The Forgotten Girls

by Owen Laukkanen

  She watched, the cold forgotten. The thing, whatever it was, was about a hundred yards distant, too quick to be a bear, too big to be a rodent. It was black, a living shadow, tracing the riverbed toward her. It wasn’t a deer. It sure as heck wasn’t a human.

  The thing disappeared behind a snow-covered boulder. Pam waited. Realized she was holding her breath. Then the thing reappeared again on the near side of the boulder, and she let that breath out in one long, resigned sigh.

  The thing was a wolf, low and black and malevolent. It was a large wolf, a male probably, a hundred pounds, easy. It jogged up through the ravine, its nose to the snow, following some invisible scent. Pam watched it approach with mounting horror. It was still on the other side of the ravine, hadn’t seen her, but it would smell her soon enough. She’d left blood at the bottom of the ravine. If the wolf wasn’t onto her now, he soon would be.

  As Pam watched, the wolf lifted his head to survey his surroundings. She saw him see the patch of snow where she’d lain, watched him approach it cautiously. He nosed up to where she’d bled, the white snow turned crimson, sniffed at it, tasted it. He was huge, might have weighed more than she did. He looked healthy, well-fed. He looked dangerous.

  He would come for her soon. And as much as Pam thought she was ready to die, she damn sure wasn’t ready to be eaten alive.

  As stealthily as she could, Pam felt around in the snow for a couple of decent-sized rocks. Stuffed them in her pockets to use as weapons, when the time came. Knew it was a hopeless case, fending off a full-grown wolf with a couple of stones, but what the hell. She armed herself anyway. Then, as quietly as she could, she resumed her struggle to the top.

  47

  There was no trace of Pam Moody anywhere.

  Finley had found Moody’s truck, an old brown F-150, stuck in a stand of alders at the base of a sharp rise. The truck was facing down the mountain, back toward town; had driven headlong into the trees, from the look of it, lodged itself good and firm. But there was no sign of the driver, nobody inside.

  The sun had dipped behind the western mountains by the time Stevens caught up with Finley at the wreck. There were no footprints in the shadows around the truck, not that Stevens could see. The forest beyond the front bumper was dense and impassable, and the road to the west was narrow, cut between stands of trees and sheer rock. But the truck had come down from the west, apparently, and that was a bit of a head-scratcher.

  Pam Moody wasn’t here. They’d called her name, loud as they could, from the site of the wreck. Scanned the forest with the weak beams from their flashlights. Hadn’t seen anything but encroaching darkness and snowy underbrush; hadn’t heard any reply but their echoes.

  But this was Pam Moody’s truck, and that all but confirmed Stevens’s suspicions. Moody wouldn’t have driven out here by herself, not in that blizzard. She’d have realized her mistake as soon as she hit the bridge, turned around before she crossed the tracks. If the truck was out here, this close to the Northwestern line, the ghost rider had to have driven it. That meant he must have dumped Pamela Moody somewhere close—somewhere farther up the logging road, Stevens figured.

  He pulled out his cell phone. Held it up just to see, then put the phone back. “No bars,” he told Finley. “We need to call in a helicopter, search party, but I can’t do it with my phone.”

  “Nearest helicopter’s a couple towns over,” Finley replied. “I’ll call it in from the truck, but there isn’t going to be much a search party can do before morning.”

  Stevens backed away from Pam Moody’s truck. Slogged back to the middle of the forestry road. “I’m not ready to give up just yet,” he told Finley. “He had to leave her somewhere nearby. And he wouldn’t have left her any closer to the tracks.”

  Finley hooked a thumb in the direction of the truck, the dense forest beyond. “Probably wouldn’t have ventured any farther into those trees, either,” she said. “Or if she did, she isn’t in any position to be yelling back at us.”

  Stevens tried not to consider the implications of the statement. “The way that truck’s facing, it came down from the mountain. Only reason the rider would go up there is to hide a body.”

  Finley followed his gaze up the logging road. “I’ll get my truck,” she said, starting back through the snow. “We’ll cover as much ground as we can before nightfall.”

  48

  Pamela Moody heard the engine as the truck approached. Thought she was dreaming it at first, hearing things in the wind, which was starting to gust again. She was weak and probably delirious, inventing things. There’d been no noise on that road above her all day. Why should anyone show up now?

  But it was an engine all right, low and steady, and Pam listened to it get louder above her, heading up and into the mountains. She’d made it another twenty, twenty-five feet up the side of the ravine, numbingly slow and excruciatingly painful, checking back down on the wolf every few inches, hoping he hadn’t noticed her yet.

  He hadn’t. But the lip of the ravine was still fifteen feet above her, and night was closing in fast. If the wolf didn’t get her, the cold would, and Pam knew if she didn’t make the top of the ravine, whoever was behind the wheel of that truck would drive right past her, keep going, one last, cruel joke at her expense, one last Fuck you! Sincerely, The World.

  Pam climbed. The engine approached, its sound a crescendo. She could hear the snow crunching under the truck’s tires, could even see the beams from the headlights above her, where they passed over the lip of the ravine and into the abyss beyond.

  She was ten feet from the top. She might as well have been a mile. The truck didn’t see her. The headlights didn’t catch her. The truck drove right past, and it didn’t slow down.

  She wanted to call out. Get the driver’s attention somehow. Scream. She crawled faster, as fast as her body would let her. She wasn’t fast enough. Wasn’t close enough. Even if she cried for help, the driver would never hear her.

  Pam listened as the truck’s engine dwindled to silence. Wiped the blood from her palms, warmed her hands in her coat. So close; she’d been so close. She’d been stupid to even get her hopes up.

  Then Pam heard something behind her. Felt something, more like, some primal instinct. She rolled over slightly, turned to look back down the ravine, where the wolf was still prowling around at the bottom, nearly invisible now in the shadows.

  But he’d stopped moving. He was standing stock-still, his nose in the air, and Pam knew he’d picked up her trail. She watched, paralyzed with horror, as he scanned the wall of the ravine with his eyes, as those eyes fell on her, huddled against the rock.

  Pam didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. It didn’t matter. The wolf eyed her for an eternity. Then he put his nose down, sniffed at her trail, and started across the ravine toward her little path.

  49

  It was nearly full dark.

  They’d climbed the mountain road for twenty minutes, the tires slipping and scrabbling in four-wheel drive, high beams on, moving slowly, both Stevens and Finley searching the roadside for anything that might have been their missing woman.

  The road narrowed, hugged cliff faces and flirted with steep drops, and Finley’s jaw was set as she drove, her mouth a thin line. The sun was long disappeared; the last light was waning. It would be a hell of a drive back down in the dark.

  “We can’t go much farther,” Finley told Stevens, the truck struggling for traction, the back end slipping out. “They’ll have a search party out for us if we don’t show up in town soon.”

  Stevens didn’t answer. Stared out at the gloom. Felt the truck slow, and knew Finley was looking across at him.

  “Not much chance that girl’s still alive anyway, Kirk,” the deputy said after a beat. “Not if our killer’s the one who brought her up here.”

  Stevens didn’t meet her eyes. “No,” he said, numb. “I guess she wouldn’t have survived th
e storm.”

  “Won’t make much difference if we get the body back tonight or tomorrow, except it’ll be easier in the daylight, right? Less chance of anyone else getting hurt. But at least we know where to look.”

  Stevens lowered his window. Shone his flashlight out at the night: snow and ice and not much else. Knew Finley was right. Pam Moody was probably dead already. They would find her body tomorrow. In the meantime, he and Windermere could start homing in on the ghost rider.

  It was an awful feeling, turning back with the missing woman somewhere nearby. And Stevens figured he’d be kicking his own ass all night wondering if they’d made the right call.

  “Hell,” he said, rolling his window back up. “Okay. But I’ll need a stiff drink when we get down off this mountain.”

  Finley gave the truck some gas, searched through the windshield for somewhere to turn around. “You and me both,” she said. “And make mine a double.”

  50

  The truck was coming back.

  Pam was dimly aware of the sound of the engine over the thudding of her heart in her ears and the scrabbling of the rocks beneath her. Her mind registered the noise, but she didn’t consciously notice it. She was too busy trying to get away from the wolf.

  He’d seen her now, and he knew she was injured. Knew she was weak, struggling. Knew she was easy prey.

  She’d pulled herself to within five feet of the lip of the ravine, but the wolf had closed the distance. He was maybe ten feet below her, a shadow in the darkness, a pair of glinting eyes. She’d staved him off by throwing rocks; he’d shied back a step or two, but not far. He just watched her, nose down, tail wagging slightly, paced her up the wall, and Pam knew if she turned her back, he’d be on her. The end. Good night.

  But the engine was getting louder again, and here were the headlights, cutting a swath through the darkness. The truck was coming back. It was moving slow, Pam could tell, picking its way down the mountain, but it was coming, and if she didn’t get up to the road within a minute or two, the truck would be gone.

  She backed up the mountain, her eyes on the wolf, as fast as she could. The pain was unbearable. It tore at her, like fire, brought tears to her eyes and streamed down her face. She growled, screamed, clawed at the rocks. Pushed up the ravine wall, inch by inch. The wolf matched her pace. The truck rumbled closer.

  She could hear the tires now. The headlights were bright. She wasn’t moving fast enough, not on her back. She was going to miss the truck; she would miss it, and then the goddamn fucking wolf would eat her alive.

  No way.

  Pam threw more rocks at the wolf, whatever she could grab. Then she turned onto her stomach. Pushed herself to a crawl, willed her legs to work, scrabbled with her hands. Pulled herself up three feet from the lip, two feet, her head over the lip now, the truck bearing down on her, blinding headlights.

  She wasn’t worried about the wolf hearing her, not anymore. She forced herself to keep climbing. Screamed at the truck.

  “Help me.” It was hardly a scream. A croak, maybe. A scratch in her throat. “Help me, God, please!”

  —

  The woman came out of nowhere.

  Stevens was white-knuckling it down the mountain as Finley picked her route, the truck sliding even worse on the downgrade, the road seeming narrower, the drop-offs seeming even steeper than on the drive up. They were rounding a sharp curve, a ravine on the right, the road hugging space between a cliff face and the drop. Stevens was wondering if he could expense a doubleshot of whiskey. Wondering if he’d even get the chance.

  Then the woman appeared.

  “Whoa.” Stevens reached for Finley’s arm, a reflex, as the woman threw herself into the path of the SUV. “Watch out!”

  Finley had seen the woman, was braking already, fighting the wheel as the truck threatened to spin. The stop seemed to take miles, hours, the woman far behind. Stevens was out in the snow before Finley could shift out of drive.

  The woman was trying to scream. She had to be Pam Moody. Stevens could barely see her in the glow of Finley’s brake lights, but he’d seen her face, her bloody hands, like a horror movie haunting. He was running back toward her, fumbling with his flashlight. She was trying to yell something. He could only see shadows. He couldn’t make out her words.

  She looked desperate.

  Stevens finally got his flashlight working. Shone it up at the woman. She was crawling down the road, stumbling, falling, trying desperately to run. One look behind her and Stevens could see why.

  A wolf, black, huge, sleek fur and taut muscles and deadly sharp teeth. It came up from the ravine snarling, set its eyes on Pam Moody, and made a break for her. Stevens drew his pistol. Had no chance to use it. Shots rang out behind him, four of them, quick succession—BANG BANG BANG BANG—deafening at close range, earth shaking, the muzzle flash lighting up the night better than Stevens’s flashlight ever could.

  The wolf disappeared from Stevens’s beam. Finley kept firing, over Pam Moody’s head and into the darkness. She emptied her magazine and the gunshots echoed forever, but when Stevens swept his beam across the road, the wolf was gone.

  “Scared him off,” Finley said, reloading her pistol. “Might have even hurt him a little bit, too.”

  “Saved the day, Deputy,” Stevens said, breathless. “Hell of a job.”

  Then he hurried across to Pam Moody.

  —

  Pam threw herself into the man’s arms as he came to her. Didn’t matter who he was, what he was doing on the mountain; he and his lady friend had just saved her ass. No damn wolf was going to eat her alive, anyway.

  She was probably still going to die, though. She was one hundred percent spent. Felt like she was getting stabbed all over, and she couldn’t stand any longer. She went limp in the man’s arms, felt him sag under her weight.

  “She’s hurt, Deputy,” he called back to the woman. “I mean, she’s hurt bad.”

  Deputy. So they were cops.

  The man lifted Pam and carried her to the truck, his boots sliding on the slippery road. Pam pitched, yawed, thought she might bail, but the man kept her upright, and together they made the truck.

  Sure enough, the truck said SHERIFF on the side of it. It also said LINCOLN COUNTY, which confused her. Lincoln County was west of here, wasn’t it? How far had the man taken her?

  The deputy’s buddy laid Pam down in the backseat of the truck. Circled around to the other side and slipped in beside her as the deputy climbed behind the wheel. Pam opened her mouth, tried to ask them where, exactly, they were. She couldn’t get the words out. Couldn’t get any words out. As the truck rumbled down the bumpy, snowy road, Pam closed her eyes and, finally, lost consciousness.

  51

  Mila Scott woke up with a start. The train wasn’t moving. The sun shone through the cab window. Mila stood and rubbed her eyes and looked around for a station sign or a highway marker, something to tell her where she was. Her stomach was rumbling. She was hungry. She was anxious, jittery. She needed a cigarette.

  What she needed was some goddamn crystal.

  She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. She hoped she hadn’t slept through her stop; it would be a royal pain in the ass to have to hop another train northbound. But there was a sign by the tracks a couple cars back of the engine. STRYKER.

  Mila brought up her map on her phone—running perilously low on battery life. Stryker was north of Anchor Falls, fifteen miles or so. The railroad branched off here, one line running north into Canada, the other southeast through the Rocky Mountains. Mila’s train was stopped to let an oil tanker train roll through toward the border. As soon as it passed, the coal drag resumed its journey.

  Mila watched the tracks between Stryker and Anchor Falls, a nervous energy taking hold in her stomach. The siding where he jumped, Lazy Jake had written. It was just north of Anchor Falls, the middle of nowhere.
>
  Mila figured she’d found the siding, about forty minutes after the train left Stryker. It really was the middle of nowhere, just endless green-black forest and the mountains rising high to the east. Mila scanned through the trees, looking for a house or something, some sign of human life. But she didn’t see anything, just a little path across the tracks that was probably a dirt road, winding off through the woods toward the peaks to her left and disappearing into forest to her right.

  If I get off here, I’ll be stuck, Mila thought, staring out at the road until the train drifted past. No idea which way to go, no food, no way to find this guy. I need more information. And I really need to eat.

  But the drag didn’t stop at the siding. It continued south to Anchor Falls, another fifteen minutes or so. There, Mila was ready when the engines eased to a stop. She ducked down into the nose of the cab, pushed out the front door. Gasped a little bit as the sudden cold hit her, gathered her coat around herself, shouldered her pack, and climbed down from the train.

  Nobody saw her. There were no railroad men watching, no bulls, and nobody else seemed to care. Mila hurried across the tracks toward the little town, barely more than a tiny post office, a gas station, a couple of stores. Behind her, the coal drag rumbled to life again, pulled out, a long line of gondola cars and her temporary train-engine home. Within a couple of minutes it was gone, the sound of the diesel engines fading into the distance, the air suddenly very quiet, very still.