Every Last Secret

by Christa Wick

  I unwind the cord from the backpack's hydration unit, uncap it and order him to suck.

  "Start with a little," I warn, worried that the water will make him sick from drinking too quickly after a hard day of nothing.

  Finding a protein bar, I tear open the wrapper and hand it to him. As Caiden starts to eat, I guide him into a sitting position and remove his shoes. The socks are soaked from sweat. I peel them off, clean his feet and tend to the blisters that have formed on his left foot.

  "Fresh pair," I say, removing the socks I brought with me. "Your mom said they looked just about the right size."

  "Is she mad?"

  "Worried," I answer. "We have to get moving, Sarge. There's a field big enough to land a helicopter about two miles from here. That's where we rendezvous."

  "Will it wait? I'm tired."

  I don't want to scare him with talk of the cougars I spotted. I hope the wind wiped out his scent, hope it whipped all traces of him around and up until the big cats are chasing shadows instead of dogging the boy's every step.

  But it's not just Caiden's scent I have to worry about. I have been shouting his name, running my flashlight over the ground and across the trees. More than smell carries. My actions in searching for the boy were also a beacon for predators.

  "Here," I say, fitting the backpack on him. "We'll give those feet a break."

  Reaching into the pack, I shift the cargo around, transferring some of the weight to my pockets. There is a second light, one that clips onto my shirt. It is small, but the LED beam is powerful.

  Removing the helmet, I strap it to his head.

  He wiggles his shoulders, scrunches his neck.

  "Doesn't fit."

  "I know, but the wind broke a lot of branches and they're still falling."

  I am lying to the boy. I want as much protection between his flesh and a cougar's claws as I can get.

  "Here." I hand him a second protein bar and the water tube before hoisting him onto my back.

  Half a mile on, I stop and give both of our bodies a break.

  "You were snoring," I tease.

  "Maybe a little," he admits before his voice drops low. "Is Leah okay?"

  "Yeah. Her hands are a bit roughed up because she untied the wrong end of the dock line then held onto it until we found her."

  He takes a sip from the water tube then offers it to me. I drink, one hand manipulating the pack to check the water level. The cushioned pouch holds three liters. I figure two liters remain.

  "I shouldn't have left her."

  "We'll deal with all that later."

  In truth, others will deal with it later. It is for Delia to discipline the boy and for Jake to decide who he lets around his daughter.

  "Are we still friends?"

  "You and Leah?" I ask.

  He shuffles his legs before answering.

  "You and me."

  "Always, Sarge."

  In the dark, he finds my uninjured hand and gives it a hard squeeze. A few minutes later, I haul him up on my back once more.

  With a rough estimate of the distance we travel, I repeat the break at the mile mark. Carrying the boy, it has taken an hour to reach this point. Light begins to filter through the top of the trees. What I can see of the sky is no longer black. Instead, pre-dawn has colored it a deep violet.

  When we start out again, Caiden wants to walk on his own. His pace is slow, hard to match. I give it a quarter mile then fit the helmet and pack on him again before he hops onto a log and climbs onto my back.

  Dawn penetrates the purpled gloom that we have walked in the last half hour. The trees are thinning, the gaps from one trunk to the next wider. I catch glimpses of the plateau I slammed into in the dark.

  I hear the distant whir of helicopter blades. My heart sings. We are almost out, almost free.

  "Hear that, Sarge!"

  The boy answers with a fierce, excited squeeze around my shoulders.

  Then every muscle in his body tenses against me as a new sound filters through the trees.

  Not when we're this close, I plead with the woods. Not after all the miles, all the hours Caiden spent alone in the dark.

  The snarl repeats.

  I try to slide Caiden onto his feet.

  "No!" He clings relentlessly to my back. "Don't leave me!"

  "Need my hands free, Sarge."

  I pry the boy off me, but seize his wrist.

  "Do NOT run. You run and all you are to them is prey."

  Facing the direction of the snarl, I move Caiden behind me and thread two of his fingers through my belt loop.

  "Team formation, Sarge. You don't let go of me and you move when I move, got it?"

  "Ye…yes."

  Holding the flare gun with my injured right hand and the canister of bear spray with my left, I slowly back us out of the woods.

  The helicopter confuses the cougars. That's not a bad thing. Otherwise, we probably wouldn't have known they were close until they went in for the kill.

  "Don't you worry, Sarge. I've got a plan for everything."

  Despite the still distant chop of blades, when we are fifteen feet into the open, I look up to make sure the sky above me is clear. Seeing it is, I fire the flare gun and immediately reload.

  "Those cougars don't want shot with a flare gun," I assure the boy. "They want easy prey like cows and rabbits."

  I can feel the shake in Caiden's hand, but he continues to match me step for step.

  "Helicopter is on the way. We just have to stay smart and calm until it gets here."

  Standing in the middle of the field, I look up and see the brown and gold paint of the Tri-County Search and Rescue team. Gaze jumping to the tree line, I spot one of the cougars poking her head out.

  Her ears twitch. Her body language is defensive.

  Caiden grips my belt with both hands.

  "We're gonna keep walking backward, Sarge. Slow and calm."

  "What if I trip?"

  The question trembles past his lips.

  "You're not allowed to trip, Sarge. You keep one eye on the ground and one on those cats. The pilot is going to plant that chopper right in the middle. When he does, those cougars will tuck tail and run."

  Reaching the rock face, we have nowhere left to retreat.

  The cougars slink forward. Their swift pace shrinks my balls faster than an ice bath.

  "Hey, cougars!" I shout. "Go home! You stink!"

  I sound ridiculous, but shouting is part of disrupting the cats' hunting instinct. And, maybe because of the cavalier tone I adopt, Caiden stops shaking so hard.

  "Yeah!" He shouts with me. "You stink! Go home!"

  "We gotta look big, Sarge." I slowly wave my arms and keep shouting.

  The adult female slows to a stop. Almost as tall, but leaner, the other cougar mimics its mother. The helicopter hovers a little off center of the animals at sixty or seventy feet off the ground.

  "Why aren't they landing?"

  "Just keep cool, Sarge."

  Risking a glance up, I see a familiar body with coal black hair. Emerson has a rifle butt jammed against his shoulder and his eye pressed against the scope.

  "Are they going to shoot it?" Caiden asks, a thread of distress binding his words.

  "If they have to."

  "With a tranquilizer, right?"

  "No."

  The kid releases a heart-wrenching groan at my reply.

  The mama cougar looks ready to bolt into the woods.

  "Hold this!" I shove the can of bear spray at Caiden then scoop up a fist-sized rock, my gaze staying locked on the cats.

  I throw and shout at the same time.

  "Go on! Git!"

  The rock hits the hind end of the adult female. She leaps to the side then sprints all the way back to the tree line.

  I find another big stone. I wave one arm, toss with the other.

  It doesn't hit, but lands close enough to punch the dirt in front of the juvenile's face.

  The cougar sneezes th
en begins to pace. It stops, studies us for a second, then advances in our direction. Reaching behind me, I grab the can of bear spray. Dust from the rotor wash whips in the air.

  The cat creeps a few feet closer. At the tree line, its mother yowls. It is only a matter of time before she returns to protect her offspring.

  Tightening my grip on the spray, I estimate the cougar's distance. The nozzle can hit approximately fifteen feet out, but the stream will last no longer than ten seconds. Between the wind and rotor wash, I expect a lot of the canister's contents will blow back at us.

  "Cover your eyes!" I shout. I don't know if I issue the order to protect him from the spray or from the potential sight of Emerson putting a bullet through the animal's heart.

  Probably both.

  The cougar edges closer. Caiden presses his face against my back, his arms circling my waist.

  I shout at the animal.

  "Last chance, you mangy furball!"

  I bring my arms straight out in front of me, just like some assassin in a video game rushing his target with two pistols spitting bullets as fast as he can caress the trigger.

  Only, I don't have bullets, just a chemical spray and a loaded flare gun.

  The cougar rushes me. I squeeze the trigger on the spray. A stream shoots forward. The cat tries to reverse direction. Running too fast, it trips and barrel rolls.

  For half a second, a hundred-pound predator scrambles at my feet. Then it's off, running a haphazard streak, its path guided by the distressed calls of its mother.

  I blink, eyes watering from the light mist of bear spray that blew back.

  "We're good, Sarge," I say, squinting and guiding him further down the rock face. "You just keep your eyes closed a little bit longer. You don't want this stuff anywhere near them."

  Or near his nose or tongue, I think, starting to drool and tear up even worse.

  The chopper descends. I turn Caiden to face the plateau then curl around him so that the small gravel kicked up by the wash bites at my back instead of his.

  When the skids hit the ground, I scoop the boy up and run for the helicopter, my gaze nervously jumping between our ride out of here and the woods where the cougars disappeared.

  Emerson takes Caiden from me, pivots sharply and straps the boy into a seat. I jump aboard. The door slides shut and locks. Something big and fuzzy with a face full of red bristles hovers in front of me, tilting my head to the side and flushing my eyes.

  "Is the boy injured?"

  The mouth shouting into my ear belongs to Nygård.

  "Bug bites, blisters." Ready to collapse, I push the doctor toward Caiden. "But check him again."

  Nygård moves away from me. Emerson fills the void. Little brother guides me to another seat and straps me in. After handing me water so I can deal with my eyes, he checks the injuries to my torso. Spotting the bloody gash in the t-shirt, he lightly probes the surface of the bandage.

  "Fuck," I growl, momentarily forgetting that Caiden is with us.

  Emerson moves on, stopping when he reaches the splint.

  "Don't even think about it," I warn.

  He lifts his hands, signaling a truce. Snatching up a radio, he sinks into the last empty seat.

  "Just need to give Mama a full report," he says right before I shut my itchy eyes and fall fast asleep.

  28

  Sutton

  Dozing lightly, I wake when Caiden slides his fingers against my palm. I peel my eyes open. The roof of Mama's house fills my vision. I squeeze the boy's hand.

  "Think they saved us some breakfast?"

  His head bobs.

  "Nope," Emerson jokes. "I ate it all."

  Taking the remark seriously, Caiden scowls at my twin.

  "Careful, baby brother. After the night me and Sarge had, those are fighting words."

  The helicopter lands. A gaggle of females waits for us. There's Delia and Madigan, Mama, Siobhan, Betty Rae, and at least five more ladies from the Women's Planning Committee.

  Seeing my head bob as I count each of the elderly women, Emerson laughs.

  "The planning committee made sure the coffee kept flowing and everyone searching had some food to take with them."

  The efforts undertaken to find him seem to suddenly dawn on Caiden. The corners of his mouth drop. His brow pinches.

  He looks at me with a shamed gaze.

  "I caused all this trouble?"

  Again, I don't know what to say—especially because the boy doesn't interpret things the way another kid his age might.

  "A lot of people were worried," I manage to answer at last. "Maybe we can come up with an idea on how to show our appreciation."

  He nods, some of his anxiety alleviated. I stand and help him out of his seat harness as the rotor blades come to a stop. Emerson slides the door open and leaves first. I follow, then turn and grab Caiden, swinging him out and down.

  Delia descends on the boy, throwing her arms around his shoulders. Seeing her tears splash against his cheek, I look away.

  It's hard to watch all that love and pain. I know she would argue with me if I said it right now, but she is a great mom. And, while I don't have the full story on Madigan's childhood, I am glad Delia was there to help raise her.

  Reaching around Caiden, Delia grabs my hand and squeezes, her lips moving to thank me. I smile, step back, and accidentally bump Mama.

  "I was waiting for you to realize I was here," she teases with tears in her voice.

  I wrap her in a hug, suppressing a pained grunt when she accidentally hits the gash on my side. I'm hoping she doesn't notice the injury.

  The hand is much harder to hide. With a tender touch, she grabs my elbow. She runs her fingers up to my wrist, then rotates my hand to examine the rushed splint job.

  Nygård, just off the chopper, assures Mama and Delia he will finish examining us and re-do all my self-care.

  Once again, I urge him to deal with the boy first.

  "We need to replenish his electrolytes," he agrees. Turning to Delia, Nygård gestures at the boy's lower half. "And you should check him for ticks."

  A fresh shudder runs through Caiden.

  "Doctor's right," Mama chimes in. "You let your mom check while I cook you up a big breakfast."

  It's just the bribe Caiden needs. He follows Delia quiet as a lamb into the house.

  I expect Madigan to leave with them, but she doesn't. In fact, I realize that she didn't touch Caiden at all.

  Of course, Delia was exercising an absolute monopoly on the kid.

  Still, why is Madigan here? I can't believe it was my brother who might have dragged her with him.

  I turn, catch her gaze. Her hand shoots out, secures mine and squeezes. Her face holds a million nuances of emotion. I want to explore each one, but Mama turns her attention back to me. Maddy discreetly withdraws her hand.

  "Jake is with Leah in her room."

  Only mildly surprised by the preschooler's absence on the lawn, I nod.

  "He was hoping you could visit her. She has been inconsolable, sobbing almost continuously. She's thrown up at least three times and I can barely get her to drink, let alone eat."

  I nod again, leaving Mama with Madigan and the ladies of the Women's Planning Committee.

  Reaching Leah's room, I hear the dainty sniffles of heartbreak through the closed door. I knock. Jake's deep baritone bids me enter.

  "Sutty!"

  My name is more a sob than a word. I cross the room quickly and sit on her bed. She climbs onto my lap straight away and clings to me.

  "Did you find that boy?"

  "Yes, Honey Bee. Caiden is down in Gam-Gam's kitchen with his mom and the new doctor."

  Her head bobs. Her green eyes look pale and bloodshot. Her skin is splotchy, a network of spidery, broken capillaries attesting to the hours she has spent crying.

  "I asked my mom to keep you and that boy safe. Did she?"

  "Yes," I rasp as Jake, seemingly extraneous to his daughter's happiness or sorrow, slips throug
h the open door and into the hall.

  "That boy's daddy help, too?"

  "Yes. He and your mom lifted my flare up so high that the pilot had to see it."

  She offers a trembling smile.

  "Was his daddy really the butterfly?"

  The question is a trap of sorts. It was the damn butterfly and my beloved Aunt Dotty's musings during Volunteer Day that served as the catalyst to yesterday's misadventures.

  When I don't answer right away, Leah pushes the question at me again.

  I stare into the green eyes. For four years, the little girl has been raised up in the same faith in which my parents raised me. For one so young, she has suffered far too much heartbreak. She needs to believe in the butterfly, the mysterious appearance of the two feathers, and the magic of sunlight rippling on water.

  But it's hard for me to answer. It's hard for a soldier to fight a war and keep the faith he started with. The men I served alongside—some of them found God for the first time, others lost him.

  "Is it possible?" Leah asks.

  "Honey Bee, if you see a butterfly and think it's your mom, chasing it won't get you closer to her."

  Fresh tears begin to well. I brush a thumb across her cheek.

  "You have something better than butterflies. All you have to do is quiet your mind and open your heart. That's a gift you can use at any time."

  Placing her hand on my chest, I show Leah how to take deep breaths.

  "Now close your eyes," I coach. "See your mom. Long red hair, the color dark like mine and Addy's."

  Eyes shut, Leah nods.

  "Green eyes, just like you and me and Gam-Gam. When your mama smiles, her cheeks swell bigger and there is a little line that crinkles across the bridge of her nose."

  I stroke a finger against the same spot on Leah's face then continue building a picture of Dawn, not just how she looked but how she was.

  "Her laugh sounds just like silver bells, and—"

  Leah's whisper silences me. "I see you, Mama."

  Her head bobs. The lips continue moving like she's deep in conversation with someone. Then her mouth wriggles with fresh pain.

  "Please visit daddy so he's not so sad."

  Her sweet, selfless prayer hits me in the gut. Except for Leah and Mama, I've been more than a little closed off since I exited the Army. It's not so bad with most of my family, but I was away when Dawn met and married Jake. And the man was always guarded.