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I didn’t know how Amy Raye’s family was going to spend Christmas. But I thought about them a lot over the holiday. And while I knelt beside Joseph during the Christmas Eve service at the beautiful St. Aidan’s, I prayed for Amy Raye and her family. I prayed for my family as well, and the Lidells, and I prayed for Colm. And I prayed for answers. I would be visiting the search area again. I would be checking out the possible tree stand that Joseph had identified in the photo. And I knew I would also be visiting the site where Kona had found the hat and the gun. I would be looking for some sign that Amy Raye had gotten a shot at an elk, and I hoped somewhere in the area I’d find the elk’s remains, specifically his skull, which might explain the gun. I wanted Amy Raye’s family to know she hadn’t taken her life. And I wanted them to have the answer that her death wasn’t the result of her illicit behaviors. I wanted to redeem her in some way. It would be the family’s memory of Amy Raye that would get them through all of this. I wanted to do what I could to protect that memory.
AMY RAYE
She awoke to a soft glow over the horizon, and a fresh layer of snow. Her body shivered against the cold, the fire no more than glowing embers now. She uncovered herself from the boughs she’d used to stay warm and brushed the snow from her clothes and hair. As the sun rose over the rocky bluffs behind her, she saw what looked like prints just to the other side of where she had built the fire. She reached for her crutch and pulled herself to a standing position, her muscles stiff, the break in her injured leg throbbing as it did every morning. She still could not will her left foot to move in any direction, and she wondered if she would ever be able to walk normally again.
Within ten feet of where she’d slept were the fresh tracks of a lion, the four teardrop-shaped toes, the heel pad with the three distinct lobes. Leave me alone! she’d wanted to scream, but already the air felt thin in her lungs and her stomach weak. She knelt and laid her palm over one of the prints. It came to the first bend in her middle finger, which measured about four inches from the base of her palm, same as the tracks she had seen outside the cave. Lion were supposed to be wary of people. She’d always read that they would leave an area if they perceived a threat. This lion wasn’t seeing her as a threat. And then cold panic settled over her skin. A lion was a stalking predator. It would get close to its prey before ambushing it from a short distance. This cougar had been stalking her. Had she rolled over, roused from her sleep to kindle the fire, made some kind of movement or noise that had thwarted his ambush? Lion looked for vulnerable prey. Perhaps he had perceived her weakened state. But then she thought of something else. A cougar was mostly drawn by scent. He lacked the keen eyesight of other animals. The game bag that she’d used as extra insulation for her left foot had been saturated with elk blood. She knelt beside the fire pit and blew upon the embers until they reignited. Then she quickly untied the cloth and put it in the fire. She stoked the fire until the bloodstained fabric had completely disintegrated. She gathered her belongings and tried to move quickly, unable to shake the feeling that the lion was still watching her. She dropped her knife and fumbled with her bag, cursing each mishap. She would forgo any kind of breakfast. Besides, the weather seemed to be turning. There was a slight breeze that had swung around from the north. The air felt colder than it had during the night, and the wind was picking up momentum, whipping her jacket against her back. She worried about another snowstorm. She would go ahead and cover as much distance as possible while she could.