Cry of the Wild

  She tensed as Barrister stepped out from behind the desk. In the small room, he seemed even larger than he had be­fore, his long, well-muscled legs skimmed with worn-soft denim, massive shoulders emphasized by the undersized sweatshirt. He was the only man Crysta had ever met who made her feel small. Given the circumstances, she could have done without that.

  "Coffee?" he offered, voice strained. "Just made fresh."

  Crysta's gaze slid to his desk. It was impeccably neat, the wood surface agleam with wax, which clued her that Bar­rister's untidy apartment and unkempt appearance were probably uncharacteristic of him. She longed to walk over and open the side drawer to look more closely at the brief­case he had hidden from view. "Yes, please. Hot coffee sounds wonderful."

  He strode to a battered white serving cart near the win­dow where an automatic coffeemaker was giving its final sputter. Crysta noted that the coffee utensils were in tidy order, too, a curious contrast to their unshaven, weary- looking owner.

  He took two mugs from a wooden wall rack and sloshed coffee into each. Derrick aside, Crysta was accustomed to men in suits and polished dress shoes, nails manicured, the pads of their hands as soft as hers. Sam Barrister was any­thing but soft.

  "Don't you ever sleep?" she asked.

  "Cream? Sugar?" He glanced over his shoulder at her.

  "A lump of sugar, thanks."

  "In answer to your question, yes, I do sleep. But these last few days, I've been too busy to do it much."

  As he spoke, he moved toward her, extending one of the steaming mugs. She crooked a finger through the handle of the cup and murmured still another thank-you, feeling self- conscious and uncertain of what to say next. Gesturing to­ward a spare chair in front of his desk, he relieved the si­lence. "Have a seat."

  As she lowered herself onto the leather cushion, he perched a hip on the desk, one leg straight to support his weight, the other slightly bent. There was an air of the woodsman about him, even indoors. Crysta decided his dark, rugged looks probably gave most women butterflies.

  Not that she herself didn't find him attractive—amaz­ingly so, considering that he had made no effort to look his best. Once again she noted the dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes and the telltale specks of silver peppering his unshaven jaw. His age was stamped in tiny lines upon his countenance, those bracketing his mouth deeper than those at the corners of his eyes, both giving testimony that he had laughed at life and wept over it. She got the impression he didn't realize how handsome he was or else didn't count it important. She liked that in him.

  She couldn't help wondering what was so pressing that he had passed up a chance to shower and sleep to come in here and work. She shifted her attention back to the top of his desk and the papers lying on the blotter. The direction of her gaze seemed to make him uneasy.

  "What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

  Crysta took a sip of coffee, then lifted her gaze to meet his. "Where are my brother's personal effects?" "I'm sorry. I thought I told you. They were found along a trail... destroyed by the bear."

  "Derrick carried his briefcase when he went hiking?"

  One of Sam Barrister's eyelids twitched, but otherwise his expression remained poker straight. "I didn't realize Der­rick even carried a briefcase."

  "In his line of work, Derrick had contacts to make even during his off-hours. He was worse about carrying his briefcase than most women are about their purses."

  Shrugging one shoulder, Barrister frowned. "Maybe Cottonwood Bend was the exception. He did come here to get away from it all, you know. And with mobile phone rates as costly as they are, he seldom contacted people from here. Maybe he left his briefcase behind in the hotel safe at Anchorage."

  The slain across Crysta's cheekbones felt as if it were smeared with drying egg white. Tight-lipped, she studied this man whom Derrick had called friend. She felt certain he had just lied to her about Derrick's never bringing his pa­per work to the lodge.

  "Speaking of your mobile phone, Derrick called my mom from here last week, yet I noticed a note on your calendar that leads me to think your phone was being repaired. How did Derrick place a call from here when there wasn't a phone?"

  Sam shot a glance toward the doorway. "Since mine was on the fritz last week, Riley O'Keefe let me borrow his."

  "Riley O'Keefe?"

  "He's a regular here at the lodge—the stocky redhead you saw on the island when you arrived?"

  She recalled the man. "How well does he know my brother?"

  "Fairly well. Riley works for Blanchette Construction."

  "In what capacity?"

  Barrister hesitated. "He's a warehouse supervisor."

  "Are there other Blanchette people who come here regu­larly?"

  Barrister searched her gaze, his jaw muscle flickering. "Several. Steve Henderson comes the most—the tall, brown-haired kid? Maybe you didn't notice him. Riley brings him along fairly often, probably to take Steve's mind off things at home."

  "He has problems?"

  Sam's eyes clouded. "A sick son. Leukemia. He's just a little tyke. It's hard on Steve. I don't think the financial squeeze he's under has helped any."

  Acutely aware of the compassion revealed in Sam's eyes, Crysta remembered her original reason for coming here. Surely a man who cared so deeply about another man's sick child could be trusted. Emotion clogging her throat, she blurted, "I don't believe my brother was killed by a bear."

  His eyes went deadpan. "What do you think killed him, then?"

  Careful, Crysta. "I—I don't think he's dead."

  Sam grew unnaturally still, watching her in that unnerv­ing way he had that made her feel he could read far more from her expression than she wished.

  "Let me rephrase that," she whispered. "I know he isn't dead."

  He gave a nervous cough. "How can you possibly know he's not dead?"

  Wrapping her fingers around the warm mug, Crysta bent her head, staring at the coarse weave of her denim jeans, fighting back the urge to tell him about her dreams. Her credibility was on the line; she mustn't forget that.

  "I just know, that's all. I want to resume the search. It's imperative. We have to find Derrick before it's too late."

  There followed another taut silence. Then she heard the click of porcelain on wood. With no warning, he leaned forward and grasped her shoulder, making her start. "Crysta, I know how difficult it must be for you to accept Derrick's death, especially the way he died. It's natural to go through a time of denial, even rage. Is there anything I can do to help you?"

  Crysta kept her head bent. The heavy warmth of his hand and the concern she heard in his voice tapped emotions she had been fighting to ignore. Weakness. The need to be con­soled. This was the same man who allowed his frightened teenage son to sleep with him, the same man who told bed­time stories to chase away nightmares. Isolated as she was from the rest of the world, Sam was the only person she could turn to. Derrick was out there somewhere. She wanted, needed, to believe in Sam Barrister, to know that he cared. "You can help me find my brother."

  The request rested heavily between them. Slowly, Crysta lifted her head.

  "What makes you think he's alive, that there's—" He relinquished his grip on her shoulder and shoved strong- looking fingers through his dark hair, avoiding eye contact with her while he uttered the distasteful words that fol­lowed. "What makes you think there's anything left of him to find, Crysta? You heard what the searcher said."

  When he looked back at her, Crysta's turmoil increased. Sam Barrister seemed like a nice man, and she instinctively liked him. Was she responding to his good looks? To Tip's revelations about him? Or did she feel she knew him better than she actually did because of the many stories Derrick had told her about him? She knew foul play factored into Derrick's disappearance and she should trust no one at this lodge, but she needed help.

  "I just know he's alive," she whispered, her voice rag­ged.

  "You just know?"

  He seemed to c
onsider that. With the incredulous tone of his question still hanging in the air, Crysta was forced to ask herself how much or how little she could trust her own in­stincts. Looking at it from Sam's point of view, she had to admit that her convictions sounded absurd. Yet they stemmed from a lifetime of experiences, and she couldn't discount them, not when Derrick's life might hang in the balance. She didn't care if she looked the fool.

  He finally broke the silence. "If you have one iota of proof, I'll organize a search. But, please, understand I can't do it without a darned good reason. Those men have jobs to return to in the morning, families to support."

  "I'd feel it if he were dead. We're twins. Twins are—more attuned to one another than other siblings."

  That was as close as Crysta dared get to the truth about her relationship with Derrick. And it wouldn't be enough. If she read Barrister right, he was a facts-and-figures man, the pragmatic sort who discounted anything he couldn't see, hear or touch.

  Feeling defeated but defiant, she set her mug of coffee on Sam's desk and pushed to her feet, feeling very like a dis­obedient child called onto the carpet. He studied her, his expression unreadable, his jaw set in a stubborn line.

  "If you won't help me look for him, then I'll hire a guide."

  The corners of his mouth tightened. "The guides up here are booked for months in advance. Finding a reputable one on such short notice would be nigh unto impossible."

  Crysta's flare of hope died with his words. She knew by the look in his eyes that he was telling the truth; she'd never be able to find a guide in time to help her brother. She stood there staring at him, her hands knotted into fists. Never had she felt so impotent. "Then I'll look for him myself. You'll at least steer me in the right direction, won't you?"

  He raised his hands and shook his head. "No. Another lost person is the last thing I need. We're talking a bear at­tack, Crysta! Raw power, enough to take your head off with one swipe of a paw. You're not going out there alone. I won't allow it."

  Her frustration mounting, Crysta cried, "You won't al­low it? Excuse me, but I happen to be over twenty-one. You have no authority over me."

  "Oh, yes, I do. This is my lodge. You're here as my guest. You get yourself killed, and I'm liable."

  "I'll sign a disclaimer."

  "You'll stay within sight of the lodge, that's what you'll do. In court, a disclaimer wouldn't be worth the paper it's written on. I know the dangers out there, you don't. It would be criminal to let you take the risk. Like it or not, I'm responsible for you as long as you're here. And my liveli­hood depends upon my reputation."

  "You let Derrick take off hiking."

  "Derrick was an experienced woodsman. You aren't. If I let something happen to you, it'll be a clear-cut case of neg­ligence."

  "Please..." she whispered.”It's my brother out there."

  Sam met her gaze, his own stony. He had the look of a man who longed to say yes but couldn't. Sensing that he was teetering on the edge, she stood her ground, hoping he'd relent.

  When the silent waiting became unbearable, she spun and left the office, trembling with frustration and fear for her brother. She felt utterly helpless, and she hated that. In her everyday world, she prided herself on being a take-control type, someone who could think quickly on her feet.

  Once outside the office, she pressed a hand over her eyes, so confused by her conflicting emotions and thoughts that she couldn't make sense of anything. She wanted to trust Sam Barrister, yet common sense told her she shouldn't. Derrick's friend or his enemy, that was the question, and Crysta had no answer.

  Her neck stiff with tension, she stared at the closed of­fice door. Had that been Derrick's briefcase on Sam's desk? There was only one way to find out.

  Sam studied the closed office door, his ears tuned for the sound of Crysta Meyers's footsteps so he could determine what direction she took. Outdoors. He heard the front door hinges squeak as she let herself out.

  ‘‘I’d feel it if he were dead. "Sam knew better than to take that statement lightly. Whether or not the Meyers twins were actually able to communicate telepathically wasn't an issue Sam cared to wrestle with at the moment. The important thing was that both twins believed it. Sam knew, through his long association with Derrick, that if Crysta had a feeling about her brother, she'd act on it as if it were fact.

  Weary and discouraged, Sam tipped back his head and studied the shiplap planks in the ceiling. Crysta Meyers posed more problems than he had ever anticipated. She could be in danger if she stayed here, and Sam didn't know from what quarter the danger might come, which made it impossible to protect her. Yet how could he convince her to leave?

  Being curt and unfriendly hadn't worked, and telling her the truth was out. If he revealed to her that he thought Der­rick had been murdered, that he believed Derrick had stumbled across some sort of criminal activity being per­petrated by Blanchette Construction employees, she'd be determined to stay until she brought her brother's killers to justice.

  Taking a slow sip of coffee, Sam cast a worried glance toward his desk drawer, wondering if Crysta had recog­nized Derrick's briefcase. If she had, she'd press the point until he told her the truth. He couldn't let it come to that. He wanted her safely out of here. He owed Derrick that much.

  An ache centered itself behind Sam's eyes. He groaned and set aside his coffee mug to knead the back of his neck. Self-recriminations did no good, but Sam couldn't stop himself. If only he had listened more closely to Derrick when his friend had mentioned his suspicions.

  I don't want to make any wild speculations at this point or finger innocent people, so I won't elaborate right now, but something fishy is going on up here in Alaska, Sam. I'm not sure what, not yet. But I'll find out, mark my words. When I do, I’ll hang the creeps.

  Sam, preoccupied with a discrepancy he had found in his books, had been tense the evening Derrick had come to him and had listened with only half an ear. Now the conversa­tion haunted him.

  All Sam could do was follow a paper trail in hopes of discovering what had made Derrick suspicious. Some kind of proof, that was what he wanted, something he could present to the authorities. If he approached the law empty- handed, no one would heed anything he said. "Something fishy." Sam had to find out what. And he had to find out quickly, before Crysta Meyers started asking the wrong people unsettling questions—people who would do any­thing to avoid answering.

  There was more than one way to skin a cat.

  Raised as she had been by an aphorism-prone mother, Crysta had a wealth of adages stored in her memory for every situation she encountered, and she didn't have it in her to give up easily. Going to Sam Barrister had proved a dead end, but that didn't mean she was going to stand back while the search for her brother was terminated. If Sam wouldn't or couldn't help her, she'd go above his head, directly to the search coordinator himself.

  Panic nibbled at the edges of Crysta's mind. The clock was continually ticking, the seconds mounting into min­utes, the minutes into hours. Time was being wasted, time that could mean the difference between life and death for Derrick.

  As she walked down the slope, she scanned the circle of pup tents among the cottonwoods, hoping someone in the search team would be awake. She wasn't disappointed. Outside one tent, a man sat on a stump, a clipboard angled across his knees, one hand clasping a pen, the other hold­ing down the paper he was writing on so the wind coming in off the river wouldn't ruffle it. She approached him slowly, trying to compose herself and rehearse what she was about to say.

  "Excuse me, sir? I'm Crysta Meyers, Derrick Meyers's sister. Is the search coordinator up and about anywhere?"

  The man paused in his writing and glanced up. Crysta immediately recognized him as Jim, the man who had ap­proached Sam on the slope and broken the bad news. "You're looking at him."

  Crysta couldn't believe her good luck. "Could I ask you some questions?"

  His gray eyes skimmed her rumpled clothing and soft­ened with sympathy. "I'm real sor
ry about your brother, ma'am. If answering questions will help you through this, I'll field any you have until our plane picks us up." He in­dicated a stump next to his own. "Take a load off."

  Crysta perched, pressing her hands between her knees. Gazing at the nearby fire, which had burned down to coals, she recalled camping trips she had taken with Derrick, sit­ting on a stump or rock, her cheeks warmed by the fire, singing along while he strummed his ukulele and made up silly ditties. Pain washed through her, and her sense of loss was so acute, she ached with it. In the recent past she had wished that she could distance herself from Derrick and have a normal life. Now she would give anything to hear his voice whispering inside her head, to feel connected to him again.

  "Without a—a body, how can you be positive my brother is dead? Couldn't you continue looking for him for a cou­ple more days?"

  Jim shoved his pen behind his ear and gazed off into the cottonwoods. Crysta focused on the grizzled tufts of brown hair that curled down over his upturned shirt collar. He needed a haircut and a shave. She wondered if he missed his family, if he understood her grief. She decided he must. He wouldn't be here, volunteering, if he were an uncaring man.

  "It isn't easy to lose someone this way," he said softly. "I know that. But you have to accept it. We found parts of his shirt, shredded and soaked with blood. There were bear tracks and signs of struggle all around the scene."

  Straightening her spine, Crysta asked, "Did you search for any evidence of foul play?"

  "Foul play?" The look he gave made her feel the ques­tion was ridiculous. "No. Why would we look for some­thing when there was no indication we should?"

  Because I heard a gunshot. Crysta nibbled her lip. "Did you notice any human footprints?"

  "Naturally there were some. Your brother's."

  "Any others?"

  He was beginning to look irritated. "We didn't make any plaster molds and compare the shoe marks, if that's what you mean. There were signs of a violent struggle, slide marks in the mud, bear track, blood, broken branches on the sur­rounding bushes, dislodged rock and your brother's shred­ded shirt."