Red Snow by Michael Slade Page B

filling the car with blizzard.
    “Becky!”
    “Mom, we need an open sleigh.”
    At spots, the road hugged nearly vertical slopes. The frozen Shannon Falls plunged as hundreds of yards of ice.
    “Know how the falls were formed, Becs?”
    “Uh-uh,” said the girl.
    “A two-headed sea serpent named Say-noth-ka used that spillway to slither up the mountain.”
    “Cool,” said Becky, cupping her hands around her eyes to take in the falls.
    On the outskirts of Squamish, a lumber town that had buzzed with life until the pulp mill closed, there was a massive granite face almost two thousand feet high. Known as the Stawamus Chief, it was a climber’s dream in summer, but today it was shrouded in white.
    “Does that look like an Indian’s head to you?”
    “Yes,” said Becky.
    The imagination of youth, Jenna thought. All she saw was a hump of snowy rock.
    At Squamish, the road cut away from the sea and followed the Cheakamus River into the Coast Mountains. Back in the Cariboo Gold Rush of the 1860s, fortune-seekers had trudged into this harsh wilderness to reach the Lillooet Shortcut, an ancient Native trail through the mountains.
    “Did you know that old-time miners once used camels to pack their supplies up this valley, Becs? The camels refused to behave, though, so they were released to fend for themselves in the bush.”
    “Are they still there?”
    “I doubt it. That was a long, long time ago.”
    “Poor camels,” said Becky.
    Luckily, a snowplow had preceded them inland, so the highway here was in better shape than the stretch along Howe Sound.
    “Mom?”
    “Yes?”
    “Are you going to marry Nick?”
    Oh no, Jenna thought, her hands tightening on the wheel. “Why do you ask?”
    “’Cause I think he’d be the best dad I could ever have. Why don’t I see him more often?”
    “He’s a busy Mountie.”
    “Can’t we move up here?”
    “It’s not that easy. We’re Americans. Nick’s a Canadian. A border separates us. And anyway, your granddad was the sheriff of San Juan County.”
    “He died with his boots on,” the girl said, repeating the legend she had so often heard.
    “Yes, he did. Serving the islands. Don’t you want me to be sheriff, too?”
    “I want a dad more.”
    Hearing Becky talk like that broke Jenna’s heart. San Juan County elected its sheriff every four years. Jenna’s father, Hank Bond, had been returned to office twelve times before he was cut down by a stroke at his desk. Tough as nails on the outside but loving within, he was the best dad a tomboy could desire. For as long as she could remember, Jenna had wanted to follow in his footsteps. Lured from Orcas Island to Seattle’s FBI office, she had married an agent with the Drug Enforcement Administration. But instead of the happily-ever-after she’d always dreamed of, their marital bliss had morphed into a horrifying nightmare.
    “Something’s up, Jen,” Don had said over the phone one night. “Got a meet tonight. May be a lead on the cartel.”
    “But it’s your birthday!”
    “I won’t be late.”
    “I’ll wait up.”
    “Lots to celebrate if this works out.”
    That was the last time they’d talked. Don’s body was never found—all that was left was his voice on a tape sent to the DEA. They wouldn’t let Jenna hear it. Hours of Don being tortured by the cartel, every last minute recorded in an attempt to get the law to back off.
    A week later, Jenna learned she was pregnant.
    Every time she looked at Becky, she saw Don. They were as alike as she and Hank. Same fox-like face, slender chin, unruly russet hair, mischievous grin. Same hunting for an opening to crack a joke. Because she’d grown up in the protective shadow cast by Hank, Jenna knew how much the girl yearned for the love of a father.
    And Jenna still had the dream …
    Don’s screams echo up and down this hall of a hundred identical doors as Jenna searches frantically for her abducted husband. Time is everything. Don can take no more. He begs