She filled her bottle and Hoot’s canteen and drank, feeling better. The water had an earthy taste, slightly metallic.
She buried the pistol and Hoot’s rifle beside one of the barrels.
Time to look for Leno.
The forest surrounding Hoot’s cabin was thick with undergrowth, and the trees formed a canopy, everything dark and dripping. She thought she saw tracks in the mud where he’d fallen, and pushed her way into the woods, daring to go just so far. She breathed slow and tried to stay calm. Saw blood on a rock, then some more on a tangle of shrubs, but she was no tracker. Leno was gone, or he’d managed to get in somewhere hidden, where he’d finally expired. Either way, she was wasting time. She was going to have to live with not knowing.
Finally she headed up toward the chapel, the rifle strapped across her back, her heart steady. A solid stick she found along the way served as a crutch.
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She climbed up the rocky parts of the slope and pushed her way through the firs.
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Reaching the chapel first, she sat down in the lean-to to rest. The view was breathtaking, and she rested, taking it in.
She had to pee.
It had occurred to her earlier, just a flitting thought, that Hoot had no outhouse. Somewhere he must’ve dug a latrine.
She moved alongside the chapel, looking for a spot. Even in such circumstances, she thought, modesty prevailed.
A log nestled into the brush would do nicely. As she got closer and took her skirt down, she realized the brush wasn’t really brush.
The leaves were unmistakable. The buds like green nuggets, threaded with a filigree of orange and red hairs.
“Hoot,” she said. “You old dope-smoker.”
The plants were all around her. Probably enough weed here to smoke up all of Hazleton. For weeks.
A war hero who’d learned a trick or two in Cambodia, no doubt.
Finished with her call of nature, she found some other leaves amid the marijuana plants and cleaned herself. She walked back around to the front of the chapel, drank some more water, and headed in the direction she’d last seen Hoot.
The view, the pot plants, even the need to pee had lightened her spirits – frequent peeing was a typical sign of pregnancy.
Maybe all was not lost.
But when she considered the ordeal ahead of her, the shape she was already in and might be in by the time she got out – if she ever did – her mood darkened again. Certainly women could endure all sorts of trials and still carry a baby to term, but there were no guarantees.
Katie approached the spot where Hoot had fallen.
She covered her mouth with her hand in an effort to keep from gagging up the water she’d just poured down her gullet.
Hoot was a little ways from where she’d left him. Part of him was, anyway – he’d been torn to bits by the coyotes and was barely recognizable as human.
She started toward him and stopped when she heard an animal’s growl. There was a coyote behind her, boldly crossing the bare rock, its head low and teeth bared.
Something snapped in the woods near the body parts. Another coyote lurked there, almost blended in with the vegetation.
The fear jolted through her, and her stomach eddied.
“Hey! Get the fuck out of here!”
She swung the rifle around in front of her. It was already loaded, the safety off. She pointed the gun at the animal on the rock and fired before she’d even thought it through.
The kick of the gun was fierce, but she kept a grip on it.
She missed the coyote, which took off in a sprint. She swung the rifle on the other one and screamed again. “Ahh! Go, you fucker! Get away from him!”
The coyote jerked into a run, joining the other. Both moved deeper into the woods, their gray fur disappearing.
“Yeah! Huh? How do you like it, you fucking bastards?!”
Swearing like a sailor, her feet planted wide, she realized that the coyotes were just doing what they were designed by nature to do. She was on the board at the SPCA for God’s sake. But she didn’t feel bad. This was another world, where different rules applied.
Katie waited a full minute until she was sure the animals were gone.
She didn’t have a shovel, but the earth was soft around where Hoot’s remains were scattered.
She propped the rifle against a tree and started to dig. Shoveling with both hands plunged in, perspiring, breathing deep and fast, something came over her.
But she didn’t have a word for it. There was a sensation she got on her runs, but nothing quite like this. Jogging was just a taste, a tiny sample of this.
This nameless thing. This sense of being here.
And yet, not here. Not her identity. Not the woman she thought she knew, the one she saw in the mirror as she applied her judicious amount of eyeliner in the mornings. Not the woman who preferred to grind her own coffee beans.
Not the daughter of Jean-Baptiste Calumet.
Not rich. Not motherless. None of those things.
Something else.
Shoot at coyotes! Dig your friend a grave! Completely lose your sense of identity!
All this could be yours…
Even her black humor faded as she worked, careful not to tire herself out even more, but managing to dig a shallow enough grave to drag the pieces of Hoot together and then cover them with earth.
Katie stood back, appraising her work. She wiped her runny nose with the back of a dirty hand, and picked up the rifle.
* * *
Tall pines took the shape of the wind, their branches like reaching arms, wagging at the distant peaks.
Burying Hoot had cost her some time, but she had the rising sun at her back and was moving due south. She’d picked up a few more items from the cabin before leaving for good – some clothes for the cold and rain.
There were at least five miles between her and civilization, maybe as many as fifteen. But she’d decided that the best way to go was the one Hoot had prescribed.
For a while she moved with confidence. Her heart beat hard but steady. Her leg felt okay as long as she kept mindful of it and didn’t overextend. The crutch helped.
She continued to marvel at the beauty of the wilderness. The massiveness. Ridges where she could see well into the distance. But only the jets flying far overhead, leaving their white streaks, connected her to the world.
Still nothing low enough to be a search plane.
The land sloped down for a while as she made her way into the valley between Twin Mountain and Spruce. Then she was deep in the forest, and there were no more views. She checked the compass every few minutes and adjusted her direction if needed.
At eleven, she stopped and took a drink of water then decided it was a good time to eat. Hoot’s stores had provided her some granola and dry oatmeal, but little else. She took a few handfuls of the grains and choked them down with water.
She didn’t know what frightened her more – the prospect of getting lost, or giving up and turning around. Though, she had to believe that something like Hoot’s cabin, small and remote as it was, would be on someone’s map, somewhere. The Forest Preserve, or the DEC, emergency services, something. Was it a mistake to have left?
Second-guessing like this, she sat on a boulder and put the water into her bag. Then she did nothing.
Go.
She ignored the voice, just thinking.
Go! You’re wasting time!
-I need to rest.
The minutes drained away. Her heart rate eased down a few notches and the sweat cooled on her skin.
She stared at an oak. She thought it was an oak, anyway. Craggy bark that f
ormed an almost infinite variety of patterns. A soft wind shook the boughs, and rainwater pattered to the ground. It coursed down through the crevasses and fissures like hanging tinsel.
More sounds emerged. She hadn’t heard them like this yet. Birds in the trees, first singing far off, then closer.
Something scurried. A squirrel shot halfway up the tree, stopped, then raced up the rest of the way.
Katie was motionless.
Breathing.
A different sound came from her left, rousing her emotions. It sounded like something bigger, cracking through the undergrowth. She tensed and readied the rifle.
Leno.
She slid off the boulder and crouched behind it. She waited, thinking that if he had been following her, it was better that he made himself known now.
A small black bear came trundling out of the bramble. It stopped and circled around, sniffing at something, then bounded back into the brush.
Katie didn’t move. The cub would have a mother somewhere close by. The last thing she needed was to tangle with an angry mama bear.
The cub had been behind her. Katie made the decision to keep going. She hurried away from the boulder, limping briskly, dropped the crutch, and broke into a shambling run.
Her leg throbbed. She held her arm up to shield her face from the clawing branches. Her heart was pounding, her leg growing hot, pain shooting up into her midsection like arc-welding sparks.
When she thought she had put a good distance between herself and the bear sighting, she slowed. Caught her breath. Took out the compass.
Her thigh muscle was still sparking, and at the same time turning to a kind of hot stone.
In flight, she’d veered off course. She was headed north now instead of southwest, almost completely in the wrong direction. Carson’s wristwatch was attached to the pack. Already going on noon. She estimated she’d made it about two miles away from Hoot’s cabin. Two miles in four hours. Half a mile an hour. At this rate she’d still be in the woods come nightfall.
But there was no longer any consideration of turning back. She held the compass out like a divining rod and kept moving. She could barely put her weight on her leg.
After an awkward, painstaking climb over a scree of rocks and navigating a thicket of tightly packed, slender trees, the ground began to slope upward again.
It seemed ludicrous to be ascending in elevation when she was trying to get out of the woods, but it might be a good sign, too – this was Spruce Mountain. Just one more peak between her and salvation. Once she crested it, she might see the Haskell Road trail, maybe even the hamlet of Hoffmeister in the distance.
She could do this. She had to do this.
She hobbled to a ridge and continued to climb gingerly, minding her footing.
A bird – something big, like a hawk – took flight from a tall tree and screeched as it beat its long wings in the air.
Chapter Forty-One
Cross and Brennan were in the air, flying over the park in a rescue helicopter. They banked over an expanse of green, but Cross saw the first hints of autumn colors amid the peaks. He tried to focus, but lingering dreams replayed in his thoughts.
He’d slept for five hours before rejoining the others and launching the chopper from the parking area near the firehouse. It was a spot close to the playground where he’d pushed Petrie on the swings – Ramona had still been too small.
Marty had frequented the dreams – she was lost, and when he found her, she didn’t want to return home.
“How are your kids?”
The question beguiled Cross; it was so in line with his thoughts. They were speaking on radio headsets.
“What makes you ask?”
David looked out at the rumpled terrain. “I came by your room last night, heard you talking, left, and came back later. Everybody good?”
“They’re good, yeah.”
“Good.”
Laura Broderick was up front with the pilot. The pilot pushed the stick forward and the helicopter swooped down, making Cross’s stomach lurch. At least it wasn’t one of those army-type choppers with the open sides. The rescue helicopter was a single-engine, six-passenger machine, part of the New York State Police aviation unit. In addition to the pilot there was a hoist operator, making five total persons aboard. There was room left for one more.
The helicopter bucked a bit, and the pilot said something about mountain updrafts. Once it had gotten into a stable hover, Laura pointed out the first cabin they’d located. Cross saw a roof caved in from a fallen tree, no signs of activity.
After circling the site for a minute, Laura instructed the pilot to move on.
As they gained some altitude and swept away from the cabin, Cross watched David. He was staring out the window, a placid expression on his face. His hands were tucked neatly between his knees. There was something penitent in the pose, Cross thought. At times, David was either wild with emotion or oddly subdued. But Cross couldn’t begin to imagine the state he’d be in if it was Marty out there. If his nightmare were real.
Before they’d taken off in the helicopter, the dawn just tinting the sky, Cross had taken David aside, Bouchard’s words ringing in his head. “I know this is hard, but I think you need to be prepared…”
“She’s alive,” David had said.
A few minutes later they arrived over the next cabin on Laura’s map. This one was in even worse shape than the first, all but completely collapsed. They moved on to another, one that looked more promising, and hovered for a bit, Cross taking pictures with a telephoto lens. There was nothing that indicated anyone was there or had been there for a long time, but it was in good enough shape to be significant, and they marked it down.
It was going on noon. Cross ate a granola bar, though they had to go back and refuel the helicopter anyway. They made a pass over one final cabin.
David banged on the glass. “There! There!”
Cross saw it. Someone had spelled out an SOS with rocks.
“Take it down,” Cross said.
There would be no landing on the mountain – no place for it. The aviation unit was trained for a crew member to come down from the hovering helicopter and send an injured person back up. The mission was to get a preliminary visual then send in a team.
David had gotten the wildness back. “Katie did that. I know she did. What else could it mean?”
Cross put a hand on the excited husband but kept quiet. Like Laura said, people went missing all the time. Anyone else could have done it…
But his arms rippled with gooseflesh. Katie was in the wilderness below.
“Send me down there,” David said.
“No can do,” Cross said. “I’m going.”
He was already being buckled into the harness by the hoist operator. Aviation unit members trained each month for hoist rescues. Cross had five years with the Coast Guard. He had a high-powered radio, a gun, and, according to his estranged wife, a whole lot of stubbornness.
The door rolled back and the wind came blasting in, the air thundering.
Cross was instructed to sit, and his legs dangled over a fifty-yard drop. Then the time came to let gravity take over.
He pushed off and the hoist suspended him then gradually lowered him to the ground.
The second he touched down he unbuckled the harness – if an updraft pushed against the helicopter, he could be dragged along the ground like a doll. But the pilot kept it steady and the conditions were right. He waved an arm that the hoist was free and the operator recoiled the cable.
He checked his radio, and Laura responded, “We got our eyes on you.” The helicopter ascended to a safe height and hovered.
Cross drew his piece and started toward the cabin. He stepped up onto the porch and pressed his back against the wall. He took a deep breath then stepped quickly through the open door.
The interior smelled like woodsmoke. There were signs of life everywhere – someone had dumped a duffel bag on the floor, contents helter-skelter. Empty beer
cans were piled in a corner.
An undressed mattress had blood on it. A sat phone was on the floor. Beside it, on the back of a piece of box board, someone had written Katie Calumet in soot.
This was the place. All the concern that the hiker had heard something other than Katie’s scream, or that Abel Gebhart sent them on a wild goose chase – gone. They’d done it.
No one was home, but Cross didn’t like seeing the blood. He continued the sweep, radioing back to Laura as he did. “All clear in the cabin.”
“Alright. Keep your eyes peeled. Over.”
Cross left, keeping his weapon ready. He cautiously circled the building. He saw a well with a pump handle, and an outhouse in disrepair.
Still no signs anyone was around. Not a sound, not a rustle in the trees.
“Katie! Katie Calumet!” His voice echoed. He took out his improved topo map, courtesy of DEC. This was the Black River Wild Forest, in a section that protruded into the larger West Canada Lake Wilderness. The latter was an area of almost 250 square miles, 160,000 acres. 168 bodies of water, 11 lean-tos and likely several hunting cabins like this one.
Black River Wild Forest rolled southwest. Laura had said there were 9 lean-tos in the 120,000-acre region, more hunting cabins, too.
Laura’s voice crackled over the radio. “So, you’re on Jones Mountain,” she reminded. “The summit is about another 500 feet up from you – 2,800 feet in total. Let’s say you started in Old Forge; to take a trip and summit Jones would be a very long, twenty-mile hike. Fifteen if you came from Speculator.”
“What’s that peak there to my six?”
“That’s West Canada Mountain. And you can’t see it, but behind you over the Jones summit is Panther Mountain.”
“Closest trails?”
“Ah, those would be 115 and 114 in Black River. About four miles from you.”
“That’s to the west of here?”
“Affirmative. The village of Atwell isn’t far, either. Maybe six miles. But we’re not thinking they came in that way.”
“No. We’re not.”
“There’s also an unmarked trail, about five miles away. It’s the tail end of Haskell Road, just a couple wheel ruts, probably.”
Gone Missing Page 24