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  Anna might have thought she’d softened but with this story the old cynical edges cut sharp as ever. The closest she came to Christianity was to espouse its tenet that God helps those who help themselves. That way, if God didn’t bother to show, she’d at least have done what she could. So far, that had always been enough. Not an abundance, necessarily, but sufficient to stay alive and move forward. Now that two of the girls were back, this coterie of petitioners would swear God had finally heard their prayers. Six weeks. One would think an omnipotent’s hearing would be more acute.

  “Alexis’ mother was praying night shift when I called with the good news,” Lorraine said. “She had to get a replacement before she could come.”

  “A replacement,” Anna scoffed. “What are they praying for now?”

  “Candace Watson.”

  Anna had forgotten. “Ah. Momma Watson must have shirked her prayers.”

  The chief ranger shot her a hard look. “You’ll watch that kind of talk when the families are here.”

  Chastised, Anna was silent for a moment. Then she said, “So their religion is against medical intervention?”

  “Not that so much. They were fine with the girls getting medical care. It’s the psychologist and the police they balked at. During the investigation subsequent to the search, they were less than forthcoming, uncooperative even.”

  “Why? Are they running a meth lab out of their commune or something?”

  “Who knows. A lot of these fringe sects have a deep distrust of the government, especially the law enforcement arm. It could be no more than that. Paranoias run deep.”

  “So we wait till the parents come.”

  “We wait.”

  They waited. Lorraine filled Anna in on the details of the search. Anna drank two cups of pretty good coffee cadged from the nurses’ station. The rain stopped in a last growling thunderous threat to return the following afternoon. An hour passed, then two. Finally the automatic doors slid open and four people came in. By the teary, anxious, joyful, tired faces, Anna knew it was family.

  They were known to Lorraine and rushed over in a body, questions frothing from their lips. The chief ranger calmed the waters with the oil of normalcy. She made introductions.

  Mrs. Sheppard, Alexis’ mom, was a tall woman, young but looking drawn and underweight as if she’d not gotten up from her knees to eat or sleep since her daughter had gone missing. She wore no make-up and had on a loose denim jumper over a long-sleeved white T-shirt. Her long hair was pulled up severely and wound into a knot on the top of her head. Despite the unglamorous treatment it was clear where Alexis got her looks. Mrs. Sheppard’s face was fine-boned, the skin pasty but unblemished, and her eyes truly remarkable, wide set and sky blue. Though she had a thirteen-year-old daughter, she didn’t look much over thirty, if that.

  Mr. Sheppard was considerably older than his wife, twenty or more years. He’d apparently eaten the meals his wife had missed and carried a pouch of hard fat under his belt.

  Mrs. Dwayne, Beth’s mother, was dressed as conservatively as Mrs. Sheppard, in an ankle-length skirt, also of denim, and a cardigan, the kind Anna had worn as a little girl, pale pink with small plastic buttons from hem to neck. She was older than Mrs. Sheppard. Like Mrs. Sheppard, she wore her hair pulled up into a bun. As a concession to fashion—albeit one that had gone out twenty years before—the front was puffed up in an exaggerated pompadour. She clutched a pair of plastic cat-eye glasses in a sweaty hand. “Beth lost her glasses, they said. I brought her old ones . . .” She held them out as if this proved she was worthy of seeing her daughter.

  No hands were offered. Anna nodded politely as each introduction was made, but her eyes and mind were fixed on the fourth member of the party, a young man, early twenties at a guess, with unruly dark hair and the intense burning eyes of a zealot, a lunatic or an artist. He was an unquestionably attractive man—or at least the kind Anna had found irresistible in her youth. His body was lean and strong-looking and passion radiated from him like heat from pavement in August.

  Before Lorraine put a name to him, Anna knew he had to be Robert Proffit, the youth group leader who had taken the girls into the wilderness, the one who had eschewed prayer to search tirelessly. The one Beth and Alexis had said the still missing Candace had stayed with.

  Anna realized she’d not imparted this crucial bit of information to the chief ranger. Now it would have to wait. Lorraine was saying, “I know the girls will want to see you. Anna, could you show Mrs. Dwayne where Beth’s room is?”

  Lorraine would go with Alexis’ mom and dad. All bases covered. Except Anna couldn’t leave. The young Proffit was moving, ready to follow the families into the ward.

  “I’ll stay here with Mr. Proffit,” she said. “For this first visit it might be best to keep it to immediate family.”

  This assumption of authority was out of line. Lorraine bristled a little, like a dog that senses its territory is being invaded. Anna looked her plea as best she could and was relieved to see trust counter the anger in Lorraine’s face.

  “You’re right. Mr. Proffit, stay with Ranger Pigeon. Mr. and Mrs. Sheppard, Mrs. Dwayne—” Before she could finish, the doors to the outside slid open again and a man and a female ranger came in at a jog trot. The man’s hair was wet, plastered to his head, Levi’s and T-shirt were drenched as if he’d been caught in the rain and hadn’t had time to change.

  The woman Anna recognized. Her name was Rita Perry, her call number was 202. She was one of Anna’s seasonal law enforcement rangers and a park paramedic. Rita was a striking woman, close to six feet tall, with a handsome face, lustrous brown hair and a jaw that spoke of strength and determination. Or stubbornness.

  Not slowing, the man ran up to the gathering, talking as he came.

  “They were found? The girls? I heard it on the radio. My god, this is great. Are they both okay? Where are they?”

  Anna had no idea who he was, and for a moment it looked as if Lorraine didn’t either. Then the chief ranger’s face cleared. “This is Raymond Bleeker,” she said. “Ray’s the backcountry ranger at Fern Lake. He put in more hours on the search than anyone in the park. Ray, these are the girls’ folks.”

  Ray, then, was also one of Anna’s seasonal rangers. The name rang a bell but she’d not yet had time to get into the backcountry.

  “Did you bring Ray?” Anna asked Rita, just a question to settle the two of them down.

  “Yeah. He radioed from the trailhead across from Sprague. He’d heard the girls had been found and he hiked out.” As if Anna might censure Ray for leaving Fern Lake without a ranger for the night, Rita added, “We all got pretty invested in these girls.”

  Anna had already chosen to let the matter slide. If Raymond Bleeker cared enough to hike an hour and a half in the dark and the rain, more power to him. He could hike back up to Fern come morning.

  “That’s fine,” Anna said.

  “I need to see my daughter now.” Mrs. Dwayne cut off further pleasantries.

  “Of course,” Lorraine said. Then: “Ray, why don’t you take Mrs. Dwayne to Beth’s room? It’s two-oh-six. Rita, stay with Anna and Mr. Proffit.”

  Ray was an NPS law enforcement ranger. Green as he might or might not be, Anna was glad he’d shown up. She hoped he was observant.

  Proffit watched them go, a look of intense something on his face: longing, hope, love. Anna couldn’t tell. With burning young men who had fiery responses to everything from a sunset to a Middle Eastern war, it was nearly impossible to sort and prioritize. If he noted the inherent unfairness of Lorraine and Ray going where he was denied access, he wasn’t saying anything.

  “Sit down, Mr. Proffit.” The words sounded more like a command than an invitation. Not wanting to put him on guard if he wasn’t already, Anna smiled nicely. Or thought she did. Proffit looked at her as if she’d bared pointed fangs.

  He glanced once more toward the doors the others had disappeared through, then turned back toward Anna and Rita, a dazed ex
pression on his face. “Praise the Lord,” he said, and to Anna’s surprise, he and her ranger ran into one another’s arms. The embrace was of the chaste buddy variety, touching only shoulders, faces turned out.

  “Praise the Lord,” Rita echoed. Then, to Anna’s consternation and annoyance, they dropped to their knees on the linoleum of the waiting room floor and commenced praying out loud.

  eight

  Why don’t you lie down?” Gwen said reasonably.

  Heath was too tired to be reasonable, too tired to sleep, too tired to do as she was told by aunt or physician. “Later,” she said. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Not if you don’t mind me towing you behind the RV while you do it.”

  It was the answer Heath expected. The one she wanted, really. Though she smoked—until the accident only three or four a day, but more and more since—she couldn’t stand the smell of cigarette smoke in upholstery, her clothes, her hair. She always smoked out-of-doors then washed and brushed her teeth.

  Because she knew it for a filthy habit, it was one of her favorites. Given the emotional maelstrom that had swept out of the darkling forest and inundated the rest of the night, Heath would have broken the indoor rule just this once. The craving was strong enough she considered promising her aunt she’d hold it out the window. The very power of the addiction was why she didn’t give in to it.

  “I can wait,” she said. “What do you think about that New Canaan invite?”

  “Tell me how it came about, again.”

  With anyone else Heath would have thought they were stalling, begging the question. Aunt Gwen had done neither in Heath’s lifelong experience of her. Heath’s dad had often said of his older sister, “Gwen’s not always right but she’s always right there.” Till Heath was in her early thirties she hadn’t understood what he meant. Now she doubted she would have made it through the last half year without it. Gwen Littleton didn’t evade, sidestep, lie or equivocate. She lived by what one of her patients had referred to as the Bugs Bunny philosophy of life: Wherever you popped out of the ground, you dealt with what was right in front of you.

  Heath thought back as Gwen drove unchallenged through the entrance gate to Rocky Mountain National Park, the booths unmanned at this hour of the night. The account she’d given as they’d left the hospital had been rushed and garbled, as her thoughts were rushed and garbled.

  Dropping a hand down to touch Wiley where he slept between the RV’s front seats, she settled herself through the warmth and rightness of dog.

  “I’d say it was weird,” she began. “But in comparison to what? This whole thing has been gnarly. Rat shit.”

  “Unnecessary roughness.” Gwen was a football fan as well as a fan of refined language.

  “Sorry,” Heath said, unoffended. “When I was left alone with the limpet we both napped a little. When we woke up she seemed better, clearer. I swear she was about to tell me what had happened.”

  “ ‘Little animals,’ wasn’t that what she said?”

  “I know. It doesn’t make sense but I think it might have if she could have told her story. Mrs. Dwayne chose that moment to bulldoze in with this guy—a ranger, I gathered, though he wasn’t wearing the costume. Something is very wrong. Beth looked freaked when she saw her mother. I mean freaked. She wet the bed and started to cry. Her mom tried to hold her and she got hysterical. She leaped out of bed and started darting around—not going anywhere, just banging from wall to wall like a bird trapped in a fireplace. She was babbling ‘She’s not my mom’ and stuff. I started to get up, go to her but, hey, well, guess who remembered she was a cripple? Damn near fell on my face. Mrs. Dwayne starts crying and babbling. I’m flopping around trying to get my friggin’ wheels unlocked.

  “The guy that came in with her, I guess he’d been one of the main searchers, caught Beth in his arms, told her she was okay, her mom was there, that she didn’t have to talk—that sort of thing—and she calmed right down. After that, till the nurses came running in to see what the ruckus was about, she stayed close to him and seemed okay. But the child I’d glimpsed was gone. The limpet’s eyes were back to black holes with no alternate universe on the far side.”

  Telling the story in chronological order, without the distraction of manipulating body and chair into the RV, helped her anxiety some. Not as much as a cigarette, but some. She no longer felt like she wanted to bend steel with her bare hands or bite the heads off chickens.

  “The invite,” Gwen said.

  Heath had gotten sufficiently wrapped up in her story, she’d forgotten why she’d started the tale in the first place.

  “Right. New Canaan.” Her left leg jumped, movement she’d at first taken as a sign of hope but which now merely embarrassed her as a tic or an attack of hiccoughs might. Yet one more indication she had no control. The spasms were worse when she was tired. Squashing the leg with her hands, she went on. “After the dust had settled a bit—the limpet came and huddled by my chair like Wiley does—” she nearly added when I cry, but as she had hidden her tears from her aunt along with everyone else, she chose not to confess now. “The mom, Mrs. Dwayne, started cooing about taking Beth home. The limpet grabbed my hand and put it over her face. I mean literally. She buried her nose in my palm like it was an oxygen mask. She started keening. That high, thin wail you see Middle Eastern women sometimes doing on the news when their babies are killed.”

  “Both girls bonded with you,” Gwen said. “The little one especially. You gave her something nobody else could. She feels safe with you.”

  “It’s Wiley or the chair,” Heath said dismissively. Still, she was pleased in an odd way. Pleased to be needed. Pleased to be of help.

  “I told Mrs. Dwayne how I’d come across the girls and that the limpet had sort of attached herself to me. She more or less blew it off and tried to tug Beth away. Anyway, the limpet started crying, ‘No, no, she comes, Heath comes.’ A nurse walked in at that point to tell us all it was time to leave. The limpet keeps my hand and keeps shrieking. The nurse gets a doctor. The doctor wants to keep Beth. Mom refuses.

  “They’re taking the girls home. Tonight. Can you believe that? Tonight. So the doctor suggests, if possible, I visit.

  “Then the ranger searcher guy starts talking to mom and limpet, saying now that we know where she lives we’ll all come visit. The limpet calms down again. Mom splits to have a confab with Alexis’ folks. The dad comes back with her. Takes a look at me and says okay, we should come.”

  “You must have a trustworthy face.”

  “Nobody can say ‘no’ to a cripple.”

  Gwen ignored the bitterness, as she always did. “I’ve got the time,” she said. “I’m retired.”

  By the way her aunt vocally stomped on the word “I’ve,” Heath knew she was thinking Heath didn’t have the time. Or shouldn’t take the time. She should return to Denver and physical therapy. Heath was done with that, done with the strapping up and dangling above treadmills, the swimming, the cheerful encouraging therapists, everybody rooting for her to transform, through tremendous amounts of work and will, her halflife into a nine-sixteenths life. The carrot of “the possibility of limited recovery” was considered sufficient to keep her going.

  Gwen sighed—discreetly, but Heath heard it and it annoyed her.

  “We can park the RV in their driveway and stay with Beth as long as you like,” Gwen said.

  “No, we can’t. The dad was firm on that. There’s an RV camp about ten miles away. We’re to stay there.”

  “Big show of gratitude,” Gwen sniffed. Having traversed the dark, glorious miles into the park, Gwen maneuvered the vehicle into the circle of road at the handicamp. A ranger patrol vehicle was still parked in front of their site. Leaning against the hood, arms and ankles crossed, was the woman who’d ridden with them to the hospital.

  “Ranger Pigeon,” Heath said. “What the hell does she want?”

  “You seem to have taken against her,” Gwen said mildly.

  Heath only grunted.
There was something about Pigeon that set her off. Not something. One thing: Ranger Pigeon could walk. Most people could, but they didn’t offend Heath in the same way. Anna Pigeon walked like a big cat—sure-footed, graceful, her feet touching the ground lightly as if ready to spring. There was nothing of hesitation. Nothing of fear. Around her Heath felt her disability more acutely, was humiliated by it. When they’d ridden together to the hospital, she found herself wanting—needing—to let Ms. Pigeon know that she’d been a climber, that she was in the chair by accident, not by birth, as if that made one damn bit of difference.

  Gwen parked the RV. “I’ll get your chair around,” she said.

  “No. She can come in here.”

  “I thought you were dying for a fag?”

  Only Gwen still called them fags and the image usually brought a smile to Heath’s face. Not tonight.

  “I can wait,” she said.

  “Suit yourself.”

  Heath was doing it again, squirming inside. The truth was, in the swivel seat in the RV, she was like anyone else. She didn’t want to lever herself out, drag her legs, cinch her straps and wheel herself in front of Ranger Pigeon. It wasn’t that she was afraid of seeing sympathy—or worse, pity—in the woman’s eyes. The ranger’s face showed nothing but a polite businesslike interest, but it was . . . She didn’t know what it was but she still hated herself for it.

  Ambient self-loathing. Gwen brought the ranger toward the RV. Heath swiveled her seat to face into the living space. “Get used to it,” she muttered.

  nine

  Rain and wear had removed visible traces of the blood, but the skid marks on the asphalt and two pieces of broken headlight assured Anna she’d left Bear Lake Road at the right place. An elk carcass wasn’t a subtle thing. She’d thought finding it wouldn’t be a problem. But then Rita Perry was a big woman, probably strong; maybe she’d felt the need to carry it farther back into the woods where visitors wouldn’t accidentally get so much as a whiff of it. Every park had a way of disposing of animal remains that was idiosyncratic to its needs and the sensibilities of the superintendent. In Glacier in northern Montana, at least in the backcountry, carcasses were let lie and, knowing grizzly bears would be coming to clean the bones, area trails closed. On the southernmost district of Natchez Trace, when a deer was killed by an automobile, the body was taken to the Catholic orphanage in Port Gibson, where good, fresh meat was welcomed. In Rocky Mountain, where predators and motherless children were rare, the dead animals were simply dragged into the trees, out of sight, to return to the earth through the bellies of smaller omnivores.