Betrayal...Opening Chapters

Chapter 1

Trevor O’Hanlon swept his arms across the wet huckleberry branches, searching for the half-remembered path. He swore, calmed his staccato breathing, and ran another twenty yards down the Pacific Crest Trail. At a granite outcropping he splashed to a stop and turned in a quick, tight circle. Near an old-growth Cedar he found an almost indiscernible gap in the brushline. He pushed aside the scraggily bushes and looked down a steep, overgrown path that angled sharply left before disappearing into the November fog and rain.

He pulled a tattered hiking map from his tan shorts and a cigar-sized flashlight from the side of his pack. Within a few seconds, he'd located the old path. The flashlight’s beam traced the squiggly green line to the Ellensburg trailhead.

 Pushing back wet blond hair, he smiled . . . then squinted at the map and turned it sideways. Printed alongside the trail in tiny red letters was the word, ABANDONED. He groaned and slapped the map against his thigh.

Trevor rubbed his forehead and sighed. Staying on the main trail meant Ellensburg was four, rainy hours away. Seattle and a hot bath were two hours beyond that. The abandoned trail, if not overgrown and strewn with deadfall, could cut his return time by half.

He pulled his shirt collar higher against the intensifying Cascade Mountain wind and thought about the dangers of a night in the mountains. Cougars were active. Getting lost was almost a certainty and running in the dark guaranteed a falling injury. He’d told no one about the hike. There’d be no help or rescue. He shivered, pushed the brush aside, and stepped onto the abandoned path.

An hour later, he’d traveled less than a mile through the entangling overgrowth. Tripping on a concealed root, he swore and fell to one knee. He started to rise, but an odd sound stopped him. Canting his head, he peered into the dark ravine below the trail, listening. The manic rustle of windblown bushes and tree limbs filled the valley. He shrugged, stood, and using both hands, clambered atop a fallen tree lying diagonally across the trail.

“Hey! Help! Down here!”

He hesitated a moment, then swung both legs over the wet log and slid to the ground. Stepping to the trail’s edge he called into the darkness, “Where are you?”

“Here!” came the faint reply, “I’m down here.”

“Here is helpful,” he muttered. “Leave it to a woman.” Through cupped hands he yelled, “Where the hell’s, ‘here’?”

“By the river. Against the tree.”

Trevor pushed aside a willowy branch, stepped ten feet down the sloping precipice and held the flashlight above his head. His breath formed small puffs of condensation. Moving his arm in a slow arc, he yelled, “Can you see my light?”

“Yes. Yes, I see it.”

“Come on up,” he called, turning toward her voice. “I’m by the trail.”

“I can’t. My ankle. It’s sprained . . . or . . . something. I . . . I can’t walk on it.”

He lowered the flashlight and shook his head. Tough. I’m soaked. Cold. Hours from home. No time for lost women. He turned toward the trail and mumbled, “Good luck.”

“I need help,” she added plaintively.

Trevor stopped and sagged. His sole decency gene squirmed. Christ. He looked into the night sky. A light rain fell on his face. “God damn it.” He kicked at the muddy soil.

“I . . .  I can’t make it out alone,” she called.

“Okay, okay,” he said under his breath. Turning toward the river valley he yelled, “I’m coming down. Watch the light. Guide me, you know, left or right.” Then quietly added, “Think you can do that?”

He tightened his pack’s shoulder straps, expelled a breath, and started down the steep mountainside, zigzagging to control his speed. After a few feet, the incline overcame him and he rushed from bush, to boulder, to tree, grabbing whatever appeared.

Despite stumbles, falls, and bramble bush attacks, he managed to reach the river’s edge. Flashing the light about, he found himself on a narrow bank of slippery, softball-sized rocks. He called to the woman. Her reply sounded close, perhaps within thirty feet, somewhere in the darkness to his left. He moved toward her voice, picking his way across the moss-covered rocks, arms extended like a tightrope walker. A giant, fallen cedar materialized from the darkness.

“You there?” he called.

“Yes, you’re close. I’m here, by the log.”

“He scrambled through a fifteen-foot wide root hole that smelled of musty earth and ducked under an overhanging branch. Pushing aside a rain-wet clump of bushes, he turned toward the river and raised the flashlight.

The woman squinted and lifted her right hand, palm outward, to block the glare. She sat propped against the fallen cedar, her left leg flexed at the knee; her right leg extended before her at an angle. The hood of a navy blue, nylon windbreaker partly covered her short blonde hair. Dark brown eyebrows contrasted with her hair and pale skin.

“Hi,” she offered, and half smiled. Her rapid breath, condensed to lingering vapor, swirled in the flashlight’s compact beam.

Despite her disheveled hair, mud-streaked face, scratched legs, and torn gray shorts, Trevor decided she was attractive. Her face had the crisp, smooth look of youth with a firm jaw line, inquisitive greenish-blue eyes, and a pouty lower lip. Her nose was the only flaw, just a bit too large with a left bias, as if broken and improperly set. Trevor, now pleased he’d committed to her rescue, ranked her as an eight on his scale of ten.

“Hi, yourself. I’d been hoping we’d meet, but this is a bit extreme.” Trevor loved to flirt. One of many character traits that had irritated his ex-wife. “Name’s Trevor.” He gave a mock salute.

“Abby Teague.” The words escaped with a cold-induced shudder.

“So, Abby Teague, what happened?” he asked, stepping toward her and squatting.

She rubbed long fingers over her face and sighed.

Trevor noticed she worn no wedding ring.

“I fell,” she admitted. “Stumbled or tripped on something.” She motioned toward the abandoned trail. “Up there. Then managed to roll and slide most of the way to the river.”

“Quite a trip.”

“Yeah.”

He wanted her to laugh, but she appeared oblivious to his pun.

“When’d it happen?”

She shrugged and wrapped both arms about her waist. “Not sure. Thirty, forty-five minutes ago.”

“Is it just your ankle?” He flashed the light around as if there might be stray body parts lurking in the undergrowth.

“Isn’t that enough?”

“Yeah.” Trevor looked at her askance. “I ‘spose so. How’d you get on the trail? It’s abandoned.”

“Lost. You?”

“Napping at Rainbow Lake. Storm caught me by surprise. I remembered this old trail and thought it’d be a shortcut.” He gave a short, cynical laugh. “Of course, it’s not.” He paused. “I almost didn’t take this route, couldn’t find it at first. You mighta been in trouble if I hadn’t come along.”

“This isn’t trouble?” she asked, an edge to her voice.

“Yeah, since you asked,” he said, stung. “This is trouble.” Pretty, but a smart-mouth.

“Believe me,’ she said more softly, “I’m glad to see you. If it hadn’t been for the flashlight, I woulda missed you for sure.”

Trevor nodded, mollified, and tried to recall the last time a woman had told him anything similar. “Oaky, let’s get you mobile.”

He placed one knee on the ground and, slipping off his pack, maneuvered it between them. He asked Abby to hold the light while he dug about in an exterior pocket. He pulled out a red plastic box and popped open the hinged lid. Inside were a variety of items, including two, pre-formed, elastic bandages, one shaped for the knee, one for the ankle.

“Here,” he said, pulling out the ankle brace, “let’s put this--”

“Don’t you want to look at it?”

"Wouldn’t do any good; I’m no doctor, and besides, doesn’t matter if it’s broken, twisted, strained, or sprained, the available treatments are all the same.”

He smiled at the sentence’s rhythm and rhyme. A reporter for the Seattle Enquirer newspaper, Trevor liked words and his verbal silliness pleased him.

“So . . .” He held out his hand and nodded toward her foot.

She raised her leg, grimaced, and moved it toward him. He placed his hand behind her thigh, which, he thought, was very shapely. Her skin felt smooth and tight, but cold, like polished granite. He slid his hand toward her knee, ostensibly to get a better grasp. The intimacy of kneeling between her legs stirred him. He glanced up. She was biting her lower lip and squinting at her foot.

He removed her bootlaces, pulled the tongue out, and slipped the boot from her foot. The wet sock was more resistant, but he managed to ease it off. There was a small patch of yellow and blue discoloration around her slightly swollen ankle.

“Doesn’t look so bad.”

“Still hurts,” she said, a defensive tone to her voice.

“Uh huh. Let’s wrap it.” Trevor pulled on the edges of the elastic bandage and holding it open, slipped it around her ankle. He allowed it to close and tighten around her skin. She sucked in a breath and lifted herself a few inches from the wet ground. After a second, she relaxed with a soft groan.

He twisted her beige wool sock, extracting a small stream of dirty water. After some awkward effort, they managed to slip on her sock and boot, which he laced and tied.

“Thanks. Wish I could say it felt better.”

“This’ll help.” He pulled a small paper package from the red box and tore it open. Two pills tumbled out. “Aspirin,” he explained. “It’ll reduce swelling, too.”

She leaned forward, looking in his pack. “You got a little of everything in there,” she said with a small smile. “Pretty amazing.”

 “I carry the same stuff every time: hiking stove, fuel, matches, candle, bite to eat.” He smiled, and lifting the red box added, “And a first aid kit.”

“Lucky for me.” She rubbed her arms.

Trevor offered the aspirin. She took the tablets, leaned back, and downed them without water or encouragement.

“Okay. Now we gotta get outta here,” said Trevor, reloading and closing his pack.

Abby looked at the sky. “The rain’s let up.”

“Yeah, but it’s colder and we’re both wet to the bone. Worse, the trailhead’s at least two hours away . . . on good ankles.”

Abby shot him a defensive glance.

Trevor stood, slipped into his pack, and offered both hands.

With a grunt, Abby managed to stand and balance on one foot. He released her hands and backed away, arms extended toward her. Satisfied she was stable, he looked about and retrieved her small, yellow fanny pack. She strapped it on.

He stepped beside her. At six feet, he was eight inches taller than her five feet four. They fumbled about, entwining arms and groping hands, trying to find the best combination of support and mobility. Eventually, they determined her right arm around his left elbow worked best.

Trevor enjoyed the feel of her breast pressed against him. He decided it was smallish, but firm and well defined. He wondered if she was available . . . or easy.

With Abby leaning against him, they trudged up the mountainside. A direct line to the trail proved too steep, so they walked cross-slope, a tedious but manageable tactic. Following the flashlight’s beam, their attention alternated between sidestepping obstacles and staying upright.

Though they didn’t chat much, Trevor learned Abby worked for the Seattle Public Library. She’d moved to the Pacific Northwest in April from the Gomer Pyle-sounding town of Ozark, Alabama. She was twenty-three and, despite the odd absence of rings, was married to Bob Teague, an Army helicopter pilot stationed in Vietnam.

 “Hear from him much?”

“Letters. About one a week. She glanced at Trevor, then added, “Sometimes two.” They maneuvered around a small bush. Between deeper breaths, she said, “He’s the unit Supply Officer. Between that and flying, it’s difficult for him to write.”

Trevor’s reporter’s nose told him she was enhancing the truth, but he replied, “Yeah, I imagine.”

Trevor wasn’t making small talk. He wanted to determine if Abby was the slightest bit unhappy with Bob, or lonely, or just horny. He was beginning to plot how he might be rewarded for helping her to safety. Needy women, he thought, should be grateful.

After twenty minutes, Abby asked, “Not gotten far, have we?’

“Hmmmm. Dunno. Maybe a hundred yards.”

“Can we stop a moment?” Abby asked with a shallow pant.

“Well . . . yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

Trevor shrugged. Though never easily impressed by a woman, he thought Abby was fit and game, hobbling along without complaint. Even with their progress measured in what seemed like inches-per-minute, he thought she was doing better than most women—and blessedly, without complaint.

Abby looked behind her and placed one hand on a boulder. She sat heavily and sighed. “I’ve one good foot. I’m cold, bruised, sore, and hungry.”

“Christ.”

Abby coughed once, looked up and said, “Sorry, no more whining. Let’s go.”

“No, it’s not you, not directly.”

“What?” She glanced about in the darkness as if missing something. “What’s wrong?”

He held his arm toward her and turned the flashlight’s beam on his dark green shirtsleeve. For a moment, there was nothing. She looked at him expectantly. Then, two white dots fluttered through the light.

“Abby put a hand to her mouth, stifling a cry. The words slipped from her. “Oh my God.” She looked at Trevor, wide-eyed. “It’s snowing.”

Chapter 2

“Okay.” Trevor rubbed his forehead, trying to remain calm. He turned his palm up; snow fell on it and melted. “We need to find shelter. We’re not gonna get off the mountain tonight, that’s obvious.” He kicked angrily at a loose rock “We gotta get out of the weather.”

Abby looked hopeful. “Maybe there won’t be a storm.”

“Maybe I’ll win the Pulitzer.”

“Needn’t be mean.”

“Let’s just get going.”

They started again, still maneuvering cross-slope, still moving slowly. Occasional snowflakes had become continuous flurries. They stepped around a small fir and stumbled on a break in the brush no more than two-feet wide. Trevor shined his light up and down the path.

“This isn’t the trail, is it?”

“I dunno.” Abby studied the surroundings. “Seems different than I remember. Smaller, but more . . . brutish . . . and the orientation doesn’t seem right, you know? More up-and-down the mountain than cross-slope.”

“Yeah, not what I remember, either. We’re looking for something wider with more overhang. Still, someone’s been through here.”

Abby shivered, “Sure have. Let’s follow it. Lot easier than no trail at all.”

“Okay. Up or down?”

“If this isn’t the trail we’re looking for, it’s gotta be above us,” she reasoned.

“If we haven’t missed it.”

She looked at him with annoyance. “We haven’t missed it.”

He shrugged. “Glad you think so.”

“Let’s go up; this has gotta lead to the old trail.”

“Maybe.”

“Where else could it go, Trevor?” Again, there was annoyance in her voice.

“Who knows, but I don’t wanna drag you up there only to find a dead-end or whatever.”

“I don’t think you’ve been exactly dragging me.”

“Don’t be touchy.”

She frowned.

“Tell you what. You stay here.” He gestured up the mountain, “I’ll scout ahead and see what we got.”

Abby shrugged. “Okay.”

Trevor removed his pack, placed it behind her, and helped her to a sitting position. “Be right back.”

He turned left and began to follow the rough trail, his small flashlight illuminating the way. After about two minutes, the terrain steepened, forcing him to crawl up the slippery vegetation. Near the top of slope, he put his hand it into something with a cold crust that gave way to a mushy inside. He snatched his hand away and held it under the light.

“Christ on the cross! Poop.”

He wiped his hand on a wet bush then rubbed it in the mud. Damn. Where’s the rain when you need it?

In the midst of revulsion, he recalled Abby’s comment about the brutish nature of the path and had a sudden insight.

This path wasn’t made by someone, it was made by something . . . a bear!  “What next?” he muttered.  Marauding Indians? Plague of locust? Neo-Nazis? “Jesus H. Christ!”

Trevor glanced about. Bear attacks were rare, but when surprised or threatened, even the placid black bear could become three hundred pounds of unpredictable fury. The ill-tempered Grizzly was larger and famously meaner. Would one of the big monsters come crashing down on him from the underbrush, its teeth bared and a thick string of saliva dangling from its mouth?

He fumbled with the flashlight and moved the switch to “Off.” The newly formed lump in his chest grew. He slunk back into the protective darkness and backed down the mountainside.

In a few moments, he was beside Abby. Between deep breaths, which he hoped she took for exertion, he said, “Well, it’s a bear trail.” He paused for effect. “I didn’t see the den, but there’s gotta be one someplace.

Abby nodded. After a moment, she asked suspiciously, “You saw a bear?”

“Well, no. I saw evidence of bears,” he answered defensively.

“Evidence of bears?”

“Yeah, evidence.  Bear shit since you want specifics.”

“But no actual, real-life bear . . . and no den?”

“No.” He looked at her with a mixture of surprise and annoyance. “No actual bear. Christ, are you kidding? I got out of there as fast as I could. Dying from exposure is one thing, eaten by bears quite another.”

“Uh huh,” she said flatly, then gestured for him to help her stand. “Let’s check it out.”

“Are you nuts?” He pointed up the dark path. “I just did check it out,” he said, a mocking tone in his voice. “There’s a God damn bear up there. Who knows, maybe more than one!”

“But you didn’t see a bear.”

“I don’t see electricity either, Abby, but I’m smart enough not to stick my finger in a light socket.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter. Chances are, this late in the year, if there is one, it’s in hibernation.”

“Chances are?” He gaped with incredulity. “Chances are? And what if chances ain’t? What if . . . what if it’s sitting up there right now, cold and hungry, just like us? Huh? We’d, correction, you,” he sneered and nodded toward her ankle, “being somewhat less than mobile, would make a nice meal. That’s what.”

“There’s either no bear or it’s hibernating,” she replied.

“You’re pretty damn certain for someone who hasn’t been up there. I saw a pile of bear poop. Where there’s bear poop, there’s bears. And when did you become a bear expert? Got lots of ‘em in Ozark? Or’d you read about ‘em in the library?”

“No, I’m not expert,” Abby replied without hesitation, chin thrust forward. “But you’re pretty certain there’s a horde of man-eating bears lying in wait up there based on what? Huh?”

“Well . . .” This verbal combat reminded him of why Sarah was now his ex‑wife. A sense of failure and embarrassment brushed him. He licked his lips and wished for a shot of bourbon.

She waved one hand in the night air and continued the attack. “Based on shit pile identification? You some kind of shit expert? If not, how do you know what it came from? Point of fact, you don’t know shit, do you?” Then she added, “Mr. Outdoorsman who got out of there, and I quote, ‘as fast as I could.’”

 Her cheap shot landed on his male ego. Trevor looked away. Snow dusted the ground. The wind blew with a steady, chilling confidence. Arguing with a sharp-tongued woman he barely knew in a nighttime, mountain snowstorm didn’t seem too smart. Nonetheless, baiting bears in their den was vaguely biblical and while something similar might have worked for Daniel and lions, Trevor doubted he’d be as lucky. He looked at Abby, perplexed and unsure.

 “Look, Trevor,” she said in a conciliatory tone, “we can stand here and trade insults, or we can check this out. I mean really check it out. We gotta get out of the weather and we gotta do it pretty damn fast. If the path is up there, maybe we can still get off the mountain or find somewhere to shelter while looking. Who knows, maybe we’ll find an abandoned den. That means shelter for sure. We gotta look again.”

“Abby took a hopping step toward him and put a hand on his chest. He assumed it was to help her balance, but the gesture and her touch disarmed him.

“This time of year bears hibernate. It’s high school Zoology.” Her face was earnest, her voice comforting. “It’s simple. The risk of encountering an aggressive bear is minimal. The risk of continuing like this is great. If this path leads to any kind of shelter, or even better, the way out, it’ll make, well, a big difference. Let’s at least look, huh?” She released his shirt, tilted her head, and smiled.

“And if we get eaten, you won’t complain?” Trevor asked with a grin."

“Of course I’ll complain; it’s a woman’s birthright.”

 For the first time, they laughed.

***

They stood one behind the other, panting, their breath visible in the cold night air. Trevor was in front. Abby, balanced on her left foot, but showing increased mobility, peered over his left shoulder. Ten feet before them was a near vertical cliff face.

“No trail. No den. Now what?” asked Trevor.

The narrow path ended on the rocky approach to the cliff. Trevor played flashlight’s beam over the collar of scruffy bushes that ringed the vertical rock wall.

“Gotta be something there,” said Abby, “We just can’t see it. Shine the light closer in, maybe there’s dried mud or dirt prints on the rocks.”

Trevor shone the light near their feet. Some of the light gray rocks showed a brownish tinge where a footfall had left a muddy residue. The brown trail angled right toward the cliff before disappearing. Trevor followed the discoloration to a pile of rocky detritus about fifteen feet high. Guessing where the path might have gone, he scrambled up the rocks to a small, flat spot about two feet from the cliff’s protective bushes.

“From the rectangular ledge, it was easy to see. Where the cliff met the rock pile, a hole opened about eight feet wide and half that in height.

He turned toward Abby and called out. “Here it is. Looks like a cave.” Not waiting for a response, he scampered back down the slag pile.

“Okay.” Abby rubbed her hands together and blew into them.

“What now? Inside?

“It’s why we’re here.”

They hopped, scrambled, and crawled back to the rocky ledge and the mouth of the cave. Trevor wet his lips. Academic talk about hypothetical, sleeping bears paled when faced with the potential reality of encountering an actual bear, hibernating or not.

“Let’s go,” Abby urged with a shiver.

Trevor made a tsking sound, moved his head a bit to the right, and sighed. “Okay,” he said with resignation. “Guess I go first.”

“Only makes sense.”

“Sense,” he repeated flatly. “This is your God damn idea and I get to go first?”

She shrugged and smiled. “Your point?”

He laughed and turned toward the cave. “Just remember Mrs. Teague, when I’m dead, number one, I told you so, and, number two, good luck getting off the mountain.” He looked over his shoulder and with grisly humor said, “Didn’t think of that, did ya?” With a short laugh, he turned, sat at the mouth of the opening, scooted into the cave, and disappeared.