The sun is dropping farther with every second. We need to get to shelter before nightfall, need to be sure Anders is okay after his collision, and it's not enough that we're trapped by a freak blizzard, we're stuck in a standoff with a damned grizzly.
"Just go," Anders mutters to the bear. "Nothing to see here. Run along home."
When the bear turns around and starts ambling off, I have to stifle a snicker at Anders's expression.
"Well, that was easy," he says.
"Bears." I shake my head. This was how my last grizzly stare-down had ended, too. When that bear showed no signs of charging, Dalton advised me to take slow steps back, and as soon as I was far enough away, the bear snorted and returned to digging for grubs, satisfied that I'd been suitably intimidated.
This bear is gone, but we stay crouched and watching until Anders's wince tells me his back didn't escape that collision uninjured.
"I'll stand guard," I say. "You empty the saddlebags."
He does. Then we head for my sled to do the same. The snowfall's still heavy enough that I'm grateful for the rope, guiding me through that endless white. As we near the spot where the bear stood, I spot something red under a layer of new snow. I brush the snow aside and uncover a woolen hat. A bright red, gold, and white one with a flaming C on the front.
Sutherland's Calgary Flames toque.
I remember the figure standing here, watching us, and then bending over.
Not a bear preparing to charge.
A man, placing this on the ground.
I turn over the hat in my hands, and as I do, something dark smears on my gray gloves. I lift one hand to my face for a better look, but even before I catch the smell, I know what it is.
Blood.
THREE
I clear the spot where the toque lay. More blood. I position the hat on my hands and can see the blood is on the back. Consistent with a blow from the rear. I shine my flashlight into the toque. There's hair. Light brown, like Sutherland's. What I'm really looking for, though, is brain matter. There's none of that. A blow hard enough to draw blood, but not crush the skull.
As I fold the toque, Anders points. He knows what I'll want next and has uncovered boot prints under a thin layer of snow, confirming we had indeed been looking at a man and not a bear.
Anders takes off one of his boots and lowers it next to the print. It's the same size.
"Eleven," he says, but I know that already--we've done this before. In Rockton, crime solving is decidedly low-tech.
I compare the tread and make mental notes for later.
There's no question of going after the guy. His footprints are already covered. Yes, that toque suggests something happened to Sutherland, but I won't risk our lives running pell-mell through a darkening forest in hopes of finding him. Shawn Sutherland brought this on himself. Yes, that's a cold assessment. It's also the same one Anders makes, without any discussion. This forest isn't a whole lot different from a war zone. If one of your comrades disappears on a mission, you'll move heaven and earth to find him. But if he goes AWOL? Screw him. He made his choice.
We'll look for Sutherland when it's light. And we'll come back again to search with Dalton, even if by then we'll be looking for a body. Right now, though, we need shelter, or there'll be three bodies lying frozen in the snow.
We continue on to my snowmobile. It has Dalton's saddlebags, removable, easily converted into a backpack. We stuff everything in, and Anders insists on carrying it while I lead.
"I can bench-press my own weight," I say. "I can carry that bag."
"But you're the one who knows where we're going," he says.
"Uh, no, I don't. Bear Skull Mountain is just to the north, where we might find a cave, but that's all I've got."
"I don't even know which direction is north."
I could point out that we have a compass, but Anders isn't just directionally challenged--put a compass in his hand, and it starts spinning, as if his very physiology foils him.
"North is to our right," I say.
He lifts his hands, checking for the L that indicates left. I sigh. He grins and hefts the bag as we head out.