Common Threads
a Novel
Elizabeth Lee
Published by NorLightsPress at Smashwords
Copyright (C) 2009 by Elizabeth Lee
Discover other titles by Elizabeth Lee at Smashwords.com
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Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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Acknowledgments
I profoundly thank the following people for making this book possible:
My wonderful family, Rebecca Wright, Sebastian and Beth DeSantis, Rose and Randy Bowen, and Bill and Diana Denny, for their love and encouragement.
Thanks to my friend Nadene Carter for her wisdom and support.
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Chapter 1
Buck Hancey stared through the windshield and watched the wind hurl sheets of snow across the jagged Wasatch Mountains. A slender deer trotted onto the road, stopped to smell the air, and then disappeared into the gray half-light. Seconds later, a dappled fawn bolted in front of them, its hooves skidding on the pavement.
"Dang!" Jerry swerved the Jeep, and Buck grabbed the dashboard with one hand. Sweat trickled down his neck under the heavy parka, but he barely noticed. He could only focus on Rachel. Maybe this drive to the mountains was all a mistake and she was home by now, munching pretzels and listening to a CD. She'd probably spent the night with a new girlfriend and forgot to tell him. He should call the house again.
Jerry turned the heater down a notch. "Are you sure about this, partner? Maybe we should wait at the ranger station and follow the coroner back to town."
"No. I have to see for myself." Buck held the cell phone to his ear and listened to it ring, picturing his empty house, hoping Rachel would pick up. He'd already left four messages on her cell phone. She never went anyplace without that pink phone. Dang it, why wouldn't she answer?
Time shimmered and broke in waves around him. Then the moment passed and Jerry turned into Cottonwood Canyon, winding between two mountain ridges dotted with scrub pines and sagebrush. A few minutes later they parked outside a snow-covered log building with smoke rising from the chimney. A ranger wearing a National Park Service uniform ambled out to the car as Jerry cracked the window and flashed his badge.
The park ranger squinted at them. "You're a little late for the party, but the campground's less than half a mile down the road. Just follow the tracks."
Jerry shifted into four-wheel drive and turned the Jeep onto a narrow, winding trail that split the campground in half. Each campsite contained a metal grill and a picnic table mounded with snow. Snowmobile tracks swirled among the trees where drivers had carved figure eights in the white landscape.
"Lucky those snowmobile folks happened by here this morning. Otherwise she might've been out here 'til spring thaw." Jerry glanced at Buck. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded."
Buck shook his head. Since they'd partnered up four years ago, Jerry's talent for saying the wrong thing had gotten them shot at, attacked with a frying pan, and kicked out of several bars. "It's okay," he muttered.
Jerry pointed to a cluster of vehicles. "There's our team up ahead."
A forensic van from Salt Lake City, a coroner's unit, and a blue and white van from Channel Five blocked the road near the last campsite. Only one police car remained, which meant the crime scene work was nearly finished. A group of men stood beside their vehicles, one of them scribbling in a notebook. Buck recognized Dave from the sheriff's office and a couple of guys he knew from the county morgue.
They stepped out of the Jeep. The guys stopped talking and made a path for him; some reached out to touch his shoulder.
The men's faces blurred as he brushed past them and headed directly for the technician who was sliding a stretcher into the coroner's van. Jerry helped the man balance the stretcher while Buck unzipped the black vinyl bag.
It was Rachel. His daughter's blue eyes stared at the sky, her eyebrows coated with frost. A trickle of blood left a frozen path from the corner of her mouth. He touched her cheek, caressing the frozen skin with one finger. Images of a fairy tale flashed into his mind--something about an ice maiden with long golden hair. At least Rachel will be warm now, Buck thought. With the tiny scissors on his pocketknife, he snipped a lock of her hair and slipped it into his pocket.
Buck drove home, parked his Jeep in the garage, and sat there for a few minutes. The house looked so bleak and empty he couldn't go inside. He grabbed a shovel and attacked the driveway, flinging snow behind him like a madman until his breath came in huge, sobbing gulps. Then he worked his way around back, cleaning the steps and scraping snow off the patio furniture. Rachel often said her mother's spirit watched over the backyard, where wind chimes and bird feeders dangled from every tree limb within reach. Breanne had carried home black oil sunflower seeds by the wheelbarrow load. Without their benefactor, the winter birds had moved on.
Tears blurred his vision; he could no longer hold the shovel. Opening the kitchen door, he peeled off his jacket and entered the house. Things were exactly as he'd left them, yet everything felt different. Rachel wasn't coming home.
Breanne smiled at him from a photo on the mantel, a picture taken the year before her cancer came back. He couldn't look into her eyes. He'd promised to take care of Rachel. He was a cop, and he couldn't even save his own daughter.
Her schoolbooks lay tumbled from her backpack on the dining room table. He stacked them together, placed her notebook and pen atop the pile, and walked down the hallway to her room. When he opened the door, the scent of Rachel's sandalwood lotion left him weak-kneed. He shut the door, not ready to see her pink and white bedroom cluttered with hair ornaments, perfume, make-up, and the stuffed animals she hadn't outgrown.
Later, he lay in bed with the lights out, his legs tangled in the sheets. The coroner had mentioned needle marks on Rachel's arms, but that couldn't be right. Rachel was too smart to use drugs. She'd taken over running the household after Breanne died. She made the dean's list her first semester in college and planned to be an architect and design houses for low-income families.
After all the years he'd spent defending the public from criminals, Buck couldn't protect his own daughter. In fact, at the moment he didn't even know how she died.
Anger stirred in his gut. He rolled over, groped for the light switch, and fished the phone book off the floor. The county coroner wasn't happy about being awakened at midnight, but he agreed to an early morning conference. Buck felt a tiny stab of satisfaction. Someone was going to pay for Rachel's death.
~~~~
Buck had never liked Dr. Shelby. A self-important bureaucrat who favored expensive suits and a bad hairpiece, Shelby considered himself several notches above police detectives. He leaned back in his chair and surveyed Buck with the same squint-eyed stare he leveled on specimens in the autopsy room.
Shelby heaved a sigh and flipped through the folder on his desk. "Sorry to hear about your daughter. What a waste. Naturally, I performed the autopsy myself."
Sitting opposite the coroner's desk, Buck decided the man was making an effort to be kind, but it simply wasn't in his nature. "I'd like to know how she died."
"Froze to death, of course. But we can add to that." Shelby peered over his bifocals. "You knew she was doing heroin?"
Buck's mouth went dry. "That's a mistake. I don't think she'd even smoked pot, much less shoot heroin. Not my Rachel."
"I have the report right here. It shows a large amount of heroin in your daughter's bloodstream--enough to kill her without medical help. However, she was still breathing when someone left her in the canyon."
"So the drug didn't actually kill her?"
"Technically she died of exposure."
"Any sign of sexual assault?"
"No. You knew she wasn't a virgin?" He raised his eyebrows.
Buck gave a noncommittal grunt. He hadn't known, but he wouldn't admit it to this birdbrain.
The doctor's nasal voice droned on. "There were signs of recent sexual activity, but I don't believe it was forced. No unusual marks on her body, other than needle tracks. Is there anything else you'd like to know?"
Buck couldn't think of anything to ask. He'd been an investigator for twenty years and earned a fistful of medals, but suddenly his mind wouldn't form questions.
He spent the rest of the morning walking the streets of Salt Lake City under a low gray sky. Over the next few days he slept, ate, and tried to work, but it meant nothing. The funeral seemed like a dream. Rachel's friends crowded around him, men and women from the job offered their support.
Then the questions began to nag. Why hadn't he known his daughter took drugs? How long had she used? What else had he missed? Who supplied the stuff?
After the funeral service concluded and everyone left, Buck drove back to the campground where Rachel had died. He sat on the picnic table, hoping the quiet strength of the mountains and the vastness of the pristine snow would calm his spirit. This was where Rachel took her last breath, and he felt part of her might still be here, lingering beside the river or drifting among the Douglas firs. He hunched over the table until his feet went numb and his knees locked in place.
The next afternoon he came again and perched on the table, huddling beneath his parka while the wind ruffled his hair. He'd been there less than an hour when a black SUV pulled into the campsite and slid to a stop beside his vehicle. It was Jerry, dressed in faded jeans, sneakers, and a flannel shirt. His down jacket was flapping and he wore a tweed cap, which he took off and used to brush snow from the table.
"Hey, Buck, how ya doing?"
Buck didn't turn around. "How'd you find me?"
Jerry shrugged. "I know how you think." He looked around. "Kinda peaceful up here." He used his gloves to brush off a spot on the table, sat down, and dangled his feet. They sat in silence for awhile and watched a pair magpies squabble over a deer carcass.
"I won't be back to work," Buck finally said.
Jerry slapped him on the shoulder. "That's okay, no problem. You should take some time off, travel a little bit--do some fishing. We'll hold the fort 'til you get back."
"I may not come back." Buck watched a hawk circle above the trees. "I found out who gave Rachel the drugs, and I'm gonna bring him in. After that, I'll track down everyone involved, right down to the guy who makes the stuff."
"What would Rachel say? I can't believe she'd want that. You could end up in prison."
The wind rattled the branches of the pine trees, but there was no other sound. Buck clenched his fists inside his coat pockets. "I'm not doing this for Rachel. I'm doing it so I can live with myself. I'll find these guys if it takes the rest of my life."
~~~~
Two months later, Buck sat in his truck outside the Save-a-Lot grocery in Priest River and watched a Hispanic man wearing a backpack saunter across the parking lot. The man took a quick look around, shrugged the backpack off, and left it in the bed of a Dodge truck. Buck couldn't be sure whether the bag held money or drugs, but he knew a drop when he saw it. Mud covered the truck's license plate, he'd already found out the vehicle was registered to a front company owned by yet another company. These people knew how to cover their trail.
Buck recorded his observations on a hand-held tape recorder and patiently waited for his quarry to collect the spoils. As usual, the north Idaho weather was against him--chilly and damp, with squalls of rain blowing from the northwest. He hated winter stakeouts. He'd run the defroster every few minutes to clear the windows, but his clothes were damp and the inside of the truck smelled like dirty socks. Besides that, he'd drained two cans of soda and his bladder was screaming.
Half an hour later, his patience was rewarded. Coyote sauntered out of the store, carrying a sack bulging with Marlboro cartons and a six-pack of beer. Even to Buck's jaundiced eyes, the man looked the part--confident within his culture; tight jeans, a soft flannel shirt, sleek hair tied back with a leather thong. Coyote strutted toward the blue Dodge and fished a set of keys from his pocket.
Before Buck could put the Chevy in gear, a woman slammed her shopping cart into his front grill. Five kids hung on the cart like baby opossums, each clutching a helium balloon with the grocery store's logo on the side. By the time he could see around the balloons, Coyote was gone--again. The man had a way of vanishing like smoke.
Disgusted, Buck left the parking lot and drove into town for a late breakfast. But for once luck favored the good guys; at the first stoplight he saw the blue truck making a left turn onto Main Street. He stayed back a couple of car lengths and followed at a steady thirty-five in the right lane. Coyote cruised to the end of Main Street and turned toward Sardine Canyon, a narrow highway flanked by steep drop-offs.
Buck blew him a kiss.
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Chapter 2
Big Bend Ranch
The morning had started gray and cold, likely to get worse. Swirling clouds dropped a nasty mix of snow and sleet, driven by a Canadian wind they called the Alberta Clipper. The Herfords stood with their backs to the wind or found shelter among the trees. Most of the horses had come into the barns.
Caleb Logan ventured into the kitchen wearing his outside boots--something he could only get away with when Molly was gone. He figured she'd be none the wiser if he saved time and energy by leaving the boots on. He'd quickly refill his thermos and go right back to the barn.
But Mr. Coffee didn't cooperate. His cold hands fumbled; the glass pot bounced off the counter and shattered on the hardwood floor, spewing a five-foot arc of coffee from the table to the sink. Liquid splashed on the heated coil, filling Molly's kitchen with the smell of scorched coffee.
"Dang!" He grabbed a handful of clean dishtowels from a drawer, thought better of it, and stuffed them back inside. He pulled a roll of paper towels out from under the sink and wadded a bunch of them together, then pushed the entire mess over the floor with one foot.
As he finished cleaning, the phone rang. He kicked the damp towels aside and reached it in three quick steps. If this was a telemarketer, there'd be hell to pay.
But the phone call was his worst nightmare--the concerned voice of an Idaho State trooper. "Mr. Logan, a truck went off the road in the canyon and we're pretty sure it's yours. Is someone using your pickup?
Caleb's mouth went dry. "My wife drove into town, but she's isn't due back for a couple of hours. I think you've got the wrong number."
The guy hesitated a second. "Sir, it's a blue Dodge pickup. I found the license plate and part of the rear bumper on the ground and called for an ID. If you're Caleb Logan, this is your truck."
"Is my wife there?" Dumb question. He began again. "What about Molly? Where is she?"
Another pause. "We don't know yet, but my partner's working his way down the bank. You can meet us at the hospital."
"No, I'll be right there." Caleb tossed the phone onto the table, snatched Molly's car keys from the hook beside the kitchen door, and sprinted for the garage.
"Please let her be safe." He whispered the words like a mantra and pushed the car faster. Inside the canyon he eased back on the accelerator from long habit. The narrow road snaked between two mountains, with flimsy rails guarding the most dangerous curves. People called Sardine Canyon a deathtrap, and the state had been promising to widen the road ever since he could remember. Today, snow blowing across the pavement made the tight curves worse than usual. Wind buffeted the Subaru station wagon and the tires slipped a couple of times, but he kept it on the road.
Three miles from town he spotted flares along the highway, then blue lights flashing. A white paramedic unit blocked the outside lane, its back door partly open. A deputy sheriff with a handheld radio stood beside the rig. He craned his neck to look north and south along the road, and the movement gave him an air of authority. Caleb ran up to him.
"I'm Caleb Logan. Where's my wife?"
The officer was in his late twenties, neat and starched, with a military haircut. "I'm Deputy Saunders. Sorry about using the phone, but we don't have the manpower for a housecall." He pointed to skid marks that veered off the pavement near the guardrail. "Your truck went over the edge right there, and the medics just went down. We should know something pretty quick."
Caleb walked to the edge of the road and looked over. His truck had carved a jagged swath through underbrush and small pines. It rested nose-down on a pile of boulders at least two hundred feet below the highway. The smell of gasoline and hot oil drifted up to him. People in orange jackets swarmed over the pickup. A deputy opened the passenger door with a pry bar and the men boosted the smallest of the group--a woman with red hair--into the truck.
Caleb shouted to Saunders, "Can you ask them how she is?"
Saunders spoke into the radio, then held it to his ear. He smiled and nodded. "They say she's alive."
"I'll help bring her up." Caleb started forward, but Saunders gave him a look.
"Let them do their jobs. It's worse than it looks down there, and we don't need another casualty. There's only one ambulance."
Of course, Saunders had it right. Caleb watched the rescue workers load Molly onto a stretcher, tie her in place, and begin inching their way back to the road while steadying themselves with a rope lashed to a tree. He edged closer for a better view, and his weight set off an avalanche of mud and rocks. He flailed at the air, about to go down. Saunders grabbed a handful of his shirt and hauled him back to the asphalt. "You need to stay back, sir. This shoulder could give way."
Caleb sagged against the ambulance, closed his eyes, and tried to block the sounds from below. He focused on breathing the way Molly explained from her yoga class. Breathe in--she's alive. Breathe out--she's alive.
After a dozen breaths he opened his eyes and scanned the scene. Cops on traffic duty were moving vehicles through the inside lane. Ignorant people leaned out their car windows so they could gawk at the spot where Molly went over. Caleb turned his back to them and focused on the road. Skid marks showed the Dodge's path to the canyon rim, but he didn't see another set of tracks or a damaged vehicle.
"Do you know what happened?" he asked.
Saunders pointed to a thin, white-haired man being interviewed by a state trooper. "The old fellow over there is our witness. He was driving toward your wife and saw a black truck coming behind her. He thinks the truck took the curve too fast and plowed into her from the rear. Shoved her right off the road."
Caleb looked around again. "Where's the other driver?"
"It's a hit and run." Saunders gave him a warning look. "Now don't get excited, we'll find him."
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Chapter 3
When the blue truck veered off the road, Buck drove another hundred feet to a cut-off, where he parked his truck under a stand of pines. He called in the accident on his radio, waited a few minutes, and then walked back to the scene.
He was directing traffic when Deputy Saunders arrived in a patrol car, lights and siren going full tilt. He offered Saunders a bare-bones report. "I passed by just after the truck went over--I saw a couple of vehicles pulled off the road and figured something happened."
"Did you think about going down there?" Saunders squinted at the steep embankment.
"I thought I'd be more useful up here," Buck said.
Saunders gave him a strange look, but didn't argue. Buck made himself useful directing traffic until another officer relieved him. Then he drifted over to the ambulance and watched the medics lug a stretcher up the hill.
"It's a woman down there," Saunders told him. "And her husband's here."
A man dressed in a worn sheepskin jacket leaned against the ambulance with his arms folded. He looked up, scanned Buck's face, and turned away.
"I heard a man was driving the truck," Buck told Saunders. "A guy with a pony tail.
"See for yourself." Saunders moved aside as the paramedics heaved the stretcher over the cliff. Buck eased in for a closer look.
It was a woman.
Seeing that pale face above the blanket hit him like a punch in the stomach. He was even more startled when her eyelids twitched, because he didn't think anyone could survive what she'd been through.
~~~~
Caleb trailed the ambulance down Main Street to 300 North, then four blocks west to Springville Regional Hospital. The brick and limestone building was only three stories high, but the complex sprawled over a block of real estate.
The ambulance stopped outside the emergency room, and Caleb pulled into the doctor's parking lot. Without stopping at the desk, he shoved through the double doors, burst into the patient area, and headed for the cubicle with the most activity.
He found Molly lying on a padded table in the center of a green-tiled room, surrounded by machines and white-coated figures. Her skin seemed as pale as the white-collared neck brace she wore. She reminded him of a limp and broken porcelain doll. Suddenly clammy, Caleb leaned against the doorframe until the nurse in charge motioned him inside.
"Are you the husband? You gonna pass out?"
"I won't." He managed a weak smile.
Her eyebrows rose. "You can stay for one minute, then we'll kick you out so we can work on her. Don't touch anything."
Caleb slid between the heart monitor and a plastic tube that delivered oxygen. His foot bumped a metal pole holding bags of IV fluid dangling from hooks. The nurse shot him a warning look, her frown telling him a clumsy cowboy in canvas work pants wasn't welcome in the trauma room.
He leaned close to Molly. Blood trickled down her cheek from a shallow gash on her right temple. Caleb brushed it away with his fingertips, lowered his face, and placed his lips beside her ear. "I love you, Moll. Please hang on," he whispered.
His lower lip quivered when a nurse wielding a pair of scissors cut off Molly's favorite jeans. Molly didn't react. He smoothed the hair from her forehead and planted a kiss between her eyebrows.
"Mr. Logan."
An older man in a tailored lab coat leaned against the counter, scribbling notes on a chart. He glanced at Caleb, then continued writing. "I'm Dr. Warren. Your wife's stable at the moment but that's all we know. Wait outside and we'll call you in about 20 minutes."
Back in the waiting area, Caleb spent ten minutes filling out paperwork for the clerk. He paced the hallway for another ten, taking one step for every brown floor tile.
~~~~
Buck drove to the hospital a few blocks behind the ambulance, keeping a safe distance from the husband's Subaru. He still couldn't figure out what went wrong. Had he followed the wrong truck, or was the woman a mule for Coyote's drug operation? Either way, the black bag lay at the bottom of a ravine, and he needed to find it. But first he'd check on the patient.
He flashed his badge for the desk clerk, got the woman's name, and found her husband pacing the floor outside the waiting room. The man looked wiry and strong, with thick brown hair that needed a trim. His boots left a muddy trail on the tiles.
When Buck approached from behind and touched his shoulder, the man jumped, then quickly composed himself.
"Sorry, Mr. Logan. Didn't mean to startle you. I'm Buck Hancey--an off-duty sheriff. I called in your wife's accident." When they shook hands, Buck noticed Logan's right hand was missing one fingertip. Still, his grip felt rock hard. From the set of his jaw, Buck figured this was a man who wouldn't run from trouble and couldn't be bluffed or bullied. Most likely he'd wade into a fight and take his lumps.
"Did you see my wife's wreck?"
"Not quite. I drove by just afterwards," Buck said. "How's she doing?"
"They don't say much, but I'm expecting the doctor any minute." He paused when the treatment room door opened, but it was only a lab tech with a basket of tubes.
"At least she's still alive."
"Right. Sorry I'm a little distracted." Logan hugged the wall and let two medics cruise by with an empty stretcher.
Buck left the man to his vigil. He could imagine what Logan was feeling, because he'd brought a desperately ill Breanne to the emergency room several times before she succumbed to infection brought on by a low white cell count. It was best for a man to handle these things alone.
His stomach was bunched into a tight knot. He'd never forget seeing the woman's face, pale as a full moon, and smeared with blood. Was it his fault things took an ugly turn at the last minute? All he could do now was pick up the pieces and figure out what happened.
He stopped at the desk on his way out and sweet-talked the admitting clerk into giving him the Logan's address and phone number. He'd need to keep tabs on the family, because things could get ugly with drug dealers--especially if the woman didn't know she'd carried that black bag.
For now, his main focus was retrieving the bag before Coyote could find it.
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Chapter 4
Caleb lurked in the hall outside the trauma room until Dr. Warren came out, deep in conversation with a woman. He swooped down on the doctor and extended his hand. "I'm Caleb, her husband. How is she?"
"Let's talk in here." Dr. Warren ushered him into a small consulting room off the main hallway. With a heavy sigh, he perched on the arm of a couch, one leg dangling in the air. Caleb took the chair opposite him.
"Her vital signs are good, we didn't find internal injuries, and she's still breathing on her own. Those are positives. I'm a bit worried because she hasn't regained consciousness."
"How bad is that?"
"I'd feel better if she was awake, but we still don't know the full story. After her brain scan, Dr. Rouelle, our neurologist, will take over." He touched the side of his face. "She's bruised here, with swelling on the outside. We don't know yet about the inside. And she has a fractured right arm--but that's fixable."
Caleb rubbed his chin. "So what worries you is her brain?"
"That's right, but I'm optimistic." He glanced at the clock on the wall. "Give us an hour while we cast her arm and run the scan. Then we'll move her to a nursing unit where you can visit."
After the doctor left, Caleb folded his arms across his chest and watched the clock move toward one. Molly had to be okay, because he couldn't imagine life without her. He wouldn't consider any other outcome. He tried to think of other things. The cattle would be mobbing the fence when he didn't show up at feeding time, but they'd survive without hay until morning. And the sick heifer he was treating wouldn't complain if she missed her injection.
Besides Molly and the cattle, he had enough well-worn problems to keep his brain occupied for hours. Caleb stretched out his legs, closed his eyes, and ran through the list. The cheers and laughter of a television game show drifting from the lobby lulled him into an uneasy sleep.
"Caleb? It's Bishop Johns. Mind if I join you?"
The door to the waiting room opened and Caleb snapped awake. He felt like hours had passed, but according to the clock he'd only been out for fifteen minutes. He rubbed his eyes and focused on the bishop.
"The Mormon grapevine must be working overtime. How'd you hear about Molly?"
"Bad news travels. I was upstairs visiting Sister Jessup when Molly came in. How's she doing?"
"I'm surprised you don't already know." Caleb snapped. He was instantly contrite. "I'm sorry. You're Molly's friend and I thank you for coming."
Bishop Johns folded his coat on a chair and sat beside Caleb. "I get barked at a lot. It goes with both my jobs--bishop and psychologist. So, how's it going?"
"Molly has a broken arm and she isn't awake yet." Caleb couldn't make himself say brain damage. "Right now I'm waiting while they cast her arm and do some kind of scan."
The bishop stood and held out his hand. "Since you have time, let's go downstairs for a drink."
The cafeteria was quiet. A few medical personnel wearing scrubs or white uniforms occupied the tables, some eating a late lunch, others drinking sodas. A couple of nursing students conferred over a laptop computer. At the next table, a swarthy man in a black leather coat hunched over a slice of pie, glancing around the room every few seconds.
Caleb ordered a large coffee diluted with sugar and cream. The bishop sipped lemonade, idly watching the students.
Caleb took a healthy swig of coffee, set the cup down, and stretched to unkink his lower back. He checked the wall clock and set his watch on hospital time. He locked eyes for a few seconds with the man in leather, making the other guy look away first. He realized the polite thing to do was make conversation with the bishop. "I can't believe Molly's here. She hates hospitals, and she'll be furious when she wakes up."
Bishop Johns nodded. "I can understand that. Molly's spunky."
Caleb didn't like hearing about his wife from the bishop. Everyone in the church ward always made a fuss over her, but she especially liked Bishop Johns, who was tall, nice-looking, and had college degrees. Caleb worried about that. He took another sip of coffee and met the other man's gaze.
"Caleb, I'd like to give Molly a blessing."
Caleb choked on the coffee and grabbed a napkin. He should've seen this coming, but he'd forgotten about the blessing thing. Molly had joined the church a year ago and now held a calling in their ward. Her intense love for the LDS church confused and frightened him because he couldn't share her feelings.
He answered slowly. "Do you know why I never come to church?"
"Molly told me it had something to do with your brother's death," the bishop said.
Caleb bent the plastic spoon until it snapped. "That's right. Martin died after a rodeo accident--bull riding. My mother passed away one month later. After that, Dad and I just stopped going to church."
"It's easy to blame God for these tragedies."
"I don't hold God responsible--I should've stopped Marty from riding that day. The bull he drew had a bad reputation. I think Mom died from a broken heart."
"What a disaster for your family. Was this before your marriage?"
"I married Molly a year later and she helped me pull things together. Without her, I'd be nothing."
"You didn't serve a mission, then?"
Caleb knew this was a loaded question. Young men raised in the church were expected to serve a two-year mission, attend college, marry a nice Mormon girl, and raise a family--in that order. But he'd never quite fit the mold, and still didn't.
"I wasn't missionary material," he told the Bishop. "Not that I didn't go to church and all that, but I won a baseball scholarship to Utah State University. They didn't want to wait for me."
"Excellent. I played a little college ball myself."
Caleb continued, "Of course, after Marty and Mom died, I dropped out of school and came back to the ranch. Dad needed me."
The bishop didn't answer. Caleb swirled the coffee in his cup, as if seeking answers in the murky liquid. Without looking up, he said, "I always respect Molly's wishes and I know she loves the church. Go ahead with the blessing, but don't expect anything from me."
"Good decision." Bishop Johns checked his watch. "If it's all right with you, I'll stop by with my counselors this evening. Right now, I'm late for my daughter's violin lesson, but please call me if there's any change. My heart goes out to you."
~~~~
Caleb found Molly in a quiet room near the nursing station, with a video camera mounted on the wall opposite the bed. Muffled voices and distant telephones drifted from the hallway. Her IV machine chugged softly.
He approached the bed and searched her face. The doctor hadn't misled him. A purple bruise covered her right cheek and eye. Her casted right arm lay on a pillow. Her eyes were closed, her lips pale, her skin ashen. Her shoulder-length blonde hair, usually thick and shiny, was matted with dried blood.
Caleb reached for her left hand under the sheets, careful not to dislodge the IV lines. Her fingers were limp, her skin cool.
"Molly? Time to wake up, honey."
She didn't stir.
"Moll, can you hear me? It's Caleb." He dragged a chair beside the bed, lowered the rail, and leaned his head against the cool white sheets. He brought Molly's hand to his lips and kissed her palm.
She didn't move.
"Let's go home, Molly. Squeeze my hand if you hear me." No response from Molly. Still holding her hand, Caleb closed his eyes.
Molly always lived by her own rules. In fact, the first time he laid eyes on her she was trespassing. On that day he'd stolen a rare afternoon away from the ranch, seeking relief from his father's bitterness and the empty house. He cantered the horse along the ranch's southern border where Logan land met national forest. It was a cool, dry May afternoon. Spring Creek flowed icy and turbulent with runoff from the mountains. The air smelled sweet, like fresh water. A pair of hawks circled far above, and purple mountains shaded the horizon.
He felt guilty about leaving chores undone, so he guided the horse onto an old logging road along federal land, where they'd posted "Keep Out" signs to discourage hunters. Patrolling for trespassers could be considered work.
And there sat Molly. She'd climbed the gate and set up an easel beside the creek. She wore a ridiculous straw hat and her nose and cheeks were lightly sunburned. Her wavy hair was gathered in a red scarf that clashed with her purple shirt. A smudge of bright green stained her cheek. He watched her dab paint on the canvas for at least a minute before she noticed him.
She finally looked up, a big grin on her face. "Wow! A real cowboy! Would you mind parking your horse in the water so I can sketch you?"
"Do you realize you're trespassing?"
"Oh, is this your land? It's the most wonderful place I've ever seen." She swept out her hand. "I drove all the way from Indiana to paint this. I hope you won't throw me out."
"You look harmless, so I guess you can stay." It was probably the dumbest line he'd ever handed a woman, but Molly just smiled. Instead of riding on, he dismounted and let his horse drink from the creek so he could watch her paint.
"Tell me about your ranch," she said simply.
And he did. They talked nonstop until the air grew chilly and the amber sun slipped toward the mountains. Caleb considered himself a loner, but something about Molly felt . . . safe. She was gentle. She was interested. She was smart. He trusted her instinctively, and she trusted him right back. He carried her easel to the car, bought her lunch the next day, and fell in love before the week was up. Within a few months, they were married and Molly became an Idaho cowgirl.
"Mr. Logan?"
Caleb looked up and blinked in surprise. A tall woman in a rumpled lab coat leaned against the bed.
"I'm Dr. Rouelle, neurology specialist. Mind if I join you?"
"Sorry, ma'am. I didn't hear you come in." Still holding Molly's hand, he stood and faced the doctor.
"I have good news. The brain scan shows no swelling or bleeding and no long-term damage."
"That's good news, but why isn't she awake?"
"A good question. Let me examine her before I answer."
He watched the doctor peer into Molly's eyes with a penlight, tap her joints with a miniature hammer, and prod her fingernails, reminded him of examining a horse at an auction. He almost expected her to check Molly's teeth.
Finally, she spoke. "The deep tendon reflexes are fine, even though she doesn't respond to stimuli. I can't tell you when she'll wake up, but I do think she will."
She draped the stethoscope around her neck, headed for the door, and paused on the way out. "The nurses will call me if there's any change, and I'll stop by tomorrow morning."
"Um, Doctor?" Caleb followed her and lowered his voice. "Molly can still have children, can't she? We really want a baby."
Dr. Rouelle smiled. "Gynecology isn't my area, but she didn't sustain any injuries that would preclude having children."
"In other words, she's okay?"
"In other words, no problem there."
~~~~
After leaving the hospital, Buck drove home and changed into camouflage clothes, hiking boots, and a watch cap. He secured his Glock in the shoulder holster and rummaged inside a kitchen drawer for a forest service map. He'd already decided approaching the accident scene from above was a bad idea, for two reasons: the slope was treacherous, and a deputy might still be hanging around. Fortunately, he'd noticed the roof of a house not far from where the truck had landed--and that meant an access road lay somewhere below the highway.
He unfolded the map on his kitchen table, pinned the corners down with coffee cups, and traced the area below Sardine Canyon with one finger. Sure enough, an abandoned road coiled beside the creek at the bottom of the gorge. With any luck he'd be in and out before dark. He'd leave the pickup truck with front-end damage in the garage and drive the Jeep, which was better suited to rough roads.
Traffic was light, and he reached the turn-off in twenty minutes. He was now at the base of the mountains, moving into the national forest. Still using the map, he made a ninety-degree turn onto a dirt road heading south along the creek. The Jeep bounced over deep ruts and rocks the size of his head. He stopped several times to drag broken tree limbs off the road. A chain saw would've been handy if he'd thought to bring one. He did have his gun, a flashlight, and a cell phone in case he needed a tow for the Jeep.
The road ended at the house he'd seen from above. Sagging clapboard walls barely supported a caved-in roof with moss, bird nests, and weeds sprouting in the gutters. Blank windows stared at him and a loose shingle flapped in the wind. A skunk waddled out the back door as he climbed the front steps. He flicked the light around the kitchen, illuminating piles of garbage and an old mattress crumpled against one wall. A sour, musty smell burned his nose, but the house was no threat to his mission.
Buck hiked along the creek for half a mile, hearing the steady rumble of traffic on the highway but unable to see the road through the thick canopy of trees. Good. That meant no one could spot him from above.
The heavy scent of spilled diesel fuel led him to the Dodge truck, its front end crumpled against a rock pile. Several thousand pounds of steel had carved a wide path down the mountain, leaving gouges in the earth, upending bushes and small trees, and dislodging rocks that rolled into the creek. The wet ground provided little traction, and Buck slipped several times on the loose shale.
Since he'd watched the drug dealer drop the black bag in the bed of the truck, he expected to find it on the ground. The woman's groceries were scattered in the weeds, along with the usual junk people tossed over embankments--empty beer cans, a mattress, the shell of a TV set, and other derelict appliances. He mentally divided the area into grids and began working his way upward.
After fifteen minutes, he found the bag lodged in a clump of sagebrush at the spot where the truck first rolled. He pried it loose with a stick and let it drop at his feet. The lawman in Buck cringed. After a spotless career in law enforcement, he was about to tamper with evidence. In fact, he planned to steal evidence and take the law into his own hands.
His indecision vanished when he heard voices nearby, moving closer. He hugged the pistol against his body, crouched behind the bush, and watched two men approach from above. Working quickly, he transferred the Glock to his jacket pocket and stuffed the black bag inside his coat. With both hands free, he waited.
The smaller man kept sliding downhill, partly because he wouldn't stop talking. "Just once I'd like to see the boss do something for himself. What does he think we are--mountain goats?"
"If we don't find that package, you'll wish you were back here." The second man wore a black leather coat that flapped in the wind. Buck recognized Dale, one of Coyote's pet thugs.
Dale and his buddy passed within a few dozen feet of Buck's hiding place with their heads down, eyes focused on the steep terrain. When they reached the truck, Dale barked orders.
"You start looking on the other side while I check underneath. And put a lid on the whining."
Knowing they'd eventually spot him, Buck decided to move out, taking one cautious step at a time toward a clump of trees beside the creek. The descent was steep and difficult. He timed each move to coincide with the men's actions. He was in the open and could only hope they didn't look up.
With fifty feet to go, Buck stepped on a loose rock, landed heavily on his backside, and slid down the hill on a pile of loose gravel.
"Hey, you!" Dale fumbled inside his leather coat.
Buck gained his feet and sprinted for the trees along the creek bed. He leaped over rocks, sloshed through water, and slithered up the opposite bank to reach the narrow trail.
The men were hot in pursuit, breathing hard, the smaller guy still complaining.
When the trail forked, Buck paused to get his bearings. He leaned against a tree, gulping air. After the third breath, a bullet slammed into the trunk above his head. He ducked, changed course, and ran deeper into the woods, blindly charging through the brush. A doe with two fawns scrambled out of his way.
The hours he'd spent on the jogging trail kicked in. He established a steady pace that gave him a ten-second lead by the time he reached the old house. He bounded up the wobbly steps and flung himself toward the darkest corner. One foot went through the floorboards, and he wasted valuable seconds prying it loose after a sliver of wood pierced his calf. He wiped his right palm on his pants and held his sidearm tightly, feeling his chest thump. With the Glock ready, he pressed his body against the wall and watched the tree line.
Dale came out first, cautious, holding a pistol. The second man limped behind him and used a stick for support.
Buck took careful aim and used the window frame to steady his hands. The distance was long, but he could send a bullet over their heads and give them something to think about. Or not. Why give away his position? He lowered the weapon and waited.
After arguing for a couple of minutes, the two men ducked into the woods. They seemed to be moving away, still quarreling as they walked, but it could be a trick. Buck stared into the woods and shielded his eyes with one hand. Nothing appeared out of place; no sign of the men. A coyote's yip broke the silence. After fifteen minutes, he left the old house without a backward glance and limped toward the Jeep.
He broke into a half trot despite the pain from his leg, anxious to clear the canyon before something else happened. His rib cage throbbed from falling onto the rocks and blood trickled down his leg where the broken floorboard had gouged him. Having a bullet smack into a tree above his head didn't help his mood.
He dug for the car keys, finally locating them inside his coat.
Get a grip, Hancey. Things aren't a total loss. The drug dealers hadn't seen his vehicle or his face--and they couldn't be sure he had the black bag. He resisted the temptation to unzip the backpack. No time. He stuffed it under the seat and concentrated on reaching the highway. He bounced over the rutted track, pushing the vehicle faster this time because he knew the way.
The drive through Springville to his own cabin on the edge of town took half an hour. He pulled into the garage, cleared a space on the workbench, and dumped the bag's contents. Buck gave a low whistle. No wonder the dealers were desperately searching for this bag. He'd just carried home the equivalent of a winning lottery ticket--a bag full of cash.
~~~~
Caleb had set up camp beside Molly's bed. He gripped her hand in his own and watched her face in case she moved or opened her eyes. He knew the nurses and aides were trying to help, but they kept sticking her with needles and moving her around in bed, and it drove him crazy to see strangers handling her body.
Cindy Wright, the charge nurse, wore pink scrub pants and a shirt patterned with giant hearts. Her orange hair reminded him of Ronald McDonald, but he liked the gentle way she touched Molly.
"There's a good chance your wife hears everything we say, so please talk to her and touch her," Cindy told him. She brought a basin of warm water to the bedside, washed the blood from Molly's hair, and combed it over a towel to dry. "A woman always feels better when her hair's clean," she said.
Cindy returned from the bathroom with the empty basin and stowed it in a drawer beside the bed. "By the way, do you know somebody named Dale?"
"Dale Pickett worked for me on the ranch last summer."
She shook her head. "No. This Dale wears a leather coat, and he's part of the local drug crowd. My sister dated him a few times, that's how I know. Big mistake." She grimaced. "Anyway, he was at the desk earlier asking about your wife, but I told him to get lost."
"Thanks," Caleb said. "We don't know the guy."
Cindy gave him a bottle of lemon-scented lotion so he could massage Molly's feet. Molly loved foot rubs, and he could usually make her toes curl by stroking the muscles with his strong hands. This time her toes didn't move, even when he tickled her.
"There you are!" A plump woman in a flowered dress bustled through the door, carrying a shopping bag. "Oh, my poor Molly. Goodness, you won't like that cast on your arm. It'll slow you down. And how are you, Caleb?" Violet Hansen, the irrepressible president of the Relief Society, peered into his face.
When Molly joined the Mormon church, she automatically became a member of the world's largest women's service organization--the LDS Relief Society. Violet "called" Molly as a teacher, and they quickly became friends.
"I'm a little tired, but holding my own." Caleb released Molly's hand and accepted a hug from Violet.
"You're hungry too, I bet. I brought you a nice dinner." Before he could object, Violet rolled out the bedside table and pulled a set of plastic bowls from her bag. "You have hot rolls, roast beef, and a salad. Sister Morris sent apple pie, and my daughter made brownies. I remember your sweet tooth when you were a little boy."
"This is mighty kind of you."
"At least ten women wanted to come with me. Everyone loves Molly, and I don't know what we'd do without her sweet spirit." Violet brushed away a tear. "Now, about your father. Amy Ross will take his dinner tonight and one of our sisters will visit every day until Molly comes home."
"He may have them for dinner, knowing Dad. He's about as cordial as a hibernating grizzly."
"I thought maybe you forgot to call him," Violet said.
While Violet fussed over Molly, Caleb rinsed his hands in the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He slicked down the stubborn cowlick on the back of his head, half-tuned to Violet's chatter.
"I'll just give Molly a hug and be on my way," she was saying. Then a cry of alarm. "Caleb, something's wrong!"
He flew to the bedside. Molly's face was drawn into a grimace, her body rigid, both feet pointed inward. She thrashed in the bed and breathed with uneven gasps.
"Get help!" Caleb shouted. Cindy and two other nurses charged into the room before Violet could move.
~~~~
Chapter 5
"Grand mal seizure! Page Dr. Warren and get the crash cart!" Cindy squeezed in beside Caleb and rolled Molly onto her side. "You folks need to leave the room," she told Violet.
Caleb clutched the bed rails, barely feeling Violet tug on his arm. Finally, he released his hold and allowed her to pull him out to the waiting room. He paced for fifteen minutes until Violet made him sit. After an agonizing wait, the unit clerk summoned him to the nurses' station and handed over the telephone.