Backcountry
Page 28
He paused to take a breath. “And then, I’d already enrolled Nick at Wilderness Quest to toughen him up, because he just couldn’t seem to get over his mom leaving a year ago. And then after ... well, it seemed like an even better idea to send him then, help him move on, you know? How was I supposed to guess those Quintana women were part of that? When I met him, the Director’s name was Johnson. What kind of woman doesn’t even use her husband’s name?”
Kyla normally used a hyphenated version of her parents’ last name, Quintana-Johnson, but Sam had noticed that the Johnson half had often been omitted in news articles.
“And Summer Westin?” Detective Greene asked Lewis.
Tom glared at the detective, his eyes blank.
“Cap’n Sam?” Greene suggested.
“I could tell that Sam was figuring it out. She wasn’t going to let it be. I knew she’d get the truth out of Nick sooner or later.” He tried to raise his hands to sweep them over his beard as he usually did, but was brought up short as the handcuff chain hit the end of the link attached to the metal table. He settled for clasping his hands together, fingers interlaced, his knuckles turning white. “Why couldn’t everyone just leave it alone?”
Greene prompted, “So you went after Sam Westin.”
Tom sniffed and nodded. “She forced me to. Nick and me, we would have been okay, but she just couldn’t leave it alone!”
He leaned toward the detective. “I did it all for Nick. You understand, right? A father would do anything for his son.”
* * * * *
Sam, Maya, and Chase waited with Nick in a cell until the juvenile authorities arrived to take charge of him.
The deputies allowed Nick to say a brief goodbye to his father before Tom Lewis was taken away in handcuffs. The poor boy was exhausted and tear tracks scarred his cheeks, but his expression was almost relieved, the burden of secrets finally lifted from his narrow shoulders. Watching Sam’s face, he asked, “What’s going to happen to me now, Cap’n?”
Chase answered for her. “They’ll take you to the juvenile section and hold you for arraignment. Tell the authorities everything that happened with your dad and ask them to call your mom.”
Nick made a face. “Oh God, my mom! She won’t want anything to do with this. She doesn’t even act like I exist. And she’ll hate me even more if I cost her money.”
Sam patted his arm. “You’ll get a public defender.”
“And an advocate, probably, to help you through the whole process,” Maya added.
Nick bowed his head and pressed his hands to his face. “My life is over. And I deserve it. At least in prison I’ll have someplace to live.”
A scoffing noise came out of Maya’s mouth. “Don’t be such a drama queen. Your life is not over. Trust me; I know a lot about the juvenile justice system. You wanted a do-over, right?”
“This is so not what I was talking about.”
“Whatever,” Maya told Nick. “This is what you get. You’ll be fine.”
A woman officer in uniform, presumably from the juvenile detention center, arrived to unlock the cell door.
The boy stood up, turned to Maya. “Thanks. I think.”
“Nick, if your mom won’t take you after juvie or whatever they do to you, you might end up in foster care. I know a lot about that, too.” Maya pulled a slip of paper from her pocket and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “That’s my number. We can talk any time you need to.”
Chapter 29
“Surprise!” Chase waved a hand at a small house a few miles outside of Van Zandt. Clumps of moss spangled the buckled shingles of the roof, and the place sorely needed paint, but the location was lovely, down a wooded road, backed up to the steep forested hills of the Chuckanuts. A tall maple dominated the front yard, its glorious scarlet leaves dancing in the autumn sun.
He’d refused to tell her why he had insisted on driving twenty miles east from Bellingham to show her this. The front door, made up of solid vertical planks of what looked like cedar, creaked as he pushed it open.
“What’s going on, Chase? Who lives here?” She stepped in, eyeing a dilapidated couch with a threadbare quilt thrown over it, an easy chair with stuffing sprouting from its back, and a sagging bookshelf full of moldering books. “Correction: who lived here?”
It was clear nobody had inhabited the little house for quite a while.
Off the small living room was a compact kitchen and dining area. The table and chairs filling that space were handmade; she could see the fine craftsmanship even under the thick layer of dust that coated them.
Turning to him, she put her arms around his waist. “Tell me! Does this have something to do with a case you’re working on? Did you find a mummified corpse in here?”
“The old lady who owned the place,” he said enigmatically, then, “I never met her.” His clear brown eyes were twinkling. He gestured toward the couch. “Have a seat. Back in a second.” Leaving the door open, he went out.
She perched carefully on the old sofa. The cushion sagged beneath her weight. A spring poked her in the left butt cheek, she shifted over a few inches. Not much better, but at least she wouldn’t have holes in the seat of her jeans.
Dust motes danced in the low afternoon sunlight that streamed in through the open front door. What she could see of the house was dirty and uncared for, but beautifully built. The walls were polished wood paneling of some kind, old-fashioned but handsome, and the ceiling was supported with thick wooden beams. Even the windows were framed in wood, their sills now stained by years of moisture. Stairs off the kitchen area led to a second floor, which she presumed contained bedrooms.
“Ta da!” Chase reappeared with a bottle of champagne in one hand and two glasses in the other. He popped the cork on the champagne, and then plopped down beside her on the couch to pour. A cloud of dust rose into the air.
Sam sneezed. Then sneezed again. Wiping her nose with her hand, she took the glass of champagne he offered. Suddenly an unnerving idea streaked through her brain: Was Chase about to propose? Oh jeez, was he going to ask her to marry him? She’d just started a new job with the Bellingham Herald writing outdoor features for the Sunday paper. She wasn’t ready for marriage. He wasn’t ready, they couldn’t possibly—
“You’re looking at the new owner of this chateau.” He clinked his glass against hers.
She sneezed again. “What?”
He grinned at her, his teeth white against his olive skin and whisker-shadowed chin and cheeks. Where most Native Americans had difficulty growing beards, Chase’s face showed the Hispanic genes he’d inherited from his Mexican father. He’d have to shave and suit up before he went back to work, but she liked this easy-going flannel-shirt-clad man sitting beside her right now.
He took a sip of his champagne. “I bought this place.”
She gulped from her glass. Was it coming now? The proposal? “It’s beautiful, Chase, but it clearly needs a lot of work. When would you work on it?”
“I hoped we would work on it. It comes with twenty acres, and there’s an old barn out back. We could have horses if we want.” He drained his glass.
She drained hers. “Chase, did you quit the FBI? I never asked you to do that.”
“I know, Summer. And I appreciate that.” He stood up. Grabbing her hand, he pulled her up from the couch, then collected the champagne bottle and glasses. “Come see the upstairs.”
Following him up the steps, she stewed on the possibilities. He had quit his job for her because she was too stubborn to move to Salt Lake City to be with him, and eventually that would come back to bite her because he loved the FBI. He was waiting to spring the proposal on her until they were upstairs for some reason. Would there be rose petals strewn across a bedspread or some other grand romantic gesture?
Nope. A double bed with a hand-crafted headboard filled most of the bedroom on the right at the top of the stairs. Ordinary pillows and a modern comforter covered the mattress. Chase placed the champagne bottle and glasses on
a bedside table.
“The bed is conveniently made up.” He flopped down onto the mattress and patted the space beside him. “I slept here last night.”
“Chase!” Kicking off her shoes, she climbed up and sat next to him, her back against the headboard. “Spill it! What’s up?”
He poured another glass of champagne and handed it to her. “I didn’t quit the FBI. But I’m moving here.”
She leaned in to give him a quick kiss. “That’s wonderful! But the commute to Seattle will be a killer, won’t it?”
“No, I mean I’m moving here.” He pointed to the bed beneath them, but she knew he meant this house.
“You quit the FBI?” As far as she knew, there was no Bureau office north of Seattle.
“You’re looking at the new head of the Northwestern Washington Safe Trails Task Force, headquartered in Bellingham.”
“Safe Trails, like hiking trails?” Her thoughts immediately flashed to Kim and Kyla.
“Don’t ask me why they call it that hokey name. It’s a program to work with local Indian tribes to combat drugs and gangs and casino violations on reservations. Turns out it can be useful to be an urban Indian after all. Or at least an FBI Indian.”
“Don’t you mean Native American?”
“Whatever.” He clinked his glass against hers. “Despite the grandiose name, I am the whole task force, the FBI side of it, anyway. The rest is the various tribal police heads.”
Her face hurt, she was smiling so hard. “So you’re going to be here all the time.”
“Actually, I have to drive to Quinault tomorrow.”
She rolled her eyes. The Quinault reservation was all the way over on the Olympic Peninsula; it would take most of a day just to get there.
“But when I’m not working, I’ll be here, querida.” He kissed her.
“Halleluiah!” She clinked her glass with his and then took a sip.
“One last time,” he said solemnly, raising his glass again. “To Kim and Kyla.”
Her throat tightened. “To Kim and Kyla, may they rest in peace.”
After taking another gulp of champagne, she kissed him again. “Thank you for that, Chase.” She sat back to study the small bedroom. “What’s this about us working on this place?”
“Well, I know you have skills, and—”
Something clomped across the ceiling above them, rolling noisily from one side to the other. They both looked up at the beams and planking overhead. The sound repeated.
“There’s a bowling alley in your attic?” she asked.
He raised an ebony eyebrow. “I heard that same sound several times last night. Squirrels?”
Sam snorted. “I’d say thirty pounders, with masked faces and bushy, striped tails.”
Chase tipped the champagne bottle toward her glass. “To new adventures in our lives.”
“With hammers and raccoons.”
“And love,” he answered.
Love and adventure and wildlife. Kim and Kyla would approve.
~ END ~
Author’s Note
The state of Washington is blessed with 15 national park units. These include the stunning Olympic, North Cascades, and Mount Rainer National Parks, several national recreation areas, and multiple national historic sites. In addition, the state boasts hundreds of thousands of acres of spectacular national and state forest lands and scenic islands and coastlines.
Washingtonians treasure our public lands, and in much of the state, hiking is a popular activity for residents of all ages. Our beautiful landscapes and hiking trails are also tourist attractions, and outdoor recreation is an important source of income for many businesses.
I choose to call this state home because I love the natural environment here. I am an avid hiker and kayaker. Despite the many hazards present in the wild, deaths are rare in the backcountry, and for this reason, every death that occurs here affects the entire outdoor community. Accidental deaths due to avalanches and falls and drownings are tragic, but the deaths that occur at the hands of other humans are unforgettable.
The murder scenario presented in Backcountry is fictional, a creation entirely of the author’s imagination. The story, however, was inspired by two very real, very tragic events in the Cascade Mountains of Washington State. I have combined aspects of these two tragedies for my novel.
In August of 2008, Pamela Almli, 54, a resident of Oso, a small town near Arlington, was on a day hike up the popular Sauk Mountain trail in the Mount Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest, when she was shot by a 14-year-old hunter who mistook her for a bear. The 14-year-old who killed her was accompanied only by a 16-year-old hunter, which, unfortunately, continues to be a perfectly legal situation in Washington State as well as in many others. The teenage killer was convicted of second degree manslaughter.
On July 11, 2006, on the Pinnacle Lake Trail off the Mountain Loop Highway, just outside Granite Falls, Mary Cooper, 56, and her daughter Susanna Stodden, 27, were murdered, each shot in the head with a single bullet from a small-caliber handgun. Although their clothing was in disarray, the women were not raped or robbed. Their bodies and packs were left in plain sight alongside the trail.
Mary and Susanna had no enemies. The murders appear to be completely random, and to date, this case remains unsolved. Someone, most likely a local man who happened to be on the trail with a gun in his pocket, is getting away with murder. If you have seen or heard anything that might offer a clue, please call the Snohomish County Sheriff’s Office tip line at 425-388-3845.
Acknowledgments
Every author needs help to polish a story.
I owe a big THANK YOU to the following people who gave their time and expertise to make Backcountry a better book:
Jeanine Clifford, astute reader of multitudes of books
Cherie O’Boyle, author of the entertaining Estela Nogales mysteries
Gordon Whitesmith, author of The Random Access Murders, a vintage computing mystery
Jeanette Hubbard, author of Secrets, Lies, and Champagne Highs and Chasing Nathan
Copyright Page
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Although Bellingham, Washington and some of the locations mentioned in this book are real, details have been changed and other places invented for the sake of the story. Any semblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
WILDWING PRESS
3301 Brandywine Court
Bellingham, Washington 98226
Copyright © 2017 Pamela Beason
Cover design by Christine Savoie
ISBN-10: 0-9976420-2-5
ISBN-13: 978-0-9976420-2-5
http://pamelabeason.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.
Books by Pamela Beason
The Summer “Sam” Westin Mysteries
Endangered
Bear Bait
Undercurrents
Backcountry
The Neema Mysteries
The Only Witness
The Only Clue
The Only One Left (coming soon)
Romantic Suspense
Shaken
Call of the Jaguar
The Run for Your Life Young Adult Suspense Trilogy
Race with Danger
Race to Truth
Race for Justice (coming soon)
Nonfiction E-books
So You Want to Be a PI?
Traditional vs Indie Publishing: What to Expect
Save Your Money, Your Sanity, and Our Planet
Keep up with Pam on http://pamelabeason.com
About the Author
Pamela Beason is the author of the Summer “Sam” Westin Mysteries, the Neema Mysteries, and the Run for Your Life
Young Adult Trilogy, as well as several romances and nonfiction books. She has received the Daphne du Maurier Award and two Chanticleer Book Reviews Grand Prizes for her writing, as well as an award from Library Journal and other romance and mystery awards. Pam is a retired private investigator and freelance writer who lives in the Pacific Northwest, where she escapes into the wilderness to hike and kayak and scuba dive whenever she can.
http://pamelabeason.com
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Copyright Page
Books by Pamela Beason
About the Author