It’s time to notify the council. Except we can’t. Without Val, we don’t know how.

We have a radio receiver. We understand the basics of how to use it, and Anders knows specifics. But we don’t have a frequency. That’s top secret, need to know only, and no one other than Val, apparently, needed to know.

We move the radio to our house and wait for Phil to call in. That’s all we can do.

We’re up at four. I play double nursemaid, first tending to Dalton’s arm and his hand. The former is healing well; the latter shows no sign of infection. Then, while he cooks breakfast, I go to see the cub.

Storm comes with me. I’m not about to let her into the house—I’m still worried about rabies—but she smells him from outside and seems to think it’s another dead wolf-dog. Her whines escalate to howls. So I lift the cub up to the front window . . . and then she goes nuts because there’s another canine in town and I’m keeping him from her.

I try to calm her by cracking open the front door just enough for her to snuffle him. The poor cub sees this massive black nose and he freaks. I shut the door and Storm starts howling again. The cub stops quaking in mortal terror . . . and begins howling back.

It’s an interesting way to start my morning. I don’t think my neighbors agree.

The cub is otherwise fine. I’d left a bed and food and water. I have to clean up piddle and poop, but I’m not taking him out for a walk until that leg is better. I moved all my blankets and cushions and rugs upstairs, so the damage is minimal. I tend to his leg, replace the food and water, and then I return home for my own breakfast.

At dawn, we’re off to visit Brent. It’s a long hike to the mountain where Brent has his cave. Before we leave, we remind Storm of Brady and Val’s scents, and every time the path branches off, we have her sniff. She finds nothing. As we draw near the mountain, though, she starts getting excited. Which would be exciting . . . if we weren’t on the path Brent uses daily. Storm is very fond of Brent, who always has dried bones for her.

When we reach the cave entrance, she plunks down with a sigh. She still fits, but she won’t for much longer. Once we get through, we shove a rock into the opening, the last thing we need is her wedging in and getting stuck. She sighs again and then sticks her head into the remaining opening to watch us mournfully.

Or that’s what she usually does. This time, when she sticks her head through, her nostrils flare, and she sniffs wildly as she whines.

“Storm, no,” I say. “Brent will come out. He’ll bring your bone.”

She keeps whining, but I’ve told her to stay and she obeys.

We’re going down the first passage when my light catches something on the wall. Dalton is ahead of me, and as I stop for a closer look, he glances back.

I have the penlight between my teeth so I can crawl. Now I take it out and shine it on the wall to see . . .

A handprint.

A red handprint.

“Eric . . .”

“He’s been hunting,” Dalton says. “Must have butchered up top. That’s what Storm smells.”

He says that, but he still moves faster, and I remember Storm whining on the path, getting excited, presumably she smelled Brent.

And if it wasn’t Brent? What if, instead, she picked up the very scents we asked her to find?

As we crawl, I tell myself I’m overreacting. Brady doesn’t know anything about Brent. He has no reason to come for him. No idea where to find him. The chances that Brady would just happen to take shelter in the same cave where Brent lives? Infinitesimal. The opening isn’t even visible from down the mountainside.

We reach the cavern that Brent calls home. There’s blood on the floor, large drops, some smeared. A shelf has been pulled down, contents spilled, another bloody handprint on the wall.

“Brent?” Dalton’s voice echoing through the cavern. “Brent!”

I’m following the blood. More smears here, like drag marks. They lead to the smaller cavern Brent uses for storage. I pull back the hide curtain. And there is Brent, lying on the floor, curled in fetal position, blood soaking his shirt, one hand pressed against it. His eyes are closed.

I bend to clear the low ceiling. Then I crouch beside him. My fingers go to his neck, and he stirs.

Dalton’s figure fills the entrance.

“He’s alive,” I say.

Barely. Brent’s eyelids flutter, but he can’t open them. His face is almost as white as his hair. He isn’t breathing hard enough for me to even see his chest rise. Then there’s the blood. A pool of it under him, his shirt soaked with it.

We get him out of that small cavern. That wakes him, crying in pain. Dalton wets a cloth as I gingerly peel up Brent’s shirt. I take the cloth and clean as carefully as I can. Brent whimpers, his eyes still shut, and Dalton tries to rouse him.

There’s a bullet hole through Brent’s stomach.

“Diagnosis dead?” a papery voice whispers.

I turn. His eyes are barely open, but he’s trying to smile.

“I know the diagnosis,” he says. “Dead from the moment the bullet hit. Body just hasn’t realized it yet.”

He’s right. If he’d been steps from a hospital when he’d been shot, he might have survived. Even that is unlikely. And now . . .

Tears well. I blink them back hard.

“Casey?” Brent says. “I already know.”

“I can try—”

He reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “Let’s not waste my time. Not much left.”

“You want a drink?” Dalton asks.

Brent manages a hoarse laugh. “I would love a drink.”

Dalton takes a bottle from the backpack we brought. A gift for Brent, in return for his bounty hunting services.

Brent cranes his neck up. “Is that . . . ?”

“Scotch. I’m told it’s the good stuff. Bought it a while back, in case you ever had anything better to trade than skinny-assed bucks. Never did. But I guess you can have it now.”

Brent laughs, knowing full well that Dalton would have bought this on his last trip, after Brent and I argued over the merits of Scotch versus tequila.

Dalton pours him a glass full.

“Trying to get me drunk?” Brent says.

“Yeah, hoping those conspiracy theories of yours might make more sense if you’re loaded.” He hands him the glass. “Got any theories on who did that to you?”

“It’s the bastard you were keeping in that town of yours. Kid told me you think he’s some kinda killer. Insisted he’s not.” Brent looks down at his gut. “Seems he lied.”

“Okay,” I say. “Just rest and—”

“I’m not resting, Casey. I’m helping you catch my killer. And drinking. Heavily. If it starts spilling out my guts? Don’t tell me.”

He takes a deep drink. “I was down the mountain, shooting grouse at twilight. Kid got the jump on me, the fuck—” He stops. Apologizes to me for swearing, as always. “He got me dead to rights. I was picking up my game, had put my gun down. He wanted to know where to find Jacob.”

“Jacob?” Dalton tenses.

“Relax, Eric. You think I told him?” Brent slurps more Scotch. “Said he wanted to hire Jacob. As a guide. Get him out of here. I said I could do it. He said no, had to be Jacob. That’s when I knew something was up.”

“He didn’t just want a guide,” I say.

“Right. So I confronted him, and he told me that story about being a prisoner in your town, falsely accused. Says he needs Jacob as a guide and as insurance, but he won’t hurt him. Offers to pay me to take him to Jacob. I say no. He threatens to shoot me in the shoulder. I go for the gun. We fight. I get gutshot instead. Maybe that was an accident, but the bas—the jerk put his fist on my gut and pushed down. Made me howl, I’m ashamed to say. But I got the gun away from him. Fired a shot. He took off. I hauled ass back here. Lost the damned gun on the way, pardon my French. But I made it. Holed up with my rifle, in case he came back.”

“He didn’t?”

“Nah, ran and kept running. Little pri—prat.”

“Was there anyone with him? Any sign of a hostage?”

Brent shakes his head. “He was alone. Never mentioned anyone else. It was all about him. How everyone done him wrong.” Brent coughs and then gasps in pain with the movement. “Damned country song, he was. You don’t need to worry about Jacob, though. I don’t even know where he’s camping right now. Left his last spot a couple of days back.”

“So he’s gone duck hunting,” Dalton says.

“Not yet. Came by to say he was holding off—he was tracking a bull caribou and wanted to get that first. And he was trying to decide if he should ask that girl from your town to go duck hunting. Came to me for advice.” Brent gives a weak laugh. “Like I’d be any help. I faked it, though. Told him yes, he should do it.”

“So he’s mobile right now?”

Brent nods. “Until he gets that caribou.”

I help him lift the glass to his lips. His hand is trembling. He takes two big gulps. When he speaks again, his words are slurring, exhaustion and alcohol mixed.

“Eric?”

“Right here, Brent.”

“You gotta bury me in my jersey, okay?”

“The Maple Leafs one?”

Brent raises his middle finger. Then he drinks more Scotch with my help. “You know how I want to go, right?”

“I do.”

“Up in one of those platforms. Like the Indians used to do it.”

“I know. I’ll do it just like you wanted.”

Brent’s eyelids flutter. Then they open. “Almost forgot. Eric? You gotta get something for me.”

His words are slurring badly now, and it takes a while for Dalton to interpret his directions and bring what he wants. It’s two carved wooden figurines.

“Give it to me,” Brent says. “You’ll do it wrong.”

He takes the figures and arranges them on his palm. It’s a woman in a ponytail, kneeling in front of a rolling ball of fur.

“That a bear cub?” Dalton says.

Brent raises his middle finger again.

“It’s me and Storm,” I say. “When she was a puppy.”

“First time you brought her here. I remember you two playing in the grass. Been a long time since I heard a girl laugh like that. I wanted to capture it. She’s not so little anymore.”

“Yeah, Casey, gotta watch what you’re eating.”

We both raise our fingers for that. Then Brent hands me the figures. Up close I see the detail, the hours spent carving them. I thank him, and we talk for a little more. He’s flagging, and I tell him we’ll build that platform and put him in his beloved Canadiens hockey jersey. And I say we’ll get Brady for him.

“I’m sure you will,” he says, “but I’m not too worried about that. I’m just glad you came. Not a bad way to go. Good Scotch. Pretty girl.”

I squeeze his hand and bend to kiss his weathered cheek as his eyes close.

“Eric?” he whispers, voice barely audible.

Dalton bends by Brent’s head.

“I figured it out,” Brent says. “The secret behind that town of yours. This is what it’s for, isn’t it? Harboring the worst criminals. The ones the government wants to make disappear. Save folks the expense of a trial and hide them up here, let their sorry asses rot.” His eyes half open. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Took you long enough.”

Brent smiles and his eyes close again. A few more breaths, and then he goes still.