The Last Woman in the Forest

by Diane Les Becquets

  Marian traveled to Michigan a week after the incident. Her parents took time off from work to be with her. They said they could arrange for her to talk with someone, but she said she wasn’t ready. Instead, she slept in and tried to eat the breakfasts her mother would prepare for her. She and her parents took a kayak trip along the shores of Lake Superior and camped overnight like they did when she was young. Marian visited her brother also and went shopping with her sister-in-law. More than anything, Marian wanted only to be in the company of others.

  When Marian returned to The Den a month after being away, Lyle offered her one of the extra rooms in the main house to ease her back into things. She helped Trainer fix meals. She watched movies at night. During the days she worked in the office and exercised the dogs. As the holidays approached, she made another trip to Michigan. She showered her family with Montana jams and salsa and cured beef. By January she was back at The Den.

  Lyle was busy preparing the permits and paperwork for a three-month pangolin study in south-central Vietnam. The study would begin in February and would require three teams. “Are you up for this?” Lyle had asked Marian, and she’d assured him she was. She would be working with Yeti and would be accompanying Dudley and Liz and two of the other dogs in creating genetic maps of the pangolin population. The maps would serve as a tool to help law enforcement in determining high trafficking areas. The group would be staying in village housing and working in community forests.

  And so Marian made the trip to Vietnam, where she and the others stayed in thatch-roof houses. Vietnamese guides assisted the teams in the field. At night the handlers gathered and drank wine and cooked with coconut milk and fresh herbs. The three of them made sticky rice with mango, and spring rolls, and rice paper rolls with sprouts and chicken and pork. They each talked about their day and books they had read and politics and their families and shared stories about the dogs. And sometimes one of them would remember something Jenness had said or done, and they’d talk about that, too.

  In the mornings they rose between three and four a.m. and took turns brewing the coffee. On their days off they caught up on paperwork and restocked their food supplies and helped each other look after the dogs. And on one of those days, Marian came up with the idea to visit Alaska and hike the Kesugi Ridge in honor of Jenness. “When?” Dudley had asked, and Marian said they should go at the end of the study, sometime during May. But Dudley would be returning to a moose project in upstate New York shortly after they returned, and Liz had been assigned to a killer whale study in Puget Sound with a new adoptee. The dog had been trained to detect floating scat from the bow of a boat. “Or else I would go,” Dudley and Liz had both said. “And won’t there be too much snow then?”

  The trail was in Alaska’s interior between Anchorage and Fairbanks. Marian had read accounts from other hikers, and from what she had learned the trail would be open in May. Marian was already scheduled to return to Utah in June to finish the bighorn sheep project, so May really was the only time. Marian had also run the idea by Jeb, even though she knew he had school. “It’s actually our semester break,” he’d said. And, “You shouldn’t go alone. This is a big thing you’re doing, commemorating someone’s life. I want to be there.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Marian flew to Anchorage the last week in May, where she met Jeb. They spent their first night at a Super 8. They didn’t mention Jenness that night, or Tate. “This is your trip,” Jeb had told her before they’d left. “You make the rules. I’m here to support you,” he’d said. And that first night Marian told him she needed to listen to him tell her about his writing and the people he’d met in California. “Just talk to me,” she said, “like you did all those weeks before when I needed you to,” and she almost said, the first time Tate died.

  The next morning they rode a shuttle to Denali State Park, and were dropped off at the Little Coal Creek trailhead at the north end of the ridge. They arrived at the trailhead a little after noon, and with sunset a good ten hours away they had more than enough time to make it to the first pass. As they started out, the cloud cover was low, as dense as fog, and much of the trail was either muddy or covered in melting snow. They were consistently post-holing it up to their knees, as the snow was too soft to hold their weight, and they quickly accepted the fact that their boots might never dry out over the course of the four days that they’d planned to spend on the ridge.

  The trail switchbacked up thirty-five hundred feet to the first pass, and within the first few hours of that ascent, the sky emptied of clouds, the sun baked down on them with temperatures in the seventies, and all to their right were magnificent views of Denali peak and the Alaska Range. They decided to set up camp just over the pass, where before them lay wide-open tundra, parceled with snow and spongy terrain.

  They’d each brought tents and bear canisters and other personal gear. Though they wouldn’t be able to build a fire, as there was no dry wood in sight, they found a comfortable spot among some boulders that felt private from the handful of other hikers they’d seen. Jeb made them each a cup of tea from his stove, and Marian had packed ginger cookies and vanilla wafers, and Jeb said, “Food fit for a king.”

  And because the sun was so warm, they took off their wet boots and soggy wool socks and laid them on the rocks to dry. They leaned back against the boulders, let the sun drench their damp clothes and skin, and at some point as they stared out at the white-laden Denali and the rocky points around it, Marian asked Jeb if what she’d been through with Tate would always define her. It was the first time she had mentioned Tate’s name since arriving in Alaska.

  “I don’t think it will define you. It will make you stronger,” he said.

  “Tate told me once that because we live and breathe and survive things doesn’t necessarily make us strong; it just makes us alive.”

  “Yeah, and Tate was full of bullshit,” Jeb said. “The things that go wrong in life allow us to create new life,” Jeb told her. “It takes a lot of strength to do that.”

  And then Marian said, “Can I tell you about what happened?” because really she had not told anyone other than the authorities and Nick, not even the reporters or her family, about the details from that day.

  “Of course,” Jeb said. “You can tell me whatever you want.”

  And the first thing she said was there was so much blood, because she couldn’t get the image of Tate out of her mind. And Marian told Jeb how Tate’s eyes had held a look of surprise. “He didn’t think I would kill him. Even when he saw the gun, he didn’t think I could do it.”

  Marian walked Jeb through the rest of the details, how she’d had to keep Ranger from jumping out of the vehicle and running over to Tate. She told him about Arkansas and Yeti whining and barking in the back, and that even now there were times when she was sure she could still smell the smoke from the gun mixed with the sweet metallic scent of Tate’s blood.

  She told Jeb about her call to 911. The dispatcher had asked Marian if she had been physically harmed. She asked Marian if she was in a safe place. The sheriff would be there shortly, and would Marian be all right staying with the body.

  It was too much, and the dogs were still whimpering, making it difficult for Marian to hear the dispatcher. Marian needed to get the dogs out of there. She needed to get herself out of there also. And yet this was now a crime scene, and Marian knew she was no longer in danger. She told the dispatcher she would stay. She would wait for the sheriff and the deputy whom the dispatcher had also called to the scene. All the while Marian felt as if she were existing outside her body. Even her words sounded hollow. Dissociation, Nick would have called it. Nick, whose text message had prompted her to take the gun from her glove compartment, whose warning Marian was convinced had saved her life.

  After the call ended, Marian had the disturbing realization that what Tate said had been true: that she’d had a hand in Jenness’s death. Marian had al
erted Tate to Jenness’s behaviors. And how ironic, Marian thought, that if it had not been for Jenness’s gun, Marian would be dead. Not only had Nick saved Marian’s life, but Jenness had saved it, too. That thought brought the kind of intense pain that was unbearable, and the tears came, and her body shook with uncontrollable grief.

  * * *

  • • •

  The authorities had ruled Marian’s actions as self-defense, even though it was not until after Tate lay on the ground with six rounds to his chest and torso that she’d seen the knife he had held in his right hand. Though the United States does not allow posthumous trials or convictions, there was no doubt in the investigators’ minds that Tate had killed Jenness. Within a mile from the huts, a campsite was found. Beneath a green tarp was Jenness’s backpack, including her cell phone, from which Tate had been sending messages as if he were Jenness. He’d used the magazine from Jenness’s hut to post the Alaska pictures.

  As with the other victims, Jenness’s body was unclothed and found beside a creek bed. Yet, unlike the other victims, her clothes were not discovered beside her remains but instead back at Tate’s camp, where they had been neatly folded, as if Tate had held on to the items as some kind of souvenir.

  Just as Tate had staged his entire relationship with Marian, so had he also staged his death. Tate’s project in the Selkirk Mountains put him in direct contact with the Pacific Northwest Trail. It was speculated that Tate had appraised the handfuls of hikers each day, carefully selecting the young man with the Irish accent who was hiking alone, who bore a resemblance to Tate in size and coloring, and who trustingly would have divulged his plans to Tate, of meeting up with friends at the end of the trail. Tate would have befriended this man in much the same way Tate had befriended the Stillwater victims.

  The medical examiner had reported that the victim had sustained a blow to the head, which was consistent with a person being charged by a bear and knocked to the ground. Now investigators believed Tate had struck the man from behind, or else had knocked him down. The victim’s larynx was subsequently crushed, which could have been from the weight of the bear, or from the pressure of Tate’s arm, or even from a blunt object Tate might have used.

  Unless a victim’s identity is in question, the victim’s DNA isn’t analyzed, authorities explained. Upon the initial investigation there had been no question that the victim was Tate. His belongings, including his pack and phone, were found near the body, and Lyle had reported that Tate was missing in that area. With the new information, the wildlife investigators were able to match the DNA collected from evidence at the crime scene to that of the missing hiker, Elias Hutchins. Further, a more detailed DNA analysis had identified the additional animal species as belonging to an elk. According to lab analyses, Tate had washed a set of his clothes in scent-free detergent and had sprayed down his boots with a scent-free product as well. He’d even gone so far as to use the spray product on the corpse for the purpose of reducing his chances of the bear being deterred by the human scent. Tate had switched out the clothes he’d prepared, and also his boots and personal belongings, with those of Hutchins. Then he’d used elk meat to lure the bear to the corpse. Traces of elk were found on the shirt of the victim, as well as on the victim’s trousers. Tate very well could have rubbed elk meat all over the victim’s body, Waller said. “As far as the bear was concerned, the body was carrion, and it was fair game. It’s an elaborate scheme. But it’s doable,” he said. Waller reminded authorities of a bear’s olfactory system, saying it was possible that a bear could smell carrion up to twenty miles away. Tate’s scheme really wasn’t all that different than luring a bear to a snare, Waller explained, and his team had been able to do that within a matter of hours using only a single slab of meat.

  And in the same way Tate had posted messages and sent texts from Jenness’s phone, he’d done the same with the phone of the missing hiker. On both phones Tate had disabled location services, and authorities had not been contacted to track either phone using additional technology, as there was no reason to believe anything was wrong. Both Jenness and Elias Hutchins were not in areas where they would have a strong cell phone reception. They’d made these trips to get away. Neither had been expected to answer or return phone calls during the weeks they’d been gone.

  Authorities believed Tate had then posed as a hiker and used an alias to target people for rides, choosing individuals who, like Elias Hutchins, were just passing through, who wouldn’t have been tuning into the daily news of a bear attack, with Tate’s picture posted along with the story. And Tate had changed his looks; without his beard and longish hair, to the unsuspecting eye, he would have barely been recognizable. Already since the story had been reported, one woman came forward saying she had given Tate and Ranger a ride from Metaline Falls, Washington, to Priest River, Idaho. She’d even stopped for Tate to pick up a bag of dog food. She said the man had called himself Matt.

  Once on state forest land and within a mile of The Den, Tate was able to make a camp for himself using both Elias’s and Jenness’s provisions. Investigators speculated that Tate had restocked his food supply those past six weeks by taking from Jenness’s reserves in her hut and from items in the main house when he was sure no one was around. And he’d no doubt used the shower house as well, unscrewing the lightbulb so that he wouldn’t be seen. In reflecting on the past couple of months, Marian felt certain there were times Tate had been in the shower house when she was there, and she realized the very thin and fragile lining between life and death.

  At Tate’s campsite, authorities had found several de-scent products, from sprays to soaps and shampoos. Detectives with the sheriff’s department had also discovered several thousand dollars in cash at the campsite, which Tate had withdrawn from his checking account before leaving for Washington. This action alone would not have raised suspicions. Tate had always paid in cash and had frequently withdrawn large amounts. And they’d found a Texas driver’s license, passport, and social security number for Mark Edward Preston. Tate had used Marian’s computer to download specialized software that allowed him to surf the dark web. He’d used Marian’s bank information to set up a digital currency account for purchasing the fake identity. He’d had the items shipped to a nearby summer cabin that had been vacated. Tate had even gone so far as to delete the online bank statement from Marian’s email that showed his transaction, before Marian had seen it.

  * * *

  • • •

  As difficult as the call was to make, Marian had reached out to Tammy. She told Tammy she was sorry. She offered to sell Tate’s vehicle for her. She would do anything, Marian had said.

  But Tammy didn’t want the money. “I can’t do this,” she said. “You killed my brother. I can’t talk to you.” As far as Marian knew, Tammy still believed her brother was innocent.

  * * *

  • • •

  The night of the shooting, Nick got back to Marian. She learned about the clinical trial for the first time. Nick would be evaluated by a doctor in the morning, and if all went well he would receive the poliovirus three days later on Friday.

  “So he’s really dead,” Nick said.

  “Yes.” And Marian filled him in on the details.

  “The journey’s not over for you,” Nick told her. “I’ll be there for you in whatever way I can.”

  “Which means your journey’s not over either,” Marian said.

  And Nick said, “Let’s hope so.”

  Cate kept in touch with Marian over the course of the next few days. “He’s groggy from the anesthesia,” she said, “but he’s doing well.” The next call was from Nick. He was home.

  “How are you holding up?” Marian asked him.

  “The worst part is over,” Nick said. “Did I mention they make good barbecue in North Carolina?” But then he turned serious. “How are you?”

  “The worst part right now is the media,” Marian told him.
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  “They’re just doing their jobs. Besides, the coverage might do some good for the families. Stay off the Internet. Turn off the TV. Things will get better.”

  And Marian asked Nick what were the odds of him calling The Den the day Tate answered. “Why do you think he picked up the phone?” she said.

  “First, Tate was in the house. He may have even enjoyed a nice breakfast. He knew Trainer was off doing his own thing on Wednesdays. Lyle was gone until the following week. Tate knew you had taken the dogs in his old vehicle, and as you found out, he had a good sense of where you were taking them. Maybe he’d gone snooping around the place. The phone rang; caller ID came up. Tate would have recognized the Idaho area code, and who else would have been calling from Idaho on his lucky day? What did he have to lose? He was unstoppable, invulnerable, and dead men don’t answer phones. Seeing that call come in would have been irresistible for Tate. And he was going to do and say whatever he damn well pleased. I was the one helping you figure Tate out. Having the chance to mess with my head was just frosting on his cake. If the call turned out to be business, so be it; he could say wrong number and hang up,” Nick said.

  “And my head wasn’t the only one Tate was messing with,” Nick continued. “Hanging around those past five or six weeks while he put together his final exit strategy would have been both necessary and great fun. Necessary from a details standpoint in assuming his new identity. And great fun in taunting you this whole time, getting in your personal space, watching you like some phantom, all the while rehearsing the final act in his head—”

  And Marian finished Nick’s sentence, “To take my life.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did he wait so long?” Marian asked.

  “Ah, but you’re trying to understand Tate with your own logic. Throw that out the window,” Nick said. “That’s the only way you can even begin to understand the mind of a psychopath. First, his reward system is practically nil. He doesn’t have the same dopamine levels running around in his head as you and I. So where does he get his kicks? From deceiving others and from the twisted crimes he designs in his head. Bundy once said that the fantasy that generates the anticipation is always more stimulating than the crime itself. With each murder, Tate was upping the ante, taking greater risks, heightening the foreplay of his crime, the deception. Tate had great fun seducing you into a relationship with him, luring you deeper into his world. And just when he was getting close to the attack, you laid one on him. You told him about Jenness’s photos. Tate became wary then and paranoid that he was on someone’s radar. He couldn’t have this person hanging around. He became obsessed with what Jenness had on him. Perhaps he lurked around her hut. Maybe he watched Jenness through her window with binoculars. Maybe he listened in on a conversation she had on the phone with this reporter fellow who, according to what Tate said, had come around asking questions. Tate had to be able to come and go as he pleased. He could not be under anyone’s microscope—not the reporter’s, not Jenness’s, not anyone’s. He needed latitude to continue killing, to plot out his next ruse.”