One Last Scream (Special Agent Ricki James Book 2)

by C. R. Chandler

  She hiked completely alone all the way in, which was no surprise given the empty parking lot. It wasn’t long before she caught the distant sound of the river, which rapidly grew louder until it settled into the steady roar of the spring runoff tumbling its way down from the mountains to the west. A good piece of the tension in her shoulders and back eased away at the familiar sound as she took the lower trail to the left. It skirted around the massive slide of rock and debris that had taken out the old road leading into the forest a good twenty years ago.

  As she passed through the state land, the sun rose in the sky, filtering through the green canopy over her head and shining brightly on patches of trail as it wound its way in and out of the shelter of the trees. About halfway to her destination, the aches and pains of the accident faded into the background, and her mind began to empty of the constant flow of troubling thoughts about the accident as her body fell into the natural rhythm of hiking, something that she’d done all her life.

  The deep smell of pine mixed with clean air that still held a hint of the bite of winter, despite it being the middle of June, was both familiar and relaxing. The corners of her mouth curled up. The longer she strolled along the trail, the more the feel of the forest settled into her. She wasn’t in any hurry. The place she was headed to wasn’t going anywhere, and since she still hadn’t seen a soul, the area was most likely deserted. Which would suit her just fine.

  She passed through a burnt-out area that still showed signs of the fire that had swept through it over a decade ago. She picked up her pace, and in less than a mile she stopped by the old range gate, still hanging on to its worn-out sign marking the boundary between state land and the national park. She stood still for a long moment, a shadow of a smile growing into a full grin as she pulled her ball cap with the National Park Service logo on it out of her back pocket and firmly set it into place on her head. After pulling her long ponytail through the opening in the back, she settled her good hand onto one of the straps of her backpack that curled across her shoulder blades and over her chest.

  Clay was right. She needed to go to her place, where she could clear her head. During her childhood and all through the years she’d been married, this was what she’d done whenever life had closed around her. She’d taken off on her own and come right to the park for a day or two. It was hard to believe that it had been almost six years since she’d gone on one of her campouts.

  Staring down the trail that disappeared into the trees, it hit her just how much she had missed this. Her grin widened as she stepped to the side, kissed the tips of her fingers, then slapped them against the Olympic Park welcome sign before heading to the primitive walk-in campground located another mile in.

  The official Dosewallips campsites offered a small cleared-off space and a picnic table, although most who hiked in this far usually preferred to simply pick a nice spot by the river to pitch their tents. Which was exactly what Ricki did. She found her favorite spot, with its postage-stamp-sized clearing and the fire ring she and her uncle had built together when Ricki was nine.

  Despite its lack of a table, it was deemed an official campsite, and the small firepit still sported the grate her uncle had installed so long ago. Over time it had needed some repair work, and a bit of shoring up here and there, but the site’s location on the outer edge of the campground was still as beautiful as ever.

  She slid her backpack off her shoulders and dropped it into the grass before walking around the small circle hemmed in with stones. She’d have to collect a few rocks and reinforce one of the sides that was caved in. She’d get to that as soon as she set up her small dome tent and laid out her sleeping bag, which was all she needed in order to complete her camp.

  It was late in the afternoon when Ricki sat down next to a fallen tree six feet from the fire she’d built. Leaning against it, she lifted the mug she’d filled with instant cocoa and topped off with a small mountain of mini marshmallows. She’d raided the food supplies and refrigerators at the diner, swiping a bag of freshly cut vegetables along with a bottle of ranch dressing, while Anchorman had made her two fried PB&J sandwiches. She pretended not to notice her balance-out-the-bad-stuff rice cakes on the shelf. This wasn’t a time for watching her diet.

  She’d also brought along a small bag of ground coffee since that was pretty much a requirement to kick off any morning no matter where she woke up.

  Ricki sipped at her cocoa and crunched on vegetables as she stared into the crackling flames of the fire, letting time drift by.

  The voices of Amanda’s parents floated in the air, telling her she wasn’t at fault, telling her to catch the person who treated the lives of others so callously, telling her they believed in her. She closed her eyes and let the sound drift through her mind, letting it take root until a familiar purpose pushed its way forward. Justice. For Amanda. That was what her parents were asking for. She couldn’t bring back their child, but she could give them that.

  It wasn’t until she felt an involuntary shiver ripple down her arms that she realized most of the light had faded away and a thin mist was wafting through the early-evening air.

  With a new energy, she gathered up her food and cup into a neat stack then picked up the small electric lantern she’d set next to the log before walking over to put the fire out. She carefully smothered it with dirt, leaving a bucket filled with river water next to it. If any hidden sparks showed themselves, they would get a good dousing.

  Her small tent was just big enough for her sleeping bag, with her backpack squeezed in by shoving it up against one side of the small nylon dome. Because of the tent’s round shape, she could sit up inside, but even then, her head brushed against the top poles. Ricki crawled in, set the lantern down, and reached for her backpack. She stowed the remnants of the vegetables in a small tin box, then reached deeper into the top pocket of her backpack and pulled out a manila envelope with an official US Marshals stamp on the side.

  She’d picked up the report Josh had given her on a last-minute whim, telling herself she probably wouldn’t read it, but ought to bring it along. Now she fingered the clasp holding it closed, her brow furrowed in thought as she stared at it.

  “Might as well face everything today,” she murmured to herself, not making a move to open the envelope. Just then the distinct call of a spotted owl rose above the rustling of the trees as the creature went about its nightly hunt for food. Even though she couldn’t see it through the walls of the tent, Ricki smiled. The message from the forest to its inhabitants was always the same: get on with it. Letting out an easy laugh, she pulled her backpack around, laying it on its side so she could lean against it. Squiggling to find a comfortable spot, she picked up the envelope and opened the clasp.

  “Ricki? Are you out here?”

  Ricki shook her head and rolled her eyes before taking another sip of coffee. She’d heard her uncle coming through the trees a full two minutes before. Or more likely whoever he had with him. And judging by the heavy wheezing that was undoubtedly due to not being used to the altitude or the exercise, she guessed it was Dan Wilkes.

  Well, at least she’d gotten one full day and night of peace. A night during which she’d slept like a log, in spite of what she’d read in the US Marshals report. Which was strange. Usually anything that reminded her of the last assignment she’d had with Marie triggered one of her nightmares. She wasn’t left any time to puzzle over that odd fact because her uncle called out again, this time with a definite edge of annoyance in his tone.

  “Ricki! Where the hell are you?”

  “I’m here,” she yelled back. “You know where.”

  It was another minute before her uncle and Dan appeared between the trees. Even from where she was standing, Ricki could see the newest ranger’s chest heaving up and down.

  “I was pretty sure this was where you’d disappeared to,” Cy said as he drew closer. He eyed the mug in her hand. “I don’t suppose you brought an extra one of those?”

  Ricki handed over h
er cup. “No, since I wasn’t expecting any company.” She looked around her uncle and nodded at Dan. “I hear you found out something about the badge?”

  Dan sank to his haunches and waved a hand at her. “Hi. Nice to see you too. I’m fine, thanks, and yeah. I found out something about the badge.” He drew in another long breath before looking up at her. “But I wasn’t expecting to have to climb up and down a couple of mountains to give you a report.”

  “Winter’s over, Ranger Wilkes,” Cy said. “You need to get out and do more hiking and get into shape unless you plan on transferring back to Philadelphia.”

  The former agent shook his head as he slowly rose to his feet. “No. I like it here just fine. I’ll be sure to get some hikes in on my days off.”

  “You do that.” Cy swung his gaze and the coffee mug in his niece’s direction. “He can tell you about that badge you found up at the old lighthouse right after I tell you that Hamilton will be at headquarters in about an hour. But first, you can explain to me what you’re doing out here.”

  Ricki frowned and quickly calculated the amount of time it would take to break camp and get back to headquarters. She figured ASAC Hamilton would be cooling his heels for at least another hour before she showed up. And that was if she didn’t stop at home and get cleaned up first. Her boss was not going to be a happy person, which meant after their talk, she wouldn’t be either.

  “Same reason I’ve always come out here,” she finally said. She reached over and lifted the coffee mug out of her uncle’s hands. “It’s not as if I’m hiding out somewhere since you obviously knew where to find me.”

  Cy braced his legs apart and crossed his arms over his chest. “What I meant was, what are you doing out here alone? Or don’t you remember that someone took a shot at you?”

  She drank the last of the coffee, then tilted her head to one side as she stared at her uncle. “I don’t know if someone was shooting at me, or just shooting at anyone who came along and it just happened to be me. Either way, whoever it was, he wasn’t much of a shot, and I doubt he would have followed me all the way back here, even if he had known to be on the lookout for Clay’s truck.”

  Dan gave her a genuinely puzzled look. “How do you know the guy wasn’t much of a shot? He hit your tire.”

  She walked over to the water bucket and picked it up. “Yeah, he did.” She started sprinkling water onto the low-burning fire, drawing loud hisses from the smoldering wood and sending a small cloud of steam into the air. “But he fired two shots. If he was aiming at the tire, he missed once, and if he was aiming at me, he missed twice.”

  “Now you sound like your cook,” Dan said, returning her grin.

  Since Anchorman had been a sniper during his army career, she took that as a compliment. Setting the bucket aside, she walked over and propped one foot on top of the fallen log, resting an elbow on her raised knee. “Now, what about that badge?”

  “We aren’t done talking about this poorly timed campout of yours,” Cy warned.

  Ricki thought it was perfectly timed but kept her gaze on Dan while she answered her uncle. “Great. We can get into it later when there’s more coffee available. Now, about that badge?”

  “Well, it’s a design that was adopted by the service in 1969 and is still pretty much the same today.”

  Since that was a long span of time, and well over the twenty-five years or more the ME had said the vic had been dead, she didn’t think that was much help. “Okay. So, the badge design is fifty years old and could have been issued to that ranger any time after that.”

  “Yeah, but here’s the thing. There were four thousand badges made up in that first order of the new design, and they were all numbered,” Dan explained. “The number on the back of this badge was two hundred and eighty-six.”

  Ricki straightened away from the log. “Two hundred and eighty-six? When did they start distributing those badges?”

  Dan grinned. “At the end of 1970, so I figured whoever owned that badge got it in 1970, or 1971 at the latest.”

  She whistled softly under her breath. Fifty years ago. She still had no proof that the skeleton in the lighthouse had actually owned the badge, or even if he had, that he’d been killed right after it had been issued to him. He could have gone on to serve as an active ranger for years. But still, it gave them a solid place to start.

  “That’s good.” She slowly drew her cell phone out of her pocket. “I have something too.” There was barely one signal bar on the front screen, but it was enough for her to get into her voice mail. “I waded through all my messages this morning and came across this one.” When she held the phone up, Wanda Simms’s voice came out of the speaker.

  “Hello, Ricki. I heard about your accident and wanted to call to be sure you’re going to be all right. I’ve been told you will be, but I wanted to hear it for myself. I’m going out of town to visit my sister for a few days, but if you want to talk about what happened, you just give me a call back and leave all the details. Oh, I also found my notes on that land the old lighthouse sits on. It seems that I sent a letter off to what I wrote down as ‘the foundation.’ I didn’t write down the exact name, but that little note shook something loose in the old noggin because I remembered it was named after a man, and it was the full thing, like ‘the John Doe Foundation’ instead of just ‘the Doe Foundation,’ if you follow my meaning. Anyway, back then I asked them if they had any plans to build out there, like putting up a bunch of condominiums or something. Of course they never answered me, but it didn’t make any difference because no one from that foundation ever showed up in the Bay. But it was a concern because they weren’t from around here, and I remember thinking, now what would some foundation in Chicago want with a bunch of land in Washington?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Chicago?” ASAC Steven Hamilton ran a hand down his silk tie, subtly striped in different shades of blue. His suit was a perfect fit for his five-foot-six-inch frame, which he ruthlessly kept in good shape even with his sixtieth birthday looming large in front of him. His deep-brown eyes gave away nothing of what he was thinking as he kept a steady gaze on Ricki. “You believe there’s a connection between the dead PI and a foundation that might own the land where his body was found?”

  “Might?” Ricki asked.

  Since there were five of them crammed into Cy’s office, she was leaning up against the back wall. Hamilton had commandeered the chair behind the desk, and at her insistence, Cy and Dan sat in the only two visitor chairs. Clay was standing next to her, his gaze fixed on the man behind the desk. From his slightly rigid posture, Ricki knew the chief of police was simmering away at something, and since he’d barely given her a nod when he’d walked into the room, it wasn’t hard to figure out who had set his temper off. Or why.

  Probably should have called him, she thought, along with Hamilton, who’d given her the same cool look as he’d politely asked how she was feeling. At this rate, she’d end up talking to herself for the entire investigation.

  “Might, Agent James, because according to your source, this alleged foundation bought the land after World War II. Which means there’s a good chance they sold it to someone else decades ago.” The leather chair creaked as Hamilton leaned back. “Which would make its Chicago connection to Mr. Hardy tenuous at best.”

  “They haven’t sold it,” Ricki flatly stated. “If they had, Wanda would have known about it.”

  “That’s true,” Cy concurred. “Not one thing in the last forty years has gone on in the Bay that Wanda Simms hasn’t known about.”

  Hamilton didn’t look convinced. “Maybe so, but the last World War ended seventy-five years ago, well before she was born, according to the background you gave me on Ms. Simms, so it’s not too far-fetched to assume she missed it.” He looked over at Ricki. “At any rate, do a cross-check with county records. If this foundation did sell that land, the tax records will tell you who owns it now, and establish if that Chicago connection still exists.”

  Ev
en though she felt there was a better-than-even chance that a Chicago-based foundation still owned that land, Ricki nodded. Hamilton was right. It needed to be checked out.

  “Good.” Her boss nodded his approval. “And there still isn’t any confirmed direct connection between Maxwell Hardy and the other unknown victim.” The senior agent quickly held up a hand before Ricki could put up an argument. “Although finding them both in the same remote place is one hell of a coincidence, and I’m definitely not going to ignore one of my agents being shot at, let’s hear everything else you’ve got and we’ll go from there.”

  Satisfied with that for the moment, Ricki suggested they all move to the small conference room that had a little more space and a large whiteboard.

  Once the others were each settled in a chair, she stood in front of the board, a black marker held awkwardly in her left hand. She managed to write down the two victims’ names. They were barely legible, but at least she got them on the board. “Okay. We have no identity, and our only evidence is an old bullet and a ranger’s uniform. So we start there.” She glanced over at Dan. “What did you find out about the badge?”

  He repeated what he had told her before, while Ricki literally scrawled a pared-down version on the board.

  “So whoever owned that badge would have been on the staff list in 1970 or 1971?” Hamilton asked. “Might not be so easy to find. I don’t know when we started automating those records. That information could be buried in a box, or on a roll of microfiche stored somewhere unknown to anyone on earth.”

  “Or it might be right here in the basement,” Cy stated, drawing every eye in the room to him. “All the files for the park, including the old staff files, are stored in the basement. And they go back a long way, as I recall. But I haven’t been down there in at least a decade.” He looked over at the closed door. “Ray would know. He goes to the basement to poke around from time to time.”