"That's nic—" Before the words were out, he felt a terrible premonition. He sat up, tumbling her away from him, and strode to the fire that licked blue and orange around blackened limbs. He stared at its edges and drew his breath in sharply. There was a small triangle of paper caught under the uncharred end of a branch. It had white borders and what he could see of the rest was blue shaded to green.
She cried out as he kicked the fire apart, sending chunks
•f flaming wood spinning into the grass. He was on his hands and knees then, pawing through what could be
, — «M
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touched without searing his flesh. Finally he turned to her with a look she had never seen before, the man vanished! the boy gone, both of them destroyed by the twisted animal rage on his face. She thought, "red man," could no£ remember who that was, and waited, hopelessly, to see what she had done that was so awful. "You burned the map. You burned the goddam map."«
She deserved punishment. He left her beside the ruined fire and crashed into the woods while she wailed behind him, begging him not to leave her alone. She had been left behind enough times. Let her get a taste of what alone could be. He knew she wouldn't follow him; she was too frightened of the woods at night.
The way out might be quite obvious; he could do it without the map, but he had to hurry before the sun went; down again. He would stand on the ridge and look down\ and find the way. Then he might forgive her. The scrabblYI trail fought his foothold and mosquitos settled over him in clouds so thick that their drone maddened him and shut out her distant voice.
He became aware of something watching him, although, > he could hear no sound above the bugs. He stopped and! looked behind him. She had not followed him; there was only the dark trail that seemed to disappear in the sky^ Ahead it was the same. He was suspended on a thin wall an rock with no beginning and no end except air. Still, some-? thing prickled the back of his neck and the feel of it made him so dizzy that he dropped to one knee to stop himself from catapulting into space.
He saw them then—first their eyes, eight orbs of fluorescent gold, unblinking. Big cats. Cougars. Their faces were as=: gentle as kittens'
faces, but their tails wound down and| around, six feet long and as thick as his arm, their shoulders,;; muscled thickly. They stared at him with interest and h«1 knew they could be upon him in two, maybe three, bounds. • He waited in his half-crouch for minutes and the cats nevtf moved.
He should not have left her. After what seemed a
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long time, his shaking legs steadied and he stood cautiously. The cougars seemed stuffed and lifeless. And then he saw pale membranes slide over yellow eyes. They were real.
When he turned and made his way back toward where he'd left her, he thought he heard them padding behind him, imagined their breath on his neck. He reached the end of the ridge and turned back, ready to shoot if he had to— and there was nothing. The rocks where the yellow cats had perched were empty.
He would kill her himself before he let an animal have her. He would kill her himself before he let anything or anyone else have her. She was his own possession, and neither cats nor men would take her. He could see her near the rebuilt fire, huddled in misery, long before she heard him approach. Waiting for him.
The thought of killing her seemed to be part of him, the last exchange between them. Not like with the others. They had died because they were false, because they had proved early on that they didn't recognize him. He was quite sure that she knew him now, but even as she proved herself, memories came back to him. Bad things. If they had time and freedom, he might be able to forgive her. He wished passionately that she didn't have to die. She had pledged to kill for him and he for her, but she had not understood what that might mean.
27
chartered copter circled over Rainbow Lake and Sam Peered down, seeing again the green expanse whose color seemed to change like a lying woman's eyes. Today, it was an innocent bright green, reflecting the sun, and the scene of searchers huddled in the cold was only a dull memory. The feather and the landscape changed continually up here and 5 trusted none of it.
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He glanced at Ling's profile and wondered why he trusted Ling, or perhaps more puzzling, why Ling had thrown if with him. Hell, he was having a hard enough time convincing himself. Neither "Curry" nor "Dwain" had drawn a hit on the computers, and Fletch seemed lackadaisical about searching through the FIR's for something more. Sam wondered what Moutscher had insinuated when he called Fewell. If he'd hinted that Sam had cracked up, that would be enough to scare Fletch. If there was one thing that alienated cops, it was craziness. Because we're all half-sure that we'll catch it from being exposed so often.
He hated helicopters. Once in Seattle, he'd been sent out to photograph the decapitated uniformed bodies and burned fuselage of a crashed police helicopter. Air I all in ashes. He breathed easier as the rotors lowered the pod they sat in onto the ground and he could feel solid land beneath his feet.
"Watch your head!" Ling shouted above the cyclone of noise and Sam bent double as he trotted clear.
The pilot promised to fly over areas designated by Ling each afternoon until they signaled him they were ready to be picked up. Sam doubted that Joanne would be able to walk out when they found her.
It was very quiet when the craft's rotors faded in the distance, all of the searchers dissipated. They had left their mark, bright ribbons on trees and bushes where they'd shown sections already combed, electric blue plastic streamers flowing in the wind, mocking and empty.
Ling paced back and forth along the lake edge, lost in at reverie of his own. Sam watched him silently, smoked «•$ cigarette, put it out, smoked another, and was lighting a third when Ling padded back toward him.
"They're not here now," he said finally.
"I'd say that was taken for granted."
"They might have come back—after the searchers left-But they didn't."
"You're saying 'they.' Why? Because of what I told you? Forget what I told you."
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"I have." Ling squatted in front of him and his nostrils twitched. "I smell two people." "Come off it, Max. How can you smell anyone?" "Because if I said 'feel,' you'd go all antsy on me. Nobody understands my methods. You'll have to trust me. We've got layers of human spoor through here. Men and dogs clomping around and smashing hell out of everything. Right?"
"Right. Is it too late?"
Ling shook his head and started pacing again, his head cocked in a listening stance. "The search team showed us where they've been, so we toss that out. We go deeper. You tell me the woman had never been up here before. Say, she was alone—she's scared shitless. She would never have made it farther than the perimeter of those ribbons. And they didn't find diddley. So we assume she did go farther, but not alone. You with me?"
"I always assumed that."
"If she'd gone downtrail, you would have met up with her."
"Yes."
"So she went uptrail. I can't see her running into the brush of her own accord and no matter what those guys told you, bears don't drag their victims very far from the point of attack. They lose interest when the essence leaves after death. Bears kill for the same reasons humans do—out of fear, frustration, to protect their young, or because they think they're trapped."
"But not out of jealousy or for financial gain." Ling grinned. "Bears are a little nicer than your average man on the street. Your woman wouldn't have been much of a threat to any bear."
"No."
"Tell me what she looks like."
"Why?"
"It helps if I have a picture of who I'm looking for. Just tell me about her."
Sam sighed. "Shit. Ling, I never could describe women." 263
"Give it a shot. How tall?"
"Little. Not real little, but—maybe five foot, two or three, hundred-fifteen maybe. Dark hair, blue eyes."
"Pretty?"
"I guess so. Yeah, she's a real pretty woman."
"What color is she?"
"She's Caucasian."
Ling snorted. "I don't want a cop description. I'm trying to get a total picture. Everybody gives off a color. You— you're kind of a burnt sienna. I'm dark green. Marcella's pale lavender . . ."
"Ling . . ." Sam's exasperation burgeoned.
"We're playing by my rules. What color?"
". . . rose, very pale rose."
Ling looked at him and whistled. "You have the hots for her, don't you?"
"No! Damn it, Ling. You asked a ridiculous question. I come up with an equally ridiculous answer—to pacify you—and you start playing Dr. Freud. She's my partner's wife."
"Whatever you say." Ling walked to the hiding tree, although Sam had not told him where it was, and circled it. "Look at it this way, deputy. You have certain talents; I have certain talents. You don't believe in my hocus-pocus, which, by the way, is only part of what I'm good at. But you've told me there are at least three dozen sensible men who don't agree with your assumptions. Part of what's burning a hole in you comes from what you've picked out of the air. You've got vibrations too. You combine that with physical evidence. Isn't that the way it goes on TV?"
"Yeah."
"And in real black and white life too?"
"I guess so."
"O.K. Pretty soon I'm going to show you what I can see in dirt and leaves and broken branches. That's my physical evidence. The other is my gut stuff. We put those together with yours, and we'll find your rosy little woman." He looked up into the pine boughs. "She was up here, wasn't she?"
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"I think she was. I think she was up there with someone—not Danny."
"A man. A big man. Twice as big as I am. Bigger than you are."
"How do you know that?"
"I can't tell you. I just know."
Sam laughed without humor. "What color is he?" But Ling took him seriously and reached out to touch the tree trunk.
"Hot. A hot color."
"Ling," Sam said suddenly. "Where's your weapon? You brought a gun, didn't you? You're talking the Incredible Hulk here, and . . ."
"I don't own a gun," Ling said quietly. "I couldn't shoot one if I had one. I'm what you call nonviolent."
"Shit."
"Let's start with the part we can see, Deputy. Give me your foot."
"What for?"
Ling pulled a buck knife out of his belt and bent over Sam's boot sole.
"I'm gonna mark you, Sam." He cut a diagonal line across one heel, reached for the other foot and marked that. "If I'm following somebody, I don't want it to turn out to be you. This way, I'll know you. Now, do mine." Sam took the knife and scored tattoos on the tracker's boots. That made a lot more sense to him than personal colors. He relaxed a little.
"Whose stuff is this around the campsite?"
"The coffeepot and skillet and junk was theirs—Danny's and Joanne's. The beer bottles—I don't know."
"Where'd you find him?"
"Down trail."
"Can I see it?"
"There's nothing there now."
"You say."
"Hell, come on."
They walked along the trail so dry that it was impossible to remember that snow had covered everything only three days before; it had evaporated like seafoam under the sun as hot as August's. The blue plastic banners were tangled in the
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trees where Danny had lain, slim snippets of color there too. The leaves that had been crushed under Danny's body had all blown away, leaving the forest floor unmarked—at least to Sam. Ling, however, walked immediately to the body perimeters next to the fallen log, an outline emblazoned in Sam's mind if not in his sight now. Ling noted tiny bony twigs still pressed into the moldering mulch of other seasons, flattened leaves from this autumn pressed too tightly to the earth.
"He was here?" It was more a statement than a question, and Sam's estimation of the little tracker's expertise was enhanced again.
"Right there."
Ling padded over the body site, touching, listening, searching—but he found nothing more.
"You were right, deputy. You do know what you're doing. There's nothing left here except for the place he fell."
They walked back to the lake camp in silence. Ling seemed given to spells of introspection—or perhaps concentration—where he shut out all conversation. He would not respond to Sam's agitation to do something. Despite the deceptive heat of the day, twilight was closer than he had thought.
"The trail's gone; isn't it?" Ling had reassured him before that it was not, but he took Ling's taciturnity for the same lack of purpose he'd sensed in the first searchers. "They blew it for us, didn't they?"
Ling looked at him, annoyed at his distraction. "I am trying to find my starting point. I'd rather search the right ten feet perfectly than crash all over to hell and gone half-assed. Nobody ever has the smarts to bring a tracker in first. I'm used to working with a whole bunch of shit that has to be eliminated before I can move. I'm a sign-cutter; you know what that means?"
Sam shook his head.
"That means that we're going to pick out the most likely direction, and then we're going to find our signs on the ground that make us believe we picked right. Isn't that what you detectives do?"
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"Yeah. Like the green plaid I found."
"Exactly. Sam, you're already trained for this. Just close off your blind side and question more. Look at everything twice and when something doesn't look quite right, give a holler. Deputy, I think you're a natural. You wheeze some, and you've got a hitch in your getalong, but I'm going to consider you a blood brother. I'm even getting to like you." Ling grinned. "Although I'm not known for my taste. You're going to look for signs until your eyeballs get dusty. If I say go back and do it again, you're going to do it. Don't expect to find footprints leading us right to her. We don't have snow, and we don't have sand, and we don't have mud. We'll be lucky if we find a piece of a print anywhere. Pick a trail."
Sam sighed and stared into the jungle of trees and vegetation. "O.K. I'll start rudimentary. She didn't—I think she didn't—double back, so that means she, or they, went ahead."