I wasn’t so sure. Lion attacked from behind.
Colm went on, repeating a lot of the things Jeff had said and what I already knew, about Amy Raye wearing camouflage and smelling like elk piss. “Even so, according to Ruckman, the lion’s kills are arbitrary,” Colm said. “If he’ll take out a horse, he could just as arbitrarily take out a person. Hank’s going to go ahead and call their trapper. See if he can meet us out there as well. If we can take down that lion, we can check its stomach contents for any trace of human remains.”
“I don’t like the way that sounds.”
“We need answers,” Colm said.
“The snow’s supposed to let up sometime Sunday morning,” I told him.
“You want to go with us? You’d be able to lead Hank and his trapper into the area better than I can.”
“Yeah, I’ll be there.”
“I’ll call you,” Colm said.
—
Flakes of snow had gathered on my windshield. I turned on the wipers. The blades smeared the flakes like chips of glass. The rubber of the blades squeaked against the pane.
I was just getting ready to put the truck in reverse when I saw Joseph with that uneven gait of his, hands in his pockets, no coat, snow melting in his hair, and Corey, a couple of inches taller than Joseph, broad shouldered, still wearing his football jersey. They were walking toward the courthouse lawn, where a handful of other teenagers were hanging out. Like most of the kids in town, they’d known each other all their lives. Sometime around fifth grade they’d become best friends. I was glad they had each other. I knew growing up without a dad hadn’t always been easy on Joseph. And Corey had his own loss to deal with, a sadness that had affected the whole town. Corey had lost a brother in Afghanistan. He was in eighth grade when it happened.
I wanted to bring both boys coats and tell them to put their hats on. Instead I drove the rest of the way home.
AMY RAYE
A little farther up the incline and perhaps Amy Raye would be able to see enough to gather some sense of the direction she’d been heading. If nothing else, she might be able to find shelter. She’d have to build a fire and wait out the night. And so she climbed, her body bent forward, her knees weaker with each step, as if any moment they might buckle beneath her. Just a little farther. She was on an edge now. She leaned forward until she was able to hold on to the wet rocks of the incline with her bare hands and get an idea of her surroundings. Just below the rocky ledge, maybe twenty feet, was a shelter, she was sure of it, an overhang with enough of a rock wall to serve as a buffer from the wind. She could stay there for the night. And so she grabbed a root with her right hand and a handhold in the rock with her left. She stretched her left leg over the edge until she found a crack with the toe of her boot. She wedged her boot into the crack for support, and let go of the root with her right hand. She would climb down to the shelter. But the weight on her back was too great, and her left hand slipped, her boot still jammed in the crack, the weight of her body and the pack and elk quarter propelling her backward and over, and then pain and noise, her ankle snapping. Her foot dislodged. She hurtled downward. Her hip slammed against a rock, and a sickening jolt so sharp from her ankle and through her leg, so acute she could not breathe. She had landed on another ledge, a good fifteen feet or more from the top one, and above her she could see the shelter, maybe five feet from her at the most. And nausea as soupy thick as the pain, snow melting on her face and lashes, and the misshape of the bone just above her ankle, like the arc in her bow. She exhaled in a long cry, and when she did, her voice echoed back at her. Her pack was behind her, the elk leg protruding at an odd angle alongside her neck. She shifted her hip away from the rock, and nausea surged through her until she dry-heaved. She pushed the elk leg away from her neck, her hands still covered in the elk’s blood, or was it hers? She did not know.