Morning Light (7 page)

Adults would have stayed by the river, but an eight-year-old boy might wander away from the stream and get lost. Clint felt cold, as if the temperature in the kitchen had plunged several degrees. “So you're absolutely positive the public wasn't informed of the incident yesterday?”

“Certain sure, man. Why are you asking?”

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you,” Clint replied.

After ending the call, Clint just stood there, staring at the phone. When he'd collected his thoughts, he grabbed his Stetson and left the house to go see his dad, whose ranch bordered Clint's to the south. Rather than saddle a horse for so short a jaunt, Clint chose to ride his ATV, a battered red Kawasaki. As he cut across his own pastures to reach his father's, opening and closing gates as he went, he tried to slow his racing thoughts by focusing on the land he loved so much.

Originally a twelve-hundred-acre parcel, it had been divided into six equal portions seventeen years ago by Frank Harrigan, the family patriarch. Frank had kept one section for himself, and deeded over the others to each of his five children when they turned twenty-one. Clint, being the oldest, had been the first to get his chunk of land and a hefty amount of working capital to start his own business.

To date, sixteen years of his life had been invested in that business. Every fence post, every board, and every blade of grass were the result of countless hours of his hard work. For the first five years, he'd slaved from before dawn until after dark to make a go of his horse ranch, which he'd named the Circle H, after his dad's ranch, the Bar H. Clint's three brothers had followed suit, Parker dubbing his spread the Rocking H, Quincy calling his the Lazy H, and Zach's pulling in the cow's tail as the Crooked H. Only Samantha, the youngest and the only girl, had departed from the Harrigan tradition, naming her spread the Sage Creek Ranch, after a stream that meandered over the twelve hundred acres.

When Clint finally reached his father's land, he turned on the seat of the ATV to look back, his gaze caressing the lush green fields, then lingering on his two-story post-and-timber home, the red-roofed arena, the outdoor stable, and a clutch of other outbuildings. The sight centered him, untangling his thoughts so he could focus on the question that tormented him.
Is Loni MacEwen for real?

Frank Harrigan was helping his new wife fix breakfast when Clint rapped on the back screen door and entered the kitchen. “Mornin'!” Frank said. “You're just in time to eat and do the dishes.”

Dee Dee, a plump woman with warm blue eyes and bottle-enhanced red hair, playfully slapped her husband's shoulder. “Don't pay him any mind, Clint. I enjoy cleaning up. Want some coffee?”

Clint had known and loved Dee Dee most of his life. Shortly after his mother had died giving birth to Samantha, his dad had hired Dee Dee as a housekeeper, and she'd quickly wormed her way into all their hearts, becoming a surrogate mother to Clint and all his siblings. This spring, only a few months after Samantha married Tucker Coulter, Frank had finally made the redhead an official member of the family.

“No coffee, thanks,” Clint said. “I'm nervy enough without any more caffeine.”

Dee Dee's gaze sharpened on his face. “What's wrong, dear? You look like you just lost your best friend.”

“An old friend,” Clint amended as he hooked his hat over the finial of a chair back and sat down. “Sandra Michaels, a lady I once dated. I just heard on the news that she may have drowned yesterday afternoon in a rafting accident.”

“The senator's wife? Yes, we saw the news story.” Dee Dee crossed the kitchen to lay a hand on Clint's shoulder. “I'm so sorry. Were you terribly fond of her?”

“At one time I almost asked her to marry me.”

Slowly, haltingly, Clint related the details of his relationship with Sandra Stiles, and then told them Loni MacEwen's outlandish story. Dee Dee's eyes went wide as she sank onto a chair across from Clint. Frank turned the burners off and came to sit beside her.

“So this woman claims Trevor Stiles is your child,” Frank reiterated.

“Crazy, isn't it?” Clint forced a laugh. “It's possible, I guess. Only I can't believe Sandra would have kept it from me. We kept in contact for a few months, and she was as honest as the day is long. I point-blank asked her a couple of times if she was pregnant, and she said no.”

“Sometimes women lie about things like that,” Dee Dee said. “They fear a custody battle—or they don't want to be bothered with driving back and forth to give the father visitation—-and other times they're in a new relationship and don't want the past to complicate the future.”

“Sandra wasn't like that,” Clint insisted. “She never would have kept my child from me. I'd bet my life on that. She was a great person, very fair-minded and forthright. She also knew I'd never dream of suing for custody.”

Frank rubbed his jaw, then rocked back on his chair. “At this point the boy's parentage isn't the primary concern. This MacEwen woman says the child's in danger, and only you can save him. If it was me, that's what I'd be thinkin' about.”

“You don't seriously believe she's on the level?” Clint searched his father's dark eyes. “We're Catholic. It's against the tenets of our faith to believe in stuff like that.”

“I'm quite familiar with the guidelines of the Roman Catholic Church,” Frank reminded his son. “And if you were talkin' about a woman in a Gypsy caftan, using smoke, veils, and a crystal ball, or someone chanting over tea leaves, I'd completely agree that she was far-out, probably a fake, or worse, calling upon dark forces to foretell the future. The Church asks us to avoid things like that, and rightly so. It keeps us out of trouble. But I'm not sure we're comparin' apples to apples. It sounds to me as if Loni MacEwen may be a genuine clairvoyant who only wants to help a little boy. There's certainly nothin' evil in her intent, as far as I can see. Has she tried to milk you for money?”

“No. I didn't get that impression. I just find it difficult to believe her story.”

Frank shook his head. “What of all the great saints who had visions? And what of the men who wrote the Bible? The Book of Revelation was revealed to John in a dream. That isn't to mention all the other ancient prophets and prophetesses we read about in scripture. Do you think all of that's a bunch of tripe?”

“No, of course not.” Clint pushed at the country-blue pepper shaker. “But those people were inspired by God and had a divine message to deliver.”

“If people like that existed in biblical times, why not now?” Frank countered. “That isn't to say I believe Ms. MacEwen is a prophetess, but I can't rule out the possibility that her ability may be a God-given gift.”

Dee Dee rested a loving hand on her husband's arm. “I have to side with your dad, Clint. I'm from a devout Catholic family, but my grandmother was a clairvoyant.”

Clint arched an eyebrow. “You're kidding.”

“I wouldn't joke at a time like this. It's a very grave situation. Grandma Stevenson was a very religious woman. She read the Bible, attended daily Mass, and prayed the rosary every day of her adult life. There was certainly nothing evil about her, but she did have second sight. Not to the degree that Loni MacEwen claims to have, but she still amazed us sometimes. Once while visiting my mother, she jumped up and said she had to go, that Grandpa had just cut his leg with the chain saw. By the time we got to their house, Grandpa had a tourniquet on his thigh to slow the bleeding, and all we could do was rush him to the hospital.” Dee Dee lifted her hands. “Sometimes people have extraordinary gifts that the rest of us can't understand or explain. What of that saint who was able to be in two different places at once? That was actually documented. Don't you suppose there are people of other faiths who wonder if he wasn't a charlatan—or colluding with dark forces to enable him to do that?”

Clint had known Dee Dee too many years to suspect her of lying. He could only shake his head in amazement. “So both of you think Loni MacEwen may have been telling me the God's honest truth?”

“I wouldn't rule out the possibility,” Frank said. “If she isn't a psychic, how in hell did she know so many details about the raftin' accident before it became public knowledge? Pretty impressive, if you ask me. And as far as I can see, she has no ulterior motive. Why not take her at face value until she does or says somethin' that exposes her as a fraud?”

Even as Clint nodded, his mind balked at the possibility that Loni MacEwen was a genuine clairvoyant. “Well, thanks for talking to me. You've given me a lot to think about.”

“Just don't think on it too long,” his father warned. “If that boy is out there, every second counts. It's rugged, harsh terrain, and crawlin' with predators.”

Clint went directly home and tried to find Loni MacEwen in the phone book. There were several MacEwens, but when Clint dialed the numbers and asked for Loni, people either hung up or told him no one by that name lived there. Mentally kicking himself for refusing to take the woman's business card, Clint tried calling Information next. The operator was no help. Loni MacEwen's number was unlisted, and the operator wasn't allowed to give it out.

Frustrated beyond bearing, Clint finally resorted to calling his uncle Hugh, a state trooper who usually worked the evening shift. After explaining his dilemma, Clint asked, “Is there any way you can feed her name into your computer network and get me her address?”

“I'm a patrolman, Clint. I don't normally use the computers, and even if I did, we're not supposed to give out that kind of information to the general public.”

“I see.” Clint sighed. “Well, it was worth a shot.”

“A psychic, you say?”

“I know it sounds far-fetched, Uncle Hugh, but on the off chance that she's for real, she may be able to help me find the Stiles boy.”

Hugh sighed. “If she has an Oregon driver's license, maybe I can get her address. Bess, one of our dispatchers, is a nice lady and a whiz on the computer. If she's at the station I'm pretty sure she'll do a search for me on the sly.”

“I really appreciate this, Uncle Hugh.”

“Haven't done anything yet. Just keep your fingers crossed that Bess is working today. The other dispatchers are so gung ho and by-the-book, they spit-shine their name badges.”

Five minutes later Hugh called Clint back. “Bad news. Bess is working swing. Won't be at the station until four. Can you wait that long?”

Clint couldn't see that he had a choice. “Yeah, sure. Let me give you my cell phone number, just in case I'm not at the house.”

While Clint waited for his uncle to get back to him, he worked with the horses—bathing, grooming, lunging, riding, and cleaning stalls. At five he still hadn't gotten a call from his uncle, and hunger from not eating all day sent him back to the house. After making a sandwich he settled on the recliner to watch the evening news. A chunk of meat lodged in his throat when a special news bulletin interrupted the usual programming.

Scott Holmes, reporting live from Shale Gorge, announced that the bodies of Senator Stiles and his wife, Sandra, had just been recovered. The camera zoomed in on two body bags being carried away from the river on stretchers to a waiting helicopter. Then Scott Holmes returned to the screen.

“Rescue teams are still in search of the child's remains,” he said solemnly, “but so far the boy and dog haven't been found. A helicopter equipped with heat sensors has also covered the surrounding areas and turned up nothing.”

The regular evening news team, a man and woman, took it from there, debating Trevor Stiles's chances of survival, if by some miracle he was still alive.

“The Shoshone Wilderness Area has a large cougar population. Doesn't it, Peter?” the blond anchorwoman asked her colleague.

“I'm afraid so, Grace. There are also a lot of black bears in that area. They don't normally feed on humans, but they can be very dangerous all the same.”

The newswoman shook her head. “At that elevation the June temperatures are still dropping to below freezing at night. I also understand that the Stiles family was on a day trip, making it unlikely they took very much food.”

Peter agreed. “Even if they went prepared for every eventuality, which rafters sometimes do, the supplies are probably at the bottom of the river. If little Trevor Stiles is alive, it's unlikely that he'll remain that way for long.”

Clint had heard enough and shut off the television. No longer hungry, he got up to pace. Though he refused to believe Trevor Stiles was his son, there was no denying that the boy might still be alive. And if he was, every wasted minute took him one step closer to death. Why the hell hadn't Uncle Hugh gotten back to him yet?

While he waited, Clint began planning.
You'll be the only person who can save him.
Those had been Loni MacEwen's exact words. At the time they'd made no sense to Clint, but now he realized he might be able to play a key role in the child's rescue. He had a stable full of riding horses, ten of them trail ready because he and his brothers had been planning to go on a three-day ride sometime next week. Over the last few days, Clint had been slowly changing the animals over to weed-free alfalfa cubes, required by Oregon law to protect some wilderness areas from toxic weed infestation.