Chapter 1
Autumn in Central Washington was Luke McCain’s favorite time of the year. As an avid hunter, it meant there would be some hunts to enjoy in the weeks and months ahead. And as a Washington State Fish and Wildlife police officer, he would be very busy at work. He liked to be busy.
At a little under six-foot five inches tall and a very athletic 224 pounds, McCain was in excellent shape for 38-years-old. He loved being in mountains. A veteran wildlife police officer, McCain worked out of the WDFW Region 3 office in Yakima, which was mainly responsible for the central part of the state. The area he patrolled was huge, with much of it encompassing hundreds of thousands of acres of National Forest Service and state-owned lands.
McCain spent some time in the office filling out reports and going to meetings, but usually he was in the field checking on hunters and anglers. On occasion he and the other wildlife officers, still called wardens by many, would be asked to assist other police agencies in investigations and disturbances.
McCain frequently had his big yellow Lab, Jack, with him when he was working in the field. The dog loved to ride along with McCain, and Jack had, on more than one occasion, assisted in the search and location of injured animals.
The year prior, Jack had helped find the body of a woman who had been partially eaten by a bear. Then he helped track down the woman’s killer, who had also murdered several other women before dumping their bodies along the eastern slopes of the Cascades.
It was the last Monday in September, a day off for McCain, so he was planning on taking Jack up into the mountains to hunt for blue grouse. He had worked all weekend, checking on deer hunters in the mountains and anglers fishing for salmon on the Columbia River. He was ready to go do some hiking and hunting.
McCain and Jack were just climbing into his Tundra when his phone rang.
“Yeah, this is McCain,” he answered.
“Hi Luke,” a woman replied. “This is Deputy Hernandez with the Kittitas County Sheriff’s Office. I assisted you last year on a call to run down a poacher who had escaped from the Yakima County Jail.”
“Sure, deputy. How are you?”
“I’m fine. Listen, we’ve been called out on a lost hunter. We’ve located his vehicle, but we haven’t been able to find him. We’re hoping you and your dog might lend us some assistance.”
“I’m off duty today, but if you can clear it with my boss, I’d be happy to help.”
“I’ll have the sheriff make the call now. He’s pretty persuasive. Any chance you can head our way?”
“I’ll grab my gear and start your way now. Text me the coordinates.”
The deputy said she would and thanked him.
“No grouse hunting for us today,” McCain said to the yellow dog.
Jack turned and followed McCain back into the house.
“We’re not going hunting after all,” McCain yelled into the kitchen. “There’s a lost hunter up in Kittitas County and they want my assistance. Well, not so much my assistance. They want Jack.”
“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” came the voice of his girlfriend. “He’s the star in my book, and he’s a whole lot cuter too.”
Sara Sinclair and McCain had been dating ever since he and Jack had saved her from a mass murderer who came to be known as the Cascade Killer. There was an almost immediate attraction between the two before Sinclair was abducted, but after McCain and Jack had rescued her and then caught the killer, a real love had grown. She had moved in with McCain a couple months later.
“What’s up?” Sinclair asked. She was tall and slim, with the body of a person who worked out regularly, because that’s exactly what she did. Her straight black hair fell to her shoulders, and her dark brown eyes were flecked with the tiniest of orange spots. She was the FBI agent in Yakima and was always more than interested in the daily activities of her fish and wildlife police officer boyfriend.
“Not sure,” he said as he grabbed his service utility belt and vest. “They found the hunter’s rig but can’t seem to locate him. That’s all the deputy told me.”
“Well, if anyone can find him, Jack can,” she said as she rubbed his ears.
Sinclair had been eating a bagel with cream cheese before heading to her office in downtown Yakima, and Jack was sniffing around for any crumbs that may have hit the floor. He paused in his search for a speck of food to allow Sinclair to pet him, and then looked up at her to see if his big brown-eyed puppy dog stare would entice her to give him a bite.
As usual, it did.
“Come on, you chow hound,” McCain said to Jack. “It’s time for you to go earn your keep.”
McCain kissed Sinclair goodbye, and then he and Jack loaded up in his state-issued Ford F-150 pickup, driving toward Ellensburg. He had put the coordinates from Hernandez into the GPS map app on his phone and, while he didn’t really need the directions, the app told him the quickest way to reach the hunter’s truck.
During the drive up to the ridge, McCain took another call from Hernandez.
“Your boss cleared you to come assist,” the deputy said. “We’ll meet you at the missing hunter’s rig?”
“How’d you find out the guy . . . I’m assuming it is a guy . . . was missing?”
“His name is Shane Wallace. His wife called it in late Saturday night when he didn’t come home. He’s muzzle-loader hunting for deer, and he is hunting alone. She said he was new to hunting and was very worried he’d gotten lost.”
“When did you find the rig?”
“Not until late yesterday. Some hunters noticed it
