The man glanced up at Frank, seemed to catch sight of the coyotes, and quickly looked away, back at Dunk. He reached out and touched the dog, began to stroke his fur. Dunk leaned in for more; the young man held on to him.
“Jay. Jay Carter,” he said, his voice shaking. “J.C.”
“J.C.,” Frank said. “Is that what your friends call you?”
J.C. nodded.
Frank moved closer still and reached out a hand. “J.C., why don’t we move a little ways away from here? Give me your hand, J.C., and we’ll get away from them, okay? Come on.”
J.C. took his hand, let himself be led away from the tree, keeping his face averted as they passed it. He was watching Dunk and Deke, who were sniffing his shoes.
“They smell them,” J.C. said.
“The coyotes?” Frank asked.
J.C. shook his head, didn’t answer. His face drained of color, and he swayed on his feet. Frank put an arm around his shoulders, and with Jack’s help, led him to a fallen tree.
“Here, have some water,” Frank said, but J.C. fumbled for his own water bottle, then drank deeply.
“I’ll let Stinger and Travis know we’re okay,” Jack said. “And I’ll bring back some hot coffee and blankets.”
“Thanks,” Frank said.
Jack hesitated. “Should I take the dogs?”
“No!” J.C. said.
“Okay,” Frank said easily. “We’ll keep them here.”
It wasn’t until Jack left that Frank had the time to notice something about the man that he had missed before.
“You’re with the Forest Service . . .”
“Yes, I’m a ranger,” J.C. answered dully. He put the water bottle away, then moved from the tree to be closer to the dogs. He hugged them, buried his face in their fur. Frank wondered if the dogs would resist a stranger confining their movements, but they seemed more inclined to nuzzle and fuss over him than to try to escape him.
“And you know Bingle?” he asked.
“I knew Bingle,” J.C. said softly, and tears began rolling down his face.
Frank felt his stomach clench. “You know David Niles, then? Ben Sheridan?”
“They’re dead,” he whispered.
“What are you saying?” Frank asked, unable to keep himself from shouting it. “Who do you mean?”
“They’re all dead,” he said.
“No . . .”
“I left them here.”
“No!”
“Yes . . . I . . . left them,” he said jerkily. “I promised them . . . promised them I would be back. But I was late . . . and he . . . he killed them.”
“Irene—” Frank half-asked, half-called out.
“All of them! He killed all of them! I don’t know how — a gun — in their faces! And an explosion, I think. They’re in little pieces! They’re — they’re on my boots! I couldn’t help it, I stepped on them. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to be late!”
“You’re crazy!” Frank said, angry and wanting to slap him, wanting to make him say it was a lie, that he had made it up.
J.C. looked up at him. He said calmly, “Yes, I know.”
And then, as if earlier introductions had only now registered with him, J.C. said, “Oh, Jesus. You’re her husband. I’m so — oh, God, I’m so sorry!”
Frank took a deep breath, and somehow found his self-control. His own voice was quiet again when he asked, “J.C., when’s the last time you had any sleep?”
He was petting the dogs again. “I don’t remember.”
“It’s Friday. You hiked out with Newly on Tuesday, right?”
“Yes, I think so. I don’t know. It was a long time ago.”
“You hiked back that same day?”
“No, I slept a little that night, hiked back the next day.”
“Wednesday. What happened that day?”
“They were already unburying her.” He shut his eyes.
“Julia Sayre?”
