Jill Sorenson: Set The Dark On Fire

With no conversation to distract her, Shay concentrated on not throwing up. Being jounced around inside the cab of the pickup didn’t help. She reached into her pocket, took out a cracker, and started chewing. It tasted like sawdust. Shuddering, she choked down the pasty mouthful and popped the tab on her Coke. The instant the sickly sweet, overcarbonated soft drink hit the back of her throat, she remembered something bad.

Something very, very bad.

Last night, after drinking wine with dinner and beer at the bar, her crazy girlfriends had ordered a round of mixed drinks. Rum and Cokes.

A hot wave of nausea washed over her, causing beads of sweat to break out on her forehead. When they went over a bump, syrupy brown liquid sloshed over the rim of the can, dripping from her hand and soaking into her jeans. Setting the Coke aside, she removed her sweatshirt and rolled down the passenger window.

The sheriff finally gave her his full attention. She must have looked a little green, because he asked, “Are you going to be sick?”

“I don’t think so,” she said, hoping it was true. Really, she had a stomach like a steel trap. What went down did not come up. Usually.

Her tummy lurched, threatening to make her a liar.

She put her face out the window and gulped cool, early-morning air.

With a muttered curse, he pulled over.

Luke’s initial impression of Shay was that she was beautiful. His second, from the way she fidgeted in the passenger seat and acted sort of spacey, was that she was on drugs.

Now he figured she just had a killer hangover.

Her disheveled appearance and unsteady gait didn’t inspire much professional confidence, but it did spark his prurient interest. With her messed-up hair and smoky eyes, she looked like she’d been up all night giving some lucky guy the ride of his life.

He rubbed a hand over his face, wishing the Department of Fish and Game had recommended some one older, more reliable, and more experienced.

Getting out of the truck, he rummaged around in the cab for a fresh bottle of water and some paper towels. She was standing with her back to him a few feet from the dirt road, bent forward, her hands resting on her knees.

Not interested in watching her decorate the bushes, he leaned his forearms against the hood on the driver’s side and stared out at their surroundings. There was nothing but barrel cactus, rock-strewn dirt, and sagebrush as far as the eye could see.

It could be worse, he supposed. He could be back on the beat, waiting for a drunken vagrant to vomit on the Strip.

He’d seen too many used-up party girls in Vegas to find humor in Shay’s predicament, but he’d over-indulged a time or two when he was her age, so he could sympathize. She was probably barely out of college, and hadn’t learned her limit.

Although Luke didn’t consider the situation amusing, he had to admit it was pretty ironic. He’d come to Tenaja Falls to avoid trouble, but here he was, neck-deep in it, on his way to a crime scene with a woman who couldn’t walk a straight line.

When he glanced over at her again, she was crouched down farther, elbows planted on her slim thighs, head in her hands. The position wasn’t deliberately provocative, and there was no doubt in his mind that she was truly ill, but this time it didn’t deter him from looking.

Her hair was an improbable shade of blond, dark ash mixed with platinum, twisted in an untidy knot atop her head. Even in disarray, it looked thick and shiny and soft to the touch. Some obsessive-compulsive part of him wanted to take it down and comb his fingers through the tangles. He stifled the urge by imagining it would smell like cigarettes.

Her clothes were just as wild as her hair. Faded jeans, snug in all the right places. A thin white tank top that did nothing to disguise her subtle curves or the lacy black bra she wore underneath. One strap hung off her shoulder, an invitation to touch.

His fingertips itched to slide it back into place.

She had a tattoo on the nape of her neck, a tiny cat’s paw with four little scratches. Wondering if she liked to be kissed there, he let his gaze trail down to her lower back. Between the waistband of her low-rise jeans and the hem of her tank top, a creamy expanse of skin was visible, lovingly detailed by curling ribbons of ink.

He’d bet his badge she liked to be kissed there, too.

His pulse quickened at the thought, but he shoved it aside. His mind had no business going that direction. She was way too young for him, and not everything about her appearance was seductive. Her well-worn hiking boots were sensible and the hooded sweatshirt she’d been wearing earlier covered her from neck to midthigh.

Maybe he should give her the benefit of the doubt.

Abruptly, she straightened. “Is that water?”

He jerked his gaze from the back of her jeans a split second too late. “Yeah,” he said gruffly, stepping forward to hand her the bottle.

“Thanks.” Tilting it to her lips, she downed a couple of ounces, her pale throat working as she swallowed. She looked like she wanted more, but she didn’t push her luck. Neither did she take the paper towels he offered. “False alarm,” she said, managing a weak smile. “I think I’m okay now.”

Luke wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t have time to find another wildlife expert. “Are you sure?” he asked anyway. “I can try to get someone else.”

“No. This is my territory. My responsibility.”

Evaluating her sincerity, and her level of sobriety, he looked into her eyes. They were mildly bloodshot, her pupils tiny amidst a sea of dark blue. She was calm and lucid and quite lovely in the early-morning light.

Managing a careless shrug, he climbed back into the truck, waiting for her signal before he started the engine.

“Is it bad?” she asked after they’d been on the road a few more minutes.

“Yes.” He’d seen worse but she probably hadn’t.

“Are you going to tell me anything about it before we get there?”

“I would prefer that you draw your own conclusions.”

“Is the victim…” her lips trembled “… a child?”

“No,” he answered, voice grim. “A woman.”

“Who?”

“She hasn’t been positively identified,” he hedged, keeping his attention on the road. Switching to a safer topic, he said, “I don’t have much experience with wildlife. Why don’t you give me a rundown on mountain lion behavior?” He cast a speculative glance her direction. “If you’re up to it.”

“Lions are notoriously shy. Usually they avoid humans at all costs.”

“What about a mother protecting cubs?”

“It’s a possibility,” she admitted. “Bears will, but they tend to be more aggressive. They also like people food, which leads them into populated areas. A transient lion might skirt past suburban neighborhoods and go after livestock, even a family pet. Lions prefer deer, but if they get hungry enough, they will eat almost any prey that becomes available.”

“Including humans?”

She hesitated. “Yes. In the cases I’ve studied, I believe hunger was the motivation for the attack.” Her eyes met his. “Again, this is an extremely rare situation. Only five or six fatal incidents have occurred in California over the past two hundred years.” Her tone was defensive. “Dog attacks are far more frequent.”

Luke was sure what he’d seen couldn’t have been done by a dog, but he didn’t say that. He was also pleasantly surprised that she seemed to know her stuff, but he didn’t comment on that, either. “Are there bears around here?”

“No. A black bear could wander this far, in theory, but I’ve never seen bear sign, and I’ve hiked every inch of this wilderness.”

He fell into silence as they rounded the next bend, hoping he hadn’t imagined the flinty determination in her eyes when she spoke of her responsibility to the land. She’d need it, along with nerves of steel and a cast-iron stomach, when she saw what lay ahead.