by Mark Young
Jessie glanced back. “Relax, cowboy. This part is much tamer. Just watch yourself, okay? Follow my lead.”
He trailed behind, keeping a few yards behind her until whitewater started frothing ahead. He dragged his paddle in the water to slow his speed, allowing her to pull ahead.
A few minutes later, Jessie’s craft became an orange blur as she worked her way between jutting rocks and pounding waves. He watched her fighting the waves until he realized he needed to pay attention to his own craft.
Travis reached the rapids quicker than he expected. He clenched his teeth and braced himself for another pounding. Residual panic from the Grim Reaper began to return. His training kicked in as he fought against this fear and he began to feel growing excitement. He was starting to enjoy this.
Maybe he was becoming Daniel Boone.
Scanning the rapids ahead, he chose a path which seemed to offer safe passage. He dug deep into the green water with each stroke, fighting to gain speed to match the river’s power. He battled to put his bow between two jutting rocks. As he shot between them, his kayak seemed to collapse like aircraft in heavy turbulence.
Whoomp.
He felt the hull slam a wave as hard as concrete. He stayed afloat.
The craft regained buoyancy before slamming downward again. Time seemed to stop as the craft bounced from one drop off to the next until the river’s fury finally relented just as quickly as it struck.
He survived.
Travis realized he was yelling. This challenge was not like the Grim Reaper, but it still got his blood running hot. He felt the tingle of excitement as he cleared the last hurdle.
Jessie floated a few yards away, motionless, staring downstream.
Puzzled, he guided his kayak toward her. “Hey, I made it, Jessie. I actually enjoyed it.”
She remained motionless as if she never heard him.
Travis followed her gaze and saw a cluster of turkey vultures gathered on the far bank, their red heads bobbing as they picked and clawed at something in the brush. Other vultures perched in lower tree branches, waiting their turn to feast.
“No! No!” Jessie’s cries echoed over the water as she began to furiously paddle toward them. “Get out of here!” Her screams filled the air above the sounds of the river.
Travis thrust forward, trying to catch up. As they neared the bank, he saw something lying in the brush. Waving Timothy grass obscured whatever drew the birds. He slid his bow onto the rocky shoreline just as Jessie rushed forward. Vultures clumsily scurried away, taking flight before the two kayakers reached the shore.
Jessie froze. “I can’t …”
He gently grasped her arm. “Stay here. Let me check it out.”
Flies swarmed and buzzed as he forced a path through the brush. He heard Jessie following. He thrust aside stalks of grass to see large chunks of flesh — torn by feasting animals — lying at his feet
Jessie gasped. “Oh, thank God.” She grasped his arm, sobbing.
A large elk’s carcass lay stripped almost to the bone.
He felt Jessie shaking as he put his arms around her. Muffled sobs filled the air as she clung to him. He watched as vultures still circling above. Centuries of patience bred into them, they would keep a lofty eye until the humans vanished.
“Come on, Jessie. Let’s get out of here.” He guided her to the river’s edge. As they started downriver once more, he glanced back and saw several birds already settling down to continue their feast, following nature’s dictates. Life begins. Life ends. And the cycle continues.
Travis threw his gear into the truck bed and started the engine. As he stomped on the accelerator, he glanced in the rear view mirror to see Jessie following his departure. Any enjoyment they might have gained on the river ended after they found the dead elk. Spotting the carcass forced them to realize Jessie’s brother was still missing, a fact that the river and Harold’s blunder rabbit hunting briefly allowed them to forget. The dead elk brought reality back in full force. Jessie slipped back into a sullen quietness on the trip home. They parted ways at the Three Rivers office as he started for home.
A gravel driveway — more dirt than gravel — cut through the rafting company’s property. He followed the driveway past a campground and RV center, and onto a blacktopped road. He jerked the wheel to the right as his tires struck pavement and drove over a narrow bridge spanning the Lochsa River. Off to his left, the Lochsa merged with the Selway, two rivers becoming one single tributary — the middle fork of the Clearwater River.
Travis turned west on Highway 12 and drove a dozen miles along the Clearwater before realizing he was almost home. His mind kept wandering back to Jessie’s face as she approached the dead elk. He pulled onto an oil-stained turnout that served as a parking lot. After killing the ignition he listened to the truck sputter and cough, glancing down at the Clearwater and his cabin beyond.
Home at last.
A welcoming growl rose above the sound of the river as he crossed the roadway. A dog joyously bounded into the air on the other side of the river. Sam — part wolf, part mutt, part crazy — bounced along the bank in frenzied anticipation.
At least Sam seemed excited to see Travis.
He unlocked a switch box, pressed a button, and watched as the lift came to life. Two concrete poles, supporting a heavy cable spanning the river, provided a link between his home and the highway. A metal platform, suspended by thick steel coils, gently rocked in the afternoon breeze as it slowly inched toward him.
This was the easy way to his cabin.
The other route led through the forest behind the cabin to his back door. A roller-coaster fire-break — some call a road — snaked through the mountains for fourteen dusty miles. Rain or snow made the road impassable. Once the firebreak ended, he still needed to hike a mile to reach home. Too much effort.
Cradled across the river seemed the easiest way to travel.
As he waited for the lift to draw near, his mind returned to Jessie. The look he saw in her eyes — as they approached the elk — mingled fear and helpless rage. Fury. She was not a weak person. The way she tackled the Grim Reaper without any hesitation, fighting the river’s fury with confidence and agility. But then — when faced with feasting vultures — she became paralyzed with fear.
Everyone becomes vulnerable when loved ones are in danger. He knew that feeling. After all these years, nightmares still haunted him. Dark memories of someone snatching Michelle away forever. The woman he loved. The woman he swore to protect. That night her death tore into his soul. He swore never to allow anyone to get close again. Guilt dragged him into this darkness where he chose to hide from the world.
So why was he still thinking about Jessie?
A car approached at a high rate of speed just as the lift creaked to a stop. The driver ground through the gears and hit the brakes. A yellow VW bug drew close and the driver leaned out the window to wave.
Jessie White Eagle.
Travis grabbed onto the lift and waited as she crossed the highway. “I was just on my way to Kamiah and saw your truck.” She glanced across the river. “That your place?”
He sensed she knew the answer. Sam’s renewed barks carried across the river as if the dog was trying to remind Travis to come on home. Travis watched the dog running back and forth, bounding with energetic strides
“This is a long way from college, professor.”
“I’ve got a place in Palouse, a short drive from the campus. I stay here weekends and summers.”
“Must be tough getting over there in the dead of winter.”
“I manage.”
She looked away, gazing across the Clearwater. “Can I see your place?”
Reluctantly, he opened the gate and helped her into the single-person cage. Jessie cleared the river a few minutes later. Travis used the controls to reverse directions, sending the lift back to him. As Travis traveled over the river, he saw Sam gave Jessie a wide berth. Once Travis joined them, Sam slowly approached her, tail bar
ely wagging, ears raised with curiosity. She slowly stretched out her hand palm down and let the dog sniff. She reached over and stroked the animal’s head. Sam’s tail beat the air vigorously.
Travis strolled toward the cabin. “Looks like you’ve made a friend. His name’s Sam,” he said, leading her up a path liberally sprinkled with crushed rock. “Sam Spade.”
“Cute. You a mystery buff?”
“I teach criminology at WSU. Crime sleuthing comes with the territory.”
Thick red fir planks, planed smooth and stained, creaked under their weight as they climbed rustic stairs leading to the porch. Soaring pines and firs cast lush shadows across the dark-stained deck, providing cool relief from the afternoon’s heat.
“How’d all this building material get over here?” she asked, looking back toward the water.
“Most of the lumber came from around here. I brought what I needed across the river.”
“You built this?”
“With my own hands. Enter at your own risk.” Propping a screen door open with his foot, he unlocked the front door and listened to the hinges squeak as he thrust it open. Jessie and Sam paraded past as he held the screen open. Travis walked inside, letting the screen door slam shut. He glanced around the cabin. It had been a while since he’d cleaned up the place; bed unmade, dishes stacked in the sink, laundry piled in the corner. He tried to remember the last visitor. Grimacing, he realized the cabin looked like a frat house after an all-night bash.
A stone fireplace stood as the center attraction to his one-room abode, smooth river rock mortared along an entire wall of the cabin. Near the fireplace, a well-worn sofa and two easy chairs clustered around a low wooden coffee table. The weathered-gray table bore an array of magazines and books.
He glanced at the sofa, cringing. Clumps of white dog hair peppered the brown-suede leather where Sam spent most of his time while inside. Crammed against the far wall, a king-sized bed stood, its frame carved from downed trees he’d found in the woods.
Jessie wandered toward the kitchen, glancing at a used sink he’d salvaged from another house. Above the sink hung yellow-pine cupboards he’d built from scratch. A counter beneath the cupboards angled out like a crooked finger next to a wood-burning kitchen stove he’d dragged through the woods with a great deal of sweat. A large rough-hewed table with a couple of homemade chairs completed the décor.
This was his place to escape. Never meant for entertainment.
A pair of windows graced every wall but the fireplace. All were shuttered except for the two on either side of the front door. These windows offered a glimpse of the river below and the highway beyond, clouded only by smudged panes of glass.
Jessie scanned the kitchen. “This could use a woman’s touch,” she said, drawing a line across the dusty counter top and grimacing as she held up a grimy finger.
“You volunteering?”
Laughing, she shook her head. “I’m not the domestic type. Sorry.”
“Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“Trying to do what?” She said, smiling.
Travis motioned toward the sofa, taking one of the chairs. “Make yourself comfortable. Sorry for the mess.”
She seemed to relax, sinking into the cushion. Sam jumped up beside her, nuzzling his head onto her lap. She looked down at Sam, gently stroking the dog’s head.
Travis saw a car flash past on the highway, followed by a motorcycle. The bike rider revved the motor, the four-stroke engine howling as it overtook the car. Silence crept back into the cabin after they passed. He turned his attention back to Jessie.
Still petting Sam, she said, “When do you head back to the university?”
“Tomorrow. First thing in the morning.”
She looked up, hand still resting on Sam’s head. “Did you enjoy the river today?”
“You mean getting dunked and almost drowning, Harold pointing a shotgun at me, and finding —”
“Okay, except for all those things.”
He saw she was trying to smile. Jessie appeared to give up, glancing down at Sam resting his head in her lap. He stretched out his legs.“Actually, I did enjoy it. After the Grim Reaper, I thought I could survive anything.”
Jessie’s smile returned, her eyes sparked. “I love it on the river. Just me and the water. At times, very peaceful. At other times … well, you found out, Willy-boy. Not so peaceful. I never take the river for granted. Ever.”
Her soft brown eyes drew his attention. Something he’d failed to see before, a gentleness in the way she looked. She gazed at him — head to one side, eyes searching — waiting for a response. Travis looked away, not sure how to respond.
“Thanks for … being there today, Travis. Seeing those vultures, I just sort of lost it. And Harold … well, thanks.”
Something across the river caught his attention. Travis glanced toward the highway. “We’ve got company, Jessie.”
A marked police car slowed down and pulled off the highway. The patrol car bore Nez Perce Tribe Police in dark letters beneath a painted arrow with feathers attached. Travis knew the car was off the reservation by a few miles.
Jessie eyed the man climbing out of the car. Her face tightened. “That’s one of the guys who works for my dad. Joseph Baptiste.” She looked worried.
“Your dad’s a cop?”
“Didn’t I tell you,” she said, still staring at the officer across the highway. “My father is the Chief of Police.”
Travis glanced back at the patrol car as the officer got out, first looking Jessie’s car over and then staring toward the cabin. The officer shielded his eyes from the sun as he scanned the far side of the river.
Jessie rose from the sofa, her face tense. “I wonder if it’s about Tommy?”
Travis followed her to the door. “I’ll go with you if you’d like.”
She glanced back. “Thanks. I’d like that very much.”
Travis closed and locked the door behind him as they headed toward the river.
Chapter 5
Clearwater River, Idaho
One rifle shot — not more than a hundred yards — could take out the target right now.
Creasy knelt in the shelter of a giant fir, grasping binoculars in one hand and a parabolic dish in the other. He aimed the bionic ear toward two people further down the mountainside, straining to capture snatches of conversation. A man and a woman stood alongside the river bank. He saw the patrol vehicle pull up, but the officer did not seem suspicious. He turned his attention back to the couple on the far side of the river.
He bit his lip. Patience, my man.
Sweet revenge demanded his target must suffer. To writhe in pain — physical and emotional — before death came and claimed its prize. To feel every exquisite jolt of pain before darkness finally fell like an axe. That man must learn why Creasy wanted him dead.
A late-morning breeze rustled branches just enough to allow rays of sunshine to spear the gloom. Creasy shifted his position while peering through field glasses.
Flash.
He grimaced as the man below reacted. A gleam of sunlight must have caught the lens of Creasy’s glasses, alerting those below. The target below whirled, eyes searching the mountainside for the source of the flash
Instinctively, Creasy drew back into a cocoon of darkness beneath the tree, clamping down on his breathing to control any further movement. He prayed these shadows and his camouflaged clothing would be enough to conceal him from prying eyes.
Seconds clicked off like minutes before the male target turned toward the woman.
Creasy wiped his brow with a sleeve and slowly released air trapped in his lungs. One more stupid move like that and all his plans might vaporize. This was the second flash today. First, above the Lochsa as he watched Travis and Jessie starting their kayaking trip this morning. And now, a second mistake. Must tread carefully. No more mistakes.
Squatting, Creasy rotated his shoulders to work out stiffness. A blue Steller’s jay scolded him from above
as if trying to draw attention to his position. Pinholes of sunlight shot through heavy foliage, offering a variance of muted color. Below him the Clearwater River slashed a path through Idaho’s Bitterroot Mountains. Rising from the river’s edge, steep mountainous slopes stood clothed by forests of trees — firs, pines, cedars, and occasional hemlock — standing like an army dressed in varying shades of green, ascending to greet an early-June sky.
Slowly, he raised the glasses to resume surveillance.
He adjusted the lens until the face of the male loomed clearly — late thirties, a Tom Cruise build with smoke-blue eyes and coffee-brown hair cut neat and trim.
Travis Mays.
Fingers tightened around binoculars as Creasy focused on this loathsome face.
He swept the glasses over to focus on the woman.
Jessie White Eagle. A beautiful face. Striking, with almost Asiatic features.
Creasy’s mind sifted through detailed reports he’d pored over before locking them away in a file hundreds of miles away. He compared what he remembered to the woman he saw below. Field glasses confirmed his intelligence reports. American Indian. Nez Perce tribe. Tommy’s sister. Long silk-black hair caught by a breeze. Almond-shaped eyes, golden-brown skin that reminded him of South Pacific sunsets. She seemed to walk with a hint of attitude.
Jessie White Eagle — unwitting bait he planned to dangle before Travis.
Creasy lowered the glasses and reached into a trouser pocket, withdrawing an Idaho driver’s license. The DL belonged to Tommy White Eagle, Jessie’s brother. He glanced at the photo and saw their resemblance.
Raising the glasses once more, he saw lines of worry wrinkled on Jessie’s brow as she clambered down the rocky slope toward the river. Travis trailed behind.
Jessie had every right to be worried. Tommy turned up missing. Everyone frantically searching, but no one knew where he might be found.
Well, almost no one.
Creasy knew. In fact, he was the only person who knew where Tommy might be. All that would change. He chuckled to himself. The trap’s baited, ready to slam shut.
