I kept walking and soon reached the road sign warning drivers about winter runoffs and falling rocks. Just past the sign was the old wooden bridge. It had collapsed last year but the logging company hadn’t fixed it yet and the only way over was by bike, horse, or foot.
My dirt bike was hidden a few feet into the woods behind the sign. I found it and mentally said thanks to Jonny, and to my parents for watching over me. I was almost free.
The headlight made strange shapes on the road as I drove slowly, looking out for any fallen trees that might have blocked the way. I was so focused on the road that I didn’t see the dog running along beside me until I caught the flash of a small dark shape. I slowed nearly to a stop, and he zipped in front of me. I hit the brakes and fell over in a slow-motion topple, with the bike landing on my leg. I looked up. The dog was standing over me, panting into my face.
I did a quick body scan. I was okay. I had been going slow enough, and the bike had pushed me against a soft bank of dirt. I lifted the bike up, checked it over. It was fine. I let out my breath and turned back to the dog, who was watching the entire process with interest. Like he hadn’t just caused the crash. I put my hands on my hips. “We need to work on your timing.”
We sat on the bank and shared some water—he drank from my cupped hands—and strips of my beef jerky. He licked my fingers clean, watching my face, like maybe he expected me to betray him, to snatch my hand back at the last minute. He’d learned not to trust. I got it.
I gave him another piece of jerky, then stood to get on my bike. “You can’t follow me. It’s too dangerous.” I eyed him. He eyed me. “This isn’t going to work, dog.”
He stood on his back legs and rested his front paws on my thighs.
I reached down and tried to pick him up. He wriggled free with a sharp bark and a dance backward. “Then go home!” I started the bike, legs braced on each side, and revved the throttle a few times—two hard twists of my wrist—hoping the noise would freak him out. He looked at the smoking exhaust pipe, and then back at me, his eyes narrowed. Like he was insulted.
“I’m out of food.” I held up my hands. He didn’t move. “Listen, wolf-dog, the only way you are coming with me is if you learn to ride a dirt bike.” I tapped the seat in front of me.
The dog leapt up, his front feet landing on the gas tank and his hind end on my lap. Startled, I reached out to hold him in place, but he was balanced perfectly. He leaned against me, his gaze on the road ahead. I didn’t move. What just happened? I thought about the farm. The tractors. Maybe this dog had ridden with the workers. He glanced over his shoulder at me.
“Okay. We’ll give it a try.”
* * *
The headlight lit up the orange reflective tape Jonny had tied to a branch to mark the head of the trail. I tugged the tape free, then turned off the logging road, bumped down the bank, and rode carefully through the old-growth trees. I couldn’t see it yet, or hear it, but I knew that the narrow animal trail was following the line of the river. I reached the next marker, removed that tape, and turned again, climbing higher until I found the ridge of rocks rising out of the ground.
When I stopped the dirt bike, the dog jumped down and began sniffing around. I could hardly make him out in the dark. I hid the bike behind a tree, hooked my helmet onto the handlebar, and got my flashlight out of my backpack. I walked softly, shining the light through the trees. The dog kept close to my heels. I wondered if he was worried about being left behind.
I pushed through shrubs and climbed over fallen logs and stones. We were at the base of the bluffs—a long slab of stone that had been formed years ago by a glacier. The flashlight beamed ahead of me, landing on the barely visible outline of a building. The cabin.
The dog moved past me and trotted toward the door confidently, like this was our home and we were just coming back from the grocery store. I followed him, but more slowly, taking in every detail. Anyone else would think the cabin neglected, dark, and cold, with the back wall, and half of each side, built into the bluff. They’d see the gray moss-covered rotten logs slotted together and think them beyond repair. The cedar shingle roof was buried under a layer of fir and pine needles. Overgrown trees blocked out the sky and any hint of sunlight.
I thought it was beautiful.
A few hard pushes, and the door creaked open. The dog squeezed through. I took careful steps, trying to avoid the gaping holes in the wood floor. Those would be my first repairs. The woodstove was rusted to a light brown. Someone had cemented around the pipe where it went through the roof, but it was crumbling in places, and water had been leaking in. I’d have to clean it and check for holes before I ever tried a fire, or I’d be smoked out of the cabin.
Nothing had been left behind by other people except a few metal containers and dusty jars that Jonny and I found last time. All my supplies were stacked in the middle—bottles of purified water, food in bear-proof containers, including fruits and vegetables. It was cool in here, but they wouldn’t last long. After that, I’d be living on canned food and cured meat.
I found my lantern on top of the supplies and hung it on a rusted nail sticking out of the wall. Hands on my hips, I surveyed the rest of my equipment, and took a deep breath.
I’d done it. I was finally free from Vaughn.
* * *
For the first few days, I stayed hidden in the cabin and only ventured out briefly for bathroom breaks with the dog, who was now named Wolf. I dyed my hair dark brown with a box of color Jonny had bought for me, rinsed it out with a jug of water. When I was finished, I used my dad’s old camping mirror and his clippers to cut it short on the sides and in the back. I left the bangs long so that they swooped over the side of my face and covered my eyes.
I’d acted tough in front of Jonny, but I was terrified of grizzlies, scared of how they could tear apart buildings to get at food. I was careful when I went outside, and checked for signs that there might be one in the area—overturned rocks, ripped-off bark on the trees, scat, claw marks. I kept a rifle by the door, and another under the makeshift bed frame I’d hammered together with logs and covered with an air mattress. I slept with my dad’s Smith & Wesson under my pillow.
I set about making the cabin livable. I had some of my dad’s tools—not the power tools, those were going to be sold, but the basics. Hammer, nails, screwdrivers. I patched holes with duct tape or pieces of wood, replaced rotten logs, evicted spiders and bugs. My table was a crate turned upside down, and I made a shelving unit with peeled logs. I didn’t feel safe unpacking much and hid anything personal under the floorboards, wrapped in plastic bags. Pictures of my parents, photo albums, some of my mom’s smaller paintings that we’d stolen from my house.
My backpack was ready to go at all times with a first-aid kit and enough survival gear to get me to safety if I ever had to make a run for it. I built a latrine behind a low rock slab—so I could keep an eye out for animals. I set up a perimeter alarm with a trip wire, cans, and bells.
Jonny and I had planned for me to take one of Cooper’s puppies, so the cabin was stocked with dog food, bones, and a few things that belonged to Jonny’s family’s dog. The first time I tossed a ball to Wolf, he watched it bounce past, then looked at me.
Fetching balls? What kind of dog do you think I am?
Treats were a different story. No matter how wild my aim, he could catch them straight out of the air. He’d leap, twist his body, and land perfectly like a cat. I got the feeling he hadn’t had much affection. Neck massages and belly rubs were acceptable, but he didn’t like to be held, and if I tried to kiss him, he would turn his head, or put a paw in the middle of my chest.
At night he slept on the floor of the cabin, while I lay on the bed with the lantern and read Dad’s survival books. He’d taught me everything in those pages himself, but it was different now that I was on my own. I studied the pictures of track marks, the difference between a black bear’s paws and a grizzly’s, what to do in an attack. Every once in a while Wolf would raise
his head, stare at the door, and let out a warning growl. Then he’d look at me to make sure I was paying attention. I’d reach for the handgun and wait, heart thudding. Was it a grizzly? When Wolf felt the danger had passed, he’d drop his head back onto his front legs. He never got to his feet or barked. Not once. After a few days, I began to wonder if he was just testing me.
Even in summer, the nights were cool in the mountains, and I invited Wolf to sleep with me on the cot. He ignored me and stayed on the floor, but in the early morning hours I’d feel the air mattress shift as he settled at the bottom near my feet. When we woke, we’d sneak outside for our morning business. After our first night at the cabin, I put a collar on him and attached a leash, but he wouldn’t move. He planted his butt and when I tried to tug him, he rolled onto his side.
Finally, grudgingly, he let me coax him outside with treats and peed on a tree—refusing to make eye contact. Then, in a fit of stubbornness, he tossed his head while pulling backward, and the collar slipped off. He didn’t bolt. He didn’t walk two steps. He sat and looked at me. Point made. He never wore a leash again, but I tied one of my bandannas around his neck and he seemed okay with that. Or at least he didn’t groan at me, which I’d learned was his unhappy noise.
He talked. A lot. He had different sounds for when he wanted out, when he heard something, when he wanted food, when he disagreed with me, and when he was annoyed at me for trying to cuddle. They ranged from a whine to a yip to grunts and groans and huffs.
In the mornings, he’d mark all the trees around the cabin, while I watched the woods nervously, the Smith & Wesson in my hand, rifle slung over my shoulder. When Wolf was satisfied that he’d completed his task, we’d head back inside and we’d have breakfast together. Kibble for him, cereal and powdered milk for me. Even though Wolf was skinny and hungry, he’d take a mouthful of kibble, drop it onto the floor, sniff each piece, then gently eat them.
I waited until dark to cook anything on the propane stove so that smoke didn’t reveal my location, but I had to leave the door gapped for ventilation, and I was freaked that the smell would invite a few animals over for dinner too. More often than not, I just ate cold meals.
Wolf and I had hours each day, so I tested him with simple commands—sit, stay, come, wait. It only took him a couple of tries and I wondered if someone had already trained him. I worried that somewhere he had a real owner. As soon as he mastered one thing, he would stop doing it, and look at me. What else? I began teaching him hand signals, then tricks like touching a spot on the wall with his paw, or jumping from the chair to the bed, and picking up different items and bringing them back. He’d bark at me when I stopped playing.
After the first week, Wolf and I began to explore the area once the sun had gone down, but I still didn’t venture far. I didn’t want to use the dirt bike yet. I had no idea what was happening back in town and if there was a chance that they could be searching the woods.
At dawn, when the birds were beginning to sing, Wolf and I crept down to the river. Our feet and paws soft on the ground. He seemed to sense my fear, because he never bounded through the woods or sprinted ahead. If I stopped, he stopped. And if he stopped, I stopped.
We stayed on the rocky shore, where we wouldn’t leave prints, and fished the deep, quiet pools. I cleaned my catch at the river like Dad taught me, left the head and guts behind so that animals wouldn’t follow us back to the cabin. When Dad hunted, he always thanked the land, using a First Nations prayer. Some of the guides didn’t like how the First Nations could hunt in different seasons and fish the river with nets, but Dad was never like that. I couldn’t remember the words he’d used, so I made up my own, clutching my elk necklace, face lifted to the sky.
Thank you for the river. Thank you for this great mountain. Thank you for this bounty.
Wolf would wait until I was finished, then he liked to sit close beside me and stare at the ripples where my line disappeared into the flat surface. One morning he shoved his head under the water in the shallows and came out with a crayfish clamped in his teeth. After that, he’d nudge the back of my knees with his nose all the way down to the river, soft little bumps.
We saw deer a few times, their graceful necks lowering for sips of water. My rifle was always by my side, but I couldn’t shoot one. I’d have to live on fish. Wolf tensed beside me and lifted his paw as though he were going to break into a sprint. I held his bandanna and told him no, deer were strictly off-limits. He pouted, but he never tried again. He did hunt rabbits and grouse, sometimes coming back while still licking blood from his muzzle. We didn’t talk about it.
For the first time since my dad had died, I felt the darkness begin to recede. I woke up faster, my feet hitting the ground with desire for the day, to do something. To be out there. The scents of the forest, the feel of a fishing rod, the swoosh of the line whipping through the air as I cast, the slice of the lure entering the water. The trails called to me. The meadows and secret creeks lined with dark ferns and hollowed-out trees. Every breath of fresh air started to make the sharp pieces inside me soften. I hadn’t realized how trapped I’d felt in town, the noises, the people, everyone’s obsession with social media. I didn’t care about clothes or hair or makeup. I hated politics and grown-up things. None of that mattered. I belonged here. I wasn’t lonely, not yet, but I missed Jonny and Amber. I missed Cash waking me up in the morning, his giggle.
In case something happened to me, I kept a notebook in my backpack at all times. In it, I wrote down everything Vaughn had done. When I was finished with that, I filled pages with sketches of summer flowers—buttercups, fireweed, fairy bell. And birds I saw. Whiskey jacks, chickadees, bald eagles, ravens with their gurgling croaks. I tried to identify each call, practicing them while Wolf watched, his head cocking from side to side. I created some whistles for him and combined them with the hand signals he’d already learned.
I drew maps in my journal, of low trails that might belong to bears, meadows where I found bushes thick with gooseberries, blackberries, saskatoon berries, and vines dotted with tiny plump wild strawberries. Huckleberry bushes growing out of moss-covered tree stumps. Wolf liked to pull berries off the lower branches with his teeth, so delicately that he never burst a single one.
A couple of times I found bear scat with fresh berries in it, or Wolf would start to pace and circle around me, making a huff, huff, whine sound, and I would hurry back to the cabin.
Sometimes I pretended I was writing to Amber. I daydreamed that one day I’d show her the cabin. We’d picnic in the meadows, swim in the river together. She would love it. I thought about taking the dirt bike closer to the lake, where I could text her from the burner phone, but it was too soon. Vaughn would still be looking for me. Sometimes I even imagined I heard the drone of a helicopter in the distance. I thought of him with binoculars, scanning the forest, and me ducking and weaving through the trees. An animal running for its life.
* * *
Wolf watched the trail intently as the noise of Jonny’s bike got closer. His ears flicked back and forth. He turned and stared up into my eyes.
“Good boy. Wait.”
Jonny’s dirt bike pulled into the clearing. The red-and-white paint was sharp against the green woods, and a welcome sight. I stayed among the trees, crouched low until he took off his helmet and whistled our call, a soft trilling tune. I whistled back. A relieved smile spread across his face—tanned, but he looked thinner, his cheekbones cut sharper.
“No one followed me,” he called, running his hands through his hair and shaking it free from where it had stuck to his forehead. I stepped out from the bushes, Wolf at my heels, his nose bumping against my calf. Jonny turned in my direction, and his eyes widened. “Whoa.”
“What’s wrong?”
“You look so different with your hair. It’s totally badass. No one would recognize you.” He gave me a thumbs-up, then looked at Wolf sitting at my feet. “I thought you were getting a puppy.” He got off the bike and crouched, patting
his leg. Wolf didn’t move.
“This one picked me. I named him Wolf.” I looked down. Wolf studied my eyes. When he was satisfied that I was relaxed, he trotted over, sniffed Jonny’s hand, and let him pat him before exploring the woods nearby.
Jonny got to his feet and grabbed me for a hug. We stood like that for a while. He felt warm, solid, familiar. When he let go, he said, “You all right?”
“I’m fine. Are you okay? What is everyone saying?”
He took a deep breath. “They found your bike.”
“But I hid it!” My stomach muscles clenched. What else had they found?
“A road crew was fixing the bridge and one of the surveyors was walking the river to take photos of it from a distance or something.”
I could imagine it, every terrible, unlucky moment of it. The worker probably stopped to eat his sandwich, or to take a leak. He saw the glimmer of metal and kicked off the branches.
“Are they searching the woods?”
“Yeah. They found your cell in the creek too. Everyone thinks you were abducted.”
“They think someone took me?”
“That’s the rumor. Because of the highway killer.”
I pressed my hands to my head, as if that could stop the tornado of panic that was hurling my thoughts around. “If they find my tracks…” It had been a couple weeks. Too long, I hoped.
“There was a sniffer dog, but he didn’t find anything. Some people are going out by themselves on the weekends. Me and the guys have done a few searches. It feels shitty to lie to them.”
“I didn’t want people to think I was murdered!” I thought of Lana and Cash, how upset they must be. Cash was just a kid. “Did you talk to Amber?”
“I told her that you were okay. She thinks you went north. Vaughn questioned her but she told him that she’d rather eat grease straight from the deep fryer than talk to him.”
“Holy shit. Why is she antagonizing him?”
Dark Roads Page 10