Isn’t the real way.

  The name you can say

  Isn’t the real name.

  Heaven and earth

  Begin in the unnamed.

  Whoa. He tucks the book back into the bag. He fingers his way through the clothes. Toward the bottom, he spies a red cloth, pulls it out. It’s a bandanna. Perfect.

  While hunting around beyond the perimeter for a safe spot to hide the borrowed bandanna, Carter stumbles upon a hole in the ground. He very nearly falls in it. Branches had covered it. When he removes them, it reveals a small square pit framed with logs. Carter peers in, sniffs, rears back. It must be where he goes, Carter realizes. Sealed nearby in a plastic garbage bag, a large plastic spoon and a white chemical powder that smells like fertilizer. He lays the branches back in place, as if undisturbed. He already knows this about John. Everything in its place.

  Carter returns to the sitting rock, the thinking rock, and tries to solve the puzzle of this man. The camp is spare, yet it doesn’t feel temporary to Carter. One look at the sleeping quarters—painstakingly prepared, warm and dry and astonishingly comfortable—suggests to Carter that John has slept here many, many nights.

  Weeks. Months.

  A current of unease ripples through him.

  He decides to eat more candy corn.

  He notices again the utensils. One cup, one bowl. Scrub pad. A spoon, fork, knife.

  Carter tests the knife’s sharpness against the palm of his hand. Nice and sharp. He pockets it and retrieves the bandanna. He brings the items into his sleeping area, safely out of sight should John suddenly arrive, and begins to shred.

  43

  [VULTURES]

  John feels jittery, distracted. He walks, muttering to himself, mind racing. He didn’t want the boy. But what was he supposed to do? Let him die? And now the kid was already jangling his nerves. Had to get out of there. John figures he might as well resupply. He’s got three caches well concealed in different zones. The particular one he wants in Zone D requires extra precaution. Usually, he wouldn’t attempt it in daylight. Why risk being seen? His primary goal in life is to stay invisible.

  He proceeds cautiously, staying off any trails. Search teams will be up and down these mountains. That’s a lot of ground to cover. John is glad he thought to gather intelligence from the boy. He said they parked at the Blood Mountain trailhead. The kids went ahead. John reckons that something must have happened to the father. He fell, got sick—something to remove him from the equation. He assumes the trailhead will become the focal point of the search. They’ll begin with the main trail, run the spurs, and radiate out from there. Probably establish a grid system. Standard stuff. They like their straight lines and little boxes. John pictures the map with absolute clarity in his mind. He knows every bend and stone and root of it.

  The good news is those kids started out in good shape—they covered an impressive distance. John doesn’t expect either one to be found. Okay, the girl, maybe. He sets the odds at forty-sixty. Nobody is finding the boy. That’s not an option. His site is well concealed. Almost impossible for anyone to find. The boy complicates life, puts John at risk. He wonders if it was a mistake to leave Carter alone at the camp. Agitated and restless, John made an impulsive move—he had to get out of there. Even so, he calculated that Carter was too scared to go traipsing off one day after nearly dying in the bog. Kid was impressive out there, John had to admit it. Tomorrow will be another story. More forceful measures might be required. Strong rope, perhaps. Some kind of protective cage? John needs to keep the boy from harm’s way. He failed before. Not this time.

  To the southwest, John sees birds circling at about two hundred feet. Too big to be hawks. He won’t use his binoculars in the open, afraid the glass might reflect the sun and give away his position. John counts seven of them. Turkey vultures, he concludes. Big, bald scavengers. Most raptors fly with their wings straight across. Not these guys. Their wings form a V shape. The vultures are not as graceful in the sky as hawks: their wings tend to wobble in the wind. Their feathers are dark brown-black, but the wing tips are lighter, appear silvery from the ground. The giveaway is the head: it is unusually small and red. No feathers from the neck up. John admires the efficiency of that design. If you are going to eat by shoving your head inside a dead carcass, it’s probably best not to have feathers mixed up with all the blood and guts.

  John studies them and becomes curious. Sees one drop down, then another, followed by the rest. Found something. John smiles to himself. He decides to take a look-see. He remembers, most assuredly, the cat print he discovered yesterday. Only one way to know for sure.

  He comes upon them gorging themselves on the half-eaten remains of a dead fawn. John shoos them away, waving his arms. Turkey vultures are cowards at heart. Large birds, but not eager for a fight. John stands, arms folded, assessing the scene. It fascinates him, engages his total attention.

  The bony-limbed fawn never had a chance. It was probably nibbling on the tasty bud of a wildflower, and then: good night. John moves in a slow, cautious circle. Something very strong, very powerful bit it behind the neck. Serious damage. Deep claw marks along the flanks. He examines the terrain, can see the path where the cat dragged the body. Such strength. That’s what they do. Kill and drag and half bury. There’s a hole in the fawn, as if it’s been carved out like a pumpkin. Gruesome and haunting. The killer had plucked out the animal’s heart and other organs. John can see how the cat attempted to conceal its kill, half covered by leaves and ground matter, before the vultures arrived.

  He knows the cat will be back to feed again.

  Maybe soon.

  Can’t be far away.

  John wishes he had his bow. He could set up right here, upwind, and wait. But: things to do. Thinking of the girl, and of the troublesome dog, he gets an idea. There’s still meat on the deer’s forelegs. It would make a nice calling card. He grabs one with both hands, pulls and twists, but it’s slippery; he takes a breath, plants a foot against the animal’s ribs, gets a firmer grip and, crunch, the leg snaps off at the knee.

  He never hears the ranger coming from the opposite approach until it’s almost too late. He spies the dark-green uniform moving behind a copse of small trees. The ranger’s purposeful stride. Her wide-brimmed hat. She stops, crouches. Her hand instinctively goes to her gun.

  “Grace?” she calls.

  He plunges into the underbrush, scoots on hands and knees, darts behind the cover of aspens and beech. He glances back, sees her see him, and runs.

  She calls but doesn’t chase.

  He’s already gone—still holding the bloody foreleg in his right hand.

  44

  [STRANGER]

  Makayla drags through the end of a frustrating day. She hates failure. She’s following another deer trail. Nothing’s worked so far. Hasn’t seen a single sign. The previous day’s rain didn’t help. She ruminates on her long-anticipated getaway the next two days. Hard to leave now. Her boyfriend, Kifeda, won’t be happy if she cancels on him again. She sighs, picturing his upset face. He’s going to have to get used to it.

  A new theory is beginning to form in her mind. Everything she’s done today has been wrong. Maybe the kids, Grace and Carter, went all the way up to the summit. Maybe they blasted past the turn and never suspected for miles. If so, they might have followed a creek run down the far side of Blood Mountain. All turned inside out. If they just kept going, desperately and mistakenly pushing and pushing, it could have taken them beyond the search grid. Perhaps tomorrow if she works it from an entirely different approach, drives out to an access road close to Long Lake—

  She hears a sound up ahead. Very near. A scuffling. The snap of a stick breaking.

  Makayla stops, crouches.

  “Grace?” she calls.

  She unsnaps the holster on her side.

  She hears scurrying, like an elk crashing through timber, glimpses a shape. Makayla rushes to the spot of the deer carcass. Her eyes are on the trees beyond the underbrush. And she sees him: the wild man of the mountain. The man beast, the thief, the recluse. And she knows, straightaway, all the rumors are true.

  45

  [TWILIGHT]

  A heavy despondency falls upon Grace as nightfall darkens the forest. She had done so well, kept herself busy all day, thinking only positive thoughts. But now sadness descends, covers her like a heavy blanket. Carter left yesterday morning, almost two full days ago. Her little brother. He should have sent help by now. Rescuers should have found …

  Unless.

  Her mind snags on the one word. Unless, unless, unless.

  He left with practically nothing. A water bottle, one energy bar. A shirt, maybe. Did he imagine he could march out of here as easy as that?

  Grace blames herself for allowing him to leave. She didn’t argue hard enough. She runs her hands through her oily hair. She becomes aware of the smell of her body, her fetid clothes.

  Tears pool in her eyes, stream down her cheeks, lips, and chin. She lets them come. She tastes salt on her tongue. Tells herself, I’ll give myself five minutes. I’ll cry my heart out. But just for five minutes.

  There’s a persistent weight, deep in her chest. It hurts to breathe. This implacable fear.

  How lost becomes loss.

  Images of Carter by himself …

  She breaks it off.

  He’s eleven years old. Starts middle school in a week. Brave and sweet but …

  No, she won’t think that way.

  Can’t think that way.

  She dries her eyes, surveys her surroundings. The wilderness does not care. Grace slumps over to the hard ground.

  “Oh, Cart,” she says.

  My heart.

  She wonders if anyone will find her. And yet knows she’s not able to hike out—even if she knew the way. Which she so doesn’t. Graces feels waves of pain echo up her legs, into her chest. She feels helpless, hollow, emptied of hope. What would it be like to die here? Could she just curl up, close her eyes? Only trees and rocks to witness her demise.

  “Help me,” she moans.

  She calls for the dog.

  Sitka comes instantly, presses close, pushes against the girl’s hip. Grace adjusts her body, throws an arm around the warm, sweet dog. “You’re my best good dog,” she whispers into the fine, soft hairs of the dog’s ears. Her words as fragile as soap bubbles. Grace knows these despairing thoughts are the greatest danger she faces. To survive, she must fight them off. Tomorrow, I’ll do better, she thinks, and drifts into a delicate sleep, jostled like a small craft across troubled waters.

  46

  [TRUST]

  Sitka trawls through the glorious, odor-filled underbrush. More comfortable with each day, the animal moves deeper into the forest. Grace out of sight, sleeping quietly.

  Sitka stops, paw frozen in midstep, when a shape steps out from behind the trunk of a large tree, fifty yards away. The figure is still a safe distance away, upwind. Sitka swallows the rumble of a growl in her throat. It is a man. He walks normally, casually, in a friendly manner. His face smiles. Sitka watches, reading the signs. All her life she has honed one skill above all else: how to read humans. What do they want? Where are they going? Who desires to play? Who feels upset? Who might pose a threat?

  “Hey, there, dog,” the man’s voice chimes, his voice soft and melodic. “How are you doing today? Oh, that’s good, that’s nice. You are a good dog, aren’t you?”

  The music of his voice is lilting, even in the darkness, and flows gently to Sitka’s ears. She watches the stranger draw closer. Sitka looks to the side, uncertain. Grace is far enough away. The dog positions herself firmly between the stranger, this curious, singsong human, and Grace in her den. But the man does not seem to be a threat.

  And there is a smell of meat.

  “You are a fine-looking dog,” the stranger says. He pours forth a burbling stream of words. “How you holding up out here? I bet you’re hungry, aren’t you? Would you like a treat? Huh, huh? Well, I have something for you. It’s sure looks tasty to me. Would you like a treat? Huh, huh?”

  This is a phrase Sitka knows by heart. The intonation, the mellifluous patterns and rhythms of the beneficent human tongue. She smells it fully now, blown to her in a gust. Sitka’s ears relax, her mouth opens, her lips hang loose. She watches the man as he slowly bends, whispering all along. He places a fawn-colored bone on the ground. Shreds of meat cling to it. There are streaks where white bone shows through. Sitka leans forward, breathes in the aroma. She pants, tongue out, tasting the delicious breeze.

  The man stands and watches.

  Sitka sits, waits.

  When the man retreats a step, Sitka crawls forward. It becomes a dance. A tango of wariness and trust. At last, the man does not need to move farther away. Sitka hurries to snatch up the bone, hips low, eyes never leaving the stranger’s face. She carries it away in her mouth, settles after going a safe distance, and chomps hungrily. A gleam of wolf in her eye.

  The soldier smiles, content.

  Zero dark. Mission accomplished.

  He’s built trust.

  And so disappears back into the forest.

  47

  [DREAM]

  It is deep dark when John returns to camp. He moves soundlessly, almost invisibly in the opaque night. Carter lays with eyes open. He closes them. Opens his eyes again. The scene is unchanged. Rolling on his side slightly, a scattering of stars scarcely visible through the gauze of overhead branches. The night overcast with cloud. The stars seemed to have drifted farther away, wandering elsewhere, leaving him behind. Abandoned by the night sky.

  John moving around in the dark. Trying to figure out where to sleep. Carter realizes he occupies the man’s bed. The air is fresh in his nose and lungs. Somewhere an animal screeches, another screams; one dies so that another may live.

  Tomorrow, he thinks.

  Tomorrow will be the day.

  He’s forgotten to return the knife. It is hidden away, covered by his bed of surprisingly soft, long pine needles.

  He clings to shreds of cloth, fisted into a ball: his bread crumbs to scatter when he strikes out alone. If he gets lost again, Carter knows he’ll need these markers to find his way back. He thinks of them as an astronaut’s tether as he explores deep space. Without the shreds marking the trail, he could become disconnected from John’s camp. He’d be lost and alone again. The thought terrifies him—even more than staying with John.

  Hours later, John bolts awake, stifles a cry. He is back in the war. He is watching the black-haired boy’s life drain out of his body. The child’s small, thin, ravaged corpse. Face twisted in anguish. The end, no matter what the circumstances, always comes as a shock. Severed vein and missing limb. There is no stopping the blood. It is everywhere. On the road, on the boy, and in this dream, on John’s own hands.

  And it feels to John precisely like the thin ice that forms across a shallow winter puddle. A small boy comes to it, taps the ice ever so gently. Pop, it cracks. Steps with full weight and the rubber boot goes all the way through. The ice fractures and snaps into a spiderweb of jagged lines.

  That’s exactly what it feels like to John.

  Inside his chest.

  All the time.

  His shattered heart.

  “You okay?” Carter asks, awakened by John’s distress.

  The wild man of the woods scrambles to all fours, muscles taut; dives to his belly, eyes blazing. There’s a large knife in his hand, a shimmer of it in the pale moonlight, sharp tip pointed at Carter. John looks around desperately, assesses the perimeter. He reaches for the penlight below his neck. The thin white beam targets Carter’s face. The boy’s eyes squint closed.

  Carter raises a hand to shield his face. “Hey,” he protests. “It’s me.”

  The man stares for another long minute. Uncomprehending. He is here and not here, awake and yet still dreaming. Still in the land of desert sun and sudden, unspeakable horror.

  He shuts off the penlight.

  “Go to sleep,” he hisses.

  DAY 5

  48

  [DOUGHNUTS]

  Makayla arrives at the command post shortly after six in the morning, carrying a big box of doughnuts. Frank is seated in a lawn chair outside the van. His uniform looks rumpled. There are dark circles under his eyes. Hasn’t been getting much sleep. There’s a long folding table on metal legs at his side—and a large coffee mug in his hand.

  “Brooklyn! What have you got there?” he greets her.

  She raises the box, “I come bearing gifts!”

  “Very thoughtful, thank you,” he says. “I hope you got some jellies in there. Those are my absolute favorite.”

  “It’s an assortment, Frank.”

  He stifles a yawn, tilts his head at an empty chair. “Come, sit a minute.”

  Makayla fixes a cup of coffee, sits. She informs him of her plans for the day.

  He leans over the table to look at the map without rising from his seat. Tugs on his ear. Pounds down a jelly doughnut. Wipes his mouth, rather daintily, with the back of his sleeve. “It’s a theory,” he concludes. “Long shot.”

  “You don’t agree?” Makayla asks.

  “No, I think it’s possible. But generally, I like to start with the most obvious places and go from there.”

  Makayla nods. Makes sense.

  “I’ll talk to the pilots, clue them into your thinking. I could arrange a flyby, if you’d like,” he offers. “Weather looks good for this morning at least. Another foggy night, I’m afraid.”

  “A flyby would be great, sir,” Makayla says.

  Frank pauses. “Any more thoughts about our bearded friend up there?”

  “The mountain man?” Makayla replies. “I’m not sure what to think. He’s real, we know that.”

  Frank looks her in the eye. “Just so you know, all cards on table. The police chief in town, Bannon, he’s got a long list of unsolved robberies. Petty stuff. But folks don’t like it, makes them nervous. It’s hard for them to sleep at night.”