Cry of the Wild

  "I'm not sure. I only know it struck me as odd when I noticed it, and—" he tapped Derrick's initials on one of the invoices "—I think Derrick may have picked up on it, too. It isn't much to go on, but at least it's something."

  Crysta slowly nodded, excitement building within her. Glancing at the clock, she said, "I can hardly wait to leave for Anchorage. Maybe we'll find that warehouse I dreamed of, Sam. Maybe we'll find out what it was Derrick went there about."

  "Maybe. At least it's a lead. Which is more than we had."

  Gathering up the documents, Sam avoided her gaze, still uncomfortable when she alluded to her dreams. Earlier to­day, he had, on two occasions, encouraged Crysta to be true to herself. He had insisted that those people who were in­capable of accepting her as she was weren't worthy to be her friends, that the right man would understand her relation­ship with Derrick. Now Sam found himself in the unenvi­able position of wanting to be Crysta's friend—possibly even more—but at the same time, doubting her.

  To believe or not to believe, that was the question.

  Chapter Eleven

  The following day was overcast. After another harrowing flight in Todd Shriver's Cessna, Crysta was eager to leave the Lake Hood Airport in the cab Sam commandeered. She settled back in the seat beside him, fighting down a rush of anxiety as the cab wound its way through the city's streets toward the outskirts of town, where Blanchette's Anchor­age offices were located.

  Sam seemed as nervous as she, shifting position and glancing through the rear window. When they had nearly reached their destination, she noted his odd behavior and followed his gaze.

  "Is something wrong?"

  Sam looked a little sheepish. "I thought there was an­other cab following us. Shadows again. I think it turned off about three blocks back."

  Memories of being trapped in the sauna washed over Crysta. She turned forward again and folded her arms, shivering. The smell of new vinyl inside the cab made her feel slightly nauseated. Sam could lay his paranoia off on jumping at shadows all he liked, but that didn't alter the fact that someone might have tried to kill her.

  "Cold?"

  The weather was oppressive enough without her drag­ging Sam's spirits down with hers. Hesitant to admit she had shivered with foreboding, she opted to tell a small white lie. "A little chilly."

  Sam immediately slipped an arm around her shoulders and drew her against his side. Still feeling a bit self- conscious about his seeing her unclad the previous day, Crysta stiffened at the unexpected familiarity and glanced up. The dark depths of his eyes heated, catching glints of light, warning her.

  "Don't," he whispered.

  "Don't what?"

  He tightened his arm around her and settled himself more comfortably against the door. "You know perfectly well what. The entire incident is a blur to me, and that's the truth."

  Crysta, who should have been an old hand at having her thoughts read, felt her cheeks flush. Sam wasn't Derrick, and his perceptiveness made her feel vulnerable. She started to avert her face, but Sam caught her chin so she couldn't.

  "I mean it. You're feeling embarrassed over nothing."

  Crysta nibbled at her bottom hp, fastening her gaze on his chin, which was far more comfortable than making eye contact with him. "It's silly for me to be embarrassed, at any rate."

  "You wouldn't be normal if you weren't," he whispered. "And as I recall, being normal is of great importance to you."

  His teasing tone sliced through the charged atmosphere, relieving her tension, which, if she was honest, wasn't to­tally due to embarrassment. There was Derrick's plight, the attempt on her life, the days of ceaseless worry, all of which had her nerves worn raw. His invitation to banter offered her an escape from the serious, no matter how brief, and lured her irresistibly. She slid her gaze to his and flashed a dubious smile.

  "You honestly don't remember anything? I'm not at all sure you’re normal, if that's the case."

  It was his turn to grin. "I didn't go stone blind, exactly. I just—" He broke off and chuckled. "Crysta, there's look­ing at someone, and then there's looking. Let's just say that if you stood in a lineup of a dozen women, I couldn't pick you out. Is that any comfort?"

  "On the one hand, yes. On the other, though, I'm not sure it's very flattering."

  He barked with laughter. The cab pulled up in front of the Blanchette offices just then, and he released her to fish in his jeans pocket for cab fare. Crysta beat him to the draw by pulling some ready cash from the side pocket of her purse.

  "Lunch is on me," he grumbled as they exited the cab.

  The sky hung low above them, a depressing, heavy gray. Crysta took a deep breath of the salty air. "We're trying to find my brother. I should pay the expenses."

  "Correction, we're trying to find my friend. Therefore, I should pay the expenses. Besides, he did get lost while stay­ing at my lodge." Crysta had already come to realize how proud Sam was, but she also knew he didn't have much cash in reserve, and she hated for this trip to become an expense he could ill afford. "Look, you've waived all my lodging costs, so how about if we go halves from now on?"

  "Fair enough."

  They fell into step with each other, breaking apart to cir­cle a wash of mud. Crysta inclined her head toward the of­fice. "Since I'm Derrick's sister, I'll handle this, okay?"

  "Fine by me."

  The closer they came to the office, the more tense Crysta felt. What if she couldn't finagle her way into the ware­house? Sam took the steps two at a time, reaching the door to sweep it open for her. Once again in a teasing tone, he said, "I suppose you're the type who insists on paying your share when a man takes you out."

  Crysta, grateful for his attempt to keep her spirits rally­ing, rose to the challenge with what she hoped was an imp­ish grin. "Is that an invitation?"

  Sam followed her inside. "I'm old-fashioned when it comes to that. If we go out, I insist on paying."

  "How quaint." She aimed her footsteps toward the visi­tors' information desk, then glanced back over her shoul­der. "When?"

  "When what?"

  ‘‘When are we going?"

  His eyes lit up with laughter. ‘‘When I ask you.''

  "You are old-fashioned. I was thinking about asking you."

  "I accept."

  He slowed his pace, drawing up behind her as she ap­proached the blonde at the desk. Crysta introduced herself. After listening patiently to the receptionist stress how sorry she was to hear about Derrick, Crysta homed in on her purpose for being there.

  "I was wondering if my friend, Mr. Barrister, and I could take a tour of the warehouses. I, um..." Crysta didn't find it hard to look as if she might burst into tears. "I'd like very much to see where my brother worked. I always planned to come, you see. He wanted me to. And now..."

  "I understand," the pretty blonde inserted in a kindly voice. "And it's no problem at all. In fact, we issue visitor passes all the time. But, Miss Meyers, Derrick didn't have an office. He traveled from site to site, you see, and carried his paperwork with him. I'm afraid that—"

  "No, no, I came in hopes of visiting the warehouses."

  "Well, that's no problem at all. Let me make you up a list of addresses. We have maps of each complex, too."

  Within moments, Crysta had two visitor passes in her possession, and Sam, exiting the office beside her, was studying the list of warehouses.

  "The main warehouse is right here in this complex," he told her as they stepped out onto the porch.

  A gust of wind hit Crysta, so strong she nearly lost her footing. Sweeping her hair from her eyes, she leaned into the current and went down the steps. "Point me in the right di­rection."

  "You don't recognize anything?"

  Crysta shot him a knowing glance. "I didn't dream about the outside of the warehouse, Sam. The dream started in­side, walking down the aisle. If you're going to test me, at least be fair."

  "I'm not trying to test you."

  "Yes, you are."


  "Okay, I am. You've no idea how relieved I'd be to see some tangible proof that there's something to those dreams of yours."

  Crysta wondered if that was true. As they rounded the office building and struck off toward the aluminum-sided warehouse, she found herself hoping she could provide Sam with that proof. For some reason that she wasn't quite will­ing to analyze, it had become extremely important to her that he believe, truly believe, in her dreams.

  Blue-white light bathed the interior of the building, coming from fluorescent tubes suspended in rows from the lofty rafters. The musty-sweet smell of lumber and the heavy fumes of engine exhaust tainted the sea air that breezed in through the massive bay door. Crysta stopped just inside, scarcely noticing the bright yellow hoister that bucked past them.

  "This is it," she whispered.

  "You're sure? One warehouse looks like another."

  "I'm sure." Crysta moved forward, her skin chilled, her legs oddly numb. "I can't explain, but I know this is it."

  Looking into Crysta's eyes, Sam had the uneasy feeling that she was no longer really with him. She struck off walk­ing, not watching where she put her feet, her gaze distant. He hurried to catch up and grasped her arm. A forklift nearby grated its gears and lifted a bundle of shingle siding. Another hoister bounced across the loading zone. Neither driver seemed aware that two visitors had entered the area. Tiers of building supplies peppered the broad expanse of concrete floor.

  "Crysta?" Her arm felt brittle under his fingers. His gaze shifted to a crane, which suspended an ominous-looking load of three-foot culvert above their heads. In a place like this, an oblivious person could all too easily become a grease spot on the concrete. "Don't get spacey on me."

  She kept walking as if he hadn't spoken. Sam tightened his hold on her, attempting to guide her footsteps. At first she seemed to wander, then he felt her pick up the pace. She was heading toward a center aisle. As they stepped into it, Sam had the sensation that he had entered a narrow hall­way, except, of course, that the walls were rows of packing boxes.

  When the end of the aisle came into view, Crysta slowed her steps. "The crates and boxes I saw are gone."

  Sam followed her gaze to some empty pallets. Crysta started forward again, scanning the concrete floor. When they came upon a splotch of green paint, her slender body stiffened. He increased the pressure of his grip on her arm, frightened without knowing why, possibly because of the expression on her pale face.

  "The paint, Sam! It's here, just as I dreamed it was."

  To Sam's discomfiture, Crysta jerked free from his grasp and dropped to her knees by an empty pallet. Lying for­ward over her thighs, she shoved her arm under the frame­work. He glanced uneasily behind them. If someone happened along and saw her, Sam had no idea how he would explain her odd behavior.

  "It's here, I know it is!"

  "Crysta, get up from there. What are you doing?"

  Ignoring him, she fanned her arm under the slats of wood. "I have to find it. It'll be proof, don't you see? Proof, Sam!"

  "Proof of what? What are you looking for?"

  "It fell from his buckle! Right here, Sam! By the paint!"

  "Crysta, warehouses always have paint spills on the floor."

  She gave a cry of triumph and pulled her arm from un­der the pallet. Scrambling to her feet, she turned to face him, clutching something in her hand. Her eyes bright with unshed tears, she extended her arm toward him and un­furled her fingers. Upon her palm rested a silver dollar. An amateur numismatist, Sam knew by the muted sheen of the coin's finish that it was not only pure silver but also ex­tremely old.

  He stepped forward, his pulse accelerating. The 1906 dollar that Derrick had had fashioned into a belt buckle had been a gift from Sam. Finding a silver dollar under a ware­house pallet might be odd yet still explainable, but if that dollar in her hand was a 1906, even Sam would have to ad­mit it was too much to be coincidence. With tense fingers, he lifted the coin from her palm to read the date.

  Shifting his gaze from the coin to Crysta's face, Sam saw that her mouth was quivering. "I'm not crazy. This is proof, Sam."

  Curling his fingers around the coin, Sam stepped toward her, realizing, suddenly, how terribly important finding this coin had been to her. It went beyond providing proof for his benefit; it was proof for herself, a vindication after years of self-doubt. Forgetting about onlookers, not really caring at this point who might see, Sam caught her around the shoulders and hauled her against his chest to give her a comforting hug.

  "Of course you're not crazy. I never thought you were."

  "You didn't believe me, not completely."

  "I had my reservations, but I didn't think, even for an instant, that you were crazy, Crysta."

  "Do you believe me now?"

  Drawing his arm from around her, Sam opened his hand and stared at the coin once more. "Yes, Crysta, I believe you. No doubts, no reservations."

  The tension went out of her, and she leaned against him, pressing her face against his shoulder. "You'll never know how much it means to me to hear you say that."

  "I only wish I'd said it earlier," he replied huskily.

  She gave a wet little laugh and drew away, tilting her face up to meet his gaze, her own still bright with tears. "You were willing to stand by me, to be my friend, even with the doubts. That's what counts, Sam, more than you'll ever know."

  Sam's throat tightened. Her friend? He didn't know when it had happened or why, but his intentions had subtly al­tered. Friendship with Crysta, as enjoyable as that might be, was no longer all he had in mind. That admission rocked him, and he wasn't yet ready to ask himself just what, ex­actly, he did have in mind.

  Moving away from her, he said, "Well, we hit a dead end in one way." He nodded at the pallet. "No crates, no boxes. That adds up to no leads. Now what?"

  Wiping at her cheeks with the sleeve of her jacket, she sniffed and glanced around them. "We check the other warehouses. Maybe the crates and boxes I dreamed about have been moved."

  "And if the other warehouses turn up nothing?"

  "Then we regroup and try to decide what to do next." A glint of determination crept into her hazel eyes. "From here on in, defeat isn't in my vocabulary. We aren't giving up."

  "No." Sam flipped the coin into the air, palmed it, and slipped it into his pocket. "Let's go call a cab and hit the next warehouse."

  Nothing.

  The word resounded in Crysta's head as she and Sam left the last warehouse. In the center of her chest, an ache be­gan to spread, radiating down into her belly and up into her throat. Three warehouses, and they had found absolutely nothing. Images of Derrick, digging a bullet from his chest, swam in her mind. Her brother was dying out there while she toured warehouses in Anchorage. Never had she felt so frustrated... or so horribly guilty. This was her fault, all of it.

  "Crysta?"

  Sam's voice tugged her back from the nightmares to re­ality, which wasn't much better. Even the weather, misty and drab, seemed to spell doom. A car sped past, sending up a spray of water from the gutter. The way her luck was run­ning, Crysta was surprised she hadn't been drenched to the skin.

  "If you're going to ask me what we ought to do next, I don't know," she said in a shaky voice. "I'm fresh out of ideas."

  He placed a warm, heavy hand on her shoulder. "Look, just because we've struck out so far doesn't mean we should give up. We're on to something here. We have to be."

  Crysta glanced up and met his gaze. For several seconds they simply stood there, visually communicating what nei­ther could verbalize. Something indefinable was happening between them, and Crysta sensed they would never totally forget or manage to sever the bonds they were forming to­day.

  But what were those bonds? Friendship? That tag seemed pitifully inadequate. It was more of a melding. Sam had stood by her, following through on only the strength of her dreams, with no proof to motivate him. Because of that, she felt closer to him in some ways than she ever had to any­one, even Derr
ick.

  "No, we can't give up." She took a deep breath and ex­haled slowly, shoving her hands deep into her jacket pock­ets. "Not until there's no hope left. And as long as I'm getting periodic flashes of Derrick, there is hope."

  For the first time since she had found the silver dollar, it struck Sam what all this meant. Her dreams were a reality. Derrick was still alive. There was a chance that he and Der­rick would see one another again. If that happened, Sam vowed that he'd never again part company with his friend when either of them was angry. One couldn't count on to­morrow.

  "Let's walk," he suggested. "I think better on the move."

  Crysta fell into step beside him, staring down at their feet. Today, Sam had doffed the green rubber boots he usually wore in favor of the high-top leather ones she had seen sit­ting beside his bed. Jeans, boots, a flannel shirt. Not ex­actly sophisticated garb, but on Sam, it looked wonderful and right.

  As they left the fenced enclosure, a Blanchette truck edged up to an open gate, braked, then spun out in the gravel and merged with the traffic. Crysta watched it travel down the street.

  "Probably going to pick up a load at the docks," Sam said.

  Crysta gnawed her lip. The truck was now a tiny orange blur, nearly lost to sight. "Sam, that's it!"

  He scowled after the truck. "What's it? You've lost me."

  "What if those boxes in my dream held something ille­gal? There were no others in any of the warehouses like them! What if they weren't supposed to be there?"

  Clearly perplexed, Sam seemed to consider that angle. "Can you back up and run through that one more time? I'm not following."

  Excitement soared within Crysta. "Think, Sam. Some­one has been ordering too much conduit and sending the surplus back to Seattle. We've already concluded that doesn't make sense. Derrick agreed, or he wouldn't have made all those notes in the margins of the invoices!"

  He nodded. "I follow that much."

  "Last night, we couldn't figure out why someone would over-order and then return the surplus. We only knew it was odd. Think smuggling, Sam! An illegal commodity. How could you get something illegal out of Alaska and down to Seattle, where it could be marketed in the lower forty- eight?"