Ancient Echoes (14 page)

Deputy Mallick’s mouth felt dry as he pondered whether to
say more or to hurry away from his mercurial boss. He swallowed hard before
sheepishly adding, “The Customs agent is a woman.”

“Then what I said goes double, damn it! I’m busy. Send her
to Salmon City.”

He bent low over a drawer and rummaged through it for a box
of staples when he heard a far different voice from his deputy’s tenor. “And
here I believed it when people told me Idahoans were friendly.”

He looked up to see Mallick fleeing out the door as a tall
woman approached. She carried herself stiffly, head high, expression stoic. Her
coloring was fair yet wan, as if she suffered from a weighty fatigue. She was
dressed sensibly, but her clothes looked so new he expected to see price tags
dangling from them. Something about her made him immediately suspicious. For
one thing, most federal bureaucrats reeked of undeserved cockiness, and she
didn’t.

Extending her hand, she said, “Charlotte Reed.”

He stood to shake her hand. She had a strong grip, her
demeanor formidable. “What brings Customs out here?” he asked. “Are you with
the border patrol or immigration?”

She turned and made sure the deputy had gone. The sheriff’s
harsh glare could have been a weapon. “Neither. My job has to do with art
smuggling and forgeries.” She showed her credentials. “I also have a
concealed-carry permit and”—she laid her 9 mm Glock 19 on the table—“I'm
armed.”

He studied her ID. It looked legitimate. “You're in Idaho
now.” He gestured for her to sit on a rigid wooden arm chair, as he sat again
behind his desk. “Concealed carry's not a problem. What brings you here?”

She put her gun back in her handbag as she took a seat. The
sheriff clearly felt no love for Feds, and regarded her with cold calculation.
Lying had never been her strong suit. “We’re trying to track down an ancient
manuscript.
An incredibly valuable manuscript.
Lionel
Rempart allegedly knows something about its whereabouts. I need to question
him.”

“Your timing is peculiar, to put it mildly.” Jake wondered
even more what her game was.

“I know he's missing, but I don’t want to take the chance of
him getting away,” she said, doing all she could not to appear nervous. “I need
to be there as soon as he’s found.”

“You’ve got more confidence in our success at finding him
than most of those vultures camped outside.” Jake gave a caustic grimace.

She saw no humor in the remark.
“Perhaps.”
Her fingers tightened on the arm of her chair. “What have you been told about
Rempart's reason for going into such a remote area?”

He leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head,
elbows out as he studied her. Her story sounded like a crock of B.S., but for
the moment, he played along.
“Nothing useful.
Just verbiage to cover their collective butts.”

Her lips tilted wryly at his honesty. “Some reporters are
saying that since Rempart is an expert on Lewis and Clark, he must have come
here because of them.”

He snorted.
“Idiots.
Makes you feel
warm and fuzzy about journalists, doesn’t it?” He turned serious, yet continued
to make her feel like a bug he’d just pinned to a whiteboard. “Look, Ms. Reed,
people who study Lewis and Clark are fanatics, the sort who can tell you the
phase of the moon on every night of the expedition from the time it started in
May, 1804 until it reached the Pacific in November, 1805. But you’ve got to
head a good deal north if you want to walk in their moccasins. Rempart knew
they were never out where he went.”

Michael Rempart stood in the doorway behind the Deputy and
watched the exchange between the hard-faced local sheriff, and the pale, tense
woman. The Deputy seemed loathe to interrupt, but Michael couldn't pass up the
opening.

“The name’s Rempart,” he said as he strode into the room. He
watched the sheriff's quick assessment of him, “Seems I’m in the right place.”

Jake rose to his feet, a grimace covering his face. “You
sure as hell aren't the professor.”

Michael surveyed the former storage space, now search
headquarters, as he dropped his leather duffle bag on the floor, and his Oakley
sunglasses atop it. “I'm Michael. Lionel's my brother.”

“I'm sorry, Sheriff,” Deputy Mallick said, still hovering in
the background. “I had to let him in to get him away from those news people.
They’re going nuts out there!”

“Son, you got a gun,” Jake said with a scowl before facing Michael
again. “You can leave a phone number or some way to reach you. We'll keep you
apprised of any news.”

Michael turned toward Charlotte. “Please pardon my
interruption,” he said with a slight nod.

“No problem.” As Charlotte held out her hand, Michael heard
relief in her voice, as if she might be glad that someone else would deflect
the sheriff's bad humor.
“Charlotte Reed, U.S. Customs.”

“Customs?”
Michael asked as they
shook hands.

“It’s a long story,” she said.

Michael stared a beat too long as he remembered the Chinese
director Zhao mentioning the U.S. government’s interest in his dig. Was she
part of that interested group of Feds? He then turned back to Jake. “I didn't
come all the way from Ulaanbaatar to sit in a motel room. I'm here to find my brother.”

Jake bristled at the tone. “Can't say I know or much care
where Ulaanbaatar is. In fact, I don't care much about customs agents or
brotherly love. Right now, I need to get back to work, so listen up.” He strode
to a large U.S. Forest Service area map taped to the wall. In brusque, no
nonsense terms, he explained where the search teams were deployed. “We suspect
the university group got on the Salmon River and headed to who knows where.
There's nothing for you to do but wait.”

“Hell, no.”
Michael spat out the
words as he moved closer to study the map. “If that's where they've gone, I’m
going after them. I've never met a river I couldn't run.”

Jake took a deep breath, strained to remain calm, but each
word grew louder. “We've already sent teams up and down the river.
Did no good.
It's the size, the number of inlets,
tributaries, creeks. They could have turned off at any one of them. I'd invite
you to look for yourself, but I'll be god-damned if I want another Rempart lost
out there. As for Customs”—he faced Charlotte—“I don’t give a rat’s ass about
it. If you have official business here, Ms. Reed, you go through channels like
everyone else or, to me, you’re just another civilian.” He glared at them. “You
two can leave now.”

“I don’t think so,” Charlotte said, as she scowled back
every bit as fiercely as the sheriff.

“I know my brother's ways and scientific methods,” Michael
said. “Look, he studies the western expansion in the U.S., which means he
spends most of his time in small towns, museums, and libraries. Roughing it is
a visit to a national park. He almost never goes anywhere that's in its natural
state. I'm the one who does that.”

“The way I heard it from the University,” Jake said, “he was
Daniel Boone and Kit Carson rolled into one. At the same time, the fired guide
claimed Rempart didn't know which end of horse has a tail. I should have known
who to listen to.” His mouth curled in disgust.

“When is the next search party going out?” Michael asked.

“Listen to me and get this straight.” Jake was beyond
exasperated with all the Johnny-come-latelies who kept showing up at his office
door. “I've already got three search teams and two helicopters out there.
There's nothing more for you to do. I don't know why either of you came all the
way to Idaho, but you are
not wanted here.”

As the sheriff's gaze turned to Charlotte, she said, “I told
you my reason.”

Jake grimaced. “Did you?”

She turned away from his steely green-eyed stare, and looked
at Michael.

“I'm here for my brother,” Michael stated.

“And what else?” Jake asked.

Michael’s jaw clenched. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Jake reminded himself not to give in to his anger and
annoyance. It wouldn’t be “professional” as the County Commissioners warned him
when they first offered him the job of sheriff. “As I said, if you'll both
excuse me, I have search teams to coordinate.”

Charlotte joined Michael at the map, and Jake used the time
to cool down and study them.

Michael Rempart seemed an arrogant SOB with a reckless air
that Jake found disturbing. Charlotte Reed was altogether different. She had a
strained look about her, as if she held something deep inside. And
a sadness
to her eyes when she thought no one looked. Yet,
he liked something about those eyes, an intelligence and—although she worked
hard to hide it—a genuineness and warmth.

Not
that such things
mattered to
him anymore. Not at this point in his life.

“One person,” Michael said, interrupting his thoughts,
“would be hard to find out there, even two. But this is eight, most likely all
moving together, not going anywhere fast, having to light fires, eat, fish.
They could be hurt.
Dying.
We’ve got to hurry. I don't
see how you've failed to find them.”

“I don't give a goddamn what you see.” All his good
intentions about his temper vanished. Jake drew himself up to his full height,
still a good three or four inches less than Michael's angular, six-foot-two
frame, but he wasn't about to hear his search tactics second-guessed. He knew
this land—it was in his soul—and he knew how it could swallow up a person, and
there was little anyone could do about it.

“Would you rather,” Michael said, his tone cold, “I go to
the press with some sob story about how the local sheriff won’t let me help look
for my beloved brother? Maybe Ms. Reed can do the same with the Feds, bring in
a few more of them to crawl around Telichpah Flat. They’ll make a fine addition
to the mob already outside.”

On the verge of telling them to bring it on, instead Jake
regarded the two as they waited for his reaction. As he did, his irritation
dropped to a simmering boil. He didn’t know the reasons for the half-truths
they tried to feed him, and he didn’t trust either one, but he recognized the
demons in their eyes. He’d been down that road before himself. They were
haunted by ghosts and something more.
Guilt?
Regret?
He shouldn’t care, but for some reason, they made him curious.

Whatever was going on, it verified the bad feeling he’d had
about this search and rescue ever since it started. Michael Rempart was right
about one thing. Eight people should be relatively easy to find even in an area
as enormous, rugged, and empty as the River of No Return Wilderness. He felt
danger in this rescue, and the sense of danger grew worse, not better, every
minute. He refused to allow the two of them to get hurt.

Just then, Deputy Mallick entered the room without knocking,
which was unlike him. His eyes were round and scared as he handed the sheriff a
note. Jake read it and frowned. He glanced quickly, coldly, in Charlotte’s
direction. “I’ll be goddamned. You verified this?”

“As best I could,” Mallick said. His Adam’s apple bobbed as
he stepped back outside.

Charlotte went on immediate alert. She watched the sheriff
put on a heavy sheepskin coat and tug a black Stetson low on his brow. With
Wrangler’s, brown pointy-toed boots, and the weather-hardened lines of his
face, she had to admit that he looked like Hollywood’s idea of an old time
cowboy star, but she found nothing about him in the least bit heroic. He was
insensitive, overly brusque, and too much of a bully. She wondered what the
note could have said that made him glare at her the way he had.

Jake walked to the door, but then stopped and faced Michael
and Charlotte.
“Sounds as if you two might be around a while.
I suspect the few hotels and motels around here are booked solid, and it’ll get
a lot worse once all those Customs agents come here to help Ms. Reed. I’ve
heard the CNN crew scored an Airstream trailer from the days of Nixon. Maybe
they’ll let you bunk with them for a few days in exchange for the big news
scoop you plan to give.”

With that, he stormed from the search headquarters and
pushed his way through the press.

Charlotte glanced at Michael with stunned dismay. “My, but
that went well.”

DERRICK HAMMILL WAS sour. His men
stayed clear. From a ridge overlooking Telichpah Flat, the Leica Rangefinder
binoculars gave him a clear view of Charlotte Reed entering search
headquarters. Why in the hell was she here? He thought she was dead.

He hated the bitch.

She killed his man in Jerusalem,
then
he lost her in Paris. When he was dispatched to Idaho, he'd been told some
so-called pros would eliminate her in Washington D.C. Obviously, they’d blown
the assignment. Or Charlotte Reed had more lives than a cat.

But now, with an M-107 .50 caliber long range sniper rifle,
he could kill her when she left the office.
Easy as target
practice.
He wouldn’t, though. Not yet, anyway. Not while she could be
useful to him. He lowered the binoculars.

He knew only one reason for her to be here: Lionel Rempart.
Her being here told him the university group must be nearby.

The bitch was lucky and smart, which was more than he could
say about those two idiot river guides he’d wasted time on. And the sheriff
wasn’t much better.

He had been sent here to find Rempart’s group. Too bad he
couldn’t get more specific
intel
on where they were
going. It wasn’t as if there were street signs out here. Hell, roads barely
existed. He’d never been to a part of the U.S. as barren and desolate. He and
his men had been monitoring all law enforcement frequencies, every bit of data
the media sent to their newsrooms, and even personal emails into or out of the
immediate area. At a moment’s notice if the right signal came in, they could
triangulate a position and move out.