Even before Dalton says “Maryanne?” I know who this is. A woman who left Rockton years ago. A biologist who’d mentored Dalton, taught him, shared his insatiable curiosity about the world around them.
When Maryanne left with others, his father made the militia pursue. Rockton did not allow residents to become settlers. Dalton had been the one to find their camp, with evidence they’d been attacked by hostiles. A year later, he saw Maryanne again, and she was a hostile—did not recognize him, tried to kill him, almost forced him to kill her. Maryanne is one of those pieces that makes me think my theory is not so far-fetched after all.
I look at this woman, and I try to imagine a biologist, rapt in conversation with a teenage boy. A brilliant woman with a doctorate who decided to go live in her beloved natural world, and who made that choice willingly. Chose that and ended up as this.
She looks at me, and she’s squinting, studying me as she did before, when we faced off and she did not attack. She squints as if trying to place me, too. Or maybe it’s more than that. Maybe she’s looking at me and seeing a mirror, reflecting something that sparks forgotten memories.
I used to look like that. Used to dress like that. Talk like that.
“Maryanne,” I say, carefully, too aware of that knife in her hand. “I’m Casey. This is Eric Dalton. You remember him, right? From Rockton.”
Dalton gives a start, as if snapping out of the shock of seeing her. “Right. It’s Eric.” He pauses for a second. “Eric Dalton. Gene was my father. We talked about biology. You specialized in black bears. I found papers you wrote, on vocalizations and body language. I read them a few years ago. You were a professor at a university in Nova Scotia.”
Her brow furrows, as if she’s trying to understand the language he speaks. Intently trying to understand. She might even be struggling to hear—I see the blackened ear he mentioned, lost to frostbite. But there’s more to her expression than incomprehension. It is as if she’s peering deeper into that dark mirror, catching wisps of shadows that look like people she once knew.
“Bears,” she says.
Dalton nods. “Right.”
“Eric?” Kenny says.
Dalton lifts a hand to tell Kenny to stay where he is. He never takes his eyes from Maryanne. “I found your camp after you left Rockton. I know something happened to you.”
“Eric,” she says. “The boy with the raven.”
“Uh, right.” He shoots an almost sheepish glance at me and then looks back at Maryanne. “I was trying to train a raven. I wanted to see if it could be taught to use tools. You told me there’d been studies on that, and you thought it might be possible.”
Dalton has never told me this. That look says he finds it a little embarrassing now. But I remember when he first caught me training “my” raven. He rolled his eyes then, but I’d gotten a sense that my experiment pleased him.
“Eric with the raven,” she says. Then she pauses. “Eric with the gun.”
“Yes. You wanted to learn to shoot. I showed you, but you couldn’t actually do it. You couldn’t shoot anything.”
He’s giving as much as he can, trying to prod those memories, like speaking to someone with amnesia, but I can tell it’s not quite getting through. It’s like talking to a small child, one who is listening mostly to the sound of your voice and picking up familiar words. She is making connections, though. She is remembering.
And she is not attacking. That is the most important thing, because in her restraint I see hope. The others attacked. The others now lie, bloody, on the ground. And yet it isn’t fear that holds her back. She could have attacked. She could have fled. But she sees Dalton, and something has changed from the last time. The rage is gone.
“Do you remember Rockton?” he asks. “Where we lived? Where you met me?”
“Eric. The boy with the raven.”
He nods. “I’m going back to Rockton. I would like you to come with me. You’ll be safe there. We have . . .” He pauses, as if struggling to remember something. “We don’t have ice cream. That’s what you said you missed most from down south. Ice cream. But we’ve shaved frozen milk before. You can have that. It’s like ice cream.”
There’s no sign that she understands what he’s saying, but when he says, “You’ll come with me?,” she tilts her head, listening. I put out my hand, and she stares at it.
“Come with us?” I say.
She looks at Dalton. He moves my way, a sidestep, motioning for her.
“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s your choice. You can come with us or . . .”
He doesn’t say “or not.” He glances at me, and we exchange a look that says that isn’t an option. We want her to come willingly, but what is the alternative? To leave her out here, with her people dead?
There is opportunity here. So many opportunities. For her, to return to what she had been. For Dalton, to exorcise this particular ghost from his past. And yes, for me, to answer my questions about the hostiles. Both Mathias and Cypher have said we need live subjects, and while the very concept has horrified me, Maryanne is the perfect subject—not a lab rat but a woman we can help.
We walk a few steps. Then we motion for her to come with us. She looks about. She sees the men on the ground. Sees the two bodies. Sees the two wounded. Then she nods, and I can’t tell whether it’s acceptance or satisfaction. Whether she sees her comrades fallen through their own mistakes . . . or her captors finally getting their comeuppance. Either way, she nods. And then she follows. One step. Another.
There’s a noise behind us. Kenny or Storm must step in undergrowth, and it crackles beneath their feet. Maryanne wheels. Dalton says “It’s okay. We’re—” and I don’t hear the rest. I see her face. I see her reaction, as pure and unthinking as my own.
There is a noise in the forest. There is a threat.
She catches sight of Jacob and Storm on the path and lets out a howl, barely human. She charges. I’m right behind her as she runs, knife raised. Jacob only yanks the dog back behind him, no panic, knowing he’s fine. He realizes she’s just startled, and he can stop her, or I will, or his brother will, and she is no threat.
Dalton shouts, “Maryanne! It’s okay!”
That’s when she sees Jacob. Sees his face. Sees the resemblance to Dalton and begins skidding to a stop, a few feet from him and—
A shot fires.
For exactly one second, I think it’s Dalton. Then I know it is not. Maryanne may have been running toward his brother with a knife, but Dalton has both a brain and a conscience. He will not shoot until he is absolutely sure his brother is at risk.
“Case—” Dalton begins, and then stops, having the exact same reaction as me. One moment of thinking I am shooting at Maryanne before realizing I am not.
Another shot. A half shout. Then Maryanne spins sideways. I run, and Jacob runs, and I hear Dalton’s strangled cry and the thud of his footsteps.
Another shot. This one whips right past me, and I stop. I see Maryanne. There’s blood. She’s standing against a tree, and there’s blood.
“Mary—” I begin.
She runs. She races into the forest, and I go after her, and there’s a third shot. I feel pain. Then I’m falling.
“Casey!” Jacob yells.
Dalton hits me, and I drop as he’s shouting his brother’s name and I have no idea what the hell is going on, and the next thing I know I am on the ground under Dalton and Jacob is on top of Storm.
I twist, ready to leap up. That’s when Dalton’s eyes round, his mouth forming my name as he grabs my chin. I feel a hot burn, and my fingers rise to my cheek. There’s a bullet graze across my cheek.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “It just . . .”
Just grazed me.
Just about killed me.
“Who—?” I begin.
Another shot. This one hits the tree near our heads.
“Kenny?” I say, as I try to twist.
That’s all I can think. It isn’t me shooting. It’s not Dalton. Jacob doesn’t have a gun. So it must be Kenny.
Dalton’s gaze flies to Jacob and Storm. His brother is crouched and pulling Storm along with him, his free hand motioning to us. Behind them is Kenny, hunkered down, gun lowered at his side.
I look up and scan the treetops and . . .
There’s a figure in a tree. A dark figure.