Fear No Evil

Chapter 3

From the time we’d met as ten-year-olds, John Sampson, my best friend and long-term DC Metro Police partner, had been stoic, quiet, observant. Since his wife, Billie, had died, he’d become even more reserved and was now given to long bouts of brooding silence. I knew he was still wrestling with grief.

But that late-June morning, Big John was acting as wound up as a kid about to hit the front gates of Disney World as he bopped around my front room, where we’d laid out all our gear for a trip we’d been talking about taking for years.

“You think we’ll see a grizzly?” Sampson asked, grinning at me.

“I’m hoping not,” I said. “At least, not up close.”

“They’re in there, big-time. And wolves.”

“And deer, elk, and cutthroat trout,” I said. “I’ve been studying the brochure too.”

Nana Mama, my ninety-something grandmother, came in wringing her hands and asked with worry in her voice, “Did I hear you say grizzly bears?”

Sampson glowed with excitement. “Nana, the Bob Marshall Wilderness has one of the densest concentrations of grizzlies in the lower forty-eight states. But don’t worry. We’ll have bear spray and sidearms. And cameras.”

“I don’t know why you couldn’t choose a safer place to go on your manly trip.”

“If it was safer, it wouldn’t be manly,” I said. “There’s got to be a challenge.”

“Glad I’m an old lady, then. Breakfast in five minutes.” Nana Mama turned and shuffled away, shaking her head.

“Checklist?” Sampson said.

“I’m ready if you are.”

We started going through every item we’d thought necessary for the twenty-nine-mile horseback trip deep into one of the last great wildernesses on earth and for the five-day raft ride we’d take out of the Bob Marshall on the South Fork of the Flathead River. An outfitter was providing the rafts, tents, food, and bear-proof storage equipment. Everything else had to fit into four rubberized dry bags we’d use on the river after he dropped us off.

We could have signed up for a fully guided affair, but Sampson wanted us to do a good part of the trip alone, and after some thought, I’d agreed. Six days deep in the backcountry of Montana would give Big John many chances to open up and talk, which is critical to the process of coping with tragic loss.

“How’s Willow feeling about our little trip?” I asked.

Sampson smiled. “She doesn’t like the idea of grizzly bears any more than Nana does, but she knows it will make me happy.”

“Your little girl’s always been wise beyond her years.”

“Truth. Bree liking her job?”

Thinking of my smart, beautiful, and independent wife, I said, “She loves it. Got up early to be at the office. Something about a possible assignment in Paris.”

“Paris! What a difference a career change makes.”

“No kidding. It was like the gig was tailor-made for her.”

“Maybe we should think about going into private-sector investigations too.”

“Pay’s better, for sure,” I allowed.

Before he could reply, my seventeen-year-old daughter, Jannie, poked her head in and said, “Nana says your eggs are getting cold.”

I put down my dry bag and went to the kitchen, where I found my youngest child, Ali, already finishing up his plate.

“Morning, sunshine,” I said, giving him a hug. He ignored it, so I tickled him.

“C’mon, Dad!” He laughed, then groaned. “Why can’t I go with you?”

“Because you’re a kid and we don’t know what we’ll be facing.”

“I can do it,” he insisted.

Sampson said, “Ali, let your dad and me scope it out this year. If we think you’re up to it, we’ll bring you along on the next trip. Deal?”

Ali scrunched up his face and shrugged. “I guess. When do you leave?”

“First thing in the—”

My cell phone began to ring at the same time Sampson’s chimed.

“No,” John protested. “Don’t answer that, Alex. We’re supposed to be gone already!”

But when I saw the caller ID, I grimaced and knew I had to answer. “Commissioner Dennison,” I said. “John Sampson and I were just heading out the door on vacation.”

“Cancel it,” said the commissioner of the Metro DC Police Department. “We’ve got a dead female, gunshot wound to the head, dumped in the garage under the International Spy Museum on L’Enfant Plaza. Her ID says she’s—”

“Commissioner, with all due respect,” I said, “we’ve been planning this trip for—”

“I don’t care, Cross,” he snapped. “Her ID says she’s CIA. If you want to continue your contract with Metro, you’ll get down there. And if Sampson wants to keep his job, he’ll be with you.”

I stared at the ceiling a second, looked at John, and shook my head.

“Okay, Commissioner. We’re on our way.”