The Dead Season (7 page)

Cisco turned and scampered up the stairs. “Hey!” I exclaimed. But he returned a moment later, bounding down the stairs with his favorite stuffed rabbit in his mouth. I couldn’t help laughing, and after a moment’s consideration, stuffed it into his backpack. After all, it couldn’t weigh more than a few ounces, and even dogs need a little something to remind them of home on a long trip.

I was backing out of the driveway when I remembered my phone, which I had faithfully placed in the charger on my nightstand overnight, and where it still remained. I almost kept going. There was something about the whole concept of such a high-tech device on a pristine winter wilderness hike that jarred my sensibilities, and I thought I would be happier without it. But of course it was a survival tool, and I couldn’t forget about Melanie, with whom I had promised to keep in touch, or Miles, who had accused me before of being selfish and irresponsible, not that I cared what he thought when he was in a demanding mood. Reluctantly, I put the car in gear and raced back inside for the phone.

Three minutes later, phone safely zipped in the pocket of my coat, we were off.

~

The sky was barely turning gray when I parked in front of the New Day Lodge at 6:45, but a few young people wearing backpacks and stocking caps were already milling around a green bus with the New Day logo on the side. I recognized Heather and waved to her as I got out. She half-lifted a timid, gloved hand in reply.

I got Cisco suited up in his backpack before I allowed him out of the car, and he was practically dancing with excitement before I was finished. I clipped on his hiking leash, which was constructed of a bungee-type material that expanded and contracted with his movements, and secured the other end to a carabineer on my belt before I allowed him out of the back of the SUV. He leapt nimbly to the ground, and I adjusted the weight of the saddlebags to rest equally between his shoulder blades.

“Hey, cool,” I heard one of the kids say. “It’s a backpacking dog!”

Cisco grinned and pricked up his ears, anxious to meet and greet, but I held up a staying finger. “Wait,” I cautioned.

I slipped the straps of my own backpack over my shoulders, pressed the button on the remote control to lock the car, and started up the walk to the lodge. I spoke quietly under my breath to keep Cisco at heel, but he was so excited he was practically prancing with the effort to slow his pace to mine. I knew the kind of self-control it took for Cisco to restrain himself from bounding forward to meet his new soon-to-be best friends, so I kept my hand free and ready to grab the leash close to his collar if or when his lesser nature got the better of him. I was, however, careful not to actually grip the leash. For one thing, I was distinctly aware that I—and my famous Search and Rescue dog—were making our first impression, and I was vain enough to want us to look like pros, even if the only people watching weren’t exactly dog show judges. Secondly, most people don’t realize that a tight grip on the leash only encourages a dog to pull. The last thing I needed was to start my first day as a so-called field specialist by stumbling onto the scene at the wrong end of leash behind a galloping golden retriever.

The kids were calling, “Here, poochie, poochie!” and making cooing, “What a cute puppy!” noises from the time we left the car. Some of the little monsters were even bending forward and slapping their thighs in an almost irresistible come-hither motion, even though they could clearly see Cisco was leashed to me. My good dog, though it strained every instinct he possessed, remained more or less at my side, casting me quick eager looks every other step or so. I stopped about three feet from the crowd and put him in a sit, but that did not protect him from being mobbed by the teenagers.

Two girls rushed forward and started cooing and clucking over him, rubbing his face and practically shoving their noses against his. You’d think almost-grown-up people would know better, but I’ve seen adults do even stupider things with strange dogs. One of the boys pounded Cisco’s ribs in what I supposed was meant to be a friendly gesture and said, “What’d ya say, old boy? What did you do to end up in a place like this?”

Another boy, a tall fellow with a lanky build, buzz-cut hair and hands stuffed into the pockets of his eight-hundred dollar, state-of-the-art, four season hiking coat (I knew because I had admired it at the sporting goods store in Asheville) drawled, “Must’ve pissed on a policeman’s shoe to get a sentence like this.”

The girls giggled, and thus encouraged, he added, “Or maybe pooped in the mayor’s bed.”

I said pleasantly. “Cisco has done a lot of work for the police department, and he has never peed or pooped on anyone. What about you?”

The girls really laughed at that, and so did the other boy, who added, “She got you there, Jess!”

Jess turned a dull red and scowled at them, and I felt a little bad. But, as I’ve said, kids are not my strong suit.

Heather came up to us. “Hi,” she said. “I see you’ve met Jess and Pete. This is Tiffanie.” A girl with a braided pigtail hat and platinum bangs looked up from petting Cisco. “And Angel.” The other girl had already grown bored, and she wandered away when Heather spoke her name without acknowledging either of us. Heather gave a small half-shrug of apology and smiled at Cisco. “Your dog is gorgeous.”

Heather did not look much older than her charges this morning with her face scrubbed clean and her blond hair braided down her back, but I supposed that was the point. I said, “Max is doing great. He had a big breakfast this morning and romped with my dogs for half an hour.”

She looked relieved. “The woman who checked him in said she’d take him out to play every two hours. He loves to play. “

“Most Labradors do,” I agreed.

I released Cisco from his sit just as a disgruntled-looking young woman pushed through the door of the lodge, hoisting her backpack. She was moderately obese with jet-black hair that was blunt-cut at her collarbone, and an unfortunate pentagram tattoo over one eyebrow. Her gait was awkward beneath the weight of her pack, and I worried about her on the hike. Cisco perked up his ears in his usual friendly fashion, and she scowled even deeper when she noticed him. 

“That’s Lourdes,” Heather said. “The kids call her Lard-Ass. She is not,” she added with a faint note of dryness in her voice, “one of our happiest campers.”

Lourdes pushed by the others and jerked on the door of the bus. Finding it locked, she stomped away, shrugged out of her backpack, and sat on it.

“Yo, Lourdes,” jeered the boy called Jess, “I’d be careful if I was you. You’re going to turn all that trail mix into kitty litter.”

Lourdes glared at him, folded her arms, and deliberately shifted her weight back and forth on the pack, making a crinkling and crunching noise that I could hear even from where I was standing.

“Lourdes, get up!” A sharp voice spoke from the steps of the lodge and we all turned as Rachel Evans came down them. She was dressed in good, all-weather hiking pants, well-worn boots, and a coat that swam on her slight frame. Nonetheless, she carried a backpack by its straps on one shoulder that looked heavy enough to unbalance a man twice her size. She said, “Your life may well depend on what’s in that pack. Treat it with respect. All of you.” She turned to the group at large as Lourdes reluctantly shuffled to her feet. “This is not a joke. How many times do we have to go over it? There are no second chances out here. Daddy is not going to come get you. You are responsible for your own survival, do you understand that? Do you?”

I had to admire her speech and was glad to see it had gotten their attention. In my opinion, there were too many Americans who came into the wilderness thinking it was run by the same people who managed theme parks, and by the time they discovered the animals were real and there was no fresh-faced hostess in khakis around the next corner to show them to the comfort station, it was generally too late. My job would have been a lot easier, and most of the outcomes a lot happier, if Rachel Evans had given that same speech to everyone who put on a backpack. 

There was an unhappy grumble of “Yes ma’ams and “Yeah, rights,” but the two boys were nudging each other and grinning, and I thought I heard one of them mutter something about a “lard-ass” under his breath.

Rachel Evans walked up to them and stood with feet apart. “Mr. Nesbit, Mr. Randall,” she said, “kindly remove your backpacks and spread the contents out here on the walkway. I want to spot check your inventory.”

Jess stared at her. “Are you kidding? It’ll take me half an hour to repack this thing!”

“Then I suggest you hurry,” Rachel replied calmly as she turned away, “because we’re leaving in ten minutes.”

The boys wasted one more second in incredulity, and then, with a flash of panic in their eyes, they stripped off their packs and began rapidly unloading the contents. Apparently, they had learned from experience what happened when they did not take Rachel seriously.

Rachel seemed to notice Cisco and me for the first time, and she came toward us with a small frown. “You’re the new girl, aren’t you?”

“I’m Raine Stockton,” I reminded her. I wasn‘t quite sure how I felt about being called a “girl”. I produced the packet of completed paperwork from my jacket pocket and handed it to her. “And this is Cisco.”

She opened the papers and glanced over them, then stuffed them in a zippered outer packet of her pack. She ran her gaze over me once from head to toe, and I got the impression she wasn’t very impressed. “You’ve been briefed on procedure?”

“Not really,” I admitted. “This was pretty last-minute.”

She looked annoyed. “Don’t interfere with our treatment program,” she said. “Exercise normal trail safety behavior. Don’t socialize with the students. And keep your dog under control.”

Before I could draw breath for a reply that would have been as chilly as the morning dawn, she turned and called, “Five minutes!”

The girls lined up in front of the bus doors and the boys stood beside the contents of their packs, looking impatient and a little scared. I glanced at Heather and murmured, “Charming, isn’t she?”

Heather just returned a weak smile and hurried to join the girls at the bus.

Dogs are very sensitive to emotional energy, which is why a nervous handler can keep a championship dog from even making the first cut at a dog show, and why more dogs fail the long stay at an obedience trial than any other exercise. The more you think,
don’t
move, don’t move
,
the more anxious your dog is likely to become, until eventually he just has to trot over and see if you’re all right. This is why it is so important for a good handler to keep her emotions neutral in all circumstances, and over the years shifting into calm mode in stressful situations had become second nature to me. I knew without even glancing at him that the unpleasant Rachel, the chattering girls and the belligerent boys were making Cisco anxious. I held out my arm, which gave him permission to jump up for a hug, and as he did, something fell out of his backpack and thudded on the ground.

Paul Evans came out of the lodge just as I lowered Cisco lightly to all four feet and bent to pick up the object that had tumbled from the pocket of his backpack. Both he and Rachel watched as I picked up the flat bottle of bourbon and stared at in puzzlement. Rachel came over to me and snatched the bottle out of my hand. “I don’t believe this.” Her voice was cold with fury. “You
do
know where you are, don’t you? Did you even bother to read our literature?”

Paul said in a quick, calm voice, “I’m sure there’s just been a mistake.”

I dragged my incredulous gaze away from Rachel. “I’ll say there has. That bottle is glass. If we had been standing on concrete instead of dirt when it fell, it would have broken and Cisco could have been hurt.” I bent to refasten the buckle of his pack, which had, of course, been securely fastened when I put the pack on him. “Someone obviously slipped that in Cisco’s pack as a joke.”

Rachel’s eyes blazed. “We do not consider this kind of contraband something to joke about, Miss Stockton. Some of these kids are recovering from substance abuse. We can’t afford—”

“Look,” I said impatiently, “I don’t even like bourbon, and even if I did, the last thing I’d do is bring it along on a trip like this. Alcohol and wilderness camping don’t mix, especially in the cold, when it’s hard enough for a sober person to keep his body temperature up. Isn’t that the kind of expertise you hired me for?”

Our little exchange was beginning to attract attention, and Paul said quietly, “Clearly, there’s been a breach in our security. I suspect that one of the boys panicked when you decided to inspect their packs and tried to hide the bottle in the closest place. However, we’re not going to be able to prove anything now, so why don’t you just dispose of the evidence and let’s get going.”

She glared at me for another moment and then stalked away.

Paul gave me an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry,” he said, “This work has its own unique challenges.”

I said, “I don’t think it was one of the boys.” I glanced at them, but they seemed far more concerned about getting back in line with the others than with what was happening with Cisco and me. “They didn’t have time.”

His smile this time seemed a little condescending. “Some of these young people are very devious and highly motivated. You’ll learn it never pays to underestimate them. Now then.” He rubbed his hands together in an unconscious washing motion, as though to rid himself of the entire unpleasant episode. “Allow me to welcome you aboard.” He glanced at Cisco. “And this must be the renowned—I’m sorry, what’s your dog’s name again?”