Liam wasn’t really a professional colleague, she reminded herself. He was going back, somewhere out west, tomorrow. She’d probably never see him again. Anyway, her private life was none of anyone else’s business. She felt Liam close his hand over her arm. Those gnarly, knotted, bent fingers. She imagined them moving against her bare skin. She moved closer to him. She breathed, “Yes,” into his ear.
6.
Brayden lay as still as possible. This was how he had been spending a lot of days, lately. The cold had enervated him. He’d piled a thick layer of evergreen branches and dead leaves under his ground tarp as a bulwark against the frozen earth. He was mummified in multiple layers of clothes, socks, face mask, gloves, and two fat, down sleeping bags he had taken from a poorly secured garage. Judging from the quantity and quality of the gear he’d left behind, he figured those people could afford to replace them. In any case, he was only borrowing the bags. He planned to return them. If he could remember exactly where he had found them. He had some canned food. Also pilfered from a couple of houses and hunting camps. He was too cold and stiff to raise himself to eat it. He had no fuel for his stove. He’d tried to find some in what he thought was the garage of an abandoned junkyard. But then someone in a little cabin he’d assumed was uninhabited let a few dogs loose, and he had to run. He’d thrown a fat stick at one of the dogs and heard it yelp. He was sorry about that.
The thick wool blanket his friend Bruce had given him, almost by way of apology, after telling him he had to leave, was between him and the tarp. His own, older sleeping bag, the one his father had given him years ago for achieving some level or another in scouting, was underneath him, as well. Scouting. Everyone thought his father was such a good dad. Tough, an old-school father, and this was a good thing. Just what a boy like him needed, given where he’d come from. Hah. If they only knew.
Brayden was pressed as far under the rock overhang as he could go. The tarp that formed the outside wall of his shelter, which was also shielded with a thick layer of evergreen boughs, lifted and fell slightly, as if it was breathing. He thought of himself as a hibernating bear. No, not hibernation. Torpor. That’s what it was called. He’d learned that somewhere. He couldn’t recall the context just now. It didn’t matter.
He felt clear, cold, and still, like a fast-frozen lake, where you could see straight through the ice to the creatures still moving about below, out of reach. He didn’t have the energy to build a fire. Maybe tonight. When there was no one to see the smoke. When the temperature dropped further. Maybe. Maybe he wouldn’t even need it.
There was that sound again. The whump whump of the blades. He’d never heard a helicopter here before. Certainly not this close. He rarely even saw planes. And why had he heard it so many times over the last few days? Strange. They must be looking for something. Someone. Maybe convicts. An escapee from that prison north of here. It was a maximum-security place. They’d be after them, for sure, if someone had gotten out. It had happened before. Rarely. But still. They’d bring out the Staties. The dogs. He didn’t care if the convicts found him, but he didn’t want the cops anywhere near.
He’d lay low until it all blew over. Too cold to do anything else, anyway. He wondered briefly how the guys might have escaped. Him, he’d simply walked out of his personal prison. So easy, in the end. Made him wonder why he hadn’t done it sooner. But unlike the convicts, no one would come looking for him. No one would even miss him. Of that, he was convinced.
7.
Everyone dispersed. Larry and Jack went back to Albany, Liam and Darryl went back to wherever they were based, somewhere out west. Colorado or New Mexico, Colden thought. She couldn’t remember. There was no reason to. She had no expectations and wanted no promises from Liam. Liam, thankfully, didn’t burden her with any. Their night together stoked some embers within her that had almost died for lack of fuel, and that was enough for her. Liam, who was almost a caricature of a masculine presence, had reminded her that she was a woman and a scientist, not just a woman scientist. His naturally broad, six-foot-three frame had obviously been kept powerful and lean by outdoor work and regular trips to the gym. He had plenty of luxuriant body hair. He had a three-day beard around his goatee and a musky smell. He was about a dozen years older, clearly more experienced than she, and she appreciated his skilled, careful, and patient ministrations. He took his time, and he was interested in her pleasure. He was different, that way, from the boyfriends she’d had in college.
Being with him was a test to herself. It had been a while, many, many months, actually, more than she wanted to count, since she’d been with a man. She was glad to know she was still capable of physical intimacy, that her body was good for more than just carting her through the mountains and carrying around her brain. At one point in the evening, she had thought about asking him about Larry. But they didn’t discuss work. They hardly spoke at all, turning themselves over to corporeal connection instead. She felt refreshed by the experience of being with Liam. She was happy it had happened—and also that it was over. It was time to get back to work.
She immediately began tracking data from the animals they’d collared. She made maps of their movements, puzzled over what they were doing, where they were going. She buried herself in the effort of trying to tease out patterns that could lead to conclusions, which could be used to create policies that would improve protection and conservation. The data were merely tiny blips. Some days, the moose barely moved at all. She began tracking weather data, as well. It would be years before patterns emerged that could be given scientific or behavioral meaning. But it was all still deeply consuming. She would sit down with her computer and a cup of coffee in the dim dawns of the short winter days and often not look up until the crepuscular gloom began to fall and her protesting stomach was the only indicator of how many hours had passed.
Then, the strange e-mail arrived. It was about a week after the collaring adventure. The return address was unknown, but the subject line referred to a well-known scientist, so she opened it. It was a picture of a Sasquatch. That was all. Just a blurry image of a large, hunched, and hairy form against a green, woodland backdrop. The quintessential Bigfoot shot. She deleted it without thinking about it. Just spam of some sort. She got back to her data. But a week or so later, another popped up. Then another.
There were a couple of goofy images, cartoon overlays of oversize, hirsute creatures. One GIF of an indistinct form suddenly coming to life and sticking its tongue out at the viewer. Some of the images were pseudo-scientific. Colden opened them, deleted them, and vaguely wondered how she’d gotten into this particular spam cycle. Maybe someone was playing a prank on her. Whatever. Easy enough to trash and move on.
That was, until the GIF arrived that showed a man in a hair suit, grinning maniacally, with a whip and a woman, naked, tied to a tree, her face turned back in a caricature of a damsel-in-distress posture. Colden wasn’t a prude. Consenting adults, whatever turned you on, she didn’t care or judge. But she didn’t want unsolicited pornography popping up on her computer. It was distracting at the least and offensive at worst. If these sorts of images kept coming or got more pornographic or violent, she’d have to look into the sources. She’d recall the e-mails from her trash folder. Not what she wanted to be spending her time on.
Fortunately, they stopped. It took her a while to notice. Curious, she checked her spam folder. Nothing. The last one was two weeks prior. OK, so just some strange spam list. It was over, there was nothing to do, and she could move on. Which was good because she suddenly had a bigger issue to deal with. One of the transmitters was sending a “no-movement” signal from a very remote and difficult-to-reach area. The moose was either stuck, which was unlikely given how little snow they’d had, or more likely, dead. She and Jack were heading out together, very early, tomorrow. It was going to be a long and difficult day.
8.
Brayden brought a can of chili under the covers with him overnight. By the morning, it was no longer frozen. He ate it,
cold. Then he made himself get up, get dressed, and get moving. His blood felt congealed. He stepped into the open space just outside his lair and stamped his feet. He was too thickly bundled for proper calisthenics, the jumping jacks, push-ups, and burpees his father used to make him do before breakfast when he first adopted him and his sister. Before he lost interest in insisting on self-improvement schemes he thought would help Brayden gain the confidence and discipline needed for a boy who had been in and out of foster homes for so much of his life.
In the open space in front of his small cave, Brayden jumped up and down a few times, swung his arms in the bright, crisp air, shaking off stiffness and memories at the same time. He took a few deep breaths, like a thirsty man gulping water. His head began to clear. His blood began to move. He felt hungry, in spite of the belly full of beans and beef.
I don’t want to keep stealing, he told himself. It’s not right.
He had outdoors skills. His father and a few sessions of summer camp had taught him some useful things. He knew how to start a fire, how to make a snare and a pole, how to ice fish and butcher an animal. He had a good knife, a small shovel, and an ax. He didn’t need much else. He knew the forest around him could supply the rest.
First step was to clean up. He had accumulated too many empty food containers. The freezing air was keeping them mostly free of smell, but he didn’t want to attract hungry critters. He collected tools and garbage in his backpack and set off. It felt good to have a purpose in his mind and in his sights. He walked for more than an hour, at first intending merely to get away from his camp and find a place where he could bury or at least cache his empty cans. But he kept walking mostly for the sheer joy and simple pleasure of movement. There were few sounds in the winter woods. His mother always had the television on at home. He was relieved to be free of commercial background noise. There was little snow, just enough to leave tracks, so the going was easy, and he was confident he’d find his way back. He found a seep where some underground spring came up, thawing the ground. He dug a hole, flattened and buried his cans.
It was while resting on his heels, surveying his work, that he saw the large brown form at the edge of the wet area. He stared and stared. Whatever it was wasn’t moving. It took a few moments, but finally, he realized he was looking at a moose. Brayden stayed very still—moose could be aggressive and dangerous. This one was resting, and he didn’t want to wake it. He watched and watched and slowly realized that this moose was never waking from its sleep. The body had the caved-in quality of death, like a lightly deflated balloon. He slowly stood and waved his hands in the air. Nothing. He jumped up and down. Still nothing. So, he approached. It appeared to be an older cow, fallen down with her head in the muck, black mud splashed over her neck and body.
Meat.
Brayden realized this was no longer a living, breathing animal but was now a pile of meat. Probably not very tasty meat, certainly—an old animal, died instead of shot, left to wither instead of bled and butchered—but there were still calories and nutrition there. He would make smoked jerky, not grilled steaks. He knelt down. He got to work.
9.
Colden arrived early at the trailhead where she was to meet Jack. It had snowed the night before, and everything was sugarcoated in a thick layer of white. Few cars were in the parking area, the usual array of battered Subarus and pickup trucks, with an old Saab thrown in for variety—the typical ride of the winter hiker and backcountry skier. There was one sedan. No sign of Jack’s official DEC truck, yet. Colden dragged out her pack and strapped her snowshoes to either side. They were in the midst of a mild and dry spell, but conditions were likely to be different where they were headed, and the weather could, and often did, change quickly. She sat on the open tailgate of her truck and began putting on her gaiters. The door to the sedan across the lot opened. She expected to see a mom, someone here to pick up a kid or something, a woman who felt out of place and who would ask her a question in an effort to find reassurance.
Instead, Larry stepped out. Colden was too surprised at the sight of him to hide the feeling.
“Larry. What are you doing here?”
“Thought I’d join you.”
The idea of him hiking into the winter wilderness with them was beyond improbable. It was absurd. She shook her head in annoyed disbelief.
“What? You can’t be serious.”
“Colden, this isn’t your personal, private, pet project,” Larry lectured. “There are other people and organizations interested in the results. There is money involved. I’m coming because I want to, and because I can, and because it’s part of my responsibility to the department.”
Colden looked him up and down. He was wearing an outdated outfit meant for lift service, downhill skiing, not backwoods hiking.
“Actually, Larry, I don’t think you can. Not in that getup, at least.”
Larry pointed his finger and opened his mouth to say something, but just then the DEC truck pulled up, and Jack hopped out. Larry turned his attention to Jack, instead. Jack looked at Larry, running his eyes up and down, just as Colden had. He shook his head. Colden read the expression on his face. It said two things: “amateur” and “dangerous.” If you were the former, you were likely to be the latter to anyone else with you on a trip like this. She went back to adjusting her gaiters.
“That all you brought?” Jack asked.
Larry looked confused by the question.
“Dude,” Jack said. “You’re going to freeze your nuts off.”
“I’ll be fine,” Larry said. “It’s not that cold.”
“It will be. And weather can change around here in a minute.”
They stared at each other.
“Did you bring snowshoes?” Jack asked.
“I was told you had an extra pair that you’d be bringing for me.”
“I was not told that,” Jack said.
“You?” Larry said, looking at Colden. “Do you have an extra pair?”
Colden compressed her lips and shook her head.
“Nope. Even if I did, they’re not your size. They wouldn’t support your weight.”
What she said was factual, but it came out as an insult. She didn’t care. She actually enjoyed it.
“This is ridiculous,” Larry said. “I don’t need snowshoes. There isn’t that much snow at all.”
“There may be plenty where we’re going,” Jack said.
“There is an outfitter in town,” Larry said. “I’ll go rent a pair. I’ll be right back.”
“While you’re there, rent a real pair of boots, gloves, and a face mask,” Jack said.
“OK. I will,” Larry said.
“Also, gaiters, hiking poles, extra socks, headlamp, flashlight, heat packs . . .” Jack ticked the items off his fingers.
Larry crossed his arms over his chest.
“Look,” Jack said. “They don’t rent that stuff. Snowshoes, yeah, but you need a lot more than snowshoes. I was told you would be prepared, but you’re not equipped for this trip, and we can’t wait for you. There’s not enough hours of daylight. Right now, if we brought you, it’d be dangerous for you. And for us. We gotta get in there and get to this moose before the bears and coyotes spread bits of him or her over a multiple-mile radius.” He grabbed his pack and locked his truck. “Sorry, man. Just not going to work this time. We’ll try again next time. There will for sure be a next time. Go back to the lodge, put your feet up by the fire, take the day off.”
Larry glared at the ground. Colden expected the heat of his gaze to melt a circle of snow and send up wisps of smoke. She wished she had the freedom to talk to her colleagues the way Jack did to Larry. Men accepted that kind of raw banter from each other. Not from a woman. Not ever. Jack cocked his head at her.
“Ready?”
She started moving toward the trail in answer. They left Larry standing in the frozen parking lot and never looked back. They hiked in silence for an hour, both working off their irritations. Then, it was time to go off
trail. They stopped to coordinate location and route.
They were about to set off again when Jack said, “That guy. He can be such a tool. Feel sorry for him, but seriously.”
“Did you know he was coming?”
“My boss tells me that according to his boss, Larry’s coming. When I ask questions or express concerns, he tells me to just try and accommodate the guy. I don’t know him very well; he’s not a bad scientist, not even that bad of a guy, but man, is he annoying. He’s also not from around here. He doesn’t get it, that’s for sure.”
“You handled it well,” Colden said, wishing she could have done the same.
“No, I didn’t,” Jack said, shrugging. “Maybe I’ll be fired when I get back.”
“Just think of him as the FNG.”
“Fucking new guy. That’s for damn sure. Keeps popping up. Like a cold sore.”
“All I know is that he gives me the massive creeps,” Colden said. “Puts my spidey sense on way-high alert.”
“We better get going,” Jack replied, looking up at the sky.
They did. The effort of slogging through the underbrush, the concentration required to not trip over a slippery rock or get an ankle caught between logs hidden by the mess of leaf litter and old snow, kept them quiet. They stopped once or twice to get their bearings, drink some water, eat a granola bar and apple slices slathered in peanut butter. They were careful to pick up every scrap and crumble of food. There were enough problems with bears associating the smell of humans with the presence of snacks. There was no sun, just a looming ceiling of gray skies that felt like it was coming closer to their heads inch by inch. It seemed like it was taking longer than it should to get where they needed to go, but there was nothing to be done about it. Besides, it often felt that way in the backcountry. They might be walking out in the dark. So be it. They had headlamps. They were getting closer. They paused to take out the portable antennae. At every stop, the clicks got louder and more regular. They seemed to be right where they needed to be, yet they didn’t see the moose. They were trudging in lightly frozen mud—a spring underfoot was thawing the area. The moose might still be alive and just weak or injured, but it might also be dead and covered in fresh snow. They paused in frustration.
Beneath the Trees Page 6
