It made sense, she guessed, that the Fischers would be here. The Wagon Wheel was the closest motel to the park. Fischer turned toward the counter, his hazel eyes glittering with anxiety or sorrow or anger or maybe all three. His lips were pressed into a thin line but still quivered a bit at the corners.
Buck Ferguson smacked Fischer lightly on the arm with a fist. “Stay strong,” he told the younger man before he strode out through the door.
It seemed an odd thing to say to a stranger, but then it was Buck Ferguson saying it. Fred Fischer turned toward the counter, his face inscrutable. Again, she pictured the silhouetted form slowly turning from the light, compared the memory with the man before her. The dark baggy clothes, the bulge at the back of the neck. Yes. Fred Fischer could definitely have been the man she'd seen. But so could Wilson. Probably any number of men.
Fischer's eyes narrowed, and Sam had no difficulty reading the expression in them now. It was anger. His hands balled into fists. He covered the distance between them with three steps. Leaning close to her ear, he growled, “Leave me alone.”
A chill prickled down her back. “I'm sorry if I was staring,” she said, “It's just thatâ”
A waitress appeared at his elbow with a tray. “On the house,” she murmured in a hushed tone.
Fred Fischer took the tray and backed through the door, his shoulders hunched over the covered dishes. Sam wondered if Jenny was sobbing in their room.
Why had Fischer gone after her like that? What reason did he have to be hostile? Unless, of course, he blamed her for losing Zack. No.
Leave me alone
meant he thought she was attacking him in some way. Because she'd accused him of being the man on the path? Or because he had been there but didn't want anyone to know?
When the bell above the door sounded again, Sam was surprised to see Agent Perez enter. He was accompanied by a woman whose chestnut hair was secured in a French twist with a gold-toned clasp. The partner Kent had hinted about. Her burgundy lipstick was glossy; her green linen suit and white blouse were spotless and wrinkle-free. Sam suddenly felt as if she'd been dragged behind a truck all day.
The FBI agents slid into the corner booth by the window, Perez taking the bench that faced the cash register. When he spotted Sam at the counter, he frowned.
Now
that
was annoying: she'd been nothing but cooperative to him. Except for that little smart-ass remark about spelling
Summer
. And perhaps the comment about coffee and doughnuts. And maybe the one about the length of the riverbank.
She slid off her stool, determined to make a better impression. Her blue jeans and coral turtleneck were clean; her hair was brushed into shining waves across her shoulders, and her scent was now Irish Spring instead of Eau de Garbage. She even had on beaded earrings and a trace of lipstick.
She approached the table. “Evening, Agent Perez.”
The green-suited woman raised an immaculate eyebrow.
“Summer Alicia Westin, nicknamed Sam,” Perez informed his partner. “Reporter,” he added. The chestnut-haired woman nodded at the warning, silently shook out her cloth napkin, and spread it across her lap.
“Freelance writer,” Sam corrected. “Nature articles.”
Perez completed the introductions with a wave of his hand. “Special Agent Boudreaux.”
“Any news?” Sam asked.
“None that we can share.” His partner didn't even raise her head from the menu.
“Miss?” Sam was hailed by the counter waitress, who stood with a steaming tray in hand.
Back in her room, she opened the California Chardonnay she'd purchased at the liquor store across the street. She sat down on the bed with her tray, used the remote to switch on the television.
“. . . cougars prowling our national parks. Is your family in danger? Stay tuned for our exclusive report on KUTV News 9, right after this short break.”
“Crap!” Sam hissed. She punched the Mute button on the remote but kept her eyes on the screen throughout an ad for toothpaste and then another for mouthwash.
When the reporter's face appeared again, she clicked the sound back on. Carolyn Perry, whose name appeared at the bottom of the screen, was presenting the lead story tonight. Sam recognized her as the woman who'd been videotaping with Ferguson earlier.
“Cougar. Panther. Puma. Painter. Mountain lion.” Each name, dramatically pronounced by the reporter, accompanied a different still shot of one or more big cats. The varied quality of the photos told Sam that the footage had been hastily pasted together. “Early pioneers feared this animal, calling it the cat of the mountain, or âcatamount.' ”
A map appeared briefly on the screen. “The American lion once roamed all over the United States.”
Roamed all over the Americas
, Sam corrected mentally.
From Nova Scotia to Patagonia
.
“Although they were brought to the brink of extinction by farmers and ranchers in the early 1900s, mountain lions are now protected in many areas. They're on the increase in our national parks and forests.
“And as the population of mountain lions increases, so do mountain-lion attacks.” The map was replaced by a still of a man confronting a snarling cougar with a long, stout pole in his upraised hand. To Sam, it looked more like the man was attacking the cougar than the other way around.
A swift cut led to a video of an earnest zookeeper talking to the camera as he closed the door of a cage. “An adult cougar can weigh up to two hundred pounds. They can leap twenty feet in any direction. Their usual prey is deer, but they will kill other animals if deer are not available.”
“Such as rabbits, porcupines, and bighorn sheep,” Sam said, filling in the sound gap as the focus moved to a still photo of a newspaper article.
“Only seven months ago, Betsy Lumas was attacked and killed by a cougar as she jogged through Rocky Heights Park in Southern California.”
That was the first incident Perez had referred to. There had been no doubt that a mountain lion had killed the young woman. But all the evidence indicated that the attack had been defensive. The woman had clearly not been taken as prey. Her body was untouched except for the killing bite to the neck and claw marks on her shoulders. Lumas must have surprised a cougar at its kill, interrupted the cat's stalking of prey, or maybe stumbled between a mother and her cubs.
A familiar clip appeared. Sam remembered the video from when the story had broken. Betsy Lumas's husband tried to maintain his composure in front of the camera lens. “Betsy loved nature; that's why she jogged in the park. For a mountain lion to kill her . . . that's the worst possible thing I can think of . . . What a horrible way to die, with a mountain lion at your throat.”
Simultaneously, the voice and picture changed. “In Oregon, these recreational bikers reported a close encounter with a big cat.” Two teenagers holding the handlebars of mountain bikes recounted a near collision with a cougar on a backcountry trail.
Sam frowned. Hardly a deadly situation. The story moved on to the Colorado incidents. No relevant photos available, apparently. The audio track accompanied a generic shot of a cougar on a ledge.
To Sam's astonishment, SWF's home page appeared on the screen, along with her article “Cougar Celebration” and her photo of Leto and Artemis on the rock bridge.
“This appeared today on the website of Save the Wilderness Fund, a nonprofit environmental organization. This story highlights the increasing cougar population in our own state. It even states that a male cougar has been prowling close to Red Rock Campground in Heritage National Monument.”
Carolyn's voice dropped in pitch. The newscaster clasped her hands in front of her and solemnly regarded the TV audience. “Yesterday evening, two-year-old Zachary Fischer disappeared from that very campground.”
The camera zoomed in on the smiling chubby face from the posters, then cut to the tearful Fischers, seated side by side in what looked like the TV studio.
“He was there one minute, and he was gone the next.” Jenny sobbed into the camera. “There were signs everywhere about cougars, but we didn't really pay attention.” The camera cut to the warning sign. The familiar signpostâWHAT TO DO IF YOU SEE A COUGARâfilled the screen as Jenny's tearful voice announced in the background, “We didn't know our baby was in such danger.”
Next up was a familiar chiseled face. Caroline's voice said, “Buck Ferguson is the owner of Eagle Tours, a company specializing in ecotourism and hunting expeditions.” Amazing how the anchor could mention the two specialties together without even a hint of irony.
On the wall behind Ferguson's leather chair was a deer head with an impressive rack. And what was that form on top of the bookcaseâa stuffed bobcat? Maybe the editor thought that Ferguson's “liberal elitist” comment in the park was too inflammatory to air; this footage seemed to have been shot in Ferguson's own den.
“People shouldn't have to put up with this. There are too many cougars in that park.” Ferguson's mouth curved into a self-satisfied expression. “The ecosystem just can't support them. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened.”
A quick dissolve went back to the carefully groomed newscaster, now positioned in front of a blown-up photo of Zack. “How could this have happened to little Zachary Fischer? Are other campers in danger? Join Martha McAd-ams, author of
American Lion
, Superintendent John Quarrel of the U.S. Forest Service, and Buck Ferguson, local wildlife expert, here at ten thirty P.M. on Special Report. This is KUTV News 9, your source for all the latest news.”
Sam punched the Power button on the remote and the screen went blank. She sat cross-legged on the chenille bedspread, stunned, staring at a photo of a mule deer on the wall. The timing on the shot had been perfectâthe shutter had snapped at the exact moment the buck had raised his head, liquid eyes focused on the camera, ears pricked, a light frosting of snow outlining his antlers.
Her cell phone trilled, jolting her out of her bewildered state. She rushed to dig out the instrument from her knapsack. “Westin,” she finally breathed into it.
“Sam!”
“Lauren, have you heard about this missing kid down here? Jeez, they showed the website and impliedâ”
“Sam! It's past seven. The chat session! Get online!” A click, followed by a dial tone.
“Ooops.” Sam threw the phone onto the bed, quickly connected the laptop to electricity and phone line, clicked the shortcut icon to jump onto the Internet. Three minutes after eight. She massaged her temples as she waited for the website to fill the screen. Finally the log-on window appeared. She typed in her user name and password, and then the system took its sweet time logging her in, filling in the little timing strip one agonizing square at a time to denote its glacial progress. It would be a hell of a note if SWF's first chat session began without the host.
The chat screen finally appeared. Lauren had been covering for her.
Wilderness Westin is online
, she'd typed.
Let's talk about wildlife
.
Let's talk about cougars killing kids,
someone called Levin468 had responded.
I saw the news. Did Leto eat that baby?
Was Levin468 local? Hopefully the story had aired only in Utah. Sam took another sip from her wineglass before typing
There's no evidence that a cougar took Zachary Fischer
.
A question from MZigor sprawled across the screen.
How about those killings in Mesa Verde, CA, and B.C.?
How about them?
she responded.
MarcGem joined the conversation.
Ur 1 a those treehug-gers, Rnt U, Wild? If Ur kid was hungry n there was only 1 dodo bird left 2 eat, youd kill the kid instead a the bird
.
Jeez, the venom was unbelievable.
Wrong, MarcGem. Eat the bird
.
I can't believe U said that!
ElizWong9211 typed.
Sam's fingers flew.
Think about it
. She added,
You idiots,
but only in her head.
If there's only one bird left, the species is already extinct
.
No one applauded her wisdom. The best she got was a comeback from MZigor that read
Ur a smart babe. How bout swinging thru my jungle? I gotta real thick vine U can hang on2. âº
Creep.
The topic is wildlife, MZigor.
Hint, hint. Where was the monitor? Was anybody up there in Seattle listening?
Im wild. U got 2 b hurtin 4 it af
Suddenly the letters stopped and MZigor's name disappeared from the list of those tuned in.
She had to get this thing back on track. She typed
In Heritage National Monument, the cougars prey almost exclusively on mule deer
.
Then why did they kill Zack?
CapJaneway asked.
Evrybdy's tweeting “lion eats baby,”
a new visitor chimed in.
Follow me on Twitter.
She wasn't following anyone into the mapless minefield of Twitter. Were numskulls tweeting this crazy rumor around the world? Sam repeated her keystrokes.
There's no evidence that a cougar killed Zack Fischer. We don't even know that he's dead.
Was nobody listening?
Another message from MarcGem appeared.
Kill all cougars
.
Shit! The muscles in her shoulders clenched into knots as she waged battle with keystrokes for the rest of the hour. One minute before nine, Sam ended the thread, reminding the readers that cougars deserved protection, that Zachary Fischer was officially still missing, that the search for the little boy continued.
She sat back, took a deep breath, ate a few mouthfuls of cold dumplings and congealed gravy. The e-mail icon blinked at her. She had no doubt what sort of messages she would find if she opened her Inbox.