He does. Then we head for my sled to do the same. The snowfall’s still heavy enough that I’m grateful for the rope, guiding me through that endless white. As we near the spot where the bear stood, I spot something red under a layer of new snow. I brush the snow aside and uncover a woolen hat. A bright red, gold, and white one with a flaming C on the front.
Sutherland’s Calgary Flames toque.
I remember the figure standing here, watching us, and then bending over.
Not a bear preparing to charge.
A man, placing this on the ground.
I turn over the hat in my hands, and as I do, something dark smears on my gray gloves. I lift one hand to my face for a better look, but even before I catch the smell, I know what it is.
Blood.
THREE
I clear the spot where the toque lay. More blood. I position the hat on my hands and can see the blood is on the back. Consistent with a blow from the rear. I shine my flashlight into the toque. There’s hair. Light brown, like Sutherland’s. What I’m really looking for, though, is brain matter. There’s none of that. A blow hard enough to draw blood, but not crush the skull.
As I fold the toque, Anders points. He knows what I’ll want next and has uncovered boot prints under a thin layer of snow, confirming we had indeed been looking at a man and not a bear.
Anders takes off one of his boots and lowers it next to the print. It’s the same size.
“Eleven,” he says, but I know that already—we’ve done this before. In Rockton, crime solving is decidedly low-tech.
I compare the tread and make mental notes for later.
There’s no question of going after the guy. His footprints are already covered. Yes, that toque suggests something happened to Sutherland, but I won’t risk our lives running pell-mell through a darkening forest in hopes of finding him. Shawn Sutherland brought this on himself. Yes, that’s a cold assessment. It’s also the same one Anders makes, without any discussion. This forest isn’t a whole lot different from a war zone. If one of your comrades disappears on a mission, you’ll move heaven and earth to find him. But if he goes AWOL? Screw him. He made his choice.
We’ll look for Sutherland when it’s light. And we’ll come back again to search with Dalton, even if by then we’ll be looking for a body. Right now, though, we need shelter, or there’ll be three bodies lying frozen in the snow.
We continue on to my snowmobile. It has Dalton’s saddlebags, removable, easily converted into a backpack. We stuff everything in, and Anders insists on carrying it while I lead.
“I can bench-press my own weight,” I say. “I can carry that bag.”
“But you’re the one who knows where we’re going,” he says.
“Uh, no, I don’t. Bear Skull Mountain is just to the north, where we might find a cave, but that’s all I’ve got.”
“I don’t even know which direction is north.”
I could point out that we have a compass, but Anders isn’t just directionally challenged—put a compass in his hand, and it starts spinning, as if his very physiology foils him.
“North is to our right,” I say.
He lifts his hands, checking for the L that indicates left. I sigh. He grins and hefts the bag as we head out.
*
I find the mountain. Anders finds the cave. He’s a spelunker, which is not the hobby for a guy who can’t tell his left from his right. As compensation, he draws amazing maps of cave systems, but Dalton still insists that he never go caving without a more directionally adept partner, which these days is often me.
Anders can look at a mountain and, in one sweep, find the most likely places for a cave entrance. By the time we reach the mountain, the snow is light enough that he’s able to point out two spots. We pick the one with a natural pathway leading to it.
The first time I entered a cave was with Dalton, visiting a local recluse. I’d seen the small opening under a rock ledge and thought, That’s not a cave. To me, a cave is the sort of place a bear might make a den, with a wide opening. Most entrances to a system, though, are more like this: a gap that doesn’t look big enough for even me to squeeze through. As always, perception is deceiving, and Anders makes it inside without even snagging his snowsuit on the rocks.
It opens wider past the entrance, but it’s still not a stereotypical cave. The first “room” is maybe six feet in diameter with a ceiling just high enough for Anders to sit without scraping his head.
Caves maintain a constant temperature year-round, so Anders can remove his snowsuit without fear of frostbite. Halfway through examining him, as sweat drips into my eyes, I strip out of mine, too.
His collar is bruising where the helmet slammed down, but the bone is intact, and he accepts only one of the two painkillers I offer.
We spread out the contents of my bag. In winter, Dalton assigns one of the militia guys to check the saddlebags daily to make sure they’re fully stocked. It always seemed like overkill, but now I send him a silent apology as we find everything we need: flashlights, extra batteries, a full water canteen, meal bars, flares, emergency blankets, waterproof matches, and a first-aid kit.
“You want to see if we can get in farther?” Anders says when a stray gust sets me shivering.