The white fog line demarcating safety from oblivion had become a distant memory just outside Longview. Rain hammered the windshield, restricting visibility to the front hood of the truck. Mac had the wipers on high, and it was as if he'd never turned them on at all.
When he'd flown out to interview for the job of Chief of Police several weeks ago, his old pal Michael Chapman hadn't seen fit to warn him about the weather.
"Yeah, it can get a little wet out here in the winter," Chapman had said, looking unconcerned. They'd met at a fisherman's hangout to down a few microbrews.
What Chapman had failed to mention—and Mac had learned with one quick Internet search—was that Lewis and Clark had nearly gone insane their first winter at Fort Clatsop on the Columbia River, battling the darkness and the damp that never went away. Even the NOAA precipitation tables hadn't provided a clear picture. Sure, they'd documented the number of inches per month, which had—admittedly—given him pause. But this? This was a fucking river pouring out of the sky.
The road straightened, but Mac knew the respite wouldn't last. He rubbed his jaw, three days of stubble pricking his palm. The smart move would've been to stop in Portland for the night, then tackle the last leg of his journey during daylight hours. But he'd pushed all the way across the country, his own private demons nipping at his heels, and he hadn't wanted to stop a mere hour short of his goal.
Don't think, keep moving. That had been his motto for far too long.
Leaning forward, he kept one hand clamped to the steering wheel while he held down the Scan button on the radio. He'd heard nothing but static since he left Portland—grating white noise that blended with the gray mist enshrouding the truck. And right about now, when it was easy to sink into the darkest corners of his mind, he could use a bit of human contact.
Surely he could find some local station. People lived out here, didn't they? A voice coming out of the night—any voice at all—would suffice. He'd take whiny, brassy, or slick and salesy—he really didn't give a damn. They could entice him to buy worthless products—at this point it would be a comfort. Hell, he wasn't even averse to listening to a prayer or two—
"If my grandmother were alive, she'd tell you I've never had much use for men who covet money and power."
The smoky voice flooded the dark interior of the truck, muting the hiss of the tires on the wet pavement. Mac froze, the tip of his index finger a hairbreadth away from the radio button.
With a throaty, contralto laugh, the woman continued. "Actually, my grandmother would tell you I haven't had much use for men lately, period. But that's not up for discussion this evening, fellas, so don't head for the phones, trying to change my mind."
Mac snorted. There wasn't a man alive who could resist that challenge. The call lines had to be lighting up. His Boston S.W.A.T. buddies already would've had their laptops open, attempting to triangulate off the radio signal.
"When I was eight, my grandmother told me a story that has stuck in my head even to this day. It's the well-known Northwest legend of how Coyote stole Fire, but I think you'll agree with me when I say that's not what it's really all about…"
What the hell?
"You see, there was a time when people were always cold and hungry. Fire, which could have kept them warm and fed burned high up on a mountaintop, jealously guarded by three greedy men. Those men weren't about to let anyone steal Fire, because then everyone could be as powerful as they.
"But Coyote wanted all men, women, and children to have Fire. So Coyote crept up that mountain to watch and to wait for his chance."
Mac stared at the radio console, intrigued.
"At dawn the next morning, the man on guard stood and went into his tent, leaving Fire momentarily unattended. Lightning quick, Coyote seized Fire and leapt down the mountainside.
"With a shout, the man gave chase, catching the tip of Coyote's tail. Which is why the tip is white to this day. Coyote ran to Squirrel…"
Her voice faded on a surge of static. Mac leaned forward, straining to hear while he gunned the engine around the next curve.
"…so hot it burned the back of Squirrel's neck, which is why you can see a black spot to this day…Frog, who spit Fire onto Wood..."
"…after a while, the man gave up and climbed back up to his camp on his mountaintop where he felt safe. Coyote then gathered all the people around and showed them how to rub two sticks of wood together, releasing Fire.
"As they do to this day."
There was a moment of dead air, then a long, soft sigh.
"I'll leave you to ponder and dream on that one…it's time for us to wrap it up for the night."
Mac scowled.
"According to my friend Gary, all you fishermen made it across the river bar safe and sound on the flood tide. So I'm happy to report that we've got us another win against the Columbia River ghouls."
The ghostly hulks of three elk appeared out of the mist, trotting across the road. Mac slammed on the brakes, swearing when the truck fishtailed. Unfazed, they disappeared over the side, heading down to the river.
"Oh, and for any newcomers or tourists who are crazy enough to be driving down Highway 30 right about now, try to miss hitting the elk herd around Milepost 94. We don't know you yet, so we don't know whether to regret your passing. But those elk have been our friends and neighbors for as long as Coyote has. We wouldn't take kindly to you hurting one of them.
"You've been listening to KACR, Astoria's community radio at 90.7 on your FM dial, dedicated to helping all men, women, and children learn how to get Fire out of Wood."
There was a moment of silence, then static as the station went off the air. He was left with only the faint glow of the radio dial, the drum of rain on the roof, and the unsettling echoes of his own bleak thoughts.
His hand slapped the steering wheel, hard.
She hadn't mentioned her name.
#
In the basement of an elegant Victorian overlooking downtown Astoria, a man hurled his radio against the cement wall, shattering it.
She knew.
He dropped to his knees, chest heaving, the heels of his hands pressed against his closed eyes. She'd poked her nose where it didn't belong, asking too damn many questions. Refusing to let it go.
She'd signed her own death warrant.
~~~~
Chapter 1
Thursday, 7:45 AM
"Wind's out of the south today."
The tinny voice screeched at Jo Henderson over the static in her headphones. In the background, the staccato whump-whump of the helicopter's rotors sounded like sub-woofers on amphetamines. Her feet were already numb from engine vibration.
Only moments ago, they'd lifted off in the Seahawk from Astoria Regional Airport, running blind. Thick fog streamed past the Columbia River Bar Pilots Association helicopter as they flew toward the freighter waiting in the Pacific, fifteen miles northwest of the CR buoy.
"Got a little fog, though." Tim Carter tapped the instrument panel of the helicopter with the blunt end of his finger.