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One

Stephanie

Thank God for the small wood stove, I’d be freezing otherwise.

Of course, the downside is I have to go outside from time to time to grab some more firewood.

Not so bad during the day, when the temperatures venture into the fifties, but at night—when they dip below freezing—it’s still a shock to the system. Hopefully, by the time May comes along, I won’t need those extra blankets at night.

Not that I’m sleeping much, I spend most of my nights rewatching episodes of House . I’m almost through season seven, which leaves me with just one more season to go. I hope my sleep improves before I run out of episodes, otherwise I’ll surely go nuts. The days are already hard enough to get through.

I can’t believe I’ve been hiding out here for close to two weeks already. In some ways it doesn’t feel quite that long, and yet, it seems like I left Kalispell ages ago. Maybe it’s just that I’m determined to bury the events leading up to my departure deep. Nothing I particularly care to be reminded of, but my mind won’t let me forget.

Then to add insult to injury, I was forced to take a leave of absence to sort myself out . My boss’s words, not mine, but they were delivered in the hospital by my bedside, where I was recovering from what appeared to be a cardiac event.

It wasn’t. According to the doctor, what I’d suffered was an anxiety attack. However, they did discover my blood pressure was concerningly high and I was put on medication for that.

When Don Bellinger—my boss at the Kalispell FBI office—walked into the hospital room the next morning, the serious expression on his face made it clear he didn’t come bearing good news. He explained the health scare had been the last in a culmination of reasons he felt it was better for me to take some time off. It hadn’t been a question, it was clearly an order, and it couldn’t have hit me harder.

The FBI is my life. It has been for the past twelve years, and I don’t know anything else. Other than going to the gym regularly, I don’t really have anything but my work to keep me occupied. Which is why my life feels like an endless void now that I’ve been sidelined.

After only one week stuck in my apartment in Kalispell, I’d been climbing the walls. A random phone call from Janey—who I’d remained friends with after she’d found herself at the center of not one, but two intertwined cases I was working on last summer in Libby—gave me the idea a change of scenery might be better for me.

I don’t really have many friends outside of my colleagues, mostly because work takes up all of my time, but I connected with Janey. Probably because we’re not all that different. She’s a veterinarian, but she’s also a bit of a workaholic. Anyway, I ended up spilling the beans. I told her the entire sordid story and she immediately offered me a place to stay and lay low for a while.

That’s how I ended up in JD Watike’s trailer on the banks of Libby Creek.

JD is Janey’s man, and although they now live together at her place on the other side of the highway, he still has this trailer sitting on his pretty patch of land. I can see why he wouldn’t want to let it go, it’s a beautiful spot. It definitely offers a better view than I had from my second-story apartment in Kalispell.

It’s also lonely though, something I never thought I’d feel. Other than Janey meeting me here with boxes of groceries when I arrived, I haven’t seen anyone. Besides the occasional sighting of wildlife, that is. However, I don’t know that I’m ready to face people just yet. I’ve spent enough time in Libby over the past years since I was transferred to the Kalispell office, I don’t think I’d be able to avoid bumping into someone I know. I’m feeling a bit too brittle, still.

Unfortunately, after two weeks here my groceries have dwindled to the point of a limp stalk of celery, a quarter onion, the butt end of my last loaf of bread, and half a jar of peanut butter. Not exactly the sum of a meal. I’m not going to have any choice but to hit up a grocery store once the sun is up, which should be in another half hour or so.

With the quilt wrapped around my shoulders, I get up, shove my feet in my Crocs, grab the bucket by the back door, and slide it open to get to the firewood I chopped and stacked on the deck yesterday afternoon. It actually felt good, doing something physical after weeks of inactivity, staring into space like a couch potato. It was a decent workout I’m still feeling in my arms and shoulders. I groan as I fill my bucket and lift it up.

A rustle draws my attention just as I’m about to step back inside. Swinging around, I squint into the morning’s deep shadows, trying to focus in on what I heard. As I scan the faintly visible tree line on the far side of the creek, I hear it again and my eyes snap in the direction of the sound.

Even with only the first faint hint of dawn in the sky, I have no trouble recognizing the large shape of a bear at the edge of the water on the other side of the creek. I can just see him off to my right where the creek bends out of sight. His front legs are in the water as he bends down for a drink, not paying me any attention. This is his domain, after all, and he’s at the top of the food chain.

Then suddenly his large head snaps up and he appears focused on something on this side of the creek. I can’t see what might’ve spooked him, but I jump when I hear the snap of a rifle shot.

Instinct has me drop the quilt and the bucket, and I duck inside, where my gun is sitting on the kitchen counter. When I slip back out, brandishing my weapon, I notice the bear is down. A splash of water has me glance to the far right, but I can’t see anything. Trees block my view of the creek as it meanders its way south. Careful not to make any noise, I move to the edge of the deck and step down, keeping my eyes peeled and my gun aimed at the spot where I heard the splash.

I stop in my tracks when I see a figure appear, crossing the icy waters of the creek.

* * *

Jackson

From what I hear, sightings had been piling up this past week.

This isn’t an unusual issue for April in these mountains. The animals come out of hibernation and are generally starving for food and water. With a rising population in recent years, food has become more scarce and some of the bolder animals venture closer to populated areas, where they can find alternate sources. It’s been a growing concern for fish and game wardens because of the danger to the public.

Last week, April fifteenth, the spring hunt on bear opened, and I’ve been keeping an eye on this big guy for days now. He was seen on trail cameras along the creek and has rampaged a few hunting shacks along the way, slowly moving closer to civilization.

I’d set up a few cameras of my own, hoping he’d eventually show up here, and this morning he did. I’ve been tracking him since the first watery signs of dawn.

This isn’t my land, it’s my friend JD’s, but since he moved in with Janey, he doesn’t seem half as interested to join me hunting. I don’t blame him; I probably wouldn’t want to get out of bed at the ass crack of dawn if I had a fantastic woman like Janey warming my sheets either.

But I don’t mind being out here by myself. When it’s just me and nature, I don’t feel my limitations half as much as when I’m around able-bodied people. Don’t get me wrong, I get around pretty well on my prosthesis—most people probably wouldn’t even notice much more than a slight limp—but I am all too aware my right leg is missing.

They say it becomes second nature at some point, but the fact is about fifteen percent of the body I was born with is missing, which isn’t that easy to adjust to. Every time I catch a glimpse of myself coming out of the shower, I’m still startled at my own reflection. This mental image I have of my former intact body persists, and I’m shocked each time to find part of it gone. Even in my dreams, I still have my right leg.

I went through a really dark phase for a while, especially right after my official medical discharge came through. Special ops had been my dream and I worked my ass off to get there. The training was brutal, my position on my team hard-earned, and our operations were dangerous, but I loved every goddamn minute of my years in service. I was good at my job too; as a sniper I could pick off a moving target at a thousand yards.

But in the end, my excellent marksmanship was irrelevant. We were on our way back to base when we ran into an ambush. Grenades from a Russian GM-94 were launched into the lead vehicle I was in. I don’t remember much more than one minute I was looking forward to a shower and a hot meal back at base, and the next there was a scream, right before a blinding flash of light and a loud explosion filled the Humvee. The last thing I remember is the acrid smell of burning flesh.

A sound from across the creek drags me from my slippery slide down memory lane. Lifting my rifle to my shoulder, I squint through my night-vision scope to see the large lumbering shape of the bear moving out of the trees toward the water.

I wait a moment, allowing him to step into the creek for a drink, as I take in a breath and let it out slowly, grounding myself. I place the reticle of my scope right behind the bear’s front shoulder, just as the animal raises its large head, blocking my side shot. From across the creek, I swear the animal is looking right at me, but I can’t let it unnerve me. If this was just another bear or any other hunt, I might hesitate to pull the trigger, but this bear clearly has no fear and could pose a serious danger to the public.

Determined, I reset my scope, my target now low, between the bear’s eyes at the bridge of his snout. The animal still hasn’t moved a muscle when I slowly depress the trigger. The crack of the rifle reverberates loudly in the early morning silence, and the bear drops down instantly.

It’s not until I start wading across the creek I detect the smell of a wood fire. Odd, there’s not much out here except for JD’s vacant trailer. I turn my head and find it just a few hundred yards from where I came out of the trees.

The first thing I notice is the faint glow of light through the small kitchen window and it stops me in my tracks. Next, I catch movement on the bank of the creek, and see the outline of a woman, her arms stretched out in front of her. She’s holding a gun in her hands and it’s aimed at me.

“You’re on private property!” she yells.

Her voice sounds familiar, but at this distance I can’t make out her face.

“I’m well aware,” I call back, changing direction as I start moving toward her.

Whoever she is, I’m pretty sure she has no business being here or I would’ve known about it.

“Not another step,” she warns me as I approach.

Now that I can see more of her, I have no trouble recognizing her voice. In fact, I’m surprised I didn’t recognize her sooner. Although, in my defense, the last person I expected to find camped out here in JD’s trailer is Special Agent Stephanie Kramer.

“Easy…it’s just me.”

I pull off the camo-print balaclava I covered my face with, and see her expression change as she recognizes me. She immediately lowers her gun, but keeps it in her hand by her side, aimed at the ground.

“Jackson. What the hell are you doing here?”

“I should ask you that question,” I return. “I live a few miles down the road and this is my friend’s land, but you’re quite a bit farther from home.”

I notice her eyes drifting over my shoulder toward the dead bear. I get the sense she’s not eager to share.

Too bad.

“Are you here on another case?” I push. “Does JD know you’re using his place?”

Her eyes come back to mine and her shoulders slump visibly.

“Yes, he does, and can you just forget you saw me?”

It sounds more like a plea than a question, and either way, it’s a laughable request. Like I’d be able to forget, I’ve had a hard enough time forcing thoughts of her from my head when she was safely tucked away in Kalispell. There is no way I’d be able to ignore the fact she’s camping out right under my nose.

I’m also going to need a serious talk with my so-called friend, who is clearly keeping shit from me.

“Not a chance in hell,” I tell her honestly. “So you may as well clue me in. Are you here for work?”

Her gaze drifts again, but this time she answers with a shake of her head.

“I’m on a break. Call it a vacation. I just needed some peace and quiet.”

Something doesn’t quite ring true. The Stephanie Kramer I met last year does not take breaks or vacations. She struck me as a bit of a workaholic, someone who doesn’t have any quit in her and gives her all to the job. I recognized the drive. It’s the same one I used to have. I have a strong sense she’s not telling me the whole story.

“And you picked Libby?”

She shrugs. “That was Janey’s suggestion. She offered JD’s trailer which, she assured me, was sitting empty anyway. She was right, this place is peaceful and quiet. At least it was until this morning.”

The last is said in a somewhat accusatory tone. It’s a challenge I chose to ignore.

“Why did you shoot him?”

“Spring hunt opened last week and this guy was getting a little too comfortable around the more populated areas. Two birds with one stone.”

Her eyes are still fixed on the bear’s carcass, giving me a chance to take in her appearance in the pale light of dawn. She looks haggard—almost gaunt—with dark circles under her eyes, and I wonder if maybe she’s ill. The messy bun, worn sweats, and ridiculous pink Crocs she’s wearing are a far cry from the pony-tailed, buttoned-up, suit-wearing agent I know.

Something more is definitely going on and I am determined to find out what.