Paul Drake to the Rescue
The National Forest Service Headquarters in Durango, Colorado was a hive of activity. Rangers, state troopers, local police, as well as Search and Rescue team members were all abuzz, clustered together with their respective agencies, waiting for the latest instructions and weather briefing. The S&R team was trying valiantly to keep their search dogs calm, but the working animals seemed just as eager to start the day's search as their human counterparts.
Thus, when Paul and Marica arrived, the scene looked more like barely controlled chaos than an organized rescue mission. While Paul barreled his way to a man who looked like he might be in charge (or at least, knew who was), Marica knelt beside one of the rescue dogs, offering her hand for him to sniff. The very large German Shepherd, obviously part wolf, seemed to sense a kindred spirit. A wide smile appeared, followed by a pink tongue between his canines. He clearly enjoyed the ear rub she started, and in appreciation, placed wet kisses to her face.
"Hera, you are a beautiful girl," Marica purred, maintaining the rub.
The animal's handler stared in astonishment. "She's never let anyone other than me get this familiar with her!" He looked at his dog in surprise. "By the way, how did you know her name?"
Marica blushed furiously, and the effect was noticeable. With her pale skin and black hair, she looked like a very ripe red apple. I am not about to tell him how I really know Hera's name, she decided, willing herself to stop blushing and get on with why she came.
"It's on her collar."
The officer smiled, then felt his jaw drop open as Hera rolled over, exposing her tummy for a belly rub. To his great surprise, Marica knelt again and gave in to his dog's request. Soon the animal was wiggling in a serpentine fashion, trying to get every sensation out of the rub as she could.
"You have quite a way with dogs," he commented when she stood again. There was a note of admiration in his voice that was punctuated by the degree of interest in his eyes.
Reminding herself not to blush again, she simply stated, "Animals like me."
Realizing he was staring, he cleared his throat. "So Miss—uh?" When she didn't supply her name right away, he asked, "Is there something we can do to help you?"
Before Marica could answer, Paul appeared at her side, grasping her arm and pulling her close.
"Marica, if you could tear yourself away from the pooch, the Principal Chief would like to speak to us."
The officer, pleased to learn her name but irritated at Paul's ill-timed arrival, glared at the private detective. Paul met the hostile look and answered with one of his own. The silent exchange spoke volumes, and Marica took the scene in with an amused sense of horror. Then she took matters into her own hands and dispelled the tension.
Her warm, rich laugh broke the unspoken testosterone feud.
"Of course, Paul." She looked up at the officer. "It really was a pleasure getting to meet Hera. You obviously handle her very well."
Paul's smirk as he took Marica's arm was not lost on him. What a jerk. I hope, for her sake, there's nothing going on between them. Bending to ruffle Hera's fur, he tugged her lead.
"C'mon girl. Let's go see what we can do to help."
The Principal Chief, Micah 'Black Wolf' Parker, was a tall, handsome American Indian. He was dressed appropriately for the occasion, right down to a rain slicker that had obviously been put to good use before he came inside. Seeing the pair approaching, he stepped forward and extended his hand upward, in a mock "Indian" greeting.
"How!"
Paul just blinked. He wasn't expecting that at all. Marica laughed.
"Do you do!" Parker finished the greeting. Dropping his hand, he apologized with a chuckle. "I'm sorry about that. It's a little personal joke. My wife says I should be kept on the reservation some days."
He shook hands with Paul and then turned to Marica. Her eyes were dancing in appreciation. If ever there was another soul who understood what it was like to be stereotyped on sight, it was her. As she took his proffered hand she suddenly stiffened. Her eyes closed and she then swayed slightly. Paul immediately put his hand on her waist, but he too felt a strange sensation.
"Miss Broussard?"
Marica opened her eyes and dropped Micah's hand. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Parker. I often find myself psychically connected to some people. You must have a very strong affinity to your past. Is there by any chance a healer or . . ."
Micah laughed and nodded. "I am a descendant of the Comanche chief, Quanah Parker. My great-great-grandmother was the tribe's healer and, yes, I believe somewhere back in the past there was a witch doctor."
Genuine interest sent color to her face. "I really would love to sit and talk to you and see what we can discover about your family, but I'm afraid now is not the appropriate time."
Paul stepped forward, clearing his throat loudly, and therefore missing her last statement. "I hate to interrupt this fascinating trip into the psychic world, but can we get to the problem of my missing friends?"
Marica placed her hand on his arm. "I'm sorry, Paul."
Parker was back to business immediately. "Mr. Drake, please understand. The Weminuche is almost 500,000 acres. There are deep ravines, lakes, and miles of basically uncharted wilderness. We have search planes, helicopters and teams on the ground. We have to search only during the daylight hours, as it is too dangerous once darkness falls. The rain has also hampered our efforts."
Paul's sense of urgency almost made him blurt out how little he cared for the excuses, but at a look of sympathy from Marica, he managed to control himself. Instead he nodded and lit a cigarette with shaking hands.
"Mr. Parker, may I see your map of the search area?" Marica made the request seem like she was praising the man for his expertise.
Charmed by her, he extended his arm in a broad sweeping gesture and said, "Please, follow me. It is right over here."
Paul shoved his hands into his pockets and followed behind them. The map in question was push-pinned to the office wall and covered much of that expanse. Marica pulled out a small business card, holding it in one hand while she placed her other hand on the map.
Parker looked over at Paul, a question forming on his lips, but Paul only shook his head, placing his finger to his mouth, motioning for silence.
Marica stood still, her head bowed, her lips moving in some language known only to her. Then her hand on the map started moving slowly, at first in a circle, then left to right, and finally up and down. Minutes passed, and both men felt as though they were holding their breaths.
"I need a pen."
Parker snatched a black marker from his desk, snapped the top off and placed it in her hand on the map.
Grasping the marker, she quickly drew a circle on the map. Lifting her head to look at the location she had just encircled, she studied for a few seconds, then dropped the marker and, in the next moment, started a slow fall to the floor.
Both men started toward her. Paul reached her first, sliding to his knees to cradle her just before her head hit the floor.
"Marica!"
She didn't even open her eyes. Parker looked on in concern, then scanned the place for an empty chair. Once he slid it over, Paul quickly picked Marica up and set her in it. He began gently patting her hand, then her cheek.
"Come on, Marica! This is no time to swoon," he informed her still frame. "Stop scaring me and open your damned eyes!"
After several minutes, her eyes did flutter open. The first thing on which they focused was the worried face of the handsome private investigator.
"Paul?"
"Yes," he affirmed. "Are you alright? Did you actually hit your head? Can I get you anything?"
He was so cute in his concern that she actually smiled. Straightening in her seat, she looked up at Parker and explained, "In my profession, the spirit is stronger than the flesh. Sorry about the melodramatics." To Paul she added, "I could use some water, please."
Parker didn't wait for Paul. He hurried to the water cooler. Handing the cup to her, Paul held onto her hand as she brought to her mouth.
"Steady, girl! Now, when you can, tell me what happened."
She gulped the water and held out the cup for more. "When I use my . . . powers . . . it always takes so much out of me." She downed the second cup of water, then looked at the map again.
"Mr. Parker, I have a very strong feeling you should concentrate the search efforts within that circle."
He shook his head. It might have been in disbelief, but he was much too polite to say so. "I had not thought the flight path would take them in that direction, but judging from the weather reports about the storm when they would have reached this airspace, I can see it. Be assured, Ms. Broussard, I will send teams out as soon as I can give a briefing."
At the surprised expression on Paul's face, the ranger laughed. "What? Did you think I would discount her ability, simply because I am a Native American? You forget, Mr. Drake—my people have clearer second-sight than any other ethnicity. If it were not the case, we surely would have perished centuries ago."
Paul flushed, then nodded. "Thank you for taking her seriously. I— I admit I didn't the first time we met."
Parker looked at Marica shrewdly. "I bet that was a lesson Mr. Drake never forgot."
She smiled.
Looking at the map with the black circle again, Parker studied the terrain. "Well, it looks like we are somewhere between Vestal Peak and Jagged Peak. That's about 3.2 miles."
"That should be easy to search." Paul joined him at the map.
"Mr. Drake, that is still over 2,000 acres. Mountainous, sheer cliffs, and rough terrain." He pointed to a small spot and added, "There are no trails and with this rain any creeks or lakes will be swollen and even more dangerous. A shallow lake can suddenly become 25 feet deep. If a plane landed here, it could easily be pinned and visible from the air, but these rocks will make it blend in. And if we are not so lucky, the lake was the final resting place, and I have to be honest. If that is the case, their chances for survival are slim."
Paul stared at the ranger, allowing the words to sink in. "Why?"
The man sighed. "Because, even if your friends made it out of the cabin safely, all their supplies most likely will sink. Without any kind of warm material, such as a blanket or canvas, the wind and rain will have their way with them."
Perry, I hope you and Della are . . .
But he couldn't form the words in his mind. He sat down dejectedly in a chair, putting his head in his hands. From seemingly out of nowhere, a soft, gentle hand landed on his back.
"Paul, the feeling I had in Los Angeles is still just as strong. Perry Mason is still alive."
He lifted his head to look at her. "But what of Della?"
She shook her head. "I don't know, Paul. I just . . . don't know."