Gun Shy Page 8

  A burst of static.

  I said quickly, “Is there a number where Maude can—”

  “Tell her I enjoyed our chat—” Static. “Call when I—”

  Static, static, and nothing.

  I shouted, “Hello? Hello?” a few times, to no avail. I stared at the dead receiver in frustration, and then returned it to its stand. It rang again almost immediately. I snatched it up.

  “Hello, Mrs. Cranston?”

  A hesitation. “Raine, is that you? This is Dolly Amstead.”

  I grimaced. “Hi, Dolly. Sorry, I was expecting someone else.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you.” Her voice was crisp and efficient. “I just wanted to go over this list with you to make sure everything is all set for this weekend.”

  This weekend. My grimace deepened. The volunteer from Coastal Assistance Dogs was supposed to pick up Hero this weekend. There was certainly no way I was going to be able to get out of my obligation at the Pet Fair—nor would I dare try—so I would just have to ask whoever was coming for the dog to meet me there.

  I said, “Everything’s all set, really. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

  “Nonetheless, let’s just go over it again, shall we? Now, do you have someone to transport the equipment you need?”

  I sighed, resigned to another endless half hour of Dolly’s lists. “I do. We’ll be there by seven to set up.”

  “Very good. I have you scheduled for an agility demonstration at nine thirty, and then we’ll start selling tickets to let people try it with their own dogs. Two dollars each, right? And who do you have to take the money?”

  In the dictionary beside the word “micromanager” there is a picture of Dolly Amstead. I suppressed a sigh. “Maude is going to help man the booth.”

  “Oh, dear.” She sounded concerned. “I have her down to do an obedience demo at ten thirty. I just don’t see how she can help with your booth and be ready for the demo by then. There’s bound to be some overlap. And I can’t move the obedience demo, because I have the dancing dog at eleven.”

  “The dancing what?”

  “Oh, Raine, I told you about that! That girl from Charleston—what’s her name?—wait, I have it here. . . .” Keyboard tapping. “Lanier. Sandra Lanier. She does this all over the Carolinas to raise money for humane shelters and whatnot. She sent me a tape, and it’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. The dog jumps through her arms and over her legs and does a little cha-cha and actually looks like he’s dancing. She called it canine musical something.”

  “Freestyle,” I supplied, understanding. I had read about it and noticed it on the Internet, but had never actually seen it in person. “I didn’t know there was anyone around here doing that.”

  “Well, she’s not from around here, exactly, is she? And we were lucky to get her. It just so happened that she was planning a hiking trip here next week anyway.”

  This time of year there were more cars with South Carolina license plates cruising our roads than there were with North Carolina ones, and most of them were from the coast. Dolly wasn’t really as lucky as she thought; with all the tourists flooding our mountains, who knew what kind of talent we might find if we just put out the call?

  “At any rate,” Dolly went on, “I’m going to have to try to find you another volunteer, because there simply is no way I can change the schedule now. Now, let’s go over the lineup for—”

  At that moment, blessedly, my pager began to beep. As a member of Mountain Search and Rescue, I am supposed to wear the pager at all times, but the truth is, I only think about it right after a drill or during peak tourist season. Today, I hadn’t actually even put the thing on; I had just tossed it into the in-basket on my desk, where it was now squeaking irritably.

  I said, quickly, “Sorry, Dolly, that’s an emergency page. Gotta go.”

  I hung up as she was still sputtering and glanced at the number on the digital screen, even though I already knew what it would be. I dialed the ranger station from memory.

  “What’s up?” I greeted Rick when he answered.

  “Missing Boy Scout. Apparently he wandered off the trail during a sunrise hike. The scoutmaster followed the usual procedures, but no sign of him.”

  I glanced at my watch. Almost noon. “Damn,” I said. Why did everyone wait so long to ask for help? “Where- abouts?”

  “We need you to search Catbird Ridge. We’re assembling at the trailhead now. How long will it take you?”

  “Twenty minutes.” With the cordless phone in hand, I was already on my way to the house to gather up my gear. “I’ll meet you at the trailhead and work down.”

  “We’re having supplies brought for a night search if we need them.”

  “Let’s hope we don’t.”

  I clicked off and flung open the back door, grabbing my pack and a jacket from the hook in the mudroom, scraping off my shoes and stuffing my feet into the hiking boots that stood ready by the door. I opened my mouth to call, “Cisco!” but he was already there, claws skidding on the slick linoleum as he came to a stop before me, panting and grinning excitedly. He knew the routine.

  I knotted my laces and snatched his orange search and rescue vest from the hook. “Cisco, dress,” I told him, and he stood still, lowering his head as I slipped the vest over it and buckled it around his chest. “Okay, bud, let’s go to work.”

  I scrawled a note to Maude and tacked it on the kennel door, and Cisco and I were halfway up the mountain before another five minutes passed.

  Chapter Seven

  At least ninety percent of my search and rescue work involves tourists who come to the mountains for a taste of nature and find that, in nature, they have bitten off more than they can chew. A surprising number of these are so-called wilderness experts—which is precisely why the forest service likes to keep a particularly close eye on the wilderness camping areas. The Nantahala Forest is one of the densest, most complex natural regions in the country; cell phones don’t work here; helicopters can’t land here; gorges, rivers and sheer rock faces can turn an afternoon hike into a life-or-death ordeal for the inexperienced. The average American is so accustomed to being entertained, taken care of and made comfortable that he honestly doesn’t realize that there are still some places in this world where the dangers are real, the isolation is complete and there’s no one to sue if he gets hurt.

  For the ordinary dumb tourist camper, it’s easy to forget he’s not in Disneyland, and that no matter how far away from camp he strays he will not eventually come upon a sign with a map saying YOU ARE HERE. So he will wander for days, cold, dehydrated and disoriented, until he eventually succumbs to exposure or injury.

  The more experienced wilderness camper, on the other hand, is just as often a victim of his own cockiness. He spies an interesting botanical specimen or animal track only a few dozen yards off the trail, or he is deceived by what sounds like the babbling of a nearby brook, only to discover that the brook was in fact much farther away than he had thought. When he turns to retrace his steps, there are no steps to retrace and no sign whatsoever of the trail he has just left.

  The wilderness expert, however, does have a few small advantages over the dumb tourist when both are lost in the woods: He has at least a rudimentary knowledge of survival skills, and he knows enough—hopefully—not to keep moving once he realizes he is lost. A Boy Scout, in particular, should be trained to find a sheltered spot and stay there, intermittently blowing a whistle or using some other noisemaker, until he is found.

  Unfortunately what is happening more and more these days is that young people are so ingrained with the concept of “stranger danger” that they will actually refuse to answer the calls of rescuers who are searching for them. Over and over stories are told of rescue teams coming within yards of a lost child who was huddling in the bushes, too afraid to call out for help.

  That’s where the SAR dogs come in.

  I am not the only member of the Mountain Search and Rescue organization; just
the closest to the actual wilderness where most of the need occurs, so I am usually the first one called. In the case of a missing child, especially with less than six hours left before dark, I knew that teams from neighboring counties had already been called. I only hoped we would find the boy before they got here.

  I’m happy to say that most of these situations turn out for the good. Very often by the time we form the search party, the missing camper will stagger back, sweaty and scared but otherwise unharmed. Sometimes he’ll be lucky enough to catch a stray cell phone signal and call 911. Sometimes he’ll hear us calling. Sometimes the dog will gallop right to him—case closed and everyone is home before supper. Those are the stories that don’t make the paper. Those are the stories in which we professionals get to roll our eyes at each other in a silent commentary on “damn tourists,” then clap each other on the shoulder and head on back home. Those are the stories I like.

  But when you start out, you never know what kind of story it’s going to end up being.

  From the harried scoutmaster and his hoard of eager scout assistants, all of whom seemed to think this was the best part of the whole trip, we learned that Ryan Marcus, age ten, was a bright student, had multiple merit badges, and was fully aware of scout procedure when one became separated from the group. He was also, it turned out, an independent thinker who had taken off on his own to gather wild blueberries for breakfast. Cocky.

  Proper procedure for SAR is to work in teams of two. In a case like this, though, with time of the essence and resources at a minimum, a dog and handler can count as a team of two. I liked it better that way. Cisco is young and, as much as I hate to admit it, still easily distracted. The less he has to contend with, the better chance of success we have.

  We started down the leaf-strewn trail with Cisco on a fifteen-foot cotton lead, nose to the ground and tail wagging happily, occasionally bounding off the trail and back again, halting, doubling back, circling and charging forward; looking for all the world like he knew exactly what he was doing. Of course the secret to making yourself look like a genius dog trainer is to find out what your dog loves and keep reinforcing him for doing it. Cisco loves to track. Sometimes I am not sure that he knows the difference between a cotton glove, a human victim and a family of bunnies quivering under a rock; he only knows that when he finds it, there is a party. So with great joy and anticipation of the hunt, Cisco set out to find whatever there was to be found.

  And, approximately forty-five minutes later, he did exactly that.

  By this time we had long passed the point of the original Boy Scout sunrise hike and were approaching a steep, narrow section that was clearly marked ADVANCED HIKERS ONLY on the map. Below the trail, however, was a crisscross of overgrown logging roads that eventually gave way to a seldom-used dirt road that circled around, after fifteen or twenty miles, toward the lake. I held out a vague hope that a smart little Boy Scout might actually have tried to seek out civilization by following the road. I really, really hoped he had not stayed on the trail, which became more treacherous the higher it climbed.

  I felt a shaft of relief and cautious encouragement when Cisco abruptly veered off the trail and through the woods toward the logging roads. I followed him at a clumsy jog, trying to keep his line from getting tangled in the undergrowth. At this point I usually unleashed Cisco, but to be honest, I wanted to make sure he wasn’t tracking a deer or a raccoon before I let him go. I had spent too many exhausting hours chasing my otherwise reliable dog through the woods to trust him entirely.

  Fifteen feet ahead of me Cisco paused, excitedly sniffed the ground and bounded off down the logging road, all but dragging me behind him. Deer, I thought in dismay, for he was far too sure of himself to be on the track of anything useful. Great. I opened my mouth to call him back. But just then Cisco skidded to a stop, sat down abruptly and gave a single startled bark.

  I should point out that this behavior is Cisco’s “alert”; it means he has found what he was looking for. In this case the bark did not sound triumphant; it was not the bark of a dog who had done his job and was eager for his reward. It sounded surprised, confused and a little disappointed. No wonder. Cisco had not bravely tracked his victim through thicket and bramble only to find him helpless but grateful in a leaf-covered ditch—which is how we practiced in tracking class. He had, in fact, practically bumped into his target as the Boy Scout came strolling around a bend in the road, drinking a Coke and munching on a giant-sized bag of potato chips.

  I stared at him. “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey,” he replied, looking far less surprised to see me than I was to see him.

  “Are you Ryan?”

  “Yeah.” He glanced at Cisco. “Is that your dog?”

  A little belatedly, I remembered my training and dug quickly into my backpack for the knotted rope toy that was Cisco’s reward for a good find. “Good boy, Cisco, good find,” I told him and tossed the toy. He caught it in midair, gave it a few happy shakes and then dropped it on the ground, looking expectantly at Ryan—or rather, at the bag of chips.

  I said, “Cisco is a search and rescue dog. He’s been looking for you.”

  “No kidding.” He looked moderately impressed and munched a handful of chips. “Well, here I am.”

  I took out my walkie-talkie and spoke into it. “Base, this is K-9 One,” I said. “We have him. He’s ambulatory and appears unharmed.”

  Rick’s voice crackled back, “Where are you?”

  I said, glancing around, “About half a mile from Haw-kins Mill, on the north ridge logging road. If you send a jeep we wouldn’t object to a ride back.”

  “On our way. Good work, Raine. Tell Cisco I’ve got a dog biscuit with his name on it.”

  “I’m afraid you’re going to have to do better than dog biscuits to compete with what he’s got his eye on now. K-9 One out.

  “A lot of people have been looking for you,” I told Ryan, tucking the radio back into my pack. “Your scoutmaster was very worried.”

  “Does your dog like chips?” Ryan asked.

  “No,” I lied, although it was hard to sound convincing while Cisco was licking long strings of drool from his lips and gazing at the bag of chips with all the yearning of a lost soul for the pearly gates.

  Ryan tossed Cisco a potato chip and Cisco caught it in midair with a satisfied crunch. Ryan laughed and I said, “Please don’t feed my dog.”

  “He likes them,” insisted the little smart aleck and dug in the bag for more.

  “He’s allergic,” I told him, which gave him pause. And then it occurred to me that no one had mentioned that the sunrise hikers had been outfitted with drinks and giant bags of chips. As I looked closely I saw that the pockets of his uniform were bulging with what appeared to be chocolate cookies. “Where did you get those, anyway?”

  A wary look came over his face. “It wasn’t really stealing. The car was empty, and the door was open. I called and looked around, but no one came. Besides, the first rule of survival is to find food and shelter. I should get a merit badge.”

  I wanted to tell him that the first rule of survival was not to get yourself lost in the first place, but about half a beat behind his words, I actually heard what they meant.

  I said, looking at him closely, “What car? Where?”

  He gestured back down the road. “Down there, off in the woods. There were lots of groceries and stuff inside, but looks like squirrels and possums already got most of it. I drank most of the Cokes,” he added. “My dad will pay.”

  I said, hardly daring to think what I was thinking, “Is it very far? Do you think you could show me where it is?”

  He shrugged. “Sure.” He tossed Cisco another chip and turned back down the road. “Say, do you think I’ll get my picture in the paper?”

  “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” I murmured, and gathered up Cisco’s leash. “Come on, boy, let’s go.”

  Less than an hour later, I was perched on the open tailgate of a forest service vehicle, strok
ing Cisco’s fur while he enjoyed the dog biscuit Rick had promised him, watching as sheriff’s deputies roped off the area surrounding a silver PT Cruiser at the bottom of a small gorge. The path the car had taken when it left the dirt road was easy to see—downed saplings and crushed shrubs marked a swath. However, the car had managed to bury itself in the foliage of an uprooted hemlock when it came to rest, and it might have been months before a vehicle passing on this seldom-used dirt road spotted it.

  Ryan Marcus, boy of the hour, was on his way back to base camp in a forest service Jeep, where he would be welcomed as a hero, have his picture taken for the paper and be bundled home to his mummy and daddy. There he would be showered with all the chips he could eat and soda he could drink. This was one of the good stories.

  So far.

  Buck made his way back up the slope to me, a task made slightly more difficult by the fact that the path of least resistance—the one the car had left on its way down—was now bracketed on either side by yellow crime scene tape. He lifted his hat when he reached me and wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

  “The registration papers say the car belongs to Michelle White,” he told me. Resting an arm on the car roof, he leaned down to ruffle Cisco’s neck fur. “Good job, boy.”

  Cisco grinned up at him.

  “Keys were in the ignition,” he said, and nodded toward the path the car had taken when it left the road. “Looks like the driver tried to take the curve too fast and plowed right off into the woods.”

  “That would be easy to do at night,” I observed.

  He shrugged. “Or if the driver was drunk, or swerving to miss a deer, or just not paying attention.”

  I guess that’s why they paid him the deputy money. He never went for the obvious answer just because it was easy.

  “The air bag deployed when the car hit the tree,” Buck went on. “So far no clue about the driver.” He glanced at Cisco. “I don’t suppose . . .”