Blood Lure (8 page)

The role of caretaker slipped over the researcher’s own fears. She found the flashlight and shined it on Anna’s arm. The jersey was torn and there was some blood. Joan set the flashlight on the rock, the beam pointed toward Anna. Pinching up the sleeve she said, “May I?”

“Tear away.”

Joan tore open the sleeve over the wound. “Thanks. I’ve always wanted to do that. So dramatic.”

Using water still warm from the stove, she washed the scratch clean. Anna watched with surprising disinterest. The events of the night left her with a detached feeling of unreality.
Like shock,
she warned herself and took another drink of hot sweet tea.

“You’re right,” Joan said. “It’s not bad.”

With the blood wiped away Anna could see it was shallow and only three or four inches long. Enough to break the skin and tear down a few layers but nothing more.

Obediently she held her tea in her left hand and let Joan clean the wound with peroxide, smear it with antibiotic ointment and dress it with gauze. It was the right thing to do. Bear’s claws, she assumed, weren’t sterile weapons. Left to herself, though, Anna might have ignored it. Lethargy: another sign of shock. Delayed onset. Bizarre. Anna drank more tea.

“I’ve been researching bears for twenty-one years,” Joan said as she finished putting way the first-aid supplies. “Since I graduated from the University of Minnesota. Black bears, brown bears, polar bears, Kodiaks. I even petted a koala bear once, though they are not members of the family. And I’ve never experienced anything like this. It was like the bear was having a psychotic break.”

People went insane every day. Hospitals were built all over the world to house them. Animals didn’t. It went against nature. The unnatural was more frightening than murder, mayhem, flood or famine.

Anna sipped. They sat shoulder to shoulder, almost touching, both staring out over the toes of their sleeping bags at the crushed and pillaged tents. “Do bears get rabies?” Anna asked, her wound suddenly more interesting. In Guadalupe Mountains National Park, she had dealt with a rabid skunk. In Mississippi she’d had to put down an infected porcupine. When she was eleven years old, she’d seen her dad shoot a rabid dog, an Airedale that seemed nearly as big as a camel to her child-sized eyes. Rabies sickened an animal until it became vicious. The movie version of a blood-crazed creature hell-bent on human flesh was largely a myth, but such was the misery an infected animal suffered, they did become deranged.

“That’s a good question,” Joan replied. “I don’t see why not. Their nervous systems are not so radically different from a dog’s or a human’s. But every time there’s a bear attack, we check and I’ve never heard of it happening. Probably because of their size. Bats, dogs, skunks—nothing bites bears.”

“This bear sounded sure-footed,” Anna noted. She was thinking of the staggering gait of animals far enough gone with rabies to exhibit strange behavior patterns.

“Your arm, did he bite you or scratch you?” Joan asked suddenly.

“I was wondering when you’d think of that,” Anna said. “I don’t know.”

“If you start frothing at the mouth, can I shoot you?”

“No gun.”

“I’ll be creative.”

They thought about that for a while, Anna reliving remembered footage from
Old Yeller.
“I wish we’d gotten a look at the bear,” she said after a while.

“We may yet,” Joan said. Put in the future instead of the past, the concept wasn’t nearly so attractive.

They waited through the false dawn in silence. By half past five the light grew strong enough to again think about the boy and the bear.

Both tents were destroyed. Anna and Joan spread them out to assess the damage. The shredding was excessive for any animal not seeking a food reward. Multiple rips two and three feet in length cut down from dome to ground in seven places on Rory’s tent and one on theirs.

The ground around the tents had been dug up. A stuff sack containing fencing tools was torn to pieces, the tools scattered in the grass. Rory’s day pack, clothes and sleeping bag had been dragged from his tent and littered the clearing.

Having gathered what they could find of the young Earthwatcher’s belongings, they took inventory: the clothes he’d worn the previous day, his boots, baseball cap, three and a half pairs of socks, four of underpants, shorts, T-shirts, tennis shoes, water bottle. Everything he would logically have carried was accounted for. The only items missing were the sweat pants and shirt and a pair of soft flat-soled black slippers, the kind for sale in any Chinatown, that he’d worn the night before.

If he had escaped the bear, the wilderness could kill him if they didn’t find him fairly soon. Dressed in pajamas and slippers and without food, the nights in the fifties, he would have a rough time of it. Had they been in the desert, his time would be even shorter. Glacier’s high country had water. If he was lucky and didn’t panic, he wouldn’t die of thirst.

Joan radioed park dispatch. In short, efficient sentences she gave them the information they’d need to plan the search for Rory Van Slyke. Radio traffic built in volume as one ranger after another was dragged out of bed by the phone and called in service over the radio. Come sunup, the search was park business as usual. Anna and Joan would begin from the campsite. Six members of the bear team from the frontcountry would start in on horseback. The ranger stationed at the backcountry cabin halfway down to Waterton Lake would head up their direction.

Given the night’s events, odds were good Rory was either dead or would be found close to camp in fairly short order. The machinery was set in motion because if he was truly lost or alive and injured, time was the single most important commodity they had to offer.

By six-thirty it was light enough to track. Anna had little confidence in her abilities in lush woodland; the bulk of her experience had been in the desert. But their quarry weighed an estimated four hundred pounds. That would help. Joan Rand was not an experienced tracker in a general sense, but she had been following bears by track and spoor most of her adult life.

In the clear gray light, unencumbered as yet by the shadows of the rising sun, the two women stood by the rock, day packs full of food, water and first-aid supplies.

“There.” Joan pointed southwest.

“I see it.” Faint elongated depressions, which would vanish as soon as the sun’s heat reached the dew, formed an irregular line in the grass between the circle of trees and where they’d packed up the scrapped tents; the bear traveling through high grass.

Moving slowly, one to either side of the ephemeral trail, they walked, eyes to the ground.

“No scat,” Joan said.

“Is that odd?”

“Everything about this bear is odd. Pooping—” Anna found comfort in the silly nonscientific word. “—is one of the ways bears let you know they’ve staked a claim. Often at sights of severe maulings, especially if the bear has fed on the victim, you find a big pile of poop. We solved a bear murder case three years ago. Got DNA samples from the poop and, lo and behold, they matched up with hair samples we’d taken the year before from another bear/human interface. So we knew we had the right bears and weren’t just killing them to make the victim’s family happy.”

“Bears plural?” Anna asked. Could there have been more than one bear in their campsite last night?

“Mother and two two-year-old cubs. We had to kill them all. They had all partaken of the feast.” Joan seemed to remember that maybe this time Rory Van Slyke and not some nameless stranger was the main course. She shook her head as if ridding herself of bad thoughts. “Anyway, I thought our bear might have left a mark, is all.”

Not conversant with how grizzlies left their calling cards, Anna said nothing.

Items from Rory’s tent were dropped along the way as if flung aside by a spoiled child. “Flashlight,” Joan said, stooping to pluck the named item out of the grass. She held it up to the first rays of the rising sun. “Teethmarks.”

“The bear took a flashlight?” Anna asked stupidly.

“I doubt it.”

A bear wouldn’t take it, wouldn’t carry it. Rory would. The bear would have taken it from Rory. Maybe as the boy batted at him with it. Anna took the plastic cylinder from Joan’s hands to see the marks for herself. “No blood,” she observed. “That’s good news, I guess.” The optimism was forced. There wouldn’t necessarily be blood. Not at first. She dropped the flashlight back in the grass. There’d be time to police the clearing later. As it fell, a tiny sound escaped Joan’s lips as if this tossing aside of Rory’s possession was in some way a slight to Rory himself.

In the morning light the woods weren’t nearly as formidable as they had been the night before. At the higher elevations the undergrowth wasn’t as dense. Trees were tall and widely spaced, the ground between waist-deep in fern.

Hope of tracking the bear or the boy was quickly laid to rest. No scat, no hair, no blood; the big animal had slipped invisibly into its element like Br’er Rabbit into his briar patch. Likewise had Rory Van Slyke disappeared, either carried in the bear’s jaws or of his own volition, the soft, slick soles of his Chinese slippers leaving no trace.

Anna did find a peculiar bit of wood, a two-by-two of mahogany or cherry about ten inches long and polished until the edges were rounded. Because it showed no signs of weathering she knew it had come from Rory’s tent. No teethmarks scarred the surface, so it was a good guess the bear hadn’t carted it into the forest. What it was or why Rory needed to tote it with him on research treks or when fleeing from, or being abducted by, enormous omnivores, Anna hadn’t a clue.

They spent two hours searching the woods around the camp. Calling Rory’s name repeatedly they hoped to scare off the bear if it was still nearby, or scare up a response from a lost or injured boy.

Their homemade racket was assisted by the almost constant commentary from Joan’s radio. The usual business of the park went on: an illegally parked horse trailer on the north side, a rockslide east of the weeping wall, but most of the talk regarded the search.

The number one-oh-two came up repeatedly. “District ranger?” Anna asked.

“Chief and, till we get a new one, acting superintendent.”

Since her promotion and move to Mississippi, district ranger was the position Anna held. As was true in many middle management jobs, district rangers had tremendous responsibilities. It was they who were called upon to search, to rescue, to handle law enforcement situations beyond the field rangers’ capabilities. Though they were the ultimate authority available when the chips were down or the proverbial shit hit the fan, they had very little authority in the greater NPS hierarchy. The first hint of real power was reserved for the chief rangers.

“He any good?” Anna asked.

“Harry Ruick? He’s good,” Joan said. “Sides with the bears when the public isn’t clamoring.”

“And when they are?”

“Pours experts on them.”

“Does he usually go out on searches?” Some chiefs stayed active in the field, but more often than not they didn’t. Several times a year they’d make some sort of publicized trek of the brass into the backwoods for management reasons but, particularly in the bigger parks, chief ranger had become an administrative position.

“Not usually,” Joan admitted.

The search wasn’t three hours old and already the big guns were rolling out. Harry Ruick was guessing Van Slyke was dead.

By eight o’clock a light rain began to fall. August’s warmth was co-opted by weather and altitude. It had yet to reach sixty degrees. The low ceiling of clouds would keep out any assistance by air. Rain was light and the wind calm, but visibility on Flattop had dwindled to nothing.

Joan radioed Ruick, who headed up the team, and told him they had nothing. He advised them to eat, rest, stay warm and meet the team on West Flattop Trail around noon, when horses and searchers should be arriving.

“Rory’s father and stepmother are camped at Fifty Mountain,” Joan said into the radio. “Has anybody been sent to inform them?”

“We’ll work on it,” Ruick promised and Joan left it at that.

They followed directions, eating as much as they could, resting, then hiking down to the trail. The day shared its misery, cool and rainy: warm enough that rain gear left one overheated and sweating, cold enough to give a severe chill if one got thoroughly wet. A day without a whole hell of a lot to recommend it, as far as Anna was concerned.

Shortly before noon they met up with the search party and led them the three quarters of a mile back to their camp.

Ruick hadn’t wasted his time in the saddle. On the ride up he’d worked out the search area and the pattern to be used. The area around the clearing from where Rory’d disappeared was divided into quadrants. The search pattern, Anna noticed, was tight and intense. Ruick was looking for a body or an injured person, not a young man still able to cover any amount of territory.

Anna and Joan went with the chief ranger on the section west toward Trapper Peak and south to the precipitous descent into McDonald Creek. As often as not, park higher-ups went soft. Some went down this road out of laziness; even more did so because in their mountain-climbing, water-rafting youth, they’d trashed knee and ankle joints. Like aging football players, they found themselves stove in and going to fat in their middling years. By midafternoon Anna was wishing one of those fates had befallen Harry Ruick. He was no
wunderkind
rocketed up to the exalted rank of chief while still a lad; Anna put him in his early fifties. His dark hair was grizzled, and through the open neck of his uniform shirt, it looked as if the thick pelt on his chest had gone completely white. He wasn’t a tall man, but built, as Anna’s father might have said when waxing uncouth, like a brick shit house: squat, thick and rock-hard.

Ruick set a brutal pace and showed Anna and Joan the compliment of never doubting they could match it. Unencumbered by weight—they carried little but their own drinking water—they did.