"Eric?" I ask her.
Her whole body quivers as she dances from paw to paw, her nose raised to catch a scent.
I say "Eric?" again, to be sure. She whines louder, giving me this look as if to say, Well, obviously. What are we waiting for?
"Slow," I say. She bounds forward. I call, "Slow!," and she gives me a reproachful glance as she takes it down to a walk.
We make our way down the steep incline. I hope it's Dalton she smells. Names are something she's learned only from general usage. If I say "Where's Eric?" she'll look for him. And one of Dalton's favorite games is to hear me coming up the steps and hold the door closed, saying to Storm "Is that Casey? No, I don't think that's Casey. Are you sure it's Casey?" while the poor puppy goes nuts. I've said one of these days, she's just going to get fed up and bite him, and I won't blame her. If she doesn't, I will--especially if he's holding the door shut when it's thirty below.
I test Storm, saying "Is that Eric?" as we walk, but that only makes her pick up speed, leaving me stumbling over rocky ground to keep up. I quit that before I lose her again. Another thing to add to my duty belt--nylon rope for a temporary lead. I search for something else to use, but I'm not wearing a regular belt, and I have gauze pads not strips. So, I just keep calling "Slow!" when she bounds ahead, and then I get those looks, like she's humoring Granny with the bad hip.
We're definitely not going the same way we came in. I try not to worry about that. I still have my landmarks, and Storm is on a scent that is almost certainly Dalton's. When I hear something in the trees ahead, I call, "Eric? Tyrone?," and the long muzzle of a caribou rises from a grassy patch. The caribou sees us. Storm sees it.
"Stop!" I say.
Wrong move. The sudden shout sends the doe running, crashing through the trees. I dive for Storm, and I land on her, my hands gripping her collar. But she hasn't moved. She's quaking, watching that fleeing caribou as if fighting the urge to turn tail and run, the memory of the cougar still fresh.
I pet her and tell her it's fine, and I'm fretting about that, whether one bad encounter will now have her terrified of every creature in the forest. But as the caribou bounds off, Storm's shaking turns to another kind of quivering, the kind that says she wants to give chase, and it's a good thing I have both hands on her collar and my dead weight holding her back. The surge of fear has passed, and now all she sees is yet another fleeing play toy.
I sigh, shake my head, and say "stay," and then I'm the one fighting an urge. A horrible urge to touch her shoulder, that raw line of stitches, a quick jolt of pain to remind her why she cannot chase things in the forest.
I feel sick even thinking it. Here I was worrying that this bad experience will traumatize her . . . and then I'm struggling against the urge to reinforce that?
I finger a tiny scar on my jawbone. Compared to all the other scars on my body, this one is invisible, but for so much of my life, it was "the scar." A permanent reminder that I had disobeyed my parents, and this was the price I'd paid--that my face would never be "perfect" again.
I got the scar rollerblading. I wasn't allowed to rollerblade, of course--looking back, I'm surprised my parents let me own a bicycle. But I'd been at a friend's place and borrowed her blades, despite knowing I was not allowed. I'd fallen and this scar, maybe a half inch long, was the result. After that, whenever I complained about not being allowed to do something, my mother would take out her compact mirror and hold it up for me, and I knew what that meant. Remember the scar.
In my head, a barely noticeable blemish became hideously disfiguring. A guy I dated a few times in high school touched it once, when we were sitting on the curb, and he told me it was cute, kinda cool and badass. I dumped him after that, convinced he'd been mocking me. As a child, though, when my mother showed me that mirror, I never felt angry at the reminder. It meant she loved me. It was the only way I knew my parents did. They might not hug or kiss me or call me endearments, but they cared about my safety. Now, as an adult, I'm not sure that was love at all, and yet, when I feel that urge to touch Storm's wound as she watches the fleeing caribou, that is what goes through my head. I will touch it and remind her of the danger because I want her to be safe. That is love.
I swallow hard and squeeze my eyes shut. That's not me. That will never be me. But even knowing I'd never do it, the urge still hurts. And on the heels of that comes the reminder that maybe it's a good thing my attack meant I can probably never have kids. I have no experience of how to be a proper parent, and so perhaps it's a decision that should be taken out of my hands.
I shake off the thought. Clearly not appropriate--much less helpful--at this moment.
Storm twists and licks my face, whining softly.
"Sorry," I murmur, giving her a pat. "Let's get on with it. Take me to Eric. That's who you smelled, right? Eric?"
Her tail thumps, and I nod, relieved that it wasn't the caribou.
I carefully release her, ready to lunge and grab her back, but she stays at my side for a few steps before venturing into the lead again. As she walks, she lifts her muzzle to catch the breeze, snuffling it, and I call "Eric!" each time to reinforce that's who we're looking for. There's no sign or sound of him, though, and I'm getting nervous. Nothing here is familiar, and there's no way to be sure he is what Storm's tracking. We just seem to be wandering deeper into the forest.
When a distant sound catches my ear, I home in on it, thinking, Eric. It's not the sound of people, though. It's water. The rushing water of the river I'd seen from the ledge.
Good, I'm on target. We'll go another couple of hundred steps, and if Storm doesn't track down Dalton, we'll swing east and try to find our way back to Jacob's camp.
Storm gives a happy bark and looks at me, tail wagging.
"You smell Eric?" I say.
She whines and dances.
I smile. "Okay then."
She takes off like a shot. I jog after her. The ground is more open here, and I can easily track her as she runs. I don't see anything ahead, but she very clearly does, tearing along, veering to the left, me jogging behind, my footfalls punctuating the burble and crash of water over rapids--
Water.
River.
To the left.
That's what Storm is running to. Not Dalton, but the one thing she can resist even less than fleeing prey: the siren's call of water.
I shout, calling her back, but she keeps running. I don't know if she literally can't hear me, being too far away, or if she figuratively can't hear, the call of that water too great.
Damn it, we need to work on this. Buy a whistle and train her to come to it.
We also need to seriously consider that pool. It might help with her water fixation. I can't blame Storm--Newfoundlands are water dogs. She'll even try getting into the shower with us if we don't close the door.
I'm chasing her at full speed, but I'm not worried. We'll be delayed for a few minutes while she splashes and plays. Then I'll continue on with a very wet but happy dog.
I hear the crash of the water over rocks, and I realize I know where I am. We came this way a couple of months ago with Anders, just as the spring thaw was setting in. He saw this river, rock-filled and fast-running, and said it'd be perfect for white-water kayaking. Dalton said sure, if he could--
My steps falter as I remember the rest . . . standing on the edge of rock and looking down at the river as Dalton said, "Yeah, if we can airlift you down there."
Down into the canyon river, fifty feet below.
32
"Storm!" I shout. "Stop!"
She doesn't slow. I yell louder. She keeps going.
I need a whistle. I need a leash. I need to do more goddamn training with her.
All of which is a fine idea, and perfectly useless at this moment.
We reach the rocks, and she's leaping over them, heading for that gorge.
"Storm! Stop!"
I shout it at the top of my lungs.
Less than a meter from the edge, she stops. The
n she looks back at me . . . and begins edging forward, like a child testing the boundaries.
"No!"
Another step. A look back at me. But, Mom, I really want to go this way.
"No!"
I'm moving at a jog now across rocks slick with moss. Storm has taken one more careful step toward the edge. Her nose is working like mad, picking up the scent of the water below.
"No."
Please, no. Please.
She whines. Then she takes another step, and she's almost to the edge.
"Storm, no!"
Goddamn you, no. Damn you, and damn me for being the idiot who didn't bring a lead.
She's stopped mere inches from the edge.
As she whines, I hunker down and say, "Come."
Whine.
"Come. Now!"
She looks toward the edge.
"Storm, come!"
I hear a noise. At first I think it's the water below. It must be. It cannot be what it sounds like.
Storm is growling. At me.
She growls again, jowls quivering.
My dog is growling at me.
I know it can happen. I've read enough manuals to understand that a growl is communication, and not necessarily threat. What it communicates is a clear no. A test of dominance. Yet it feels like a threat. Like I have failed, and she's questioning my authority. Telling me she's not a little puppy anymore.
"Storm," I say as firmly as I can.
Don't show fear. Don't show hurt.
She lowers herself to the rock in submission, as if I misheard the growl.
"Storm. Come here."
Still lying down, she begins belly-crawling toward the edge.
"Goddamn it!"
I don't mean to curse, but my words ring through the canyon. She whines. Then she continues slinking toward the edge.
My heart thumps. There are only a couple of feet between us, and I want to lunge and grab her by the collar and haul her back from the edge. Yet if she resists at all, we'll go over.
I keep moving, as slowly as I can, trying to figure out how to get her back without turning this into a deadly tug-of-war.
Please, Storm. Please come back. Just a little. I can grab you if you come a few inches my way.
She puts her muzzle over the edge, and I have to clamp my mouth shut to keep from screaming at her, from startling her into falling. She lies there, looking down. Then she glances back at me. From me to the river below. Her nose works. She whines.
"I know it's water," I say as I get down onto all fours. "I know it looks wonderful. If we keep going down the ridge, there's a basin. You can swim there. I promise."
I'm talking to myself. I know that. But I hope my voice calms her, even casts some kind of spell luring her from that edge.
Again, though, she looks from me to the river. Sniffs. Whines.
I form a plan. It's dangerous, but there's no way I'm taking a chance she'll go over the edge. I creep along on all fours. When I reach Storm, I rub her flank. My hand travels up her side, still petting, aiming for her collar. I carefully hook my fingers around it.
I won't pull Storm until I'm farther from the edge, with a better footing. Before I inch backward, I glance down into the gorge. I'm getting a look at what we face, so I will be prepared should we go over. And the moment I look down, I know I do not want to go over. Glacial ice coming off the mountain has been wearing away rock for centuries, and the walls go straight down. Below, there isn't even a safe amount of water to drop into. It's a shallow mountain river, more of a stream, filled with rapids and--
There is something in the water. An unnatural shape, unnaturally colored. Long and slender. Black on the bottom. Purple and yellow on top. It's the purple and yellow that I focus on. It's a pattern of some sort, and it jogs a memory of me thinking:
I haven't seen that shirt before. It's pretty. Far more colorful than usual. Did she bring it with her, tuck it at the back of her closet, an unwanted reminder of a time when she hoped for a brighter future in Rockton.
This is Val's shirt.
It is the blouse I last saw her wearing.
I tell myself she's lost it, that maybe she removed it to wash in the stream and it floated away and that's all this is. All this is.
That's a lie. An obvious, blatant, ridiculous lie.
I see that blouse trapped on the rocks. I see the black below it--the dress trousers she always wore. I see one shoe. One bare foot, pale against the dark water. I see her arms, her hands, equally pale. I see the brown and gray of her short hair.
I am looking at Val.
At her body.
Battered against the rocks below.
Storm whines. I glance over, and she has her muzzle on the edge, her dark eyes fixed on Val. That is why we're here. Not because she smelled water and wanted to go for a swim. She has located her target. We set her on a scent, and she has tracked it to its source.
I reach to pet her and whisper, "I'm sorry."
She nudges me, and then looks at Val again.
Well, there she is, Mom. Go get her.
I can't, of course. Not from here. I'm not even sure I can get to her from below. It's a narrow gorge, and she's trapped on the rocks.
Sure, Val, go ahead and play spy.
It's okay, Val. Just go with Oliver Brady. You'll be fine. We'll get you back.
My fault.
My responsibility.
There is no surge of grief. No tears. I move slowly, looking around for a way to get down, my body numb, the crash of the rapids muted. Storm's muzzle against my hand feels as if she's nudging me through a thick glove.
I nod, and I murmur something to her. I'm not even sure what it is. All I know is that I need to get Val out of the water for a proper burial.
Like Brent.
How would you like to be buried, Val? Before you go, just answer me that. In case I fuck up and get you killed, how should you be laid to rest? Any final words you'd like said?
Tears do prickle then, but they feel like self-pity, and I swipe them away with the back of my hand.
I will get her out of the water. I see jutting rock down there, with sparse vegetation, a bit of windblown soil and a place for me to lay her body, safely out of the water. We'll come for her later. Just get her out before the current dislodges her body and whisks it away.
I survey the cliff. It's impossible to climb down right here--it really is an edge, with a straight drop below. But if I travel farther down, I see a route with a bit of a slope.
I head to it. Storm follows. I reach the spot and tell her to lie down and then, firmly, to stay. She does, head on her paws.
I crouch at the edge. From here, the route looks steeper than it did farther up. But I can do this. Just a bit of rock climbing. I see the first stone to put my feet on. It's a half meter down. Easy. Just back up to the edge and lower my feet over.
I do that. I'm holding on to a sturdy sapling with one hand, the other grabbing the rock edge. The rock should be right . . .
It's not right there. I'm past my waist, and I don't feel anything underfoot. I glance down. I'm about six inches short, that rock farther than it seemed. I take a deep breath and lower myself until my toes--
My foot touches down and keeps going. I grab my handholds as tight as I can and find my footing before I carefully look. I see my boot and the rock beneath it. A sloping rock. Okay, that's not what I expected but--
No.
I hear Dalton's voice in my head.
Hell and fuck, no, Butler. Get your ass back up here now.
I look over my shoulder and see Val's body.
You feel guilty? Fine. You're going to risk you own life to get her out of there? Not fine. Stupid. Unbelievably stupid, and you know it. You aren't saving her. She's dead. She doesn't give a damn if you bury her body or not. Get your ass up here, come find me, and we'll see if there's a way to do this safely.
He's right, of course. This is unbelievably stupid.
The second time I met Dalton,
he called me a train wreck, hell-bent on my own destruction. I corrected him--that implied I was a runaway train, not a wreck. I didn't argue with the principle, though. After killing Blaine, I never contemplated suicide. I never tried to die; I just didn't try to live, either. Didn't try to stay alive or enjoy that life while I had it. I felt as if I'd surrendered my future when I stole Blaine's from him.
Now, seeing Val's body below, I feel as if I have pulled that trigger again. If anything, this is worse, because I didn't act out of hate and rage and pain. It was negligence. Carelessness. But when I think that, I hear Dalton's voice again, telling me not to be stupid. Yeah, he understands the impulse--fuck, yes, he understands it--but we aren't shepherds with our herd of not-terribly-bright sheep. Mistakes were made. Mistakes will always be made. But I didn't throw Val to this wolf. I tried everything I could to keep Brady from taking her into that forest.
I still accept responsibility for Val's death. Yet I have to take responsibility for my life, too, for not doing something stupid because I feel guilty. That leaves Rockton without a detective and Dalton without a partner. I have made compacts here, implicit ones, with the town, with Dalton, even with Storm, and those say that I won't do something monumentally risky and stupid, or I will hurt them, and they do not deserve that.
I dig my fingers into the soil, and I test the sapling I'm holding. It's sturdy enough. I brace and then pull myself--
My hand slides on the sapling. It's only a small slip, but my other hand digs in for traction and doesn't find it and . . . And I'm not sure what happens next, it's so fast. Maybe when the one hand loses traction, the other loosens just enough to slide off the sapling. All I know is that I slip. I really slip, both hands hitting the ravine side with a thump, fingers digging in, dirt flying up, hands sliding, feet scrabbling for that rock just below. One foot finds it. The other does not. And the one that does slides off, and I fall.
I fall.
Except it's not a clean drop. It's a scrabble, hands and feet feeling dirt and rock and grabbing wildly, my brain trapped between I'm falling! and No, you're just sliding, relax.
The latter is false hope, though. It's that part of my brain that feels earth under my hands and says I must be fine. I'm not fine. I'm falling, sliding too fast to do more than notice rock under my hands and then it's gone, and I try to stay calm, to say yes, just slide down to the bottom, just keep--