Ancient Echoes

CHAPTER 3



“JUST KEEP HIM away from me!” Lemhi County Sheriff Jake Sullivan growled at his deputy as he pounded the stapler on his desk only to find it empty. Barrel-chested and muscular, he had close-cropped brown hair mottled with gray and receding at the temples. World-weary green eyes in a craggy, weather-beaten face missed little. They glowered now at the mounting paperwork around him.

He'd had it with the journalists, family members, university people, and miscellaneous busybodies who descended on Telichpah Flat, his patience stretched thinner than string on a crossbow.

Two days before, he received a call from the president of Boise State University informing him a visiting professor, his graduate student assistant, six seniors, and their guide had vanished on a field trip to the national preserve. The U.S. Forest Service area station wasn't staffed for search and rescue, so the job went to local law enforcement. Although only a small portion of the Wilderness Area was situated in Lemhi County, the university group had entered via Telichpah Flat which was, so Jake got stuck with the operation.

Everyone from the governor on down didn't want their names connected with the potentially tragic situation, and agreed the sheriff should take complete charge of the problem. It had rapidly turned into a very big problem for Jake Sullivan.

The college students' mysterious disappearance had captured the public's imagination. Human interest stories about them abounded. The fact that the professor's brother was Michael Rempart, the broodingly handsome archeologist that People magazine once called “a modern day Indiana Jones,” added fuel to the media fire.

Phone calls, emails, and media reports, along with the usual flood of crank sightings, dubious eyewitnesses, and publicity-seeking, self-appointed best friends bombarded Jake. At one point, he slammed down the phone before he realized it really was Katie Couric.

Not only did the story intrigue the media, but also the utter desolation of the area. Reporters and photographers descended on the wilderness, acting as if they had just discovered Idaho and had just learned that it consisted of not thousands, not hundreds of thousands, but millions of acres of barely charted virgin land.

They airlifted in satellite dishes and expensive gear to give them a few of the comforts of home. Jake expected to see a Starbucks open up any day now.

The university group’s guide, Dan Hoffman, found himself the scapegoat for the disappearance. Cable TV talking heads bellowed that if any of the students or their teacher were found dead, he should be charged with negligent homicide for walking away from the group after the professor “allegedly” fired him.

A crazed psychic announced that Hoffman went mad and killed everyone as they slept. The story earned the main headline slot on The Drudge Report.

Hoffman led the search party to the place where he'd left the hikers, and pointed out the direction the professor had insisted on taking. The road back to civilization was well-marked. Had the professor so desired, Hoffman insisted, he could have easily turned around and marched the students to safety.

The searchers discovered, as Hoffman had warned, that the trail Rempart wanted to take had been cut off by a landslide, the terrain around it too steep and slick for inexperienced students to traverse.

Dogs brought in to track the students revealed that they hadn't traveled over the landslide, but avoided the area completely via a circular route to the banks of Squaw Creek. The creek entered the Salmon River just above some treacherous rapids.

Once the news leaked, the press, in a caravan of news trucks and rented SUVs, demanded to see the area. Higher ups ordered Jake to assist. He’d be damned if he would let a bunch of tinhorns trample all over a spot that might have some significance later in his investigation, and took them instead on a teeth-rattling, bone-jarring, off-road ride for several miles along the Salmon River road.

Their relief when the ride ended vanished when they learned they needed to carry their equipment uphill to see the wild, frothing turbulence of the Salmon's Pine Creek Rapids. Once there, the sheriff pointed out that they stood on the exact same location as Captain William Clark when he decided he could not navigate the Salmon River and turned away to meet up again with Meriwether Lewis. In his journal, Clark described the river as “almost one continued rapid...the water is Confined between huge Rocks and Currents beeting from one against another for Some distance below &c. &c. At one of those rapids the mountains so Clost as to prevent a possibility of a portage....The water runs with great violence from one rock to the other on each Side foaming & roreing thro rocks in every direction.”

The reporters and cameramen gasped at the dangerous flow, and seconded Captain Clark's wisdom.

Jake then told them they would need to hike yet another two miles to reach the place where the students had disappeared along “Sego” Creek. He lied about the name to keep the politically correct off his back. Exhausted, cold, and miserable, the reporters chose to go no farther. All were quite happy to return to the relative warmth and safety of their rented trailers.

Since the trail went cold at Squaw Creek, Jake believed Rempart must have met with some rafters who offered to help him. Unfortunately, once on the Salmon River, the university group could have ended up just about anywhere along its banks, provided they survived the rapids. That meant the search area was considerably larger than originally thought.

He had no choice but to call in reinforcements even though he hated that so many people would be tramping through the pristine wilderness. Normally, except for the heart of summer, this part of Central Idaho stayed almost devoid of humans. Rowdy sportsmen from out-of-state were the biggest problem Jake faced, and he liked it that way just fine. The attention the disappearance received would cause many more people to learn about Idaho’s national forests, and perhaps decide to visit.

He didn’t wanted to see any of this change. Born forty-eight years earlier in Salmon City, he had left as a young man for Los Angeles, only to crawl back to escape unwanted, regrettable notoriety. He found himself middle-aged, divorced, childless, and appreciating the beauty, peace, quiet and particularly the seclusion of the area. All of which were sadly lacking at the moment.

And now his deputy had just told him that someone from, of all places, U.S. Customs, wanted to speak to him! How lost was this guy? Since no international border, seaport, or air terminal was anywhere near, Jake wasn’t interested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Customs?” Michael asked as they shook hands.

“It’s a long story,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake grimaced. “Did you?”

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

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

“And what else?” Jake asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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