by Paula Munier
“We have to find him first.”
Deeper into the woods, she let Troy lead the way. He knew this part of the world better than she did. Mercy struggled to hide how very worried she was. She knew Elvis would take good care of Henry, but she also knew Henry was sometimes clueless and often stubborn. He may or may not listen to Elvis.
The Malinois was trained to keep people in place. He knew his job was to take care of Henry. She was surprised that he didn’t bark when Henry took off. She should have heard him; she was just in the next room. Or maybe he did bark, and in that big solid house, she just didn’t hear. Or maybe she did hear him, and that’s what had interrupted her dream.
She knew that as long as the temperature didn’t dip below zero, Susie Bear should be able to do her job. The human trio kept up with the dog as she plowed ahead, pausing now and then for Ethan to catch up. The big shaggy dog was generally not the most graceful creature, except under two conditions: in the water or in the snow. She swam like a river otter, and she romped in the snow like a bear.
“Maybe we’ll see that big bear,” Mercy said.
“One thing at a time,” said Troy. “It’s only morning, and we’ve already had enough excitement for one day.”
“True. I’m just hoping night hunters haven’t got that bear yet.”
“So far he’s proven to be a good escape artist.”
Prey animals hated snow. They hated change. They tended to buckle down and hide when it snowed. But predators loved snow. They loved new situations. Just like man, the ultimate predator.
They moved at a consistent pace, mostly in silence. Talking took too much effort and it slowed them down. Instead, they just hiked at a good clip. Troy was taller than she was, but Mercy managed to keep up, two strides for every one of his. He was in great shape, but then, so was she. They made a good team. Ethan, not so much. Sitting behind a desk in New York City had made a flatlander out of him.
“I walk miles each day in the city,” he told them, huffing and puffing, “but it’s been years since I hiked in snowshoes.”
“You’re doing fine,” she said.
The woods were quiet. No sound but wind blowing and leaves falling and the crunch of the snow under their feet. Autumn’s colors drifted into white.
The snow started falling again.
“We have to move faster,” said Troy. “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine,” said Mercy.
“Ethan?”
“Fine,” he managed between breaths.
They settled into the steady rhythm of snowshoeing, using trekking poles, as much to test the ground in front of them for fallen logs, exposed roots, and granite boulders they couldn’t see as for support.
As the snow started to fall again, so did Mercy’s spirits. She needed to find Henry.
“He called me Paladin,” she told Troy. “That’s what Ethan said.”
“He’s right. You are a paladin.”
She smiled at this flattery, but she was no holy knight. She had failed Henry. She had failed Elvis. She had failed Ethan, Lillian, and Feinberg. She had failed Martinez.
“Saint Anthony,” she said.
“The saint of lost things,” said Troy.
Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou lost, Mercy thought. But aloud she said, “If I believed in saints.”
They’d hiked over a mile when they entered a small glen. And that’s when she saw it. A telltale lump in the snow. Splatters of blood.
Mercy stopped cold. “Troy.”
Susie Bear raced over to the snow-covered bulge, slipping down into an alert position.
A bulge about the same size as a Malinois—or a little boy.
“What is it?” asked Ethan behind her.
“Stay back.”
He lunged forward, but she caught him.
“Let Troy go,” she said quietly.
She stood as solid and still as a column of snow, holding Ethan back. Together they watched as Troy approach the fallen object. He bowed his head and squatted down. He turned around.
“It’s a deer.”
Ethan cried out, letting her go and falling back against a towering pine. Mercy thanked Saint Anthony and Saint Francis of Assisi and Saint Jude and all the saints in the heavens. She stumbled over to Troy. Susie Bear was sniffing a doe’s dead carcass.
“Night hunters. Odd that they left a deer here.”
“Maybe they got caught in the snowstorm.”
“I don’t know. In this cold, it’ll last until the scavengers come out. But it hasn’t been de-gutted, so it’s no good to anybody. This doe is a decent size. They would have taken her with them or at least gutted it so that they could come back and get her later, at least what was left of her. The predators would be out, and they would have gotten to her, so this is pretty fresh.”
Out of the corner of her eye Mercy glimpsed a splash of bright blue. She headed over to a log splayed at the edge of the glen. “Look.”
She reached out and tugged at the bright-blue cloth. She held it up for Troy.
“It looks like part of a puffer jacket.”
“Henry’s Batman puffer jacket.” Ethan laughed with relief. “He’s alive. You were right, Mercy. He is going this way.” He bounded ahead, buoyed by a parent’s desperate optimism.
For once she was happy Henry never paid any attention to where he was going, which was why he was always snagging his clothes on branches in the woods. Happy he was within reach. Unless.… She took Troy aside. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Henry could have interrupted the night hunters, and that’s why they abandoned the deer.”
“Oh God.”
“It’s okay. We’ll catch them. Him.”
“He must have been running. He’s no good at running.” She felt hot tears behind her eyes.
“We’re close. Come on, Susie Bear, let’s go.”
Snow was falling heavier now, and the wind was picking up. The blizzard would soon be back in full force.
Susie Bear sprinted ahead to join Ethan, and they followed her, adrenaline and the prospect of a little boy in a torn Batman puffer jacket alone in the woods spurring them on.
But Henry wasn’t alone. He had Elvis with him. And Elvis would keep him safe. But who was going to keep Elvis safe?
“I guess the good news is that he really is wearing a jacket this time.”
Troy smiled at her. “He’s going to be okay. So is Elvis.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
And they kept on going.
* * *
IT WAS COLDER now. Another bomb cyclone could be on the way. Wherever Henry was, she hoped he was warm. The air was thick with snow. She couldn’t see much more than a yard in front of her. She was glad they brought the trekking poles and glad for Susie Bear, her black, thick, shaggy fur and hunter-orange vest easy to follow in the whirl of white.
Ethan had fallen behind again. Mercy hooked her lead to Troy, so she wouldn’t lose him, and then hooked another lead to Ethan.
“Do you think it’s possible he could have made it to the teahouse already?” asked Ethan.
“I hope so.” She raised her voice to be heard over the wind, which was picking up now, driving the snow in sheets. “I hate thinking of him out here. I’d feel better if I knew he was with Yolanda. I’d feel better about both of them.”
“Your instincts were right on the mark,” said Ethan. “You said he was going toward the Japanese teahouse, and that’s where he’s going. The scrap of his jacket proves that.”
She was not so sure about that.
Susie Bear barked. A whining yowl they could hear despite the wind. The sound echoed through the forest.
No, thought Mercy, that was no echo. That was another bark.
She stopped, pulling on both leads to alert Troy and Ethan. “Listen.”
Susie Bear disappeared from view. But they could hear her bark. And they could hear an answering bark, faint but unmistakable.
�
��Elvis!” Mercy unsnapped the leads tethering her to the men and jounced ahead, following the dueling banjos of barking.
She stumbled into a small clearing and found Susie Bear nuzzling Elvis.
“Elvis!” The shepherd was tied to a tree with rope. Left there to die of the cold or starvation or worse.
She ran over to the dog and buried her face in his neck. He licked one cheek, and Susie Bear licked the other. Troy joined her, pulling out his hunting knife and cutting Elvis loose. The dog leapt in the air, then raced off. Susie Bear followed suit.
“He’s going after Henry,” she told Troy.
“Is he all right?” asked Ethan as he caught up with them.
“He’s fine. Now let’s go find your boy.”
They came to the fork that marked the paths leading to the gazebo and Japanese teahouse. But the dogs zoomed down the path to the gazebo—not the teahouse.
“What do we do?” asked Ethan.
“Trust your dog,” said Mercy and Troy in unison.
“What does that mean?”
“It means that when in doubt we follow the dogs,” said Mercy.
Their steps quickened, and soon they were sprinting through the forest on snowshoes. They could no longer see the dogs, but they could track them by their prints in the snow.
Through the howling wind she heard the roar of a snowmobile.
Oh no, she thought. If whoever tied up Elvis and left him to die had taken the boy, they could be getting away with him right now on that snowmobile. The gazebo was straight ahead. She made out two guys in ski clothes and balaclavas, one on the snowmobile and the other pushing Henry toward the big machine. Their backs were to them, so they couldn’t see her.
But she could see rifles slung over their shoulders.
Elvis and Susie Bear had nearly caught up with them. Mercy yelled, “Attack!” but between the wind and the snowmobile’s motor the command was lost to the storm.
Not that it mattered. The Belgian shepherd sailed through the snow, chomping on the wrist of the guy holding Henry. The guy yelled as he went down, but the scream came seconds too late to warn the driver on the snowmobile. Susie Bear tackled that dude, knocking him off the machine. Henry pulled out his whistle and blew and blew and blew.
Both Susie Bear and Elvis looked toward the boy. The driver scrambled to his feet and climbed back on the snowmobile. The guy on the ground punched Elvis with his free hand and wrestled away from the dog.
Mercy, Troy, and Ethan all sprinted toward Henry and the dogs.
“Game Warden! Stop!” yelled Troy.
The driver grabbed his buddy and pulled him onto the snowmobile. The buddy pulled his rifle off his arm, turning around and aiming at them, as the snowmobile zoomed off in a sweep of snow.
Troy fired a couple of shots at the speeding snowmobile, but visibility was poor and they were soon out of sight.
Mercy nodded to Ethan, who ran for Henry. She went to Elvis, who was stumbling to his feet. She checked out his head and neck, seeing no sign of injury. He nuzzled her chin and she scratched his sweet spot between his ears. He was wet with snow, but she didn’t mind. Susie Bear shambled over for her fair share of attention.
“What do we do now?” Ethan had Henry in his arms.
“Are you okay, Henry?”
The boy nodded.
“Nice whistle,” said Troy.
Henry grinned at him.
“There’s no going anywhere in this storm,” said Troy. “It’s getting worse and it’s supposed to last all afternoon and through much of the night. I think we should find shelter and wait it out.”
“Here at the gazebo?” asked Ethan. “We’ll freeze to death.”
“We’re not far from the teahouse,” Mercy said. “I’m sure Yolanda will let us in.”
“We’ll have to cross the creek,” said Troy.
“It might be frozen,” said Ethan. “Or at least thick enough to cross without falling in.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” said Troy.
“We don’t have to chance getting wet. There’s a wooden bridge farther down,” Mercy said. “Yolanda showed us on our way back. No risk of Henry falling in the water again this time. Let’s go that way.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
FORECAST: THE FIRST OF THE TWIN BLIZZARDS PUMMELING THE MIDWEST AND THE NORTHEAST ROLLS OUT INTO THE ATLANTIC, TAKING THE SNOW AND WIND WITH IT. CLEAR AND COLD UNTIL THE SECOND BOMB CYCLONE ARRIVES, BRINGING ICY COLD AND DRIVING SNOW.
THE TEAHOUSE WAS in sight. Barely. The wind had blown huge drifts around it. It looked like a snowbound enchanted cottage in a fairy tale.
Mercy stumbled in the snow as she clamored up the steps, pounding on the door.
“Yolanda! It’s Mercy. I’m here with Troy and the dogs. We have Henry and his father with us. Let us in.”
Elvis howled, and Susie Bear howled in return.
Yolanda opened the door, and they all piled in. Mercy told her what had happened.
“We don’t think we can make it back to Nemeton in this weather.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” said Yolanda. “You were right to come. Y’all can ride out the storm here.”
Despite the fire, it was cold in the teahouse. Too cold.
“We need to heat this place up,” said Troy. “We start by stacking as much snow around the house as possible. To insulate it so we can stay warm.” He turned to Yolanda. “Do you have enough firewood?”
“I think so.”
“Okay. We’ll do the best we can. We brought provisions, and that should help. Henry, stay inside with Yolanda, okay?”
The boy nodded, snuggling under the blankets with Susie Bear and Elvis.
Mercy, Troy, and Ethan went back outside and started stacking snow against the sides of the teahouse.
“The more it looks like an igloo, the better off we are,” Troy said.
Mercy was tired after the long hike to the teahouse. Ethan looked thoroughly exhausted. She was sure Troy was tired, too, but he didn’t show it. They soldiered on, rolling snowballs, pounding them into squares, and piling them up against the teahouse.
“Be sure that you don’t block the openings where air can circulate,” said Troy.
They worked their way around the pagoda, packing snow tightly around the drafty structure.
“That’s the best we can do,” said Troy. “Even with whiteout conditions and gusting winds, we’ll be as safe as we can be in this little igloo now.”
They tramped inside and stomped the snow off their boots.
Yolanda stoked the fire, the smoke escaping from the broken glass in the pagoda’s ceiling that served as a smoke hole. She’d also made tea. Mercy unpacked their provisions and helped her make lunch.
“Courtesy of Mrs. Espinosa,” she said. “Here, Henry, all the peanut-butter sandwiches, cookies, and brownies you can eat.”
Yolanda laughed. “I guess you like peanut butter.”
“If you don’t like peanut butter, Yolanda, we’ve got ham and Swiss and roast beef and cheddar. On Mrs. Espinosa’s homemade bread. We also have thermoses of hot coffee and hot chocolate.”
They huddled around the fire, eating sandwiches and drinking coffee and hot chocolate.
“It’s going to be a long haul,” said Troy. “The storm’s not supposed to break until the wee hours of the morning. We should shelter in place all night.”
Henry ate his sandwiches, cuddling with the dogs. Feeding them peanut-butter cookies when he thought no one was looking.
“I saw that, Henry,” said Mercy.
The boy flushed.
“I don’t like giving Elvis treats unless he earns them. Although lately I’ve been pretty remiss about this rule.” She waved her hand down and the shepherd sat. She waved it up and he stood up again. “Make him work for it, Henry.”
Henry tried it, and he liked it. He did it again, much to Susie Bear’s chagrin.
“I don’t make Susie Bear work for her treats,” said Troy. “But if Elvis has to train for a tre
at, I guess she can train, too.”
Henry waved his arm up and down, and Susie Bear lumbered up to her feet and lumbered down again, cocking her big pumpkin head as if to say, Really? All this for a peanut butter cookie? The boy laughed. The game went on with the dogs until he was out of cookies.
“That’s enough,” Troy said. “You’ll ruin their supper.”
At the word supper, both dogs jumped to their respective paws, tails wagging.
“We’ve got dog food in our packs,” said Mercy. “But we have to feed them separately. Elvis doesn’t like to share.”
Henry watched as she and Troy filled the dog bowls. She handed the boy Elvis’s bowl, and he placed it carefully at one end of the teahouse. Troy gave him Susie Bear’s bowl, and he carried it to the opposite end. Both dogs attacked their bowls as if they hadn’t just inhaled a baker’s dozen of peanut-butter cookies.
Mercy and Troy repacked their packs while Yolanda stoked the fire again. Henry settled down with his father near the blaze, wrapped in blankets, the dogs as pillows.
“Time to hunker down for the afternoon,” said Troy.
“We’ll have to find a way to amuse ourselves,” Mercy said.
“Henry loves games,” said Ethan.
“Numbers especially. Right, Henry?”
Henry looked up at them. “Five one three nine five.”
Yolanda shrugged. “Don’t know that game.”
“Three four two zero zero.” He looked at them expectantly.
“What does he mean?” Troy turned to Ethan.
“I don’t know.”
Mercy thought about it.
“Two six zero five zero,” said Henry.
“They’re not prime numbers,” she said.
Troy laughed with recognition. “They’re license-plate numbers.”
Henry nodded.
“Five-number sequences you find on specialty plates here in Vermont.”
“License-plate numbers,” said Mercy. “It makes perfect sense.”
“I don’t see how,” said Yolanda.
“Henry is always looking out the windows: at home, in the car, everywhere,” said Ethan. “I thought he just likes looking at things.”
“I thought he just likes cars,” said Mercy. “But maybe it’s the license-plate numbers he likes. Do you remember them, Henry, the way you remember prime numbers?”