Chapter Twenty-Seven
ARIS
The difference between a theory and a fact is usually about three years of peer review and a lot of paperwork.
But sometimes, the difference is just a heartbeat.
We're pinned down behind a rock outcropping on the spine of the ridge. The wind is screaming over the peak, whipping snow into a frenzy that stings my eyes. Below us, the wolf pack is moving up the slope.
They aren't charging blindly. They're using the terrain. They weave through the scrub brush, disappearing into hollows and reappearing ten feet higher. They are liquid shadow against the white snow.
"Range?" Nash asks. He's braced against the rock, the shotgun shouldered.
"One hundred yards," I say, sighting through the scope of the .300 Win Mag. "They're closing fast. They know we're isolated."
"They don't know about the boat," Nash reminds me. "We just have to buy time. Twenty minutes."
"Twenty minutes is a long time in a firefight," I mutter.
I scan the slope, looking for a target. The black Beta is leading them. He pauses behind a boulder, testing the wind.
And then, I see it.
Movement. Not below us. Above us.
I shift the scope, aiming toward the higher crags, the jagged, inhospitable peaks that rise another five hundred feet above our position.
There, standing on a narrow shelf of rock that looks too small for a mountain goat, let alone a seven-hundred-pound cervid, is Waldo. His cows are strung along the bench below him, heads up, already wary.
The breath sticks in my throat.
"Nash," I hiss. "Twelve o'clock high. Look at the ledge."
Nash risks a glance upward. "No way."
"He's fifty miles from the box canyon," I whisper, the pieces snapping into place. "After the attack he didn't go down to the valley. He went up, and he kept moving—high routes, the whole way to the coast."
"Why?" Nash asks. "There's no food up there. It's just rock and ice."
"Wind," I say, connecting the dots. "The wind scours the snow off the lichen on the high peaks. It's the only place where the grazing is exposed. It's a high-risk, high-reward strategy. He traded safety for calories."
It's brilliant and suicidal. And it's exactly what I predicted in my grant proposal.
But right now, it's a problem.
Because the wolves have smelled him, too.
The black Beta lifts his head. He sniffs the air. He looks at us, the dangerous, armed humans who killed his Alpha. Then he looks up at the ledge where a fat, trapped caribou bull is standing.
The math changes instantly.
Predators are economists. They calculate risk versus reward. We're high risk (guns). Waldo is high reward (meat) but hard to reach (cliffs).
The Beta makes a choice.
He barks, a sharp, yipping command.
The pack splits. Three wolves continue toward us to keep us pinned. The other three, including the Beta, break right. They scramble up the scree, heading for the chimney that leads to Waldo's ledge.
"They're going for the herd!" I yell.
"Let them go," Nash says. "If they chase the caribou, they aren't attacking us. It buys us time."
"No," I say.
I don't make a conscious decision. I've tracked that animal for three years. I know his silhouette the way I know my own handwriting. I've watched him outsmart winter, floods, and famine. I will not watch him get torn apart on a cliff edge because I was too scared to intervene.
"Aris, don't," Nash warns.
"I am the lead researcher," I say, chambering a round. "And that is my subject."
I shift my aim. I ignore the wolves coming toward us. I track the Beta climbing the chimney.
He's fast. He's scrambling up the loose rock, closing the distance to the ledge. Waldo is trapped. He has the cliff at his back and the wolves below.
"Hey!" I scream at the wolf.
I don't shoot to kill. The angle is bad; if I miss, the bullet could ricochet off the rock and hit the herd.
I shoot for impact.
I aim instead for the snow cornice hanging over the chimney, a massive lip of wind-loaded snow that has been stacking up there all winter.
I have read a hundred slopes like this one in the field, logged which faces hold and which ones are only waiting for an excuse.
That overhang is a trigger nobody has pulled yet.
CRACK.
The bullet strikes the base of the cornice.
Nothing happens.
"Dammit," I curse.
The snow swallows the round whole. Of course it does. Powder absorbs a shock; it doesn't carry one. I need the rock the whole slab is hanging on, the thing that will ring like a struck bell and shear the load off its own base.
Nash fires the shotgun into the wolves below, buying me one more breath. "Whatever it is," he shouts, "now, Aris!"
I cycle the bolt. I aim for the rock face just below the snow.
CRACK.
This time, the report slams back off the far wall.
A crack appears in the cornice. A slow, spiderweb fracture.
Then, with a groan that sounds like the mountain is waking up, the snow gives way.
It's not a huge avalanche, but it's enough. A cascade of heavy, wet snow and ice chunks tumbles down the chimney, right into the path of the climbing wolves.
The Beta looks up just in time to get buried. He loses his footing, tumbling backward down the slope in a wash of white. The other three wolves scramble to avoid the slide, skidding down the scree, yelping.
On the ledge above, Waldo watches the avalanche sweep his predators away. He doesn't panic, doesn't run. He stands there, chewing his cud, looking down at the chaos with an expression of utter boredom.
"Genius," I whisper. "You magnificent, arrogant genius."
"Aris!" Nash yells. "Focus!"
I snap back to reality. The three wolves pinning us down have used the distraction to close the gap. They're fifty yards out.
"They're committing!" Nash shouts. "They've given up on the herd! We're the easier meal!"
Nash fires the shotgun. BOOM.
The lead wolf, a scrawny female, flinches but keeps coming. They are desperate. The winter has been hard.
"We need to move!" Nash says. "Back to the repeater! Put the tower at our backs!"
We scramble backward, retreating toward the metal structure. We put our backs against the cold steel lattice.
"I have two rounds left," Nash says, checking the shotgun.
"I have three," I say.
The wolves circle. They're wary now, pacing at thirty yards. They know we have bite. But they also know we can't stay here forever. The cold is seeping into my bones. My hands are numb.
The Beta, the black wolf, shakes himself off at the bottom of the slope. He looks at the blocked chimney. He looks at us.
He starts to trot up the hill. He's reuniting the pack. Now there are six of them.
Six against two. With five bullets.
"Well," Nash says. "It's been a hell of a season, Dr. Thorne."
"Don't you dare say goodbye," I snap. "I still owe you a performance review."
Nash laughs. He actually laughs. "Right. The bonus."
The Beta growls. The circle tightens.
And then, a sound cuts through the wind.
It's not a howl or a gunshot.
It's the deep, throaty roar of twin diesel engines running at full throttle.
We look down toward the water.
Coming around the point, smashing through the skim ice like a battering ram, is a boat.
It's a monstrosity of aluminum, unpainted and dented, looking more like a tank than a watercraft. It's throwing up a wake of icy water that sprays ten feet into the air.
And standing on the roof of the boat cabin, holding a flare gun, is a man in a bright yellow survival suit.
"Reid," Nash breathes.
The boat slams into the bank at the base of the ridge, not docking, just colliding with the shore.
The man on the roof raises the flare gun.
THUMP.
A red star streaks into the sky, arching over the ridge. It bursts directly over the wolf pack, raining down sparks and sizzling red light.
The wolves panic. Fire from the sky is not in their evolutionary playbook. They scatter, yelping, tails tucked, running for the deep timber.
The Beta takes one last look at us. Then he looks at the red flare burning in the snow. He turns and runs.
The ridge is silent again, save for the wind and the distant idle of the boat engines.
I slump against the repeater tower, my legs suddenly turning to water.
"Did that just happen?" I ask.
"That happened," Nash says. He lowers the shotgun, exhaling a long plume of steam.
We look down at the water. The man in the yellow suit is waving both arms over his head. Even from this distance, I can hear him shouting something that sounds suspiciously like: "Did you miss me?"
"That's Reid," Nash says.
"He's loud," I observe.
"He is."
I look up at the high ledge.
Waldo is still there. He's watching the boat. He's watching us. He dips his head once, a nod, or maybe just reaching for a piece of lichen. Then he turns and leads his cows deeper into the high peaks, vanishing into the mist.
"He's safe," I say.
"He's safe," Nash agrees. He puts his arm around my shoulders, pulling me into him. "And so are we."
We stand there for a minute, breathing. The adrenaline crash is hitting me hard, making my hands shake.
"Come on," Nash says, kissing my temple. "Let's go meet the cavalry. I have a feeling Reid brought beer."
"I hope so," I say. "I have two weeks of adrenaline to burn off."
We start the descent toward the water, leaving the wolves, the caribou, and the fear behind us on the ridge.
The data is safe. The grant is safe.
And I have answered the question Thaddeus left me.
He isn't just surviving. He's winning.
And so am I.