"How's the mood?" Sheridan asked.
"Intense."
"What's going on?"
Lucy said conspiratorially, "Some hunter got shot. But it's much worse than that."
"What?"
"That's what Dad said," Lucy said, then paused for effect before whispering, "And whoever did it cut off his head and took it."
"Oh my God."
Sheridan scrambled out of her chair and both girls huddled near the partially open door to listen. Sheridan heard her dad say, "The governor formed a team to go after whoever did it. He's also bringing in an expert in tracking."
Mom asked a question they couldn't hear, but they heard Dad say, "You've heard of Klamath Moore? He's giving some kind of press conference tomorrow. This thing might turn out to be real big." Sheridan noted the name.
"Honey," Dad said, "it was probably the worst thing I've ever seen."
"I can't imagine," Mom said. "Actually, I can. It makes me sick."
Lucy whispered to Sheridan, "He said the man was gutted out and hung from a tree."
Sheridan felt a wave of nausea wash over her.
They listened for a few more minutes until they could hear dishes clanking and their parents sitting down for a very late dinner.
"That's horrible," Sheridan said.
"It is," Lucy said. "You probably shouldn't ask about a car tonight." "WHAT'S THIS, a letter?" Lucy asked, sitting down at the desk and opening the drawer.
Sheridan quickly snatched it from her sister and put it behind her back.
"Who are you writing to? Who writes letters?"
"That's none of your business."
"Does Mom know?"
Sheridan hesitated. "I don't think so."
"Does Dad?"
"Maybe."
"Oooooh," Lucy said, smiling wickedly. "Let me guess."
"Lucy…"
"I think I know."
"Just do whatever you have to on the computer and leave me alone."
Lucy turned with a smirk.
"Before you get going, do one thing for me," Sheridan said. "Google the name Klamath Moore. I'll spell it."
The search produced dozens of entries. Lucy clicked on the top one, which turned out to be Moore's organizational website. There was a photo of him-he was tall, fat, with a flowing head of hair like a rock star-surrounded by Hollywood celebrities on a stage. Behind the stars was a big banner reading STOP THE CRUELTY-LIVE AND LOVE LIFE ITSELF.
"Bookmark it," Sheridan said. "I'll read it later." SHERIDAN PUT her pajamas on and got ready for bed while Lucy did her homework, a paper on global warming assigned by her fifth-grade science teacher. As she printed it out, Lucy asked her sister, "So, does Nate Romanowski write back?"
Sheridan considered lying, but Lucy could read her face. "Yes, he does." She knew her face was burning red.
"What does he say?"
"He's schooling me in falconry. He's the master falconer and I'm his apprentice."
"Hmmm," Lucy said smugly, tapping the edges of her report on the desk to align the pages. "That's interesting."
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing, it's just interesting."
"Knock it off."
"And knowing this probably means a lot of rides when you get your car."
"I'd rather have a falcon than a car, if I had to choose," Sheridan said. "I think I'd like to start with a prairie falcon, maybe a Cooper's hawk."
That set Lucy back. "God, you're weird."
Sheridan shrugged.
"Sherry, you're in high school. The boys like you-you're a hottie on everyone's list. If you start walking around with a stupid bird on your arm…" Lucy was pleading now, her hands out in front of her, palms up. "People will think you're some kind of nature girl. A geek. A freak. And they'll think of me as Bird Girl's little sister."
"Could be worse," Sheridan said.
"How?"
"I could, like, I don't know, like goats or something. Or emus. You don't understand. Falconry is a beautiful art. It is known as the sport of kings. Think of that: the sport of kings. It's ancient and mysterious. And it's not like the birds are your pets. You don't just walk around with them on your arm like a pirate with a parrot on his shoulder. God, you can be so juvenile sometimes."
Lucy took a deep breath to reload when there was a knock on the door. "You girls all right in there?" said their dad.
"Sure," Sheridan said, "come in."
He stuck his head in but didn't enter, his eyes moving from Lucy to Sheridan and back, knowing he'd interrupted something. Sheridan noted the sparkle of gray in his sideburns she'd recently noticed for the first time. He was excited about something, motivated. There was a glint in his eye and a half-smile he couldn't contain, the look he got when he had a purpose or a cause. "Better get going," he told Lucy, who was notorious for extending her bedtime, "no stalling tonight."
After he'd left, Lucy picked up her report in her most haughty manner. "There may not be any more falcons left if the earth keeps heating up," she said, "so you might as well get that car."
"Do you realize that what you just said makes no sense at all?"
Lucy rolled her eyes.
"Good night, Lucy."
"Good night, Sheridan." And over her shoulder as she skipped out of the room, "Nature Geek. Bird Girl."
7
THE PROBLEM with my route back at night through the forest is an elk camp that has sprung up on the trail. Three canvas wall tents, four cursed four-wheel ATVs, the detritus of hunters in a campsite: chairs, clotheslines, a firepit ringed with pots and pans. I am grateful they don't have horses who could whinny or spook at my presence and give me away. Because of the canyon walls on both sides, the only way to proceed is through the sleeping camp. Inside the tents are at least four armed hunters, maybe as many as eight or nine. I can hear snoring and the occasional deep cough.
I think: what's wrong with these people? Don't they know hunters are being hunted? Why do they not stay home? What makes them come out here while their fellow mouth-breathing Bubbas are being killed and gutted? Of course, these men have nothing to fear from me, but they don't know that.
I lower the daypack to my feet and my shoulders relax from the strain of the last few hours. The moon is almost full and the stars are crisp and white, pulsing, throwing off enough light that there are shadows. For the past week, I've been preparing for this midnight trek. I've been loading up on foods high in vitamin A, which enhances night vision. Beef liver, chicken liver, milk, cheese, carrots and carrot juice, spinach. I can tell that eating these foods has helped greatly since I've only had to use my flashlight (fitted with a red lens) twice. Another tactic for walking in complete darkness outdoors is called "off-center vision," and I'm good at it. The trick is not to look directly at objects-in my case, landmarks like dead trees or odd-shaped boulders I noted on my trek in-or they'll seem to disappear. Looking at objects full-on directly utilizes the cone area of the retina, which is not active during times of darkness. Instead, I look to the left, right, above, or below the object I'm observing in order to use the area of the retina containing the rod cells, which are sensitive in darkness. If I keep moving my eyes around the object of interest, I can "see" what I'm looking at better than if I shine my headlamp on it. Plus, I'm not blinded afterward by the light. I've done my best to stay near the trail in but not to literally retrace my steps. As on the way in, I avoid soft ground where I may leave footprints as well as brush where I may break twigs in passing through. I stay as much as I can to hard-packed game trails or rock, disturbing as little as possible.
Earlier in the night, after I left my place of hiding where I observed the forensics team do their work, I methodically discarded evidence that could implicate me. I used the geology of the area to my advantage, especially the huge granite boulders piled up on top of each other and the scree on the denuded faces of two mountains I passed. The cache of clean clothing I'd left behind was easy to find in the dark and I changed from top to bottom, from boots to hat. I cleaned the barrel and chamber of my rifle with a field cleaning kit so thoroughly it would be difficult to tell it has been fired recently. I scrubbed exposed skin-the bands of skin between my gloves and coat cuffs, my face and neck-clean of gunpowder residue with wet wipes I brought in a ziplock bag. My old bloody clothing I wadded up tight and slipped into a crack in the boulder field where it dropped away deep. So deep, I barely heard when it landed. The depth beneath these boulder fields always astonishes me, and I wonder what lives in the dark within them. I imagine that whatever is down there scuttling in the absolute blackness will feast on the blood-drenched clothing and eventually reduce it to scat. The single spent cartridge and rifle cleaning patches I dropped in separate slits in the boulder scree. I washed my skinning knife in a spring-fed creek with biodegradable soap, and buried the washcloth under a log so heavy it strained me to turn it over.