Page 43 of Stilettos & Whiskey
Dad used his command voice. “No.”
“Okey-dokey.” When Dad got that look on his face, arguing was useless. I pulled the harness on. “The Superstitions are lovely this time of year.”
“Don’t be a smart ass,” Dad growled.
“Yes, sir.”
Logan plucked a piece of wood out of my hair. “You want to keep Mom happy, don’t you?”
“I do.” I attached the belay line to my harness. “I also want to kick Roger’s ass.”
A wolfish smile formed on Logan’s mouth. “Don’t worry. You’ll get the chance.” He motioned to the helicopter and up I went.
Chapter Eleven
Brent, Mom’s medic and spotter pulled me into the helicopter. He was pushing sixty, but he had the stamina of a man half his age. “Sorry about your apartment.”
“Me too.” I released the belay line as he closed and secured the helicopter door.
Mom glanced over her shoulder. “Buckle up. We need to relieve Firebird One. He’s running low on fuel.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I strapped in and put on the headphones. “Who are we looking for?”
Brent handed me a clipboard with a missing person’s poster attached to it and climbed into the co-pilot’s seat.
“Our missing hiker is one Annalise Cordova. She’s twenty-five, apparently in good health but a risk taker. Her occupation is listed as romance writer. She flew in from San Diego Saturday to hike the Superstition Mountains for inspiration,” Mom advised.
I groaned. “Let me guess. She’s writing about either the Lost Dutchman’s Mine or Peralta’s hidden horde.”
“The Lost Dutchman’s mine,” Mom answered.
The missing person’s poster showed Annalise flaunting her awesome figure in a red bikini top and jean shorts. The blue backpack at her feet wasn’t big enough to hold enough supplies for a two-hour hike, let alone a three-day camping trip. “Please tell me she didn’t go alone.”
“She refused to listen to the park ranger and was last seen two days ago on the Siphon Draw Trail,” Brent said.
Ugh. She just had to pick one of the more dangerous trails. It had been one hundred and twelve degrees for the last two days and without adequate water, the chances of Annalise still being alive weren’t good. “Were they able to track her cellphone?”
“No,” Mom replied.
“Has she done any backpacking before?”
Mom shook her head. “Firebird One searched Siphon Draw, Peralta and Hieroglyphics trails and came up empty.
Damn. I stared out the window. The Superstition Mountains were beautiful but deadly. To this day the park rangers still find skeletal remains of the unlucky treasure hunters or hikers who got lost and ran out of water. But the chance of finding the Lost Dutchman’s gold mine or Peralta’s hidden horde kept luring the idiots to their deaths.
“We’re approaching Massacre Falls. If Annalise made it this far, she might have taken refuge under one of the mesquite trees,” Mom said.
I raised my binoculars and studied the rugged landscape. The falls were one of the few sources of water during the rainy season. Back in 1840 Peralta’s men were massacred by Apaches when they stopped for water. The gold they had mined was never found and the legend started.
Five minutes later, Brent called, “I have a blue backpack just south of that boulder shaped like a toadstool.”
Mom expertly put the helicopter into hover mode.
“There’s something red under the mesquite tree to the east of the boulder,” I exclaimed.
Mom swung the helicopter around. “Looks like a body.”
“I agree. I’ll rappel down and see if this is a rescue or recovery,” Brent said.
