No, honestly, I don’t. You just said it yourself. Look around. We’re just specks out here in the scheme of things. What does it matter?
I get what you’re saying, but it does. It matters what you do with yourself. What kind of a trajectory you send yourself on. This out here—he gestures to the lake and to the peaks. It’s right in our faces that it’s billions of years old. And you’re right, each of our imprints seems small against that, but really, each one of our imprints is fascinating. And just like those rings in the water that those fish make, we make them too, and what we do reverberates way beyond what you can ever imagine. I’ve mentioned before, studying the small is representative of the grand.
Yeah, well, even in your job. Looking at all the dead tissue. Another life down the drain. At what point does each of those lives matter? The second I say it, I know I am pushing his buttons.
Look, Ted, I’m going to hope that that negative talk doesn’t really run that deep.
The tone of his voice says he is very serious. I stay quiet.
Look, it’s important to have empathy for others and to see each life as sacred. If you think that each body that I study doesn’t matter, then think again, because there isn’t one single cell I don’t look at that, in my mind, isn’t linked to a human being with interesting and important traits and histories.
I sit silently. I feel sick to my stomach, maybe from the smoke, maybe from knowing I hit a sore spot. I stare out over the black lake, the sky now dark, the fire fading to embers. Dad reaches over and grabs a log from the pile we’d gathered. Let’s just enjoy this, he says brusquely, setting the log across the embers and stirring them up with his stick. It’s beautiful out here. I’m going to make some tea before it gets any darker. Want some?
I shake my head. I feel sulky. Irritated. He tries to make small talk, but it doesn’t help. I’m in silent mode and keep pouting until I tell him that I’m tired and want to go to bed. He points to the tent. Help yourself. I’ll tend the fire for a little while longer, then I’ll be there myself.
I stand up and fake a stretch. Dad stands too. Here, he says, holding out my knife. Forgot to give that back after cutting your line last night.
Thanks. I grab it and shove it into my jeans pocket.
Good night, Ted. I love you.
I mumble Good night back but don’t say “I love you.”
Gradually I became aware that the vehicle was getting cold and that I needed heat. My space blanket felt inflexible and crinkly on my lap, my spine stiff, and my butt cold on the vinyl seat, but I couldn’t wake. A part of me wanted to roust myself away from my dreams and another part kept trying to push further into them to part and peek behind some heavy, dark curtain blocking my view.
Cool air bites the tip of my nose. My dad has come to bed. I hear his steady breathing. My sleeping bag is warm and snug, but the ground feels hard and lumpy and slightly slanted so that I fall toward the side of the tent wall and my pocketknife is still in my pocket, digging into my hip. I need to pee, but I’m snug in my sleeping bag and don’t want to move. My shoes are just outside the zippered entrance to the tent. I find my flashlight beside me and, carefully and quietly, I unzip the tent, crawl out, and slip on my sneakers. I feel frightened. The night is black, and when I look up, millions of stars dot the black canvas of sky. The Milky Way sprays right across the center, dazzling, miraculous—unreal. Everything seems quiet, except the water, gently lapping on the pebbled shore. The baby hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and I decide not to go. I slide my shoes back off and crawl back in. I can hold it until morning.
Dad stirs, asks me if everything is okay, and I say it is. I hear him immediately drift back to sleep, his breathing returning to a steady and thick pace. I dig the knife out of my jeans pocket and toss it to the side. I snuggle back into my bag and scoot away from the side of the tent wall. Slowly, I slide back into the side of the tent, feel the cold fabric on my face, and fall back to sleep.
A knocking sound begins to catch in the corner of my mind, rising and drawing closer, like someone is trying to get in, but it can’t be. The knocking resembles tapping on glass, but we’re in a tent.
I hear Dad’s yelling. Oh my God, a bear, he’s got me. I hear the rustling of his sleeping bag and screaming. Get out of your sleeping bag, Ted. Get out of the tent. I can’t move no matter how hard I try.
Give me your knife, Ted. Your knife. Oh Jesus, he’s got me.
There’s more screaming. And tapping. Loud tapping, and I think I hear voices that aren’t my dad’s. Something pulls me out of the dream, but I can still hear my dad. I don’t want to lose my dad—his voice, his presence.
Your knife, Ted.
I can’t move. I’m frozen and tangled. I’m trying to get out of the bag. Finally, I get my legs to move, but I just flail, my legs caught inside like I’m in a web. My bag is wet. My pants are wet. I frantically pat my hand around the fallen, tangled tent fabric trying to find my knife.
If he comes for you, don’t move. Play dead. I hear more screaming, deep, raw, penetrating sounds, and I’m still frozen, my heart exploding in my chest. Don’t move, Ted, go limp if it goes for you, he manages between screams.
Adrenaline and fear coursed through me, my heartbeat drumming against my ribs. My breathing was too fast, and my head turned rhythmically from side to side on the car seat. My neck hurt. Knocking, I told myself with whatever thread of reality was still attached to my mind. It’s just knocking. Tapping on the car window. That’s all it is. I tried to open my eyes. The darkness before me swirled and converged into tangled shapes. Or scraping. Claws scraping. Scratching.
I threw the space blanket to the side, frantically grabbed for the car door, but couldn’t get my fingers on the latch. I pawed at the window controls with my left hand and reached for my gun with the other. Finally, in an eternity of seconds, I found the latch, swung the door open, and stepped out and saw the beast before me. I grabbed for him, throwing his heavy body against the side of the car.
“Are you fucking crazy?” I heard.
I had him under the neck, by the scruff of his collar. I aimed my gun right at his face. I could hear my breathing permeate the cold air around me.
“What the fuck, dude. Calm down. What the hell?”
The light from my car showed he had a beard and wore a dark-colored down jacket. I slowly lowered my gun and stepped away. I was panting.
“Holy fuck. You scared the shit out of me.”
“What the hell are you doing?” I managed, shapes still shifting before my eyes. I was beginning to see this guy—simply a tourist—more clearly. Red flannel under the down. Brown wool cap on his head. Freaked-out, wide eyes.
“I was up by my fire late. Saw you had your running lights still on and figured you’d wake up to a dead battery if I didn’t let you know. Don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t want to be out here with a dead battery.”
I took another deep breath and nodded rapidly and rhythmically, like some ridiculous bobbing toy that you find in a gift shop. I tried to get my breath under control.
“Honest.” He fanned his hands out to the sides, surrendering. “Honest, I didn’t mean to freak you out.”
Embarrassment flooded my face. I’d never been so relieved that it was dark out. My head suddenly felt overwhelmingly hot against the cool air. I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I, I . . . I was out of it, dreaming. You caught me off guard.”
“Shit,” he huffed. “I guess so.” He looked down at my gun hanging in my hand by my side and fidgeted.
I slid it into the holster.
“All right if I go now?”
“Yeah, sure. Again, really sorry about giving you a scare. I appreciate you telling me about the lights. You just caught me completely off guard. But you’re right.” I swallowed again. This simple talk took more strength than I thought I had left. “I definitely wouldn’t want to wake up to
a dead battery.”
“Okay, then. Right.” He carefully edged off to the side and backed away, his hands still up, more to shield himself from me this time than to surrender. “Sorry I bothered you.”
“It’s fine. Really. Thanks,” I said.
He didn’t answer. Just kept backing away until he faded into the darkness, turned his flashlight on, and walked to his campsite, where I could see the glow of his fire. I climbed back in my car and turned my running lights off by turning the key all the way to the left. For the first time in my adult life, I wished I smoked and could have a cigarette to calm me down. I took a swig of my coffee, now lukewarm and still spiked with whiskey. When my breathing calmed down, I realized that when I turned the ignition off while I dozed, I hadn’t gotten the key completely to the off position. The guy had done me a big favor.
I held my breath when I tried to start the car. When the engine roared, I laid my head back against the seat and thanked my lucky stars. I buckled up, pulled out, and drove all the way home, over the treacherous pass until I got to my cabin and collapsed at five a.m. Many thoughts prodded me, penetrated through the descending fatigue on my drive back to West Glacier. But mostly one image tugged at me more than any of the others: how tender and pink, how youthful my hands appeared under the cold water holding those trout.
• • •
When I returned, I slept until three p.m., ten whole hours of delicious, drenching, dreamless sleep. When I woke, I felt less frayed, less crazed. Invigorated, in fact. Maybe it was just good ol’ rest, but strangely, after all my craziness, my panics, pulling my gun on Hess, then on an innocent civilian, my insane, stupid drive through the night, I felt both a gentle caress on my back that things would be all right and a powerful push forward to get back to the case.
I had a message from Monty and one from ballistics. I called Missoula immediately and found that the bullet was a complete match to the Ruger. I showered, shaved, and for the first time felt calm. There were several things about my past that were slowly dawning on me and beginning to make sense: for example, it never occurred to me that I turned my grades around after my dad died for him. And ultimately that I went into the force not just to nudge up to some half-ass notion of being a mountain man, but because I needed to try to prevent more of those dead bodies from turning up under the pathologists’ bright lights.
I called Monty next. I told him I’d come down with a bug the night before and needed to sleep it off, but that I was feeling better and would be in by the evening. He informed me that he’d found nothing useful on the Honda yet and that there’d been no progress on finding the owner of the Ruger. He said he’d called the pawnshop guy again earlier and he wasn’t very helpful. I told him he didn’t need to wait for me to come in before he went home for the day. “Are you sure you’re good?” he asked before we hung up.
“Yeah,” I said. “Really, I am. And do me a favor. Bug the pawnshop guy one more time before you leave the office. I just think he needs us to light a fire under his ass. Threaten him that if he can’t come up with something helpful, that we’re coming in tomorrow with a subpoena for all his records.”
I drove southwest, out of the park, through Martin City, Hungry Horse, and Columbia Falls. I pulled into a Starbucks, went in, and ordered an Americano with cream, and I took a seat at a small round table near the window by the parking lot. I had my carrier bag with me, so that I could review files, see if anything new hit me, but I paused before taking them out. I sat quietly sipping my coffee, read the paper that was left at the table next to mine, and saw another piece on the hunting incident that Monty had mentioned, then decided I was ready to retackle the case.
I pulled out the file with all the interviews and began rereading them and hoping a new perspective might hit me. After getting through several, I sensed someone approaching. I glanced up to see Dr. Pritchard. “It’s a Small World (After All).” It was true. It’s one of the reasons I’d left. You couldn’t go anywhere—the grocery store, the movies, restaurants—without running into someone you knew. I just didn’t expect it to be someone I’d interviewed for the case.
“I thought that was you,” he said—no coffee cup—so I figured he either was waiting for his order or hadn’t placed it yet.
I stood and we shook. “Nice to see you again.”
“How’s your case coming?”
“We’re getting there.” I offered him a seat and he took it.
“That’s good. One of my sons is playing hockey in Kalispell. My wife sent me on a coffee run.”
“Hockey. That’s a tough sport on parents. All that standing around in the cold.”
Pritchard smiled. “You have kids?”
I shook my head. I had a vague notion suddenly that Shelly could very well walk in any minute. As far as I knew, there was only one Starbucks in the Flathead Valley. I asked him how many kids he had, and he said three boys, and then the barista called out his drinks. When he returned, he stood above me, a drink in each hand, and just when I figured he was going to leave, he sighed and sat back down. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking slightly embarrassed, and placed the coffees down. “I just have to ask: have you discovered who beat the black Lab you asked me about?”
“I’ve gotten no direct admission of the crime, but I’m certain I know who did it: the guy who was killed and another guy who lives outside Columbia Falls. You probably don’t know him.” I wanted to tell him to keep an eye out for the local police blotter on who’s been charged with poaching antelope, but then reconsidered.
“Will he be charged?”
“Possibly,” I said. “If not for that, then hopefully for other things.”
He shook his head. “I know this is a silly question coming from someone scientifically inclined, but why would anyone . . . ?” His eyes were flooded with questions.
I grabbed my quarter. “I don’t know,” I said after a moment. “I suppose you can always fall back on genetic makeup or some type of injury or deficiency in the brain. I know scientists working with PET scans have written up studies on how the brain lights up differently for violent people.”
He nodded and reached out for his cups. I knew he wanted something more, something profound, and I felt that unsteady shift inside of me, as if a crumbling floor I’d been standing on had fallen away—that familiar sense of how it can all pass into nothingness. I shook it off; I had work to do. “I just thought,” he added, “that with your line of work, maybe you had some insight . . .” His voice faded and he shrugged.
“It’s a mystery,” I offered. “Unfortunately, it’s an age-old question that no one can answer.”
“I read in the paper that you’ve got a bear on your hands.”
“Did,” I said. “And if it wasn’t so weird, it would be one hokey story, but luckily, we’ve studied him enough, and he’s been released just yesterday.”
“He ate evidence?”
“I’d like to discuss the situation, especially with a man of your expertise. Unfortunately, I can’t.”
“I understand.”
“Someone at work mentioned that Joe Smith, the chief of Park Police, was on this case.”
“Not necessarily working it, but since he’s chief of Park Police, he’s definitely around. You know him?” I was curious if he knew that Joe’s daughter had been involved with the victim. Again, small world, but fortunately, nothing had come out in the paper about Leslie yet.
“I do. A lot more of my practice used to have a large-breed focus. As my own family’s demands have gotten greater, it’s gotten harder for me to make the house calls that large animals require, so I’ve scaled way back on those and stick to what I can do in the clinic. Plus—” He shrugged. “It’s more economically feasible for me to stay in the clinic.”
I took a sip of my espresso and waited for him to continue.
“I used to help Elena and Joe out with their horses. Joe’
s a great guy.”
“Did you know the daughters?”
“Not well. I’d seen them around a time or two when they were younger, and I’ve dealt with Heather’s animals some. In fact, getting back to the topic of animal cruelty, she had a problem not too long ago.” He shook his head.
I lifted a brow. “Problem?”
23
WHEN A DETECTIVE starts to think they really understand a case, he or she can almost hear a clicking sound as small elements fall into place, like a finely tuned lock that ticks with every correct number, allowing the opening mechanism to slide into place.
I sat quietly after Dr. Pritchard had left, not hearing any of the sounds in the coffee shop as my thoughts raced, turning around and around as I tried to put it together. I could almost hear the clicks as my mind adjusted its calibrations. But you have to be careful, because sometimes hunches are not correct and hearsay is not fact. If you start getting desperate to solve a case, you can run wild with an incorrect hunch based on a few small clues that are not as significant as they should be.
For example, Lou had lied and didn’t have an alibi, but I couldn’t prove that he’d killed his nephew. Now, after talking to Dr. Pritchard, I was aware that someone else had lied to me, only this time, unlike Lou, I felt like the dam was about to break.
I gathered my things, left Starbucks, and headed back to Glacier. I had a lot to do. I needed a search warrant, but I wasn’t sure I had probable cause. I racked my brain trying to remember what had been right there before me.
As negative as I say I am and how I typically imagine the worst, I wouldn’t have predicted the outcome of the case to be so wounding. Ultimately, I guess it was the eyes—not just one pair, but several—the shock and sadness in all of them—drained and burned out like hollow shells—that have stayed with me.
On my way back toward the park, Monty called and confirmed my deductions. After he got ahold of the owner of First National Pawn again as I asked him to, he called back within the hour with a name of the buyer of the Ruger two years ago in August—a Kevin Fuller. “Ted,” he said, his voice low and slightly strained, “I’ve got the most recent owner of the Ruger and it’s no longer Kevin Fuller.”
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