Deadfall Read online

  PATRICIA H. RUSHFORD

  HARRISON JAMES

  DEADFALL

  Copyright © 2004 by Patricia H. Rushford and Harrison James.

  Published by Integrity Publishers, a division of Integrity Media, Inc.,

  5250 Virginia Way, Suite 110, Brentwood, TN 37027.

  HELPING PEOPLE WORLDWIDE EXPERIENCE the MANIFEST PRESENCE of GOD.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Scripture quotations are taken from The Holy Bible, New International Version, copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, businesses, organizations, and locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.

  Cover Design: Brand Navigation, LLC | www.brandnavigation.com

  Cover Image: Veer

  Interior: Inside Out Design & Typesetting

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Rushford, Patricia H.

  Deadfall / by Patricia H. Rushford and Harrison James.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 1-59145-150-7

  1. Police—Oregon—Fiction. 2. Oregon—Fiction. I. James, Harrison. II. Title. PS3568.U7274D385 2004 813'.54—dc22

  2004005458

  Printed in the United States of America

  04 05 06 07 08 PHX 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To the families of violent crime victims nationwide,

  who find the strength to carry on.

  To the finest Southern belles Texas ever produced,

  my grandmothers Mary Lou and Clora May.

  —HARRISON JAMES

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

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  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to our agent, Chip MacGregor.

  To our editors, especially Jennifer Stair and Kris Bearss.

  To Integrity Publishers for believing in us.

  And a special thanks to our Lord God,

  in whom we place our trust.

  1

  SOMETIMES DEATH is the only option.

  Brad Gaynes stood on the precipice overlooking Wah-kella Falls, in the Columbia River Gorge. He jammed his clenched hands deep into his pockets, willing himself to calm down. Anger wasn’t going to solve anything. How many times had his dad said that?

  Brad thought about his girlfriend’s comment again—about death being the only option. Why would Jessica say something like that? She could be weird at times. What had she meant? Had she been talking about herself and how life was no longer worth living if they couldn’t be together? Was she thinking about a suicide pact?

  “Nah.” Brad watched his warm breath turn white as it hit the cold November air. Jessica didn’t seem like the suicidal type. More likely, she made the comment to manipulate him. She did that often and well. He probably should have stayed with her and talked things out, but he couldn’t stand it anymore. He needed to get away before he did or said something they’d both regret.

  He breathed in the fresh, earthy smell of rotting leaves, rain, and rich, woodsy soil. He’d stopped at the top of the falls to catch his breath after practically running up the mile-long trail. As he stood tall, face into the wind, he let his gaze roam across the Columbia River and up the cliffs and hills on the Washington State side. Even now, with fog and rain, the spot offered one of the most spectacular views in Oregon, made even more beautiful by the gold and red maple leaves and the setting sun. The clouds had just opened to the west as if offering a gift of vibrant colors to make up for the persistent rain. The climb and the view calmed his anger and helped him to think through his dilemma. He knew now what he needed to do to make things right. Still, something about Jessica just didn’t sit well with him.

  Brad emerged from his deep thoughts and heard an odd guttural sound along with the rustling of brush in the woods behind him. Had Jessica followed him? Or maybe that trucker had come back to make good on his threat. Brad had been in a fighting mood when the trucker tried to intervene in his and Jessica’s argument. She’d assured the trucker she was okay and he’d gone back to his truck, but not without promising to get even.

  The thrashing grew louder.

  “Who’s there?” Brad’s heart accelerated again, and this time it wasn’t from exertion. He called out again, “Jess? Is that you?”

  No one answered.

  It had to be Jessica. “Come on. What are you doing? Quit playing games.”

  Something told him to get out of there—to hit the trail running and not look back. But Brad’s curiosity overcame his intuition. He drew back from the edge of the falls and headed into the woods to investigate.

  2

  VICTORIA GAYNES YAWNED AND STRETCHED. Nine o’clock and she was exhausted. No surprise there, as she’d been up since five. “I think I’ll go to bed early and read.” She leaned down to kiss her husband’s balding head.

  The phone rang before he could respond.

  Vicki frowned, suddenly hit with an odd premonition.

  “Want me to get it?” Todd started to get up.

  “No; stay put.” She hurried to the kitchen and picked up the portable phone. “Hello.”

  “Mrs. Gaynes, it’s Jessica. Brad is missing and—”

  “What did you say?” Vicki’s throat closed, nearly trapping the words inside. “What do you mean ‘missing’?”

  Todd got out of his chair. “What’s wrong?”

  Covering the mouthpiece, she whispered, “It’s Jessica. She’s crying, and I’m having a hard time understanding her.”

  “I don’t know where he is,” Jessica sobbed.

  “What do you mean?” Vicki all but yelled at her. “Jessica, for heaven’s sake, calm down and tell me what happened.”

  “Brad’s missing.”

  Vicki forced back the bile rising to her throat. “All right.” She deliberately slowed her breathing. Jessica wasn’t making any sense.

  “Why do you think he’s missing?”

  “He went hiking alone, and he didn’t come back. I waited and waited, but he never came and I didn’t know what to do. I tried to call from the cell, but the battery is dead.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the cabin.” The cabin was situated near Mount Hood.

  “You said he went hiking. Where?”

  Jessica explained that she and Brad had been parked at the base of Wah-kella Falls that afternoon. “We got into an argument, and he got really mad. He said he was going for a walk—only he didn’t come back. Brad had been drinking, and he said he needed some air. He got out of the car, slammed the door, and started walking up the trail.”

 
“When did he leave?” Vicki glanced at her watch.

  “I don’t know, around four-thirty or so. It was almost dark.”

  “And you’re just now calling us?”

  “I’m sorry—I . . .”

  “Let me get this straight. You left my son in the woods in the dark with no way to get home?”

  “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “You could have stopped somewhere to use a pay phone.”

  “Everything up there was closed. I couldn’t think straight. I just . . .” Jessica’s voice broke.

  “All right.” Vicki rubbed her forehead, wondering what had really happened. “Have you called the police?”

  “Yes, I just did. I’m supposed to meet them at the falls in the parking lot.”

  “Then get up there.” Vicki sounded as annoyed as she felt, and she didn’t care. “We’ll meet you there as well.”

  She hung up the phone and found Todd in the bedroom.

  Vicki’s heart was beating so hard she could hardly hear herself talk. “We have to go.”

  “I gathered that.”Todd, being his efficient self, had already put on his shoes and began gathering stuff for the drive.

  “Brad’s missing. Jessica said he went off for a hike at Wah-kella Falls and didn’t come back.” Vicki pulled off her lounging pants and got into her jeans, nearly falling as she tried to stuff two feet down the same pant leg.

  “What’s he doing walking up there at night?” Todd raked the car keys off the dresser.

  “He knows that place like the back of his hand.” Vicki frantically pulled her blonde hair into a ponytail. “Besides, it was still light when he left.”

  “Honey.” Todd stilled Vicki’s hands and wrapped his arms around her. “Take it easy. At the rate you’re going, we’ll never get out of here. Besides, it’s too soon to panic.”

  Vicki sucked in a frustrated breath. He was right; she needed to keep her wits about her. “I’m trying, but our son is out there and . . .” Tears faded his image.

  “I know, and I’m just as concerned as you are.”Todd caught her tears with his knuckles and kissed her forehead. “Now take a deep breath and get your shoes on. I’ll grab some water, snacks, blankets, our jackets, and some rain gear.”

  Minutes later the couple braved the rainslicked streets as they made the forty-mile trek east on I-84, the wiper blades taking up the lament of Vicki’s heart. Let Brad be all right. Let Brad be all right.

  OREGON STATE POLICE TROOPER Dana Bennett was about to head home when the call came in over her radio: “Eleven-twenty-three.”

  “Go ahead,” she responded.

  The dispatch operator gave her the details. A missing person in the Columbia River gorge—a twenty-five-year-old white male, last seen around dusk at the Wah-kella Falls trailhead.

  Dana knew the area well. The Eagle Creek trail system was one of her favorite places to hike, and she didn’t mind working patrol out there either. The gorge offered such awesome views, glimpses of nature at its finest; she couldn’t help but feel good out there. But the area could be as treacherous as it was beautiful.

  “I’m on my way. I’ll be working overtime, if you could advise the on-call sergeant.” She’d be working with no pay if overtime wasn’t approved, but Dana didn’t mind. She was trying to get as much experience under her belt as possible in preparation for the day she made detective. She thought for a moment about calling Mac, a detective with the Oregon State Police and a good friend, but Mac was probably either hanging out with his fiancée or working on a case. Mac had been mentoring Dana of late, giving her advice on making detective.

  Still, he might be interested. She knew for a fact that Mac enjoyed hiking and that he often volunteered to help find missing persons. She put in a call and got his answering machine. Dana left him a message with the details, sketchy as they were, and asked him to call. Disappointment at his not being there drifted through her.

  She tossed her feelings aside. You have no business getting involved with Mac, even in your imagination. He’s engaged, for heaven’s sake. Dana sighed. Some things were not meant to be, and a relationship with Mac was one of them.

  If she were honest with herself, she’d admit that she had a thing for the handsome Detective Antonio “Mac” McAllister. He liked her too—she could tell. In fact, they had even dated briefly several years ago, before she became an OSP trooper. But they were both dating other people now, and Dana had made up her mind that she would not get involved with a cop. No way. In the meantime, they met on a regular basis for coffee or lunch and talked shop.

  Dana forced her mind back on the task at hand and called dispatch to find out who, besides herself, had responded.

  MAC WALKED INTO HIS APARTMENT at ten, ignoring his dog and the blinking red light on his answering machine. He headed straight for the kitchen and yanked open the refrigerator. Lucy, his golden retriever, followed, whimpering and sticking her head into the fridge. She backed out and sat next to him. “You want out?” Mac asked. He’d fed her and taken her out just before leaving for his fiancée’s place around seven-thirty.

  Lucy licked his hand. Mac backed out of his pitifully empty fridge and scanned his cupboard. He cleaned and filled Lucy’s water bowl and leaned against the counter, his arms folded while he watched her drink. “Why can’t all women be like you?” He sighed. “You’re easy to please. Don’t take a lot of maintenance. You’re happy to see me when I come home, and you don’t whine about my hours.”

  Anger and resentment along with frustration tore at his insides as he thought about the fiasco of a counseling session he’d just endured with his fiancée and her pastor.

  “Not the smartest thing I’ve ever done,” he told his dog. “If I were a drinking man, I’d have downed a pint of booze by now.” But Mac didn’t drink and had no intention of starting. He credited his father for that. Watching that stumbling drunk had cured Mac of ever wanting alcohol. Still, he needed something. His gaze fell on the coffeepot. He took down his stash of Starbucks ground coffee, put a couple of heaping scoops into the filter, filled the reservoir with water, and turned it on to brew.

  “What happened, Lucy? I thought I loved her.” He eyed the dog, who seemed more interested in something out on the patio than in anything Mac had to say. “Everything was going great until Linda insisted on counseling.”

  “We need to go to marriage counseling, Mac,” he said in a falsetto tone.

  Several days after he’d asked her to marry him, Linda had told Mac yes, but only if he would see a marriage counselor with her.

  She’d quoted a Bible verse about being “unequally yoked.” Mac said he had been brought up Catholic, but apparently that wasn’t good enough. He’d made excuses and managed to avoid counseling for a while. Then, in a weak moment, he’d succumbed and Linda made an appointment with Pastor Jim. He’d gotten tied up at work and called the church, certain they’d have to cancel. But Pastor Jim said that the Sunday evening service was over, and his schedule was flexible. He agreed to meet them whenever Mac could get there, which was around eight-thirty.

  Mac had liked the pastor at first, especially when he started talking about sports and staying fit and working out several days a week. They talked about marriage and family. Mac let Linda go on about her family: parents who were still married after forty years; siblings who, like herself, had gone through college and earned their degrees. She’d come from a normal, loving family—one without all the dysfunction he’d had in his.

  When his turn came, Mac said, “My father was a cop, my mother died when I was young, and my grandmothers raised me.” He didn’t elaborate—didn’t tell them his father had been an alcoholic. He didn’t even mention his mother’s family or why he never used his given name, Antonio. His brief explanation seemed to satisfy them. Apparently they had an agenda and were eager to get started with their project: changing Mac.

  Linda kept her gaze on Pastor Jim as she explained how she felt left out and how days would go by without her h
earing from Mac. “We’re engaged, but I’m lucky if we see each other more than once a week.”

  “I’m a detective,” Mac said in his defense. “When I’m on a case, I don’t have a lot of extra time on my hands.”

  “I understand.” Pastor Jim smiled in Mac’s direction. “My schedule is overwhelming at times too, and I have to work long hours. I tend to be a workaholic, but we do need to compromise if we expect to nurture our relationships. I try to reserve Tuesday and Thursday evenings and all day Saturday as time with my family. We guard our time together closely.” He chuckled. “If I slip up, my wife keeps me in line.”

  Mac wasn’t amused. He shifted his gaze from Linda to Jim. “There’s no way I can set aside specific days. I never know when I’ll be called in.” He struggled to keep his tone pleasant.

  “You can’t carve out a day or two each week?” Pastor Jim asked.

  At the moment, Mac didn’t want to spend an hour with Linda, and particularly not this hour. He should never have agreed to come. How could such a beautiful, sensitive, sensual woman have turned into such a pathetic snob?

  Pastor Jim was patronizing and clearly on Linda’s side. Mac fumed inwardly, not willing to give an inch.

  “It’s not even the time so much.” Linda turned her watery, doe-brown eyes on him.

  Oh, great. She was going to cry.

  Linda reached for a tissue from the box conveniently placed on Pastor Jim’s desk and dabbed at her eyes. “When he’s working on a case, which is all the time, I go for days without hearing from him. I leave messages that he never answers. I worry so much about him—I mean, he’s out there tracking down killers. It’s a dangerous job, and sometimes I can’t even sleep at night worrying about him. Would it be so hard for him to call me?”

  “Mac?” Pastor Jim folded his hands and waited for Mac to respond.

  “I suppose I could call more, but . . .” Mac hesitated. How could he tell her that when he was on a case, calling her was the farthest thing from his mind? Maybe it shouldn’t be, but it was.