“The person.”
“Exactly. It widens with distance, and Bogart can and will find that scent. The problems with following it to the source can be too much wind, too much humidity, looping, pooling, a chimney effect—various ways wind and air work depending on the climate conditions and the terrain. That’s my job—judging that, outlining the search plan, helping the dog stay on scent.”
“Complicated. Tricky.”
“It can be. You get a hot day, no air movement, heavy brush? The scent’s not going to disperse out, and that’s going to limit the range. I’d have to adjust the search sweeps. A stream, a drainage, those can funnel scents, so the OL, then the handlers, may have to adjust for that.”
So it was science, he concluded, as much as training, as much as instinct. “How do you know the dog’s working it and not just out for a stroll?”
The reflectors on her jacket, and the ones she’d slapped on his, glowed eerie green in the moonlight. The beam she carried swept over trail and brush and odd clumps of wildflowers.
“He knows his job. He knows the game. See, he’s moving pretty briskly, but he checks behind, to make sure we’re in sight. He scents the air, moves on. He’s a good dog.”
Reaching out, she took Simon’s hand, gave it a squeeze. “Not exactly dinner out.”
“We’re out. The sandwich was pretty good. What are you looking for?”
“Signs.” She continued to sweep her light. “Tracks, broken brush, candy wrappers, anything. I don’t have Bogart’s nose, so I have to rely on my eyes.”
“Like Gollum.”
“Yes, my precious—but I think that was a lot of nose work, too. God, it’s beautiful, isn’t it? One of my favorite places in the world. And now, with the moon filtering through the canopy, all the shadows and sparkles, it’s just amazing.” Her light skimmed over gilded mushrooms, exotic jack-in-the-pulpit. “One of these days I’m going to find time to take a course in botany so I know more of what I’m looking at.”
“Because you’ve got nothing but time on your hands.”
“You can always squeeze out a little more for something you really want. Sylvia’s taking up crocheting.”
He paused, couldn’t find the connection. “Okay.”
“I’m just saying you can always make time for something if you want it. I know the basics on flora and fauna—and I know what not to touch or eat when I’m out on a search like this. Or if I don’t know, I don’t touch it or eat it.”
“Explain why we’re hauling crappy hiking food in the packs.”
“You won’t care if it’s crappy when you’re hungry.”
Each time Bogart alerted, she stopped, marked the spot with tape. Everything they knew said the lost hikers had passed this way hours before, but the dog followed the trail.
Knew his job, Simon concluded, just as Fiona claimed.
“We found a hiker a couple years ago, not all that far from here,” she told him. “Dead summer, steaming. He’d been wandering around for two days. Dehydrated, infected blisters, and he had poison ivy in places you really, really don’t want poison ivy.”
They walked, endlessly it seemed to Simon, lit by moonlight, along the trail with her scanning light. She’d stop, call out, listen, use her radio to check with her unit. Then move on after the dog. Tireless, he noted. Both of them. And there was no doubt the pair of them took the work seriously, and enjoyed every minute.
She pointed out things she knew. The busy life of a nurse log, the strange and fascinating pattern of lichen.
When Bogart stopped to drink, she refreshed the scent for him while owls and night birds filled the air with calls.
Bogart alerted, and began busily sniffing air and ground.
“This is it, where they stopped for lunch. Where they separated. Lots of tracks.” She crouched down. “They were respectful, I’ll give them that. No litter.”
The dog wandered off to relieve himself, and, deciding it was a fine idea, Simon moved deeper into the trees to do the same while Fiona cupped her hands around her mouth and called.
“We made good time,” she said when Simon came back. “It’s not quite midnight. We can take a break here, start again at first light.”
“Is that what you’d do if I wasn’t here?”
“I’d probably give it a little longer.”
“Then let’s go.”
“Short break first.” She sat on the ground, dug a bag of trail mix and a pouch of kibble out of her bag. “It’s important to keep the energy up, and stay hydrated. Otherwise, they’ll be sending someone out for us.”
She handed Simon the trail mix, then fed the dog.
“Have you ever not found who you were looking for?”
“Yeah. It’s horrible to go back empty. The worst. Worse than finding them too late is not finding them at all.”
She dipped her hand into the bag. “These two, they’re young and strong. I’m guessing they—or he— misjudged their endurance, got disoriented. Probably a combination. The phones are a concern.”
“Dead battery. Or they can’t get a signal. Dropped them. Lost them.”
“Any or all,” she agreed. “There’s wildlife, but it’s unlikely they ran into something that wouldn’t walk away. The thing is, a twisted ankle out here knocks you back, especially if you’re inexperienced.”
In the dark, he thought, probably disoriented, certainly tired, possibly injured. “It took them, what, four hours to get here?”
“Yeah, but they were meandering, stopping, taking photos. Kevin wants to pick up the pace, win the bet when they head south. He probably only planned to go another hour, maybe two—which is too damn much in one day when your hiking’s mostly done on Fifth Avenue. But then they could shortcut it back—at least in his head—and get back to the lodge by cocktail time.”
“Is that how you see it?”
“From what I got from his friends. He’s a good guy, a bit of a know-it-all, but funny. He likes a challenge, and he can’t resist a dare. She likes trying new things, seeing new places. It’s chilly.” Fiona drank from her water bottle while she searched the shadows and moonlight. “But they have jackets. They’re probably exhausted, scared, pissed off.”
She smiled at him. “Do you think you can handle another hour?”
“Kevin’s not the only one who’s competitive.” He rose, held out a hand for hers.
“I’m glad you came.” She rose up, moved into him. “But I still want that dinner out when we get back.”
They stretched the hour to ninety minutes, zigzagging on the trails as the dog followed the scent. Fiona’s calls went unanswered, and clouds drifted over the moon.
“The wind’s changing. Damn it.” She tipped her face up, and he’d have sworn she scented the air like her dog. “We’re going to get that storm. We’d better pitch the tent.”
“Just like that?”
“We can’t do any more tonight. Bogart’s tired. We’re losing the light, and the scent.” She pulled out her radio. “So we’ll take a couple hours, get some rest, stay dry.” She looked at him then, holding the radio. “It’s not worth going back to base, getting drenched, exhausted, then heading out again at dawn. A bed and a hot shower’s a cheap trade for warm, dry and rested out here.”
“You’re the alpha.”
She cocked her head. “And you’re saying that because you agree with me?”
“It helps that I agree with you.”
She called their status and location in to base, coordinated or took updates on the other searchers. No chatter, Simon noted. Straight business.
After she shed her pack and began setting up the tent, he found himself again in the position of taking direction. He didn’t have a clue, he was forced to admit. The last time he camped out in a tent he was probably twelve—and the deal she called a hyper-light didn’t work anything like the ancient pup tent he’d used.
“It’ll be cramped, but we’ll be dry. You first,” she told him. “You’re going to have to sort of angle yourself, given your height. Bogart and I will maneuver ourselves in after you.”
