could do about it.
“Would you rather,” Michael said, his tone cold, “I go to the press with some sob story about how the local sheriff won’t let me help look for my beloved brother? Maybe Ms. Reed can do the same with the Feds, bring in a few more of them to crawl around Telichpah Flat. They’ll make a fine addition to the mob already outside.”
On the verge of telling them to bring it on, instead Jake regarded the two as they waited for his reaction. As he did, his irritation dropped to a simmering boil. He didn’t know the reasons for the half-truths they tried to feed him, and he didn’t trust either one, but he recognized the demons in their eyes. He’d been down that road before himself. They were haunted by ghosts and something more. Guilt? Regret? He shouldn’t care, but for some reason, they made him curious.
Whatever was going on, it verified the bad feeling he’d had about this search and rescue ever since it started. Michael Rempart was right about one thing. Eight people should be relatively easy to find even in an area as enormous, rugged, and empty as the River of No Return Wilderness. He felt danger in this rescue, and the sense of danger grew worse, not better, every minute. He refused to allow the two of them to get hurt.
Just then, Deputy Mallick entered the room without knocking, which was unlike him. His eyes were round and scared as he handed the sheriff a note. Jake read it and frowned. He glanced quickly, coldly, in Charlotte’s direction. “I’ll be goddamned. You verified this?”
“As best I could,” Mallick said. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he stepped back outside.
Charlotte went on immediate alert. She watched the sheriff put on a heavy sheepskin coat and tug a black Stetson low on his brow. With Wrangler’s, brown pointy-toed boots, and the weather-hardened lines of his face, she had to admit that he looked like Hollywood’s idea of an old time cowboy star, but she found nothing about him in the least bit heroic. He was insensitive, overly brusque, and too much of a bully. She wondered what the note could have said that made him glare at her the way he had.
Jake walked to the door, but then stopped and faced Michael and Charlotte. “Sounds as if you two might be around a while. I suspect the few hotels and motels around here are booked solid, and it’ll get a lot worse once all those Customs agents come here to help Ms. Reed. I’ve heard the CNN crew scored an Airstream trailer from the days of Nixon. Maybe they’ll let you bunk with them for a few days in exchange for the big news scoop you plan to give.”
With that, he stormed from the search headquarters and pushed his way through the press.
Charlotte glanced at Michael with stunned dismay. “My, but that went well.”
Chapter 4
DERRICK HAMMILL WAS sour. His men stayed clear. From a ridge overlooking Telichpah Flat, the Leica Rangefinder binoculars gave him a clear view of Charlotte Reed entering search headquarters. Why in the hell was she here? He thought she was dead.
He hated the bitch.
She killed his man in Jerusalem, then he lost her in Paris. When he was dispatched to Idaho, he'd been told some so-called pros would eliminate her in Washington D.C. Obviously, they’d blown the assignment. Or Charlotte Reed had more lives than a cat.
But now, with an M-107 .50 caliber long range sniper rifle, he could kill her when she left the office. Easy as target practice. He wouldn’t, though. Not yet, anyway. Not while she could be useful to him. He lowered the binoculars.
He knew only one reason for her to be here: Lionel Rempart. Her being here told him the university group must be nearby.
The bitch was lucky and smart, which was more than he could say about those two idiot river guides he’d wasted time on. And the sheriff wasn’t much better.
He had been sent here to find Rempart’s group. Too bad he couldn’t get more specific intel on where they were going. It wasn’t as if there were street signs out here. Hell, roads barely existed. He’d never been to a part of the U.S. as barren and desolate. He and his men had been monitoring all law enforcement frequencies, every bit of data the media sent to their newsrooms, and even personal emails into or out of the immediate area. At a moment’s notice if the right signal came in, they could triangulate a position and move out.
But not one bit of good data came in.
Something told him Charlotte Reed might be able to find the lost group before anyone else did. He would watch her, see if she had any success. Of course, if she gave up and tried to leave the area, he would be happy to assist in her permanent departure.
One way or the other, once he found the university group, Charlotte Reed would pay for making him look so bad.
He lifted the binoculars to his eyes once more.
Chapter 5
Washington D.C.
LI JIANJUN DIDN’T let cost deter him as he used the long flight from Beijing to San Francisco and then to Washington D.C. to hack into George Washington University’s computer system. He then located Lionel Rempart’s email, and from it sent a message instructing the anthropology department's office manager to allow “student John Lee” access to Rempart's office and his Idaho files.
By the time the plane touched down at Reagan National, Jianjun also managed to request a replacement GWU student body card, and to have it waiting for him when he reached the school.
A student covered the desk for anthropology’s administrative office. After Jianjun showed his student body card and explained about Rempart’s email, she unlocked Rempart’s office door and let Jianjun enter. She then stood in the doorway to watch.
Michael had told him to find out all he could about Lionel’s interest in Idaho. So far, everything worked as planned.
Behind Rempart’s desk, he found a box marked as meeting acid-free, lignin-free, chemically-purified ANSI standards for paper preservation. Curious, he sank into the desk chair and opened it. The student heaved a sigh and shut the door behind her as she left the office.
Documents from New Gideon, a tiny Mormon settlement that existed for one year in Central Idaho filled the box. Not much of interest was in it, mostly notes about the weather, crops, grains, births, deaths, and lots and lots about God. A couple of the diaries gave a fascinating picture of how the small settlement came to exist.
Followers of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, established in 1830 by Joseph Smith, were led by Brigham Young to the territory of Utah in 1846 after years of persecution, which included Joseph Smith's murder. They believed their sacred duty was to spread the word from The Book of Mormon.
In May, 1855, twenty-seven missionaries headed north of their settlement around the Great Salt Lake to establish the Salmon River Indian Mission. The group averaged thirty-two years in age and came from ten states and two foreign countries. Most were married, and some were polygamists.
Their leader, a New Yorker named Thomas S. Smith, had no knowledge of the people they sought to redeem, but his ordination as president of the mission gave him
absolute authority over all actions taken by the group.
The Bannocks gave the missionaries a friendly greeting, and escorted them to a crossroads and gathering place for many tribes, ones not always friendly toward each other, near the Salmon River. There, the Saints, as the Mormons called themselves, established Fort Lemhi, named after a Nephite king in The Book of Mormon.
Jianjun paused long enough to ponder why a group who wanted to be known as Saints would build a place to spread the word of God and called it a “fort.” Even after all these years, the ways of Americans were still strange to him. Very strange. Peculiar even. He continued his reading.
Two years later, Brigham Young visited the fort. What he saw convinced him that the valley would suit the Saints. He decided to send more brethren to “have what land they could cultivate.” No one mentioned, however, purchasing the land from the Indians who considered it theirs.
As the first step in this expansion, after more Saints arrived at Fort Lemhi, a group of seven missionaries were sent many miles northwest to establish the community of New Gideon. They were quite alone in the remote outpost, but the tiny Tukudeka tribe made gestures of friendship by giving them some exceedingly strange gifts and warning them to stay away from certain areas.
Unfortunately for the Saints, the rapid colonization of their land outraged the Bannocks and several other tribes. Thomas Smith's complete lack of understanding of how to deal with them aggravated an already bad situation. In February, 1858, the Bannocks and Shoshone attacked Fort Lemhi. They killed two missionaries, wounded five, and took all their horses and cattle. The survivors immediately fled back to Salt Lake City.
The diaries stopped there. Jianjun imagined as soon as the residents of New Gideon heard what happened, they also abandoned everything and returned to Utah. Many years later, according to Rempart’s notes, gold prospectors stumbled upon the colony’s remains. Its few surviving materials were eventually sent to the Smithsonian museum for preservation.
