John pulls on his beard, eyes twinkling. “Did you want me to wait to find out?”

  Carter doesn’t answer.

  John estimates the lion at about seven feet long from nose to tail, 150 pounds.

  “Give or take,” Carter says.

  John nods. “Give or take, yeah. He would have killed you before you ever saw him. The mysterious thing is this: What’s it doing here? I’m looking at it, and I still can’t believe it.”

  Carter steps closer. The animal is magnificent. As beautiful as any creature he’s ever seen. Small head, rounded ears, white whiskers, slender body, black on the sides of its muzzle and the tip of its surprisingly long tail.

  John clamps a strong hand around the back of Carter’s neck. “They bite down—right there,” he says.

  Carter tries to pull away. John grips him for an extra beat, teasingly. He lets go. Grins at the boy. “Mountain lions are out West. There aren’t any in the Northeast. Rooted out and wiped out long ago.” He bends to lift the big cat’s massive front paw. “Guess nobody told this guy.”

  “You said it was stalking me?” Carter asks.

  John nods.

  “So you killed it?”

  John figures that question doesn’t merit a reply.

  “You’ve been following me all this time?” he asks.

  John shuts his eyes, exhales out of his mouth. “I was awake when you left.”

  “You could have stopped me,” Carter continues. “Instead, you let me go—and watched over me.”

  “And I do feel bad about that,” John says, indicating the lion. “It was only doing what was natural for it. Just trying to live.”

  Carter can’t help but see the similarities between the man and the lion, both solitary creatures in a hostile world. Rooted out, wiped out. A shame it had to die.

  John suddenly lifts his head, turns, square-shouldered, feet wide, and faces an opening in the brush. He grabs Carter by the elbow and pulls him close. The ranger steps forward. They pause in that instant, facing off like two fighters in a steel cage. The ranger is a tall, dark-skinned young woman. She identifies herself in a calm, confident, not unfriendly voice: “I’m Ranger Devaroix. I work for the Department of Environmental Conservation. And I am looking for a boy”—her eyes meet Carter’s—“by the name of Carter Taylor.”

  65

  [INTERVIEW]

  “I’m Carter,” the boy says.

  The ranger’s eyes flicker from the boy to the man, coldly appraising the dynamic between them. She feels the nervous energy pulsing off the shirtless man, like the vibrations that come from a fishing line when a powerful creature dives to the deep. The bearded man doesn’t look directly at her. His eyes dart around, as if searching for a means of escape. He is holding a compound bow in his left hand. It is not loaded. She calculates how long it might take the man to draw back an arrow. There is a dead mountain lion by their feet. Makayla remembers to smile at the boy. Her training calls upon her to defuse the tension. It is also her nature to be calm, direct, friendly. She hopes to strike a delicate balance. Makayla does not want to threaten the wild-eyed man—he appears wired, not quite right, uncomfortable and anxious—yet she must also demonstrate authority and seriousness of purpose.

  Being a cop isn’t easy.

  “Your sister’s safe,” she tells the boy.

  “Grace,” he says. As he utters her name, everything about his face and demeanor transforms before the ranger’s eyes. Every muscle in his face seems to lift. He stands taller, leans forward. “She’s okay?”

  “Yes,” Makayla says. “She’s doing great. We found her last night. She’s been air-lifted to safety.”

  “The helicopter,” Carter remembers.

  Makayla grins.

  The man twitches, gives off an anxious, agitated vibe. He’s clearly ill at ease.

  Makayla addresses John. Her tone is soft and calm. “I don’t know what’s going on here, sir. I’m not here to hurt anyone. I just need to put the pieces of the puzzle together.”

  Carter glances at John. The man’s right hand still grips the boy’s elbow. The ranger needs to separate them.

  “You understand,” she says to the man, “I can’t talk to you if you are holding that weapon.”

  John blinks, looks down at the bow in his hand.

  “I need for to you put it down and step away,” Makayla says. She does not reach for her gun. She purposefully softens every word and gesture. And yet still … this is not a request. She means what she says. Everyone knows it.

  “It’s not loaded,” he begins.

  “I can see that,” Makayla answers. “But we’ll all relax if you put it on the ground, sir, please.”

  John lowers the bow to the ground, and in doing so releases the grip from Carter’s arm. He steps to the side.

  “Thank you,” Makayla says. “I appreciate your trust.”

  “John saved my life,” Carter says. “He found me and—”

  Makayla holds up a hand. “I want to hear everybody’s side of the story. But first, I need you two to separate.” She glances at a tree off to the side, still in her peripheral vision. “Carter, I’d like you to come sit at the base of this tree.”

  The boy hesitates, then walks to the tree and begins to sit without looking at John.

  “On the other side,” Makayla says, indicating with her finger. She wants Carter out of the line of fire. She half turns to the boy, not taking her eyes off the man. “You stay right here, Carter, don’t move. Wait until I come for you. Right now I’m going to speak privately with this gentleman. Is that all right with you?”

  Carter looks up, trusts the ranger, nods. They lock eyes for a moment. Makayla quickly scans his body for signs of bruising, injury, any kind of distress. “Have you been hurt in any way?” she asks.

  “No, ma’am,” Carter answers.

  Makayla steps to the man, inclines her head toward the cougar. “John, is that right?”

  He nods, eyes restless.

  “I see you did a little hunting today. That’s an impressive shot.”

  They both regard the dead animal.

  The man glances warily at the ranger.

  “I only care about the boy’s safety,” Makayla says.

  The man stands motionless. He wears no shirt. His body is lean, sinewy, underweight. Tattoos cover both arms and most of his chest. A former soldier, she guesses, after a quick scan of the images. His face appears gaunt, cheeks sunken, making his eyes appear slightly oversize for his skull. His hair is shoulder-length, thinning, with streaks of gray. Even at rest, his body seems coiled. Makayla is careful not to come too close.

  “I need you to sit down,” she says.

  The man wavers, looks to the sky in resignation, closes his eyes, sits.

  “Thank you,” Makayla says. And, after a pause, “I believe I saw you yesterday.”

  The man waits. No reaction.

  “How long have you been living out here, John?” she asks.

  He shrugs.

  “I need you to cooperate, sir,” Makayla says, her tone sharpening. “That child over there has been missing for six days. This is serious. Do you understand? I need to know exactly how he came to be with you.”

  John looks up, for the first time meeting her eyes. “I found him collapsed in the bog. I never hurt the boy. I would never do anything like that, ever.”

  Makayla sees that he is speaking the truth. She points to a tattoo on his right bicep. “Semper fi. You were a marine?”

  He gives an involuntary shiver. “Once and forever,” he replies.

  “Iraq? Afghanistan?” she asks.

  He tells her. Slowly, haltingly answers all the ranger’s questions.

  “Thank you for your sacrifice,” she says. “And for what you’ve done here, for the boy.”

  He gives no reply.

  Makayla says, “You are aware that it’s my duty to report this.”

  “I know.”

  “You could walk down with us,” Makayla offers. “We could sort it out together. Maybe get you some help?”

  “That’s not agreeable to me,” he replies.

  It’s the answer Makayla anticipated.

  “The boy’s safety and well-being,” she says, pausing until he looks up at her, “is my first priority. I didn’t come here looking for you.”

  The man scratches at the earth with an index finger, listening.

  Makayla takes off her hat, runs a hand through her hair. It’s decision time. The ranger replaces the hat on her head, pulls the brim low. “Is there anything I can do for you?” she asks.

  He looks at the ruined cougar. The magnificent creature the world had conspired against. John tried to imagine its life, the stone-cold miracle of its being here. A mountain lion, here. Those enormous front paws, the blackened coloration around its eyes, the perfect pink triangle of a snout. Her athletic body, so well-proportioned: capable of climbing trees with ease, the ability to pounce forty feet upon a foe. John felt, in comparison, unworthy. And yet he was the vessel of its destruction. He alone had pulled back the bow.

  He took the shot that took the life.

  John looks back at the ranger.

  “What can you do for me?” he repeats, shaking his head. “To be honest? Just leave me be.”

  It’s Makayla’s turn to process the request. She takes a card from her wallet. Hands it to him. “That’s my number. When you come down from the mountain, John, if there’s anything I can do, if you ever need anything at all…”

  The man holds the card in his hand, flicking it with his thumb.

  “The break-ins must stop,” the ranger says.

  John looks up, a little surprised. He feels a stab of guilt.

  “That’s not who you want to be in this world,” she says. “They will lock you up. Do you understand?”

  He signals that he does.

  Makayla runs both hands across the back of her neck. The boy is leaning out from behind the tree, watching. “What’s your full name?” she asks.

  “John,” he says. And then as if remembering, recalling a word from long ago, adds, “Riorden.”

  “Okay, John Riorden,” the ranger answers. “Now I’m going to speak with Carter. If he confirms the details of your story, we should be all set. But until that time, I need you to stay seated. You are not free to leave. Is that clear?”

  “Yes,” he answers.

  “Do you trust me, John?” she asks.

  A noise comes from his nose. He looks away, shrugs, ducks his head. It’s the best he’s going to give her.

  Of course he doesn’t trust her. John doesn’t trust anyone.

  Makayla goes to the boy.

  66

  [DARK ANGEL OF THE WOOD]

  Before they leave, Carter asks, “Can I say good-bye to him?”

  Makayla glances toward the man, still rooted beside the stunted pine. “Sure.”

  The boy goes to him. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll gather my gear, find a new place,” John says.

  “You could live with us,” Carter says. “Or, like, I don’t know, my parents could help you. They have money. And you haven’t even met Grace. She’s awesome and—”

  John rises. He’s looking past the boy to the ranger. He wants this to end.

  Carter looks at him, bewildered. “I was lost,” he says, his voice cracking. “And you found me. You saved me. Twice. Now it’s our turn. Let us help you.”

  John picks up his bow. “You should go.”

  “But what about you?”

  John stiffly puts forth a hand.

  Carter takes it. His hand feels small in John’s immense, strong grip. They shake once, awkwardly.

  John lets go, looks away. “It’s the way it is, that’s all,” he says.

  Makayla finally puts a hand on the boy’s shoulder, gently pulls him away. “It’s time to go home, Carter. You’ve got family who can’t wait to see you.”

  Carter looks into the bright gray eyes of the ranger. He thinks of Grace, his parents—his dog, Sitka. They turn to walk away. When Carter pauses to look back, John is already gone. Vanished into the forest, a dark angel of the wood.

  Was he even real? Carter wonders, not quite believing it could be so.

  The boy doesn’t talk much on the way down. Makayla doesn’t press him, gives him space for his thoughts. He’s tired now, feels depleted, as if he could sleep for a hundred days. They stop to sit on a rock ledge. The view is spectacular. Makayla offers him an apple. The juice explodes in his mouth.

  She points out a high peak. “That’s Blood Mountain. I don’t believe you ever got there.”

  Carter stares at it, repeating the words in silence. Blood Mountain. He looks back up in the direction from which they came. John is up there somewhere, padding silently. Good walking leaves no trace.

  “Will he be okay?” Carter asks.

  Makayla’s lips tighten. “I don’t know.” She pauses, shakes her head.

  “He’s lost,” Carter says.

  Makayla nods in agreement.

  “Maybe he’ll find his way home,” Carter offers. But it’s more question than comment.

  No one pretends to know the answer.

  Makayla lifts her head up, breathes in the fresh late-morning air. They say the weather pattern’s going to break. The sky already a deep, smooth blue. It’s been a long few days. She’s tired, too. She brings her arm around the boy’s shoulders.

  “You ready to go home?” she asks.

  “I am,” Carter says.

  “You want to walk or—?”

  “Uber,” the boy jokes, face brightening.

  Makayla clicks on her radio. Says to Carter, “I may have something even better.”

  67

  [EPILOGUE]

  Grace slides open the glass door to her semirural backyard. Sitka slips through, rarely missing a chance to smell the outdoors. The yard is fenced in all around; she can’t go far.

  Thwonk.

  The dog pads over to Carter, who has set up target practice. His new slingshot arrived today in the mail, along with a box of ammo. Steel balls. Across the yard, he’s propped a couple of boards across cinder blocks. Upon them sits various targets: a plastic Clorox container, an array of dented seltzer cans, a number of old action figures looking battered and aggrieved.

  Grace moves well now, without pain, though she’s still wearing a walking boot. Doesn’t need crutches anymore. She had surgery on her ankle a few days after the rescue. Ligament damage. Not the best way to start the school year, though it gives her temporary access to the elevator and an excuse to be late for band, which is all the way on the other side of the building. She still feels a dull ache where two of her ribs were fractured. It’s getting better, though.

  “Want to try?” Carter offers.

  “Sure, I guess,” Grace says.

  Carter watches her fumble with it for a moment.

  “Here, let me show you.” Carter places a ball in the center of the leather pouch. He demonstrates as he speaks. “This is a thick band, like the one John uses. For power, you know? You’ve got to pull it back nice and steady, see? The same way every time. That’s the important thing. You have to be consistent with your set up, or else your shot will go all over the place.”

  “Okay, okay,” Grace says impatiently. She doesn’t love being schooled by her younger brother. She shoots without any real attention to detail—the ball zips somewhere above the target—she doesn’t exactly care where.

  Grace hands the slingshot back to her brother. “You’re not going to kill anything, are you?” she asks.

  “Just Spider-Man,” Carter says. He takes a shot, and the ball hits Spidey in the leg, knocking over the action figure.

  “I got an email from Makayla,” Grace says.

  Carter lowers the slingshot. Waits.

  “She’s so awesome. I want to be her someday,” Grace says with a smile.

  Carter laughs. “Yeah, she’s cool.” And after a pause, “Has she heard anything, you know, about John?”

  Grace shakes her head.

  “Didn’t think so,” Carter says, and reloads the pouch. “He doesn’t want to be found.”

  “I wish I could have met him,” Grace says.

  Carter tilts his head. He isn’t so sure about that. Releases the shot, misses.

  Sitka barks at the glass door. Taps it with the claws of her front paw. Something inside has gotten her attention.

  “Dad’s home,” Grace says, heading toward the door. “You coming in?”

  “In a sec,” Carter replies.

  It’s been five weeks since they’ve come off the mountain. In a way, it’s like the whole thing never happened. So easy to slip into a routine of school and sports and phones and gaming. Their father is back to normal, more or less. He’s returned to work. Promises to eat better. Takes long walks around the neighborhood with their mom. He even claims he’s lost six pounds, like it’s some kind of accomplishment. No one believes it. Just Dad being Dad.

  Situation normal.

  Still, at unexpected times, Carter finds himself thinking of John. The man who saved his life—and terrified him at the same time. Where is he now? Carter wonders. What is he doing?

  Will he ever find peace?

  The door slides open a crack, just wide enough for Grace to poke her head through. “Dinner,” she says. “Mom made chili.”

  Carter takes one last shot.

  Draws the bow back, lets his hand lightly touch his face.

  Tilts his head to aim down the length of his left arm.

  Releases his fingers.

  Bull’s-eye.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’d like to give special thanks to two members of the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation. The director of the Division of Forest Protection, Eric Lahr, was my first contact when I began delving into this area of research. Not only did Eric take time to patiently answer my many questions about lost hikers and rescue operations, he put me in touch with Ranger Megan McCone, who was generous with her time and enthusiastic, always. Megan and I spoke on the phone, emailed, texted, and sent fat packages back and forth. She was always there for me, going above and beyond anything I could have reasonably asked. Megan’s comments and insights helped ground this book in realistic details. Thank you, Ranger McCone. I once was lost, but now I’m found. We still haven’t met, but a part of you lives inside this book. I’m so grateful for that.