If this book is enjoyable, it is due in no small part to the people who have helped me get things right. In no particular order, this book owes a lot to the following people: Michael Briggs—okay, he gets thanked first because he’s my husband; Ginny Mohl, M.D., Ph.D., and my sister, who cheerfully answers questions about all things bloody and painful; Anne Sowards, who doesn’t get cranky with late . . . late books and is a huge help in making each and every book the best that it can be; Jody Heath, intrepid guide and volunteer at Columbia Hills State Park; and last, but not least, the very nice women who helped me with Samuel’s workplace in Silver Borne: Crystal Kalmbach and Danielle Hernandez.

Colombia Gorge

FROM THE DALLES CHRONICLE

Two Local Men Still Missing

Thomas Kerrington (62) and his son Christopher Kerrington (40) are still missing, though the boat that they were fishing in has been recovered. The boat was found abandoned two miles

downstream of John Day Dam yesterday. The men set out on a morning fishing expedition Monday but never returned. Sherman Co. marine deputy Max Whitehead says, “This has been an unusually bad year for boating fatalities on the Columbia. We’re stepping up patrols and urging boaters to take their safety very seriously.” Searchers are scouring the river, but after four days, hopes are low for a safe recovery of the two men.

FROM HOOD RIVER NEWS

This week’s fish counts are drastically down at both John Day and The Dalles dams. Allen Robb of the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife says, “We are concerned that there was some sort of toxic dump in the river somewhere between the dams. There is a significant reduction in the numbers of fish, and our operators are telling us that this is especially true of our larger fish such as the adult coho salmon.” Although extensive testing is under way, no sign of poison has been found in the river nor has there been an unusually high number of dead fish. “The fish are spooked,” says local fishing guide Jon Turner Bowman.

1

UNDER THE GLARE OF STREETLIGHTS, I

COULD SEE that the grass of Stefan’s front lawn was dried to yellow by the high summer heat. It had been mowed, but only with an eye to trimming the length of the grass, not to making it aesthetically pleasing. Judging by the debris of dead grass in the yard, the lawn had been left to grow long enough that the city might have demanded it be mowed. The grass that remained was so dry that whoever had cut it wouldn’t have to do it again unless someone started watering.

I pulled the Rabbit up to the curb and parked.