This Deep Panic Page 2

  “Want to do the honors on the safety board?” Ethan asked her.

  She always looked startled when someone spoke to her. As if she had no idea anyone was there until they said something.

  At the trailhead there was a large board where forest rangers posted tips and warnings, and hikers posted trail notes. Ethan skimmed notes on how many spring-hungry bears were awake and the state of the log bridges. Seeing nothing they needed to be worried about, he gestured to the safety notepad where hikers signed in and out on a worn sheaf of papers.

  Rowan picked up the string tied around a stub of dull pencil, and flipped the plastic cover back from the well-thumbed pages.

  “Environmental Science senior class, eleven students, one teacher.” Rowan looked over her shoulder. “Should I say something about Val at the bus?”

  “No. She’s leaving, won’t be back until tomorrow to pick us up. If you list her and something happens to us, search and rescue will waste resources looking for someone who isn’t there.”

  The other kids gathered around in a semi-circle, standing in the misty rain in their wet-weather gear and backpacks. Except, of course, for Payton. She’d pulled a pink short-waist jacket on and stood shivering in tight yoga pants and shoes that looked more like ballet slippers. Even her backpack was small and pink. Ethan’s jaw muscles tightened. He’d spent hours lecturing on how to survive in the woods, how to prepare. He’d told them right from the beginning that they had to come ready for anything on these field trips, that there would be no going back for someone who didn’t. Now he knew why she’d been the first one on the bus. If he’d seen what she was wearing he’d have sent her home.

  For now, Payton was going to be cold and miserable. He’d have to find the balance between letting her suffer to learn a lesson, and keeping her from becoming hypothermic. And keeping the guys in the class from rushing to her rescue. She’d never learn anything that way.

  “Okay, all of you know the lichen we’ve been studying,” Ethan said. “This is your chance to see it in the world where it belongs instead of books. Remember, it’s critically imperiled so follow the conservation assessments. But you’re also going to see more than just the lichen. We’re headed into the old Silver Creek mining district. It’s one of the oldest in these mountains and dates to 1871. There are a still a few old-timers running placer claims for silver, copper, and garnets. And if you pay attention, you might find signs of the old mines. But you are not to go into any of them. They’re not safe. Am I clear on that?”

  There were a few groans of disappointment.

  “This trail has been washed out in the past,” he continued. “And it’s rough. But it’s easy to follow as long as you pay attention and remember what we’ve talked about. Go at your own speed. Don’t get too far ahead of others, or too spread out on the trail. I’ll expect sketches and journal entries on anything that catches your eye, whether it’s Niebla cephalota or something else.”

  Ethan waited as the students started up the trail with their packs. He knew from past hikes that they would sort themselves out depending on their hiking pace. Rowan, physically fit, would lead the pack, probably followed by Zack Swenson, who was the only one besides Ethan who had any chance of keeping up with her. Ethan worked off memories and nightmares by lifting weights. Zack on the other hand, had the lean, ropy muscles from being a serious rock climber and jogger.

  Payton, of course, would tie for last in line along with an overweight kid named Michael. They’d be followed only by Ethan.

  He always took rear guard.

  He stepped onto the trail, under the dripping forest canopy, dark eyes scanning the twilight shadows among the trees. The intoxicating, fresh scents of earth filled the air and he breathed in deeply, cleansed.

  Just before the woods closed around him, he took one last look back at the bus in its little clearing. Val, in her orange coat, was inside and starting the engine. As he watched, he saw the pale color of her face as she raised her head in his direction. And he saw an equally pale hand come up.

  “Did you see that shit?” Sergio Costa, waiting for Ethan, shrugged a black-clad shoulder in the direction of the bus. “She just flipped you the bird, man.”

  “Or she flipped you the bird,” Ethan said.

  Sergio, also known as Spike, had long unruly black hair and pale blue eyes. An Infinity Ouroboros tattoo on a hard bicep. A pierced eyebrow. Eye-candy for teenagers. “No man, it was you she flipped off.”

  Ethan laughed and waited as Spike headed up the trail. A lot of teachers felt the kid was a lost cause. He definitely was someone familiar with being expelled and with juvenile detention centers. But Ethan reserved judgment.

  Payton stumbled over a tree root, catching hold of John for balance. She pulled off a shoe and shook out a small pebble.

  Ethan shook his head. It was going to be a long two miles.

  Payton laughed at something John said, and slipped her shoe on. They headed up the trail, but as Ethan started to follow, movement caught his eye.

  Above them a large raven circled, slowly riding currents of wind. As he watched, it dipped below the treetops, coming so close he saw the sheen of rain on its black feathers.

  It cocked its head to one side almost as if studying him while it circled. He realized the bird was probably used to hikers and looking for a handout. He pulled a fruit and nut bar out of his pack and broke it into pieces, scattering it behind him on the trail.

  But the raven was gone.

  4

  Ramon Saura sat in his car in the drive-through for McDonald’s and watched a sheriff’s truck fly by with lights strobing, headed east toward Sultan. He automatically calculated. Both nieces were in school here in Monroe. His sister-in-law, Therese, was at work at the hair salon in Snohomish. His brother, Tómas, was also at work. Hopefully.

  So his family was safe. Well, only if his brother was actually at the lawyer’s office where he was a partner. Ramon resisted the urge to call and check up. He didn’t want Tómas to get suspicious.

  Old habits died hard, Ramon thought, as he put his shiny blue Camaro in gear and moved a car’s length closer to his junk food. Too many years of looking over his shoulder, too many friends and family gone. Whenever he heard sirens he’d flash back to what those sirens meant. Someone dying. A shootout. A car bomb. A drug deal gone bad.

  Moving to the States had been the right thing for Tómas to do. Ramon was thrilled his nieces were brought here while they were still young, before they saw too much evil. He wanted them to hang on to their innocence as long as possible, to live a life free of fear. Tómas had made good money in Mexico, but had chosen to raise his family in the poorest neighborhoods he could find. There had been too many nights when Ramon had been called because their apartment had been broken into, or because Tómas had been in a fight. It had seemed like a good thing when Tómas suddenly decided to accept a job offer in the States.

  When Therese asked Ramon to join them a few months after they moved, he’d hesitated only long enough to realize that without his family he had nothing. And when Therese told him she thought her husband was having an affair, he knew he needed to move. And so a couple months ago he’d joined them. It hadn’t been too bad. He liked the area and had a good job machining for a cabinet manufacturer.

  It made sense financially to live with his family, to pitch in. It also made sense because he was able to watch his brother. Not just because of the affairs he was clearly having, but also because he was spending a lot of money. More money than it seemed he could be making, even at a law firm. Ramon’s priority was keeping the family together, which meant it was getting time to confront his brother.

  He pulled up to the window, took his bag of grease, and smiled easily at the young woman with brown hair and glasses who handed him the soda. She met his eyes and blushed, then ducked her head and managed to return the smile.

  Grinning broader, Ramon pulled out. His youngest niece, Alegria, called his car a chick magnet. He patted the dashboard. M
aybe it was. The powerful engine accelerated as he headed back to work. He turned the radio on and bit into a fry.

  “The most recent tremor registered 2.4 on the Richter scale, and appears to have been centered in the vicinity of Index, in east Snohomish County. Such tremors are not uncommon in this area, and to talk more about that, we have here in the studio with us Professor Dannie Megard from the University of Washington.”

  Ramon pulled back the wrapper on his quarter pounder. He hadn’t felt any earthquake. But then 2.4 didn’t sound like much of one either. He wondered briefly if he should check on his nieces, maybe call their cells. He didn’t like the thought that they might be at school and unsettled or even scared, with no family around.

  But then, if he hadn’t felt the tremor, they probably hadn’t either. The urge to pull family in close and keep them safe was a hard habit to break.

  Movement caught Ramon’s eye as he turned toward the industrial park at the west end of Monroe. Looking over his shoulder, he saw black birds, more than he had ever seen, lifting up from pastures that bordered Fryelands Boulevard. Ravens? Crows? He didn’t know much about birds. But the black shapes on a gray, shadowy day were oddly unsettling. Maybe because he’d never seen so many in one place. He leaned forward to watch as the birds flew over his car and away into the drizzle.

  The birds were probably nervous from the tremor. Animals felt things like that more than people did. Maybe birds did, too.

  He crumpled the burger wrapper and dropped it in the paper bag. His thoughts wandered back to the blushing girl. He had a place to live, a job, a car. Maybe it was time to build friendships, to truly settle in to his new life.

  Tomorrow was a half-day at school for his nieces. He’d surprise them and take them out for burgers. It would give him an excuse to drive the chick magnet back through the drive-up again, see if the car could work some more magic.

  Grinning at the possibilities, the dreams, the shimmery hopes he’d had to stifle for years, Ramon and his chick magnet headed for work. But moments later, when he pulled into the parking lot, the birds were there. Black shapes perched on cars, on light poles, filling empty parking spots. He stopped the car. Honked the horn. But the birds didn’t move. He inched forward carefully and tapped the horn again.

  He was about to honk a third time when the birds rose into the air in one large mass and flew out over the industrial complex.

  Ramon parked, got out, and stood a moment, watching the birds fly into the dark skies. Rain pattered on asphalt around him, dripped through his hair, and soaked into the shoulders of his jacket. Wind shook the leaves of trees. Out on Fryelands, cars flew by, spraying water into the air. He shivered, chilled more by the disquieting sight of all the birds than by the rain.

  He waited a moment longer but the birds didn’t circle back. Thinking again that they were just unsettled by the tremor, he shrugged off the odd sight. Locking the car, he headed for work, his thoughts already moving on to the tasks for the day, to what Therese might make for dinner, to his plans for impressing a girl the next day.

  Life was good. That would change when he finally confronted his brother.

  But for now, life was good.

  5

  Sharon Driscoll came out of Monroe Valley General Hospital with a polite smile pasted in place and something like panic simmering deep inside. She unlocked her blue BMW and tossed her cream-colored Bourne blazer onto the passenger seat, following it with her Hermes purse. But before she could get in, she saw one of the bitches stick her head out the hospital door. Checking up on her, Sharon knew. The woman had the gall to wave.

  Wave.

  What did they expect her to do? Pull out a gun and shoot herself in the parking lot?

  That was a thought. Go out with a literal bang. Maybe she needed to buy a gun.

  Sharon sank down into the low-slung car, started the engine and then pulled on the seatbelt, wincing as it slid across her breasts. She paused. Thought a moment, then let it retract back where it had been. She tugged down on her green silk blouse with a sense of purpose.

  Maybe someone would hit her on the highway. Head on. With no seatbelt she’d be ejected. A fast death.

  She pulled out of the parking lot, automatically flicking on headlights against the gray, drizzly afternoon. She headed east on Highway 2, toward Sultan and home. Once out of sight of the hospital she unclenched her jaw and drew in a deep breath. A brief dizziness washed through, leaving her fingers and toes tingling, as if she hadn’t breathed for hours.

  The oncologist had been so damn kind that it was condescending. Reading her the results as if she didn’t already know them. Listing all her options, talking about statistics and how far treatment had come in the past twenty years. How he and his staff would partner with her for treatment like they were creating some business contract. With her life as the termination clause.

  The light ahead turned red and Sharon hit the brake harder than she’d intended, jerking to a stop. A car behind her honked and she glanced in the rearview mirror. The small black Honda was right on her bumper. Had probably just missed rear-ending her.

  Rage, white-hot, burned through her. Throwing the BMW in park, she shoved open the door and charged the smaller car, her heels making sharp slapping sounds on the pavement. The driver, a young man, dropped his mouth open as wide as his eyes.

  Sharon slammed the palms of her hands against the mist-washed driver’s side window.

  “You fucking asshole!” she screamed, hitting the window again. “You almost hit me and then you fucking honk at me! Come out here!”

  She heard the click as the driver locked the doors. She saw him grab a cell phone and dial. She fisted her hands and drove them down on the roof of the car.

  “Come out here so I can rip your fucking head off!” Hot tears washed down her cheeks.

  The kid held his phone up. “I called 911! I’m recording you!”

  Sharon bent so her face was right next to the glass. She stared into the jerk’s wide eyes but then he faded out of clarity until all she saw in the misty rain was her watery reflection staring back at her, imposed over the kid’s pale face.

  She saw a woman in her fifties who had never used profanity before this day. She saw formerly blonde hair now almost all gray, the styled curls going limp in the mist. She saw rage in the hazel eyes, and under that, terror.

  She saw coming death.

  Sharon slammed her hands into the car again, hearing sirens.

  A man in a car behind the kid’s stuck his head out his window. “Hey, knock it off!”

  Sharon flipped the man her middle finger. She’d never done that before either. It felt good. She flipped the middle finger at the kid. She watched the sheriff deputy’s truck, lights flashing, pull up at an angle in front of her car, and flipped him off, too.

  “What’s the problem here?” The deputy with dark red hair in a military cut spoke in a calm, level voice as he walked toward her.

  The kid must have felt brave now that backup was there because he lowered his window. “This crazy woman just went nuts on me, officer. I was just sitting here waiting for the light to change, doin’ nothin’.”

  The deputy held his hand up, silencing the kid, and turned to Sharon, waiting.

  She drew in another deep breath, felt the tingle again. All those cells in her body, drawing life from the breath she pulled in.

  All those cells drawing life so they could replicate and kill her.

  “What’s the problem?” she mimicked, looking at the deputy, with his military haircut and muscled arms and calm eyes. “The problem is I’m going to wrap my hands around this little turd’s throat and strangle him because he almost rear-ended me. So you best just pull your gun out and shoot me now.”

  The kid raised his window until just a couple inches remained open.

  “Sorry ma’am, but that isn’t going to happen today. Why don’t you tell me what the real problem is?”

  “Will you at least arrest me?” She’d never been i
n jail before, but knew people died in jail. Suicide by crazy inmates.

  “No ma’am. That’s not going to happen, either. Maybe, after I talk to everyone and we stand around in the rain a while, you’ll end up with a ticket.”

  “I’ll press charges for assault!” the kid yelled.

  “Sure, you can do that,” the deputy said, his voice still calm. “And then you’ll go up before the judge and say how you, a guy in his, what? Twenties? Got assaulted and scared by an older lady who never touched him.” The deputy turned to Sharon. “You never touched him, right?”

  “The little shit locked his door.”

  The deputy actually smiled.

  Sharon, reluctantly, felt the rage cool. That made the tears start again. She put her fists on her hips, feeling the expensive tweed of her black slacks. Things that no longer mattered. “You can’t do this to me. You can’t just let me off. Let me go. Make me go home.”

  “Sure I can,” the deputy said. “I expect you to get back in your car and leave. Whether you go home or not, that’s up to you. But don’t take whatever is making you so angry out on someone again. Because if I get another call about you, I will arrest you.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  The humor left the deputy’s blue eyes. “Ma’am, jail isn’t going to allow you to escape whatever you’re running from. I know that look. You go find someone to talk to. Get your head on straight. Quit punishing strangers for what’s messed up in your life. I want no more calls about you. Is that clear?”

  The deputy must have seen resignation in her eyes because he cupped her elbow with one hand and walked her to the car. He even opened the door and helped her in.

  “What’s your name?” she asked, wiping the back of a hand across her eyes.

  “Max Douglass. You want my badge number, too?”