Breaking Wild

by Diane Les Becquets

  “I know.”

  He stepped toward me, and I gave him a hug.

  “Did she have any kids?” he asked.

  My head rocked forward. “A stepdaughter and a son. Say a prayer for them,” I said.

  “Okay, I will.”

  —

  I drove toward town. My wheels spun occasionally over patches of compressed slush that was beginning to freeze. At the center of town, I parked in front of the post office, a small, nondescript brick building. My post office box was on the right-side wall inside the foyer. I opened the box and scooped out the large pile of mail. I stopped at a nearby counter to sort through the items and discard the advertisement flyers in a recycling bin. The post office felt as cold and empty as it was. I would go home and build a fire, wait for the house to get warm.

  My phone rang. It was Colm.

  “They lost,” I said when I answered.

  “I know. I heard the score on the radio.”

  “You should be asleep by now,” I told him.

  “So should you.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m on my way home now.”

  “I called Hank Ruckman. As soon as this snow lets up, he’s going to meet me out there and have a look.”

  Hank was the district wildlife manager for the DOW.

  “You’re thinking more about the lion,” I said.

  “I guess I am. Even if she did take her life, I’d like to know what happened to her body.”

  “What did Hank say?”

  “He said when a lion makes a kill, most of the bleeding is done on the inside. The rest of the blood can easily be absorbed on the clothes or the thickness of the brush. The lion may have dragged her a hundred yards to a steep ledge, behind a rock crevice, a canyon, somewhere in the timber, and covered her to keep her cool. He said the lion could have finished her off in a couple of days. By the time we found the hat and the gun, there might not have been much left.”

  “What about clothing or her backpack?”

  “I’m not sure. But the lion’s scent could have thrown off Kona, could have covered up the scent of the subject.”

  “So her committing suicide is questionable,” I said.

  “It’s always been questionable,” he said.

  “If she was attacked by a lion, would she have had time to fire the gun?” I asked.

  “She might have if she’d spotted the lion before it attacked.”

  I wasn’t so sure. Lion attacked from behind.

  Colm went on, repeating a lot of the things Jeff had said and what I already knew, about Amy Raye wearing camouflage and smelling like elk piss. “Even so, according to Ruckman, the lion’s kills are arbitrary,” Colm said. “If he’ll take out a horse, he could just as arbitrarily take out a person. Hank’s going to go ahead and call their trapper. See if he can meet us out there as well. If we can take down that lion, we can check its stomach contents for any trace of human remains.”

  “I don’t like the way that sounds.”

  “We need answers,” Colm said.

  “The snow’s supposed to let up sometime Sunday morning,” I told him.

  “You want to go with us? You’d be able to lead Hank and his trapper into the area better than I can.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

  “I’ll call you,” Colm said.

  —

  Flakes of snow had gathered on my windshield. I turned on the wipers. The blades smeared the flakes like chips of glass. The rubber of the blades squeaked against the pane.

  I was just getting ready to put the truck in reverse when I saw Joseph with that uneven gait of his, hands in his pockets, no coat, snow melting in his hair, and Corey, a couple of inches taller than Joseph, broad shouldered, still wearing his football jersey. They were walking toward the courthouse lawn, where a handful of other teenagers were hanging out. Like most of the kids in town, they’d known each other all their lives. Sometime around fifth grade they’d become best friends. I was glad they had each other. I knew growing up without a dad hadn’t always been easy on Joseph. And Corey had his own loss to deal with, a sadness that had affected the whole town. Corey had lost a brother in Afghanistan. He was in eighth grade when it happened.

  I wanted to bring both boys coats and tell them to put their hats on. Instead I drove the rest of the way home.

  AMY RAYE

  A little farther up the incline and perhaps Amy Raye would be able to see enough to gather some sense of the direction she’d been heading. If nothing else, she might be able to find shelter. She’d have to build a fire and wait out the night. And so she climbed, her body bent forward, her knees weaker with each step, as if any moment they might buckle beneath her. Just a little farther. She was on an edge now. She leaned forward until she was able to hold on to the wet rocks of the incline with her bare hands and get an idea of her surroundings. Just below the rocky ledge, maybe twenty feet, was a shelter, she was sure of it, an overhang with enough of a rock wall to serve as a buffer from the wind. She could stay there for the night. And so she grabbed a root with her right hand and a handhold in the rock with her left. She stretched her left leg over the edge until she found a crack with the toe of her boot. She wedged her boot into the crack for support, and let go of the root with her right hand. She would climb down to the shelter. But the weight on her back was too great, and her left hand slipped, her boot still jammed in the crack, the weight of her body and the pack and elk quarter propelling her backward and over, and then pain and noise, her ankle snapping. Her foot dislodged. She hurtled downward. Her hip slammed against a rock, and a sickening jolt so sharp from her ankle and through her leg, so acute she could not breathe. She had landed on another ledge, a good fifteen feet or more from the top one, and above her she could see the shelter, maybe five feet from her at the most. And nausea as soupy thick as the pain, snow melting on her face and lashes, and the misshape of the bone just above her ankle, like the arc in her bow. She exhaled in a long cry, and when she did, her voice echoed back at her. Her pack was behind her, the elk leg protruding at an odd angle alongside her neck. She shifted her hip away from the rock, and nausea surged through her until she dry-heaved. She pushed the elk leg away from her neck, her hands still covered in the elk’s blood, or was it hers? She did not know.

  She struggled to sit up, to assess the damage. Again she heaved, bile coating her throat. Her left leg was useless, and her left hip badly bruised. She cried out again, her tears mixed with the blood on her face. Once more her echo answered her, like something wild. Her body shivered with cold and distress, or was she going into shock? And the night would grow colder. And how had she become so lost? How had she plunged so wildly ahead?

  Already the sky had darkened, the shelter appearing no more than a shadow in the rock face. She would have to use her arms and shoulders. She would have to find a way to climb. If she stayed where she was, she would not make it through the night, and she had no idea how long it would take Kenny and Aaron to find her. She unfastened the pack. She slid her arms from beneath the straps. Her jaw clenched as she shifted her weight, as she tried to slow her rapid breathing. Then she unzipped the top opening of her pack and pulled out the rope she had used to drag the elk quarters only hours before. How much time did she have left? A half hour, maybe less, before the gray-glow of daylight would be gone. She threaded the rope beneath the shoulder straps of her pack and around the elk quarter, then knotted the rope and pulled it tight. She placed the other end in her mouth so that her hands would be free to climb. With her palms flat against the rocky surface of the ledge, she lifted her hips and tucked her right foot beneath her, and as she did her voice tore out of her in an angry moan. Her left leg remained extended in front of her. She placed one hand at a time on the edge of the rock face, grabbed handholds, pulled and shifted. Her teeth ground against the rope. Another handhold, and another, her right foot feeling for some leverage, h
er fingers so cold, the tips numb.

  Her hands reached the ledge where she’d spotted the shelter. She folded each forearm over the edge, pulled the weight of her torso. Her left ankle knocked against a rock, nausea like an icy stream. Again she heaved herself forward, until her entire body was on the ledge, a flat area maybe twenty feet from the rock face, and littered with dead wood and pinyon saplings. And there in front of her was the shelter, not just an overhang, but a cave, the entrance a triangular crevice, about three feet wide at the bottom, and another three or four feet high. She adjusted herself to a sitting position, pressed her back against the rock face, removed the rope from her mouth, clasped the rope with both fists, and pulled. About halfway up, her pack became snagged, or was it the leg of the elk, the bone that protruded from the game bag that had gotten caught? She jimmied the pack free, and when she did, she heard something fall out of the pack and drop well beyond the ledge where she had fallen. She hoisted the pack the rest of the way and grabbed hold of the elk leg, and when the entire bundle was beside her, she shoved it into the cave’s entrance. Then she rolled onto her stomach, dragged herself an inch and then another.

  Her body shivered. Her blood pressure was dropping. Shock wasn’t out of the question. She groaned loudly. Her elbows and forearms dug into the wet dirt, her right knee bent up to her hip for leverage. She continued to move her body this way until she lay on the floor of the small cave, but just how far back it went she could not tell. What little light was left in the day was nothing more than a shallow, metallic glow across the entrance, across the disfiguration of her left leg. And the shivering created movement in her broken leg, and pain as sharp as a fingernail being ripped from its quick. She’d have to get warm. She’d have to build a fire, and to build a fire she would need to drag her leg yet again in order to gather wood from outside the cave. She had the wild sensation to take her knife, open her skin down to the bone, as if in doing so she’d be able to release the pain.

  She loosened the game bag, unzipped her pack, and shoved her hand inside. She removed her bone saw, shifted other items around, and as she did she realized it was her binoculars that must have fallen. She wrapped her fingers around the plastic container with waterproof matches that she’d packed. She’d also brought a piece of flint that she could use with her knife, but the matches would be quicker. On the ledge outside the cave were dead wood, sticks, and bark. Again she pushed herself to a sitting position, lifted and moved her broken leg, yelled out in anguish, yelled for Kenny and Aaron, hoped to God they would be looking for her. She adjusted her weight and pulled her body back onto the snowy ledge, the numbing cold from the shot of wind almost a relief. Moving on her belly, she gathered sticks, broke off larger pieces of wood from deadfall and debris, cut through other pieces with the bone saw, collected pieces of bark, and continued to do so until she was sure she had enough to get her through the night. Only moments before she’d planned on seeking shelter, eating the remaining jerky and perhaps cooking some of the elk, rationing her water so she’d have plenty for the next day. She’d anticipated finding her way out of this place in the morning. Anticipated the sun breaking through the clouds, and when it did, she would have been able to get her bearings. And Kenny and Aaron would be looking for her then. Maybe they were looking for her now. She’d build a fire. They’d see the smoke.

  She crawled toward the middle of the cave and lit a handful of bark shavings and twigs. Then she added a couple of small branches from which she had brushed off the snow. Though some of the wood on the ledge would have been too wet to light, she’d been able to gather enough dry pieces from beneath the trees, and soon the musty scent of the cave filled with the sweet smell of cedar.

  Her hands were still mostly covered with blood. It had now dried and was flaking off like old paint. In that moment, she didn’t care about the game bag. She didn’t care that the meat would spoil in the warm cave. She was in too much pain, the kind of pain that feels delirious, transporting even, as if she could imagine herself someplace else, imagine falling asleep beside this warm fire and waking up to a blue sky, imagine a life and an ankle and a marriage unbroken. But as delirious as she felt, she also knew she must eat and did not know how much time would pass before she was found. And so as the chill left her body, she gathered more strength and pushed the game bag outside the cave so that the meat would not spoil, rolled the elk quarter, and kept rolling it until it was a good eight feet to the right of the cave’s entrance. There she covered the shoulder with boughs she’d cut from low-hanging limbs. And once the meat was covered, she returned to the shelter.

  She added more wood to the fire. She removed the remaining beef jerky from her pack, removed the plastic bag that held the elk’s liver and heart. She would cook the organs. They could sustain her for a couple of days. And she would eat the remaining beef jerky. But for now, her stomach was too nauseated, and her leg was swelling. She’d have to collect snow and pack it around the break to keep the swelling down. Numbing her leg would help with the pain as well. She still had the sandwich bag from earlier in the day, and the bag holding the elk’s organs, and the bag of jerky. She transferred the jerky to her pockets. She then used her knife to shave down one of the longer branches and turn it into a skewer. She pierced the heart and liver and set them aside. She tucked the three empty bags beneath her arm and scooted back to the ledge. There, she scooped snow into each of the three zip-top bags. The pain was getting worse. She knew the bone must be bleeding, and she would need to immobilize her leg. Her body was shaky, and again she was aware that her blood pressure was dropping. She crawled back into the cave, stoked the fire once more. She packed the bags of snow around her broken ankle, then lay back against her pack, all the while listening to the wind, an eerie howl like something wild. She willed the warmth of the fire and her fatigue to lull her to sleep, to give her some relief.

  And she must have slept, because when she awoke, the cave was dark, and the fire was only embers. She blew on the embers and stoked them until the flame reignited. Then she added more wood. She wondered how long the fire had been out, and she recognized how warm the cave had remained. She had found a good shelter. The snow in the bags had melted. She would need to get more. But she was so tired, and she was weak. She lay back again. This time she did not close her eyes. She watched the fire’s glow dance across the four-foot-high ceiling above her, dance around the cave walls. She sat up and added a larger piece of wood to the flame so that it would burn brighter, so that she could see better. There was something on the walls. She inched her way the few feet toward the wall in front of her. Painted in white and some red were pictographs. Other people had been here before her, and she felt comfort in that. Across the wall were swooping curves that resembled white birds. Another picture looked to be of a bighorn sheep with an oversized rectangular body. On the back wall of the cave were four prints of small hands, as if made by children, and Amy Raye wondered if a family had occupied this site. The dirt floor was softer toward the back of the cave, and the walls were warm from the fire.

  Though her legs remained outstretched because of her ankle, she curled her body into a fetal position and laid her head on the fine sand beneath her. She thought of her children, of Julia’s hands and Trevor’s. She pressed her palm against the small prints on the wall beside her, imagined crawling on the bed with her sweet boy, Trevor, wrapping her arms around him while he slept. Imagined smoothing his soft brown hair and kissing his forehead, damp with sweat and the Dove soap from his bath. She’d pick up Chomper, his stuffed tiger, whom Trevor would bring to bed each night and inevitably push away as he slept. She’d reposition the tiger beside him. Then she’d go to Julia’s room, her lively, spirited stepdaughter, who slept on top of the covers, because even at twelve years old, she hated for anything to confine her. She’d be on her stomach, sprawled on top of the bed, arms spread out, her dark blond hair falling in waves over her shoulders and across her face. Amy Raye would kneel against Julia’s bed
, careful not to wake her, hold her small hand, kiss her fingers, the sparkly purple polish on her nails having chipped away at the ends, her oversized T-shirt from one of the concerts Julia had gone to with her dad pushed up above her knees. Amy Raye would close the book Julia would have been reading, would reach over and turn off the small clip-on light on the corner of Julia’s headboard. She’d kiss her stepdaughter good night. She’d tell her she loved her. And she’d tell her to be brave. She’d tell her that when the right man comes along—someone as good and decent and caring as her father, the kind of man who would hold her when she called out in her sleep because she’d dreamed of dark places and dangerous people, who would look into her eyes when he said hello and tell her he loved her when he said good-bye, who would kiss her good morning and kiss her good night, and tell her she was brave when she felt weak—to have the courage to love that man, and to go on loving him for the rest of her life.

  PRU

  I met Colm and Hank Ruckman, and the government trapper Breton Davies, at the compressor station. It was a Sunday morning, two days after the search had been called off. The snow had stopped falling sometime in the early hours. The sun was out and the roads were clear. But the clear skies had also brought on colder temperatures with a windchill near zero. Colm left his vehicle at the compressor station and rode with me. Hank and Breton followed.

  “CBI report came back,” Colm told me. “The hat was hers, just as we figured. The hair and the blood matched. But the blood wasn’t from a gunshot. There were tree fibers along the tear. She had to have hit her head. Could have been running from something. Could have fallen down.”

  “Any traces of saliva? Anything that could connect the hat to a lion?”