Isaac put a hand on his mother’s shoulder and glared at the VPSO. “She says you are like a raven who attacks his own nest.”
“Tell her I’m doing my job.”
Eve made a disgusted sound.
“All right, enough,” Ross said. He dealt out five black-and-white copies of Cassie’s photograph Gale had faxed to the ABI and handed them to the villagers. Mrs. Attla’s eyes stayed glued fiercely on Tobeluk.
Ross spent the next fifteen minutes laying out the method in which the search and rescue operation would work. He and Gale would take the Zodiac to Cassie’s camp where he would begin doing his initial site work. Two other groups would search around the campsite on foot. Another three boat groups would go north and search the tributaries downriver. A group of four villagers would be dropped off three miles upriver, five miles from the campsite; their task would be to walk the service road until they reached Cassie’s truck. Eve’s boat would troll the southern shorelines closer to town with John and Isaac.
“Everyone will be equipped with radios,” Ross said. “Tobeluk will stay here and man the radio-switchboard; if anyone sees anything of interest, you are to call it in to Tobeluk who will then relay that information to the pilot, who will then relay it to the people on the ground. This is so there won’t be overcrowding on the frequency. If need be, he can contact Fairbanks.”
“What about me and my husband?” Emily said. “What can we do?”
“You can either come with us, or be an extra set of eyes in the plane with Rutledge.”
They chose the plane.
Ross continued, “I know it doesn’t have to be said, but I’ll say it anyway: everyone moves with a partner, everyone carries a weapon, and each group takes a flare gun.” He looked from Tobeluk to Isaac. “When you brief your volunteers, make sure you hammer down that point. I don’t want anyone going missing while we’re searching for a missing person. If you find Cassandra, send up a flare. If you get lost, send up a flare. And stay off the frequencies, unless you’ve got something. Clear?”
Everyone nodded.
“Good.” Ross looked at his watch. “We’ve got nine more hours of light to work with, so let’s get a move on.”
Chapter 13
CASSIE’S CAMPSITE
Thursday, June 27th
THE AIR SMELLED like rain and peeled tree bark.
To the east, a billowing dark cloud rumbled over the high terrain and advanced on Cassie’s campsite. Gale sat on the Tundra’s tailgate and watched Ross as he combed through the scene with a set of latex gloves, carefully moving the debris and carnage of Cassie’s supplies before snapping pictures with the Nikon camera hanging from his neck.
The ride downriver had been uneventful and Ross’s initial pass of the site had been brief. He had given it a once-over, then had asked to see where Maverick had bedded down. Ross took pictures of the uprooted tree and the area surrounding it.
When they returned to the site, Ross ordered Gale to sit on the tailgate, not wanting to contaminate the site any more than it already had been.
In the distance, the Cessna Skywagon sounded like a buzzing insect. Gale looked skyward, trying to glimpse the small plane through the high canopy.
Ross asked Gale where the mysterious canister had been found, and Ross photographed the area, then took the canister out of the Ziploc and photographed it as well.
He left the tent for last.
Gale watched Ross crouch by the tent. He took pictures of it from all angles, then stroked his bushy mustache in thought.
He called Gale over and grabbed the red Cabela’s tent and pulled, spreading it out in front of them.
“What does this look like to you?” Ross said.
“If you’re talking about the open food box, there is no way—”
“No, look.” The trooper pointed a pudgy finger at a collection of slash marks. “These look like bear claw marks to you?”
Gale scrutinized the slashes. They were mismatched—small, single strokes jutting in every which direction. The slashes looked like the work of a serrated blade rather than a claw.
“If a bear tore this up, we’d see symmetrical slash marks in groups of four or five, I’m not seeing that,” Ross said.
Gale pulled at the tent, exposing more surface area. He noted the large, muddy bear prints over the red fabric. Ross was correct, none of the slashes looked like they’d been done by the bear; the bear had just appeared to lumber over it, searching for food.
“I think someone did this with a knife.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Gale said, shaking his head; he looked at the empty food box, the white rope dangling from the tree. Why would someone slash Cassie’s tent and cut down her food box?
Then Gale had a puckering thought.
It was a thought that had teased him earlier in the day. But he had quickly dismissed it. Now looking at the slash marks, it seemed terribly feasible.
“Mr. Gale,” Ross said softly, “I need to ask you a difficult question. I refrained from asking it in front of the others, but I think this might be a prudent time. Cassandra—it said in the MPR that she was suicidal in the past?”
Gale gave a small nod.
“Okay,” Ross said, quieter, “okay.”
“I know what you’re thinking, Trooper—that she could have set this up. Made it look like something it wasn’t, then went off into the woods to…” Gale’s voice trailed off, then he shook his head. “But she would never hurt the dog. She would never hurt Maverick. He’s her late husband’s war dog, her last connection to him. And yes, she had suicidal thoughts, but she was doing so much better…”
The silence between the two men turned deafening. Gale began to feel shaky, aware Ross was watching him with quiet curiosity. A short burst of static from the trooper’s radio, followed by garbled words, broke the quiet.
Ross kept his gaze on Gale as he keyed his mike. “Repeat that.”
The static returned and Ross walked to the perimeter of the campsite, searching for a better signal.
Rutledge’s voice crackled. “—Trooper… Trooper, do you copy?”
“Copy, go ahead.”
“Boat crew six, they’ve found something.”
Ross waved Gale over.
“Who’s boat crew six?” Gale asked.
“Attlas.”
The radio sputtered again, all static.
Ross said, “We need to move to the river.”
They hurried through the brush and stood at the shoreline next to the Zodiac. To their north, they could see the Cessna circling.
The pilot’s words came through more clearly.
“They say they got a big grizzly on the shoreline, couple miles south of your position,” he said. “It’s on something, you want me to do a flyover?”
Ross keyed his mike. “Copy, confirm for flyover.”
They watched the plane turn in their direction and zoom overhead and out of sight to the south. The storm to the east was fast approaching; the wind had picked up and a bolt of lightning flashed, followed by a loud clap of thunder.
“Trooper, we got something here—”
Gale felt his legs go weak. Ross turned and pushed the Zodiac into the rushing water, his radio continuing to static and squawk.
“Griz has something—”
“What’s the location?” Ross shouted into the mike. He held the raft steady as Gale managed to wade through the water and get aboard.
“Western shoreline, three klicks, yellow jacket—”
“What did he just say?” Gale asked.
Ross held up a finger and tilted his ear to the mike. “Repeat that, pilot, over.”
More static.
“Shit,” Ross said. “Storm is interfering with the comms. Let’s go.”
“Did he say yellow jacket?” Gale asked.
Ross slammed on the throttle and took off upriver, speaking into the mike, “We’re coming to you. Tell the volunteers on the ground to not approach the bear. I repeat, do not app
roach that bear.”
The winds picked up. Then it began to rain, hard.
Ross kept the throttle nailed. They banked out of the small tributary and hit the main channel.
The Cessna appeared in the distance, a speck against the roiling gunmetal clouds and falling rain. Ross released his grip on the throttle a bit and spoke into the radio, “I’ve got a visual on you. Tell boat six to send up a flare.”
“Copy,” the pilot crackled.
The Zodiac’s motor puttered. The wind howled. The rain lashed them horizontally. Gale held on to his cowboy hat and ducked his head against the onslaught.
After a minute, a spiraling gray smoke column soared out in front of them a mile away before three orange flames mushroomed high in the spitting rain.
“There we go!” Ross shouted and gunned the motor so hard Gale almost fell backward in his seat. Ross took the rapids head on. Gale held on tight to the Zodiac’s side lashes and squinted through the pelting squall. The Cessna made a wide swoop and zoomed over them.
The Yukon curved ahead.
Ross stretched the motor to its limit and they whipped around the bend. The far western shoreline came into view. The shore had the shape of a bent elbow. Washed-up logs and river debris littered its sandy beach.
Lightning struck the mountainside behind them. Thunder shook the canyon.
Gale saw the metal dinghy twenty yards from the beach, bobbing up and down over the rushing water. Three figures were in the boat; one was waving to them and pointing to shore. Gale fought to get to his feet for a better view as Ross corrected the Zodiac’s path toward the dinghy.
Thunder clapped again, as Gale scanned the sandy riverfront.
Then he saw it. At first he thought he was looking at a big mound of dirt among the downed logs—dark soil pushed onto the beach—but then the mound moved and became a giant head swinging slowly left to right.
“Oh, Jesus, that’s a huge bear!” Ross yelled, stalling the motor ten feet from the bank.
Gale stared at the grizzly, its head down fifty yards inland. The dinghy crawled its way over, the small motor struggling against the current. John Attla stood at the boat’s bow and shouted, “He’s diggin’ and eatin’ something, we saw a blanket or a jack—”
Gale didn’t hear the rest of what the man said. The bear had pawed at the ground, surfacing something bright yellow.
A yellow rain jacket.
Cassie’s yellow rain jacket.
The bear flicked the jacket aside, and Gale felt his heart plummet. White bone flecked with pink gore jutted up from the sand—
Something primal escaped Gale’s mouth.
Yellow jacket.
Bones.
Cassie!
Gale grabbed the shotgun and was over the Zodiac in an instant. The water was deeper than expected. The current stronger. It grabbed at him, sucked him under. Gale flipped, kicked hard, and thrashed, the glacial water sucking the wind right out of him. He struggled to the surface, gasped for air, his hat ripped from his head.
Muffled by the wind, he barely heard the shouts behind him. Eight feet from the shore, Gale kicked as hard as he could, the shotgun still in his hand. His feet searched for the bottom but couldn’t find purchase. Rain hammered the water like machine-gun fire. He knew if he didn’t kick now, he’d be swept downriver. He took a deep breath and dove.
Kicking, thrashing as hard as he could, his lungs straining, he willed himself closer, closer to the shore.
His hand hit something—a dead tree—he grasped the soggy branch and pulled himself up, forcing himself up the log. He was up to his waist in the water—three feet from the shore.
Lightning flashed.
Gale flung himself forward and landed in a pile on the shoreline. The current had swept him downriver. The bear raised its gargantuan head, nose twitching in the wind, sensing the presence of a trespasser.
Gale scrambled to his feet, held the shotgun in front of him like a battering ram and charged.
The grizzly stood up on its hind legs, raised up to its full nine feet, then stomped back down over its feast and roared.
Gale didn’t care. He ran forward, full of unbridled rage, and matched the bear’s roar with one of his own as he raised the shotgun. At twenty-five yards his finger found the trigger and he mashed it…
Click!
The shotgun dry-fired in his hands. Gale stumbled in surprise, then aimed and mashed the trigger again.
Click!
The bear reared up over the carcass once more.
Gale dropped the shotgun, backpedaling, stumbling, and fell on his back. His left hand dug into the sand. His boots slid as he tried to get his footing. His right hand strained to release the Colt Anaconda at his hip.
The bear charged.
Twelve hundred pounds of bloodthirsty kinetic energy barreled toward him like a runaway locomotive.
Gale’s hand slipped off his holster, and he curled fetal, hands wrapping his neck.
BOOM!
An earth-shattering report cascaded over the shoreline—piercing the ferocious storm.
BOOM!
Five yards from Gale, the bear halted its charge, spun around, and stopped in its tracks, looking unhit. The grizzly’s massive head searched for the shots that had come from upriver and close.
Gale followed the bear’s line of sight.
A small figure stood obscured in the torrential downpour fifty yards away, a rifle held to the sky. Eve Attla had appeared like a specter, her silver braid flapping in the air like an unruly whip. Her round face remained calm and controlled.
She racked another round and stepped forward with purpose.
BOOM!
The earth shook, the muzzle flashed and bucked in her small hands, sending another bullet to the clouds.
The bear stood its ground and bellowed at the old woman. Gale was so close he could smell the animal’s breath of putrid, decaying flesh.
Gale dared not move. His eyes darted from Eve to the bear.
The old woman maintained her steady pace and ran the action of her rifle one last time—and aimed her weapon directly at the bear.
The grizzly growled, deep and guttural, preparing to charge.
PSSSHHH!
A gray cloud erupted over Gale’s head and hit the bear squarely in the face. The bear flipped over backward, howling in pain. The gray mist clung to its snout, invaded its eyes.
Ross stepped over Gale, holding a canister of bear spray at arm’s length.
“GET UP!” he screamed, hoisting Gale by the back of his shirt.
The bear staggered away and bolted to the forest.
“Are you crazy, old man?!” Ross yelled, grabbing Gale by the collar, and shaking him.
Gale pushed the trooper away and sprinted to the bloody carcass.
A musky, sharp smell hit Gale’s nostrils as he stumbled forward, standing over the ghastly scene.
A rib cage stared up at him. A brown hide wrapped partly over it like a tight blanket. Gale’s brain tried to register what he was seeing—a black hoof, a set of antlers covered in spruce boughs and sand.
“It’s a moose!” Ross shouted behind him. “The bear was eating a little bull!”
Gale was too stunned to feel any sort of relief. The gore-filled pile of sand, roughly the size of an overturned bathtub, was a grizzly burial mound.
Brown bears and grizzlies like to put their kills under dirt, let them rot and ripen before they return for periodic feasts.
Eve Attla picked up the yellow rain jacket from the carnage. She handed it to Gale, its neoprene fabric ripped and sliced at the sleeves. Aged brown bloodstains spotted the crinkled hood.
Ross keyed his mike, alerted the pilot of the discovery, “Get the other boats here, we’re going to search the southwestern shorelines.”
Gale clutched the jacket, his fingers kneading the bloodstains. “How did her jacket get upriver?”
Ross’s confused expression showed he had no answer.
The old woman
moved past them, her low voice humming in the wind. She seemed to be chanting. Her small frame moved past the burial mound and walked to the forest’s edge, where she stood still and closed her eyes. The sound of her chanting intensified.
John and Isaac came up and stopped.
Ross turned to her son and asked, “What’s she doing?”
Isaac watched his mother through the pelting rain. Eve’s chanting grew louder. It pulsed over the shoreline adding to the cadence of the storm. Her head began to rock back and forth, undulating as if on a swivel.
Then she stopped. Opened her eyes and stepped into the woods where the bear had disappeared.
“Whoa, whoa!” Ross said, as he started to run after her. John held out a hand, stopping the trooper.
“What the hell is she doing?” Ross screamed.
“She sees something.”
“Sees something? That’s where the bear went!”
“Stay here,” Isaac said, and he motioned for John to follow him. Together they disappeared into the thick foliage.
“Goddamn natives,” Ross spat, “gonna get themselves killed.”
Gale stared down at the jacket in his hands and an idea struck him. He flipped the jacket over and started rummaging through the pockets. Finding a concealed zipper sewn over the left breast, he opened it, and pulled out two white crumpled pieces of paper, still dry from the elements. They were receipts.
“Trooper, look at this.”
Ross stepped forward and took the receipts, studied them. The first receipt was from the Northern Breeze Lodge for a one-night stay. The receipt was dated: June 22nd and charged at 7:23 a.m., for eighty-nine Canadian dollars. The other receipt was for two ham sandwiches, charged at 12:13 p.m., the same day at the Eagle Trading Company, in Eagle, Alaska.
“Okay, this will help us with the timeline,” Ross said, and went for his mike.
Suddenly, Isaac appeared from the forest, a deadly serious expression on his face. “You both need to come now.”
“What in the Christ is going on?” Ross shouted, lowering his hand from his mike, his patience wearing thin.
Less rain penetrated the forest canopy, but a low-hanging fog made the going difficult. Gale kept his attention on the back of Isaac’s shirt as the man maneuvered through the forest with the grace of a deer. Gale was trying to wrap his head around the receipts he’d just found when he spotted Eve standing at a break in the woods just ahead. Her body rocked back and forth as she chanted. Her grandson stood next to her.
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