by Paula McLain
* * *
—
The remaining teams split up and fan out from the site, shining flashlights into bracken and deadfalls and spongy, hollowed-out redwoods, communicating by walkie, calling Cameron’s name. The rain is easing to a cold, intermittent spatter, but the sky stays dark and swollen, making shadows out of everything, cold black air and tree bark, rock and ravine, the going more and more treacherous. The number of potential directions feels dizzying and endless, trails almost nonexistent. At one point, I find myself waist deep in gummy ferns, the ridgeline so murky it feels like I’m swimming instead of hiking. I lurch forward, hearing Will just behind me, and wait for him to catch up.
“I’m going to head down into this valley,” I say, pointing to the slope to our left. “If she’s trying to hide from Caleb, she’d stay off the ridge and stick to dense, lowland areas.”
“Good thought. I’ll go first.”
“We’ll cover more ground if we split up,” I insist. “We can’t have much light left anyway. If you head that way,” I point to the opposite slope, “the valley runs east to west for about half a mile. I’ll be hiking in the same direction and meet up with you before the next rise. We’ll use our walkie if we need to.”
“Okay, but Anna? Be careful.”
I promise him I will before I test my footing, and start inching my way down sideways. Within minutes, he’s gone from sight and I’m deep into more ferns. They slap at my poncho and cling to my hands as I try for a safer angle on the slope. Then before I know what’s happening, the ground goes utterly slick and I’m tumbling down the hill at alarming speed, curling to protect myself while wet black branches pelt me from every angle.
When I finally reach the valley floor, I’m winded and bruised. I’ve fallen two hundred meters or more, almost vertically. “Will!” I call, and then strain for his response.
Nothing.
I start to reach for my walkie, but then do a quick triage of my injuries first. My hands are cut up, and my right hip throbs. I touch the stinging back of my head with my fingertips and feel my own wet blood. Gouged and bleeding this way, to any nearby predator I know I smell like dinner. And then there’s Caleb, who could be anywhere, in any of these shadows that drip and shudder. Having Will beside me wouldn’t necessarily protect me from Caleb, though, not if he’s intent on killing me. And I’m not that hurt from my fall. I decide to walk a bit farther on my own, feeling grateful that at least I didn’t drop my flashlight on the way down.
Slowly, I begin to move haltingly forward, the valley floor waterlogged as marshland. Minutes later, my torch seems to hiccup as if it’s beginning to lose battery power. I shake it in warning, and then trip on a root and fall again, slamming my right knee hard into the muck. From my hands and knees, I see something darting off to my left, a black wing of movement, as if I’ve startled an owl or something larger.
I freeze, listening with my whole body. My heart thrashes thickly. My throat feels knotted and closed. Left at thirty degrees is where I saw movement. I dig for my dropped light, and then make myself stand up again. Pressing forward through a spongy traverse, I feel the forest floor rise up underfoot like a soft black mouth. I’m terrified of what I might find, or who.
Above, the canopy seems to have knitted closed, and the sky is a memory. I have the sense that I’ve fallen through the world into a void. That even if I called Will he couldn’t reach me here. This isn’t one of Hap’s tests, either, not some game of survival. It’s my life, and maybe my death, too. I think of all Hap tried to teach me about the wilderness, how it demands respect no matter how much knowledge you have. His own disappearance proves that. He knew more than anyone, had more patience and reverence and respect. And still it took him—nature—but it can’t take me. Not if I’m going to have a hope of finding Cameron. That’s what I have to focus on now, not my fear, but my reason for being here. Because that’s what survival means.
I push on through the heavy undergrowth, leaves and twigs tugging wetly at my clothes. Then a clearing opens, a stand of old-growth redwoods. I can smell them, can almost hear them breathing. They seem to be here as witnesses, but of what?
Then something moves again. I hear a small choked-sounding gasp. And then my flashlight blooms over a figure. Bone thin and painted with mud, more animal than girl.
She’s half crouching in a tangle of branches, her hair knotted and wild, trying to camouflage herself. Her eyes are huge and they’re staring right at me, her expression haunted and fierce. “Cameron!”
I’m hardly breathing as she takes a step toward me in her ragged flannel shirt, legs pale and frighteningly thin. Her feet are bare. “Who are you?” she croaks before she trips and falls, either too weak or full of shock to stand.
I rush to her side, drop to my knees. She’s trembling as if she might break apart.
“It’s okay, Cameron. I’m a detective and I’m here to help. I’ve been looking for you a long time.”
“Where is he?” Her voice is frayed, terrified.
“We’re still looking for him, but you’re safe, I promise. No one can hurt you now. I won’t let them.”
“I want my mom,” she cries. Something deep inside her snaps and releases. “I want to go home.”
Before I can answer, I hear brush catch and rustle from behind us in the clearing, a body on the move. I spin to meet the sound, ready to fight to the death if I have to. But it isn’t Caleb. It’s Hector.
I can’t even imagine how he’s gotten here. Maybe he followed the search party from town, not willing to leave it to the authorities. Or maybe he’s simply materialized by magic? However it’s transpired, right now he looks as if he’s seeing the resurrection. In his hands, his flashlight trembles, light staggering over his drenched clothes and face, the impossibility of it all. The grace.
He doesn’t say a word, just drops his flashlight, still illuminated, and races to us, scooping up Cameron into his arms. She must weigh nearly nothing by now, but I can see that it doesn’t matter what size she is. He’s going to carry her anyway.
I thumb open the channel on my walkie. “We’ve got her. She’s alive, over.”
A crackle flares, and then Will’s voice. “Anna? Oh, thank God. What about Caleb?”
“No sign of him.”
“Do you know where you are?”
“I think so. I have help here, too.” I glance at Hector, leaving the full explanation for later. “We’re going to find a road and I’ll reach out to you from there. Get an ambulance, all right? And no media. Not yet.”
“Roger all that.”
In the stillness that follows, I tell Cameron she shouldn’t be afraid. That Hector is safe, a friend. Then I lead us out of the clearing, a flashlight in each hand, the valley dense and inky around us, my heart so full I think I could fly if I needed to.
Ahead in the distance, I can hear the Big River, engorged from the storm and running fast. I point us that way, directing the light through the underbrush, while behind me Hector’s breath comes with effort, his steps falling heavily. I don’t hear Cameron at all after a while. Maybe she’s unconscious, or maybe she trusts she is safe in Hector’s arms. To her, he’s only one of her rescuers, a man strong enough to hold her body weight. That she doesn’t know he’s her brother somehow makes the thing twice as beautiful.
(sixty-five)
We rush Cameron to the hospital in Fort Bragg, where Emily and Troy are already waiting in their car. I’ve told Will no media, but the networks have somehow gotten wind of the rescue anyway. The parking lot beyond the ambulance bay is clogged with vans and mobile floodlights and video stands. Emily has to pass through them to get to the room in the emergency wing where Cameron is being treated, but she does it.
“I know you want to see your daughter right away,” I explain after I’ve led them to a private room for debriefing. “And you will see her. But right now we ne
ed to let the doctors do their job. And then we’ll need a statement from her. She’s safe and alive, though. That’s the main thing.”
“That monster who took her is still out there somewhere,” Troy says with force, as if he hasn’t heard me at all. “You let him get away. What kind of incompetence is that?”
“Listen, our sheriff is on this, and the FBI, too. An all-points bulletin has already gone far and wide, north and south, across state lines, to the moon if necessary. We’ll find him.”
Troy’s face has turned lavender as he builds up steam. I can see he needs to blame someone, but I’ve had enough. “If you can’t pull your shit together, you’ll have to stay outside. I’m not kidding. Your daughter’s been through hell. Do you get that?”
His eyes flash pure disdain. “How dare you.”
“Troy.” Emily’s voice is unexpectedly firm.
His jaw flexes, full of knots that might never fully release. His guilt unaddressed. All the things he’s done but won’t ever ask forgiveness for. But finally, grudgingly, he steps backward, dropping the argument.
* * *
—
When it’s time for me to begin my initial interview with Cameron, I leave the Curtises with one of Will’s deputies, who can answer any questions they might still have, and head toward Cameron’s room. On the way, I see Hector arguing with a nurse, trying to get information about his sister. His boots are still caked with mud, and his face is terrible to see, gripped with every emotion.
“It’s fine,” I tell the nurse, to let her know I’ve got this.
“Where is she?” he demands once she’s gone.
“Just sit down for a minute.”
Hector’s eyes dart past me, scanning up and down the hall as if he can’t wrap his head around anything but Cameron. He brought his sister here, carried her until his arms cried out with fatigue, but now he’s a stranger again. No one knows who he is except me.
“How did you end up in the woods, Hector? I was pretty shocked to see you there.”
“I’ve been going crazy lately, not knowing how to help. I was in my car across from the sheriff’s office when I saw all the patrol cars light up and race out of town. So I followed you. I guess that’s not cool, but it turned out okay, right? I got to her in time.”
“You did,” I say, knowing exactly how much those words mean. “She’s been through a lot, but it could have been so much worse. Her ribs are badly bruised, and she has torn ligaments in her shoulder. She’ll need surgery, but I’m sure she’ll come through just fine. She’s a fighter, right?”
He nods, and then his pupils narrow to pinpoints. “Did he…hurt her?”
From the pressure he’s put on the word, how he can’t quite make himself say what he means, I know he’s asking if Cameron was raped. I wish that there was some way to spare him the truth, but it’s too late for that. All I can do is nod slowly while his face contracts. Raw pain becoming fury and then despair.
“What can I do for her?” he asks in an anguished way.
“Oh, Hector. I’m so sorry. Right now we have to let the doctors take over. You’ll have to be patient, if you can. The healing process will be very involved for her. But if you really love your sister, and I know you do, you won’t get in the way or force your own feelings on her. In time, though, she should know who you are. You hold all those memories. You can give back that part of her life to her.”
His eyes glass over and he swallows hard. “That guy who took her, he’s still on the loose.”
“He is. But we’re going to catch him.”
“You can’t expect me just to sit here.” He’s clenching his fists so tightly they whiten at the knuckles. “Not while he could turn up here or hurt someone else.”
“He can’t get to Cameron here. We’ve placed armed officers outside her room, and no one is going to leave her unprotected for a moment. I promise you that.”
He just sits there, his whole body seeming to tick. I recognize what’s driving him now, that if he doesn’t take some sort of action, he’s going to fly apart.
“Listen,” I say. “Do you think you could do a favor for me? My dog is at the sheriff’s office in Mendocino. Can you get her and make sure she has food and water, and bring her here for me?”
“Oh.” Some heaviness shifts from his eyes as he sits up straighter. “Yeah. I can definitely do that.”
* * *
—
When I open the door to Cameron’s room, the blinds and privacy curtains have been pulled closed. In her bed, Cameron sits propped against pillows, her knees drawn up beneath the blankets as if she’s trying to become smaller while a nurse swabs the lacerations on her hands and wrists. Butterfly tape marks her right cheekbone and the center of her chin where she’s had stitches. Through all of this—wounds and bruises, invisible and otherwise—she’s beautiful. She’s alive.
Cameron looks at me. “Your name’s Anna,” she says weakly.
“That’s right.” I step closer. “Anna Hart.”
She closes her eyes and opens them again. “You saved my life.”
The nurse looks back and forth between us, registering the emotion. “I’m just going to step outside for a minute. I’ll be back soon.”
When she’s gone, I take the chair she was occupying, just a few inches from the head of Cameron’s adjustable bed, the bland white sheets. “You saved your own life,” I say as my throat tightens with feeling. “You did everything.”
She looks at me unsteadily, as if she might cry, too. “Thank you,” she says in a small voice.
“You’ve been through so much, but I’m going to have to ask you just a few questions. Do you know who took you? Would you recognize a picture of him?”
She looks away.
“Can you tell me what happened, Cameron?”
She shakes her head, still facing the wall.
“Do you have any idea where he might go?”
No answer.
“I know this is hard for you. But it’s really important if we’re going to stop him.”
Again she says nothing.
I take a deep breath, trying to meet her where she is, which is utterly shut down. “It’s okay. We can talk later. Are you cold? Can I get you another blanket?”
The bruised side of her neck twitches. Her beating pulse. Somehow I have to find a way to reach her, but now is not the time.
“I just want you to know that there’s nothing you could tell me that would make me think less of you. You’re very brave, Cameron.”
She half turns to look at me. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“You did, though. You could have given up.”
* * *
—
Will is in the hall when I come out of Cameron’s room.
“Anything?” he asks.
“She’s not ready.”
“I get that, but this is a manhunt. Caleb could be on his way anywhere right now. Across the border to Canada, or already working on another victim.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I glance toward Cameron’s door, then lower my voice and lead him toward the nurses’ station. “She’s fragile. Think of what she’s been through. The trauma she’s endured. A lot of what’s happened to her will be unsayable, Will.”
He sighs as my meaning lands, and then nods.
“She has to know she’s our priority, not the information. She’s earned that.”
“Yeah, she has.” He rubs his eyes with his fingertips, looking spent. Behind him at the nurses’ station, there’s a whiteboard with Cameron’s name on it, along with scrawled red notes from her caregivers about IV fluids, vital signs, meds administered. At the top is today’s date. October 14.
I stare at the numbers disbelievingly. Between my leaving San Francisco and today, an eternity’s worth of changes have come and gone. Bot
h of us broken open and transformed, linked forever, whether or not there are words for any of it. And yet only three weeks have passed. Not even a single cycle of the moon.
(sixty-six)
All that night and into the next day, the manhunt for Caleb continues. Dogs are brought in and more field teams, more men. Every county in Northern California signs on to help with the search—and it feels as if we have an army, finally, a rising human tide. Rod Fraser sends his helicopter our way again, to sweep the coast. He’s shown Caleb’s picture to Gillian Pelham and Kate McLean, and neither of them thinks this is the man they watched kidnap Polly. Still, the media is going crazy with speculation. More news teams arrive to flood the village, trying to get close to Cameron and her parents, hounding Will for statements and updates.
When the all-points bulletin for Caleb goes out over the Internet, it reaches thousands and thousands more within hours, and the army expands. The next morning, October 15, Caleb’s Toyota pickup turns up near Galloway on a little-used county road, spotted by a woman who recognizes the license-plate number from the news. She calls Will’s office, almost shouting.
We send dozens of men there, combing the area for places Caleb might be hiding. But even with this important find, we have no way of knowing how long his truck has been abandoned where he left it, or how many miles he can walk in a day. Or how carefully and completely he might be able to disappear, or for how long.
* * *
—
As the search continues, Will and I and a small team of men, some of them FBI, work to turn over every inch of the Pomo shelter, and the storage room at the Art Center, where other victims might have been held captive or even killed. We get a warrant for Caleb’s house, which will take a long time to go through, even with the additional bodies.
Stepping inside feels strange and unsettling, as if time is spiraling backward. As if I could walk down the long paneled hallway and find Jenny in her room, playing her guitar or listening to Simon and Garfunkel on her hi-fi.
