Inside the Echo
Page 2
“We can’t leave them out,” Bear insisted.
“And we won’t,” I returned firmly. “But we’ve already been over this island twice with the dogs. We need a new plan.”
Twenty minutes later, Bear and I still waited alone in our newly constructed, 2,000-square-foot galley – an open-concept structure with floors made of salvaged wood, the walls lined with passive solar windows. In addition to a cafeteria for staff and any visitors to the island, the building included a commercial kitchen where we made both the animal and human food on the island.
Bear sat on a bench seat with Casper beside him, his attention on something outside the window. As I often am now that he’s getting older, I was struck by his profile, much closer to a man now than to the boy I’d raised. Bear looked more like me when he was little, with my blond hair and a long, lanky build, but as he got older the resemblance to his father grew. Now, with his light-brown hair and dark-brown eyes, his solid shoulders and brooding ways, he was a dead ringer for Brock Campbell. Brock died eight years ago, but I often wondered what he would think of the young man his son had become.
I forced myself out of my reverie to take stock of our current situation. There were seven of us living out on the island year-round, but today three of those seven were working on a search overseas following a recent earthquake. That meant Bear and I were alone on the island with Carl Mensah and his daughter Ren, refugees from Nigeria who had joined Flint K-9 just over five years ago. Ren was Bear’s age, and I considered her and her dog Minion nearly as adept at search and rescue as Bear and Casper. At the moment, however, there was no sign of either the girl or her dog.
“Do you have any idea where Ren is?” I asked.
“She was on the western ridge last I knew,” Bear said, looking worried himself. “That was an hour ago, though.”
Great. Now not only did we have three wayward pygmy goats to find, we were missing a handler and her dog, too.
“Have you tried raising her on the radio?”
“She’s not answering,” Bear said. “I’m definitely getting worried.”
I reached into my back pocket for my radio to try her myself. Before I could do so, however, my cell phone rang. I know all this technology makes things safer and communication easier in the field, but I can’t help but wonder sometimes what it would have been like when the only way people could get hold of you were smoke signals. Frankly, it doesn’t sound so bad. Juggling my gear, I set the radio aside, hauled the cell out of my pocket, and noted a blocked number on the screen. Definitely not Ren.
“Flint K-9,” I answered, more brusque than I’d intended.
“Is this Jamie?” a voice on the other end asked. A familiar voice, though one I hadn’t heard in so long that I was sure it couldn’t be the man who immediately came to mind.
“This is. Can I help you?”
“Yes,” the man replied. “Or, at least I hope you can. I’m actually calling for Sergeant Roger Steiner. There’s a group missing in the Mahoosuc Mountains. He’s calling in all available K-9s and would like them on ASAP. Is your team available?”
I frowned. “We have three handlers and their dogs overseas right now helping with earthquake recovery, but there are still three teams available. We don’t usually send the dogs out in conditions like these, though. In deep snow like this they just get bogged down, so it’s not all that efficient.” I hesitated. “I’m sorry. Who did you say this was?”
There was a pause on the line. Then: “It’s Hogan, Jamie. Nate Hogan. I’m working for the warden service now.”
The pause on the line was longer this time, as I tried to sort through a muddled onslaught of emotions inspired by the name. I was all too aware of Bear in the room beside me. The mixed blessing of being a single mom: my son is way too tuned into what – and how – I’m doing at any given moment.
“Jamie?” Hogan prompted, when seconds had passed and I still hadn’t said anything.
“Yeah – sorry, Hogan. I just… It was just a little unexpected, that’s all.”
“I meant to get in touch once I got back to Maine,” he said. “I just…”
“I understand,” I said quickly. “We can catch up another time. But as I was saying, weather like this—”
“I know,” he said, cutting me off. “We’ve already talked to the handlers in the warden service and in MESARD.” MESARD stands for Maine Search and Rescue Dogs, a nonprofit comprised of volunteer handlers and their dogs who help with searches throughout New England and into Canada. “They’ve all agreed to come. We had rain followed by a hard freeze a couple of days ago – there’s a crust of solid ice out there. Your dogs will be able to walk on top of the snow for the duration.”
“Another warm front is moving in late tonight, though,” I reminded him.
“And we’re prepared to send the dogs home at that point, if necessary.”
The urgency in his tone finally came through, and curiosity won out over practicality. “Who’s missing, exactly?” I asked.
“It’s a group called WildFire Expeditions.”
“I know them,” I said, surprised. “Bear’s done a couple of dog sledding courses there. Who’s missing?”
“All of them. The leaders of the expedition and all eight students. A snowmobiler came across the camp about an hour ago. Seven dogs still out on the picket line, but not a single member of the group to be found.”
I felt a shiver of unease. I knew Megan and Heather, the sisters who ran WildFire Expeditions. Something must have happened for them to leave their dogs unattended. And definitely not something good.
Before I could respond to Hogan’s information, the double doors of the galley burst open on a gust of cold air. A second later, three indignant – and very snowy – pygmy goats made their way inside, followed by a little yellow pit bull/lab cross and a very chilled-looking dark-skinned girl. Ren had returned.
Bear cheered her entrance, but I held up my hand for quiet as I ended the conversation with Nate Hogan – a man who had saved my life eight years ago, and then simply walked away.
“We’ll be there,” I said. “Just text me the details, and we should hit Bethel by noon. How many dogs do you want?”
“As many as you can spare.” A second passed before he spoke again. “Thanks, Jamie – I appreciate this. Really. I’ll see you soon.”
And then he was gone.
I returned my phone to my bag, and Bear was at my side immediately.
“Is there a search?” he asked, always eager to head into the field.
“Up in the Mahoosucs,” I said. “WildFire Expeditions.” The familiar name triggered a slew of fresh questions, which I answered as quickly as I could before moving on.
“We’ll need you both for the search,” I said, once I’d gotten them up to speed. “Gear up, and I’ll give Jack a call to tell him to be ready. We’ll pick him up on the way.”
I caught the flash of Bear’s frown, and fought a twinge of annoyance of my own at his reaction. Jack Juarez was my newest hire with Flint K-9, brought on board for his investigative skills as a former FBI agent rather than any prowess he might have had with the dogs. Which was good – Jack really had no prowess with dogs. The issue, however, was that since he’d come to work for me four months ago, there was some question as to just what Jack did do for us…and how committed he was to staying.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
“If he lived out on the island like everyone else on the team, we wouldn’t have to go hunting around for him every time we get a call.”
“We don’t go hunting for him,” I answered, keeping my cool. “We go to his apartment in Brunswick, and we pick him up. Or else he just meets us onsite. It’s actually pretty simple.”
Bear said nothing to that, but his body language suggested he wasn’t buying my argument. Not that he was completely off base, I knew. Eventually, I’d need to have a conversation with Jack about just what his intentions were where Flint K-9 was concerned. Based on Bear’s reactio
n, that conversation would need to be sooner rather than later.
“Ren, are you all right joining us?” I asked, switching gears. Ren’s cheeks glowed and her snow pants looked like she’d been dragged through a manure pile. Smelled like it, too.
“Yes, definitely,” she said, in the thick Nigerian accent I’d become accustomed to over the years. She nodded toward the goats. Piper was the smallest of the three, a little black goat missing her right eye. At the moment, she was trying to chew through the tether attached to Rowdy’s collar. “I found these guys up on the ridge.” She looked down at herself, wrinkling her nose. “Then I fell into a pile of cow manure at the bottom of the ridge.”
“You sure you’re okay for a search?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said immediately. “Minion was just getting warmed up. I’ll get changed, but then we’re ready.”
Anyone else and I might have doubted them, but I had yet to find a job Ren couldn’t handle. “All right, then. I’ll talk to your dad about watching the place while we’re gone. Get the goats back in the pen – and use the keyed padlocks this time. I don’t suppose you’d consider swallowing the key, would you?” I asked her.
“I don’t think so,” she said, smiling. “They’re Bear’s goats. Let him do it.”
“Fair enough.”
I looked at the two of them, and took a breath. The dogs were already settling back in after the search, happy to be somewhere warm again. My handlers, likewise, hardly looked ready to head back out into the field. I knew that wouldn’t matter to them any more than it did me, though; in search and rescue, we go where the action is. And, for the most part, we – both handlers and dogs – can’t wait to get out there.
“All right, guys,” I said. Despite Nate Hogan’s sudden return to my life, or the uncertainty of Jack Juarez’s role in Flint K-9, or the wayward goats who would no doubt find a way to escape again within the week, I felt a surge of adrenaline at the prospect of what was to come. “It looks like it’ll be a long day. Gear up, and let’s hit the road.”
Chapter 3
IT WAS JUST PAST NOON when our team finally reached Bethel, a hippie hybrid ski town of about 2,600 people on the Maine/New Hampshire border. We’d driven up in the Flint K-9 cargo van, dogs nestled in welded cages at the back of the rig while I drove the four-hour trek from Littlehope, Maine. During the drive, light flurries that had been predicted early on gave way to a steady snowfall that made for slick roads and tenuous driving conditions. Grateful, I slowed at sight of the roadside sign for Inn of the Rostay, a little yellow inn and motor lodge on Route 2, and pulled into the now-crowded parking lot.
Jack Juarez sat in the passenger seat beside me, Ren and Bear in the bench seat in the far back. Despite Bear’s protests, we’d picked Jack up in Brunswick on the way. I noted that, like the rest of us, the former FBI man looked eager for the search.
In the far back, I could hear the dogs pacing in their kennels, sensing that their work was about to begin. We had all three of our dogs with us today: Phantom, Casper, and Minion. Bear and Ren, meanwhile, remained locked in private conversation, seemingly oblivious to the world around them. At least I hoped that was all they were locked in. It was hard to tell when they were way back there.
“There’s a space there,” Jack said to me, pointing out a parking spot at the far end of the lot.
I managed to stuff the van into the spot with a little maneuvering, and was grateful when I could finally put the vehicle in park and, hopefully, keep it there for a while. Then, I took a second to take in the scene.
Less than six hours into the search, volunteers and law enforcement had flooded the area to help find the missing WildFire expedition. That was hindered only slightly by the weather. From what I’d heard, the combination of high winds and a dusting of snow had effectively wiped out any tracks that might have otherwise been useful. Searchers are used to working in less-than-ideal conditions, though, and based on the way the parking lot was hopping, not many had let conditions keep them off the road.
I took a second to get my bearings by reviewing the laptop mounted on a custom-made adjustable arm between the driver’s and passenger’s seats at the front of the van. The setup provided me with easy access to a constant stream of information regarding the search: the status of the searchers; whether or not anyone had been found; any weather updates as they became available.
A cursory glance told me nothing had changed in the short time since I’d last checked the stats. Though a good number of searchers had checked themselves in, the missing women still hadn’t been found. The temperature outside hovered around the thirty-degree mark – almost too warm for a search like this, as far as I was concerned. Warmer weather made for slushy snow the dogs would sink into with every step, hindering their progress and tiring them out so fast it was usually smartest to just leave them home and work with snowmobiles instead. On the other hand, just as Hogan had promised, the temperature was holding steady following rain and a flash freeze two days ago. If that continued, it would be cold enough to continue to provide a solid crust on top of the snow that we could all walk across, as easy as if it were pavement. Slick pavement, maybe, but pavement all the same.
At the other end of the parking lot, my attention shifted to the 32-foot Maine Warden Service mobile search and rescue unit that dominated the area.
“So I guess we don’t have to wonder if this is the right place or not,” Jack noted, nodding toward the trailer.
“Guess not,” I agreed.
“Can we check out the inside of the SAR mobile unit?” Bear asked, emerging from the back of the van with Ren. “Ren hasn’t seen it yet.”
“Maybe, once things are settled,” I said.
“It’s really cool in there,” he told Ren. “The tech is insane.”
“I would like to see it,” she said, addressing me. “I was hoping to speak with someone about a paper I’m doing for school, when we’re done.”
Both Bear and Ren were technically juniors, home schooled out on the island since our move there a couple of years ago. Bear was never much of a student, however, diagnosed with dyslexia when he was younger and never quite getting the bug for the classroom. Ren, on the other hand, excelled in every line of study she pursued.
“I’ll talk to the IC, and make sure you get a tour as soon as they have some down time,” I promised.
“Thanks. That would be perfect,” she said.
Meanwhile, the dogs were getting wilder in the back, barks and whimpers and yowls escalating now that we were no longer moving and they could hear the action outside. They were housed in padded steel cages that had been welded into the van, the rest of our gear placed in compartments I’d had specially designed. No more jerry-rigged crates or plastic tubs held in place with bungee cords. The changes had been funded by a grant Flint K-9 was awarded a couple of months before, thanks to Jack’s research and surprisingly adept grant-writing skills.
Before getting out of the van, I consulted my favorite technological upgrade: a gauge that monitored the temperature inside the vehicle, setting off an alarm when the interior hit a certain point. Once that happened, the engine would restart and either the heat or the A/C would kick in accordingly. Since we often need to leave the dogs in our vehicles for extended periods of time during a search, regardless of the time of year, this gauge could literally be a lifesaver. Right now, the cab was sixty degrees Fahrenheit – not too cool, not too hot. I didn’t anticipate any issues with the temperature one way or the other today, but it was still nice to know there was a failsafe if something did come up.
“Let’s let the dogs stretch their legs first, then we can check in with the IC,” I told the others.
The IC – or incident commander – would have our assignments ready to go, giving us the coordinates for where we should start searching. I may have been putting off the inevitable moment when I faced Hogan again after our years apart, but I figured in this case it was justified. It had been a long ride, after all.
“Thanks for giving me a call,” Jack said, startling me as he sidled up alongside.
I turned to look at him. He’d put on a few pounds since leaving the FBI – good pounds, since he’d been downright gaunt during the search in Glastenbury that had ultimately ended his career. Now, he stood in front of me in a blue parka and jeans that seemed to accentuate his height and athletic build. At five foot ten, I’m not exactly a little person, but Jack stands a couple of inches over six feet, with broad shoulders and an easy grace to his movement. He studied me a moment, dark eyes taking me in in a way that always made me feel almost uncomfortably seen.
“Of course,” I said. “You’re part of the team. With the others overseas right now, we need everyone we can get on this one.”
I thought of Bear’s words back on the island. Jack looked uncomfortable when I said the word “team,” as though sensing my earlier conversation. No doubt about it, we would need to have a chat about this soon.
“Just let me know how I can help,” he said. “Without a dog, I’m still not quite sure how I fit into this business.”
“There are plenty of members of search and rescue who don’t work with K-9s,” I reminded him. “You’ve got your Wilderness First Responder, you’re certified in First Aid and wilderness rescue… But if you want me to, I can get you a dog whenever you want. Just say the word.”
He looked a little stricken at the thought. “Thanks, but I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.”
Not ready for a dog. Not ready to move out to the island. Despite myself, I couldn’t help but wonder just what he was doing with us. I didn’t say the words aloud, but I suspected the same thought had occurred to Jack more than once over the past few months.
“Come on,” I said, rather than pushing. “Let’s walk. We can figure out assignments once we get briefed.”