Alone in the Wild(40)
“One initial group that split,” I say. “Like Rockton and the settlements.”
“Yes, but that’s just my presumption. It wasn’t as if we sat around talking about our tribal history. I don’t know if it was the drugs themselves or the result of living that way, but everything was very focused on the now. Any discussions we had were the simple exchange of information needed in the moment. The fire is too small. We need more kindling. Hey, that’s my meat. Even things like hunts or gathering expeditions were very in the moment. We’re running low on meat, so we need to hunt. It’s blueberry season, so we should pick blueberries. When someone died, we buried him and divided up his things, and rarely referred to him again.”
She takes a deep breath. “And that’s the very long way of saying that there were two tribes, but we didn’t interact, and if there was any connection between the two, no one ever mentioned it to me.”
Maryanne runs her fingertips over the woman’s raised scars. “This is definitely their work. When I met her, though, I had no sense she was a hostile. If anyone had suspected she came from the other tribe, that would have been far more worrisome, being so deep into our territory.”
“My guess is that she’d been a hostile and left them. She has facial markings, too, which she covered with dirt. The chest ones seem unfinished, but they aren’t fresh.”
“Left her tribe to become a settler. That would also explain why she’d reached out to us as a party of women. Like an ex–cult member trying to help those still drinking the Kool-Aid.” A wry twist of a smile. “Or, in our case, the tea.”
She steps back for a broader view of the woman. “If she did leave her tribe and stumbled onto them again, that might have explained how she died. They would have killed her. I see you’ve shaved part of her head. I’m guessing that was what did it? A blow to the skull?”
“Is that a common attack method for hostiles?”
A humorless chuckle. “Their murder modus operandi is ‘whatever gets the job done.’ They have knives, but they’d grab a rock if that was closest at hand.”
“She did suffer blunt-force trauma,” I say. “But cause of death was a shotgun pellet.”
“Well, then that’s not the hostiles. Some use bows and arrows, but no one would ever get access to a gun, much less ammunition.”
So I have a name for the woman. The fact that she’d tried to help Maryanne and the others gave me some small insight into her. While she could have stolen this baby for herself, I’m leaning harder now toward other possibilities.
If the baby’s mother belonged to the trading family that Edwin dislikes, then perhaps Ellen thought she was saving the child. With Maryanne and the others, rescue would have been warranted. With the child, though …
We were back to the problem Dalton and I discussed yesterday. At what point do you declare parents unfit? The baby is healthy, showing absolutely no signs of neglect or abuse. Yet, according to Edwin, the family prostitutes its daughters. If he’s right about that, then looking after a baby girl is little different than treating your sled dogs well.
What if that is the sort of situation we find? A child who will grow up to that sort of life?
For now, I need to focus on finding the baby’s parents. I hope Cypher can shed more light on that.
TWENTY
I talk to Phil about Maryanne. I’m trying to play fair with all parties, especially in light of the “Whoops, guess the council “isn’t responsible for hostiles” revelation. I’m feeling sheepish about that, and in response, I decide to be aboveboard regarding Maryanne’s presence.
I explain to Phil. He responds with a shake of his head and zero questions, as if he’s beyond surprise when it comes to Rockton. He’ll tell the council Maryanne is here and sees no issue with that. It’s a humanitarian gesture.
At one time, I’d have thought Phil incapable of understanding that concept. While he doesn’t exactly trip over himself to offer her hospitality, he doesn’t question giving her a house for the night, food, fresh clothing and supplies come morning.
I’ve brought the baby back from Jen’s, and Maryanne is resting, so I’ve requisitioned a men’s parka from the supply shop, put the baby into the front sling we fashioned yesterday, and tucked her under the jacket. We’re both restless, and walking with her seemed like a fine solution, though it might suggest that I have far more experience with puppies than babies.
She doesn’t sleep, but she settles in with only the occasional grunt to let me know she’s there.
Walking through town means more stopping-and-greeting than actual movement, especially when I have a baby strapped to my chest. It’s like walking Storm—even after a year, people still stop me to give her a pat. The baby doesn’t want to be patted. She conveys that with a yowl the first time a resident’s icy fingers touch her cheek.
So I take her out of town. There’s a path that runs just beyond the forest edge, one that residents are allowed to use if they really feel the need to commune with nature. I can go farther, of course—perks of being law enforcement—but with the baby, I’ll stick close. It’s also dark. Not night yet—not even dinnertime—but dark nonetheless.
I see the glow of Dalton’s flashlight first, bobbing along like fairy-fire. Then Storm gives a happy bark and thunders down the path. I drop to one knee before she bowls me over. While I pet her, she dances and whines as if we’ve been separated for months. Then she sticks her big nose into my parka and licks the baby. The baby’s head rolls back, as if trying to see. Storm snuffles the black-fuzzed head, and the baby only grunts in surprise.