I shake my head, and I’m about to expand on that, but she takes over, this clearly being more than an idle question.
“I did,” she says. “My parents were late-era hippies. I grew up on a tiny island in British Columbia where they taught at the one-room schoolhouse. We raised goats for milk, chickens for eggs. We grew all our own vegetables. Vacations for us meant camping someplace even more remote than our island.”
Her speech isn’t fluid. It stops and starts, and she struggles for words, and sometimes, her voice cracks from disuse.
“Like the Yukon,” I prompt.
She nods. “We came up here a few times. For people who worshiped Mother Nature, this was our mecca. There were jamborees in the seventies, and we piled into VW vans and drove. I remember this one event where they’d hired Native Canadian locals. They showed us how to track animals, how to start fires with flints, led us through rituals that I’m sure were completely fake.”
She pauses for breath, and I let the silence go on, not wanting to rush her.
After a moment, she continues, “One day, I overheard two of them. Some people at the jamboree had been talking about going into the bush permanently. Just drive north until their car ran out of gas, walk into the forest and live off the land. These locals laughed about that. Said they wouldn’t survive a week. I was about eight at the time, and I told my mother, and she said the idea of running off into the forest was romantic escapism. Those campers wouldn’t survive without access to modern amenities, not when the biggest complaint at the jamboree was how far people had to walk to the showers.”
The path branches, and I wave her down the left side. After a few more steps, she resumes her story. “People in Rockton are like some of the ones at those jamborees. They’re aghast at the portable toilets and lousy showers, but compared to backcountry camping, Rockton is a four-star wilderness resort. When I first heard rumors and whispers about Rockton, I thought it couldn’t possibly be real. The chance that I could escape my situation by going to a place where I’d gladly pay to vacation? I also needed that escape. My husband…” She shakes her head. “It’s an old story. I won’t bore you with it.”
“I wouldn’t be bored.”
A smile my way. “Another time. This is…” A deep breath. “I know you want to know what happened to me, and that’s where I’m heading.” Another smile. “Eventually. My point was that those Native guides said the jamboree people wouldn’t survive a week in the woods, and my mother thought they meant because of the lack of amenities. What they really meant was basic survival. The four of us who left Rockton didn’t wander into the forest with pie-eyed visions of Mother Nature providing what we needed. I was a biologist with backwoods experience. One of the men was an engineer turned eco-house builder, specializing in northern living. Another was a doctor who’d hiked the entire Appalachian Trail alone. The woman was a third-generation wilderness guide. We had the skills. We knew where to camp. How to camp. How to secure our food supply. But we had no idea…”
She takes a deep breath. “The hostiles came in the night. We didn’t stand a chance. We’d heard the rumors, of course, of wild people in the forest. The others scoffed. Personally, I was fascinated by the tales—modern folklore in action, the creation of a monster to shape behavior. Fairy tales to keep us out of the forest. In not believing, we weren’t prepared.
“It happened so fast. I know that’s what people always say, but you don’t really understand the phrase until something like that. One minute, you’re sleep
ing, and the next … chaos. Shouting. Screaming. Shadows against the night. That’s all they were. Shadows. They put out our fire before they attacked. I woke to Dan—the doctor—screaming like I’d never heard a person scream. They’d sliced open his stomach and…”
Her breathing picks up. She scoops snow with a shaking hand. Two mouthfuls. Then, in a calm monotone: “They killed the men. Then they trussed up the other woman—Lora—and me and dragged us off. After that? It’s a blur. Mostly.”
She starts to shiver, and I take off my jacket, though I know it isn’t cold making her shake. I still put my parka around her, and she takes it, gripping it close.
“That’s all I can manage for now,” she whispers.
“It’s enough,” I say. “Thank you.”
She nods.
“Would you like a story about Rockton?” I say. “I may have a few.”
She manages a smile. “I’ll take as many as you’ve got.”
SIXTEEN
We’re close to Rockton. I’m listening for signs of activity outside the town.
“We’ll loop around—” I begin, and the bushes explode, a gray canine leaping through.
It looks like a wolf, and my hand drops to my gun. Then Raoul jumps on me with a gleeful yelp … and Maryanne attacks. It happens in a blink. I’m relaxing, recognizing our freckle-faced wolf-dog as he plants his forepaws on my stomach, but Maryanne sees only a wolf leaping onto me. In a blink, she has her knife out and she’s attacking with an inhuman howl.
I grab Raoul and roll, shielding him. The knife slashes through my doubled-up sweaters and slices my arm. I let out a hiss of pain as Raoul whimpers under me.
“He’s ours,” I say quickly. “He’s okay.”
Silence. Gripping Raoul by the collar, I turn over to see Maryanne staring at my arm. Blood drips into the snow. She looks down at the bloody knife in her hand. Then she wheels, and I know she’s going to bolt. I let go of Raoul and grab her by the pant leg. The seam rips as she lunges, but I hold tight.
“Please,” I say. “I’m all right. It was a mistake. I’m—”
Bushes crash. Raoul ducks and sidles up against me, still lying in the snow. He whines as Jen bursts through.
“You damned mutt,” she snarls. “What the hell—”