She also confirms that the severing of the limbs was postmortem and appears to have been the result of animal predation. There are no marks on the bones to suggest cutting.
There’d been a time when Dalton speculated that the hostiles may have practiced cannibalism. Looking back, I think he’d been genuinely confused by our horror. Killing humans as prey would be abhorrent to him. Eating those who’d already died would be repugnant. But in a desperate situation, lost in the winter wilderness with no way to catch game, it would be a necessary evil.
There is absolutely nothing about this crime scene that suggests cannibalism. Nor any solution other than the one we’d already theorized. Sophie’s group had been set upon by hostiles, who’d killed at least two people, left the bodies, and raided the camp.
The second campsite complicates the situation slightly—were they all hanging out together at the first one when the hostiles attacked? If so, why weren’t they fully dressed? It’s not a theory-breaking complication. Just something to address with Sophie once she’s lucid.
The biggest question remains: Do we have another survivor? Without DNA, April agrees we cannot confirm or refute the possibility that the foot belongs to the male corpse here. By the time we got that DNA processed, any survivor would be dead from exposure. We’ll take the foot and a tissue sample from the male corpse. In the meantime, Dalton and I must search for a potential survivor.
* * *
April returns to Rockton with Anders. We’d left him with Storm and the vehicles. And no, he didn’t accept that without complaint. Anders has been to war. He’s seen friends blown up by IEDs. There was no way in hell we were letting him near that crime scene when it was completely unnecessary. So he waited and then handed over our camping gear before he took April back to town.
Dalton, Storm, and I set out on our search. It is meticulously slow work. We take Storm on wider circles around the crime scene, in case that helps her pick up a trail. At one point, I suspect she’s following the killers. Their trail soon breaks up, and while it might seem that we’d try harder to hunt them down, they aren’t our priority. I’m not even sure what to do about them. The obvious answer should be that they’re murderers, and we need to bring them to trial. Which is kind of like tracking a grizzly and bringing it to trial.
Catching the hostiles responsible doesn’t solve the problem. The situation must be resolved in a permanent manner, preferably by the council stepping up and following Maryanne’s recommendation to begin the process of capture, assessment, deprogramming, and reintegration.
For now, I want to focus on finding the potential survivor. Of course, he may be with his hostile captors. If so, then I hope he’ll play along until we can rescue him. He will be safe enough if he does that. My bigger concern is that he’s alone in the forest, without supplies, possibly wounded.
We return to the second campsite in search of anything we overlooked. A clue or, perhaps better, a piece of clothing we could use to ensure Storm has the right scent. We only confirm that there did indeed seem to be only one tent here, which is now gone, the entire camp cleared as thoroughly as if it’d been packed up.
Are we misinterpreting the evidence? If this camp looks like it was properly dismantled, then maybe the two couples hadn’t decided to sleep apart.
“Or they did and then didn’t,” Dalton says.
I nod slowly, processing. “They plan to sleep apart, and then have second thoughts. Maybe it was a fight, and they resolved the issue. Maybe they had dinner together at the other camp, and couple number two decided to just stay and sleep on the ground. No, wait. That wouldn’t explain the packed camp. They must have made up and reunited but it was too late to set up the second tent. Warm night. They have their sleeping bags. Set those up outside.”
“That would explain how Sophie escaped. She was in the tent with her partner. Hostiles attack the two outside and kill them quickly. Go after Sophie and her partner next.”
“They kill him, and Sophie escapes. Or he makes a run for it, and she’s injured, and he doesn’t come back to check. Presumes she’s dead.”
Dalton snorts. “Asshole.”
That’s harsh. Yes, I would come back to check. So would Dalton. Of course, we wouldn’t run in the first place, not unless we could escape together. I’m sure most people would say the same. Only a coward runs. Only a coward doesn’t return. But until you’re in that situation, it’s impossible to judge it.
I only know that we’d both stay because we can fight. If Sophie’s lover didn’t have those skills? If he’d been sleep-groggy and panicked? If he’d been so certain she was dead that he never considered returning? I won’t judge. I just want to find him.
We do not find him. Nor do we find any sign that he survived. The more we search the more certain I am that his body was dragged off by a predator. Maybe our local cougar or one of her full-grown cubs. Take the body. Cache it in a tree. We’ve seen her do it with a settler.
When the sun begins to drop, we declare it a day and declare our searching at an end. If he’s out here, he’s not close by, and we could hunt for weeks and never find him. At the very least, we can get more information from Sophie. And we can take that DNA test to Dawson and ship it south for testing.
We debate going back to Rockton. It’s barely dark, but it’s 11 P.M., and we’ve been awake since four. We’re exhausted, fueled for nineteen hours by water and energy bars, and too little of both. We have our camping gear. We have food packed by Anders, and when we open the box to find both dinner and breakfast, that seals the deal. We’ll head back first thing tomorrow.
ELEVEN
It’s not yet six the next morning, and I’m cuddled on a campfire log with Dalton as he roasts breakfast sausages. The smell of venison brings a red fox, who watches Storm from the forest, as if the dog is the only thing preventing the small canine from stealing our breakfast.
Storm glances at us, checking whether we want it scared off. There’s a cross fox that lives behind my old house in Rockton, and the vixen has made peace with Storm, realizing that the larger canine provides an excellent deterrent to any predator who’d bother her annual litter of cubs. Storm and the fox certainly aren’t friends, but they tolerate each other, and when I give Storm the signal that chasing off this fox is optional, I’m not surprised when she only settles in to watch the beast.
We’re dining with both a dog and a fox nearby, yet it’s Dalton who senses trouble first. Storm’s on her feet then, staring to the left, hackles rising in a warning growl that makes the fox decide it’s time to disappear.
Dalton tilts his head, nostrils flaring. He takes a few steps and sniffs again, sampling the breeze. This isn’t something he’d do with others around. He’s well aware of how it looks, and even if few people in Rockton know his past, he will forever feel like that “savage” child, brought back and taught civilized manners, which include not sniffing the air.
Dalton’s sense of smell isn’t any better than mine. He’s just more accustomed to using it, and when I do the same, I catch what he does. Campfire smoke. Not surprising, given that there’s a campfire crackling right behind us. But this smell wafts over on the breeze. Someone else has a fire close by.
There are approximately as many settlers in this region as Rockton residents. If I’d known that before I arrived, I’d have imagined those settlers fighting for hunting territory and fresh water. Having experienced the reality, though, I’ve discovered that thought is laughable. Dalton estimates one settler for every three square kilometers. That’s nearly a thousand acres for each person, and most share their land by choice—they live in one of the two settlements or with a family group. If you don’t want to be social, you need never encounter another person. So this fire is too close to be a coincidence.
I motion for Storm to stay where she is. She grumbles, but she’s accustomed to this indignity. We cannot sneak up on anyone with a Newfoundland lumbering after us.