Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
ZACH
“That girl who overdosed thought it was valium,” Stu says when I check in. “But the lab results show fentanyl and some other chemicals I can’t even pronounce.”
“Shit.” I run a hand through my hair. “Who’d she get it from?”
“Some guy at the party. She couldn’t remember his name.”
If we could only trace this guy. He could lead us to his supplier.
“Sheriff’s working it,” Stu says as if reading my mind. “This confirms that it’s pills. That fits with how they’re transported and relayed through the mountains. Pills are lighter, more easily concealed.”
“Think they’re cooking it somewhere?”
“I don’t know.”
If it’s some backwoods lab, then my assignment just got a lot more dangerous. I think of the dingy little trailer I saw in that hollow. By the time the sheriff got out there to look, it was gone.
Stu rocks forward in his chair and levels me with his stern gaze. “With winter coming, Sheriff Olson thinks they’ll be trying to get as much product through the mountains as possible before the snow shuts everything down. That doesn’t give us much time.”
He doesn’t need to spell it out.
“I think they come straight to the ranch. ”
“How? You have security cams and drone patrols and enough fencing.”
He nods at the map. “There’s a way. We just haven’t found it yet.”
After my meeting with Stu, I leave his office and head for the garage. What I want to do instead is stop by the Childcare Center, even if I only pass by the window, so I can see Sofie.
That I can’t puts me on edge.
While I descend the grassy knoll to the garage, I slip my phone out of my pack and type out a message.
Can I see you tonight?
It’s only been twelve hours since we parted ways outside her house, when one goodbye kiss melted into another, and another, so that when we finally pried ourselves apart, I was breathless and hard as a rock.
My cock twitches in my work pants as if remembering my painful drive home and my restless night.
The phone buzzes with an incoming message.
I’m free after Dad gets home
Come over
Yeah, it’s demanding, but I can’t help it. Maybe after months of avoiding any form of human contact, I’m making up for lost time.
Okay
A pulse of heat thumps through me and my mind buzzes with anticipation. I could kiss the phone.
Inside the garage, I check out one of the ranch trucks and set my thermos and day pack on the passenger seat, then partially unfold the map so I can plan my day.
The little Xs marking evidence of trafficking are located in the low country, along creeks and near dense woods—places with good cover. The sites of the illegal salt licks are in more rugged terrain, and higher. Game trails weave and intersect everything. It makes me wonder about Rowdy Whittaker’s poacher. Are the salt licks connected? It chafes that I can’t ask him.
There’s something about how all these different routes cross that’s bugging me. I open the map and study it again, but the detail slips away.
It’s a gorgeous day, with big, puffy white clouds drifting in the pale blue sky, their shadows rolling across the gentle foothills. Stu’s warning about winter’s imminent arrival is a reminder that days like this are numbered.
I take the service road past the residences and follow the fence line, bracing myself over the ruts. The road skirts the ski area where, lately, Finn River Ranch staff have been working on the lifts. Crews of half a dozen guys in black work pants, leather mechanic gloves, and Madras work shirts climb up and down the towers, prepping for the upcoming ski season.
It could be a good job for the winter. I like being outside. I’m good with my hands and I don’t mind getting them dirty.
My thoughts drift to Sofie and how I’d rather spend my winter tuning her engine.
That she’s never been treated right is a serious thorn in my side. How does her mom’s abandonment fit into all of this? Was she feeling bad about herself, and Gabe came to her rescue? Only instead of being the hero she needed, he made her feel worse.
Fuck that guy. Though Sofie insists he’s never hurt her, he hasn’t done her any favors, either. Why would he, when manipulating her into staying with him gets him what he wants?
Sofie’s strong and resilient. Determined. Passionate. Caring.
She needs someone strong to care back. Someone dependable.
I scrub my face with my hand, but my longing to be that someone doesn’t quit.
By lunchtime, I’ve driven the entire western perimeter, stopping to scout with the binoculars or check for weak sections in the fence. The security camera checkpoints are operational, but that’s no surprise, given that an entire team of specialists maintains and monitors the equipment. The wilderness-safe gates installed in cooperation with The Winter Range Project must be activated by hand, but I don’t see any evidence that the wires have been moved.
The fence continues along the edge of a steepening valley called Miner’s Gulch while the road climbs a steep and windy track to a bald rise. From here, it’s a clear view across the gulch to the forested foothills of the wilderness area and everything beyond Finn River Ranch.
After zipping up my coat and sliding on insulated work gloves, I grab the binoculars and step out of the truck. The alpine breeze bites my cheeks. I stand with my back to the cab for shelter and lift the heavy binoculars to my eyes.
Growing up in Alaska, I’ve spent plenty of time outside—not just in our backyard playing catch with William and Dad or caring for our animals but hiking and camping, and, like everyone else, salmon fishing in the late summer. But it’s weird spending entire days outside by myself. I’m not used to that. In Alaska, hiking alone is a great way to end up being a grizzly bear’s breakfast.
I glass each section slowly, looking for anything out of place. Forested ridges, broad valleys, high meadows, the rocky slopes.
The distant grind of a two-stroke engine snaps my attention westward. I scan with the binoculars, looking for the telltale dirt cloud. Just as I spot it, the bike disappears into a hidden valley, the metal frame flashing in the sun for one fleeting instant. The wind swallows the last of the sound. I scan the area, but there’s no sign the bike was ever there.
I reach back into the cab for the map, wincing at the sting in my side, and line up the topography to pinpoint the bike’s location. The crisp paper flutters in the wind, so I fold it in half and tuck it under my arm, then check again with the binoculars to be sure.
It’s wilderness, all right.
I scan beyond the place where the biker dropped out of sight, hoping he’ll pop out again, but it’s like the landscape has swallowed him whole. Was there just one rider, or more?
Maybe the biker or pair of bikers are cruising around for fun. It’s possible they don’t know they’re on wilderness land. An honest mistake. There’s no fencing to delineate the border with the adjacent Forest Service land. But my gut tells me there’s more to this .
And there’s one sure way to find out. I’ll have to exit the ranch land and approach that distant gulch from the other side of the river.
On my drive back down, I scarf two sandwiches and an apple, then fill the thermos cup and drive one-handed to the gate, saluting the guard with my cup as I pass.
I drive up Finn River Valley to the forest service road heading toward the wilderness area. The map is unfolded next to me, the dots and X’s from my fieldwork looking sparse in the vast area.
That same niggling detail scratches the surface again.
Stu’s words echo in my thoughts. There’s a way. We just haven’t found it yet .
From inside my pack, my phone chirps.
I toss back the last of the coffee and check the phone’s little window.
It’s Sawyer.
Alarm bells erupt in my brain. We aren’t scheduled to talk again until Sunday.
“Hey.” I turn on a gravel road and pull over so I don’t risk losing him in the mountains.
“Can you talk?”
The wind is snatching his words, so I roll up the window. I take a quick scan of the area, but I’m alone. “Yeah.”
“Something big went down today at the ferry terminal downtown,” he says in a rush.
“Okay.”
“Federal agents and local cops arrested two guys. I think Kristov might be one of them.”
“What?”
“They haven’t released names, but the sheriff did a press conference about it. One of the guys they nabbed came off the ferry and tried to flee when the cops closed in. Someone got footage. They must have sold it to the TV station because it’s been playing nonstop. The other guy assaulted one of the officers.”
“If we don’t have names, how do you know one of them is Kristov?”
“The guy who tried to flee? He used to work at the train yard.”
“So?”
“Kristov didn’t show up for work today.”
I hum my reply, thinking.
“What if they’re working together?” Sawyer asks.
It’s a stretch, at best, but what if it’s true? I rest my head against the seat and close my eyes. Could this be the moment everything changes? Where I can finally put my life back together?
“I’ll bet you could find the clip on YouTube or something if the TV channels down there don’t have it.”
I think about the ancient computer in Barb’s little office. They’ve offered to let me use it, so I’m sure I could search this up. “Did the sheriff say why the men were in custody?”
“The only thing they talked about is the Soren Creek disaster.”
I huff a slow breath. “It’s not enough.”
“If it’s him, you’d be safe to tell them the rest.”
While I want to believe this, I need more information. Does Sheriff Olson know about this turn of events? And if Kristov is in custody, wouldn’t he think to tell me? Instead, I’m hearing about it secondhand.
Unless he doesn’t want me to know?
“Maybe,” I say.
“Zach,” Sawyer says, his tone sharp. “These guys are going to jail.”
“We don’t know that yet,” I reply.
“If it is Kristov, no judge would grant him parental rights if he’s in custody for a federal crime.”
The logical side of my brain wants to believe this, but the part in charge of my survival is terrified of making a mistake that would put William in danger.
“I need more information.”
He huffs a sigh. “I’ll keep you updated.”
We end the call. After a glance in my rearview mirror, I turn the truck around and continue up the valley.
Why would Kristov be connected with the Soren Creek survey camp fire?
I rack my brain, using different scenarios. The Soren Creek mining camp is in the middle of nowhere. Kristov isn’t an eco-terrorist. He only blows shit up for money.
I’m missing something.
Who is this other guy from the train yard? I never met any of Kristov’ s associates. Except for his interest in Terrilynn, he kept his business dealings separate.
One thing stands out, though. If it is Kristov, and he gets charged with eco-terrorism or whatever his goal was at that survey camp, what Sawyer said is true—he won’t stand a chance to gain custody.
But I can’t stick my neck out yet.
Because Kristov has plenty of lies left to spread. Including that I was behind the arson fire that destroyed my dad’s vet clinic days before I would have inherited the business.
If only I’d realized his master plan to siphon every penny of the insurance payout my mom received in order to expand his operations.
I don’t like just sitting around hoping the cops figure things out. Sawyer’s suggestion that I race home to help is tempting, but if the man in custody isn’t Kristov, or he gets released, I’ll be fully exposed, and now that he’s become so powerful, there’s no way I’ll be safe.
He’ll kill me to keep me silent. Getting custody of William will be a bonus.
If I disappear, there will be no one to link Kristov to Terrilynn’s demise. As if fighting for William wasn’t enough to live for, justice for Terrilynn is important to me, too.
I need to be patient.
At the trailhead, I don’t see a dirt bike trailer. Just a couple of dusty cars and a minivan. So whoever is up there came from some other access point. According to the map, I can take an easy trail to the wilderness boundary, then it’s a short hike to the location where the dirt bike disappeared. I’m not crazy about heading cross country at this hour, but I’ll move fast.
After sitting around all morning, moving helps me warm up. My side still hurts, but every day it gets a little better. On Saturday night, I didn’t feel it at all.
I think about what Sawyer said about Sofie’s loyalty. Am I being blind in trusting her? It doesn’t feel like it, but I’m definitely not looking at it through a clear lens.
My dick gives an unhelpful twitch. For months, I managed to shut off my appetite, but now that it’s awake, I can’t seem to turn it off.
When I pass by the wilderness boundary sign bolted to a giant ponderosa, I take the narrow path through a dry pine forest meant for hikers and horses to a broad plateau. While catching my breath, I slip the binoculars from my pack. It takes only a quick scan to locate where the dirt bike or bikes flattened the meadow and overturned rocks in the dry dirt.
On the move again, at the top of another rise, I reach a trail junction. Larch Pass is straight ahead in 16 miles. The other trail, from the southeast and clearly imprinted with the dirt bike tread, is The Idaho Centennial Trail.
A detail fires in my memory. Sofie mentioned a centennial trail race. Did competitors use this trail? Where does it come from?
I raise the lenses to my eyes again and sweep the high meadow and the forest, trailing the dirt bike track. A chill creeps up my spine, making me shiver. If I wasn’t hunting for something out of place, I would take time to appreciate the landscape, the honey-golden grasses dancing in the wind, the purple rock faces, the deep green of the forests.
I’m about to put away the binoculars when there’s a flash of something from a copse of brilliant yellow larch trees. I wait, focusing my gaze on the location. I’m not sure what I saw. It could be a trail marker flashing in the sun. Or something metal, which doesn’t fit up here.
After tucking the binoculars back in my pack, I start off again. The minor relief from the ibuprofen I downed with my lunch is starting to fade. Or maybe it’s the hiking.
When I come to the larch trees, some of their needles have already fallen, turning the ground into a thin carpet that crunches under my boots and peppers the air with their sunbaked scent. Larch trees are rare in Alaska, and I’m momentarily distracted by the soft bristles and the heavily textured bark. Skirting the edge of the grove, I climb to the top and a hidden lake basin. The water is a pale turquoise, like a tropical sea. Breathing hard, my breath making little clouds in the quickly cooling air, I stand in a patch of sunlight and get my bearings.
On the far side of the lake, a rock wall rises to a forested ridge. More larch trees rim the right side.
The trail intersects with a faint footpath that I’m assuming circles the lakeshore. Despite the dirt being wet here, I’ve lost the bike tread, probably in the rocks. I’m tempted to linger at the lake edge, even though I have no purpose here—it’s so pretty and tranquil and that color is hard to look away from—but I turn back, searching for the tread.
The faint whine of the dirt bike echoes from below somewhere. Crap, have they turned back? I stand still and listen, but I can’t pinpoint anything more. Was it just a trick of the wind?
I flex and relax my cold fingers and think of something warm. There’s still coffee in my thermos back in the truck. And after barn chores at home, I’ll have a hot shower and a warm bed. This makes me think of Sofie’s and how good she looked in hers.
A weird feeling sinks through me, like an itch I can’t scratch. A hunger that lingers, unsatisfied.
Is it the way I’ve let Sofie into my life?
Or is it the idea of the Hutton’s ranch as home? It’s always been temporary. A stopover in the quest to reunite with William when it’s safe. But being with the Huttons and Sofie Whittaker in Finn River has stopped feeling temporary.
I’m not sure when that changed. And I’m not sure I like it.
Just below the lake, I pick up the dirt bike track again, but the terrain is rocky. I enter the larch grove, which has swallowed the sun, the shadows long and crooked across the rocks.
Did the dirt bike ride through here? This is hardly easy terrain. I walk past a house-sized boulder and pause to listen. The chilly breeze makes the hairs on my arms prickle but I resist the urge to rub them.
I’m about to turn around when something cold and hard presses into the back of my skull. A round enters the gun’s chamber, and I feel someone’s breath on my neck.
“Get on your knees, boy.”