Ursa Major: Death in the Desert

By Wes Engel

Ursa Major
Death in the Desert
A Summary

Consider . . .

Two bodies lie alongside a forgotten highway of the IdahoNevada desert. The sun is burning hot. Crows circle overhead. Sam Garrett, an ordinary guy living an ordinary life, comes across the scene of the two murdered victims. He is then propelled into a maelstromone involving a string of murders, fundamental polygamist sects, church cover-ups, corrupt politicians, and corporate greed. The twists, turns, and subplots occur within a broader context of contemporary issues facing the desert southwest. Sam is both stalked by and later stalks the killers as he attempts to unravel the puzzle and stay alive. In the process, he must dodge both secret polygamist societies as well as the federal FBI authorities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984528858

Wes Engel

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY Wesley Engel Wes Engel lives in Northern New Mexico where he writes mysteries and suspense thrillers. A child of the American West, he has explored every nook, corner and cranny. Wes has scaled its mountains, hiked its valleys, frolicked in its grassy wild flower dotted meadows, crawled across its deserts, kayaked its whitewater and rappelled into its deepest canyons. Wes is familiar with its people, history and culture. He is drawn to the challenges of the land. Like lovers, he and the American West are intimate. His plot driven stories are compelling and topical. Always fast paced and suspenseful, full of roller coaster twists and turns, Wes creates clear protagonists even clearer villains. I write about the American West; its people, its challenges, and the issues facing contemporary American West culture. I explore themes of economic development, the environment and lifestyle, all wrapped around a hard boiled thriller or mystery. My fiction has a strong sense of place and history. My stories are set in stunning locations. I am a dangerous writer, in that I am not afraid to break some rules. ~ Wes Engel

Book preview

PART 1

DOG

CHAPTER 1

Somewhere Far Out West - circa present

The heat spread over his nakedness. Frank writhed, his limbs strained against the bindings which secured him, spread eagle in an upright position; DaVinci’s classic Vitruvian man pose. In spite of his struggling, the leather straps which bound him held fast.

He and his captors were in a barn, deep in the woods. It was dimly lit by bare light bulbs dangling from the ends of electric cords hanging from the rafters. Frank’s plight could not be heard by anyone. His screams therefore wasted. The sweet smell of fresh cut hay in the loft somewhere above intermingled with the smells of boiling tar, fear and his bodily excrement.

The frightened look in his eyes suggested his cries were as much from sheer terror as from the third degree burns. The sanctioning of Frank continued without mercy. His tormentors cold and aloof had no empathy for their victim. The hooded figure approached, yet again, from the shadows; the hot poker iron extended, then applied. Frank’s flesh seared, yet again. He blacked out at this point. But this was not meant to kill. Torture, intimidation and humiliation are pointless if the victim dies. He eventually awakened.

Frank lived another three days suffering his fate. His captors, heads shrouded in black ski masks, moved and huddled about in the darkened recesses of the chamber. The faceless figures emerged sporadically to torment him. Sometimes they whispered amongst themselves in corners, sometimes they challenged him demanding he provide the information they sought. Other times their singular intent was to punish, to impress upon him their wrath.

Throughout the ordeal Frank’s consciousness waxed and waned. Even so he could tell the make-up of his captors seemed fluid. Some came and others went, taking turns with him. During these seventy two hours he endured his tribulation as required of his sanction. The arms of the great bear had a long reach. They had reached him. He had crossed the line, to the point where he could no longer return. He was now considered a danger and a threat to the organization.

After the Bear Guild finished extracting the information, pain or whatever ends they pursued it was time for Frank to join his relatives in the celestial realm. Perhaps, now all those sealing ceremonies would come to fruition for him. Before his final breath Frank prayed Cindy would not, or was not, being subjected to a fate similar to his.

The hooded figures approached one final time. Shortly a curtain of blackness drew over Frank’s consciousness. It was a curtain unlike the white veil he experienced when taking his covenants in the Temple’s Celestial room. As ugly as the death was, Frank Soulis welcomed it.

CHAPTER 2

Reno, Nevada

Sam Garret struggled. He was submerged in water. His mind raced as the terror set in. How did I get here? Barely two feet beneath the surface, facing upwards, he looked up and saw a lady leaning out over the gunnel and the safety of a boat. He saw the strained look in her face and then her extended hand through the watery film reaching down; reaching down to save him. He might as well been a hundred fathoms deep; drowning is the same whether in two feet of water or two hundred feet. All he had to do is reach up; reach up and take her hand. It was only a foot away from him. Then he would surely be saved.

Her face changed. He now saw desperate panic in her eyes. He couldn’t hear her scream the words but he read her lips through the liquid medium. Take it, take it, take my hand and I will save you, her lips said.

Reach, reach, he commanded himself. But in his cataleptic state his arms wouldn’t work. They ignored his will. I am drowning. He knew it. I could save myself by reaching out and accepting the hand of this woman. Yet, he didn’t, wouldn’t, or couldn’t, take it.

His chest exploded from holding his breath longer than he ever thought possible. The burst of exhaled breath was followed by a gasp which sucked water into his lung cavity. He choked it out, but in so doing gasped again. More water flowed in filling the void, the space, displacing any possibility for air. Terror grabbed him. The thundering pulse in his ears pounded in his head like the steady tom-tom drumbeats of a primitive African tribe. Still his arms would not reach to the woman. Such a simple act would save him. Maybe it wasn’t so simple after-all. It was then the inner voice stalked up alongside him, its whisper calm and reassuring. Just give in. Let go. Release. Relax. Relinquish. His terror turned to a detached apathy, a sign he surrendered the battle. His mind dissociated from his body. Now, outside his body, he floated to a spot just above. His mind’s eye looked down with mild interest as the scene below unfolded. The woman’s look of panic turned to one of frustration He thought, a tragic scene, totally unnecessary, it needn’t happen. But he was almost dead now. And dead men don’t care.

Sam sprung up, into a seating position, wide-eyed, chest heaving. He shook his head; as if to drain any water from the recesses of his mind, or more likely, the cloudiness of REM sleep.

His sudden movement awakened Amy who rolled over and turned on the lamp. She sat and embraced him. Easy, easy Sam. You were just having another nightmare. Amy padded him gently on the right cheek with one hand and messaged the nape of his neck with the other. Slowly, he roused further. You okay, now? her words showing concern.

Sam nodded his head. Guess so, his voice shaky and weakened. He glanced over and saw the red numerals on the clock display 4:10 AM.

I’ll get you a glass of water. She swung both feet over the bed, stood, then with bare feet pitter-pattering left for the kitchen.

He wiped beads of moisture from his forehead. His thick mop of hair acting like a sponge was matted down with sweat. The damp clammy sheets swaddled about him caused a chill.

Amy appeared in the doorway wearing only Sam’s blue pajama top along with her black panties. She stood for a moment taking in the scene. With her free hand she brushed back several loose strands of medium length hair from her face. Lithely she crossed the room going to Sam’s side of the bed. She reached out with her hand offering him water.

Take it, she said. Take the glass. You must be dehydrated.

Sam stared at her extended hand. He hesitated while the flashback played. Three seconds later his head cleared. Just need to wake up some more. He took the glass of water from her and chugged it. Thanks.

She saw him shiver. Come let’s get you out of those wet PJ bottoms and t-shirt. You are wringing wet with perspiration. She walked over to the bureau.

Yeah, I suppose. He was only half awake but rousing more with each passing second.

The same one? she asked, her back toward him as she rummaged through a drawer.

He buried his head in his cupped hands. I hate that dream. Why does it always have to be over and over again, me a drowning man?

That’s the third … no fourth time in two weeks.

Didn’t know we were counting, he challenged.

I’m concerned, that’s all, she shrugged her shoulders.

I’ll be fine. It’s only some kind of a phase.

It isn’t a phase. You can’t continue like this. You can hardly get though an entire night’s sleep. You’re wearing down. She paused and debated whether to broach the topic or not. I have to, she decided. Maybe you should … ah, see someone.

No. I told you before. Just gotta figure out the meaning of the recurring dream. What does a drowning man mean? Why won’t I simply reach up, take the lady’s hand and pull myself into the boat? Why won’t I save myself in that damned dream? It would be so easy.

Maybe it’s more about not allowing her, the woman in your dream to save you. Like a power struggle … or male ego thing. Are you sure you can’t recognize her? She turned and tossed clean pajama bottoms his direction.

Sam caught them. No. Can’t recognize her, he said, shaking his head.

I think you just avoided, again, my concern. If you don’t get an understanding of that dream you won’t be able to stop it. You should see someone --

Let’s not talk about it, okay. Now that I am awake I want to forget about it.

You can’t ignore it, she persisted.

I’m not crazy. Sam glared at her. What’d you say we change the topic?

Figures. She sighed while shaking her head in frustration. I’m going to shower and get dressed, maybe go into work early today. You should try and get some more sleep.

• • • • •

Sam walked to the office at the far end of the hallway. The placard identified its occupant as Judith Hanson, Vice President of Operations, Social Environmental Policy Institute, SEPI. He poked his head around the door jamb into the open doorway. His boss, Judy, had her head buried in paperwork. She somehow caught his movement from the corner of one eye.

Without picking up her head she instructed. Get your butt in here. And before you park it and get comfortable might as well go pour yourself a cup of my famous coffee.

You mean infamous coffee, he smirked.

Judy looked up from her papers, frowning. Whatever … and some for me, too.

Sam trudged to the corner counter, poured two cups and delivered them to the conference table. They both sat.

He began. Checked my E-mail and there you were. So you wanted to see me?

Just want to make sure everything is all on track for the Idaho job; the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service’s proposal for the reintroduction of the grizzly bear into North Central Idaho. It’s an important contract for the SEPI. And you are after all our star mediator and negotiation specialist.

Sam beamed. I believe so. Everything ready and on track that is. Will leave later this afternoon.

I’ll have my assistant get you an evening flight?

No. I’m driving. That way I can take Cowboy. I promised to spend some time with him.

You treat that damn dog of yours like a person. You can’t promise a dog anything. She shook her head in disgust.

Anyways, ignoring her rebuke, I feel like I’ve been neglecting him. You know the guilt thing. Seems my crazy boss has me on the road too much, drives everyone hard as hell, he grinned. Ask anyone.

Not sure that smile is going to save you, she chided. After thinking for a second about the implications of the long drive she added, I wouldn’t spend all day cooped up in a vehicle with that mangy animal.

You cat people just don’t understand the bond between a guy and his dog.

She gave her employee a dismissive wave. "So then, Idaho, let’s talk.

Will camp out somewhere in the desert tonight, along some forgotten road. Tomorrow, get into Boise. The meetings are the following day. Pausing, Sam sipped his coffee. I suppose all the usual suspects have been rounded up and will be attending? Sam’s raised voice tone and eyebrows indicated it was a question. He waited confirmation.

Just got off the phone to Congressman’s Jeffries office. They’ll have all principal stakeholders at the table.

How many folks expected for the stakeholder’s meeting?

There will be a dozen in all, give or take. She handed him a sheet of paper listing names and titles of confirmed attendees. The evening public comment session will be huge.

How are the sides going to fall out?

About how you would expect.

Let me guess, state folks not wanting breeding pairs of grizzly bears in the Clearwater and Bitterroot National Forests against the Feds, who are pushing for their reintroduction.

She shook her head in affirmation. You got it. Also the environmental lobby favoring the grizzly bears in opposition to those whose interests favor the recreation and economic sectors.

You mean Sierra Club types versus cattlemen with their grazing allotments, the timber industry, hunting and pro-development lobby groups.

That’s them.

Sam stroked his chin. Not an unusual dynamic out here in the west.

Judy ignored Sam’s editorial. Congressman Jeffries is legitimately on the fence as to the reintroduction. He is open to the idea but has some reservations. The Congressman sees his role as arbitrator bringing people together, to compromise and to solve problems. He does not want either the Forest Service, The Department of Interior or Fish and Wildlife to look like they are leading or driving this effort. If these federal agencies are out front or the face of the effort then the public will be suspicious this entire process is rigged. That’s why the Congressman contracted with the Social Environmental Policy Institute, an outside party, to assist in that process. He wants a neutral agency facilitating the meetings and events.

I understand, Sam said. But we both know what we are talking about. These two large national forests, located in north central Idaho along the Montana border and continental divide, contain large tracks of wilderness.

And your point is …?

Might as well put the issue on the table. The grizzly bear is a red herring. Grizzly bear and wolves are code for the real issue, which is habitat and control of public resources; whether to allow development and how much development is the issue. Grizzly bears, and wolves, require large areas of wilderness either designated or undesignated. How the national forest will be managed; what emphasis or priority for how the resource will be used is at stake. By making the existence of grizzly bears official policy and providing protections what is really meant is the forest will not be further developed; by logging, road building, mining, grazing, ski resort development. Am I right? Sam’s eyebrows raised.

My cynical side tells me the decision is already made. All this mediation and negotiation and public comment process is for public show. And if so, then my main job assignment is to help ease the grizzly bear back into Idaho and more importantly to make it palatable to the public and stakeholders.

Be sure and check your opinions at the door. You understand? Judy put down her glasses, then locked eyes with him, her contorted face showed disapproval. It is true. These tracts of public forest lands are a national treasure having tremendous value. There is money to be made in accessing that resource. Various competing groups are continually vying for their share. I don’t have to tell you the negotiations are going to be more than a little sensitive, do I?

I’ve got the picture. I can expect a room full of polarized individuals each pushing their particular point of view and position on the federal proposal to re-introduce a population of grizzly bears along with all that entails back into the Idaho mountains.

That’s it in a nutshell.

CHAPTER 3

Southern Idaho

There is something special about the Owyhee desert. The vistas are vast, the sky immense. The landscape is at once both subtle and dramatic. These flat topped tablelands consisting of rhyolite and basalt rock represent the subtle parts of the desert landscape. In May the plateaus arranged in stair-step fashion are draped in hues of bluish green sagebrush. In addition to sages, the terrain is populated by stunted juniper, scattered pinion pine and tangled mountain mahogany. Amidst these uplands there exist spectacular canyons and gorges. These represent the dramatic; slashes in the rocky landscape as if God himself cut the earth’s crust a thousand feet deep with a giant knife. These spectacular canyons of the Owyhee are hidden, not meant to be seen by the masses. Only a selected few white water kayakers and river floaters as well as a couple of ranchers, perhaps some desperadoes have viewed their depth. This tract of real estate, found in the triangle where Idaho, Oregon and Nevada come together is the largest most remote de-facto wilderness in the lower forty eight states.

The sun cleared the rocky outline comprising the eastern horizon. The curtain of morning light sweeping across the landscape lit his sleeping space. Sam Garrett first stirred then awakened from his fretful sleep. Opening his eyes and peering out from his covers Sam saw the fullness of the Owyhee desert. The morning air was pungent, owing to the blooming sage. Cowboy was already there, nose to nose staring patiently at his master greeting him and the day.

Good morning dog, he said and rubbed the dog between his ears. Sam’s nostrils flared with the insult. He shook his head and pushed the canine aside. Ah, geez, he protested. Get away. You stink of doggy breath.

Sam got out of bed, a foam mattress in the back of a converted 2007 GMC Safari van. Huh, some bed, he thought, rubbing his back. Wearing only boxer shorts it was evident he was still a fit man, having only thirty nine years of wear on his body. He was athletic, ran frequently and exercised. Sam was proud of his 185 pound frame. A buffed specimen for sure, he thought. He attracted women ten years his younger. Amy, his lady friend, called him her hunk. Still Sam was sore. Fighting for space with a one hundred and twenty pound Akita on a foam mattress in a cramped van was no place for an insomniac to obtain quality sleep. He ambled around in the sagebrush clearing, his impromptu campsite, groaning and massaging his crooked back. He twisted his torso gingerly to and fro stretching the kinks from his spine.

Then he swore aloud, to whatever rock which might be listening. Damn, I am done traveling like this. He wondered, I have money for a respectable travel trailer or a hotel room so why do I maintain a lifestyle of a former time, my youth; traveling in the back of a van. Sam reckoned he was not a hermit or some recluse disdaining society and the convenience of such. I wear a tie to work, most days. Even now, on this business trip, the company would pay for civilized lodging. He looked off into the distance. Then taking in a deep clean breath, he paused before exhaling it luxuriously. But then I wouldn’t be able to awaken to a day as glorious as this one, or with this kind of view.

Nature called. Sam walked to a large rock, part of a larger igneous outcropping. He was familiar with the pinkish colored stone. It must be rhyolite in origin, he thought to himself. The pock marked rock surface indicative of air bubbles told the story of violence during a not so distant volcanic explosion. The green and yellowish colored scales dotting the reddish rock were desert lichens.

Cowboy tagged along, happy just to be with his master no matter the activity, even something as simple as a pee. Sam took a moment to admire and marvel at the canine as he worked the rough terrain. With nose to ground the beast sniffed frantically, picking up random scents of all manner of night critters which passed by hours earlier. A magnificent pinto colored Akita, Cowboy was at first glance striking; powerful and intimidating to most; large in size, bold markings, small triangular prick ears, broad head and dark muzzle and fully curled tail. He always stood alert and ready. Sam smiled to himself. No one would have guessed by looking at Cowboy that he is actually a couch potato and wimp.

Sam finished relieving himself; the rock feeling the warmth of his internal body temperature as he sprayed it like a dog making his territory. Meanwhile, Cowboy hardly restrained himself from the excitement of the day knowing he would spend it with Sam. Sam, his wonderful master and friend. Unrestrained and hyperactive the Akita scurried about with the exuberance of a little child on Christmas morning. He circled Sam, forged ahead, but always returned back to his friend for security. Cowboy’s wagging tail and bouncy exuberance screamed happiness, over being brought him along, that he loved to travel and that he loved just being with Sam, anywhere. Nevertheless Cowboy lifted his leg and peed over Sam’s mark.

Sam, watching it all, just smiled and shook his head at the insult. Can’t take the wolf out of the dog.

Sam proceeded back to the Safari van and pulled on some cargo shorts and t-shirt. The next most important thing to do for the day following the pee was to heat some water. Coffee will be a fine way to cap off a glorious morning, don’t ya think, cowboy.

Cradling the coffee cup with both hands Sam started reflecting on the day ahead. At my hotel in Boise I can get properly cleaned up and ready for tomorrow’s meeting with Jared Dixon., Policy Aide to Congressman Jeffries.

Let’s say we get started," he told Cowboy.

Sam slid the side door open. He directed Cowboy to the van’s open door. Jump up, Sam commanded weakly. Got lucky this time. The Akita obeyed and leaped into the van. For him, obedience was only about a fifty - fifty proposition. Cowboy viewed commands from his master as mostly optional, mere suggestions.

Sam settled into the driver’s seat. He turned the key. The engine turned over and the cylinders fired. The engine purred as Sam and Cowboy commenced the slow two mile crawl out of the pretty little Salmon Falls Creek canyon. Sagebrush branches scratched along the sides of his van. The trail consisted of two dirt tracks, highly rutted, and narrow. The primitive road challenged his van’s clearance. The van shook and rattled, tousling Cowboy and strewing camping supplies about. When reaching the pavement Sam turned onto US 93. Master and dog drove north while Frank Sinatra sang ‘My Way’ on the CD player. Sam sang along.

The morning progressed. The sun rose higher in the eastern sky, shadows shortened accordingly. The solar rays warmed the landscape, Sam too. He welcomed the warmth, a sure sign of spring. For now life was good. He had his dog and a couple hours on the open road to themselves. It was rare Sam got to take him on business travel so he cherished this opportunity to spend the next few days with him. Truth be told, Cowboy was the reason Sam took the van as opposed to the short Reno – Boise flight. Additionally, I can use the road time to mentally prep for tomorrow’s mediation session with the congressional staff, other officials and stakeholders. The real challenge will be to facilitate tomorrow evenings public commentary session. But for now I have miles to cover. He reached over to stroke Cowboy behind the ears.

The landscape, repeating layers of plateaus and gullies became monotonous. Sam and Cowboy rounded a big curve south of a village, more aptly described as a gas station, known as Rogerson, ID., population 15, elevation 5,100 feet. It was then he they saw the chaos unfold. The scene jerked him from his lyrical groove; Sam’s duet with Sinatra was cut short. Whoa, he exclaimed. He found himself in a maelstrom of flashing lights everywhere and police cars, everywhere. In addition, a helicopter hovered overhead.

I’ll be damned, a roadblock of some kind, he reported to Cowboy. The dog came to high alert; head up, ears forward, tail lowered off his haunches. He stood right at Sam’s side. The Akita stifled a subdued low gruff bark. What a magnificent protector. Sam admired the dog.

Easy boy, he calmed his protector.

Sam’s speed, thankfully this time, was well curtailed or he would have piled up into the convention of vehicles arrayed along the side of the road. He braked to an easy stop. Sam was fifth in line from the front of the pack; three cars, a van and a truck sat dead in their tracks ahead of him.

A state trooper, approached. He walked tall and straight, robot-like, down the line of vehicles, chin out, trooper hat placed perfectly on his crown. Sam reached down and nonchalantly fastened his seat belt. Neglecting to wear one was one of just many bad habits inherent to bachelorhood. I attribute such irresponsible behavior to a lack of a women or children in my life to remind, or whine, or badger me.

Good morning, sir, the officer leaned down and greeted Sam. Sam saw the name plate pinned on his left shirt pocket. Eric Hayden was the trooper’s name. Officer Hayden appears to be a young, perhaps fairly new guy.

Sam returned the salutation, Morning officer, what seems to be the problem?

There is an, ahh … incident up ahead which we need to clear out before letting anyone proceed. Road block I’m afraid.

An accident?

Not really, more like … well sort of a crime scene. The officer shared minimal information.

Sam detected the young officer unease giving even this much information. He isn’t cleared to say too much. Movement to his right side caught Sam’s attention. His focus shifted to the several ambulances in the draw one hundred yards off the highway on the east side. As Hayden walked to the car pulling up behind his Safari van Sam pulled out his spotting scope. Sometimes this comes in handy for more things than bird watching.

He focused the Nikon optics on the two ambulances with gurneys alongside. As he zoomed in, he saw each gurney was topped with a black ‘zip-lock’ body bag, containing what Sam assumed to be bodies. The gurneys were efficiently dispatched. They along with their contents quickly disappeared from the eyes of scrutinizing on-lookers, one into each ambulance.

Whoa, not a good sign, Sam informed Cowboy. I don’t see any wrecked cars or vehicles.

Humm, he reckoned aloud to no-one in particular. As the officer indicated, some sort of crime scene. Homicide?

A Channel 7, KTBV, helicopter swooshed over the van and the small entourage of travelers which gathered along the road. The rotor blades spun and whirled. Startled, everyone shielded their faces from the rising dust churned up from the twirling blades. The air machine dipped slightly, then banked, heading for yet another pass over-head. Whock, whock, whock. The sound of the copter, together with its appearance, like some strange flying dragon in the sky unsettled Cowboy. The dog barked and in general commenced having an anxiety attack; panting, visibly shaking he nervously paced in small tight circles in the van.

Easy … easy boy, Sam reassured the canine. But his attempt did little to sooth the dog’s upset. He huddled next to Sam seeking safety. Cowboy lacked any experience with helicopters. The copter came too close to the scene. Again, whock whock, whock. The wind turbulence generated by the rotor blades now blew and scattered the yellow police crime scene tape originally draped amongst the sagebrush demarcating a perimeter of sorts. This last pass of the copter made the plastic tape appear like so much yellow Christmas garland strewn about in chaotic fashion amongst the desert sage. Two police officers ran over and waved the helicopter off. The flying dragon backed away from the immediate scene.

With the helicopter‘s withdrawal Cowboy quieted somewhat. Hey boy, Sam said, still trying to soothe the dog. What with all the new police scanners and radio interceptions it doesn’t take long for the media to show up these days. Whew, he thought. And now that it is here in full force what a circus this is quickly turning into."

Cowboy’s panicked darting eyes informed Sam he was still upset by the commotion and racket. I bet you’re just worried whether that dragon in the sky is coming back.

The longer the roadblock remained in effect the longer the line of vehicles stacked up. A combination of boredom and curiosity brought people out of their cars. Small gatherings of strangers and some pairs formed. Their discussions focused on the scene and speculations of what had gone on here.

Sam rubbed one of Cowboy’s ears. What-cha say we walk around, stretch our legs and investigate on our own a bit? Sam excited the van, the dog in tow.

They barely covered any ground before one obese brown shirted county deputy approached and ordered. I’m going to have you back away and return to your vehicle, now. We don’t want you near the scene. His double chin bounced as he barked his order at Sam and Cowboy.

What exactly is the scene? thought Sam. What am I looking at?

The deputy’s side arm, strapped to the belt, even though somewhat obscured by the lawman’s over hanging pot belly, looked big. Sam speculated, this redneck wouldn’t be afraid to draw it. He imagined he heard the deputy dare him, Go ahead, make my day. Sam didn’t argue. He chose instead to back away returning to the van.

Eventually the police got to everyone and every vehicle. Sam had another chance for a follow-up conversation with the young officer. Hayden was again polite but officious.

Sir, could you get out your driver’s license and vehicle registration, please?

Sam complied.

Officer Hayden wrote down Sam’s identification information. Finished he asked, Can I inquire what your destination is and what has you on this section of highway today?

I’m on my way to Boise. Business meeting tomorrow. Knowing what was probably coming next Sam volunteered. I started from Reno yesterday. Took the long way as I wanted to drive the Thousand Springs Scenic Byway route. My dog and I camped last night on Salmon Falls Creek about two miles upstream from where it enters the reservoir, barely inside the Idaho - Nevada border.

I see. He wrote more notes on his pad. Anyone else you happen to run across? the officer asked. Any other vehicles you notice?

None. The trip was my chance to get away with my dog. I picked an isolated camping spot where I didn’t expect to have any neighbors. It was all quiet.

About what time did you pull over to spend the night, last night?

For dinner I had the buffet at Cactus Pete’s Casino, right on the border. I guess I got to camp about 9:30. I poured a tall glass of bourbon then sacked out.

What time did you leave camp this morning? What time did you come by this place?

About eight o’clock I pulled out of the canyon and hit the pavement. You saw when I got here. It was 8:30. Already the road block was here and three cars stopped ahead of me.

Anything else you can think of which might be helpful for the authorities?

Helpful with what? I can’t know what might be helpful or relevant if I am not told what exactly is going on. Sam caught himself in mid-sentence. The scowl from Officer Hayden’s told him the lawman wasn’t particularly happy with the touch of sarcasm. Gotta watch myself more carefully. Authority issues and reluctance to make a commitment in relationships are the two issues continually popping up to cause me trouble. Sam made eye contact with the trooper. Sorry, ‘bout the attitude.

Well I guess it’s not a secret any longer. The officer mellowed. This is a crime scene involving someone’s death.

Okay, I had already figured that much out. Actually I counted two bodies, so the officer is, in a coy way, less than candid. Nothing I can think of which will be helpful officer.

Well, then thank you for your time and cooperation, Hayden politely ended the interview. Someone will be in touch as the investigation proceeds. Good day sir.

Same to you officer.

Sam and Cowboy were moving again on highway 93, heading north. Now over two hours behind schedule Sam pondered his options. The lengthy delay might mean a change in my itinerary. Outside Twin Falls, at the decision point, Sam decided. Better take the interstate straight into Boise, skipping the more scenic drive along the Snake River Canyon through the Thousand Springs section. I figure I can take the Scenic Byway route on my return trip two days hence.

The miles slipped by unobtrusively. The remaining two hours to Boise were uneventful. A good thing, Cowboy had enough excitement for the day, Sam too. The countryside consisted primarily of distant layers of plateaus with a foreground of flat to rolling desert covered sage. Boring, he thought. In fact, this is one of the most boring sections of highway I can remember in a long time.

CHAPTER 4

Boise, ID

Sam rounded the last curve leading down into the valley. He saw stretching out in front of him a long strand of green; Boise, the capital city of Idaho. Boise, the City of Trees.

The ‘City of Trees’ namesake, derived from the occasion when the band of French fur trappers who in 1833, after weeks of trudging up north from the Nevada desert, finally cleared this last hill. Here they first saw the same meandering line of green, obviously denoting trees. Les Bois, Les Bois, Vouy es Les Bois, exclaimed the French fur trappers led by Captain Bonneville upon seeing the same sight. The trees, the trees, see the trees. No doubt after all the desert heat and drab brown colors these explorers were exuberant. They understood such a spectacle of trees in this environment could only mean one thing, a river. Cottonwoods, ashes and willows need water, a lot of it. A veritable oasis it must have seemed to them. They had come upon a river valley and it must have seemed to them a Shangri-la of sorts.

I too am happy to arrive in the City of Trees. Not as ecstatic as the French may have been but certainly glad to be done driving for today. Need to check into my hotel. "Also, Cowboy deserves a walk," don’t-cha boy. Given all the commotion of the morning, Sam figured his canine partner had actually done quite well.

The Schaefer Hotel in downtown Boise reminded Sam of every other business hotel in the country; generic, unremarkable yes, but convenient, a mere three blocks from the old post office and federal building; the location of tomorrow’s meeting with Congressman Jefferies’ staff and various stakeholders.

He approached the reception desk. Good afternoon, may I help you? the young lady behind the counter asked.

I have a reservation. Last name Garrett. He spelled it out. First name, Sam.

She searched in the computer. Yes, we are expecting you. Looks like two nights? A lift to her voice indicated it was a question wanting to be confirmed.

Yes, just two nights, he confirmed. You are expecting me to have my dog with me, is that correct?

Yes. We do have a pets are welcome policy, small pets. And there is a note here indicating you had a dog. As she spoke the words the desk clerk eyed Cowboy. My, that fellow doesn’t look very small, she said pointing to the Akita.

I guess small is relative. He seems small to me. He travels well and won’t be a bother," he said defensively. Once more Sam’s authority issue surfaced.

Small to us usually means under 10-15 pounds.

Oops. I guess the reservation clerk and my secretary must have not been specific enough. I will give her hell for the mix-up when I get back to the office. Sam knew well his administrative assistant, Vicki, was most thorough and so too were most reservation clerks. I also know forgiveness is easier than permission. Oh well, Cowboy here is a charmer. He is quieter and cleaner than me. All your other guests will like him a lot more than they will me.

Sam and the desk clerk concluded their business consummating it with his VISA card.

Sam and Cowboy followed the directions to the elevator and went up to the room; the humanoid with an armload of luggage, the canine with saddlebags stuffed full with various doggy needs. The first order of business was to change into more appropriate attire, something in keeping with the afternoon’s planned recreation. In addition to work and meetings Sam planned on some fly fishing while in the City of Trees. Boise was well known for its miles of parks all connected by pathways for walking and biking; like so many jewels strung along a necklace. This greenbelt and Boise River was the envy of every town in the west.

• • • • •

The Boise River meandered practically through the middle of downtown. Cowboy played exuberantly in the water chasing and charging a small family of fowl. The ducks protested his behavior, rebuking him sternly with their quacking. After finished with the canine’s romp Sam tethered his partner to a cottonwood tree close to where he planned on wetting some flies. Sam geared up with his fly rod, vest, waders and other sporting accoutrements. Cowboy sat watching his friend with cocked head, looking pitiful and perplexed; confused not understanding his sudden restraints.

Sorry boy, Sam explained. While you may be a fine companion in most regards you are a lousy fishing buddy. The role of a fisherman in performance of his art is first and foremost that of a hunter and stalker. Subtlety, patience and deliberateness were called for. Cowboy, you are anything but subtle. For now Cowboy would stay tied to the tree, on a proverbial short leash.

Sam tied on a dry fly then waded gingerly into the water’s current. The ease of access to such a blue ribbon trout fishery was incredible. This must be the quality of life I hear locals talk about. Directly across the river and above him, in a mighty cottonwood tree, a bald eagle eyed him. They were both after the same fish. The scene caused Sam to pause a second; to appreciate the uniqueness of the setting. Here he was, a mere fifty yards from the Capital Boulevard bridge in the state’s largest city. Three blocks to the north, visible through the trees, was downtown Boise, including the state capital building itself. A bald eagle perch on the tree above him; below him trout waited to be taken on a fly rod in a crystal clear river. Where else in America could one find this?

The eagle got the fish, not Sam. Still it was all good.

• • • • •

Done with fishing, then dinner and walk and now back in his room Sam undressed and flopped down on the bed. He fluffed up a pillow and looked forward to crashing. But first he clicked on the T.V. and scrolled through the various local channels searching for the late news. Everywhere, on all stations, the news was dominated by the story of two bodies found in a ravine on US 93, south of Twin Falls.

He expelled a breath, a sigh indicating fatigue. Geez, what a long day, he mumbled. I had almost forgotten the events of the morning. The media was in a frenzied state, almost giddy at the chance to cover something so big Each channel tried to out-scoop the other. In this part of the world any murder is big news. A double homicide is extraordinary big news. The story made Sam forget about sleep. It held his attention. He lay there taking it all in, thinking. I was just there on that very location earlier in the day.

The female anchor for channel 7, announced the names of the murdered victims. Frank Soulis, age forty five, Salt lake City. A professor at the University of Utah. Also deceased is Cindy Schaefer, age twenty nine, Salt Lake City.

Upon hearing the names announced Sam shot straight up from bed, flustered, not sure he heard correctly. I know a Frank Soulis from Salt Lake City, a guy about that age. He started flipping through the channels attempting to confirm he had heard correctly. Yes, Channel 6, ABC also announced the deceased murder victims as Frank Soulis and Cindy Schaefer both of Salt Lake City.

Frank Soulis, Sam repeated aloud. It has to be the same. Sam reflected for a few moments. It must be the Frank he knew. How many professors named Frank Soulis of that approximate age can there be at the U of U. They had met a couple of times on different jobs. While not exactly friends they had shared lunch on at least two occasions and even a dinner.

His mind went on rewind as he searched his memory for their connection. Frank is, was, a civil engineer specializing in roadways and river hydrology working out of Salt Lake. He was an adjunct professor at the U of U engineering school and had a private practice, if I remember correctly. The first time their paths crossed was about four years ago. As Salt Lake City prepared for the Olympics one of the major contractors made a proposal to redo some of the entry roads and other infrastructure leading up into several of the ski area venues. The Forest Service had concerns regarding steam bed disturbance and those federal bureaucrats tried flexing their muscle. The project would have to negotiate a maze of federal hoops and regulations. Frank was one of the lead engineers. Sam was lead facilitator of the mediation process.

The other time he and Frank worked together was last year. It was on a project involving the re-routing of the road bed adjacent to the Heber River up Provo Canyon. The Heber River and Provo canyon is the premier blue ribbon stream flowing out of the Wasatch Range. It also offers spectacular access to over a million people populating the entire Salt Lake Valley. There was to be some tunneling and rebuilding of a new road bed; all for the express purpose of being able to funnel more traffic through the canyon and doing so more efficiently. The U.S. Forest Service and others were concerned about streambed disturbance.

This project would not have been all that note-worthy except one of the major opponents and organizers against further roadway improvements in the canyon, was a movie star and local part-time resident of Provo canyon. Sam was impressed with Frank and his involvement in both projects, technically as well as his ability present the information and opinions very clearly. Sam’s lips parted, a smile grew as he reflected back on a memory during the public hearing when challenged by this movie star resident if he, Mr. Soulis, as the lead engineer would know of and could describe the impact a crane and earth moving equipment would have on