"I'll spray first," I whisper. We will give this bear a fighting chance. That's Dalton's rule. He never hesitates to kill an animal if it's a serious threat, but he won't if he has the option.
We're waiting for the bear to charge. That's why it dropped to all fours. It's taking longer than we expect and then it rises again.
Anders makes a soft growling sound that has me nodding in agreement. The beast is toying with us. While we don't exactly want to deal with a charging grizzly, neither of us is good with just waiting, unable to see enough to be sure it's a bear, not daring to shoot if it isn't, not even particularly wanting to shoot if it is.
The sun is dropping farther with every second. We need to get to shelter before nightfall, need to be sure Anders is okay after his collision, and it's not enough that we're trapped by a freak blizzard, we're stuck in a standoff with a damned grizzly.
"Just go," Anders mutters to the bear. "Nothing to see here. Run along home."
When the bear turns around and starts ambling off, I have to stifle a snicker at Anders's expression.
"Well, that was easy," he says.
"Bears." I shake my head. This was how my last grizzly stare-down had ended, too. When that bear showed no signs of charging, Dalton advised me to take slow steps back, and as soon as I was far enough away, the bear snorted and returned to digging for grubs, satisfied that I'd been suitably intimidated.
This bear is gone, but we stay crouched and watching until Anders's wince tells me his back didn't escape that collision uninjured.
"I'll stand guard," I say. "You empty the saddlebags."
He does. Then we head for my sled to do the same. The snowfall's still heavy enough that I'm grateful for the rope, guiding me through that endless white. As we near the spot where the bear stood, I spot something red under a layer of new snow. I brush the snow aside and uncover a woolen hat. A bright red, gold, and white one with a flaming C on the front.
Sutherland's Calgary Flames toque.
I remember the figure standing here, watching us, and then bending over.
Not a bear preparing to charge.
A man, placing this on the ground.
I turn over the hat in my hands, and as I do, something dark smears on my gray gloves. I lift one hand to my face for a better look, but even before I catch the smell, I know what it is.
Blood.
THREE
I clear the spot where the toque lay. More blood. I position the hat on my hands and can see the blood is on the back. Consistent with a blow from the rear. I shine my flashlight into the toque. There's hair. Light brown, like Sutherland's. What I'm really looking for, though, is brain matter. There's none of that. A blow hard enough to draw blood, but not crush the skull.
As I fold the toque, Anders points. He knows what I'll want next and has uncovered boot prints under a thin layer of snow, confirming we had indeed been looking at a man and not a bear.
Anders takes off one of his boots and lowers it next to the print. It's the same size.
"Eleven," he says, but I know that already--we've done this before. In Rockton, crime solving is decidedly low-tech.
I compare the tread and make mental notes for later.
There's no question of going after the guy. His footprints are already covered. Yes, that toque suggests something happened to Sutherland, but I won't risk our lives running pell-mell through a darkening forest in hopes of finding him. Shawn Sutherland brought this on himself. Yes, that's a cold assessment. It's also the same one Anders makes, without any discussion. This forest isn't a whole lot different from a war zone. If one of your comrades disappears on a mission, you'll move heaven and earth to find him. But if he goes AWOL? Screw him. He made his choice.
We'll look for Sutherland when it's light. And we'll come back again to search with Dalton, even if by then we'll be looking for a body. Right now, though, we need shelter, or there'll be three bodies lying frozen in the snow.
We continue on to my snowmobile. It has Dalton's saddlebags, removable, easily converted into a backpack. We stuff everything in, and Anders insists on carrying it while I lead.
"I can bench-press my own weight," I say. "I can carry that bag."
"But you're the one who knows where we're going," he says.
"Uh, no, I don't. Bear Skull Mountain is just to the north, where we might find a cave, but that's all I've got."
"I don't even know which direction is north."
I could point out that we have a compass, but Anders isn't just directionally challenged--put a compass in his hand, and it starts spinning, as if his very physiology foils him.
"North is to our right," I say.
He lifts his hands, checking for the L that indicates left. I sigh. He grins and hefts the bag as we head out.
*
I find the mountain. Anders finds the cave. He's a spelunker, which is not the hobby for a guy who can't tell his left from his right. As compensation, he draws amazing maps of cave systems, but Dalton still insists that he never go caving without a more directionally adept partner, which these days is often me.
Anders can look at a mountain and, in one sweep, find the most likely places for a cave entrance. By the time we reach the mountain, the snow is light enough that he's able to point out two spots. We pick the one with a natural pathway leading to it.
The first time I entered a cave was with Dalton, visiting a local recluse. I'd seen the small opening under a rock ledge and thought, That's not a cave. To me, a cave is the sort of place a bear might make a den, with a wide opening. Most entrances to a system, though, are more like this: a gap that doesn't look big enough for even me to squeeze through. As always, perception is deceiving, and Anders makes it inside without even snagging his snowsuit on the rocks.
It opens wider past the entrance, but it's still not a stereotypical cave. The first "room" is maybe six feet in diameter with a ceiling just high enough for Anders to sit without scraping his head.
Caves maintain a constant temperature year-round, so Anders can remove his snowsuit without fear of frostbite. Halfway through examining him, as sweat drips into my eyes, I strip out of mine, too.
His collar is bruising where the helmet slammed down, but the bone is intact, and he accepts only one of the two painkillers I offer.
We spread out the contents of my bag. In winter, Dalton assigns one of the militia guys to check the saddlebags daily to make sure they're fully stocked. It always seemed like overkill, but now I send him a silent apology as we find everything we need: flashlights, extra batteries, a full water canteen, meal bars, flares, emergency blankets, waterproof matches, and a first-aid kit.
"You want to see if we can get in farther?" Anders says when a stray gust sets me shivering.
"Good idea."
Exploring an uncharted cave takes time. Anders wiggles through one tight passage, only to have to back up when it narrows. After maybe half an hour, we find a decent cavern, tall enough to kneel in, long and wide enough to sleep in.
We kill time by talking. Anders is the chatty one, but with a friend, I can give as good as I get. When we're tired enough to sleep, I set my watch alarm for first light and stretch out on the blanket.
The moment quiet falls, I hear something deep in the cave.
It sounds like scraping. I picture a grizzly sharpening its claws on the wall, and I have no idea if they do that, but that's exactly what it sounds like. A rhythmic, long, and slow scratching.
Anders whispers, "You hear that?"
I nod and then realize that's pointless. Another thing about caves? Unless there are direct vents to the outside world, there's no light. Absolute darkness. I remember the first time Anders showed me that, admitting he snuck out sometimes to sit in the complete dark and complete silence. Alone with his thoughts. Alone with his darkness.
At the time, I hadn't understood. Oh, I understood the appeal--I felt it, that mix of incredible discomfort and incredible peace. Absolute dark and absolute clarity, reaching into the dark
ness inside me. But there seemed to be nothing dark in Anders. I know better now. It took some time for me to come to terms with his past. And then more time to realize that the person I'd befriended wasn't a mask he wore in Rockton. It's all him, the dark and the light.
I turn on my flashlight and tell him I do hear something, and he says, "Scratching?"
"Um-hmm."
"Bear?"
I mentally flick through my local critter list, courtesy of the naturalist who shares my bed. Around here, most predators will take shelter in a cave if that's what presents itself, especially in bad weather.
"Probably bear," I say.
"Black, right?"
"The blacks stay in the forest."
"Of course they do. Grizzlies. It's always grizzlies."
"Could be a mountain lion."
"I'll stick with grizzlies."
As for how a bear or mountain lion would get in--it's a cave system, which means there are bound to be bigger entrances. We're safe in here, though. This cavern only has two openings, and both were barely big enough for Anders.
"So we stay?" I ask, when he says we'll be safe.
"You okay with that?"
"I will be after I double-check the perimeter."
He chuckles. "Good idea."
He makes his way along the walls, ensuring we didn't miss an opening. I crawl to the back passage and push my head and shoulders through.
I call, "It's not big enough for a bear or cat. We're--"
A voice echoes through the passage. I hesitate, thinking it's my own. But the voice comes again, and it's definitely not mine.
I withdraw quickly and whisper, "Listen."
He pokes his head in. After a moment, he pulls back, swearing under his breath.
"I'm not imagining it, then," I say.
"No. Guess we're making a moonlight trek to Rockton after all."
He's right. Even if it's only settlers, we can't take a chance. Time to pack and go.
As I roll up my blankets, the voice comes again, and this time I catch "Hello?" It sounds like a woman.
I motion to Anders that I'm going to crawl farther along that passage. He nods. The voice is too far away to be an immediate danger.
I reach a turn and shimmy around it, which requires a move Petra calls "humping the wall." In other words, rolling onto my side and, well, making that particular motion to wriggle around a ninety-degree angle. The moment I turn the corner, I can distinguish words.
"Hello?" she calls. "I heard voices. Please, if you can hear me, please, I need..."
The rest trails off. I lie on the floor, listening and considering. Then I shimmy past that corner again and back all the way out.
"It's a woman," I say. "She heard us talking, and I think she's calling for help."
"Shit." Anders rubs a hand over his face.
"Have the hostiles ever lured people in like that? As a trap?"
"Not since I've been here. But there's always a first time."
I echo his curses.
"Either way," he says, "we might not even be able to get to her. I say we see how close we can get and assess the situation."
FOUR
First, Anders struggles to hump the curve. Then we hit a squeeze even I don't dare try. We back up and resume packing to leave, but I still hear that voice, and even if I can't make out the words, my imagination fills them in.
"There was a passage off the one we came in through," I say.
"You want to give it a try?"
"I'm a chump, right?"
He smiles. "Then we both are, 'cause I was just going to suggest we try to find another way before we give up."
"It's probably a trap."
"Yep."
"That path up the hillside..." I say. "At the time, I was crowing about our good luck, finding a natural path straight to the cave entrance. Now I'm thinking it was a little too lucky."
"Yep."
"So we try to get closer?"
"Yep."
We take the other passage. It's slow going. We catch the occasional sound of a voice, but it echoes too much to track. Each time we try a new route, we mark it so we don't get lost. We crawl around for at least an hour, and the woman has gone silent. I'm about to say we should just give up when I catch soft crying. Then I see light.
We flick our own light off fast. In front of me, Anders picks his way toward the crying until I see an opening ahead, and he stops so fast I bash into him. He drops onto his stomach so I can see over him. The passage ends in a cavern, and in that cavern, there's a coiled rope and an old wooden crate. The light, though, seems too dim to be coming from there.
Anders motions that he's going to check it out, and he crawls on his belly, knife in hand. Then he stops. At least a minute ticks by as I watch him leaning and peering before he inches through.
I creep along until I can see the cavern. It's no bigger than the first one we'd stopped in. There's the crate and the rope and ... a hole in the floor. That's where the light is coming from--that hole. Anders is edging around it, trying to peer down without leaning over.
As I crawl through, I realize the rope is attached to an old metal hook, driven into the rock. It's knotted for scaling down the hole, but right now it's coiled at the top. Yet that soft crying comes from below. From inside the hole.
It's a trap. It has to be. Otherwise ...
In the city, I'd think this was a hostage situation. But out here, that makes no sense.
If it's not a trap, then someone is trapped. A settler or a hostile, or even just an adventurer, too naive to realize she's a few months out of season for adventuring.
There. A logical explanation. Either a trap or an accident. As for that shiver up my spine, the voice whispering that isn't what this looks like? Clearly mistaken.
I motion to Anders that I'll take a closer look. I try to peer down that shaft without being seen, but there's no way to position myself in shadow--the light is right in the center of the hole. When I peek over the edge, she sees me. And I see her, and the second I do, I know my brain has made a mistake. My gut did not.
She wears what looks like men's clothing, oversized and ragged, and she's standing at the base of a drop at least fifteen feet straight down to a cavern no more than five feet in diameter, the bottom covered in furs. There's a crate, like the one up here. Hers has a candle burning on it. Nothing more. Just a woman and furs and a crate and a candle. Her long hair is matted, her face streaked with dirt, tear tracks running through it.
She could still be a hostile. This could be her home, and we've been lured here. But when she looks up and sees me, she bursts into fresh tears.
I've heard that expression before. Bursts into tears. I've never really seen it, though, like I'd never seen a storm strike before today. This is exactly what it sounds like: a dam bursting, tears coming so fast they leap from her cheeks as she falls to her knees, face upturned to mine.
"Oh, God," she says. "Please be real. Tell me you're real."
Anders crawls to the edge. "Just hold on. We're going to get you out--" He stops. "Nicole?"
She's looking up, blinking as hard as she can. "Will?"
"Holy shit," he whispers. Then, "It's me, Nicole. Will Anders. Just hold on. We're going to get you out of there."
She grimaces, as if she's trying to smile. Then the tears come again, body-racking sobs of relief as she falls to the floor.
FIVE
As we lower the rope, Anders whispers to me, "Nicole Chavez. She disappeared last year in the fall. We found--We thought we found her body. We were sure of it. The clothing--"
He shakes his head. Time for that later. We've lowered the rope, and Nicole reaches for it but misses. Anders shines his light down and says, "Nicki?" and she looks up straight into the beam and yelps, hands going to her eyes.
"Sorry," he says and turns the flashlight aside. "There. Light's off. Just take hold of the rope. Good. You've got it. Now put your foot on the first knot..."
He coaches her, and she tries
--damn it, she tries so hard, and every time I say, "Here, we'll come help," she says, "No, I've got this." But she doesn't have it. She's too weak.
I look at that hole, not even big enough to stretch out in, and I hear Anders's words
Disappeared last year in the fall.
My stomach heaves.
"Nicole?" I call. "Just wait. Will's coming down."
Anders shakes his head at me. "You should be the one."
"She knows you."
"But I'm probably going to need to haul her up."
"Right. Okay."
I climb down the rope. When I reach the bottom, I say, "I'm Casey Butler."
"Pleased to meet you, Casey Butler." She hiccups a laugh that turns into a sob and falls against me. I enfold her in a hug, and she's so thin I could have hauled her up that rope myself. I tell her it'll be all right, she's safe now, we found her. Then she pulls back suddenly.
"We need to go."
"It's okay. We're the only ones here."
She starts to shake, her fingers gripping my arms. "No, we need to go. Please. Quickly. Before he..."
She can't even finish, and I try to calm her, but she's too agitated. Help has finally arrived, and she needs to get out now.
I fix the rope around her waist and knot it as well as I can. Then I give Anders the go-ahead. He pulls her up, and I help by boosting her.
She's just beyond my reach when she convulses, saying, "No!" and I yell, "Will! Hold on!" and she's kicking, and I'm trying to grab her, telling Anders to lower her again. He gets her down, and the moment her feet touch the furs, she's scrambling for the crate, saying, "Sorry, sorry, sorry. I just--I need--" She reaches it and drops to her knees and pulls off the cover. Inside are two books with battered bindings. As she pulls one out, pages fall, and I see handwriting and realize they're journals. Filled journals.
"I'm sorry," she says as more pages fall. "I just need--I have to take them. Please."
"Of course," I say, and I gather the pages, and she says, "I know I should leave them. I can't. I'm sorry."
"It's okay. We have a bag."
She lets out a shuddering sigh and then, hugging the journals to her chest, she lets Anders pull her up.
*
When I climb out, Anders is examining Nicole, and she's staring at him, tears rolling silently down her cheeks.
"You look just like I remember," she says. "You're so..." She flushes and drops her gaze with an awkward laugh. "Sorry. I've been dreaming of someone rescuing me for so long that I can't help thinking this must be one of those dreams, because if I ever get rescued, it's going to be by a couple of miners who haven't seen a shower in weeks."