When the big bull elk was only twenty-five yards away, she sighted him in the heart and lungs just to the right of his dark brown mane. She moved her finger to the trigger.
She held it there for a moment.
“Pow,” she whispered.
She safetied the Winchester and laid it on the snow.
Her dad picked it up and looked through the sight. “The bull?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
He swung back the bolt, removed the .257 round, and returned it to the Ziploc ammo bag.
The elks still had no clue that humans were fifty feet away.
Her father put a sleeve on the Winchester.
He looked like he was finally going to say something but in the end he didn’t quite know how.
He had been a staff sergeant. She assumed that that had entailed giving orders and barking commands, sometimes in extremis. But she had never even seen him yell at the dog. Her mother had also been a sergeant and she could certainly imagine her giving orders. But not him. He had left his articulation over there.
She had to be the one to speak. “I’m sorry if I let you down.”
“No!” he replied. “Lord, no. It’s OK. You’re a good girl. You did the right thing.”
On the walk back down she saw that the doe tracks by the river had been so effectively erased, it was as if they had never existed at all. Life, she supposed, was like that—a fleeting impression by a little stream in a big wood that was soon gone.
On the drive home they listened to Neil Young and Dolly and Willie.
It was dusk when they drove off the ferry.
Blue woodsmoke was coming from the cabins. All those little chimney tops in secret communication with the sky.
It was dark when they made it to the house.
The Sound was black. Seattle twinkled in the far distance.
Her dad had been thinking. Her mom had known she would pull this again. She’d said, “Leave the girl.”
“I’ll talk to your mother,” he said. “We can probably get meat just as cheap at Costco.”
“As cheap as free?”
“Nothing’s free.”
They went inside. Her mom had made chili from chuck meat. She already knew. She didn’t even say anything. She just smiled and gave Heather a hug. Moms.
Heather helped her father with the dishes.
He cleared his throat. “There are times when you have to take the fight to the enemy. But he wasn’t our enemy. It wasn’t his time.”
“No,” she agreed.
He ruffled her hair. She felt the hand.
She shivered.
Woke.
The fire was dying. It was cold.
She sat up.
Breathed deep.
“Heather, do you think Dad is in heaven?” Olivia asked.
“Yes,” she replied.
Heather’s dad said there was no one looking out for you—no God, no dead ancestors, no angels. Just medics and corpsmen. Her mother said she never thought about it, but her mother’s mother, Heather’s grandmother, had told her stories about the Great Spirit, about the mountain gods, about the old religion.
She’d try a prayer to all of them.
She grabbed the rifle and got to her feet.
“Where are you going?” Olivia asked.
“The dogs will find us tomorrow unless I take care of them,” she said.
Olivia took a second to process what that meant and then nodded. “Be careful,” she said.
Heather handed her the cigarette lighter. “Keep the fire going. That eucalyptus wood burns well.”
“Can you see if you can get more food?” Owen asked. “But no more wombat. I don’t think humans are supposed to eat that.”
“I’ll look for something else. Keep the mouth of the cave covered.”
“What if you don’t come back?” Owen asked.
“I’ll come back.”
“But if you don’t?”
“You and your sister hide until the police get here. The police will come. I promise you.”
Owen left it there. If the police didn’t come, they were dead. If they surrendered to the O’Neills, they were dead.
Heather ruffled his dirty hair and hugged Olivia. “Look after your little brother, OK?”
“OK.”
The charcoal of the eucalypt skewers had coated the palms of her hands. She raised them to her face and ran a line of charcoal down her left cheek.
“Why are you doing that?” Owen asked.
“So I’ll be harder to see,” she said. She walked to the cave mouth. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon,” she said.
She stepped outside.
The first priority was to kill the dogs.