Alone in the Wild(91)

I find a footprint, and I focus on that. It’s near the riverbank, pointing inland.

The river is mostly frozen, but temperatures haven’t dropped enough for it to be a solid sheet of ice, and we’re near an inlet that’s running too fast to freeze. That’s why the snow is so trampled—animals finding this spot and drinking. I definitely saw a boot print, though, and when I search, I locate more. Humans have used this spot for water. Possibly also for hunting. Drops of blood and scattered white fur suggest an Arctic hare was killed as it came to drink.

It’s been two days since the last snowfall. These prints are even more recent, layered on top of animal ones. When I get about three meters from the river, the prints fan out, the animals and the humans going their separate ways. I can get a better view of the human ones here. Two sets, one about a men’s size ten, and one a little bigger than mine. A man and a woman, both dressed in boots like what Ellen wore, thick and heavy, with no tread.

The human prints lead to the remains of a camp. A year ago, I’d have walked right through it. Now I notice the rectangle where a tent stood. I see irregular patterns in the snow where items were set down. I spot blood under a tree nearby, where game was hung and slaughtered. And there’s the firepit. It’s only a circular patch of packed snow, but I dig down to find embers still warm.

“A camp,” Petra says, as if just realizing this.

I nod.

“What’s that over there?” she says.

I twist, still crouched, as she heads toward whatever she’s spotted. When I catch movement in the trees, I start to call a warning. Then I see a dark parka-like jacket on a man Dalton’s size.

She’s looking at something else, and as she bends for a better study, the figure moves from the trees, and it is not Dalton.

“Petra!” I call, my own gun out, rising.

She spins to her feet … and the figure raises a rifle.

“Stop!” I shout. “There is a gun pointed at your head, and there are two more people walking up behind you right now.” I’m hoping I’m loud enough for Dalton to hear if he’s nearby. “We are all armed. Lower your weapon—”

“Lower yours,” the man says. He’s young, and his voice is deep and seems steady, but I’ve dealt with enough situations like this to recognize that tremor, the one that says he’s in a situation he’s not equipped to handle. It’s too easy to pull that trigger when you’re afraid and angry and trying to pretend you are willing to do it. I know that better than anyone.

“Baptiste?” I say.

His shoulders jerk just enough for me to know I’ve guessed right.

“Where’s Sidra?” I ask.

“That’s my question to you,” he says, in a voice that carries the accent of those raised in the Second Settlement. “What have you done with my wife?”

“Nothing,” I say. “We came looking for you. We’re with Felicity.”

“Felicity?” Baptiste spits, and his gaze turns on me. “She took Sidra, didn’t she? Dragging her back to that grandfather of hers. If I—”

Petra flies at him. She dives at his legs, knocking him back. The gun fires. Not a rifle but a shotgun blast.

“Casey!” Dalton’s voice slams through the forest.

“Gun down!” I shout, as much for Dalton as for them, to let him know I’m fine. “Put the goddamn gun—”

“I’ve got it,” Petra says. “We’re both fine, no thanks to this idiot.”

“And no thanks to the idiot who jumped a kid with a shotgun,” I say as I walk over.

“I didn’t expect him to have his finger on the trigger.”

“In the real world, people often do. We aren’t all government-trained secret agents.”

“I’m not…” Petra trails off, shaking her head.

“Not government trained?” I say.

She only rolls her eyes and holds out the shotgun. I walk past her to where pellets peppered a tree. I dig one out.

A buckshot pellet.

Just like the one that killed Ellen.





THIRTY-EIGHT


I turn to Baptiste. He’s about eighteen. Brown eyes. Dark curls cut in a mop that makes him look like the puppy-cute guy in a boy band. He’s trying very hard to play this cool, setting his jaw and hardening his eyes, but those eyes don’t have the life experience to harden. He reminds me of every kid I questioned who got caught up in a petty crime with his friends, struggling to play it tough while two seconds from breaking down and admitting he’s made a huge mistake, but he’ll take the punishment, just please don’t call his parents.

Dalton comes at a run, calling a warning before he bursts through, as if we wouldn’t hear him. Baptiste gives a start as Storm races past.

“She’s a dog,” I say, patting her head. “Eric, this is—”

“You!” Baptiste spins on Felicity, who’s trailing Dalton. “What did you do with Sidra? Did you take Summer, too? I swear if you hurt either of them…”

Summer.

The baby’s name is Summer.

That throws me enough that it takes a moment for me to react, and Dalton beats me to it, grabbing Baptiste’s shoulder as he advances on Felicity. Even then, my brain throws up excuses. Maybe Summer is a friend. Or a pet.