Page 13 of Cry of the Wild

  A picture from her second dream flashed in her mind—of the puncture wound over Derrick's heart. "You don't be­lieve that. You don't even believe a bear was involved. You think it was a man." She gestured at his empty hands. "If you thought for one minute a killer bear was out here, you'd be carrying a gun."

  He pinched the bridge of his nose and heaved a weary sigh. After a long moment, he dropped his hand. "I can't make sense of any of it," he said in a husky voice. "There's only one thing I'm certain of at this point. I don't want something to happen to you."

  The sincerity in his expression made Crysta forget what­ever it was she had intended to say. For an instant she ex­perienced an almost overpowering need to feel his arms around her again, to pour out her frustrations and fears, to believe he could somehow make everything all right.

  She knew it was a childish wish. But, like Sam, she was so weary of trying to make sense of it all that she could scarcely think straight. A respected tracker was convinced Derrick had been slain by a bear. Yet Derrick had said things that gave Sam reason to believe her brother had been the victim of foul play. Who was right? Had the men who harmed Derrick staged a bear attack to throw the searchers off track? Crysta didn't know. And if all that wasn't enough, she had her dreams to consider. Were they telepathic vi­sions, sent to her by Derrick? Or was she losing her mind?

  At the moment, Crysta was none too sure of her sanity. Nothing seemed clear to her except that she felt inexplica­bly drawn to Sam Barrister. Yet common sense warned her that she still couldn't be entirely certain she should trust him.

  As if he sensed how close she was to tears, he took her arm and drew her into a walk beside him. They emerged from the dappled shade into bright sunlight. Crysta blinked, momentarily blinded. When her vision cleared, her foot­steps dragged to a stop.

  "What's wrong?" Sam whispered.

  Crysta stared ahead. "This is the place where it hap­pened."

  Sam glanced around them. "It's a little farther, I think. I found Derrick's destroyed gear farther ahead."

  "No," she said with certainty, her attention fixed on a wind-twisted spruce on the riverbank several feet ahead of them. "No, Sam, this is the place."

  Sam began scanning the ground, his expression dubious. Crysta stood frozen, her head swimming with images. This was the spot along the river that she had dreamed of, where the three men had caught up to her.

  "You're right," Sam said softly, pointing at something to her left.

  Feeling strangely numb, Crysta turned to follow his gaze. A flutter of orange caught her eye. She focused. Someone had driven a flagged stake into the ground to mark the spot. Sam moved cautiously forward, head bent to search the area.

  "This is it. That's amazing—that you knew, I mean."

  Still with that same feeling of separateness engulfing her, Crysta followed him, her gaze fixed on the ground. The toe of her running shoe touched a black splotch. She stopped to study it, then recognized it as dried blood. Derrick's blood, according to the search coordinator. Her knees went weak.

  "It's just like Jim said, plenty of bear track, lots of blood." Sam touched the broken branch of a bush, his ex­pression grim. "God, they're right. I've been off all along. It way a bear attack."

  His voice, thick and husky with emotion, raked down Crysta's spine like chalk skidding over blackboard. Nausea rolled up her throat. Closing her eyes for an instant, she whispered "No," the sound almost inaudible.

  Sam glanced up. "What do you mean, no?" He pointed at the many bear tracks. "The proof's staring us in the face."

  Crysta's feeling of unreality wouldn't dissipate. She turned to stare at the twisted spruce. There couldn't be an­other tree exactly like it. Derrick had been here. Men had beer, chasing him. She wasn't losing her mind. She didn't care what evidence there was to the contrary. The bear at­tack had been faked; she knew it as surely as she did her own name.

  "It wasn't a bear that got him," Crysta amplified.

  Like a sleepwalker, she strode toward the water, envi­sioning herself lying there, dazed from a blow to the head. In her dream, she had been trying to reach safety some­place up ahead and the twisted spruce had been to her right. Crysta turned, putting the tree to her right, and found her­self looking back the way she and Sam had just come. Der­rick had been trying to reach Cottonwood Bend... and his friend, Sam Barrister.

  More images from her dream assailed her as she drew closer to the water. A flash of silver arcing over her shoul­der to plop into the water. Derrick's buckle. She had bent to pick it up and had put it in her left breast pocket.

  Sudden excitement shot through Crysta, making her for­get, momentarily, that there were some things best left un­said. She bent at the waist to scan the earth. "Was Derrick's silver-dollar belt buckle found in the pocket of his red flan­nel shirt?"

  "The shirt he was wearing when—?" Sam broke off. "No, I don't think so. Jim would have mentioned it."

  "Then it must be here somewhere. When they picked him up after shooting him, it must have fallen from his pocket." Crysta waded into the water, peering through the murky ripples. "Help me, Sam. It's here, it has to be."

  "What are you talking about? What buckle? And what shooting? You aren't making sense."

  "I'm making perfect sense. Help me look. In my dream, I put the buckle in my pocket. Then someone hit me. I fell, stunned. When I turned over, they were talking about get­ting rid of him. Not her, Sam, him! I heard a gunshot right before the dream ended and—" she pressed a hand over her heart, lifting her face to stare at him "—I woke up with a terrible pain in my chest. Don't you see?" She waded from the water onto shore, not caring that her feet were soaked. "I knew this place because I had seen it before, in my dream! It wasn't me I was dreaming about, but Derrick!

  They shot him. And then they tried to make it look as if a bear got him."

  In a rush, she went on to describe the dream in more de­tail. So intent was she on recounting everything exactly the way she had seen it that she scarcely noticed the wariness crossing Sam's face, growing more pronounced by the mo­ment.

  "And all you saw of the men were their legs and boots?" He arched an eyebrow and glanced at his feet. "Green boots with yellow bands at the tops? Crysta, everyone up here wears them. I'm sorry, but that's not particularly conclu­sive."

  "You have to believe me, Sam. Derrick's life depends on it." Her breath caught, and she swallowed. "Derrick and I, we aren't like other brothers and sisters. Though we're not identical twins, somehow there's a special link between us."

  "A link?" He avoided meeting her gaze.

  "We—" She caught her hp between her teeth and paused, feeling as if she were about to leap off a cliff. Sam was go­ing to think she was crazy, she just knew it. "Our minds are linked, telepathically linked."

  "Interesting theory."

  "It isn't a theory, dammit!"

  Her curse brought his gaze careening back to her. After studying her a moment, he said, "You're serious."

  "Of course I am. Do you think I'd joke at a time like this? Derrick can send me thought messages, kind of like..." she made a futile motion with her hands. "Sort of like radio waves. Only sometimes I get pictures, too. In turn, I can contact him." Crysta knew how insane she sounded, but she couldn't stop herself. Sam had to be convinced. "It's happened. I swear it."

  In a rush, she told him about several instances from childhood when Derrick had been ill or hurt and she had been simultaneously stricken. "I was miles away from him, Sam. Every single time. There was no way I could have known."

  "So why are we out here searching and playing guessing games?" A challenging glint crept into his eyes. "Why don't you just call him and find out where he is?"

  The sarcasm in his voice was veiled, but there. Crysta swallowed down anger. And pain. "I can't. He isn't an­swering me. But he called to me for help, Sam. Forty-eight hours before the police contacted my mother. That's how I recognized this place. I'd seen it before! In my dream."

  He cas
t a dubious glance around.

  Crysta moved toward him. "I didn't tell you before be­cause I was afraid you'd think I was crazy. But more im­portantly, I was afraid to let on how much I knew! If you were involved, Sam, my link to Derrick would be danger­ous to you."

  "So why are you telling me now?"

  "Because now I know you had nothing to do with it." She gestured toward the spruce. "In the dream, I was running, trying to reach safety up ahead. That tree was on my right. I was running toward Cottonwood Bend, Sam! Don't you see? I wasn't dreaming about myself, but about Derrick. You were the safety he was running toward! His friend. He knew you'd help him."

  In her desperation, she grabbed Sam's shirt. As quickly as she could, she recounted her second dream, in detail.

  "You have to believe me! He isn't dead. It wasn't a bear."

  Sam grasped her shoulders. The frantic appeal in her eyes caught at his heart. Derrick had told Sam about the "link" between him and his sister, but until now, Sam hadn't truly understood how deeply they both believed in it. Or how much it might mean to Crysta that he believe in it, as well. By nature, Sam was a doubting Thomas. He found it ex­tremely difficult to believe in anything he couldn't see or touch or feel. But, for Crysta's sake, he was willing to try.

  Giving her a slight shake, he said, "Crysta, I believe you. Just calm down. I believe you."

  It was the first time in Crysta's life anyone had said that- other than family, of course, who had seen the proof—and she was momentarily taken aback.

  "You believe me?" Her amazement came through in her voice. "Does this mean you'll bring the searchers back?"

  Sam tightened his grip on her shoulders. "I think you dreamed the dreams, exactly as you described them, and that you believe with all your heart that they were messages from Derrick."

  Her heart sank. "You believe I'm telling the truth, as I see it, in other words."

  "I'm trying, Crysta. You can't blame me for having res­ervations."

  Frustration welled within her. She jerked away and turned her back on him to stare blindly at the water. People had been skeptical all her life. Just once, why couldn't someone believe her? "I should have known not to say anything. You'd think, after all these years, that I'd learn. But, oh, no, I never do."

  "Crysta..."

  She waved a hand. "No, no! It's all right. I'm used to it. At least I should be." She gave a bitter laugh. "Have you any idea how many friends I've lost over this? I can even list my marriage as a casualty. You get a thick hide after a while."

  "If only you had some proof," he said quietly. "There's a great deal at stake here."

  She whirled around. "Like your reputation? Your credi­bility? Other than that, what have you got to lose?"

  "Not me so much. I have to think of the searchers. I can't keep them from their jobs without some tangible proof to go on."

  "I can prove it!" she cried. "The buckle, Sam! If it wasn't in his shirt, it has to be here someplace."

  She began another frantic search. For several seconds Sam stood back, looking nonplussed, but then he began helping her comb the area. Ten minutes later, Crysta ad­mitted defeat.

  "Well it isn't here." She lifted her hands and shrugged. It was all she could do not to cry. Derrick had counted on her to come through for him, and she was failing, miserably. "I guess as far as tangible proof goes, we're back to square one and the bear theory."

  Sam, who stood a few feet away, clamped a hand around the base of his neck, tilting his head back, clearly ex­hausted.

  "In my second dream, I saw a wound over Derrick's heart." A cool breeze came in off the river, funneling around them. She wrapped her arms around herself, shiv­ering. "In the first dream, he picked up the buckle and slipped it into his left breast pocket. What if the bullet went through the buckle, Sam? It may have been damaged. If those men found it, they wouldn't have dared leave it. It would have been evidence of foul play."

  "You're grasping at straws, aren't you?"

  "Maybe, but right now, I'll grasp at anything!"

  "Crysta..." Sam walked slowly toward her. Taking her by the shoulders again, he said, "Honey, I know how upset you are and that the dreams seemed real to you. But isn't it possible that they were products of wishful thinking? That you love Derrick too much to accept the unthinkable—that he's dead and you'll never see him again? There's no sign here of two-legged attackers. Other than the more recent footprints of the searchers, there's nothing to indicate Der­rick encountered anything other than a bear. I looked, be­lieve me."

  "Two things," she said, placing a hand on his chest to keep a distance between them. "One being that I had the first dream forty-eight hours before I was notified of Der­rick's disappearance, which rules out wishful thinking. The second is, don't call me honey. It's condescending and in­furiating. You wouldn't consider using an endearment like that if you were having this conversation with a man, would you?"

  "I suppose not." His eyes filled with irritation when she pulled away from him. Folding his arms across his chest, he fell into step beside her as she headed back upstream. "Where are you going?"

  "Back to the lodge. We've seen what we came to see. I'm going to study the map to familiarize myself with this area while I have Jangles pack me some food. Then I'm coming back here."

  "To do what?"

  "To look for my brother."

  "Where?"

  "Everywhere. I'll comb every inch of the area."

  Sam sighed.

  Crysta rounded on him. "Look, I understand that you don't believe me. That's your choice, and I really can't blame you. That doesn't mean I'm giving up." She struck off walking again. "I know what I know. I can't prove it, but there it is. I'm coming back, and nobody, including you, is going to stop me."

  "Even though you just saw the evidence of a bear attack with your own eyes?" he countered.

  Crysta raised her chin. "Evidence can be faked."

  "It might be a little difficult to get the bear to cooper­ate," he came back.

  A sudden thought hit her. "Not if it was dead." Her gaze flew to his. "The bear carcass, Sam—the one Tip said he found, minus its head and paws. What if Derrick's attack­ers used the teeth and claws to tear up his clothing? Bear track is common everywhere, right? They wouldn't have had to fake that. If they were extremely careful about the other evidence they left, not even a forensics lab could tell by ex­amining the clothing. Naturally, the searchers would be fooled."

  His eyes narrowed in thought. "It's possible, I suppose. It'd be a mighty clever trick, using a dead bear, but if it was done right, even an expert might be misled by the hair and saliva traces left on the clothing."

  "So you admit it's possible."

  "Possible, yes."

  "But unlikely," she added hollowly. With a little shrug, she accepted that and picked up her pace. "For me, a pos­sibility is enough."

  "What if I was to say I'm willing to go on your in­stincts?"

  The question made her falter. "What do you mean?"

  "That I'll forgo proof and logic, just this once. I can't have the searchers resume their hunt, but that doesn't mean I can't continue the search."

  "I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but why?"

  "Let's just say, for now, that I concede there may be such a thing as mental telepathy and that it might manifest itself between twins. There was a bear carcass found, a fresh kill, at just the right time. I care a lot about Derrick, and as long as there's a possibility he's alive, I'd be a fool to ignore what you're telling me."

  "Oh, Sam, I could kiss you!"

  "Kiss a man who calls you demeaning names like honey?"

  She ignored the dig. "So you'll come back here with me?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "Sam, in my dream, Derrick was badly wounded! We have to make finding him our first priority!"

  He shook his head. "If the wound was that serious, time has already run out. If not, then Derrick will manage to hang on until we reach him. A frenzied search
isn't the an­swer. We have nothing to base it on." He held up a staying hand. "I know you saw a cabin in your dream. That's great, but it doesn't help. There are a lot of abandoned cabins in the interior. We might waste days searching and not find it."

  "It's a sure bet we won't find it in Derrick's briefcase."

  "We may get a lead there. You dreamed about a ware­house. If your dreams are messages from Derrick, that's proof my suspicions about Blanchette are accurate. If we can find out what Derrick found, we may be able to iden­tify his attackers."

  "Marvelous. Without Derrick to testify, we'd have cul­prits, but no evidence against them. What good would that do?"

  "The 'culprits' can tell us where Derrick is, or at least point us in the right direction."

  "Why would they be so accommodating? They'd be in­criminating themselves."

  "If we find them, Crysta, I think I can persuade them to cooperate," he replied in a silken voice.

  She glanced down to see that his hands were knotted into fists. As frightening as it was to envision Sam losing his temper and using those fists on someone, it was also strangely reassuring. For the first time since coming to Alaska, she felt as if she had a friend in all this, someone who would stand by her and help her find her brother.

  As they walked along, she noticed that Sam paused fre­quently, as if to listen, and scanned the surrounding area.

  "What are you looking for?" she whispered.

  His mouth settled in a grim line. "Grizzly sign. Territo­rial markings. Like it or not, we can't disregard what we saw back there. Where there's smoke, there's usually fire, and I'm not willing to risk our lives gambling that all that bear sign was planted."

  The hair on Crysta's neck prickled. "If there is a rene­gade bear out here, what’ll we do? You haven't got a gun."

  "More fool I. I should have known Jim wouldn't have been so convinced of a bear attack without plenty of rea­son."