The soil is covered in ash, the trees burned black, their leaves disappeared like flash paper. Warped metal poles are still standing in some places, melted and strange, held up by plastic pikes buried deep enough to avoid the fire’s wrath.
I wonder if the flames grew big enough to attract attention that might lead to a rescue crew, but I’m certain they didn’t: the area was too small, the burn time too short. Someone would’ve had to have flown over backcountry at the perfect moment, and called in to report the flames. Although it felt apocalyptic at the time, the fire probably went unnoticed.
I imagine Cassandra, moving between the tents under the cover of night, a gas can in one hand and a lighter in the other. She could have killed us all, but she didn’t care. All that mattered was her hunger, her thirst, her needs, her wants.
What was her endgame? Did she worry about killing Mike in the fire? Did she wait until I had left the tent to light it up, in the hopes that Mike would try to find me and she’d catch him on his own long enough to incapacitate him?
The destruction represents a paradox, an impossible meeting of strategy and emotion. On the one hand, Cassandra is a person impetuous enough to commit arson— an unpredictable crime that doesn’t allow the arsonist to choose their victims. As a weapon, fire is unpredictable, independent, and anything but precise. It’s a tool based in emotion, in rage. Cassandra’s use of fire paints her as unhinged, possessing intent that’s chaotic; she’s a canon, not a laser, blasting away anyone unlucky enough to cross her path.
On the other hand, Cassandra has proven herself to be nothing if not a strategist. She had the foresight to create a demented scavenger hunt, to place the clue in my jacket, to bring enough supplies to survive the duration of her journey, and to gain geographical knowledge of the area in a way that’s enabled her to follow us without being detected. Even her choice of secondary location show tactical thinking; she’s sending me across the backcountry, off the designated trails, where I’m unlikely to encounter any rangers or park visitors.
I’m left with two images of the woman who’s turned my life upside down, and I can’t seem to reconcile the halves into a single person. Despite never meeting her, I’ve always thought of Cassandra as a friend, another person like me who’s not quite right inside but doing her best to function anyway. The rage, the calculated intensity present here, doesn’t feel like her. When Cassandra leaves a note under Mike’s windshield, there’s always flowers doodled on the envelope. Her letters are creased into perfect thirds, her handwriting marked by flawless loops and sweeping lines. Cassandra— as I imagine her— is nothing if not thoughtful. She’s gentle in her bids for affection, soft in her pursuit. She’s the girl in the bar who never speaks to the guy she might like, but sits near him whenever she can, following him from barstool to barstool, hoping he’ll notice her with every move.
A scan of the campsite reveals nothing new— just more melted poles and singed tree branches— but I keep looking anyway, trying to bring my mental picture of Cassandra into focus. A groaning sounds echoes behind me, and I’m interrupted by Ken, plopping onto a log, massaging his leg. “Just my knee,” he says, clearly underplaying the amount of pain he’s in. “Acts up sometimes, especially when it’s cold.”
Sue rubs his back, her hair frizzy and unruly in the rain, the hint of grey roots starting to show.
For the first time, I’m reminded of the Hardingers’ age. Up until now, I’ve seen them as immortal, parental figures, flush with answers and advice, embodying a kind of invincibility in their reliable magnetism. But now, I’m aware of their weaknesses. They’re just as lost and afraid and I am.
The thought unnerves me. It’s like watching Superman become Clark Kent.
We rest for awhile, and I try to hide my impatience. Right now the rain is only a drizzle, but if we don’t get moving soon, we could get caught in inclement weather that slows us down. The last line of Cassandra’s letter reverberates in my ears; “Tick. Tock.”
Four days isn’t long in the wild, and I can’t help but feel that every minute we waste resting brings Mike a minute closer to death.
Finally, Ken stretches. He says his knee has stopped bothering him, but I’m sure it hasn’t. We make our way to the trailhead where we last saw Brock disappear behind the flames, surveying the way onward.
It’s a steep trail, at a higher grade than any we’ve climbed so far. Uneven rocks that could’ve served as useful steps have been made slick and dangerous by the rain. Trees surround the path, and we’ll have to hold back their wiry branches to clear the way. I take out my map to locate the trail diagnostics. A red box with an exclamation point gives me bad news: this trail is rated five on a scale of one to five. For extremely competent hikers only. I look back at Ken, who’s absent-mindedly rubbing his knee, and Sue, who’s already out of breath from the walk over here. It’s not an ideal scenario.
“It’s a tough trail,” I show them the map and the warning box.
For a moment, no one says anything, but then Ken shakes out his knee and states, simply, “Well… Ladies first.”
Sue laughs and takes his hand. I lead the way, digging the rubber of my boots into the dirt, leaning forward and grabbing onto whatever I can to steady myself.
Little by little, we make our way upward, leaving the scorched pieces of our campsite behind us, heading for Tenaya Lake and the promise of safety.
10
He’s been dead for awhile.
His hand was the first thing I noticed.
We’d been hiking for six hours, our progress slowed by Ken’s arthritis and the rain, which turned the trail into a muddy, hazardous slip-and-slide. We weren’t even three quarters of the way to the lake when I saw it.
At first I thought it was a stick, but some animal instinct made me look twice, as if a piece of me beyond conscious thought could sense death in the air.
Now I’m sure: it isn’t a stick.
It’s a finger.
He’s been pushed to the side of the trail, leaves and branches piled over his face, only his limbs visible through the foliage.
Someone screams. It might be me.
Mud fills my boots and suddenly I’m on my knees, saying Mike’s name over and over, sure it’s him on the edge of the trail, discarded and forgotten. Somehow, I connect Mike’s death to my own inability to tear down my walls, to commit to a lifetime together, to give him some answer other than a smile when he hinted at getting married.
I should have said ‘yes,’ right then and there. Why didn’t I just say ‘yes?’
It’s like I’ve killed him myself.
But then Sue clears the leaves away, and the face isn’t Mike’s. It’s someone else’s, horse-like and pockmarked.
Brock.
His eyes are still open, and blood clumps in his hair. His jaw is set at an odd angle, stiff and cartoon-like.
Sue gasps. Blood rushes from Ken’s cheeks, his face pale. Sue starts crying and gagging at the same time, and when she disappears behind a bush, the sounds of her retching echo across the landscape.
I want to throw up too, but not because of Brock’s body. I’m disgusted with myself. When Sue cleared the leaves away, the wolf within me howled, and I only felt one thing: relief.
What’s wrong with me?
***
“We should bury him,” Ken says, his voice firm.
I shake my head.
“We don’t even have a shovel.”
Finally, we settle on collecting wildflowers from the forest floor. The three of us weave them into strands, scattering them around Brock’s body. Ken waits until Sue isn’t looking, then closes Brock’s eyes and moves his jaw into a more ordinary position. He thinks I don’t see him, but I do.
We gather around the bed we’ve made, listening to the rain, helpless to stop it from washing away our work.
“Someone should say something,” Sue whispers.
I think for a long time. The sounds of the forest surround me— a hooting, hollow symphony—
and the first thing that strikes me is that I’ve miscalculated. The picture of Cassandra— the one I’ve built up in my mind— says more about me than her. Out of anyone in this world, I know the horrors that lurk within a person, hiding under skin and bone. When Mike and I asked Brock to call for help tracking Cassandra down, I accused Brock of underestimating her, when I was guilty of the same crime. I wonder if that irony occurred to Brock, too, when she broke his jaw.
I don’t take any pleasure in the thought. Even though Brock wasn’t my favorite ranger, and I didn’t always agree with him, an animal knowingness tells me we’re connected. We’re both built from the dust of stars that exploded billions of years ago, making him part of me, and me part of him. I know it the way birds know to fly south for winter— it’s in my nature to acknowledge our connectedness. We’re entangled, all of us, the good and bad pieces of ourselves orbiting around each other, their patterns causing solar flares in another person’s universe.
Brock tried to help us all sense that connectedness by leading us into the Wild, and now, he’s rejoining the Great Everything. I imagine roots weaving around his body, hugging him close, whispering the secrets of the Earth in his ear. Those same roots grow into a tree, and the tree drops a piece of fruit, which becomes another tree, and another, and another.
The last flower leaves my fingers as I place it into Brock’s hand, and say, simply;
“You mattered.”
***
We go forward, but not because we want to; only because there’s no other option.
The path fades, and now we’re pushing our way through dense forest, leaves crunching under our boots, a long walk ahead of us. The trees casts shadows over our party, making the hour feel like twilight, an uncomfortable gap between day and night. We walk in silence, still thinking of Brock, and the angle of his jaw, wondering whether he can still see us in some unknowable way.
It’s Sue who speaks first, whispering to me at the back of the group, letting Ken forge ahead until he’s out of earshot.
“Do you think she got Logan, too?” Sue asks me, her voice shaking a little.
“No,” I say, pushing the thought away. “His body would’ve been there, wouldn’t it? Maybe Brock sent him ahead. For all we know, Logan could have already found the ranger cache.”
Hours pass by as we hike, and the landscape seems to fold in on itself, repeating shades of green and brown that once were beautiful wilting in a world without Brock. Ken insists we use extra caution, as Cassandra could be in the area. He’s vigilant in his work, peeking around trees, wielding a stick for defense. For someone who originally doubted her capabilities, he’s certainly come around, debating whether he should stay up front or take up the rear in case she attacks us from behind. I point out that Ken and I have switched sides: he’s convinced Cassandra is our biggest danger, and I’m fending off a nagging skepticism. Seeing Brock’s body made me question the profile I’d built for her, but now, I’m reversing my position.
“You were right,” I tell him. “Something doesn’t add up. She didn’t use a gun. Brock hadn’t been shot— he’d been hit in the jaw.”
Sue cringes, remembering the injury.
“I have seen pictures of Cassandra and she’s smaller than I am. What person her size plans this entire situation so strategically but doesn’t think to bring a gun? Why would Cassandra risk physically attacking someone twice as big as she is, when she could just shoot him?”
“I don’t know,” Ken says, waving a hand at me as if details no longer matter. “Maybe she’s working with someone.” He pauses a beat. “Zoe, have you…”
Ken’s about to ask me something, but Sue catches his eye and he stops himself.
“What?”
“Have you got any idea what her capabilities are? Martial arts training? Past history of violent behavior?” I shake my head, and he trudges on. “Well, whatever the case, she’s here and out for blood. We need to be on the lookout.”
Ken surveys the forest like a sniper. It’s a ridiculous sight, and it takes extreme restraint not to roll my eyes. For some reason, seeing violence first-hand has made me less afraid. With any luck, the feeling will last.
The rain stops when we reach Tenaya Lake. It’s a vast expanse of blue, a cool and quiet oasis in the middle of the dessert, the surface of the lake a smooth piece of glass lain over the deep. The lake is wide, its edges pulling in opposite directions like a deflated balloon pulled taught, the rubber stretched to capacity. Various trails weave along the circumference of the lake, each a different scenic route. Any one of them could be hiding the cache.
We’re tempted to split up in order to locate the ranger cache more quickly, but Ken— our self-appointed security officer with all the gravitas of a mall-cop— vetoes the idea. Instead, we mark our position on the map and slowly, painstakingly begin circling the water, looking for anything that might indicate a hidden stash. After much debate, we pick the biggest of the trails. It’s the most accessible and sticks close to the edge of the water. We reason it’s a likely bet that the rangers would put the cache on the easiest trail— one that doesn’t involve an incline— if only to make it more reachable in an emergency.
We’ve been searching for about an hour when a sound cuts through the trees. It’s far off in the distance, and at first I can’t tell if it’s human or animal; but whatever it is, it’s definitely in distress. Sue hears it too, and as we get closer to our target, the noise becomes clearer, sharper, more distinct.
It’s a man, calling for help.
Our party veers off from the trail, heading instead into unmarked wilderness. After pushing through branches and foliage growing in tangled nets over the Earth, we stumble onto another trail, one of the more difficult ones. It cuts deeper into the forest, wildflowers dotting its edges. Fifteen minutes later and a human form emerges, hunched in a ball, hidden by shrubs at the edge of the trail.
It’s Logan, sitting on the ground, tied up with bungee cords. They’re wrapped around his torso, pinning his arms to his body, immobilizing his legs. A piece of fabric loops around his mouth as a gag, but he’s managed to pull it free. Bite marks mar the gag, and I wonder if he tried to chew his way out before finally loosening it enough to shout for help.
When he sees us, Logan starts crying, reminding me of a homesick college student. Ken and Sue untie him, and he averts his eyes away from me, embarrassed to be found this way.
When his hands are free, he turns his baseball cap around so it covers his face, and points to a hole in the ground a few yards away.
“I have so much to tell you guys,” he says, nodding at our salvation:
The Ranger Cache.
11
The ranger cache is empty, but I stick my hand in anyway, just to be sure.
“She got it all. The radio, the food packets…” Logan says, his mouth watering when he mentions the food. Ken immediately opens up his pack and starts mixing some scrambled egg powder with water, rehydrating it into something like food.
I examine the cache, which was cleverly hidden under a rock with a gold plaque on it. The plaque reminds me of the little markers used to indicate different species in botanical gardens. It’s discreet enough that anyone passing by would think it was labeling the point as a landmark, or describing different types of plants— not indicating a stash of supplies.
“Brock was behind me when he saw someone coming up the trail,” Logan says. “He had already described the ranger cache to me, and he told me to run and find it while he dealt with Cassandra.”
“Sounds like Brock,” Ken nods, passing Logan the sad excuse for eggs. Logan pours the rehydrated eggs into his mouth, chewing like it’s the best meal he’s ever had.
“I looked around for a long time and finally found the cache. I had to dig it up with my hands, but before I could finish, someone hit me on the back of my head, and I blacked out. When I woke up, the cache was empty, and I was tied up.”
He looks at the ground again, refusing to make eye contac
t with anyone but Sue, who’s bandaging the back of his head— she’s an expert at it by now.
“I tried to crawl to get help,” Logan continues, “but I couldn’t get very far with the bungee cords. I found a rock on the way and tried to saw them off, but it didn’t work.” His cheeks flush, as if he’s embarrassed to have been so badly beaten by a girl. It’s a reaction that irritates me, and I’m about to vouch for Cassandra’s abilities before remembering that she’s a murderer, and not my best friend.
“Did you see her?” I ask, my heart pounding.
Logan shakes his head. “No. I was so focused on digging up the cache that I wasn’t looking around. I was awake one second, and out the next.”
“What did she attack you with?” I press. “Did she have a gun?” Now’s my chance to unravel the mystery of Cassandra with a person who’s experienced her first hand.
“I don’t know” Logan says, still chewing. “She could have hit me with back of a gun I guess, but it felt more like a rock. It happened so fast…”
“But she didn’t kill you?” I say, and I must sound disappointed about it, because the Hardingers are looking at me, mildly horrified. It’s like I’ve danced naked at a funeral.
“Gee, thanks Zoe,” Logan says, less offended than the Hardingers.
“No!” I exclaim, backtracking. “I mean, I’m glad you’re okay, it’s just— I keep trying to paint this mental picture of Cassandra. To get inside her head— to really know her— and I can’t piece her together. On the one hand she’s a crazy murderer, and on the other hand she’s so strategic about everything.”
Ken nods, agreeing with me. “You’re right. Why kill Brock and not Logan?”
“Wait... Brock’s… he’s dead?” Logan asks, and I realize we haven’t told him yet. I nod, and we’re all quiet for a moment, remembering Brock and everything he did for us.
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