The Wild Inside

by Christine Carbo

  “Here,” I offered. “Let me hold that.” She placed the cigarette between her lips. I held the flame to it, then handed the lighter back to her.

  “Well, I better go.” She glanced at her car.

  “Leslie.” I reached out and put my hand on her elbow. I try not to make a habit of physically touching people that I’ve come across during investigations, but she looked so frail and lost—like she might fade away—and that if I just made contact, I might ground her at least momentarily while her sister was no longer around to do that for her. It seemed like a very small thing I could do for Joe and Heather.

  She turned, still dazed, and met my eyes.

  “I can give you the name of someone who can help with this sort of a loss. I mean, it’s not death, but it is certainly a significant trauma.”

  She shrugged and tilted her head to the side and tried a small smile, but it fell away as quickly as it came, just as her sister’s had. Both fragile smiles would later mesh into one and forever stay with me. She looked at the building her father worked in, then back at me. I gave a warm squeeze to her slight elbow and let go. She looked at the pavement, then got in her car and left. I watched her drive away, her red taillights disappearing as she rounded the corner.

  24

  SOME MIGHT CALL it closure. In fact, I’m sure my Missoula therapist might have called it that. But I tend to think of it as a type of conquering instead. Besides, I can’t really bring myself to think that such a thing as closure exists, as if there’s some button that you can push that will simply box and wrap trauma up and tuck it neatly away. Trust me, if there was, I’m sure I would have pushed it by now.

  In fact, I don’t know what to do with memories like mine. It feels wrong to forget, although there are certainly spans of time in which I try hard to do just that. Unfortunately, that kind of closure wasn’t going to come my way, so I tried the trick performed in the movies: visiting the place. And that’s where conquering comes to mind. Going back to Oldman Lake after all this time was an attempt to triumph over jumbled-up fears more than to reassemble memories so they could reside in a more peaceful place. I now knew I owed that much to myself—to the boy with the young hands.

  Monty, believe it or not, said he’d go with me, which pleased me. And even though in the movies, it seems like a prerequisite that the protagonist goes it alone to the spot where the personal trauma occurred, there was no way in hell I was hiking by myself in bear country to Oldman Lake in the fall, or any season for that matter.

  On a cloudy morning, two days before I was scheduled to leave for Denver (which I had stretched out as long as I could in order to stall getting back to undergo my psych evaluation), we packed all the necessities and headed out before sunrise and drove over to the Two Medicine campsite, where I had been just days before. By the time we got there, the sky hung low and dark with a light drizzle, the aspen trees stood skeletal white without their leaves, and the peaks, although disappearing into the fog, hovered ominously around the lake. We hiked the six and a half miles, around the end of Two Medicine, over a ridge, through a valley where we crossed numerous dried-up streambeds, and on and upward. I couldn’t have pointed out the spot where the hikers found me unconscious if I had to, although Monty did ask for me to.

  Monty and I barely spoke. He knew to be quiet and to let me have some space and honestly, it took every ounce of strength to keep putting one foot in front of the other and not turn back. I insisted on taking the lead. He had offered, but I knew with Monty behind me, he’d be the locomotive in my head, pushing me onward. If nothing else, it would have been too big of a knock to my ego to quit with him following me.

  When we reached the higher elevation, we had to trudge through snow on the trail. Maybe it was my nerves, but I tired easily. As we got closer, I felt edgy enough to pause and take notice of the ghostly trees. Yep, they’re dead whitebark pines.

  “Everything okay?” Monty asked.

  “Yeah, I’m good.”

  “Tired?”

  “No, I’m good.” I got my water out and took a sip.

  “It’s just a little farther.”

  I wiped my mouth and held out my hand for Monty to go ahead. He stepped in front of me without any comments, slogging forward on the wet snow. Patches of white surrounded us on the forest floor and the smell of wet pine filled my nose. We walked another quarter of a mile, came over a knoll, and there it was.

  Its waters were as I remembered, a deep green, maybe a little grayer now in the dim light, but its size larger than I recalled. Its shape like a large teardrop, it sat in a basin, hemmed in by stunted pines and the tall snow-covered ridges leading up to Dawson and Ptimakan Passes. The shoreline was white from snow, and I was fairly relieved to know that it was too chilly for us to stay long. We had been hiking through intermittent drizzle—not cold enough for snow, but the air still felt raw, as if the rain could turn to sleet at any moment.

  Monty and I found a log to sit on, had some snacks, and I appreciated the fact that he didn’t keep glancing at me or checking me out for my reaction to the place. He treated it like any other hike, wiping the sweat off the back of his neck with a blue cowboy bandana he’d brought. He dug around in his pack for snacks and after he ate, tried to skip small, flat rocks over the dark water.

  After a while, he announced, “I’m going to walk over there to explore. Just around a bit.”

  I nodded, a piece of apple in my mouth. I knew what he was doing—giving me space to contemplate. I sat and looked around at the trees surrounding me and saw the narrow trail, like a crooked scar, leading toward the campsite. I grabbed my pack, made sure my spray was on my belt loop, and slowly took the path.

  There were only a few spaces for the backcountry permit camping, and I remembered clear-as-day which space we’d picked. This one here, Dad. See, hardly any rocks and not too sloped.

  Good with me, he answered. We’ll set up the tent; then we’ll make a fire. But first, he said with the same smile he had when we saw the moose at Therriault Lake. Let’s sit down and just take it all in.

  I had rolled my eyes. Told him, Uh, no, thanks, in that too-cool way, I’ll just get started on the tent. I began taking it out of the bag.

  Suit yourself. He shrugged and got comfortable on the rock, twirled his mustache, and made a show of taking in the mountain air just to bug me. We both laughed.

  I could see his smile now.

  I spotted the boulder where he had sat looking out over the lake and up at the high ridge. I went and sat on it and did just as he said: took it all in. Two small rings formed in the water from rising fish and slowly expanded. The trees were more numerous than I remembered, and I didn’t know if that was a function of time or a faulty memory. I couldn’t figure out where the bear had taken him, to which spot. The campsite seemed more closed in than I recalled, and I had to remind myself that grizzlies aren’t really worried about small, stunted pine trees in their way when they barrel through an area.

  I sat still, felt the cold air on my nose. I listened to the water, ever so faintly lapping on the pebbled shore, and spotted some small dark moving objects, which I figured were ducks splashing around on the opposite side of the lake. They moved in the shadows below the steep ridge to the north, which halfway down had a fringe of fluffy mist hanging stagnantly at its base like the trim at the bottom of Santa’s hat.

  I wasn’t going to open the memory vault very far. Not now. It would be too much to let it all come flooding back while visiting the actual place. Instead, I breathed more calmly than I expected, felt the solid rock under the soles of my damp boots, and closed my eyes and pictured the bear in his cage, pent-up angst surrounding him and myself. I breathed deeply, focusing on keeping it slow and rhythmic, and pictured him finding his den. Truly, I was glad he was free.

  After sitting for some time, only the one harrowing memory flashed out of nowhere at me again, the one that surprised
me the most after being at Two Medicine Lake: Give me your knife, Ted. Give me your knife. I closed the door as quickly and fiercely as I could to that recollection—shut my eyes for a moment. There may have been something about a knife that had fueled my unease all these years, but with a calm certainty, I knew there was no candy bar, and I knew there was nothing my young hands or my father’s adult hands could have done to change the outcome. When I opened my eyes, the place looked the same—as desolate and as raw as ever—and it had started to rain again. I put up my hood and listened to the drops make percussion sounds against the sides of the material.

  No, I don’t know what to do with memories like mine.

  As much as I’d like to say it was peaceful, I can’t say it was. I’ll just say this: there are places so wild the ominous, natural cycle vibrates around you and you stand in awe of its lack of good or evil, its neutrality in spite of its unpredictability. Then there are certain human environments where people actually choose to be destructive and in some ways, it seems so much worse because of that choice.

  I know I’ve told you several times that I’m not superstitious, but during my time in Glacier, I had secretly harbored the idea that there are places where events so terrible happen something in the fabric of the place alters. Perhaps just the atoms bounce off one another in an altered pattern, or maybe the event brands itself into the ether or the atmosphere in some mysterious way—like a red-hot iron on rawhide—so someone attuned to such vibrations will forever feel it upon entering. Perhaps it was just my solipsism making me think such foolish thoughts and really, for humans—it’s simply a case of external reality matching whatever is going on internally. If you asked Monty, he might say something different about the place. But as sure as the quarter in my pocket (and I double-checked before we left to make sure it was there), in spite of my notions and superstitions, I was wrong. The place never changed after the night my father was lost to the wild. It just is as it was, as it will remain.

  With the unforgiving and beautiful scenery surrounding me in close juxtaposition to Victor Lance’s case, I realized that my father’s fate was not at the hands of some evil nature god or some possessed grizzly bear. And nature certainly was not subject to my notions of justice. Out here, it was suddenly crystal clear that my attempt in my job to apply some measure of control to the wild was irrelevant. It was only relevant when people were involved because, in fact, the people Monty and I had investigated were much more destructive—by choice—than any grizzly simply surviving, even an erratic one. I felt relieved that the bear was loose now, not only because he seemed to be a metaphor for my need to let the bear inside of me go, as my Missoula therapist said years ago, but because the thought of someone like Tom Hess and Stimpy running free while the bear had been destroyed in the name of locking Heather up was too disturbing. At least, he was out where he belonged.

  I took one more deep breath and looked for Monty. “You ready to go?” I yelled, hearing my voice echo. I could see him by the shore on the east side of the lake about fifty yards from me.

  “Sure am,” he called back over the water. “Man, as much as I love Glacier, this place is giving me the creeps.” His fading echo, eeps, eeps, eeps, rang through the basin.

  I smiled, grabbed my pack, and slung it over my shoulder to go meet him to make our way back. I looked at the campsite one more time and thought, Let go of the grizzly. I nodded to myself with satisfaction and turned to go, but before I started down the path, I checked—made sure of it once again for good measure—that my quarter was in my pocket.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I DON’T KNOW A writer who doesn’t understand that writing is a mixed bag of conflicting emotions: excitement, joy, pain, frustration, insecurity, euphoria . . . the list goes on. It’s no different for me, and without the support of those around me, writing would be a much more difficult task. I owe heartfelt thanks to my family: my husband, Jamie, for his unwavering support and belief I could get the first novel published; to my father and mother, Robert and Jeanine Schimpff, for a life’s worth of support; to my brothers, Eric and Clifford Schimpff, for their encouragement; to my stepdaughters, Caroline and Lexie, with their boundless energy and smiles; and to my son, Mathew, who, with big eyes, has asked me since he was four (he’s a teen now and doesn’t call me Mommy anymore), “Mommy, when are you going to publish one of those books you wrote?”

  I am grateful beyond words to my agent, Nancy Yost, whose grace and professional savvy never fail to amaze me. And to the entire team at Atria, especially my editor, Sarah Durand, whose editorial instincts are spot-on; Sarah Branham, for her high level of expertise and generous help; assistants Daniella Wexler and Anne Badman; copy editor Toby Yuen; production editor Isolde Sauer; art director Jeanne Lee; and the sales, marketing, and publicity experts as well. It’s been an amazing journey for me to witness such skill and dedication from all these talented people in making a beautiful book. I am also grateful to Lou Aronica for his help and advice early on. I owe special thanks for guidance on law enforcement matters to Frank Garner and Bill Dial and to those who I interviewed about Glacier National Park: Michael Jamison, Chuck Cameron, and Gary Moses.

  As for my mentors, fellow writers, and draft readers: thank you, Dennis Foley, Kathy Dunnehoff, Leslie Budewitz, Marian Ellison, Barbara DuLac, Janie Fontaine. Thank you, Roxanne McHenry, for all the great ebook information and advice, and thank you to all the wonderful ladies of the Montana Women Writers group. Thank you also to the many booksellers and reps who work hard to bring these books to the shelves.

  And last, but definitely not least, my brilliant friend, Suzanne Siegel, deserves more than I am able to ever express for her writing advice, limitless research assistance, infinite support, encouragement, wisdom, and tremendous friendship. I am certain that I would have been unable to come this far if it were not for her support.

  I took many liberties with this story. Park Police officers are more present in urban national parks than in Glacier Park. Commissioned rangers handle most law enforcement issues in Glacier. In many places, where the story seemed to need it, I’ve taken liberties with facts (for example, the bear being caged in a compound near Glacier National Park headquarters is unlikely). Any mention of made-up businesses that resemble local businesses, actual businesses, or real landmarks is only done in an attempt to gain verisimilitude, and of course, all errors, deliberate or by mistake, are wholly mine.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Christine Carbo grew up in Gainesville, Florida, until she moved to Kalispell, Montana, when she was twelve. After earning a pilot’s license, pursuing various adventures in Norway, and a brief stint as a flight attendant, she got an MA in English and Linguistics and taught writing, linguistics, and literature courses at a community college. She still teaches, in a vastly different realm, as the owner of a Pilates studio. She and her husband live in Whitefish, Montana, with their three kids, one incredibly silly dog, and one very self-possessed cat. Find out more at ChristineCarbo.com.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead,
is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Christine Carbo

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  First Atria Paperback edition June 2015

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  Cover design by Christopher Sergio

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Carbo, Christine, author.

  The Wild Inside / by Christine Carbo. — First Atria Paperback edition.

  pages cm

  1. Government investigators—Fiction. 2. United States. Department of the Interior—Fiction. 3. Wilderness areas—Fiction. 4. Glacier National Park (Mont.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3603.A726W55 2015

  813’6—dc23 2014018897

  ISBN 978-1-4767-7545-6

  ISBN 978-1-4767-7546-3 (ebook)

  Contents

  * * *

  Epigraph

  Glacier National Park Map

  Fall 1987

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7