Claire kicked her heel against the log. Her hands were balled into fists at her sides, and her jaw had gone tight. Her gaze snapped back to Angie. In her eyes Angie could read hurt, mistrust. But also a hot fire burning.
“Fine,” she said. “But if at any time I say we go, we go. Is that understood?”
Angie nodded. “Understood.”
CHAPTER 35
The trail opened abruptly into a clearing maybe twice the size of Budge Hargreaves’s spread. Angie halted Claire with her hand at the fringe of trees. She wanted to absorb the scope and layout of the place before entering.
Tiny flecks of snow blew sideways in the wind. A cabin squatted in a stand of trees at the rear of the property. Like Budge’s home, the cabin had a covered porch out front. Unlike Budge’s place, everything looked neat and cared for. Split wood had been piled high along one of the cabin walls. On the roof were solar panels. A rain collection barrel had been constructed to the left of the building.
At the far eastern boundary of the spread, near what looked like a vehicle track leading out between trees, a metal shipping container was set back into a mound of earth. It had been converted into accommodations with the addition of a door and a window. It was painted dark green. A tumble of blackberry bushes and other scrub grew atop the mound that covered the roof of the container. Bramble fronds hung down, partially obscuring the window.
A stone path led from the cabin to a covered carport that housed a dark-gray pickup truck and a muddy quad. A distance behind the carport was an open-sided shed that housed several natural gas cylinders and what looked like a generator plus containers of fuel.
Three additional sheds had been built along the western boundary of the property along with what looked like two big cages, one partly covered with shade cloth.
A raven cawed from atop one of the cages, wings hanging out at its sides like a buzzard.
“Looks like he’s home,” Claire said with a nod at the smoke trailing up from the cabin chimney.
“What’s with those cages?” Angie said.
“Axel built those for two orphaned bear cubs he rescued when I was nine. He’s used them for other animals he’s rescued since, once for a fawn whose mother Axel was unable to free from an illegal trap. Another time for baby raccoons. And for a beaver one time.” Claire gave a wry smile. “I remember those cubs. Uncle Axe bottle-fed them by hand. I used to watch him do it, but he never let me into the cage with him, as much as I begged him to let me help feed them. He wouldn’t even allow me to touch the bears. He said he didn’t want the cubs to grow habituated to humans, or he’d never be able to fully rehabilitate them.” She glanced at Angie. “Before Axel went into the cage, he’d put on this dark-colored coverall that he kept wrapped in smelly old bear hide. He said this was to cover up as much of his human scent as possible. And he’d wear a ski mask. He didn’t want the bears to associate his face with food and care.” She wiped her nose with the base of her thumb as she returned her attention to the cages. Her skin was going ruddy with cold, and Angie could feel the chill in her own face and fingers.
“Uncle Axe never spoke while he fed them their formula so they wouldn’t grow accustomed to his voice. It killed me as a kid—those measures. I just wanted to cuddle those two cubs. Cutest things you’ve ever seen in your life. They were the size of little shoeboxes, paws that looked too large for them, just like in cartoons.”
“Did it work? Was he able to rehabilitate them?”
“Seems to have worked. On the day of their release, Uncle Axe waited for my dad to bring me over the river so I could watch him set them free.” She gave a soft snort. “He transported them in smaller cages deep into the woods. When he found the right spot, we carried the cages from the truck farther into the forest and set them on the ground. He made us hide, and he opened the doors and clapped his hands loudly. ‘Run, little bears,’ he said in his deep Uncle Axel voice. ‘Get the hell outta here, be scared, survive, you little critters ...’” Claire’s voice faded. A sad look entered her eyes. “I cried my heart out when they left. Silly, huh?”
“No,” Angie said softly. “Doesn’t sound silly at all.” She smiled at Claire. “I’d probably have done the same. Bawled my face off. You’re lucky to have experienced that, to have an uncle like him.”
“I know.” She met Angie’s eyes. “That’s why I can’t—won’t—let you hurt him. Especially not after what you just told me.”
The raven cawed and suddenly swooped down off the cage. It landed on the ground and hopped on one leg.
“That’s Poe,” Claire said. “I named him. He’s also one of Axel’s rescues. Come.” Claire started into the clearing. Angie followed. As they got halfway to the cabin, they heard the shrill whine of a bench saw starting up in one of the sheds.
Claire stopped. “Ah, he’s in his carpentry shed.” She led the way. Angie followed through the icy wind and spitting snow pellets.
The double shed doors were partially open.
“Uncle Axe?” Claire yelled over the whine as she pushed the door farther inward.
The saw stopped. A giant of a black-haired man swung around, a piece of milled lumber in his gloved hands. His face registered shock as he saw them. He set down the wood and removed protective goggles. Fine sawdust matted his skin and beard. His eyes were icy green, the Tollet family likeness startling. He wore a checked shirt and utility-style dungarees, heavy work boots. His gaze settled on Angie.
“Uncle Axe—” Claire went over to him, leaned up on tippy-toes, and gave him a kiss. “I brought you some company.”
The man’s attention never left Angie. “Company’s not welcome here.”
His voice was a rough bass. He took a step forward, his gloved ham-size hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Angie tensed at the sheer volume of him. He vibrated energy, power, and made Angie conscious of the door behind her and escape routes.
In her peripheral vision she noted leg traps affixed to the walls, traps with big rusted teeth and chains. There was a long gun cabinet with a key in the lock mounted near the traps. A worktable ran along the back of the shed; above it tools hung neatly on a wall. On another table lay a hunting bow and a quiver containing several arrows, some with red-and-white fletching, others with yellow-and-white fletching.
Above the quiver several fly rods rested on hooks. Closer to the door hung two pairs of booted chest waders. The brand logo visible on one pair of waders was familiar—Kinabulu, the company that had sponsored Rachel Hart’s documentary. It was, Angie realized, the same brand that Predator Lodge had supplied her and Maddocks on their recent trip. A very common brand for fishing gear, it seemed.
An ATV helmet rested on a bench. Above the helmet shelves were stacked with vintage-looking tins that had once contained Maxwell House coffee, Similac baby formula, Italia canned tomatoes, Gatorade powder, Campbell’s Chunky Soup, Harvest Green peas. Beside the tins was a small wooden milk crate that housed four baby bottles with teats. Next to those sat an ancient-looking stuffed teddy bear. Angie was slammed with a sudden memory of the little teddy bear in the angel’s cradle where she’d been abandoned. She quickly pushed the recollection down into her subconscious. It was getting easier to do that, thank God.
