“Some of the richest people in the world made their money off drug manufacturing.”
He frowns. “There’s money in that? Sure, I don’t figure they give them away, but Canada has free health care. Drugs are covered by taxes.”
“Health care, yes. Drugs, no.”
“You mean optional medication. The ones you need are free, though.”
I shake my head. “There are programs if you can’t afford them, but medication is never free, and the drug companies are definitely in it for profit. Lifesaving drugs can cost a thousand times the manufacturing cost.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“Yep. And that’s where Émilie’s money comes from.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. Petra told me. Seemingly out of the blue. Big-pharma families are among the world’s greatest philanthropists, and she was joking about it being guilt money. Except I don’t think it was really joking. She said it a few days after she’d been shot. When she had just been shot, she said something about my hostile theory and Émilie, and I thought she was just going into shock.”
He says nothing, just walking, his distant gaze telling me he’s searching for connections, rather than asking me to supply them.
I continue. “This Hendricks guy came from Rockton, and I’m speculating that he was sent to the Second Settlement to create the tea from local ingredients.”
“To keep them calm. Reduce the risk they’d set their sights on Rockton, like the First Settlement did.”
“Right. He clearly had some idea what he was doing, and Josie figured he was a professor … or a scientist.”
Dalton’s hand tightens on mine. “Like someone who’d work for a drug company. Not selling them but making them.”
“Exactly. It—”
Another shout comes, and we both stop. Storm halts, too, her ears perked as she turns toward the source. A few minutes ago, I’d heard what sounded like a neutral shout. Not anger or excitement but surprise mingled with a mild warning. Like realizing someone is about to walk straight into a tree.
We were close enough to Rockton that I’d presumed it came from there and only made a mental note to warn people against being so loud when a search party could be looking for the Danish tourists.
This shout is different. Rockton is to our left, and the only people allowed in the forest right now are the militia on patrol, who wouldn’t be that far from town.
We strain to listen, but nothing else comes. I’m about to ask Dalton what we should do when another sound rips through the forest. A bellow that only comes from one creature out here.
“Bear,” I whisper.
Another shout then, clearly human, spiked with panic. A young voice, and in it I hear an accent I recognize from Edwin’s settlement. There’s a recognizable note in the voice, too. One of Felicity’s friends.
TWENTY-FOUR
We make our way carefully toward the voices. It seems to be two men, their voices coming through as we draw near. They’re shouting at a bear to scare it off. It is not scared. It is angry, and the more they shout, the angrier it gets.
I put Storm behind us. She doesn’t like that, but we have no idea what we’re walking into. Well, yes, we have some idea. Bear versus human. It’s the specifics that elude us, and so we’ll keep Storm at our rear, lest the bear spot her first and attack.
We soon see one of the settlers. A third man, perhaps in his thirties, this one not making a sound as he stands with his empty hands raised. Dalton grumbles under his breath. Your hands should never be empty out here. Even if a bear surprises you, you should have time to at least pull a knife. But this man has clearly been caught unawares, with no weapon within reach. As soon as I think that, I spot a bow propped against a tree. Why the hell didn’t he grab it as soon as he saw—
“Fuck,” Dalton breathes, and I see the answer to my question as I get past the tree that partly blocks my view.
At first, I’m not sure what I’m seeing. My gaze is level with the man’s shoulders, and there is something right in front of him. It is a wall of brown fur, and I have to look up at least a foot above the man’s head to see the muzzle of the beast.
A grizzly. Brown bears, as they’re more rightly known. Alaskan brown bears, a head taller than their southern brethren. I’ve caught sight of them fishing. I’ve spotted them in the distance, decimating a berry patch. I’ve seen them making their way along a mountainside. I’ve even encountered one up close. I’d been goofing off with Dalton and darting around a fallen tree to find a grizzly rooting out grubs. In each case, the bear had been on all fours, and while I’d thought Holy shit, that beast is big, nothing compares to seeing a brown bear on its hind legs, towering over a grown man.…
Something inside me gibbers in panic, a tiny voice telling me to get the hell out of here now. Grab my man. Grab my dog. Push them ahead of me if I have to. Just get out.
This unarmed stranger has made a fatal error, and if his companions have any sense, they will run. Let their companion’s death buy them time to escape.
It is a horrible, cruel thought, a primal terror that lasts only a second before I feel the reassuring weight of the gun in my hands. My mind taps images of my bear spray and knife, tiny pats of reassurance. I am fully armed. So is Dalton. As for Storm, she has seen what we do, and thank God, she does not leap at the beast. Does not even growl. She just slips forward enough so her head brushes my leg. She recognizes that we are not in danger. Just this other man. This stranger.
As the man’s companions shout instructions, Dalton says, “Shut the fuck up.”
He doesn’t yell it. The words still reverberate through the clearing. The only one who doesn’t turn our way is the bear itself. To it, Dalton is just more noise.
“Everyone, just shut the fuck up and stay calm,” Dalton says. “You’re only pissing it off, and it already seems plenty—”
A growl sounds, and Dalton’s head snaps up. That growl doesn’t come from Storm. It doesn’t come from the grizzly. It comes from behind the man … and I follow it to see a second bear. A juvenile, probably a yearling, already bigger than Storm.
With that we see the problem. The very big problem.
Last summer, I came between a black bear and her cub. That’d given everyone near heart failure, but we’d avoided bloodshed by getting that cub back to its mother. Also, black bears are only modestly protective of their cubs around humans. Grizzlies are a whole other situation.
The settler found himself between the two, and before he could rectify that, the mother reacted. It’s pure luck that she hasn’t attacked already, maybe because her cub isn’t a baby. She’s ready to do it, though. Just waiting for this settler to give her an excuse. Which means he can’t go for a weapon, can’t step aside, can’t do anything except wait for her next move.
“Fucking settlers,” Dalton mutters, loud enough for them to hear. “You’re as bad as our residents, and at least they have the excuse that we don’t let them into the forest. Hell, even most of them know you don’t shout and wave your arms at a grizzly. That’s for black bears, who might actually be intimidated. Does she look intimidated?”
“Eric?” I murmur. “Maybe this isn’t the time for the bear-aware lecture?”
His grunt says it’s never not the time to teach idiots how to behave in the wild. I glance at the mother grizzly. She’s fixed in place, huffing and popping her jaw. Signs of stress. She’s aware that her baby isn’t in immediate danger, but it isn’t safe either.
“She’s in a holding pattern,” he says. “Hasn’t made up her mind yet, and you’re damned lucky there.”
“I don’t think he feels lucky right now,” I whisper, my gaze shifting to the poor man, who doesn’t dare even open his mouth to respond.
“Well, he is, especially with all that racket these other morons were making.”
I look at the other two men. One is twenty, dark-haired and bearded. It’s Felicity’s friend, and it takes me a moment to name him. Angus. He�
�s holding a hunting knife. The third man is older, maybe in his late forties. He looks similar enough to Angus for me to suspect this is his father. He holds a hunting rifle aimed at the bear. It’s a .308—I don’t need to look closer to know that. Edwin’s settlement only has .308s, so their guns will all use the same ammo.
“We were trying to distract her,” Angus says.
“Moses is between the mother and her cub,” the third man says. “We hoped that by getting her attention, he’d have a chance to move.”
Dalton grunts, granting them a point. “Could work. Could also just piss her off. Please tell me he has a weapon on him.”
“No,” the third man says. “He put down his bow and pack, and his knife is in that.”
“Fuck.”
“You have a gun,” Angus says. “Shoot her.”
“Yeah, you get a look at that baby bear? Not such a baby. If I shoot his momma, he’ll attack. Also? This isn’t a guaranteed grizzly-killing gun. I’d need to hit her just right.”
“Then maybe you should have a bigger gun.”
“I should say the same to you.” Dalton nods toward the rifle.
While it might make sense to carry bigger-caliber guns for just this situation, that would mean lugging around a larger gun everywhere we went on the very off chance we’d need it.
Anders actually does carry a .45, which would do the job. He’s terrified of a grizzly encounter. Yet in his four years in Rockton, he’s only seen two and didn’t come within a hundred feet of either. For him, the gun is comfort and reassurance. For us, it’d be dead weight.
“Should I take out the spray?” I ask.
I’ve used bear spray against smaller predators. Getting it, however, means holstering my gun.
Dalton considers and then shakes his head. “Same problem. Maybe even worse. Spray Momma Bear, and she’ll start screaming, and that’ll set off Junior. Shooting would be better.” He pauses. “For us, at least.”
Because a clean shot in the right spot would drop the mother bear dead. That could make the youngster attack, but it could also make him run instead. If she starts bellowing in pain, though, it’ll set him off for sure.
“Okay, here’s what we’ll do,” Dalton says.
“Excuse me?” Angus says. “You aren’t sheriff here.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Would you like us to leave?”
Dalton lowers his gun, and my heart thuds. I know he’s making a point, but I’d really rather he did it without, you know, disarming himself in front of a grizzly.
“Come on, Casey,” he says. “These guys have this under—”
“No.” The sound comes as an almost inaudible squeak. It’s the man trapped by the bear. Moses. His eyes slide our way, round with fear. “Please.”
“Ignore my son,” the third man says. “We appreciate your assistance, Eric. Your suggestion is…?”
“You aren’t going to like it,” Dalton says, gun going up.
“Eric,” I murmur. “Less talking, more acting.”
The third man gives a ragged chuckle. “Just tell us what to do.”
“Angus? That’s your name, right, boy?” Dalton says.
Angus bristles, but only says, “Yes.”
“On my signal, you will come over with us. Your dad will stay where he is, rifle aimed at Momma Bear. Casey? You’re going to step about three paces right until you have a clear shot at her face. Let Storm do whatever she wants.”
My breath catches at that.
“I know,” Dalton murmurs. “But trust her, okay?” He raises his voice. “Casey and Angus’s dad—”
“Leon.”
“Casey and Leon? Momma is your primary target, but only if she attacks. Junior is the secondary target.”
“What will you be doing?” I say.
“This is the part you won’t like,” he murmurs under his breath. “Moses? On our signal, you will dodge my way. Toward me and Angus. Stand with us.”
“What?” I say.
He continues. “Do not run. That goes for you, too, Angus. If we run, she’ll charge, and one of us is going down, and Casey will make sure it’s not me. We stand together. United front. Hopefully, a bigger threat than she cares to tackle once no one’s between her and her baby.”
He’s right. I don’t like it. He may be armed, but his focus will be on Moses. It’s the best option, though. This isn’t a case of trying to save the bear’s life. It’s trying to save human ones. Miss that shot, and we have two enraged grizzlies to deal with, and at that point, it might really become that nightmare scenario of “grab my guy and my dog and run,” leaving the settlers to their fate.
“Okay,” I say. “Do you want me in position first?”
“Please.”
I move and then Leon does. The younger bear notices. Stepping to the right means I have a better shot at the mother bear’s face, but it also brings me parallel to the cub.
When the young bear eyes me, Dalton says, “Can you adjust?” while struggling to cover the strain in his voice. I do. It isn’t easy. Move farther to his right and I risk getting behind the cub, who won’t like that. Move farther away and I risk my shot. I edge in both directions as much as I dare. That puts me waist-high in foliage, and Dalton seems to appreciate that partial blind. He nods in satisfaction and has Angus move toward him, which the mother bear allows.
“Okay,” Dalton says. “Casey, you ready?”
“I am.” My gun is aimed at the mother bear’s nose, for an upward shot into her brain.
“Leon?”
“Yes, sir.”
It’s Moses’s turn. Dalton tells us that he will count down from three. I take one split second to adjust my grip. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the younger bear. It stands on all fours, watching. Curious and a little anxious, sensing its mother’s stress, but trusting that if she’s not attacking, everything is okay.
Dalton counts down. When he hits one, Moses darts toward Dalton, and the mother bear roars and lunges. My finger twitches on the trigger, but my brain processes her trajectory in a split second. She’s not lunging at Moses, she’s lunging into the spot he’s vacated, toward her baby.
She hits the ground on all fours, and the earth vibrates with four hundred pounds of force. My insides quiver, sweat dripping onto my cheek. I don’t blink, though. I keep my gun aimed at the mother bear, my side gaze aimed at her youngster as they reunite, the cub bleating with joy.
I take a deep breath and slowly exhale. Storm nudges my leg, and I absently reach down to pat her head and …
I know my dog’s fur. It’s long, and it’s soft. What my hand touches is coarse, thick and bristly, like Raoul’s wolf fur. Hot breath exhales on my leg as I pivot my torso, keeping my legs planted. There is Storm, between me and Dalton, her gaze fixed on the reuniting bears. And beside me? A beast the size of my dog, hidden in the waist-high brush. A beast with golden-brown fur and the unmistakable rounded ears of a grizzly.
“Eric?” I say, his name coming as a squeak just as Storm turns, catching the new scent.
Storm lunges, and I yelp, “Stay!” Moses leaps to grab her even as she halts, bristling and growling. Dalton looks over, frowning in confusion, seeing nothing at first and then …
And then he lets out a sound, almost inaudible, a gasp and a hiss as his eyes go wide and his gun rises.
“Don’t move,” he says, his voice nearly as squeaky as mine.
“I’m fine,” I manage. “I’m aiming.” I am, too, my gun pointed down at the head. Two cubs. There’d been two yearlings, one safely hidden in the brush until I walked over, and it ambled my way. Now it’s on all fours, snuffling my leg. Curious, as bears are. Trying to figure out what I am. Prey or predator? Dinner or danger?
“Eric?” I say.
“Right here. You’ve got this.”
“I know, which is why I need you to turn that gun away.”
He hesitates, and in the silence, I swear I hear him swallow.
“You can’t get a good shot at this one,�
�� I say. “I need you aiming at the mother while I get out of this.”
“She’s right,” one of the men murmurs. I don’t know who it is—I don’t dare look over. “She’s got this, like you said, Eric. But if she shoots, that mother bear is going to charge.”
“Right now this one’s curious,” I say. “Tell me how to let it know I’m not dinner. How to let it realize I’m a threat … without alerting its mother.”
Silence. He’s thinking fast. The question isn’t fair, though, because I don’t think there’s an answer here. Anything I do is going to put me in the same situation Moses just escaped—trapped between mother and cub.
“I’m going to start toward you,” I say. “Is that okay?”
A pause. Then, “Yes.”
“I will move sideways. I will do it now. I can’t wait, or Mom will figure out what’s happening.”
“Okay.”
I take one very careful sideways step. The young bear huffs, and my heart stops, everything in me saying to run, that the mother will have heard that and—
Another step. A third. I am about to step out of the long grass when—
A massive paw swipes at my leg. It’s not even a hard smack. Just a curious bat, but it hits behind my knee and catches me off guard and my legs fly out from under me.
TWENTY-FIVE
A shout. A shot. Two shots. A snarl.
All that passes as if through a soundproofed wall, muffled and indistinct, as I grit my teeth against the urge to twist and break my fall. I wrap both hands around my gun just as I crash onto the ground, arms flying up with the jolt, gun still gripped tight and …
And I’m flat on my back. My head must have slammed down, because there’s a moment of black and then confusion, muffled shouts and—
“Casey?” Dalton’s voice, shakier than I’ve ever heard it. “Casey? Do not move. I have this. I swear I have this.”
Something blocks the sun. I blink, brain muzzy, registering only that someone’s bending over me.
Everything’s okay. Dalton is bending—
A face lowers over mine. A brown-furred face. Broad nose. Tiny eyes. Rounded ears.
A Stranger in Town Page 21
