by Ilsa J. Bick
Hell. Stopping to untangle a scarf, he also unzipped his parka, letting go a small sigh of relief as cold air wicked away the damp and accumulated heat. His younger brother’s tee and chambray were already clammy. He debated about changing into his deputy’s duty uniform shirt, which was still marked with a faded burgundy wine stain from Sarah’s blowout a few nights back then rejected that as too much trouble.
What was up with Sarah? Things had evened out, but he sensed they were tiptoeing around something only she truly understood. So far as he knew, he hadn’t done anything except deliver the message from the sheriff about Soldier. Maybe this was a case of shooting the messenger? No, he didn’t think so. She’d promised they would talk when she came to town in a few days, but would she keep that?
Come on, you know what this is. He allowed himself a twinge of frustration. After all this time, Pete was still there, a wedge, a dark ghost, the veil through which Sarah saw the world. He never could hope to compete.
“You sound like a bad romance novel,” he muttered. Or Vanity Fair, a good romance he actually liked. He was Dobbins, silently and patiently pining for poor, blind Amelia. The girls he knew from class wanted to smack Amelia something silly. He had, too.
He should move on, find someone else. Except he didn’t want anyone else.
Annoyed, he tugged a water bottle from an interior pocket, swigged, swished warm water around his mouth. He’d have to watch his hydration and fatigue. A large portion of the way down were switchbacks over a steep valley. Those narrow dirt ruts would be tricky in ice and snow and worse at night. One false step, and it might be a very long way down.
So, watch your step. Recapping and stowing his bottle, he was about to move on when his gaze snagged on tracks. Hmmm. For a second, he wondered who else had been here. Then, spying dogs’ prints and those left by snowshoes, he realized this was where he and Sarah had followed the animals down to the gully and that girl. They’d been in such a rush to help her, he’d not searched for more evidence, some clue as to who the girl was or why she’d been shot.
He checked his watch, an old wind-up Timex that had belonged to his dad and his father before him, damn near indestructible if you believed Grandpa. A little after two. Could he spare the time? Even a cursory sweep was better than none. With more snow coming, valuable clues might be lost. His cop’s instincts yammered about missed opportunities and responsibility because odds were excellent that kid was going to die. He owed the poor child this chance for justice. Besides, he had maps. Maybe he could bushwhack back to the main trail from there.
So, he stepped off-trail.
Bad move.
#
Half an hour later, he was bent over a knee studying the spot where they’d discovered the girl. Nothing in the snow he could see, or left on the ground. Her trail wove a meandering line downhill through trees before finally climbing the right lip of this deep wash and disappearing over the side.
She’d come from the northwest. Hadn’t they spotted smoke in that general direction early this morning? Wallowing parallel to her tracks, he scrambled over the gully’s lip and traversed only a short distance before coming to a narrow spine of rock edging a cliff face. From the blood and disturbed snow, the girl had come this way.
Whoa, she climbed this? That was one tough, desperate kid. Bracing his boots on stone, he pulled off his deputy hat, armed sweat from his brow, and studied the drop. Jesus, had to be at least a hundred feet. Extending right and left for some distance, the cliff was a wall of rock studded with overhangs and trees corkscrewing at weird angles. From his vantage, he picked out areas of disturbed snow and splotches of rust—dried blood—marking the girl’s passage up the cliff. At the base, a valley fanned out in mingled grassland, now snow-covered, and forest.
Where had she come from? The valley, of course, but from which ... Wait a minute. Leaning out over the drop, mindful of his balance and still with the crown of his hat cupped in a hand, he squinted.
At a blotch of color that did not belong.
Holy smokes. His breath hitched. Is that pink? Red? He stared so hard, his eyes watered. Jesus, is that a jacket?
“Oh, Christ,” he said out loud as his vision gelled—and that blot of color resolved into arms, a torso. Hips.
A body—and it was not alone. About fifty, sixty yards to the left, there was something else.
The animal was very large, burly, brown, and low to the ground, which eliminated most of the guesswork. This storm had come freakishly early. Many bears hadn’t denned yet, and this was exactly the type of terrain and territory grizzlies and cinnamons preferred.
He had to get down there. That person might be still alive. Doubtful, but he had to assume. If the person was dead, he still had to hustle before the bear ate its fill. Many animals left offal for scavengers, but bears were garbage disposals. A hungry grizz would eat anything. Most went for the soft, easily accessible parts first: face, liver, heart, sometimes buttocks. A bear would then bury the rest in a cache to which it would return at intervals to snack. Depending on the bear, prey might be cached in several places. A head tucked into a hollow here, an arm buried there, legs crammed into deadfall.
He would have to check his maps for a good route that would get him down fast and still give him the best shot at not getting himself into trouble. Although he had his service Glock and two canisters of bear spray, he had no desire to go toe-to-toe with any bear, thanks. Circling around the bear, staying downwind, would be best. A bear has crummy eyesight but a very keen nose.
Squaring his deputy hat on his head, he quickly shucked his pack and opened the top flap. The vinegary aroma of pickles wafted out. God, enough sandwiches in here for an army, although he had asked and now was grateful for the extras. He crammed one in a pocket and set the remaining three on a nearby table of rock. Food would lure the bear away from that kid ... because it had to be another kid. Just a feeling. Digging past a second flashlight, a large Baggie of cotton balls soaked in petroleum jelly, a length of nylon rope, another of paracord, and more survival gear—so much crap he’d never had to use, he sometimes wondered why he bothered—he fished out his binoculars. A small bundle of spare plasticuffs, inadvertently hooked onto the strap, tumbled onto the rocks next to his sandwiches.
Later, later, later ... Turning back, he glassed the valley floor and felt his stomach bottom out. He knew why. He’d harbored hopes this might be a cinnamon bear, a marginally better outcome because cinnamons weren’t quite as aggressive. But that shoulder hump ... he adjusted the focus. Yeah, and its rump was lower than the shoulder, its face in between the snout and eyes. looked as if it had been smashed with a sledgehammer. A grizz, all right, damn it, and ... what was it doing? The animal was pawing at something. He couldn’t tell exactly what. Perhaps a stick? Why would it bother?
Jogging his gaze right, he forced himself to glass the body. From the general size and shape, he was pretty sure it was a girl. Possibly the same age, a teenager, and as petite as the girl now with Sarah—
And lying in a lake of blood.
Shit. The spit dried up on his tongue. The girl was face-down, her body spread-eagled in an awkward, lopsided star, with one leg—the left—weirdly crimped or perhaps buried by snow. Her jacket was in tatters, its stuffing lying in clots, like cotton balls dipped in blood. He couldn’t tell if she’d been shot like the other girl, but the combination of cold weather and snow meant decay would be slow and precious evidence still a possibility. A trail of broken snow marked the direction from which the bear had come, south. Made sense. The wind was sweeping in from the north and northwest. More than likely, the animal had gotten a snootful, either of dying or dead girl or, if the girl had also been shot—of her blood.
The big animal was still worrying that stick, dipping its massive head and tugging with its teeth. What was that? Then, a long black tatter came away, and his heart shriveled. Christ. Still, he wasn’t entirely sure until the bear upended what looked like a stick and a smeary knob of bone appeared.
It was the girl’s left leg, still encased in black pants. The bear had simply yanked it from its socket like a chicken bone. Why go for the leg first? He turned the question over in his mind. Made no sense. Unless it had already devoured the face, the good juicy parts?
Time to move. Bear spray, bear spray ... why hadn’t he clipped the can to his belt? Because you were in a hurry, you didn’t think. As he rummaged, he worried about this course of action. Was it right? That girl was dead. Another was still alive and might be saved, but if he did this, was he condemning her, too? Maybe he should note this location, turn around or bushwhack to the trail, and get a move on. His fingers closed around a canister tangled up with crap. “Damn it.” Frustrated, he gave a sharp tug. His grip was awkward. Snagging on his pack, the can jumped from his hand. “Shit!” Pack still in hand, he made a lunge for the canister—
There was a snap: a hard, sharp crack as something buzzed past the space where his left ear had been only seconds before.
He knew this sound. He’d heard it twice in his life, both times when he’d visited Pete and his brother showed off his new weapons.
This was the sound of a bullet breaking the sound barrier.
For a split second, before instinct took over, he realized the bullet, whizzing past at an angle, had come from somewhere in the valley below. The shooter was below him.
He swiveled, meaning to fling himself back into the gully where its high walls would give him cover, but he was clumsy, off-balance, balanced on a knife edge of icy rock in crappy homemade crampons. So, of course, he stumbled—and lost his balance.
And peeled off the ridge and into thin air.
#
He remembered bits and pieces.
He remembered falling, his backpack still clutched in a fist, though his Stetson spun away like an errant Frisbee. He remembered the way the air screamed and whistled past his ears and how snow-covered boughs rushed for his face. Twisting, he crossed his arms in front of his face, an instinctive move, and then there came an enormous slam of pain as he collided with a thick, stout, heavy branch. The blow knocked the wind from his lungs and, for a split second, he wondered if he might get hung up in a tree. Something snapped and cracked—his bones? There was a loud scream and squeal of overstressed wood, and then he was falling again, not as fast as before but still hurtling past thick spikes that clawed his clothing, raked his skin, tried to gouge out his eyes.
By rights, he should’ve slammed onto a rocky overhang, his body bursting like a ripe cantaloupe dropped onto concrete, or been speared by a lance of wood and left to dangle like a grotesque Christmas ornament.
Instead, he kept falling, endlessly, hurtling downward, whirling and tumbling in a strange weird splay, body pin-balling off branches and boughs. Some splintered. Others bowed beneath his weight then sprang back, snow flying in fans or falling in clots.
His skull slammed into a thick, stout branch. The blow was stunning, like being clubbed with a bat. An electric shock showered down his spine and through every nerve, and he gargled an agonized wail.
Before, mercifully, everything went black.
#
Cold.
This, not pain, he registered first.
He was on his stomach, head turned to the right, the buckle of his duty belt digging into his navel. There was a soft, feathering whisking sensation on his left cheek, like butterfly kisses, but also oddly cold. Snow? Was it snowing? A wet, brackish taste slicked his tongue. His mouth was cold, too, inside and out. Working his tongue—oh, look, his tongue worked—he dislodged a clot of foamy spit and snow then gave a weak cough. Coughing was agony, and he groaned against the dig of jagged, glassy shards into his chest.
Where was he? On a ledge? The ground? Opening his eyes was an effort. His lids felt stapled shut. After what seemed an age, his eyes fluttered open. There was nothing to see except a formless slate-gray expanse and dark, liverish droplets, as if someone had flung red paint onto canvas. Blood. His blood. He was coughing up blood.
That was also the moment he understood where he was: in a snow bank. Somehow, he’d not collided with a ledge or gotten hung up in a tree. Through dumb luck, he had landed in snow deep enough he hadn’t burst into a bloodied tangle of guts, macerated flesh, and splintered bones. Slamming into all those trees on the way down had saved him, slowed his speed. What kissed his cheek with its fine feathery whisking was a soft salting of new snow.
Everything hurt. He was one massive ball of pain, from a burning, knife-like sensation in his groin to the clamor in his head. Something warm trickled from the crown of his head, following gravity and meandering down his nape. His left side, from ribs to hip, felt as if someone had scoured him with a blowtorch. His parka and clothes were ripped. Snow burned his raw, ravaged skin. The blood in his mouth scared him. Though he’d deferred to Sarah, all deputies were EMTs. That grating, glassy sensation meant broken ribs. He could picture their jagged ends knifing his lungs with every breath.
Don’t panic. People survived broken ribs. How many survived falling off a cliff, he didn’t know, but the fact he was still breathing was a plus. What about his back? A wash of blinding-white terror sheeted over his mind. Shit, what if it’s broken, what if I can’t move, what if I’m crippled? Wrestling his fear back, he concentrated on moving his toes. For a second, nothing happened, and then he sobbed out a tiny gasp as they curled in his boots.
Okay. Okay, his spinal cord was intact. He had to move. He couldn’t lie here too much longer. Already cold, he was beginning to shiver.
Except whoever shot at him was still out there. That shot had come from below, too, which meant the guy who’d pulled the trigger was closer to the valley, the bear. The dead kid. Tracking her? Was the shooter even now coming to finish him off?
No. Think. He gulped against a fist of fear in his throat. You’ve been here a while. The blood in his mouth had had time to clot. The light was graying because the day was leaking away, and it was snowing. Had it been when he fell? He didn’t think so. Which meant plenty of time had passed. If the shooter wanted to finish the job, he’d have done so by now.
He was alone. Hurt. On his own.
You have to move. More to the point, he needed shelter and warmth. His body heat was melting the snow in which he lay, and he’d been sweaty before. Get too wet, and he was dead. Help would not come for him tonight. Depending on how much snow fell and for how long, a day or even two would pass before anyone realized he was missing. Sarah would know sooner, but unless she left that girl—or the kid died—she wasn’t in a position to do anything. He had to save himself. Find shelter, start a fire. He’d had his pack in hand when he fell. Had it come down with him? If it hadn’t, did he have enough on him to save himself? He could feel the butt of his service weapon still riding in a hip holster attached to his duty belt. He had a Taser, baton, pepper spray, maybe zip ties, and—
Easy, easy. One disaster at a time. Take stock when you’re out here.
He readied himself. Every inhalation stabbed as if he were sucking the shards of a broken mirror. That weird ache in the small of his back on the right also worried him. What a strange feeling, like being jabbed with a thumb of rock. Forget about that. Focus. Move your toes and then your knees, your legs. Climb out of here. Or drag himself out. Whatever worked.
Tensing his arms, he pushed up with trembling arms. Something beneath shifted with a muted crackle and snap, and then the spiky prong of a branch stabbed through snow, just missing his face. Startled, he gasped and rocked to his left as more branches, bristling with thorns, smashed through as if he were on a thin, threadbare mattress atop a bed of nails. At the sudden movement, pain blasted through his pelvis. A bolt of nausea roared up from his gut. A ball of acid, bitter and bilious, splattered the back of his throat. He heaved again, his vision swamped in a sudden swoosh of vertigo.
Gagging, he collapsed onto the snow, retching, trying desperately not to vomit. Take it easy, take it easy. His skin was clammy with fresh, cold sweat. God, h
is back was killing him. He sipped air, worried about jarring something in his chest, conscious if he succumbed to nausea here, he would then have to lie in a steaming puddle of his own vomit. After a few more moments, his stomach stilled.
Well, he now knew why he wasn’t dead. He eyed those clawed branches. He’d landed in a dense thicket of springy buckthorn. How his weight hadn’t caused these branches to snap was a miracle. If they had, he’d have been trapped. These were shrubs, not true trees, an invasive species that, in the Black Wolf, could reach up to twenty feet high. Land as he had in a closely-knit tangle, and there was no way to climb out. He’d have been entombed here. The only saving grace was this same trap would also hold heat. He would die a little more slowly, that was all.
Which meant he had a new problem now: how to climb without crashing through.
He tried pushing himself up again, all the while fighting alternating waves of nausea and that glassy, jagged, stinging red pain in both his chest and pelvis, the burn in his back. Every snap and crackle sent his heart scuttling into his mouth. When he got himself most of the way up, he carefully rolled left, away from the ache in his back. When his weight came down on his left hip, a huge searing bolt shuddered through the bone. He hung there, his hip barely touching the snow. What had he broken? A hip? He didn’t think he’d be able to move if he had. His pelvis might be cracked. How well his legs performed would depend on how stable his pelvis was. Walking might make everything worse.
No choice.
Gingerly, he worked himself to a sit, gritting his teeth as his head went light and faint. He sucked in too fast, his broken ribs screaming as he let go of a short, breathy, gargling cry. He waited for the roar in both his hip and chest to ebb then eyed the edge of the hole his body had made in the snow when he punched through. Get to his feet, the snow would reach his waist. Boost himself out, and he was free.