to leave a paper trail of any kind.
She nodded as the pilot pointed to the black shadowy peak ahead. She had told Marty that she was a wildlife photographer on an assignment. He seemed eager to buy into her story, had gladly accepted the cash she’d offered. She’d even brought a camera along. After all, a photographer without her equipment would look suspicious, and the equipment had made it easier to conceal her father’s gun.
The aircraft gained altitude as it passed over a mountain range. Marty called it the Flathead Range. She had noticed a constant change in temperature since leaving Missoula. She shivered in her seat and instinctively pulled the black stocking cap further over her ears.
The airplane caught an air current, and she felt it in her stomach. More noise. A constant rattling now.
She snuggled into the seat, determined not to worry. Nothing was going to go wrong. It couldn’t. She had a date with death, and she was the executioner.
Chapter 3
Koko followed the mountain trail from memory. It was narrow and overgrown, a steady climb upward. It was pitch-black out and cold enough to see her breath. The scent of snow was in the air, but she paid no attention to the time of day or the weather conditions.
The vision was strong and she felt the urgency of it. That’s why she hadn’t questioned it, not even with the knowledge that she was racing toward something that hadn’t happened yet. That was the case sometimes, and she knew there was a reason for it. Soon she would know what it was.
Her visions often came in bits and pieces, and she had to trust the process—believe. There was always a purpose to everything—what had passed and what was yet to be.
The higher she climbed the colder the air became. She stopped and buttoned up her faded blue coat, then pulled her pink wool scarf out of her pocket and covered her head. She tied the ragged ends under her wrinkly chin, then dug deeper in her pocket for a pair of finger-worn gloves.
She kept her aging eyes alert as she moved along the trail, concentrating on the vision and the heat that surrounded it. When she reached the southern slope of the mountain, she was halfway there. Breathing heavily, she kept the same dogged pace as she skirted rocks and the gangly lodgepole pines that were common to the Rockies. In some spots the animal trail went straight up, but Koko didn’t turn back.
After two more hours, she reached a snow-covered ridge and looked across the ravine. That’s when she saw it—the vision come to life. It was so clear this time that it knocked her to her knees.
She staggered back up, realizing it wasn’t the vision that had put her to the ground. The picture was no longer inside her head. It had finally materialized into a living thing. She was witnessing some kind of catastrophe.
The explosion shook the ground and rose into the heavens in an orange and red fireball.
Jacy was standing at the bar nursing his swollen jaw and cursing Tate when he got the third call of the night. It was around one-thirty, and this one was from the Bureau of Land Management chief in charge of search and rescue in and around Glacier Park.
He was out of breath and talking fast into the phone, two things that set Jacy immediately on edge. Billy Mason Crow Feather wasn’t easily upset.
“A small plane went down, Moon. Contact was lost around eleven-thirty.”
“Do you know who it is?”
“Marty Stollen. He reported engine trouble around eleven-twenty, and then nothing. His location is vague on account of you know Marty and his equipment. That plane should have been junked two years ago.”
“Passengers.”
“No confirmation on that.”
Jacy knew the plane in question and the owner. Marty’s single-engine Cessna had been grounded for repairs dozens of times. A hunting guide, Marty lived on a shoe-string budget and baler twine.
“We think he went down on Sinopah, but he could have gone past and lost it near Rising Wolf. Can you lend a hand, Moon? Hell, you know both areas better than my men. If that’s where he’s at, he’s damn near sitting in your backyard.”
“I’m at the Sun Dance,” Jacy said. “If I leave now I can meet you back at Two Medicine in an hour. Has anyone gone out yet?”
“No, and they won’t if you agree to pinpoint the site before I call in a crew. I’ve got a bunch of trainees here that can’t find their asses with both hands.”
“I’ll meet you at the cabin. Tell Vic to help you put together supplies for three days. Remember he’s a city boy so his brain works on a different level than yours and mine. In other words, he’s not going to saddle Pete. But he likes to eat, so he knows where things are in the kitchen.”
“I’m leaving now, Moon. Need anything else I can get you?”
“A weather report for the next few days.”
Jacy left immediately, after telling Tate what had happened. He drove hard over the curvy mountain roads, his thoughts on the evening’s events. His gut was in a knot and long ago he’d learned that was a warning sign not to be ignored.
Had Koko seen Marty’s lightweight airplane in her vision? Had she seen the crash in her mind?
Jacy didn’t believe in coincidences. Hadn’t when he was a Hell’s Angel, nor later when he’d been recruited as a rebel agent for Onyxx.
He liked to believe that’s why he was still alive. He had a suspicious mind, and tonight it was working overtime.
The voice was high-pitched. The incessant chanting—something between eerie and musical—entered Prisca’s subconscious as she came awake. Awake but not fully lucid.
She was lying on her back, and the air around her was bitter cold. Her entire body was in pain.
She didn’t want to open her eyes. She had closed them tight just before…before the airplane had crashed into the side of the mountain.
Oh, God, the plane had crashed, and she was…where?
Pris moaned, reliving the horror of knowing she was going to die.
Was she dead?
Was she in some limbo between heaven and hell?
“Open your eyes, sisttsi nan. You fell from the sky, but you’re alive. Open your eyes so you can see I speak the truth.”
Prisca heard the words and responded, opened her eyes to see an old woman bent over her. There was a fire crackling close by, and it lit up the woman’s wrinkled brown face framed in pink wool.
“There you are, sisttsi nan. Such beautiful eyes.”
“Where am I?”
“On Sinopah.”
That explained nothing. Pris took a deep breath and moaned regretfully as a fiery pain shot throughout her body.
“I’m hurt.”
“Yes. But I have stopped the bleeding. You will survive.”
“Who are you?”
“Koko Blackkettle. And you, sisttsi nan, what is your name?”
“I’m…” Prisca hesitated. She didn’t dare tell anyone who she was. “I…don’t know,” she lied. “I can’t remember.”
The old woman nodded, then reached out and touched Prisca’s forehead. “Maybe a concussion. Don’t worry, or think too hard. You will know what to remember when it is important enough to make a difference. The journey has begun.”
“What journey?”
“Yours, of course. The vision tells me you’re on a quest.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re