Endangered (A Sam Westin Mystery Book 1) Page 9

  Perez exchanged skeptical glances with Boudreaux. Shaggy-haired stranger. Even Sam knew that it was the most common description invented on the spot.

  “Where were you supposed to deliver the money?” Perez asked.

  The youths stared at each other for a long moment.

  Perez snorted impatiently. “Give it up, boys. Where’s Zack?”

  “We don’t have that kid. The Burger House on Fifth—that’s where we’re supposed to take the money. He said we could take a thousand out—exactly a thousand or he was gonna kill us—and then we’re ’sposed to put the rest in the trash bin outside by one a.m.”

  The patrol car rolled up. The sheriff emerged, a swagger to his step now. “Everyone go on back to bed,” he instructed the crowd. “Show’s over.”

  The sheriff had no more influence on the group than Perez had. Sam knew from living here for a summer that this was the biggest late-night show to hit Las Rojas for quite some time.

  “Anyone I see on the street in fifteen minutes gets a ticket for interfering with a police operation.”

  That finally did it. The crowd began to disperse, and Sam walked away with them.

  * * * * *

  Jenny Fischer would never have believed that time could pass so slowly. The cheap plastic clock on the bedside table made actual ticking noises as the luminous hands moved from minute to minute. Although she lay on the motel bed and her gaze was fixed on the clock, she could feel Fred hunched in the chair in front of the window. “See anything?” she asked.

  “A whole lot of dark.”

  That pretty much described what she saw when she looked within her soul as well as outside the window. A whole lot of dark. They’d delivered the ransom as promised, then retreated to the motel room as instructed. Would they ever be able to pay back the fifty thousand to her parents? If it brought Zack back, she didn’t care. She bit her lip. It was a terrible thing to be praying that your child had been kidnapped instead of eaten by a wild animal. The clock ticked off two minutes more. She rolled over so she wouldn’t have to watch it.

  “I can’t believe they brought in the feebs so fast,” Fred muttered half under his breath.

  “I’m glad they did,” Jenny said. “The FBI knows how to handle these things.”

  “You should get some rest,” Fred told her in a low voice. “Sweetheart,” he added, as if it were an afterthought. “I’ll go out in a little while and see what’s happening. Go to sleep.”

  How she’d welcome the nothingness of sleep! If only the blackness would roll in and erase the images that looped through her mind. Over and over, she replayed last night at the campsite.

  The shadow creeping across the valley, cutting short the October day. Fussing with that nasty old camp stove. Fred off gathering firewood. Zack playing on the rock ledge. That horrible cougar warning poster fluttering in the breeze. A mosquito’s whine. The cawing of crows against the background static of the river across the road.

  And then the bare rock ledge, an orange toy truck the only sign that her baby had ever been there. She running, shouting Zack’s name from campsite to campsite, alone with her horror. Why had it taken Fred so long to come?

  She turned her head and cried softly into the pillow. “Zack!”

  * * * * *

  The FBI agents cruised the last block to the Burger House without benefit of headlights. Nicole eased the car into the shadow of a massive oak tree a half block away from the fast-food outlet. She turned off the ignition.

  Perez pulled a pair of binoculars from the glove compartment, scanned the hotel. Nicole kept her gaze on the garbage can outside the front door of the Burger House. She twirled a strand of hair impatiently around her index finger. “See anything?”

  The neon vacancy sign and a yellow bulb over the office door were the only lights visible at the Wagon Wheel Motel. “Half the rooms have the curtains parted,” he said. “Including yours. And mine.” He shifted the binoculars. “At least ten different parties could be keeping an eye on the Burger House. I can’t see anyone.”

  Nicole straightened. “Shit, is that a rat?”

  A rounded shape scuttled toward the garbage can, climbed the ribbed sides of the metal container, nosed its way inside through the swinging flap. “Yep,” he confirmed as a long tail snaked through the crack. “Think it’s looking for the ransom?”

  A second furball crept out of the shadows toward the garbage can. “There’s another one.” She clapped a hand over her mouth as if she might gag.

  Perez stifled a smile. His partner preferred animals stuffed and mounted in museums. He suspected that Westin woman he’d met this afternoon would say the same about people. Especially Californians.

  He scanned the hotel again. The Fischers’ Sidekick was back in place in front of their room; all was dark. The only movement was a large moth, intent on battering itself to death against the light outside the hotel office.

  Wearing latex gloves, Nicole peeled back the flap of the manila envelope they’d recovered from the boys’ pickup, slid the sheaves of money out, and carefully placed the envelope into a large plastic evidence bag. She fanned the bills in her lap with her fingers.

  “All there?”

  “Looks like it,” she said. As she reached the middle of the stack of bills, she gasped, then picked up another and divided it in the middle. “The idiots didn’t do the sandwich like I told them; they put in the whole fifty thousand!”

  He shrugged. “Parents do strange things when their kids are involved.”

  She slid the money into another plastic bag and zipped it closed. “I’m putting this in the hotel safe; we’ll get it back to Jenny’s parents tomorrow.”

  “Speaking of tomorrow.” Perez checked his watch. “It’s a quarter till two.” He yawned. “Looks like we’re not going to see any more action tonight. Either the boys pulled this off themselves or the guy that hired them knows about their arrest.”

  “Damn. I hate small towns.” She sighed. “Still, for one night we haven’t done badly. I love busting dumb punks.”

  * * * * *

  Kent Bergstrom stood at the rim of Jade Pool, the last unexplored area in his search quadrant. Moon and stars shimmered in the still, dark water. In summer, the rangers had a hard time keeping swimmers out of the pocket of crystal liquid. Now, at the end of the dry season, the water was not so clear or so high, but it was still deep enough to conceal a two-year-old. It was a long shot, more than five miles up the trail, but they’d decided to extend the search to six miles out tonight.

  They’d examine every mesquite bush until they found that kid. Or determined that Zack wasn’t in the park at all, which was Kent’s growing suspicion. Something was up in town; the FBI agents and Superintendent Thompson had been closeted for a half hour, waving around some fax that they didn’t share with lowly wildlife rangers.

  He stripped off his service belt and radio, then peeled off his boots and socks. No sense in soaking them as well. He sighed, took a deep breath, and waded in. Damnation! The water was just as cold as he’d thought it would be. The drop-off was steep; he gasped as he stepped off into a deep spot.

  Searching for lost kids was not how he’d envisioned his career. But jobs for wildlife biologists were few: you either worked for the government or for a zoo. Except in rare cases like Sam, who seemed to be doing all right with her wildlife photos and stories.

  Well, he couldn’t write or even spell worth a damn, so this ranger job had better work out for him. He shuffled to the center of the pool where the water was up to his waist, sliding his bare feet carefully over the moss-slick bottom, moving his hands under the water’s surface.

  “Zack?” he asked the ripples around him. Fool. If Zack were in here, he wouldn’t be capable of answering. Something slid across his toes, floated away. He bent and felt the bottom with his hands. A newt, maybe? Frog? No fish inhabited Jade Pool. His fingers closed around a long slick, gloppy piece of—? He pulled it up. Thank God. No smell of decay, no waterlogged skin or li
mp flesh. Only a sock, once white, now green with moss. And big enough to fit on his own foot. After taking a final turn around the pool, he waded out, put the sock in his trash bag before starting the long hike down the mountain. If he was lucky, he could catch a couple hours sleep in his truck before he had to begin his next shift.

  The calls of volunteers grew louder as he descended. “Zack! Zachary!” Sort of mesmerizing, those voices echoing back and forth in the cool blackness. Pack horses had been known to fall asleep on familiar trails, and he felt as if he might likewise nod off at any minute. However, he doubted that his feet would continue to plod along like those horses. More likely, he’d fall right off over the edge, land on those two girls from Rescue 504 down there just off the trail. As he passed, the chunky one raised a whistle to her lips and puffed out an ear-shattering blast.

  Wide awake now, Kent stepped off the trail and slid down to their position. More footsteps and panting noises signaled the approach of other searchers, human and animal.

  “Look!” The heavyset girl held her flashlight perpendicular to the ground. Highlighted in the beam was a tiny dust-covered sneaker. Kent’s breath caught in his throat.

  “Wasn’t Zachary wearing sneakers?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” Kent stared at the tiny shoe. “Red ones, just like this.”

  * * * * *

  Sam was taking her second shower in twenty-four hours when she heard the toilet flush in the bathroom next door. She felt it as well: a surge of scalding water suddenly lashed her from the showerhead. Jamming a hand over her mouth to stifle a yelp, she turned off the tap and stepped out of the tub.

  If Perez was back, then everything was under control. For now. She hadn’t heard anything from the Fischers’ room. Surely there’d be celebrations if Zack was back. Oh God, did that mean he was dead? First light, she’d be out there finding out exactly what had happened.

  A second later the shower started on the other side of the wall. Was that the squeak of a bare foot stepping into the bathtub? She waited another second, then flushed her toilet.

  “Aaargh!” The thump against the wall was probably Perez’s elbow or knee. She smiled.

  Her father’s voice surged into her thoughts. You should be ashamed of yourself, Summer. As penance, she tried hard not to envision what Agent Chase J. Perez looked like without clothes. Yawning, she slipped into bed.

  At four thirty a.m., the shrill bleat of the phone next door woke her. She rose, pressed the drinking glass to the wall.

  “You’re sure it’s his.” Perez’s voice was now a weary octave deeper. A rustle: he was taking notes. “Powell Trail—where’s that?” Several um-hums, then he said, “First thing after daylight.” A slight hesitation, then, “No, second thing. It’ll be midmorning. Bag that shoe.” The click of the receiver in its cradle, a word grumbled in Spanish, then the creak of springs again.

  Sounded like the searchers had found a shoe on Powell Trail in the park. Zack’s shoe? She rubbed her forehead. Did that mean the ransomers were holding Zack in the park? She was too tired to think. Tomorrow would be soon enough to find out. Heck, it was tomorrow. But dawn was still a couple of hours away, and if the FBI was going back to bed, then she was, too. She crawled back between the sheets.

  8

  It was nearly eight thirty when Sam awoke. The room next door was silent; Perez was gone. She couldn’t believe she had snored through his exit. Why hadn’t she set the alarm?

  She quickly checked the TV morning shows. Every station was still hinting that Zack was killed by a cougar. The telephone line at park HQ was busy. She worked up the courage to go back online.

  First, the SWF site. They’d wisely chosen to lead with a video clip from the KUTV News 9 in which Assistant Superintendent Meg Tanner stated, “The entire valley has been searched twice, and we’ve found no evidence of a cougar attack on Zachary Fischer.” The two-second segment must have aired on the news before she’d tuned in; she didn’t remember it.

  Her story about the continuing search for Zack seemed tepid in comparison to the inflammatory stories on other sites, particularly one named Sane World, which featured a video clip from KUTV News 9, with Jenny Fischer on the screen. “We didn’t know that our baby was in such danger,” she sobbed.

  The video was set up to loop: the voice and image played over and over. “We didn’t know our baby was in such danger . . . We didn’t know our baby was in such danger . . .” Sam clicked the Stop button to end the wrenching repetition.

  The video was labeled as having come from YouTube. Great.

  Sane World’s website included a photo of the missing poster with Zack’s face, and an article that made her hyperventilate after the first paragraph.

  SWF Aware of Cougar Danger

  at Campground

  Wilderness Westin, star reporter for the Save the Wilderness Fund, proudly stated on the group’s new website that a large male cougar was known to frequent the area in which two-year-old Zachary Fischer disappeared less than forty-eight hours ago.

  The SWF organization has consistently put the lives of wild animals above those of people. This—

  Her cell bleeped. “Anything new, babe?” Adam asked.

  She gritted her teeth. But maybe by giving him something, she could refocus the television coverage. “There’s a rumor of a ransom attempt for Zack,” she said. Maybe that would get Adam and the rest of the news hounds off the cougar track.

  “Not much I can do with a rumor.”

  “Seems like you ran with the rumor about cougars, Adam.”

  “That’s different; there were the warning posters and the quote from the mom.”

  “All I can say is that the local police and the FBI were chasing a couple of kids last night and it had something to do with Zack Fischer.”

  “Really? I’ll check it out. Guess what? They’ve extended my anchor gig, I’m on again today from noon to midnight.”

  “I’m thrilled for you.”

  He failed to notice her sarcasm. “Thanks,” he said. “What are you going to do today?”

  She snorted. “Damage control. And oh yeah, I think I might help look for the missing kid.”

  “Be careful out there. Keep in touch. The second you find out anything new, let me have it, okay? Bye, babe.”

  She called Lauren, got her voicemail, left a message to keep the faith, she would find a way to fix this. She checked the park phone line again. Still busy. Kent’s cell went straight to voicemail, so she wasn't going to get any news from him.

  She checked out and picked up a cup of coffee to go at the café, feeling the eyes of the locals burning into her back as she waited at the counter. She hoped that was paranoia: how many of them knew she was Wilderness Westin, star reporter for SWF?

  A handful of people, five adults and a couple of kids, blocked the south gate into the park. A woman held a sign that read protect children, not cougers. One of the children carried another—save a child, shoot a mountain lion. The other kid wore double cowboy-style holsters with weapons that Sam prayed were plastic.

  She honked. The group didn’t budge.

  In her rearview mirror Sam saw the KUTV News 9 van angle onto the shoulder behind her. Carolyn Perry, microphone already in hand, stepped out of the vehicle, the driver-cameraman hard on her heels.

  The arrival of the press emboldened the protesters. The placard-carrying woman bounced her sign up and down, glaring at Sam’s Civic like a shepherd threatening a recalcitrant sheep.

  Why me? Sam thought. Then it came to her: the SWF sticker on the windshield.

  The reporter hurried in her direction. Sam pressed the gas; the car lurched forward a couple of feet. The protesters bleated and scattered. She couldn’t resist speaking to the placard-carrying woman. “Learn how to spell, lady.”

  As she drove away, she heard a loud thump. She checked the rearview mirror and saw the woman raise her mangled sign from the back of the Civic.

  At park headquarters, Zack’s poster was taped onto the front d
oor. So they hadn’t found him.

  “Hang in there, Zack,” she whispered. Wherever you are.

  A table in the lobby was laden with a large coffee urn, homemade sweet breads, a plate of sandwiches, and several boxes of cookies. The work of church ladies. The same food miracle occurred during every crisis in the small town where she’d been raised.

  The reception desk was empty. Sam helped herself to a hunk of pumpkin bread. Zack watched from a poster across the room. A map on the wall was partially cross-hatched, and she walked closer to study it. Like Tanner had said in that news clip, search crews had double-checked all areas close to Red Rock Campground. In the section she had searched yesterday, red backslashes crisscrossed the black lines, and red initials, RC, appeared in the lower corner next to SW, which someone scrawled in black marker on her behalf. RC had to mean that Rafael Castillo either preceded or followed her in the same sector. Good. The law enforcement officer wasn’t likely to miss much. She hoped he’d interviewed Wilson.

  An X and the word Shoe marked a location about four miles up Powell Trail. She frowned. It was a steep, rocky climb. Impossible for a two-year-old to walk there by himself. And the Powell Trailhead was at least three-quarters of a mile from Goodman Trail parking lot, where she’d last seen Zack.

  Sam ventured into the hallway, heard the faint voices of the FBI agents, with a man and woman responding. Perez and Boudreaux were questioning the Fischers. She pressed herself to the wall beside the threshold. Although the door was closed, the conversation was audible. Not exactly eavesdropping, she told herself.

  Agent Boudreaux expressed sympathy that the ransom note and subsequent arrests hadn’t solved the case. “We’re still looking, but so far there’s no evidence that these boys ever saw Zack.”

  “Why would somebody do something like that?” Jenny wailed.

  A man cleared his throat, then said, “For the money.” Fred Fischer.

  “That money,” Jenny said, “Where is it?”

  “It’s safe. We’ll return it to your parents, Mrs. Fischer,” Perez said.