I hear a "Hie! Hie!" from the camp. That's Dalton. Cypher uses more colorful language to convince the bear it's time to go. Both crash through the undergrowth, making as much noise as they can. When a shot fires, I tense and Storm whines, but it's a warning shot, followed by crashes heading the other way and accompanied by the grunts of a fleeing bear.
"Casey?" Dalton calls.
"Right here!"
"He's taking off. We're going to check out the camp. Are you okay where you are?"
"I am."
"Then stay there with Storm in case the bear circles back."
"Got it."
I listen to the forest, gun in hand, but all I can hear is the rustle and murmured talk of the men at Jacob's campsite.
And then Storm leaps up. Leaps up, toppling me off her, and by the time I realize what's happened, she's a black blur disappearing into the forest.
I race after her. It happens so fast that I presume she's heading for the campsite, and I'm not too concerned about that. Then I realize we're heading in the opposite direction.
I should have shouted. If I'd even just yelled for Storm, Dalton would have heard it. I do now. I call for her, and I call for him, but I'm still running, stumbling through thick undergrowth, and I can tell my voice isn't loud enough to carry back to Dalton. But I cannot stop because in that moment, I am absolutely certain that if I do not catch Storm, I've lost her. She's running, and I see her, and as long as I can do that, I still have her.
I stop shouting for Dalton and call to her instead. Storm. Get back here. Stop. Come. Wait.
It's too many commands. I know that. I'm panicking and shouting whatever comes to mind, and she is not stopping. Goddamn it, she is not stopping. I should have her on a leash. She isn't ready for this, not well enough trained, and my hubris has failed her.
The ground opens up as we veer toward the mountain base. I can see her easily now, bounding over the rock. She's chasing something. I catch a glimpse of brown fur. Tawny. A deer? It leaps over rock, and as it jumps onto one, I see . . .
I see that it's not a deer.
30
When I realize what Storm is chasing, I scream at her. "Stop! Storm! Stop now!"
She just keeps bounding after a massive tawny brown cat.
A mountain lion.
"Stop!" Please, please, please, baby, stop.
She does not stop. Does not seem to hear me. She scrambles over the rocks, letting out a happy bark as she closes in on her quarry.
Quarry? No. Storm has no sense of other animals as prey. We have not taught her that.
We should have taught her that.
We didn't get her as a hunting dog, and we don't want her chasing down animals. She's had exposure to many--foxes, deer, rabbits. But they aren't prey. They're chase toys. They run, and she pursues until they take cover, and she loses the game. She's never caught anything bigger than a mouse that she once surprised, and then she just tossed it about until we got it away from her.
In failing to teach her, I have been, in my way, like my parents, failing to prepare me for life's dangers. Because what she is chasing right now is not a chase toy. It will not take cover. It is a predator, and when it turns on her, she will not flee. She will not attack. She'll think the game has taken an exciting new twist--not a chase toy, but a playmate. An animal her own size who is turning around to say, "Tag, you're it," like her human playmates do.
I'm screaming at her, and I know she can't hear me. There's a sharp wind coming off the mountain, blowing my shouts away. I'm not even sure she'd hear me without that. Her ears are filled with the pound of her oversized paws and the heave of her panting breaths and the thump of her adrenaline-charged heartbeat.
I have my gun out. I've had it ready since I realized what Storm is chasing. But I can't get a shot. She's too close to the big cat.
The cat is drawing her into its territory, its comfort zone. Cougars are death from above. The silent plunge from a tree or a rocky overhang. A dead-weight thump on your back. Powerful jaws clamping around your neck. Spinal cord severed, you're dead before you hit the ground.
This cougar is luring Storm in. It will make one incredible leap onto a rock--a leap that requires feline hindquarters--and will leave the canine scrambling at the base. Then it will pounce. And that will be my chance. I'll see it spring onto that rock where Storm cannot follow, and when the big cat turns around, I will shoot. I will empty my goddamned gun if I have to.
We're scrambling up the mountainside. The cougar looks back a couple of times, obviously shocked that such a massive canine is keeping up. Storm is big, but she's young and agile, not yet the lumbering Newfoundland she'll become.
The cat veers suddenly. I see where it's going--the perfect overhang. But it has miscalculated. That rock is at least twenty feet above the path. The cougar can't possibly make the leap. Yet it intends to try. Still running, it hunkers low, gaze fixed on that spot. It slows, and Storm is gaining and oh, shit, no. Storm is gaining, and the cat will realize it can't make that jump. Storm will leap and--
The cougar jumps. I see it crouch, see its hind muscles bunch, see it spring, and as terrified as I am for Storm, I cannot help but mentally freeze-frame the sight, awed by the beauty and perfection of that huge cat in flight.
It lands squarely on the ledge. The shock of that freezes me again. Then the cat disappears, turning around, and I jolt from my surprise to remember my shot.
I raise the gun and look down the sights. The moment the cat appears, I will fire.
At the base of the overhang, Storm barks, jumping and twisting, as if she can reach it.
The cat's ears appear first. Tawny black-rimmed ears. Then the top of its head, dark line down the middle, perpendicular dark slash over each eye. When the pink nose emerges, I start to squeeze the trigger. A chest shot would be better, but any shot at all should spook it, and if it runs the other way instead of pouncing, Storm will be safe, stuck below--
Storm gives one last bark . . . and tears off. I glance away from the gun just in time to see her racing along the rock. Looking for another way up.
Damn it. This is one time when I really wish I had a dumber dog.
"Storm!" I call. She has to hear me now. The cougar does. Its gaze swings my way, and I'm close enough to see those amber irises. Close enough to make eye contact and feel a stab of regret and a hope that my bullet will miss, and the big cat will be frightened off--
Another bark. The sound of paws scrabbling on rocky ground. The sound of paws finding purchase, finding a path, pounding up the mountainside . . .
Shit!
The cougar's head disappears. I fire anyway. Fire and hope the sound will send it running. But I only take that one shot, and then I'm running, tearing in the direction Storm went. I can see her, black against the gray rock, making her way up the mountainside, determined to win this game of catch-me.
"Storm!" I call as I run.
She hears me then. Looks back and gives a happy bark. Mom's playing, too, this is awesome!
"Storm, come--"
I stop myself. Focus. Breathe. I'm cold with panic. Literally icy with it, cold sweat dripping down my face as I shiver, each breath scorching my lungs, my heart pounding so hard my vision clouds. This is terror. Like seeing that sniper in the tree, Dalton lunging, Dalton falling--but that was a mere second of panic, the thin space between seeing him fall and seeing him alive and breathing. This seems to go on forever.
When I saw what Storm was chasing, I knew she could die. I realized death was a very real possibility and maybe even a probability, and it was all my fault. She trusted me, and I should have known better, and who the fuck--who the fuck--was I to think I could protect anything. I have never in my life been able to do that. I've spent years barely able to keep myself moving forward.
Don't rely on me. Just don't. I will do what I can, everything I can, but please do not rely on me. Do not give me that responsibility. I will fail.
I am about to fail.
Sto
p. Focus. I have one last chance. Storm can hear me, and any moment now, that cougar will appear and leap from a rock I can't even see down here.
"Storm? Stop."
I don't shout it. I say it. Loud. Firm. Angry even. Let her know I'm angry. That is the key here. She doesn't understand fear. She doesn't understand shrieking panic. That is not the language I have taught her.
"Storm. Stop."
She skids to a halt and glances over her shoulder and in her eyes, I see confusion. Hurt and confusion.
"Storm. Stay. Storm? Bad girl."
Her ears droop at that, muzzle dipping. She knows she has misbehaved. Knows she has run from me. I must use that.
"Storm? Come."
I'm still walking, as I extend my hand, reaching for her, my gaze on the rocks above. She's almost to me when I see a flash of tawny fur. That's all I see--a blur, as the cougar leaps and shit, oh, shit, no, the big cat is in flight, dropping toward Storm, who is making her way slowly to me, her head and tail down.
I fire. Shot after shot, I fire as the cougar is in flight. The big cat jerks, bullets ripping through its underside in a burst of blood. But it is still falling. Still on trajectory to hit Storm.
"Storm!" I yell, and that only confuses her, and she slows, her head lifting.
The cougar lands square on Storm's back, and I'm flying forward. A voice in my head shouts for me to stop, just stop. It's Dalton's voice, not mine. Mine is silent, accepting, and I'm sailing at the cougar, gun dropped, hands out as if I can physically wrench the big cat off Storm.
The dog bucks, her eyes rolling in terror. The cougar's jaws open. I hit it, both hands slamming into its side. One massive fang slices into Storm's shoulder. Slices in and rips as the big cat falls. I'm on it then, and a memory flashes, Cypher telling me he wanted me to teach him aikido so he could take down the man-eating cougar out here. I remember rolling my eyes at that. He was joking. Had to be joking. No one would attempt anything so stupid.
I'm falling, my hands wrapped in brown fur. Fur slick with blood, blood pumping from multiple shots in the cougar's white underbelly. We go down, and I'm atop the big cat, and all I can think is What the hell are you going to do? Wrestle it to death? I grab for my knife. I'm still pulling it out as we roll, and I rear up, knife raised.
The cougar stays on the ground.
I'm poised there, adrenaline pounding. The big cat lies on its side, flanks heaving, blood pumping from the bullet wounds. The cat's mouth opens, and it is breathing hard. Its eye rolls to look at me, and in it, I see a look I know well, from Storm when she is injured.
I don't understand.
I hurt, and I don't understand.
Storm moves up beside me. Blood seeps from her shoulder, but she's walking fine. She sniffs the cat's injured belly and whines. Then she lowers herself at my side and lays her big muzzle on my foot as she watches the cat.
I tentatively reach out and place my hand on the cougar's shoulder. That amber eye meets mine, but the cat just keeps breathing hard, gasping for air.
Dying.
When I shot Blaine, I saw him die. It took only a moment, but I had to watch it--the outrage, the anger, the disbelief. While he had not deserved what I did, he was not blameless. The punishment simply did not fit the magnitude of his crimes.
This cougar is blameless. It ran from a predator. It tried to stop a threat. It did what it needed to survive. And I shot it. Emptied my gun into it.
It's a young cougar. I see that now. A male, the size of Storm, which means it isn't more than a couple of years old. One of the man-eater's cubs. A beautiful creature, covered in blood, dying and confused.
Storm whimpers, and I know I have to tend to her, but I can't leave the cat to die alone. Maybe that's overly sentimental, but I feel I owe it something.
No, I know what I owe it. The question is whether I can do it. I don't want to. I have to. It is gutshot, like Brent, and if I walk away, it will lie here for hours, slowly dying.
I steady my knife. Then with my left hand, I rub the fur behind its ears. I half expect it to snarl, to tense, but that eye closes and the big cat relaxes under my fingers. I grip the knife firmly in my right hand, find its jugular, and slice, as quickly as I can. The cat's eye flies open, but it doesn't lift its head. With the pain from its stomach, it barely notices the cut. I keep rubbing its head, and that eye closes and after a moment the cougar goes still.
31
I take only a second to regroup. Then I'm checking Storm's shoulder. There's a gash where the cougar's fang pierced and then sliced, and that, too, is my fault--I'd hit the cat as the fang caught.
Of course, if I hadn't hit, all four canines would have ripped out the back of Storm's neck. But I'm good at taking blame. Two seconds faster, and I could have saved her from any injury at all.
I have a rudimentary first-aid kit on my equipment belt. When I was a constable, I hated the equipment belt. Gun, baton, radio, cuffs, flashlight . . . The damn thing weighed fifteen pounds, and I consider myself in good shape--need to be in my profession--but I was still half the size of my partners, and my belt was just as heavy as theirs. I would long for the day when I could trade my belt for a shield. It came quickly--my education fast-tracked me to detective--but I still remember the damn belt. Now I must wear one again, and I'm fine with that. I've actually added items to what Dalton considers essential for venturing into the wilderness. The mini first-aid kit is one of my extras. God knows, we need it often enough.
I clean and suture Storm's shoulder. She is remarkably good about that. Part of it is that she's been stitched before, more because her owners are anxious new parents than because her wounds actually required stitches. I suspect her stillness is also because she knows she's in trouble. And part is, I fear, shock. Shock that this beast hurt her. Shock that her attacker now lies warm and motionless and bloody on the ground.
I don't understand.
I hurt, and I don't understand.
I rub her ears and pet her and talk to her. She nudges the cougar a few times, as if seeing whether it will rise. Nudges. Sniffs. Lies down with her head on its foreleg and sighs.
I'll come back for the cougar's hide. While that sounds callous, it is the opposite. I don't want this hide. I want to say it's ruined and leave it here. But only the belly is shot, and this is what Dalton has taught me, that if we must put down a wild animal and there is any use to be made of its remains, then we must do that. Leaving it to rot is a last resort when, as with the mother wolf-dog, there is nothing to be taken.
I heave to my feet, and maybe I'm in a bit of shock myself, because it's only then that I think, Oh, shit. Dalton.
In everything that has happened, I've forgotten how it started. That Dalton and Cypher were checking Jacob's campsite while Storm bolted, and Dalton never realized I'd taken off. He's certainly realized it by now.
I need to get back to him.
I look around, and . . .
Which way is back?
Down the mountainside. I know that much. But from there . . . ?
I ran after Storm, focused only on her, paying no attention to my surroundings.
Shit.
No, I'm fine. There's a damn mountain here, a massive landmark. I know Jacob's encampment was near the base. It's just a matter of orienting myself.
I tell Storm to stay. She doesn't appreciate that, but when I insist, she wisely decides she has disobeyed me enough for one day, and she plunks down with only a grumble.
I climb up to where the cougar had leapt from. I walk to the edge and look out to see forest. Endless miles of forest.
"Eric!" I shout. My voice echoes over the woods below.
I scan for any sign of Jacob's campsite. Of Dalton. Of Cypher. Of anything that doesn't belong in this forest.
I see trees.
Lots and lots of trees.
Forget landmarks, then. I know I am on the proper side of the mountain. We approached from the south, to the southeast side of Hawk Peak--so called because it resembles a
hawk's head, with a jutting rock for a beak.
The problem? From where I stand, I can't tell if I'm on Hawk Peak. I'm too close to see the rock formation.
If this is Hawk, then I should be able to see a smaller unnamed peak to the east and . . .
I do see rock to the east. Is it the smaller peak . . . or just rock? Damn it. I'm just too close to judge.
I know my way home. That is the main thing. The problem is that Dalton won't go home until he's found me.
I see a stream below. Possibly a small river. I didn't cross one, but I do recall running through marshy land. There's mud on my boots, so that seems to be the generally correct direction.
I unwind a strip of bright yellow cloth from my belt. Last winter I got lost in the woods during a snowstorm, and I'd been grateful for a particularly ugly scarf Anders gave me. So Dalton now insists everyone carry a strip of bright fabric. I fasten it to this rocky ledge to mark the spot where I've left the cougar. I also attach a note for Dalton.
We're fine. I'm going to try to find the campsite again. If you aren't there, I'm heading for the ATV. I know where I am. I won't wander.
Except, of course, I have already wandered, and by saying I know where I am, I mean only the rough geographic area. Rockton encompasses about fifteen acres. It seems a huge and exposed parcel of land, but it is tiny in this massive forest. It isn't as if I can just keep heading in a compass direction and not miss it.
I won't worry about that. I have my gun and extra ammo. I have energy bars. There's plenty of fresh water. It's good weather. Storm and I will be fine. This is the mantra I repeat to myself as I make my way back to my dog.
She's where I left her. I give her a strip of dried meat and a pat, and we set out. I watch her movement. Going downhill isn't easy with her shoulder. She takes it slow, growling now and then, as if frustrated by the impediment. I know exactly how she feels--I do the same, as old injuries in my leg protest the steep downward climb.
As we near the base, I know this isn't the spot we went up--it's too steep. I'm looking for an easier route down when Storm goes on full alert. She starts to whine, her tail wagging.