Alone in the Wild

by Kelley Armstrong

  “I wanted to say thank you,” she says. “For taking Harper away.”

  “We didn’t take her,” I say. “She left.”

  Felicity nods dismissively, as if this is the same thing. “She is Angus’s little sister, so he will not appreciate me saying this, but even he would agree. She was … not right. Dangerous. We knew it. Angus saw it. She would do things that hurt him, and she would not care, as long as she got what she wanted. The elders never saw it. She was very, very careful.”

  “She was—” I’m about to say “a good actor,” but Felicity won’t understand that. “She was very good at being what others wanted to see.”

  “Yes. Sometimes, living like this, it does things to people. Makes them hard and cruel. I just wanted to say thank you.” Her eyes cloud for a second as she glances at the boys. “She is gone, yes? Not coming back?”

  “Almost certainly not.”

  Her lips set, as if that’s not as clear an answer as she’d like, but she nods and says, “I hope not. For all our sakes.” Then, without another word, she lopes back to the waiting boys.

  THIRTEEN

  When the young settlers are gone, I say to Dalton, “Were you okay with that? I didn’t promise her a rifle.”

  “If I wasn’t okay with it, I’d have said so. It’s worth considering. Those boys might be vying for her hand, but they don’t interrupt when she talks. That means Edwin is grooming her for leadership. She seems smart, levelheaded. Wanting to trade for her own hunting rifle is reasonable. I’d make it a hard bargain, but I wouldn’t discount it.”

  He slows to adjust the baby, stirring from sleep. She fusses, but a few pats and rubs on her back quiet her.

  Dalton resumes talking. “So, the gun that killed the woman didn’t come from the First Settlement. That helps.”

  “It does.

  “As for the baby’s family, if they’re as bad as Edwin and Felicity say…” I inhale. “I don’t know what to do about that.”

  He takes a few more steps, and then says, his voice lower, “Yeah, you do. We both do. We wouldn’t find a beaten dog in the forest and return it to abusive owners. It’s a tough call, but we have to make the choice we can live with. The problem is judging…”

  “How bad is too bad?” I say.

  “Yeah.”

  He goes quiet after that, and I think he’s going to stay that way until we reach the snowmobile. Then he straightens and says, “Main thing now is finding them. I know Edwin says they don’t overwinter around here, but the baby hasn’t been away from her mother for long. They must be within a day’s walk.”

  I’m about to say that we’ll have time to do that today before being stopped by the immovable obstacle of winter. Night. We can’t make it before darkness falls.

  Dalton has already figured this out and continues with, “We’ll head back to Rockton for the night, and then tomorrow, we’ll go find Jacob…” He trails off, cursing as he remembers his brother isn’t around.

  “Tyrone?” I say.

  He grumbles but says, “Yeah, we’ll find Ty. See what he knows about these traders.”

  * * *

  The next morning, we take the baby to Jen’s place for the day. We expect to be coming back after talking to Cypher, so there’s no reason to cart her along. Instead, we take Storm. We’d considered riding the horses, but snow fell overnight, and it’s still falling the next morning. So we strap on snowshoes and head out.

  Of all the “mobility tools” in Rockton, snowshoes are my least favorite. Dalton jokes that’s because—as opposed to the horses, ATVs, and snowmobiles—snowshoes require actual physical effort. It’s not just effort, though, it’s serious effort, more than walking, which seems to defy the purpose of a mobility tool. Except that … well, if we’re using snowshoes, it’s because walking in boots wouldn’t be faster or easier.

  Our weekend trip had been along groomed paths. This walk will have a lot more backwoods hiking, and each step is like clomping down into knee-high mud. Snowshoes keep you on the surface, even if they’re hellishly awkward to use. Or they are for me. Dalton’s fine with them. He says I just need more practice. Since that means more trudging around in snowshoes, I’ll stick to amateur status.

  If I will grudgingly admit to one advantage to snowshoes, it’s that they’re excellent for hunting. They move nearly as silently as cross-country skis, and yes, I’ve suggested those to Dalton. He’s hesitating because that’s a mode of transport he’s not accustomed to, and God forbid he should struggle. Admittedly, he’s not sure how well they’ll work in this environment. Maybe I’ll ask for a cheap pair for Christmas to test them.

  I might have been hired as a homicide detective, but my self-assigned secondary role is transportation chief, the chick who will ultimately bring to Rockton every possible—and possibly fun—way to traverse the wilderness. Dirt bike, dogsled, and soon, cross-country skis. Dalton doesn’t appreciate my efforts nearly as much as he should, perhaps not surprising given that he’s spent his career trying to convince residents that traveling outside of the town is not fun, not fun at all.

  Since we have the snowshoes and we’re heading into a game-rich area, we both carry rifles slung over our shoulders. We’ve also brought a makeshift harness and canvas “sled bag” for Storm to bring back any larger game.

  For now, Storm is free to romp through the snow. We’ve shot four ptarmigan, but Dalton has those slung over his shoulder.

  Down south, I’d known plenty of cops who hunted, and some would invite me. I never accepted. I wasn’t rabidly against hunting. As a nonvegetarian, I’d be hypocritical to judge anyone for killing their own meat. I just wasn’t always convinced that my colleagues hunted for meat. Sure, they’d get some of their kill carved up, but most of that stayed at the bottom of their freezer, an excuse for the sport.

  Up here, it’s all about utility. Meat, fur, even the feathers to stuff pillows and jackets. Nothing is sport. Nothing is waste. That’s the type of hunting I can endorse, though neither of us will pretend there isn’t pleasure to be had in the thrill of a well-aimed shot.

  We have a good three-hour hike ahead of us. Tyrone Cypher is wintering at a cabin he “inherited” when the former owner was killed by our resident cougar.

  Cypher had been sheriff of Rockton before Gene Dalton arrived. The council decided Gene’s temperament was more suited to the position, and they’d demoted Cypher to deputy. He’d stuck around for a while, but after one too many clashes with Gene, he’d stomped off into the forest, where he’s still sulking. Okay, “sulking” might be a slight exaggeration. Cypher had already intended to retire into the forest when his term in Rockton was up. His temper and his pride just sent him there sooner than he planned.

  Cypher is happy in the forest. His former job made him a natural for tracking and hunting game. That “former job” isn’t as sheriff of Rockton. It’s the career that brought him here. Tyrone Cypher was a hit man. The first time he told me that, I thought he was joking. Then I thought he was exaggerating—maybe he once killed a guy for money. Nope. He was a career hit man. I’d say assassin, but that conjures up an image that is 100 percent not Tyrone Cypher.

  Cypher had been in Rockton when Dalton first arrived. He knows Dalton’s history, which makes for an awkward relationship, especially when Cypher sees nothing wrong with needling Dalton about his “wild boy” past.

  We’re a couple of kilometers from the cabin when Dalton goes still. As he looks around, I lay a hand on Storm’s head. When a growl ripples through her flanks, I slide my hand through her collar. She grumbles at that, offended that I don’t trust her.

  As Dalton scans the forest, Storm resumes that low growl. She’s on high alert, her hackles up, body stiff, which means there’s a predator nearby. I slide my gun out. Dalton already has his in hand. His head tilts, as if he’s spotted something. He slides forward for a better view. Then he nods, backs up, and takes Storm’s collar.

  “Go look,” he whispers, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Slo
w and careful. I’ll direct you.”

  I nod at my gun.

  “Keep it out,” he murmurs.

  It is a predator, then. A dangerous one. Just not the type he expects to barrel out of the forest and attack. Interesting.

  I slide forward where he’d gone. It’s clear, no chance of hitting branches and giving myself away. When I reach where he stopped, he motions for me to take it one more step. Then he has me crouch until my eyes are at waist level, and he directs my attention.

  At first I see nothing but snow and trees. Then I catch movement. A ghostly figure, gray and white fur camouflaging with the winter forest. Brown eyes fix on me. A gray and white snout swings my way, black nose twitching as it inhales my scent. Ear pricked, swiveling when a noise comes from the side, the soft whoosh of snow falling from branches.

  It’s a wolf. A lone young male. He has his head lowered, watching me, wary but curious. If it were a pack, Dalton would scoot me out of here fast. One wolf, though, is very unlikely to attack a person, not unless the beast is sick or starving. This one is muscular and well fed. His fur ripples in the breeze, and he is one of the most beautiful things I’ve seen in a forest filled with beauty.

  I hear wolves all the time, and I’ve caught glimpses of them. But this is my first actual sighting, and I stay half-crouched and watching until his own curiosity wanes and he lopes off, a silent ghost vanishing into the snowy forest.

  When I return to Dalton, I’m grinning. He smiles, pleased. He’s about to say something when Storm whines.

  “We should take her to sniff where he was,” I say. “Let her learn the scent.”

  “Good idea.”

  He keeps his hand firmly around her collar and starts into the forest, to where the wolf had been. Storm doesn’t budge.

  “Nervous because it’s another canine?” I wonder.

  “Maybe.”

  When he tugs her, she whines and her head whips around, gaze fixed behind us. She makes a sound that starts like a growl, but then she swallows it and whines instead.

  Something moves in the thicker trees behind us. I freeze. We’d presumed the wolf was alone, but that isn’t necessarily so.

  Dalton’s eyes narrow. I resist the urge to watch him and turn my attention to Storm instead. Her gaze stays fixed on a single point. That’s reassuring, suggesting she only smells one threat.

  She’s uncertain, too, about whether or not it is a threat. Her whine slips into a growl and then back to a whine. Her ears prick forward and then relax. Her snout wrinkles, but she doesn’t bare her teeth.

  I hunker to her height and look where she does. I see snow and trees. Then movement above my crouched head. Moose? Caribou? That would explain Storm’s reaction. Ungulates might not be predators, but they’re still dangerous. Storm surprised a doe last fall and took a good kick in the ribs as it fled.

  Yet the shape has moved behind a tree, and if it were an ungulate, I’d see the hindquarters sticking out. It’s at least as tall as me and can hide behind a thick tree trunk, which only describes one beast in this forest.

  Human.

  FOURTEEN

  I glance at Dalton. He’s seen what I have. He grunts, considering, his hand on his gun. Then he motions for me to hold the dog while he circles around. I aim my gun at the tree, but it’s a one-handed aim, my other on the dog’s collar. I flex my left hand, ready to release the collar and steady my weapon if I need to.

  Dalton takes two wide steps, his snowshoes coming down soundlessly. Another flicker of movement. My hand nearly releases Storm’s collar. Then the figure steps out and says, “Eric.”

  I exhale. My gun lowers. Storm whines and dances, not excitement but nerves. She knows who this is, and she still isn’t sure what to make of her, isn’t convinced she doesn’t pose a threat. But I know better. Dalton does, too, holstering his gun as he approaches her.

  “Maryanne,” he says.

  I release Storm and move forward as the dog stays close enough to brush my leg. Maryanne is—or was—a hostile. I hesitate to say “was” because I’m honestly not sure of her status with them. I believe she left her group this spring. I cannot say for certain, because our relationship hasn’t progressed far enough for me to ask.

  Maryanne is a former resident of Rockton. That much I can say for certain. Dalton had been a teenager when she arrived. As a biologist and professor, Maryanne found peace and happiness in the wilderness, and when a group headed into the forest, she joined them.

  Gene Dalton had pursued the quartet, and the militia found their camp destroyed, splattered with blood but no bodies. A year later, Dalton ran across Maryanne in the forest. When she’d been in Rockton, they’d been friends, Maryanne teaching him the science of the wilderness while he taught her the reality of it. So she very clearly knew Dalton, trusted him, liked him. And when he found her in the forest, she attacked him. He’d nearly had to kill her to escape.

  Earlier this year, we’d encountered Maryanne again, still with the hostiles, but … I’m not sure of the analogy to use here. She was like someone buried under an avalanche who had clawed her way up just enough to be heard.

  That avalanche was the collapse of her own mind into madness. She’d cleared just enough of a hole in the mental confusion to hear Dalton, yet she was still at the bottom, out of his reach. The encounter, though, had been a tipping point for her. She heard a voice she recognized, and she could make out the sunlight above and start climbing toward it. And here is where the analogy fails, because in such a case, you’d eventually be able to offer the victim a hand to haul them out. Maryanne is not ready to take that hand, because what she’s suffered isn’t hypothermia and broken bones. Her damage goes deeper.

  Some of that damage is physical—teeth filed, ritualized scarring, an ear and a couple of fingers blackened by frostbite. For a brilliant woman to start regaining her self-awareness and realize what she’s done to herself? To know it isn’t just a bad tattoo that can be covered up with long sleeves? And to know what those physical signs represent, proof of what she had become, the things she had done as a hostile? Maryanne is indeed still buried, under an avalanche of shame and self-loathing now, and we cannot seem to pull her out.

  We’ve seen her a few times over the summer and fall. Her mind has cleared enough to communicate with us … when she chooses to. We’ve tried leaving supplies out for her, but that is too much like leaving food for a stray dog, and she shuns our offerings. What we want is to bring her back to Rockton. Part of that is, of course, selfish—she represents the key to understanding the hostiles. But even without that, we want to help her.

  Letting Maryanne stay out here hurts no one but her. And yet, here she is, in the middle of December, with ragged boots and multiple shirts and no jacket, wearing a thin hood tied over her head. On her hands, she’s tied more skins, wrapped around like extended sleeves, her fingers bare inside.

  This is where my beliefs waver. Where they have always wavered. I struggled with that as a patrol officer seeing the homeless. Yes, if you choose to live on the streets, no one should be able to forcibly remove you. But at what point are you no longer making a sane choice? If I recognize signs of mental illness or drug addiction, how do I know whether you are still capable of making that choice? At what point would I be infringing on your rights if I shuttled you off to a shelter or a hospital? And at what point am I failing as a public servant, as a human being, if I do not?

  Maryanne is aware of her choices and her options. She stays out of shame and fear, and so, is that enough for me to say “it’s her right”?

  I see the same war on Dalton’s face. As he approaches her, his cheek tics in a way I know well. He’s holding in his frustration. What she sees, though, is anger in those blazing gray eyes.

  She takes a step back. “Eric?”

  “Hey, Maryanne,” I say, giving him time to cover his reaction. “May I bring the dog over?”

  She nods and smiles. It’s a tight-lipped smile, as always, just as she barely opens her mout
h when she speaks. Hiding her filed teeth.

  I lead Storm to her, and she pushes her wrapped hands out to pet her, rubbing her back and sliding her fingers through the thick fur, warming them.

  I take off my backpack. “I have extra mittens. Why don’t you take—”

  “No,” Dalton says, so low it’s more growl than word. He pulls the backpack from my hands and snaps the zipper shut. “Casey is not giving you her gloves.”

  Maryanne blinks. “I … I don’t need…”

  “Fuck yes, you do. How do you think you got frostbite the last time? Apparently, you kind of like it.”

  I have to bite back the urge to stop him. I know what he’s doing, and I keep silent.

  “You don’t want help from us, remember?” he says. “So you’re not getting Casey’s extra mitts or sweater or whatever else she wants to give you. Not unless you’re willing to accept real help.”

  She takes a slow step back.

  “Yeah, that’s great,” Dalton says, tossing my backpack down. “Turn tail and run, like you do every time we say something you don’t like. And next time we see you, it’ll be your frozen corpse in the snow. Or maybe we won’t find that until spring thaw. That’ll be fun. Casey will blame me for not letting her give you stuff. She might even dump me for being such an insensitive ass. Imagine how we’ll both feel, knowing we couldn’t help you. But we can’t keep doing this, Maryanne. A pair of mittens isn’t going to get you through this winter. You need proper shelter. Like a cave.”

  Her brows rise at that, and I see a flash of the woman she was. “A cave?”

  “It belonged to a friend of ours. He…” His voice catches before he pushes on. “He passed away this spring. I sealed it up, so all his stuff is still in there. It’s nice, for a cave.”

  “It really is,” I say. “It has a couple of rooms, plenty of skins, a firepit, preserved meat and food, weapons. He was living better than most settlers.”