In the next image, he was bending over, hands on his knees as if he were trying to catch his breath. She zoomed in, realizing that no, he was throwing up. She clicked on the next photo. In this one, he was looking back over his shoulder again, his mouth open, his eyebrows lifted in surprise or fear. His whole body was rigid, like he was tensed and listening.
She moved to the next image in the series, another blurred shot of him running out of the frame.
Wondering if he reappeared, she clicked through the rest of the images on the memory card, discovering that her final visitor who had triggered the hair snare was a fisher, probably the same one who’d come before.
But who was the man? She went even more slowly through all the images again, finding the mystery person in just those five photos. She moved through each one, examining them all closely. No one should be up there. The preserve was closed to the public. He didn’t seem like a hiker cutting through, not with no pack and no shoes. Besides, he seemed alarmed in that last image, and why was he throwing up?
Maybe he was camped nearby, she reasoned, squatting on the preserve, or just passing through without realizing it was private, protected land now. Maybe he’d drunk too much the night before and walked away from his campsite to throw up. But he was clearly running in the first and last images. Why run around in your bare feet? Montane forest floors weren’t exactly soft and cushy. There were jagged rocks, pointy pine needles, sharp pinecones. She paused on the second-to-last image, where he was looking back, his mouth hanging slightly open, his face an expression of surprise or alarm. Something about him was familiar.
She zoomed in on the man’s face, grateful for the ten-megapixel capability of the remote camera. It didn’t have a lot of definition, but the image held enough detail that she could be sure.
This was the same man who’d placed the note on her truck that first full day at the lodge.
She thought back to the night she set up this camera trap. Something had been in the woods there that spooked her. Maybe it had just been a curious bear. Maybe this guy got freaked out by that same bear and had taken off, ran away from his campsite when it came around. Or maybe this man had been the one watching her that night, a poacher making sure she didn’t find his kill. The note he’d left certainly hadn’t been friendly.
Still, it was a lot of speculation. She’d seen no evidence of anyone camping near the trap, nor evidence of an illegal kill. And how had he cut his leg? She looked back at the image of him leaning over to throw up and zoomed in on it. There weren’t enough pixels this far away to see for sure, but something seemed wrong with his hands. When most people leaned over to puke, they placed their palms on their knees or rested their forearms on their thighs. This guy was awkwardly leaning on bent wrists, his fingers curled strangely inward toward his body. It just looked odd.
And a few pixels of what looked like blood on his head. He might be throwing up because of a concussion.
After examining the images a few more times, she decided the best course of action was to call the sheriff and get someone to go up there with her. If the person was hurt, he might need help. And if he was a trespasser, or worse yet, a poacher, then she’d want him removed anyway. Alex examined the time stamp on the series of images. They’d been taken only yesterday, in the late afternoon.
Not looking forward to another meeting with the oh-so-friendly Sheriff Makepeace, she walked to the landline and dialed the nonemergency number that Ben had left for her.
“Sheriff’s office,” answered an elderly-sounding woman. Alex assumed she was the same overworked woman in flannel she’d seen at the station.
“Hi. This is Alex Carter, the researcher up at the Snowline Resort?”
Instead of a chilly reception, the woman said, “Oh, hello! I was wanting to meet you. Didn’t realize who you were when you came in last week. I’m Kathleen, the office manager here. Slash part-time dispatcher. Slash maker of bad coffee.” She went silent for a moment, then spoke far more quietly. “I think what you’re doing up there is wonderful. I think that whole preserve is just a fantastic idea. Wildlife needs a safe place to roam.”
Alex cracked a smile. “Thanks! You’re the first person to say so.”
“I know. And I’ll probably be the only person around here who will. Say, you haven’t met Flint Cooper, have you?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Well, don’t. He thinks he runs things around here. Got a real bee in his bonnet about what he thought should be done with that land the resort sits on.”
“And what did he think?”
“He wanted to buy it, of course. He’s the biggest rancher in these parts. As if we need more land to graze cattle. Sheesh. Can’t wildlife have any room to roam at all these days?”
Alex’s smile broadened. She’d found an ally. “I agree.”
“He’s been wanting to meet with you, but doesn’t want to put himself out by driving up to the preserve.”
“He doesn’t wear a big white hat with a turquoise band, does he?” Alex asked, thinking of the angry man she’d seen on the street last week.
“So you have met him?”
“Narrowly avoided.”
“Good.” Kathleen cleared her throat and said louder, “And what can the sheriff’s department do for you today?”
Alex guessed someone, likely the sheriff himself, had just walked by the woman’s desk. Alex went into business mode, too. “You might already know that I’m studying wolverines up here, and I set up a bunch of remote cameras around the place. I just picked up the memory card from one of them today, and it captured several photos of a man on the property. I actually mentioned him earlier to the sheriff. This is the same guy who put a threatening note on my truck. But in these images, he looks injured or sick. There are other weird things, too, like he isn’t wearing any shoes.”
“That does sound strange. You want someone to go check it out?”
“I would, yes.”
“I’ll see who’s available and call you back. Is this the best number to reach you at?”
“It’s the only one, actually. No cell service up here.”
“All right, then. Hold tight.” Kathleen hung up.
Returning to her computer, Alex backed up all the photos, then erased the memory card in preparation for putting it in another camera. She looked at her watch: 1:30 p.m.
If someone got out here fast enough, there would still be time to get up there before night, though they’d likely be hiking back in the dark. The phone rang a few minutes later and Alex grabbed it. “Hello?”
It was Kathleen, speaking in a low voice again. “I’m sorry, but it’s the sheriff himself who’s coming out. I tried to get Joe for you.”
It said a lot that his own office manager wasn’t fond of him. Her feeling of kinship with Kathleen grew. “Thanks for trying. When should I expect him?”
“In about twenty-five minutes. He’s already left.”
“Thanks, Kathleen.”
“Good luck.”
They hung up and Alex braced herself for another unpleasant encounter.
Forty-five minutes later, the sheriff sat in her chair by the computer. He frowned, going through the images for the twentieth time. She’d told him this was the same man who’d put the note on her truck. “Well, I don’t recognize him. He’s not a local.” He flipped through them again.
“Are you sure? Then what was he doing up here at the lodge?”
“Beats me. Probably just some squatter or hunter.” He looked up at her, his mouth a thin, condemning slash. “A lot of folks used to hunt up here, you know. This fellow might be someone from out of town who didn’t realize it was a preserve now.”
“If that’s the case, Sheriff, then I’d want him removed.”
“Then again,” he said, leaning back, “could just be some hippie tree hugger out here on some kind of wilderness kick. It would explain the bare feet. Getting back to nature and all that.”
“Then why the threatening n
ote? And what about him throwing up? And the cut on his leg and head?”
“Maybe you read the note wrong. Maybe he was warning you off the unfriendly locals and he’s a granola type like you. He could have cut himself looking for mushrooms and made himself sick eating the wrong ones.” He looked back at the pictures. “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.”
She stood, surprised. “Are you suggesting that we not even go out there and look?”
He turned in the chair. “You really want to hike up all that way because of a handful of photos of some hippie who drank too much peyote? I radioed in to see if there were any missing hikers in the area, and there aren’t any right now.”
She thought about the sheriff’s suggestion and her interpretation of the note. It had read, You’re not welcome here. Leave while you still can. The sheriff could actually be right. Maybe the man was warning her about the person who ran her off the road. If the man had meant well, then she certainly didn’t want to leave him out there hurt. “That doesn’t mean that someone’s not out there injured. It could be days before he’s due back.”
“True enough.” Surprising her, the sheriff stood up and said, “All right, then. Let’s go.”
She uncrossed her arms, feeling the growing frustration subsiding a little bit, then grabbed her smaller daypack. “You got water?” she asked him.
“In the car.”
It took them a little under two and a half hours to climb the mountain. Despite his little belly, the sheriff was surprisingly fast and had no problem keeping up with her. They talked little at first.
As they got within a mile of the camera trap, he said, “Used to hunt in these woods myself, after the resort closed down. Many a fine afternoon I spent here, looking for bucks. But you probably don’t want to hear about that, do you?” he added.
Frankly she didn’t.
“We hunters do the forest a favor, you know. If it wasn’t for us, the deer would become overpopulated and sick.”
Alex weighed the effectiveness of a response. Finally she said, “What would make the forest really healthy would be to restore its natural balance of predators and prey. Wolves and mountain lions keep deer and elk populations in check by removing weak and sick individuals.”
The sheriff blinked at her, and, to her relief and amazement, just went quiet.
They hiked the remaining half hour in silence, but she could feel his sullen eyes on her back.
At last they reached the spot where they’d seen the man in the photos. The sheriff went to work, starting in the spot where the man had thrown up. The vomit was still visible, crusted orange and yellow in the pine needles. He bent over and sniffed it and her stomach turned at the sight. “It wasn’t alcohol that made him puke,” he observed. “Smells like potato stew.” Then he traced the man’s movements back the way he’d emerged in the first frame. Alex searched, too, moving parallel to the sheriff. They found no camp or even traces of one. Then they moved in the other direction, to where the man had run away.
When they still came up empty, the sheriff stood up, hands on his hips. “Hello!” he called out. In the trees, some mountain chickadees scolded the sudden loud noise. A red squirrel trilled and barked. “Hello!” His voice carried through the forest, echoing off a nearby cliff.
They waited, hearing nothing. Walking farther in the direction the man had gone, the sheriff shouted again. This time only the sighing wind in the pines answered. They spent another hour combing the area for signs, moving in wider and wider circles. Nothing was out of place, no remains of a camp or a fire or footprints.
As the sun began to set, the sheriff motioned her over. “Look, the guy had no pack, right? And no shoes? He must have been camped nearby. You don’t get out this far with no pack and no shoes.”
“But we didn’t see any sign of a camp.”
“We could have walked right by it if he was one of those hippie ‘leave no trace’ types. No cigarettes, no fire, bury your shit. He must have packed up and moved on.”
“I don’t know, Sheriff. What about his injury?”
“He was probably high on something and fell. It’s probably why he puked. Then, feeling sick, he packed his gear up and hiked out.”
She looked doubtful.
“Look,” he said again, meeting her gaze. “I didn’t want to worry you or nothing, but a lot of people still come out here and camp. We’ve chased off dozens of people at the request of the land trust. It’s a beautiful spot, and you don’t have to pay any fees to use it.”
“Except that you’re trespassing.”
“Yeah, well, folks don’t care about that. Last year some college students from Missoula got it into their heads to have a damn music festival out here. Can you believe it? We chased off something like fifty kids. They think because no one’s here full time that they can just use the place whenever they want and no one’ll catch ’em.” The sheriff shook his head. “Whoever it was,” he went on, “he’s long gone now. And I wouldn’t be surprised if you catch more people on your other cameras.”
Wonderful. “Okay,” she relented.
They turned to go back, but the sheriff stopped at her camera trap. “That sure is a complicated contraption,” he said. “Why don’t you just live-trap ’em? My pappy used to trap ’em. Of course, they weren’t live traps that he used. They break into trapper cabins and tear everything apart, then musk up the place something fierce, you know.”
“Sounds like they’re getting revenge,” she said.
They started down the mountain, hiking the entire way in silence.
When they reached the lodge, he went straight to his truck. “You have a nice night now.”
“You too,” she said, grateful that at least he’d gone out to look. “Thanks for going up there.”
“No problem.”
She waited until he pulled away, then went inside, leaning against the door and sighing. She couldn’t dismiss the feeling that the man wasn’t some aimless hiker who’d stumbled and fell, then decided to hike out. Something was wrong out there.
Nine
Though the batteries could last far longer, Alex wanted to revisit the sites of her various traps to make sure everything was holding together. The next morning she got up early and hiked in a wide circle, visiting two of her cameras. Both were just fine, and she exchanged the batteries and memory cards in them.
In the first trap, five of the hair clips had been triggered, providing clumps of fur in various shades of reddish brown. In the second trap, six of them had been set off. Dark brown hair, looking like it was from the same creature, was in all of them. She bagged all the fur from each clip in a separate envelope as she’d done before.
It was a long day’s hike, and she came back to the lodge that night tired and achy. She dreaded making dinner. She was just heading to the kitchen when someone knocked on the lodge door.
Wondering who could be visiting her, she said warily through the closed door, “Yes?”
“Alex, it’s Jolene. I brought pizza.”
Smiling, Alex opened the door. Jolene stood there grinning, her wild hair just as Alex remembered it, with metal beads and purple strands worked into it. Standing next to her was a rather sheepish-looking man in his fifties. His long brown hair hung well past his shoulders, framing a kind, weatherworn face and blue eyes. Though he was easily over six-four, he stooped, as if used to a lifetime of having to lean over shorter people.
Jolene gestured at him. “This is my husband, Jerry.”
Jerry stuck his hand out and Alex took it. “Nice to meet you.”
“Sorry we’ve been so remiss,” Jolene said. “We should have come by earlier to check on you.”
She waved them inside. “No problem! It’s great to see you.”
They came in and Alex got them all drinks and plates from the kitchen. She returned to find them sitting at a table near the window. The smell of pizza made her stomach growl.
As they pulled out cheesy slices, Jolene asked, “So how you
doin’ up here? Spooky enough for you?”
Alex glanced around at the old place. “Not too spooky.”
“So you haven’t seen anything? I mean, out in the forest?” Jolene pressed.
“Like a Sasquatch?” she asked.
“Exactly.”
“Well, there was one night I thought something was following me.”
“I knew it!”
“But it could have been a bear. Then again . . .”
Jerry grew interested. “Yes?”
“One of my remote cameras picked up some images of a guy on the preserve.”
“Doing what?” he asked.
“Running. And throwing up.”
“That’s weird,” Jolene put in. “Are you sure he was a person and not . . . something else?”
Alex nodded. “He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. I went up there with the sheriff, but we didn’t find anything.”
Jolene picked up another slice of pizza. “Huh. Probably just a hiker.” She met Alex’s gaze. “So nothing else?”
“Not yet.” Alex watched Jerry looking around at the lobby. “So what do you do?”
He gave a little cough, choking on a bit of pizza. Jolene patted his back. “I, uh . . . I’m a botanist.”
Jolene punched him playfully on the arm. “Oh, jeez, Jerry. You can tell her. You think she’s gonna look down on you?”
Alex lifted her eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
“He grows pot,” Jolene said simply. “And mushrooms. It’s a pretty good living.”
“I see.”
Jolene went on. “Pot’s legal in so many places now, it really doesn’t have the stigma it used to, Jerry.”
“S’pose you’re right,” he said, then smiled shyly at Alex. “Gotta keep Jolene supplied with all her jewelry makin’s.”
Alex took another bite of pizza and watched them. They were comfortable with each other, and from the way they talked, she could tell there was deep love between them. They were lucky.
A Solitude of Wolverines Page 9