“No,” she said over her shoulder. “He found those. He abhors trappers—finds traps cruel.”
“Yet he hangs the traps on his wall.”
“Kinda like trophies, I guess. His way of keeping score of the animals he’s saved from a terrible death by stealing the traps. He told me just looking at the ugly things keeps the fire burning in his belly.”
“Yet he hunts?” Angie had seen the rifle, the long gun cabinet, the bow and arrows.
“Subsistence only.” Claire clambered over a fallen tree and waited for Angie to follow suit. “He’d rather kill his own meat humanely than support an industry that slaughters terrified animals in an abattoir. And he prefers bow and arrows because it’s more of a challenge one-on-one with the animal. Gives his prey more of a fighting chance, he says, makes the kill harder earned. He won’t even sell Dad meat for guests at the lodge. He says each man should hunt for his own.”
Angie dusted mud from her pants and continued along the trail.
“What were the baby bottles in his shed for?” she asked from behind Claire.
“Feeding formula to the bears. And he used them for the fawns.”
“How does he know what kind of formula to use for the different animals?”
“He doesn’t really. But he calls the folks at Wild Critter Care—it’s a voluntary wild animal rehabilitation center—and they unofficially guide and advise him.”
“And the little stuffed bear?”
She stopped and turned. “What bear?”
“The old teddy bear on his shelf next to the baby bottles.”
Claire smiled ruefully. “What can I say? He brought the orphaned cubs a stuffed toy in their own likeness. He figured it might help them snuggle and keep warm since there had been three of them—the third cub died.” She shrugged. “I know. It seems at odds with his efforts to not habituate the cubs to humans, but he did steep the toy bear in real ursine scent before placing it in their cage. I’m just surprised the little guys didn’t tear it to shreds when they started playing with it.”
CHAPTER 36
“By next spring moss will have grown back over it,” Claire said as they stared down at the scar of black earth marking what was once Jasmine Gulati’s grave.
“New brambles will have taken root.” Claire looked up at the fish carcasses still hanging from the canopy above. “This forest is pure recycling at work. You won’t know that the grave or Jasmine were ever here.”
Unless you know what to look for.
A crack sounded, and Angie’s hand went reflexively for the sidearm that wasn’t there. Claire spun round. They both peered into the surrounding woods, muscles tense. A sense of a presence, of being watched, pricked the hairs up along the back of Angie’s neck. She swallowed. It was growing dark in the grove, shadows taking on new shape and menace.
“What was that?” Angie said.
Claire held a can of bear spray in front of her. Angie hadn’t even noticed her taking it from her belt. “Nothing. It’s ... this place, I think. Makes me jumpy for no reason.” She sheathed the can in a holster on her belt as she spoke.
But Angie didn’t think it was nothing. That sense of a sentience lingered, as if they were still being observed from the shadows.
Claire checked her watch as if keen to move. “What did you hope to find here?”
“Context,” Angie said, casting another look into the shadows before crossing the grove to the fringe of trees that grew thick along the edge of the clearing. She studied the GPS.
“So the river is that way.” She pointed into the woods, speaking more to herself than Claire. “Just over two hundred meters away according to the Garmin.”
“Yeah, as the crow flies,” Claire said. “But it would be serious bushwhacking on foot. The trail from the river follows natural contours, but it’s longer.”
Angie checked the contour lines and elevation. “We’re standing at almost two meters in elevation above the Nahamish Flats river delta.”
“Yeah, so?”
“According to the coroner’s report, there were two extreme weather events that caused flooding in the years after Jasmine Gulati went over the falls. The theory is that the floodwaters could have dislodged her body and washed her remains up here. Then, when the water receded, she was left with other river debris in the moss grove. Except”—Angie turned in a slow circle, absorbing the topography of the grove afresh—“this grove is actually on a bit of an elevated knoll of land. If I’m recalling the report correctly, the floodwaters on both occasions crept over two hundred meters from the Nahamish banks but rose only about three feet—or less than a meter—in height. Which means ... this knoll could have stayed high and dry.”
“Are you certain about how high the water rose?”
