The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 5 (100 page)

“Well, if you want violence, I broke his nose kicking him in the face when he opened the trunk.”

“Let me focus on that a minute. It’s good. Not complete, but not bad.”

She eased back. “Are we okay?”

He stroked her cheek, his eyes intense on hers. “Are you?”

“Yes. But I’m glad it’s nearly dawn, because I’m not going back in that tent. If you could get my pack, I’ve got some bouillon cubes we can heat up.”

“Bouillon at dawn?”

“Breakfast of champions, especially when you add a power bar.” Better, she thought, so much better to focus on what came next than what had happened before. “Once we eat and break camp, I’ll call in to base for the status, and a weather report.”

“Fine. Fiona? On the off chance I ever do this with you again, we’re getting a bigger tent.”

“Bet your ass.”

The bouillon was bland, but it was warm. As far as her nutrition bars, or whatever the hell you called them, Simon vowed if he ever came out again, he’d bring Snickers.

She broke camp as she did everything else, he noted. In an organized and precise fashion. Everything had to be put away exactly where it had come from.

“Okay, the forecast is good,” she announced. “Sunny, low seventies for a high—and we won’t reach that until this afternoon—light winds from the south. We’re moving into the northern section of the wilderness area. It’s not too rough. We’ll have some hills, slopes, some rocky ground. The understory may get thick in places, especially off the marked trails. I’m guessing after the hike they’d already put in, they wouldn’t choose the more mountainous terrain, or have kept going southeast into the higher elevations and rougher ground.”

“I can’t figure out why the hell they’d have come as far as this.”

“Again, I’m guessing, but he’s competitive, he’s pushing. Even if he was a little turned around, he probably wouldn’t admit it at first. And that type wouldn’t take the easier ground—wouldn’t necessarily head downhill instead of uphill.”

“Because he’s got something to prove.”

“More or less. I asked the woman they’re traveling with if he was the type who’d stop and ask directions—and she laughed. Nervous laugh, but a laugh. He’d drive to hell before he’d ask for directions. So you figure by the time he, or they, realized they were seriously screwed, it was just too late.”

“A lot of space out here to get lost in.” Which would he have done, he wondered, uphill or down, call for help or push on?

He wasn’t altogether sure, and hoped he wouldn’t ever have to find out.

“And if you’re not familiar with it, one fir or hemlock looks like the other hundreds. Anyway, we’re expanding the search area.” She glanced up. “Do you want me to show you on the map?”

“Do you plan on ditching me in the wilderness?”

“Only if you piss me off.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Then we saddle up.” She shrugged on her pack, gave Bogart the scent and juiced him up for the game.

Watery sunlight sparkled on mists and filtered through to shine on leaves that shed their rainwater from the night’s storm. Simon couldn’t say what Bogart smelled, but for him, it was clean and damp and green.

The ground roughened and rose, and still wildflowers, tiny stars of color, carved their way through cracks to bask or ranged themselves along skinny streams like waders about to dip their toes.

A downed tree, hollowed out by weather, tooth and claw, had him crossing over.

“Do you see something?”

“A bench,” he muttered. “Curve the seat, just like that. Back and arms, all out of one log. Carve a mushroom motif maybe on the base.”

He surfaced to see both her and Bogart waiting for him. “Sorry.”

“Bogart needed water anyway.” She offered the bottle to Simon. “I could use a bench.”

“Not that one. Too solid, too hefty for you. It wouldn’t—”

“Suit me. Got it.” Shaking her head, she checked in with base.

Despite the strengthening sun, Fiona continued to use her flashlight, running the beam over brush and trail as the dog trotted along.

“He’s picked it up. The rest did him good.”

“Isn’t the world basically a banquet of smells for a dog? How come he doesn’t get distracted? Hey, a rabbit! Or whatever. Jaws’ll chase a blowing leaf.”

“It’s training, practice, repetition. But basically, that’s not the game. The game’s to find the source of the scent I gave him.”

“The game’s moving off the trail,” Simon pointed out.

“Yeah.” She followed the dog, climbing the rough slope, maneuvering through brush. “They made a mistake here. Bogart may not get distracted, but people do. They left the marked trail, maybe they saw some deer or a marmot, or wanted to take a photo. Maybe they decided they’d try for a shortcut. There’s a reason the trails are marked, but people veer off anyway.”

“If the dog’s right, so were you. Competitive Kevin would go up instead of down.”

Bogart slowed down for the humans as they negotiated the climb. “Maybe they figured they’d get a cool view if they went up this way. But . . . Wait. Bogart! Hold!”

She turned her light on a berry bush. “He caught his jacket,” she murmured, and gestured to a tiny triangle of brown cloth. “Good dog. Good job, Bogart. Flag the find, will you?” she asked Simon. “I’m going to call this in to base.”

She’d shown him how to mark the finds early on the search when they’d come across tracks or other signs. Once he’d tied the flag, he gave Bogart water, took some for himself while she shouted for Kevin and Ella.

“Nothing yet. But this understory sucks up the sound. It’s warming up, and the wind’s still light, still good for us. He wants to go. He’s got a good scent. Let’s find Kevin and Ella. Go find!”

“What’s the longest you’ve ever been on a search?”

“Four days. It was brutal. Nineteen-year-old boy, pissed off at his family, walked away from their campsite after they’d bedded down for the night. Got lost, wandered in circles and took a bad fall. High summer—heat, bugs, humidity. Meg and Xena found him. Unconscious, dehydrated, concussed. He’s lucky he made it.”

Bogart zigzagged now, moving east, then west, turning back to the north.

“He’s confused.”

“No,” Fiona corrected, watching Bogart’s body language. “They were.”

Ten minutes later Simon spotted the cell phone—or what was left of it—in a huddle of rock. “There.”

He quickened his pace to reach Bogart, who stood at alert.

“Good eye,” Fiona said. “It’s cracked.” She crouched to pull it out. “Broken. Look here. Bandage wrappers on the ground, and this looks like blood—the rain didn’t wash it all off in here.”

“So one of them fell? Hit the rock, phone dropped, hit the rock?”

“Maybe. Only a couple bandages, so that’s a plus.” She nodded as he took out a flag without her asking. Once again, she cupped her hands and shouted. “Damn it. Damn it. How much farther would they go after this? I’ll call it in.”

“And eat something.” He dug into her pack himself. “Hey, you’ve got Milky Ways.”

“That’s right. Quick energy.”

“And I ate that crap bar. Sit down for five minutes. Eat. Drink.”

“We’re close. I know it. He knows it.”

“Five minutes.”

She nodded and, sitting on the rocks, ate a candy bar while she talked to Mai.

“We’re realigning the search. We’ve hit two finds, and Lori hit one that indicates this direction. Air search will sweep this way. It’s a red phone, and I’m betting hers. Mai’s going to check on that, but I don’t see Kevin with a bright red phone.”

“So that’s probably her blood.”

“Probably. He’s nuts about her, according to the friends. Just nuts about her. She’s hurt, he’d panic a little. Or maybe a lot, considering. You panic, you make it worse most of the time.”

“He could’ve called for help from right here.”

Fiona pulled out her cell. “Nope. Dead zone. That’s why they call it the wilderness. He probably tried to find a signal, ended up more lost, more off any kind of trail.”

They headed out again. Bogart was deep into the “game,” Simon concluded, trotting ahead, sending what could only be impatient looks over his shoulder as if to say,
Hurry the hell up!

“Lost,” Fiona said half to herself. “Scared now—not an adventure anymore. One of them injured, even if it’s minor. Tired. New boots.”

“New boots?”

“Ella. New boots. She’s bound to have blisters by now. The instinct would be to take easier ground whenever they can. Downhill, or level ground, and they’d probably stop often to rest if she’s hurting. The storm last night. They’re wet, cold, hungry. They—Hear that?”

“Hear what?”

She held up a finger, concentrated. “The river. You can just hear the river.”

“Now that you mention it.”

“When you’re lost, scared, people often try to find high ground—to see more, to be seen. That might not be an option with an injury. Another instinct is to head for water. It’s a landmark, a trail, a comfort.”

“What happened to the deal about staying in one place and somebody’ll find you?”

“Nobody listens to that.”

“Apparently not. He’s got something.” Simon gestured to Bogart. “Look up. There’s a sock on that branch.”

“Once again, good eye. It’s a little late, but far from never. He’s started marking a trail. Good dog, Bogart. Find! Come on, let’s find Ella and Kevin!”

When they found a second sock in roughly a quarter mile, Fiona nodded. “Definitely the river, and he’s thinking again. He could use his phone here, see?” She showed Simon the service on hers. “So something’s up with that. But he’s trying to take easy ground, and he’s moving toward the river.”

“More blood, more bandage wrappers,” Simon pointed out.

“Dry. After the storm. These are from this morning.”

She lifted her voice to encourage the dog and, once again, to shout. This time, Simon heard it, a faint call in return.

Bogart gave a happy bark, then broke into a lope.

He felt it, a rise of excitement, a fresh spurt of energy as he quickened his pace to match Fiona’s and the dog’s.

In moments he saw a man, muddied, bedraggled, hobbling up a small rise.

“Thank God. Thank God. My wife—she’s hurt. We’re lost. She’s hurt.”

“It’s okay.” Even as she hurried toward him, Fiona pulled out her water bottle. “We’re Canine Search and Rescue. You’re not lost anymore. Drink some water. It’s okay.”

“My wife. Ella—”

“It’s okay. Bogart. Good dog. Good dog! Find Ella. Find. He’ll go to her, stay with her. Are you hurt, Kevin?”

“No. I don’t know.” His hand trembled on the water bottle. “No. She fell. Her leg’s cut, and her knee’s bad. She’s got awful blisters, and I think a fever. Please.”

“We’re going to take care of it.”

“I’ve got him.” Simon put an arm around Kevin, took his weight. “Go.”

“It’s my fault,” Kevin began as Fiona rushed after the dog. “It’s—”

“Don’t worry about that now. How far is she?”

“Just down there, by the water. I tried to move more into the open after last night. There was a storm.”

“Yeah.”

“We tried to stay covered. Jesus God. Where are we? Where the hell are we?”

Simon wasn’t entirely sure himself, but he saw Fiona and Bogart sitting beside a woman. “You’re found, Kevin. That’s what counts.”

He passed out candy bars, heated bouillon while Fiona checked and rebandaged the wound, elevated Ella’s swollen knee, treated the very nasty blisters on both her feet and Kevin’s.

“I’m such an idiot,” Kevin murmured.

“Yes, you are.” Huddled in a blanket, Ella managed a small smile. “He forgets to charge his phone battery. I’m so caught up in taking snapshots I talk him off the trail. Then
he’s
all, hey let’s try this way. Then I don’t look where I’m going and fall. We’re both idiots, and I’m burning those hiking boots the first chance I get.”

“Here.” Simon pressed the cup of bouillon on her. “Not as much fun as the Milky Way, but it should help.”

“It’s delicious,” Ella said after a small sip. “I thought we were going to die last night in that storm. I really did. When we were still alive this morning, I knew we’d make it. I knew somebody would find us.” When she turned to lay a hand on Bogart, the shine in her eyes shimmered with tears and relief. “He’s the most beautiful dog in the world.”

Bogart wagged his tail in agreement, then laid his head on Ella’s thigh.

“They’re sending an off-road.” Fiona hooked her radio back on her belt. “We can get you out in that. Your friends say you won the bet hands down, and they’re adding a magnum of champagne to drinks and dinner.”

Kevin dropped his head on his wife’s shoulder. As his shoulders shook, Bogart licked his hand in comfort.

 

 

“SHE’S NOT EVEN PISSED at him,” Simon observed as they bumped and rocked in a second off-road.

“Survival tops pissed off. They shared an intense, scary experience—and probably went off on each other a number of times during it. That’s done. They’re alive, and riding on euphoria. How about you?”

“Me? I had a hell of a time. It’s not what I expected,” he added after a moment.

“Oh?”

“I guess I thought you went out and tromped around, followed the dog, drank cowboy coffee and ate trail mix.”

“That’s not far off.”

“Yeah, it is. You’ve got one purpose out there, just like the dog. Find what’s lost, and find them as quickly as possible. You follow the dog, sure, but you handle the dog, and yourself while playing detective and psychologist and tracker.”

“Hmm.”

“All while being a team player—not just with the dog, but with the rest of the unit, the other searchers, the cops or whoever’s in authority. And when you find them, you’re paramedic, priest, best friend, mom and commander.”

“We wear many hats. Want to try some on?”