When They Were Young: A Sam Dawson Mystery

By Steven W. Horn

Stumbling across a child’s body while fishing in Wyoming’s Laramie range, Sam Dawson must unravel the truth as those closest to him get drawn into a dangerous web of revenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9780999124857

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CHAPTER ONE

GIRL

Her face was frozen to the icy ground. Her decomposing scalp had slipped forward in wrinkles above the dark sockets of her recessed eyes. Blonde hair, almost white, spilled over her pallid features as if she were hiding beneath it. His breath caught in the back of his throat. Just a child , he thought, maybe ten or twelve years old. Her body was curled into a tight fetal position, her wrists crossed under her chin, her knees touching her elbows. She had been cold.

Sam Dawson was cold too. He could taste the Wyoming air, sharp and metallic against the roof of his mouth. His nostrils flared against the sunless hollow, detecting the soft fragrance of pine, the pungent odor of decomposing aspen leaves, and the aroma of sage that drifted across the stream from the open meadows above. Tiny droplets of condensation formed under his nose as his breath escaped in foggy surges. He glanced at L2, who showed no interest in the corpse. Sam, not the dog, had found the girl. You call yourself a bloodhound, he mumbled softly, without knowing why. There was no one to hear him. The waters of Crow Creek swallowed his words and murmured its own incoherent whispers, the confused gossip of the stream spirits.

Sam leaned his rod case against a snow-covered boulder and placed his wicker creel on the ground. Bending down, he gently pushed her hair from her face. A gray eye, opaque, stared blankly from the blackness of its shrunken socket, a cloudy window to a young soul long departed. Her lips were pulled toward the ground as if sucked down by a subterranean vacuum. Her formless face reminded him of a freshly dipped taffy apple placed on a hard surface to cool. She had not been dressed for a Wyoming winter—black jeans, white sneakers, and a burgundy windbreaker.

Her back was huddled against the cold north-facing slope that rose sharply above her. An embroidered patch appliqué lay upside down next to her. Sam picked it up. It was a gray capital M, with Minnie Mouse standing coyly against the left leg of the block letter. Minnie’s red polka-dot bow and oversized yellow shoes added splashes of color. A few broken threads remained along the edges of the patch, and the dark outline of the missing letter was clearly visible against the slightly faded jacket. Tiny oblong pellets—rodent feces—littered the nylon folds of the windbreaker where it met the earth. He had seen several ground squirrels on his hike into the canyon. They scampered among the boulders and pine trees that lined the narrow valley floor. Like Sam, they were eager for spring and were busy assessing winter’s toll. It appeared the jerky little rodents had removed the appliqué with surgical precision. Nothing else had been chewed.

Sam sighed. All I wanted to do was go fishing, he whispered. He looked upstream, then downstream. There was no place more desirable, more rugged or remote within a hundred square miles. He imagined a black woolly bugger, with a flash of red and a gold bead, arcing gracefully over the stream and then back over his head as he placed the wet fly into the swirling eddy behind a boulder. Why me? Why always me? he thought. What is it with me and dead people? I’ve been here too many times before to think it doesn’t mean something. It was 2008. Only four months had passed since his grisly discoveries in northern Minnesota the previous November. Still, none of it compared to the mess in Colorado more than eight years earlier. That’s why I live in Wyoming, he reminded himself.

He was only thirty miles from Cheyenne and even fewer road miles from Laramie, as the crow flies. But it would take at least an hour to reach the nearest trail or road. What were you doing way out here, Little Mouse Girl? he thought, staring down at her frozen remains. She had been some mother’s daughter, some father’s little girl. Somewhere, someone missed her. He would have. He knew about little girls. He had raised one. Sidney had been about six when Sam and her mother divorced. Now she was midway through her second year of law school and had become the self-appointed, live-in guardian of her father, whom she viewed as a dangerously inept societal misfit.

Sam pulled the small flip phone from his fishing vest. Sidney had insisted that he take the intrusive little device even though cell service in the area was nonexistent. He held the phone at arm’s length and slowly turned in a circle while watching for the little bars to light up next to the satellite dish icon. No bars appeared.

As usual, spring was coming slowly to the Laramie Mountains. Sunny days were separated by bitterly cold nights. Wind-packed snowdrifts streaked the north-facing slopes, while the south slopes portended new beginnings. It was late March, too early in the season for fishing. Sam knew there would be ice and snow. But it was spring break at the University of Wyoming, he’d had his fill of apathetic students, and he desperately wanted to go fishing. He suspected he was at a crossroads in his life, and brook trout would show him the way. Fishing was a diversion, an excuse to be alone, to think, to reconsider, to reconcile, and to change direction. He believed a midlife crisis involved choices, but he couldn’t figure out what his were. Poverty had made his life simple. Now a dead girl in the forest was complicating it again.

Sam scanned the area. Dark clouds, almost navy blue, gathered in the west. The temperature was dropping. A huge old-growth ponderosa pine directly across the stream would serve as a landmark. Nearly four feet in diameter, it had escaped the logger’s saw back in the 1880s, when the entire area was clear-cut for railroad ties to help push the Union Pacific west through southern Wyoming. The area, which had been too steep and rocky for draft horses to skid logs from, had also proved too rugged for a little girl, cold and lost. He pulled his pocket watch from his vest. It would take him almost two hours to get to the nearest landline, his house phone. He looked at the dark western sky. It was going to snow. Let’s go, he said, slapping his leg for L2 to follow. He could not make himself look back at the lifeless body of the little girl frozen to the ground.

CHAPTER TWO

HOUSE

Leaning forward, Annie George pressed her nose and lips against the cool glass and exhaled slowly. Stepping back into the room, she watched the foggy smudge disappear. Blowing snow scoured the landscape in hushed confusion. The gray vanes of the windmill spun wildly in the fading light, its galvanized tail thrashing from south to east with each blast of wind. Gnarled cottonwoods, bare and dark, heaved restlessly, groaning silhouettes against the storm’s bleakness. Night descended slowly in Horse Creek valley without form or shape, only a blending of earth and sky. Long, swirling waves of snow poured over the Laramie range and descended on the high plains. Annie missed the defined seasons of Iowa. There was no spring or fall in Wyoming, just nine months of winter, occasionally interrupted by a mild day or two that lulled unsuspecting outsiders into thinking the worst was over.

Sam was late. He had promised her a trout dinner. He and Sidney would bring everything; it was to be their housewarming gift. She and Sam had argued about the house. He had made his case for her to remain in the Cheyenne apartment where she had lived since moving to Wyoming a few months earlier. But she wanted to live in the country, and Wyoming had lots of country to choose from. It redefined rural. The most sparsely populated state in the nation was an understatement. She had not seen another human being since Sam and Sidney had helped her move in a week earlier. The old one-story ranch house was broken down, a weathered hull of its prewar utilitarian design, with wavy-glass windows and only one entry door. It was all she could afford.

Annie had placed most of her savings into a business account she had established for her new publishing enterprise, Cowboy Press. Sidney was the big picture woman, the idea person and marketer. Annie served as owner, editor, chief cook and bottle washer of the fledgling business. An eye for details was her forte. Above all, Annie believed in Sam’s artistry. His photographs were more than pictures. They spoke volumes to the viewer—each image a story with a beginning, middle, and end.

But something besides his visual images caused a light feeling deep within her and a shortness of breath. She had made the mistake of a lifetime when she pushed him away eight years before. What had seemed insurmountable at the time, she now viewed as insignificant, considering all they had been through. She thought it funny how time and experience can change one’s perspective. Still, there was the fact that Sam was a distant cousin. There was a degree of genetic relatedness that neither of them could take back. She would publish and market his work and help rebuild the career he believed he had lost. In the process, perhaps both of them would find what they were looking for. If it didn’t work out, she could always go back to being an environmental microbiologist, or even a waitress again if she had to.

Annie stopped and stared at the cordless wall phone next to the refrigerator. The white plastic reflected dull yellow from the bug-spattered single bulb hanging in the center of the greasy ceiling. She gently picked up the receiver and placed it to her ear. The silence caused the hair on her arms to bristle. The lights flickered once and then went out. Outside, the storm raged.

CHAPTER THREE

BROGUES

The coroner wore black brogues, their wingtips shined to perfection. His tweed sport coat, white shirt, dark necktie, and dress slacks were as out of place as his black Cadillac Escalade parked in Sam’s remote mountain driveway. Sam stared at the septuagenarian’s shoes. He explained to him they had several miles of rough trail ahead of them that included deep drifts of snow. What you see is what you get, the old man shouted above the wind as he stuffed a GPS unit into his trench coat pocket.

A nervous deputy sheriff, with all the adornments of his trade hanging from his torso, attempted to take charge by unfolding a topographic map on the wet hood of his truck. Tiny white missiles of sleet ricocheted noisily off the paper. Sir, he barked at Sam. Can you indicate on the map, as best you can, where you believe the alleged body of the deceased to be? Sam stared at him for a long moment, his eyes narrowing, his anger rising. This guy must have a brain the size of a peanut, he thought.

Sam had already argued with the dispatcher, then some undersheriff about the location of the body. They had questioned whether it was indeed in Laramie County. He had given them the coordinates, including township and range—right down to the quarter section, as he read from his own topographic map spread over his kitchen table. They wanted it to be in Albany County, out of their jurisdiction. It’s about a hundred yards into Laramie County, Sam had insisted. It’s yours, he finally blurted out, annoyed by their attempt to pass the buck.

Sidney picked up on her father’s irritation with the deputy sheriff. She raised her eyebrows and shook her head at him. Be nice, she whispered as she pushed her thick glasses up the bridge of her nose. Her long dark hair encircled her face. Sam was momentarily caught off guard by her striking resemblance to her mother, Marcie.

Without speaking, Sam shone his flashlight on the deputy sheriff’s map and deftly tapped his finger on the canyon. He noted the brown contour lines at forty-foot intervals blurred into a dark knot, as though someone had spilled spaghetti over the pale-green forested sections of the map. The thin blue line representing Crow Creek intersected it.

The coroner pulled out his GPS and started pushing buttons. He turned in a circle, holding the unit in front of him with an outstretched arm, squinting against the bursts of snow. Sam resisted making any comment about placing too much confidence in an electronic device. He preferred a simple compass and a map, no batteries required. Sidney had repeatedly cautioned him that his technophobia wasn’t shared by the rest of humankind.

The county search and rescue team, who had pulled up the driveway in a boxy-looking emergency vehicle, strapped on body harnesses, backpacks, and assorted gear that were both noisy and heavy. Sam looked upward to determine how much light remained. An ever-darkening mass of storm clouds had gathered overhead. Flurries were in the process of giving way to a full-fledged storm. It would be dark in half an hour. If you want out of there before midnight, we should leave now, he said to the deputy. His daughter stood in the doorway of the converted cow camp bunkhouse that now served as home. Sidney, he said, call Annie and ask her if she’ll take a rain check for tonight’s dinner. We’re already too late and it’s starting to snow. Besides, I didn’t catch any fish. Keep L2 inside so she doesn’t track us.

I’ll save you something to eat, Sidney called back. She pushed her hair away from her face and glanced at the blackened sky.

Without asking if everyone was ready, Sam pushed through the throng of dark-clad officers and disappeared into the forest. The white-haired old man in a trench coat followed obediently. He wore no hat.

CHAPTER FOUR

BARN

The open doorway of the barn appeared intermittently through the swirling haze. Like the house, the dilapidated structure was without electricity. From the mud porch window Annie tilted her head left, then right, squinting to make out what she imagined to be someone standing just inside the black rectangle of the entryway. She thought of the swampy darkness of the Wapsipinicon bottoms in eastern Iowa, where she had grown up. In fading light, a stump could easily transform into a bear or mythical beast that struck terror in her heart.

Annie knew her fear was irrational, that her mind was playing tricks on her, yet she was afraid to turn away. She continued to stare at the barn, turning her head ever so slightly, hoping her peripheral vision would add clarity. The figure appeared to be wrapped in a dark blanket that covered its shoulders and the back of its head. The specter seemed to fade around the edges, became fuzzy, shapeless, then disappeared completely into the whiteness of the storm. Annie opened her mouth and gasped as if she were drowning in a foggy ocean. It was almost dark, and the storm showed no sign of stopping.

In the kitchen, Annie again lifted the telephone receiver and slowly brought it to her ear. Again, she heard nothing. She thought of her cell phone in her purse, but knew there would be no service, since her bargain provider had no towers in the area. She tried to take a deep breath, but her chest sputtered when she inhaled. The dark house overwhelmed her. She could not swallow. She remembered the old Eveready flashlight in the junk drawer and made her way across the sloping linoleum floor, her hands stretched in front of her like a blind person. She rummaged noisily through the tools, bottle openers, tape dispensers, and other household items that had no place of their own.

The ancient flashlight had belonged to Nana. Annie missed her. When she died, Annie’s cousins and their children had descended upon Nana’s modest belongings like a plague of locusts. People she barely recognized, with children she couldn’t name, had acted like looters following a disaster. There was nothing left to hold Annie in eastern Iowa. She had jumped at the chance for a new beginning, to move westward, be a pioneer.

She pushed the switch forward on the flashlight, and a sick yellow funnel appeared momentarily before blinking out. She shook the metal cylinder, then pounded it against the palm of her hand. Still, there was no light. With her free hand she groped around the kitchen, trying to find the source of an abrupt drop in temperature. The skin on her arms tingled as the cold air enveloped her. She remembered her childhood swimming hole in the abandoned limestone quarry near Maquoketa, where frigid underground springs plumed unexpectedly into the green water, turning her lips blue and covering her young body with gooseflesh. This was even more startling, more chilling.

Suddenly she remembered the gray metal breaker panel on the mud porch. Stepping quietly from the kitchen, she felt the relative warmth of the normally cold entryway. She shook the flashlight furiously and again managed a slice of dusky light, which she pointed at the electrical panel in the corner of the room. Annie yanked open the door and ran her fingers down the unlabeled circuit breakers. All the switches pointed in the same direction. The problem was elsewhere.

Eerie noises from the fireplace flue signaled the storm’s intensity beyond the house’s dark interior. Flat, flute-like whistles, akin to a giant blowing across an equally large soda bottle, caused the hair on the back of her neck to bristle.

In the living room, Annie fumbled for sheets of newspaper, quickly wadded them up, and stuffed them into the freestanding fireplace, an inverted funnel of black sheet metal. She added kindling and struck a match to the tinder. Instantly the light reassured her. She sat cross-legged on the floor and stared at the flickering orange and yellow flames. She began to take solace from being sheltered while the wind raged outside. The fire was mesmerizing. Genetically encoded from a million years of staring into its enticing glow, she felt predestined to watch it.

A sleepy Annie was no match for the narcotic effects of wind and fire. She heard the whining protests of an old house under siege, the twisting of rafters, the creaking of floorboards. As her eyes began to close, she thought she saw muted reflections in the living room window of something moving across the doorway of her bedroom. She believed her imagination was the source of an oncoming headache, the pain throbbing in her right temple.

At midnight, she awoke to cold silence. The heart of the storm had passed. There was dead calm. Annie went to the mud porch to view the aftermath. A light snow was falling straight to the ground. Huge drifts of white powder lay between the house and barn in an undulating pattern, a blanket covering the bony backbone of a sleeping serpent. A shaft of yellow light spilled placidly from the open barn door.

CHAPTER FIVE

LIGHT

Take your seats, please, Sam said as he glanced at the clock over the classroom door. Let’s go, people. We’ve got a lot to cover today. We’re talking about ambient light this morning." They didn’t care. They didn’t want to be there; neither did he. It was Monday morning after spring break, and they still had