Cry of the Wild by Catherine Anderson

  Sam helped her steady the glass and press it to her lips. "I'm not so sure it was silly. While Jangles was sponging you off to get your temperature down, I went to the sauna. The damper on the stove was wide open, and the firebox was completely filled with wood. We never put that much in there."

  Crysta's scalp prickled. "You aren't saying—" She let him take the glass. Sinking back against the pillows, she stared at him. "But, Sam, I could have died in there."

  "You very nearly did."

  Crysta closed her eyes. "It's crazy. Who would want me dead?"

  "Maybe no one. It could have been an accident. It's pos­sible your voice didn't carry to the anteroom, just as you said. And given the near-disastrous outcome, I really can't blame someone for not coming forward and admitting he toppled the wood. Maybe I'm jumping at shadows again."

  He turned to gaze at the shade-covered window, then, at the sound of footsteps outside, he leaped up and jerked aside the blind.

  "Sam, what is it?"

  He stepped close to the wall, peering sideways through the glass. "It was Jangles," he said in a thoughtful voice.

  "She's going down toward the river, toward the trees. There's a man with her."

  "The Indian?" Crysta asked hoarsely.

  Sam nodded, a frown pleating his forehead. "If a friend of hers is coming to visit, I wonder why she doesn't just ask him in."

  Crysta had no answer to that unless Jangles wanted to keep the man's visits to herself. "A boyfriend, do you think?"

  Sam watched them for a moment. Then a halfhearted smile touched his mouth. "I guess. He just hugged her goodbye."

  That revelation eased Crysta's mind somewhat. "Maybe she's afraid you'd disapprove."

  He sighed and rubbed his forehead. "I'd worry, more than likely. If she gets married and I lose her, I don't know what we'll do without her. It's not easy to find help who's willing to live this far from Anchorage for half the year." Returning to sit beside her, he waved the subject of Jangles aside and said, "Back to more immediate concerns. I want you to be more careful from here on in. Try to stay around people—me, Tip, Jangles. I'd rather be safe than sorry."

  "I just went to take a steam bath," she reminded him.

  "Next time, I'll go down with you."

  Remembering the thick steam, she suppressed a shudder. "It'll be a while before I go back."

  "It's going to be a while before you do much of any­thing. The doctor says you have to rest for twenty-four hours. He wants us to pour at least four gallons of fluid into you."

  "Twenty-four hours!" Despite her weakness, Crysta could scarcely bear the thought of being confined to bed that long. "Sam, no! We have to go to Anchorage."

  "You're dehydrated."

  "So? I'll drink water on the way!" She tried to sit up again and immediately felt dizzy. Sam caught her shoulder to steady her. "I'm not staying in bed an entire day!"

  She threw her legs over the edge of the bed and pushed to her feet. A wave of dizziness washed over her, and Sam had to catch her from falling.

  "There, you see?" he said. "You're ill, Crysta, and you're going to follow doctor's orders and stay in bed if I have to sit on you." He helped her to lie back down. "Feel fortunate I didn't have you flown in to the Anchorage hos­pital. If Jangles hadn't assured me she knew how to take care of you, that's what I would have done. Getting trapped in a steam room and losing consciousness is no laughing matter."

  Crysta could see by the grim set of his mouth that he wouldn't waver, no matter how she argued. "Then why don't you go?" she cried in a voice thick with frustration. "I can describe the building. Maybe you could find it."

  "There are several warehouses, and I'm sure they'd all look pretty much the same to me. Besides, I'm not leaving you." He shot a nervous glance at the window. "Not after finding that stove stoked full and the damper wide open. Prepare yourself for a day of constant company."

  "I'll go crazy lying here."

  "We'll go through Derrick's papers some more."

  "A lot of good that will do Derrick!"

  Thoughts of her brother were Crysta's undoing. The tears in her eyes spilled over onto her cheeks, prompting her to avert her face and rub blindly at them with the sleeve of Sam's shirt. She knew Sam was right; she was too weak to go anywhere. Feeling so helpless infuriated her.

  "If we run out of papers to go through, I'm a great hand at chess," he offered in a gentle voice.

  She groaned.

  "Rummy?"

  No longer caring if he saw her tears, Crysta turned to look at him. "Bring on the briefcase."

  In addition to giving Sam and Crysta further opportu­nity to study Derrick's papers, the day's delay, though frustrating, afforded Sam, Crysta and Tip a getting- acquainted time, during which they began to forge strong bonds of friendship. Crysta, with some tactful questioning during one of Tip's absences, discovered that Tip's mother, an ambitious interior decorator who couldn't cope with the hardships of raising a learning-impaired child, had walked out before the boy's second birthday. As much as that knowledge made Crysta's heart ache for Tip, she felt even sorrier for Sam. The pain and disillusionment his wife had caused him still lurked in his eyes when he spoke of her.

  When Tip left the bedroom again to make some pop­corn, Crysta lay back against the pillows and absently shuffled the deck of cards. "I guess we all have our heart­breaks," she said softly. "It makes you wonder if love is all it's cracked up to be."

  "Janet didn't know how to love," Sam replied matter-of-factly. "Doesn't say much for my preferences in women, does’ it?"

  "Maybe the fault lay in her, Sam. You can't beat up on yourself for making one bad call."

  "It wasn't just a bad call, not with a child involved." His jaw tensed. "Janet lacked the nurturing qualities you need to be a parent. Somehow, I failed to see that, and my son paid the price. Tip was like a toy to her. She loved to play with him when the mood struck, but her energies were mainly directed toward her career, and when it became ap­parent that Tip would demand far more time than she could comfortably give him, she walked out."

  Crysta couldn't think of anything to say, so she said nothing.

  "When I look back on it, I don't know how I could have thought I loved her." He made a feeble gesture and shrugged. "I was young—too young, I guess. She was pretty and vivacious and lighthearted. I didn't see the selfish side of her until she settled into marriage and stopped putting her best foot forward." He looked up, straight into Crysta's eyes. "For Tip's sake, I tried to make the marriage work, and even that turned out to be a mistake. She stayed just long enough for Tip to love her and then disappeared from his life." His eyes grew distant and shadowed. "I never could understand how she could abandon Tip. Me, yes, but not him."

  Crysta had no answers. In the short time she had known Tip, she had already lost a piece of her heart to him.

  "Those first few weeks after she left, I wanted to go after her and throttle her," Sam admitted raggedly. "Hearing my son cry for her, knowing she was probably out on the town with a bunch of yuppies, not even thinking of him...it made me crazy. Sometimes I'd lie awake imagining how satisfy­ing it would be to strangle her."

  After an extremely long silence, Crysta touched his hand. "We all get a little crazy sometimes. If you ever meet Dick, ask him about the condition of the bed sheets I gave him when he moved out."

  Some of the seriousness eased from Sam's eyes. "There's a story in there somewhere."

  Crysta smothered a smile. To this day, the memory gave her a feeling of satisfaction. "He did say that he wanted to split the sheets. Far be it from me not to accommodate him."

  Sam shouted with laughter. Crysta grinned.

  "The moral is that we all get a little radical if someone pushes the right buttons. For you, it was seeing your son suffer. For me, it was taking a back seat to silk sheets. The fact that he already had a girlfriend had absolutely nothing to do with it." She slanted a smile at him. "Well, maybe a little."

  He was still smiling, th
ough sadly. "You still loved him?"

  "Truthfully?" It was Crysta's turn to shrug. "Yes. The divorce was his decision, not mine, though I didn't fight it. He took exception to the fact that my brother intruded into our lives so much."

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Anyway, live and learn. In this day and age, marriage isn't the be-all and end-all of a woman's existence. My life is full now. My shop is thriving. I have lots of friends. And, living alone as I do, it doesn't matter if I wake up from a dream in the middle of the night, convinced my brother needs me."

  Sam studied her thoughtfully. "Is it so bad to be needed?"

  The skin across her cheekbones felt tight as she forced a smile. "Only if there's a husband around to come unglued. To Derrick and me, that kind of thing seems normal. Not that it is." She swallowed. "My analyst believes our mother brainwashed us, and that because Derrick and I are so con­vinced our dreams are based in fact, we manipulate events to make them come true."

  "And do you believe that?"

  "I've tried."

  His eyes darkened. "Your analyst's theory sounds like hogwash to me. What's normal anyway? I have a problem with that word."

  "Be that as it may, I've spent three years and thousands of dollars on counseling since the divorce, trying for that enviable state." She bent the cards backward and let them rain onto her lap. "What you said about being uniquely me hit home. We can't change what we are, no matter how we might try."

  "The right man will come along."

  She shook her head. "No man would put up with the in­trusions in my life, not Dick or anyone. I was the one who couldn't fit into the mold."

  "Crysta, the right man would understand about Der­rick. Don't sell marriage down the river just because you tried it once and failed."

  "You're a fine one to talk. You're not ready to risk get­ting burned again. I can see it in your eyes."

  He gathered the cards from her lap and gave them an ex­pert shuffle, tapping them into line on his bent knee. "I met another woman. About five years ago." He flashed a hu­morless smile. "That time, I thought I was going into it with my eyes open, choosing a woman who was the opposite from Janet—a homebody, not particularly attractive, more serious in nature." His mouth twisted. "I didn't love her. At that point, I was still convinced my child needed a mother. I liked her, and after the experience with Janet, that seemed more important to me than romance."

  "What happened?"

  He cut the cards, turning up a three, which seemed to amuse him. "With my usual unerring accuracy, I'd chosen badly. If you want lessons on how to strike out every time you go to bat, just give me a call and I'll give you point­ers."

  "I've done fine with no help," she inserted with a laugh.

  "A few days after I gave her the ring, I saw some notes by her telephone. I asked her what they were about. She hedged and then finally admitted she was checking on boarding schools for Tip. End of relationship."

  "There are lots of women who would treasure a son like Tip."

  "There are special problems raising a handicapped child. A lifetime of them. It's a rare woman who would take them on when the child wasn't hers. These last few years, I've come to realize Tip is doing fine just as things are. I'm con­tent to remain single."

  "Content or merely resigned? Tip's handicap isn't that debilitating. The right woman will love him, Sam."

  "Will she? You've no idea how often he's been hurt by people. Here, in this setting, he's shielded. The real world is cruel, and kids like Tip get kicked in the teeth. I can't subject him to another rejection."

  "Is that why you get so upset about the idea of him showing his paintings?"

  His face tightened. "Is it so wrong for Tip to take joy from his art as a hobby? If I let him enter an art show and some critic lacerates him, he'll never again recapture the magic he feels for painting. Painting is Tip's life."

  "Living life to its fullest means being shot down some­times. You're holding Tip back, in the one arena where he can excel. Maybe he will get lacerated by art critics. Most big talents usually are. But then again, maybe he'll set the world on fire. Have you considered that?"

  "You sound just like Derrick."

  She arched an eyebrow. "My brother and I tend to think alike." Growing quiet, she studied his dark face, remem­bering his scrapbook of Tip's childhood and her initial feeling that Sam was an exceptional father. "I know you love Tip. More importantly, Tip knows. Let him take his knocks, Sam, and be there for him when he needs support. That's what parents are for."

  "You're forgetting that Tip is handicapped."

  "So was Beethoven."

  A soft knock cut their conversation short. Sam got up to answer the door. Todd Shriver stood framed in the door­way.

  "I invited myself in," he explained. "I knocked on the front door, but you didn't hear me. Didn't want to be too loud for fear Ms. Meyers might be asleep." Flashing a grin at Crysta, he added, "I heard about your mishap. Now I see I was worrying over nothing. You look fit as a fiddle."

  Crysta raised a delicate eyebrow. "I wish you could con­vince Sam of that."

  "Wise fellow, Sam. After what you've been through, a day's rest is probably a good idea."

  "Except that I have far more important things to be do­ing."

  Shriver smiled. "Careful. You don't want to earn your­self the reputation of being a difficult patient."

  "Impossible is more like it." Sam settled laughing brown eyes on Crysta. She was relieved to see that he didn't seem angry with her for speaking so candidly about his son. "I'll be glad when we're on our way to Anchorage tomorrow so she'll stop needling me."

  "Tip mentioned that you two wanted to fly back with me. Going to have her checked over by a doctor?"

  Sam shook his head. "No, actually, we have some other business there. Although, her seeing a doctor isn't a bad idea."

  "Bite your tongue, Mr. Shriver. Now see what you've done?" Crysta rolled her eyes. "I'm perfectly fine, I tell you."

  Returning to sit on the bed, Sam braced an arm behind him, his side pressing warmly against the sheet that covered Crysta's legs. To the pilot, he said, "It's not a problem, your staying overnight, is it? If so, we could probably hop a flight with someone else."

  Todd rested his shoulder against the door frame. "I wouldn't hear of it. Tomorrow evening the lodge upriver from here is due for a delivery of gasoline. After I get the plane loaded, I have a bunch of errands I can attend to. Taking you out and bringing you back will work out fine for me."

  "Good," Sam said.

  Shriver's gaze slid to Crysta. "Planning to pick up Der­rick's personal effects?"

  "Um, yes, I suppose I might do that while I'm there."

  "Well, I'm glad to get a chance to help out."

  Sam rose from the bed and moved casually toward the door, effecting Shriver's dismissal without having to sug­gest it. "We'll see you first thing in the morning then."

  The windup clock struck midnight, its steady ticking a comfort to Crysta. Sam had lain with his head on this pil­low. Being in his room, warmed by his quilt, she felt far more secure than she probably should have.

  She lay staring at the twilight beyond the bedroom win­dow, her thoughts on Derrick. As horrible as her last dream had been, she no longer had the frightening sensation that Derrick was dead. The intermittent communication from him proved he wasn't. Her earlier suspicion that the silence inside her might be due to Derrick's being unconscious now had merit. It was a slender thread of hope, but at least it was hope.

  The creaking of the door brought Crysta's gaze around. Sam poked his head into the room, then, upon seeing her awake, stepped inside. In one hand, he held some papers. "How's the head?"

  "Much better."

  He glanced toward the jug of water on the nightstand. "Looks like you've got the third gallon almost whipped."

  "Almost."

  Crysta checked the buttons on the shirt she wore, feeling suddenly self-conscious. During the endless hours of en­forced bed
rest, she had been afforded plenty of time to contemplate her state of undress when Sam had rescued her from the sauna.

  "You feel up to talking?" he asked.

  "Sure." Crysta pushed herself up against the pillows, pulling the sheet high. The mattress sank under Sam's weight as he sat beside her. She noted that his eyes seemed shadowed.

  "Jim called a while ago."

  Crysta stared at him, knowing what he was going to say. "The blood was Derrick's, wasn't it?"

  "Preliminary tests show it's the same type."

  She took a deep breath. "It's no more than I expected."

  He held the papers aloft. "I think maybe I've found something."

  Her heart leaped. "What?"

  "Now, don't get your hopes up. It could be nothing."

  "What, Sam? The suspense is killing me."

  He spread the papers out, some on his lap, some on hers. "Invoices for conduit, all marked returned. Some have question marks and notes in the margins in Derrick's hand­writing."

  "So?"

  Sam glanced up. "Crysta, don't return shipment docu­ments for each order strike you as odd?"

  "Not particularly. If you order way too much of some­thing, you return it. Why keep your capital tied up in stock?"

  He held up a staying hand. "You're thinking small- business practices. Think West Coast corporation a min­ute. Blanchette has a lot of building sites in Alaska, and several warehouses, so storage space isn't a concern. If you'll need conduit at another site within a few months, does it make good sense to return your surplus? When you reorder, you have more shipment costs. Prices might go up. Double whammy, and not cost effective. You're the re­tailer. Am I off base in my reasoning?"

  Crysta's mind clicked into gear. She sat more erect. "All right, I see your angle. It doesn't make sense to rack up extra shipping costs to return something you'll have to reor­der soon thereafter." She quickly scanned the papers Sam had spread across her lap. "But what's the point, Sam? It may be odd, but why would someone do it?"