No, I know what I owe it. The question is whether I can do it. I don’t want to. I have to. It is gutshot, like Brent, and if I walk away, it will lie here for hours, slowly dying.
I steady my knife. Then with my left hand, I rub the fur behind its ears. I half expect it to snarl, to tense, but that eye closes and the big cat relaxes under my fingers. I grip the knife firmly in my right hand, find its jugular, and slice, as quickly as I can. The cat’s eye flies open, but it doesn’t lift its head. With the pain from its stomach, it barely notices the cut. I keep rubbing its head, and that eye closes and after a moment the cougar goes still.
31
I take only a second to regroup. Then I’m checking Storm’s shoulder. There’s a gash where the cougar’s fang pierced and then sliced, and that, too, is my fault—I’d hit the cat as the fang caught.
Of course, if I hadn’t hit, all four canines would have ripped out the back of Storm’s neck. But I’m good at taking blame. Two seconds faster, and I could have saved her from any injury at all.
I have a rudimentary first-aid kit on my equipment belt. When I was a constable, I hated the equipment belt. Gun, baton, radio, cuffs, flashlight . . . The damn thing weighed fifteen pounds, and I consider myself in good shape—need to be in my profession—but I was still half the size of my partners, and my belt was just as heavy as theirs. I would long for the day when I could trade my belt for a shield. It came quickly—my education fast-tracked me to detective—but I still remember the damn belt. Now I must wear one again, and I’m fine with that. I’ve actually added items to what Dalton considers essential for venturing into the wilderness. The mini first-aid kit is one of my extras. God knows, we need it often enough.
I clean and suture Storm’s shoulder. She is remarkably good about that. Part of it is that she’s been stitched before, more because her owners are anxious new parents than because her wounds actually required stitches. I suspect her stillness is also because she knows she’s in trouble. And part is, I fear, shock. Shock that this beast hurt her. Shock that her attacker now lies warm and motionless and bloody on the ground.
I don’t understand.
I hurt, and I don’t understand.
I rub her ears and pet her and talk to her. She nudges the cougar a few times, as if seeing whether it will rise. Nudges. Sniffs. Lies down with her head on its foreleg and sighs.
I’ll come back for the cougar’s hide. While that sounds callous, it is the opposite. I don’t want this hide. I want to say it’s ruined and leave it here. But only the belly is shot, and this is what Dalton has taught me, that if we must put down a wild animal and there is any use to be made of its remains, then we must do that. Leaving it to rot is a last resort when, as with the mother wolf-dog, there is nothing to be taken.
I heave to my feet, and maybe I’m in a bit of shock myself, because it’s only then that I think, Oh, shit. Dalton.
In everything that has happened, I’ve forgotten how it started. That Dalton and Cypher were checking Jacob’s campsite while Storm bolted, and Dalton never realized I’d taken off. He’s certainly realized it by now.
I need to get back to him.
I look around, and . . .
Which way is back?
Down the mountainside. I know that much. But from there . . . ?
I ran after Storm, focused only on her, paying no attention to my surroundings.
Shit.
No, I’m fine. There’s a damn mountain here, a massive landmark. I know Jacob’s encampment was near the base. It’s just a matter of orienting myself.
I tell Storm to stay. She doesn’t appreciate that, but when I insist, she wisely decides she has disobeyed me enough for one day, and she plunks down with only a grumble.
I climb up to where the cougar had leapt from. I walk to the edge and look out to see forest. Endless miles of forest.
“Eric!” I shout. My voice echoes over the woods below.
I scan for any sign of Jacob’s campsite. Of Dalton. Of Cypher. Of anything that doesn’t belong in this forest.
I see trees.
Lots and lots of trees.
Forget landmarks, then. I know I am on the proper side of the mountain. We approached from the south, to the southeast side of Hawk Peak—so called because it resembles a hawk’s head, with a jutting rock for a beak.
The problem? From where I stand, I can’t tell if I’m on Hawk Peak. I’m too close to see the rock formation.
If this is Hawk, then I should be able to see a smaller unnamed peak to the east and . . .
I do see rock to the east. Is it the smaller peak . . . or just rock? Damn it. I’m just too close to judge.
I know my way home. That is the main thing. The problem is that Dalton won’t go home until he’s found me.
I see a stream below. Possibly a small river. I didn’t cross one, but I do recall running through marshy land. There’s mud on my boots, so that seems to be the generally correct direction.
I unwind a strip of bright yellow cloth from my belt. Last winter I got lost in the woods during a snowstorm, and I’d been grateful for a particularly ugly scarf Anders gave me. So Dalton now insists everyone carry a strip of bright fabric. I fasten it to this rocky ledge to mark the spot where I’ve left the cougar. I also attach a note for Dalton.
We’re fine. I’m going to try to find the campsite again. If you aren’t there, I’m heading for the ATV. I know where I am. I won’t wander.
Except, of course, I have already wandered, and by saying I know where I am, I mean only the rough geographic area. Rockton encompasses about fifteen acres. It seems a huge and exposed parcel of land, but it is tiny in this massive forest. It isn’t as if I can just keep heading in a compass direction and not miss it.
I won’t worry about that. I have my gun and extra ammo. I have energy bars. There’s plenty of fresh water. It’s good weather. Storm and I will be fine. This is the mantra I repeat to myself as I make my way back to my dog.
She’s where I left her. I give her a strip of dried meat and a pat, and we set out. I watch her movement. Going downhill isn’t easy with her shoulder. She takes it slow, growling now and then, as if frustrated by the impediment. I know exactly how she feels—I do the same, as old injuries in my leg protest the steep downward climb.
As we near the base, I know this isn’t the spot we went up—it’s too steep. I’m looking for an easier route down when Storm goes on full alert. She starts to whine, her tail wagging.
“Eric?” I ask her.
Her whole body quivers as she dances from paw to paw, her nose raised to catch a scent.
I say “Eric?” again, to be sure. She whines louder, giving me this look as if to say, Well, obviously. What are we waiting for?
“Slow,” I say. She bounds forward. I call, “Slow!,” and she gives me a reproachful glance as she takes it down to a walk.
We make our way down the steep incline. I hope it’s Dalton she smells. Names are something she’s learned only from general usage. If I say “Where’s Eric?” she’ll look for him. And one of Dalton’s favorite games is to hear me coming up the steps and hold the door closed, saying to Storm “Is that Casey? No, I don’t think that’s Casey. Are you sure it’s Casey?” while the poor puppy goes nuts. I’ve said one of these days, she’s just going to get fed up and bite him, and I won’t blame her. If she doesn’t, I will—especially if he’s holding the door shut when it’s thirty below.