Carter rolls to his side, eases to all fours, arches his back, and slinks like a cat into the open. The drizzle dampens the air. He can hear the faint murmur of fine water drops on the canopy’s moist leaves and needles. He lifts his empty boots from the ground, carefully navigates the space around John’s tent. Carter steps to the tree, reaches into the hole—his heart stops when the headlamp makes a muffled clink—he stands and waits, his hand in the cookie jar—until he is sure that John has not stirred. Improvising, Carter pauses at the kitchen area. The small knife lit by moonlight. Carter pockets it and steals away on silent stocking feet.

  Beyond the crack between the rocks, Carter sharply veers right, then ducks under the opening that John showed him the day before. He stands frozen, listens, turns on the headlamp. Carter struggles to stay calm, cool, collected. Every instinct in his body urges him to run. He steps, stumbles, catches himself. Still unshod, his dangling boots thump against the base of a tree.

  He doesn’t wait.

  He’s up and gone, eyes trained on the ground, moving swiftly now across a carpet of pine needles. Three minutes later, he yanks on his boots, laces them tight. Carter ties a scrap of red cloth at knee level, rises to full height. He fears getting hopelessly lost. He can’t allow that disaster to occur again. If things go bad, like down in that bog, he needs to be able to find his way back. When John discovers the red cloth—and he eventually will—Carter hopes to be long gone. Leaving so close to dawn was not the plan, but he couldn’t stay another day. John was too erratic, too damaged. Carter doesn’t want to be there the next time John loses it.

  The cold, damp air cuts through the layers of his clothing. The rocks and roots are slippery. After a time, Carter turns off the headlamp. He selects a way through the sparse understory of sapling and bush. Walks swiftly, covers ground, pauses only to tie a red scrap to a twig. It’s full light when Carter comes to a clearing. Miraculously, he spies a helicopter in the distance, hovering above the ground. Carter waves his knife in a sweeping arc over his head, jumps up and down, wills the copter pilot to look his way.

  Carter is afraid to scream, and the distance is too great for the pilot to hear anyway.

  I’m here, he thinks. Find me, I’m right here.

  The copter tilts away, shrinks into the horizon. He watches it grow smaller, farther away, a black speck, gone.

  The rain stops.

  Carter keeps going.

  At least now, he has a direction, a fixed point. He’s headed for the spot where that helicopter just hovered.

  Behind him, padding silently, the hunter follows.

  61

  [GUESTS]

  Grace rises to find Ranger Devaroix sitting with Sitka by a small, toasty fire. Grace rubs the sleep from her eyes.

  “Good morning. You slept well,” Makayla observes.

  Grace smiles, loosens her stiff body with small, gentle twists. If she tries to do too much, the pain comes shrieking back. Her ankle refuses to improve, though the splint helps. She feels clean and rested. Her spirits are high.

  “What’s for breakfast?” Grace asks, ravenous.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered in,” Makayla replies. “Should be arriving any minute.”

  Grace laughs at the joke, hobbling over on the walking stick. “I know Domino’s delivers to weird places, but I’m not that gullible.”

  Makayla grins and says, “Oh, ye of little faith.” She tends to the fire with a stick. “I made peppermint tea. Would you like a cup?”

  “Yum,” Grace replies.

  Twenty minutes later, Sitka rises, gives a low, warning woof. She lopes forward to investigate. “It’s okay, girl, no worries,” Makayla says in a soothing voice. She hustles to Sitka’s side, touches her back, waves to someone out of sight.

  A moment later, three rangers drop down from the path. Two men and a woman. The mustached, red-haired man, arriving first, cheerfully asks, “Did somebody order a toasted poppy seed bagel with cream cheese?” He holds up a brown bag.

  “Oh wow, you weren’t kidding!” Grace gushes.

  “Rangers never kid,” Makayla deadpans. Then, to her fellow rangers, “Thanks, you guys are the best. You must have gotten an early start this morning.”

  “Couldn’t wait,” says one of the rangers, Megan, smiling warmly at Grace.

  They make introductions all around.

  The last ranger, Smitty, short and solid as a vending machine, produces a bag of dog biscuits from his side pocket. Sitka can’t believe her good fortune. She wolfs down the treats with astonishing speed. Smitty looks from Makayla to Grace, “So, Grace. Are you ready for this?”

  Confused, Grace looks to Makayla for answers.

  Makayla explains, “We plan to fly you out by helicopter. The chopper will bring you directly to County General, where doctors and nurses can attend to your injuries, make sure everything’s okay from a medical standpoint. I’m sure you’ll be fine, though my guess is you might need at least a walking boot on that ankle. Possibly surgery. Depends if your injury is musculature or skeletal. Only X-rays can help determine that.” She pauses, saving the best for last. “Your parents will be waiting for you.”

  Grace’s lower lip trembles, and she nods at Makayla. The thought of her parents nearly overwhelms her. Now that it’s over, her defenses down, Grace feels raw and emotional.

  “The challenge, however, is finding a good spot for an extraction,” Makayla continues.

  “Nothing is ever simple out here,” the red-haired ranger, Liam, explains.

  Smitty chimes in, grinning. “That’s why they asked me to come. I’m the muscle.”

  The other rangers roll their eyes, chuckling.

  “How far away is it, Megan?” Makayla asks the broad-shouldered, blond ranger.

  “A good twenty-minute walk over rough ground,” Megan estimates. She shifts her gaze to Grace. “I won’t lie to you, Grace. It’s not a comfortable trip in the basket. Nobody loves it.”

  Grace listens as they detail the procedure. She’ll be strapped, quite tightly, into a stretcher known as a Stokes basket. It has aluminum railings on all sides to keep her from spilling out. The rangers will carry her to the extraction point where she’ll be hoisted up by a cable to a hovering helicopter.

  “That’s kind of scary,” Grace observes.

  “It kind of is,” Liam agrees, smiling. “Again, Grace. The hike won’t be a lot of fun for you. But I do think you’ll enjoy the helicopter. You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

  “I suspect she’s not afraid of anything,” Megan says, winking good-naturedly at Grace.

  Grace turns to Makayla. “You’ve all done this before?”

  “Many times,” Makayla assures her. “We will take good care of you, I promise.”

  Grace puts her arm around Sitka. “What about…?”

  Smitty answers, “I’ve brought a leash—and a lot more biscuits. I’ll walk her down myself. We’ll take good care of Sitka until someone can pick her up.”

  Liam and Megan prepare the basket, begin fiddling with straps.

  Grace touches Makayla’s arm in alarm. “Right now?”

  Makayla sees something in Grace’s face. She stands, says to the other rangers, “Let’s give Grace a few minutes alone. She’s been here in this location for almost four full days. Besides, I’ve got to gather up my gear.”

  Megan looks around, glances at Grace’s pine-bough bed, admires the forest view, “You picked a pretty spot. I like what you’ve done with it.”

  They give Grace time by herself.

  Grace hop-limps to her usual place, the area where she spent most of the past days. Standing on one leg, with two hands clasped on the walking stick, she lowers herself to the ground. Grace wants to remember everything. The early-morning rain has stopped. The verdant forest feels wet and fresh and drippy and impossibly green. She closes her eyes, breathes deeply, listens intently.

  Grace opens her eyes again. Her lips move. She hears herself say, soft as a prayer, “Thank you.” It surprises Grace to hear her own voice filled with so much gratefulness, and in that moment her heart fractures a little bit—a thin line from which shines forth a beam of pure love. Grace understands she will never be the same. It is the forest’s gift to its gentle visitor, bestowed by ancient trees and excellent birds. Grace hadn’t realized until that moment exactly how she felt. But it was true. This place, these memories, the towering trees she cannot name. The wildflowers seemingly everywhere once she opened her eyes to notice them. The wandering black bear, snorting in the brambles, utterly indifferent to her.

  The rangers stand chatting in a loose group. Makayla glances over, keeping a sharp eye on the girl.

  Grace nods. She’s ready. Makayla comes over.

  “Will you miss it?” she asks.

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Would you like me to take a picture?” Makayla offers. “There’s no Wi-Fi, but my phone works.”

  “No, that’s all right,” Grace answers. She points to her head. “I just did.”

  “I understand,” Makayla answers.

  “Are you coming with us?” Grace asks.

  “I’ll help get you to the extraction point,” Makayla replies. “See you off okay. But you know I’m not leaving this mountain.” She squeezes Grace’s hand. “We’ll find him, Grace. We’re close. I can feel it.”

  62

  [EXTRACTION]

  Despite the determined efforts of four rangers, Grace does not enjoy being jostled in the Stokes basket. The straps are tight and extremely uncomfortable. She toggles on the edge of nausea with each step, suffering in silence, eyes squeezed shut.

  “The worst is over,” Makayla finally announces as they set her on the ground.

  “Now, the fun part,” Smitty says. He’s holding Sitka by a green leash. Sitka sniffs Grace’s face, licks her mouth, her sore and still swollen lower lip. Grace senses the dog’s apprehension. “It’s okay, Sitka.” Smitty steps back, gently tugs the dog away. Megan and Liam get to work, attaching four cables to a central anchor point above the basket. They labor diligently, with utmost seriousness, checking and double-checking their work.

  Liam explains, “When the helicopter arrives, it will lower a cable. This is where we’ll secure the tag line. Keep your hands in, don’t try to reach out. Let the rangers in the chopper do the work. Just enjoy the ride.”

  “You’ll do fine,” Makayla says, kneeling by Grace’s side.

  Grace works up a smile, heart beating a hundred miles a minute. Soon the copter arrives, and up she rises, soaring into the sky like some sort of human balloon filled with helium. She is afraid to turn her head. Afraid to wiggle a toe. She stares straight up as the helicopter draws her closer. It is very loud.

  Grace cries, “Thank you!” but the chopper’s roar drowns out the words. The whirling blades scatter them over the park, unheard.

  Makayla stands watching, hands on her hips. It all goes smoothly. Once Grace is secured, the copter hovers in place an extra few seconds. Makayla waves. The helicopter rises, tilts away, slides into the distance. Across the valley, on the next ridge, Makayla notices a momentary glint of light. One flash, the sun’s rays bouncing off something, then gone. It lasts less than a second. But it is enough. Makayla fixes the location in her mind.

  She knows where she’s headed next.

  Makayla must make a decision. Smitty is already headed in the direction of a spur trail, which will hook up with the main trail, and ultimately lead him and the dog back to the trailhead. Just ninety minute’s distance to the main trail … when an experienced hiker knows the way. Megan and Liam stand aside, perhaps waiting to confer with Makayla before making their next move.

  “Aren’t you headed down?” Liam asks.

  “What? Oh, um, I left my truck”—Makayla points northwest—“out by Long Lake.” She pauses, conflicted. “And honestly, I’m still thinking about Carter, the boy. I want to check something out.”

  “Would you like company?” Megan asks.

  “No, no, I’m good,” Makayla says. She looks across the way, to where she saw that fleeting glimpse of light reflected from the trees. She wavers, uncertain. Makayla realizes that communication and trust are at the bedrock of all ranger activities. They depend on each other. No secrets. She admits, “I may have seen something. Probably my imagination.”

  Makayla tells her fellow rangers about the mountain man she saw the previous day. “I want to go after this alone,” she says.

  Megan asks, “And why is that a good idea?”

  “I’m concerned that he might be on edge,” Makayla replies. “If we appear in numbers, it could set him off. If I’m right, he won’t respond well if he feels threatened. We come in wrong, it could become dangerous. He’s already seen me. I believe our best chances for a safe encounter will be if I’m alone.”

  Megan looks to Liam, who says, “We’ll remain nearby and provide backup. Keep us informed of your location. Just give us a call and we’ll get there. Deal?”

  It’s agreed.

  Megan says, “Great work, Makayla. Stay safe. We’ve got your back.”

  “Thanks,” Makayla says. “I appreciate that. You guys are the best.”

  Liam touches the brim of his hat with two fingers, inclines his head. Makayla turns and walks away.

  Makayla thinks of the boy, and of the man she saw yesterday. The search zone is tightening. Local police are seeking an arrest. She wants to be the first officer to find them. This could be a dangerous situation. She’ll need to handle it with supreme care. The wrong approach—too aggressive—and things could turn bad.

  A call comes in. “This is Devaroix,” she answers.

  “Brooklyn, this is your doughnut-stuffed lieutenant,” Frank Watkins says. “I hear the package is on its way.”

  Makayla breaks into a smile. The package. “Yeah, we wrapped her up pretty tight.”

  “You did good out there,” he says.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Tell me. Did the whistle work?”

  Makayla tells him she thinks it did.

  “Any more signs of that mountain lion?” he asks.

  The mountain lion.

  Makayla had almost forgotten about that.

  “Negative on new prints,” she answers. “You already know about the carcass from yesterday.”

  “Stay sharp,” Frank says. “And keep in touch.”

  He doesn’t ask what she’s doing next, or where she’s going. Maybe he doesn’t want to know. Maybe he trusts Ranger Devaroix to do the job in the best way she sees fit.

  “Over and out,” Makayla says.

  She looks across the valley, tightens the straps of her pack, and heads out in long, purposeful strides.

  63

  [CARTER]

  Carter comes to tilted, rocky terrain, with an accumulation of large boulders scattered about the slope, along with low evergreens and dense underbrush.

  He keeps looking back, half expecting to see John stalking him. Occasionally, he bends to tie a scrap of red cloth at knee level. He feels the bite of autumn in the air; summer fades fast in the mountains.

  A pine cone drops behind him. Startled, Carter spins, sees nothing. It’s a claustrophobic feeling he can’t shake. Like the clouds sagging down upon his shoulders. The sense he’s being followed. There’s nothing he can do about it. Just keep moving, hoping that maybe he’ll come across a trail, some clue to civilization. He stops, notices scratch marks on the side of a tree. Not made from antlers, the way John had pointed out yesterday. The gouges in this tree were made by claws. Deep grooves run down the bark from the height of shoulder to shins. He imagines his cat at home clawing up the side of the sofa. A bear, he figures. He looks around. It’s not a safe feeling.

  Carter holds the purloined knife in his right hand, squeezes the grip. The wilderness feels immense and inexhaustible. It is relentless. And by now, Carter fully respects its capacity to kill.

  He keeps moving.

  He desires to get to the spot where he saw that helicopter. An open space. Maybe if he can …

  A branch snaps.

  Carter looks up to see John step out from behind thick brush. He is shirtless, even in this cool air. He’s painted two streaks of mud under each eye. The wild man of the mountains. John holds a bow raised to eye level, an arrow pulled all the way back. He is twenty feet away. The expression on his face is stone-cold, lacking all emotion.

  Scary John is back.

  “John—”

  The angular man tilts his head to aim.

  Releases his fingers.

  64

  [COUGAR]

  Carter hears but does not see the arrow whiz above his shoulder. He turns at the sound of quaking leaves, a broken branch, then another, and sees the tawny cat fall heavily from tree to ground, John’s arrow sticking from its chest.

  John swiftly walks past Carter—he’s already reloaded—and approaches the fallen cougar, bow drawn. He soon relaxes, lowers the bow, prods the lifeless animal with the toe of his boot. John takes a knee, puts his hand on the animal’s side, inclines his head as if in mourning.

  Carter watches, stunned.

  “Is that a…?”

  John turns his head. “Mountain lion, cougar, puma, they’re all different names for the same thing. This one’s been stalking you for the past ten minutes.” John evinces an electric sort of energy, hyped from the kill.

  Carter remains speechless, trying to process what’s just happened.

  “Puma concolor, an obligate carnivore,” John states, pronouncing the words slowly. “It must eat meat to survive.” He rises, studying the animal. “This one killed a fawn yesterday. They are ambush predators, and I’m pretty sure he was getting ready to leap on your back.”

  “Pretty sure?” Carter echoes.