Burning Bright (Peter Ash #2)

Peter watched out the wide rear window as the golden shadow in the sky became smaller and smaller behind them, finally disappearing into the distance.

At a sporting goods store past Tacoma, June pored over the USGS topographical maps. Peter pushed down the static as he and Lewis filled a shopping cart with a backpack, a sleeping bag, and other critical gear for a night out in the woods. Lewis picked up two pairs of long-distance walkie-talkies, a Winchester 760 deer rifle with nice bright optics, five extra magazines and a hundred 30-06 rounds. When the clerk asked if he needed a Washington gun permit, Lewis said no, he already had one, and produced the paperwork. The permit was in a different name altogether.

They stopped for lunch at a diner outside Longview, sitting by a big front window with Mount St. Helens peeking through the overcast while they ate omelets and French fries and drank dishwater coffee. When the waitress took the plates, Peter unrolled one of the topo maps June had selected and put it in front of her. “Mark it up,” he said, handing her a pencil. “Draw the valley as you remember it.”

“I don’t remember much,” she said. “And what I do remember will be fifteen years out of date.”

“We’ll talk you through it,” said Lewis. “You’ll be surprised how much it’ll help.”

The map showed an elongated teardrop shape with a wandering creek or river down the middle. The elevation lines were far apart at the bottom, indicating nearly flat terrain. Around the edges of the valley, the lines were so close together they were hard to distinguish. Steep ridges or cliffs.

“The waterfall is up here at the point,” she said, making a circle, then added two squares at the top. “My dad’s house, and the lab. Maybe that’s bigger now.” More squares scattered down one side of the river. “Sally Sanchez, the ag researcher, she helped raise me after my mom left. This was the cottage where she stayed. The big house was where the researchers stayed, the people who came to work with my dad. The farm foreman’s cabin was here by the equipment barn.”

“Who was the foreman?”

“Mr. Monroe. He came after Sally did. He ran the big equipment, the tractor and all that stuff. My dad didn’t like him, but Sally said we needed him. I think my dad would have used horses if he could.” She drew some lines with squiggles on top around the buildings. “Apple and cherry orchards, most of this side of the river. This is the bunkhouse for farm help.”

“What kind of help?” asked Peter.

“Fruit pickers, mostly. Every few years some carpenters would stay there when they were putting up a new building. By the time I left Mr. Monroe had two full-time workers who lived in the bunkhouse. There might be more now.” She drew big rectangles on the other side of the river. “Farm fields here.” Then triangles on sticks for evergreen trees, which she scattered around the perimeter. “Woods around the edges, where it gets too steep for agriculture.”

“What about a high place,” said Lewis. “With a view of the whole valley.” He reached across the table and ran his finger across the orchards. “Something in this neighborhood?”

“Actually,” said June, and circled an area where the elevation lines diverged from the high surrounding ridges. “There’s a flat spot on this little rocky outcrop, maybe a hundred feet up.” She put in a dark zigzag on one side, then a dot. “The trail is here. My dad built a wildlife blind there, just a few posts and a tin roof for shade. He used to bring his birding scope and watch the raptors.” She smiled shyly. “I used to go there by myself and watch the men work.”

Lewis tapped the outcrop with one manicured fingernail. “That’s my spot.”

Peter looked at him. “You might not be the only guy with that idea.”

Lewis smiled his tilted smile. “And I feel real bad about that. I surely do.”

? ? ?

THEY DROPPED LEWIS at a narrow trailhead ten miles past White Salmon. In his camouflage jacket and pack, he was almost invisible. He’d already sighted in the rifle. It was mid-afternoon.

“See you on the other side,” said Peter.

“You won’t see me,” said Lewis, “but I’ll be there. Don’t use the radio ’less you have to.”

Nick Petrie's books