Bear Bait (9781101611548) (8 page)

Sam squirmed in her chair.

“You had no business tackling that fire on your own. You seem to think that just because you’re a celebrity, you’ve got some sort of special status around here.”

Celebrity?
And Mack had called her a prima donna. “What do you mean, celebrity?”

Hoyle stared angrily at her, his lips pressed into a thin line, then shook his head. “You don’t know?” He unclasped his hands, leaned back in his chair, and folded his arms across his chest. “You were on the news last night.”

“The news?” Sam had a sudden fear of a TV news helicopter zeroing in on her and Chase in each other’s arms. No, that was ridiculous—they would have heard the roar of
chopper blades, or at least Chase would have. She leaned forward. “That’s impossible. I was at the fire tower all afternoon and evening.”

Hoyle sighed wearily, as if trying to reason with a three-year-old. “They used photos from that Zack Fischer story in Utah last year. You with the boy and you with the cougar.”

No wonder Mack had called her a prima donna. “Why did they dredge that up?”

“I was going to ask you that.” Hoyle selected a black government-issue pen from an Olympic National Park mug on the desk, and then squeezed it between his thumb and index finger as if measuring its thickness. “They flashed a photo of you in uniform, too. Your park service ID photo.”

“My ID photo? How—”

“I’m checking into that. You haven’t loaned your ID to anyone, have you?”

“Of course not.” Sam fervently hoped it was in her daypack right now. “So this report was about the Zack Fischer story?”

“No, it started with the Western Wildlife Conference. It’s in Seattle this year, with the focus on the Endangered Species Act. But you know that.”

None of this made any sense. “Why would I know that?”

“Well, you’re speaking there, aren’t you?”

“What?” Sam raised her chin.

“Cougars, the ESA, and the new addition to Olympic Park—all in the same damned report. The nutcases are crawling out of the woodwork. We had another death threat this morning.”

“Excuse me, but did you say
I’m
speaking at the Wildlife Conference?”

Hoyle jerked open his desk drawer, pulled out a facsimile page, and handed it over. The message was from Richard Best, marketer at
The Edge
.

Environmentalists as Endangered Species. A timely topic. She folded the fax, her brain battered by a flurry of conflicting emotions: she felt honored about the recognition of her expertise, pissed off about Best’s assumption that she’d accept the assignment, pleased that he had promised her future work at the e-zine. Well, sort of pleased. Because he’d only sort of promised. Only four months ago he’d told her they no longer required her services. Now he’d changed his tune? Was it real?
The Edge
was famous for dangling tidbits only to jerk them away at the last minute. What happened to luxury spas?

She’d never done any sort of public speaking. As she tried to visualize standing in front of a huge audience, her current boss’s last statement registered. She looked up. “Did you say something about a death threat?”

“The newscaster said that you were now a ranger at Olympic Park, so some anti-Endangered Species crackpot called headquarters. Said that for every man sacrificed for an animal, one of us—I presume he meant the park staff—would die.”

Die?
Sam leaned back into her chair, crumpling the fax in her fist.

“Don’t take it so seriously,” Hoyle told her. “The locals are upset that the government turned their personal playground into a wildlife sanctuary instead of a hunting refuge. We’ve received at least one threat a week ever since the annexation was announced.”

“Really?” This was getting creepier by the second.

Hoyle jabbed a finger at Sam. “Don’t get off the subject. Just because you’re on Channel 8 doesn’t mean you have special rights around here. You’re not a ranger. You’re just a tech, and a temporary one at that. Don’t meddle in dangerous situations.”

Sam was tired of this refrain. She
was
responsible for
one small area of the park, at least right now. “You hired me to do an environmental survey and write a management plan for the Marmot Lake area, correct?”

“Yes.” A hint of wariness crept into Hoyle’s expression, but he quickly recovered. “That, and only that.”

“Doesn’t that mean that you want me to identify problems there and recommend solutions? So I can develop a plan that truly protects the wildlife and the resources?”

Hoyle hesitated a second as if suspecting a trap, then finally conceded, “Yes.” He leaned forward. “But don’t ever, ever let any guest accompany you when you’re on duty.”

Sam tried to look humble. “Got it.” She prayed that Greg Jordan would stay mum about Chase’s visit.

“Don’t let your publicity stunts interfere with your work here.”

Sam’s mouth opened in protest. She shut it before something spilled out that she’d regret. She couldn’t wait to get back to the woods.

“Now.” Hoyle smiled, but the warmth didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We’re all taking turns sitting with Lisa Glass at the hospital. I’ve put you down for one to five today. Okay?”

Sam peeked at her watch. Five after twelve. It would take her a good forty minutes to drive to the hospital, and she hadn’t even had lunch. Damn, damn, damn. She could hardly say no after she’d just been chewed out, and the assistant super knew it. “Glad to,” she chirped.

“Thanks. You never know when she might come around, and we wouldn’t want her to be alone.”

“I’d better hit the road then.” The folding chair squeaked when Sam stood up. Crap! Four long hours staring at an unconscious girl in a hospital room. If Lisa woke up, what could she say to her? What kind of comfort could she be to a perfect stranger?

She’d already spent too much of her life huddled beside an inert body, inhaling the miasma of chemicals and disease, with only the beeping and whistling and clicking of cardiac monitor and respirator for company. Had her
mother appreciated the company? Had she even known Sam was there? But at least she’d had some relationship, however strained, with her mother. She’d never even met Lisa.

Joe was leaning against her truck in the parking lot. “Sorry, Sam.”

She shook her head. “Don’t worry about it. If it hadn’t been the fire, it would have been something else. Hoyle’s never liked me for some reason.”

“You don’t grovel sufficiently.”

“Compared to what? Or whom?”

“He wanted his nephew to get your contract.”

“Why didn’t he?”

“Forestry degree, not wildlife biology. Besides, you’re a name.” He grinned.

“Hardly.” She was only well known with the staff of Heritage National Monument in Utah. “Well, maybe within the park service…”

“How did your talk with Lili go?” His deep brown eyes searched hers. “Did she say anything I should know about? She never talks to me or Laura anymore. I don’t even know who her friends are these days.”

Sam thought back. Seemed like weeks since she’d talked to Joe’s thirteen-year-old daughter. She dragged her mind past Chase and Lisa and fires and explosions back to the evening with Lili at the fire tower. “Lili mentioned some girls. Deborah was one, I think.”

“I know Deborah. Lili’s always wanting something Deborah has. Shoes, bracelets, a smart phone, for heaven’s sake.” Joe snorted. “Only problem is that the Rosemonts own the bank, while the rest of us have to actually work for a living. Did she mention any boys?”

“Some boy—Robbie?” She frowned, trying to remember.

“Rodney? There’s a Rodney who’s her assistant soccer coach.”

“That doesn’t sound quite right, but it was something
close to that. Shallow but interesting, she said. But it didn’t sound to me like she really had the hots for him.”

Taking in the dismay on her friend’s face, she said, “You know what I mean. Oh, and she mentioned that she thinks a lot of her science teacher—Martinson?”

Joe appeared surprised. “I’m glad to know Lili likes one of her teachers. She had a hard time after we moved here from Flagstaff. She was embarrassed that she had to go to summer school to move on to eighth grade this year.”

“She said summer school was okay. And she said Martinson was fine, if I’m remembering right.”

“Fine?” Joe’s dark eyes grew worried. “She talks about him a lot, now that I think about it. Thanks, Sam.” He walked away, running a hand through his straight black hair, muttering to himself. “Martinson?”

THE
Winner Woodworking shop was quiet, now that they’d finished hammering all five podiums together. The pine structures, one already stained dark, stood scattered about the room, making the huge empty space appear as if it were waiting for a political rally.

Looking at the sad state of his shop tightened the knot between Jack Winner’s shoulder blades. He knew from experience that the pain would only get worse as the day went on. Only a couple of years earlier, he’d been raking in the dough, well known in the business, creating custom home theater setups for rich homeowners and wired desks for high-powered execs. But now business had slowed down to this, one puny contract for five damned podiums and one upcoming bid for a custom restaurant counter. All the money flowed right out of the country these days—to those ragheads in Iraq and Afghanistan or to those poor slobs in Haiti or Africa.

What little money Winner Woodworking did bring in got ripped off in taxes. Other countries got things for their taxes, like health care or endless paid vacation. But not
Americans: no, every day, the damn American government just handed
their
taxes to millionaire bankers at home or camel riders or Jews overseas. At the same time, the feds cooked up more ways to be sure hardworking Americans couldn’t make a decent living anymore. Now they were talking about taking away Social Security, and everyone he knew had been paying into that since they were teenagers. And the reporters didn’t even have the guts to call it robbery.

Hurricane Katrina had been the perfect example of how little the U.S. government cared—leaving all those poor people to die. He would have thought that would finally make people wake up and see how bad things were in this country. But no, they continued to vote in the same government that bailed out bankers and Wall Street brokers and gave tax breaks to millionaires. The feds didn’t do one damn thing to help out the common man who couldn’t find work or couldn’t get enough to pay the mortgage. Small business owners like him couldn’t even get unemployment pay. They were just shit out of luck. Americans needed to wake up. This government that was supposed to be of, by, and for the people was of and by the big corporations, and for everyone else
except
the American people.

He and Allie talked about this all the time. She’d been so angry about the way the Veterans Administration had treated her dad, refusing to consider his knee problem service-related just because it’d gotten worse later. She’d had to go all the way to Seattle to find a job that paid more than starvation wage. His vision blurred with sudden tears. He gritted his teeth and tried to think about something else. Like the money that he was going to come into in a few weeks. Should he use it to try to improve his business here or to finally escape from this place?

“What’s this for?”

Jack looked up from the Sunday paper he’d stretched across his drafting table to see Philip King tracing the indentation in the front of a podium.

“A plaque goes in there. Stewart’s in Port Angeles is
making them up; they’ll be ready at the end of the month.” Jack pulled the design from beneath the newsprint and waved it in his friend’s direction.

“You mean like a carving? I could have done that.”

King’s carvings were hardly professional quality. Jack ignored him and turned back to scanning the news section. His throat was dry, and he wished he’d brought a Mountain Dew to the shop with him.

King moved over behind him, breathing down his neck, trying to read over his shoulder. “Anything?”

“Get off me, man.” Jack elbowed him away. “I’m looking.”

Finally, in the section reserved for local news, there was a tiny blurb on page two.
FIRE IN OLYMPIC NATIONAL PARK
. “Here it is.”

“What’s it say?”

“The fire burned fourteen acres.”

“Is that all? I thought it’d be bigger.”

King pointed to the paper. “Is there anything about…”

Jack quickly summarized. “The fire was intentionally set, a park service employee was severely injured. There’s nothing here about Allie.” He was surprised he could say her name so easily. He rubbed his fingers over his arm. It was chilly in the shop this morning. He should go find his sweatshirt.

King ran walnut-colored fingers through his close-cropped hair, leaving a dark stripe through the blond stubble. Jack examined his own hands. There was a little stain under the nails, if you looked close, but otherwise they were clean.

“The fire musta burned everything up,” King said. “That’s good, that’s real good.” He stopped himself. “I’m sorry, man; I didn’t mean that…”

Jack shrugged, scratched his nose. “She should have—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard before saying, “We couldn’t have done it any other way.” But he wondered about that. He’d been completely stunned when King and Roddie told him Allie was dead. Then they were setting
the fires and yelling the cops were coming and running through the dark forest, leaving her behind.

King punched him in the arm. “There are always casualties, man.”

“I guess.” It felt wrong to dismiss Allie so easily. Was there any chance that she’d made it? The paper hadn’t mentioned anything about a body. But that could be a trick. He couldn’t go back to check, not yet. Rangers would be crawling over everything out there. He looked at King. “What did you do with the lantern?”

“It’s back in my garage where it belongs.”