After work each day, Amy Raye would pick up fresh groceries or cook something on a camper’s stove in the shed. She kept her costs down and was able to save up most of what she made, which was a dollar more than minimum wage, plus the shed. She was trying to live sober, and she thought living in Alaska was giving her the space to do that. She hadn’t been back to the Golden Saloon. Hadn’t slept with a man since leaving Farrell. Instead, when she had a day off, or finished her work early, she’d hike with Saddle or find something to read. She liked her lean body, was eating well. She even thought about finding work for the winter and staying on. She was living cleaner, and imagined living that way for the rest of her life.
But then one afternoon she walked the mile and a half to the Center Store, as she did most every day. She was almost to the store, taking her time along the dirt road. A breeze tousled the branches of the birch, stirred the rich scent of the black and white spruce. And then she saw him, along the edge of the trees, his body halfway hidden by the tall grasses. She had never seen a grizzly before. And when she stopped, the bear lifted his head over his left shoulder and looked at her. He appeared deliberate and calm. He was magnificent really, his size larger than what she might have imagined, and hefty, as if he could move boulders. And for a moment she just stood there, mesmerized by that magnificence, until he moved, took a few steps toward her, his head and shoulders now facing her, and she tried to remember what she was supposed to do when she encountered a bear. She walked backward, looking at him straight on. “I’m going to the store now,” she told him, her voice as steady as she could manage it. She thought about singing. She’d read stories of people who sang when they hiked, to keep bear away, and others who wore bells on their shoes. She continued to walk backward. She continued to talk to the bear until he lifted his head, let out a gruff sound, and turned away.
She walked the rest of the way to the store. She wanted to tell someone about the bear. She wanted to tell Farrell. She needed to make it real.
She had just picked up some hamburger and pasta to cook on her stove. When she paid for her purchase, she saw a man ahead of her. He carried a bottle of water in his left hand and a small pack over his right shoulder. Maybe it was because of the man’s stocky build, or the color of his hair—sandy like Farrell’s—or the glint in his blue eyes. Maybe it was because the man looked at her for a second as if he recognized her, because in that moment she felt the gnawing ache of a hunger so deep, she knew it in her bones. As she left the store, she saw the man walk down to the Golden Saloon, so she and Saddle followed him there.
She entered the Saloon, leaving Saddle outside on the porch. He was the kind of dog who would stay wherever she told him to and wait for her to return. She saw the man right away; he was sitting at the small bar with a woman and several men around him. Amy Raye approached the bar and stood a few feet to the right of the man. She ordered a beer, and while she waited for it, she observed the man and listened to the conversation he was having with two others. The man would be heading out in the morning on a five-day trek in the Wrangells. He began talking about different entry points and trails into the mountains, running his plans by the other two men who were also backpackers. “Did you run into any more bear?” asked the man who looked like Farrell, so much so that Amy Raye wouldn’t have been surprised at all if he had reached behind the bar and picked up a guitar and started playing and singing something by Greg Brown or Neil Young.
Amy Raye paid for her beer and moved to a table. She set her shopping bag next to her feet. She wondered how long she could stay at the saloon before the meat went bad. She gave herself a few hours. She would have a couple of beers, maybe a bowl of soup or a salad, because she could not pull herself away from the man who looked like Farrell, who was sitting next to a woman who looked Spanish, with Russian skin. The woman had full lips, large almond-shaped eyes as black as a crow’s, but her skin was milky and pink and smooth. The woman draped her arm over the man’s shoulders, said something in his ear, and then stood and walked over to a microphone at the front of the room. Amy Raye’s heart pounded loudly in her ears, and she felt that hunger that reminded her of too many times she’d fed herself from men on the streets, and in cars, and in alleys, and of other bars and other places.
Amy Raye ordered soup and crackers and another beer, listened to the woman whom other people in the saloon cheered for. The saloon had become packed with warm bodies clustered around the bar, around the tables, making it hard for Amy Raye to spot the man. The soup turned lukewarm and then cold. Amy Raye dunked the crackers, sipped the beer. The woman was now singing “Can’t Let Go” by Lucinda Williams. The tempo was hard and fast, and the woman’s voice raspy.
A man wanted to buy Amy Raye a drink, the waitress said. Amy Raye looked up at the group of men at the bar, but she could not find the man who looked like Farrell, and she began to panic.
“Would you like another beer?” the young, blond waitress asked.
“I’ll have a whiskey. Maker’s Mark or Jim Beam.”
But it wasn’t the waitress who returned with the whiskey. Instead a tall man with a long, grizzly beard and mysterious blue eyes slid the double whiskey in front of her. “Mind if I join you?” he said. The man pulled out a chair and sat beside her, set his beer on the table. “I’ve seen you before,” he said.
“Where?”
“Around. Walking the road. You live around here?”
“For a while,” Amy Raye told him.
She didn’t take kindly to men approaching her. She preferred it the other way around.
She slid the drink in front of the man. “I don’t take drinks from strangers,” she said.
“Name’s Malcolm,” he said, extending his hand.
She didn’t take his hand. “You’re still a stranger,” she said.
“Well, now, how do you suggest we change that?”
“You drink the whiskey. I’ll continue to drink my beer.”
“Where you from?” he asked. He picked up the whiskey and drank down at least half of it.
“Montana.”
“What’s a girl like you doing in Alaska?”
“I have an uncle who owns some cabins. I’m helping him out.”
“How long are you staying for?”
“Just long enough for my brother to get here.”
“You two driving back to Montana together?”
“We’re going to do some hiking first, but then, yeah, we’ll head back together.”
“You ever been to Alaska before?”
“First time.”
“Do you like it?”
“I like it all right.” Amy Raye finished her soup. Finished her beer.
“Can I buy you another one?” the man asked her.
“Like I said. I don’t take drinks from strangers.”
Amy Raye ordered another beer. The woman continued to play the guitar and sing. The man sitting next to Amy Raye finished the whiskey, and she noticed his hands, the large turquoise ring on the middle finger, the brown spots from the sun. He had to be in his late forties or fifties.
“You have a boyfriend?” he asked her.
“We just broke up,” Amy Raye said.
“A boy from Montana?”
“He’s going to school in Bozeman. I live in Helena.”
The man looked surprised. “How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“Your mom tell you not to take drinks from strangers?”
“No, my dad did. Do you live around here?” she asked.
“I’ve got a place a few miles from town I come up to in the summers. I live in Wasilla the rest of the year. You like the music?” he asked.
“I do.” Amy Raye pretended to be a little shy all of a sudden.
“Would you like to dance?” he asked.
At least a dozen people were dancing. The music had livened up, movin
g into straight country. Amy Raye let the man lead her onto the dance floor. Again she searched the bar and the rest of the room for the man who looked like Farrell. He wasn’t there. The other two backpackers were now sitting at a table.
“How did you get here?” the man asked her as they danced.
“I walked.”
The man tilted his head back and laughed. “No, how did you get to McCarthy?”
“I flew into Anchorage. My uncle picked me up.”
“What’s your uncle’s name?” The man spun Amy Raye around, positioned his hand on her lower back.
“Chase Miller,” Amy Raye said.
“Can’t say I know him.”
As they continued to dance, the man took more chances. His hands grazed Amy Raye’s hips. He pressed his long fingers against her back pockets. His breath was on her neck. “My friends call me Mac,” he told her.
“Hi, Mac,” Amy Raye said, smiling up at him like a bashful girl.
But when the slow dance started, she said she should be getting home. The man whose friends called him Mac said he’d walk her out.
She let him pay for her last beer, and having forgotten about her groceries, she left the saloon with the man. Saddle, who had been lying on the porch, was already standing and wagging his tail.
“I can give you a ride back to your uncle’s, if you like,” the man offered.
He and Amy Raye had already begun walking the half mile to the bridge, with Saddle trotting beside them.
“I don’t mind walking,” Amy Raye said.
“You’re a beautiful girl,” he said.
As they were nearing the bridge, Amy Raye said, “I want to show you something.”
She told Saddle to stay, and then she reached for the man’s hand.
“Where are you taking me?” he asked her.
They stepped through tall weeds and walked toward an abandoned cabin hidden in the evergreens along the river. She’d found the building while exploring the river’s banks. Sometimes campers made use of it, but most of the campers set up their tents along the banks on the parking side of the bridge.
At the back of the cabin, Amy Raye turned to the man, playfully pressed herself against him. “You think I’m beautiful?” she asked.
He slid his hand around the nape of her neck, combed his fingers into her hair, some of her strands getting snagged on his ring. Amy Raye reached for his belt, loosened the buckle.
“You’re not even going to kiss me first?” he asked. He’d been standing with his back to the dark brown siding of the cabin. He grabbed a fistful of Amy Raye’s hair and pulled her around, pinned her against the wood siding. He kissed her, pushing his tongue into her mouth, while undoing the buckle on his jeans. Then he shoved her down to the ground so that she was on her knees in front of him.
But he didn’t let her finish. He yanked her back up, grabbing more of her hair. Using his other hand, he tore at her jeans while she tried to push him away. “So that’s how you like to play it,” he said. He let go of her hair and pressed his arm over her collarbone, rammed her back against the cabin. She twisted her hips and tried to kick away his hand that was pulling at her jeans, undoing the button, then the zipper. But he was a tall man, with big bones, and used his size to hold her in place. He managed to get her jeans down to her knees, and, lifting her off the ground, he forced himself into her.
She burned and ached and cried, and he thrust himself harder until he groaned, and when he was finished, he shoved her to the ground, and as she fell, a jagged limb dug into her naked hip and tore her flesh.
Despite the rushing of the river, Saddle had heard her scream. He’d run through the woods and around the old cabin, and with teeth bared, he lunged at the man. The man was ready for him. He grabbed the limb that Amy Raye had fallen on and hit Saddle hard across the rib cage. Saddle yelped, and before he could get back on his feet, the man hit him again, this time across the head.
Amy Raye was screaming. She pulled her jeans up over the wound on her hip and charged into the man. She grabbed the limb just as the man was getting ready to strike Saddle again.
The man swung the limb hard, tossing Amy Raye onto the ground. He dropped the limb, buckled his jeans, and walked away. Saddle lay unconscious. Amy Raye scrambled over to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, laid her ear against him. He was still breathing.
She scooped him into her arms and stood. The wound on her hip bled through her jeans and down her leg. She didn’t feel the pain, just Saddle in her arms.
There was no one in town who could help her. She would have to carry Saddle across the bridge and the mile of road back to the cabins.
She stepped out of the woods with Saddle cradled against her. The man, called Mac, was now on the bridge and walking toward the parked vehicles. She didn’t see anyone else around. Saddle was still unconscious.
PRU
When Jeff and I reported in the next morning, I could tell Colm hadn’t gotten any sleep. “It’s going on four days since she’s been out there,” he said. “Got another three inches of snow during the night. Supposed to get a storm this afternoon. I got to tell you, Pru, I’m not sure how much longer we’re going to be able to keep this up. It’s slippery as hell out there. Had a near call a couple of hours ago.”
“What happened?”
“One of the volunteers lost his footing. Slipped on one of the ridges. He’s okay, but it gave us a scare. Another team ran into some problems getting back. I had trouble picking them up on the radio.”
Next to Colm, on the table, was a solar charger and a cell phone. Colm picked up the phone. “Dean checked out the camp.”
“The phone’s hers, isn’t it,” I said.
“It is.”
“Are there any messages?”
“Don’t know. It’s got a passcode on it.”
Looking at Colm, I caught his profile, the age on his face, the shadows along his jawline and beneath his eyes where his skin was thickening. Though I’d always thought him good-looking, in the weak morning light through the windows and the fatigue that Colm felt, for just that minute I glimpsed him as an older man.
“Why wouldn’t she have her phone on her?” I asked. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“Unless she didn’t want to be found,” Colm said.
He reached down the length of the table for a plastic evidence bag. Inside the bag was a yellow piece of paper from a legal pad, the same kind of paper I’d found in the compass pouch two days before.
Inside the plastic, the paper was laid out flat, but there were creases throughout it, as if Amy Raye might have intended to throw the piece of paper away.
November 3
One of the things I love about you most is your ability to understand, and if you don’t, you keep digging until you come to a peace with it. I have lots to learn from you, Farrell. I have resolved a lot internally. You are a huge component of that. You have been my rubbing post. Sadly I’ve been running an emotional obstacle course to you. You are way too kind to me, more than I deserve, but I don’t think it’s wise of you. I don’t believe on any level you are emotionally safe with me. I am a mess, I am not going to lie. I am no good to you the way I am.
“It feels unfinished,” I said. “Where did Dean find it?”
“Inside the stuff bag for her tent, along with a couple of pens and a bottle of Advil.”
The note had been written two days before Amy Raye had gone missing. “Has the husband seen this?” I asked.
“I showed it to him before you got here,” Colm said.
“What did he say?”
“Said she had a tendency toward introspection. Said she wouldn’t have taken her life, and that she seemed fine before she left.”
“Did he know what the note alluded to?”
“He wasn’t sure. He asked if he could have it. I told him we needed to hold
on to it for now.”
“Did Dean find anything else?”
“Some personal belongings. Extra gloves and batteries. A couple of books. Pru, I don’t have to tell you, it looks like we’re going to be back out here this spring.”
“I’ll be out here before that.”
“I know you will. But just do your job. Don’t take this on, too.”
—
By two o’clock that afternoon, the snow started up again, and within another hour we were experiencing forty-mile-per-hour gusts, causing temporary whiteouts in places. Jeff and I were working Kona along Big Ridge, adjacent to the clearing where the hat had been found, and just east and north of Cathedral Bluffs, when Colm called the teams in. The weather service was predicting more than a foot of accumulation in the Douglas Pass region and some of the outlying areas. It took Jeff and me two hours to make it back to the station. We were the last team to report in. Then Colm made his announcement.
“As incident commander, I’ve got to make a decision. I have to be cognizant that these people have limits. I have to weigh risk versus benefit. Plans continue, but at this point, search and recovery have been demobilized,” he said.
“Do you have any idea when the search will resume?” a reporter asked.
“This is a tough landscape,” Colm said. “Usually on a search we can get snowmobiles and snowshoers into an area. This isn’t one of those places. I don’t see the search resuming until sometime in the spring,” he said.
Another reporter asked, “What about the reports of a possible suicide?”
“Without recovering the body, we can’t be certain,” Colm told him.
At this point Colm had not made the media aware of the letter that had been recovered, and he’d yet to call it a suicide note, though I knew in his mind he thought it was.
I looked around the makeshift headquarters for the husband and his sister. They were standing toward the back of the room with Dean and a couple of the other volunteers. Dean had his arm on the husband’s shoulder. One of the volunteers was rubbing the back of the husband’s sister. There weren’t many dry eyes in the room. Colm was thanking the volunteers. He thanked everyone from outside the county who had assisted in the search, and he extended his thoughts and prayers to the family.
Breaking Wild Page 11