“It tried our garbage bin,” Ren offered, “but we keep the lid closed and locked.”
“Sounds like it’s definitely hungry, which makes it potentially very dangerous. Like I say, normally it probably wouldn’t attack humans, but I wouldn’t take any chances.”
“How come you know about cougars?” Ren asked.
“I’m a zoologist at the university, but I also consult for the Michigan Wildlife Habitat Foundation,” Schenk said. “Cougars are a special interest of mine. Since 1906 the official position of the Department of Natural Resources has been that cougars have been extirpated from Michigan.”
“Extirpated?”
“Driven out completely. This despite the fact that every year there are dozens of sightings in both the lower and upper peninsula. A couple of years ago we collected scat from a number of areas around the northern part of the state where sightings had been reported and sent them for DNA testing. Seven of the samples contained cougar DNA.”
“What made you think it was cougar scat?” Ren asked. “I mean, out of all the scat you might find.”
Schenk laughed. “It’s the sniff test. Cougar scat has an unmistakable smell. It’s kind of like a housecat’s overused litter box, but far more intense. We don’t know why. Maybe because they have a short gut and food passes through more quickly so their digestive juices are stronger.”
“What should we do? Like maybe notify the DNR?”
Schenk shook his head. “Unfortunately, their general response in a situation like this would be to kill the animal.”
“So what do we do?”
“For the time being, take precautions. Don’t go out alone, especially when it’s dark. And keep that lock on the trash bin. If you do happen to confront the animal, face it. They’re reluctant to attack from the front, especially if you stare at them. Generally they’ll back down. What I’d like to do is talk to some people I know who’d be interested in tracking and, if possible, sedating the animal. If it is hurt, maybe there’s something we can do to help it. I’d sure hate to see a creature this rare around here killed.”
“I can handle that,” Ren assured him.
“You’d probably like your cast back, wouldn’t you?” Ken Taylor said.
Schenk handed it over. “Thanks, son. This is really a good thing you’ve done.”
Ren looked down, as if embarrassed in the face of such praise.
“I’ll be in touch,” Schenk said. “Come on, Ken, we’ve got work to do.”
In parting, Taylor put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Ren, you be careful, hear?”
“Sure.”
After the two men had driven away, Cork stepped from Thor’s Lodge. “Do you have a hunting rifle, Ren?”
The boy looked at him, confused. “You’re not going to shoot it?”
“I just want to play it safe. I wouldn’t use it unless I absolutely had to. At the moment, all I have is this.” He held out the small Beretta. “It might discourage an animal, but it probably wouldn’t stop a two-hundred-pound cougar.”
Ren said, “There’s two of us. Won’t that keep us safe? And the sound of the ATV?”
He knew that what the boy was really arguing for was the life of the big cat, and he understood. Ren was probably right. A cougar, even a hungry one, would probably be reluctant to attack two humans, and the sound of the ATV would definitely not be to its liking.
“All right,” he said.
They straddled the seat of the ATV, Ren in front, Cork holding on from behind. The engine kicked over and caught. Ren guided the little vehicle through the trees to the Killbelly Marsh Trail, where Cork had found both cougar tracks and those of a man. The boy turned them toward the Copper River, which lay somewhere beyond the trees to the south.
They headed into the woods with no idea of what they would eventually encounter, no idea of the full scope of the horror the Huron Mountains hid.
30
Clovis was not much of a town: an old Mobile gas station at a corner of a crossroad, a tavern diagonally opposite, a few houses surrounding them, the whole place situated in a pine barrens of sandy soil and scrub evergreen.
Dina asked at the gas station and got directions.
The house where Sara Wolf had lived with her aunt and uncle was something a good huffing and puffing could have blown right down. It stood back from the road behind a tangle of brush and diseased pines with brown needles brittle as toothpicks. In the front area-it didn’t exactly qualify as a yard-a completely rusted-over pickup without wheels sat in sand up to its axles. To the right was a sagging garage with most of the windows broken out. An old cocker spaniel who’d been lying in the weeds beside the front steps roused itself and began barking, a hoarse sound without energy. They all got out and waited a moment beside the Blazer because even an old dog has teeth.
The woman who came to the door to look at them was short and wide. She wore jeans and a dark blue sweater. She shaded her eyes with a plump sandstone-colored hand and stared.
“ Boozhoo, ” Jewell called, using the familiar Ojibwe greeting.
“What do you want?” the woman called over the noise of the dog.
“We’re looking for Sara’s aunt?” Jewell called back.
“What for?”
“We just want to talk to her for a few minutes. About Sara.”
“Are you police? ’Cuz somebody already been here.”
“No. We’re friends.”
Under the awning of her hand, the woman’s eyes held on them a long time, then she said, “Shut up, Sparky.”
The dog seemed grateful not to have to expend any more energy and immediately settled back on its haunches and panted in a tired way as it watched the women approach. When they were close, it eased itself onto all four legs. Its tail began to sweep against the weeds at its back in a friendly way, and it padded forward.
Charlie put her hand out and said, “Hey there, Sparky. How you doing, boy?”
“You knew Sara?” the woman asked.
Jewell indicated the girl. “Charlie here knew her pretty well. I’m Jewell DuBois. This is Dina Willner.”
The woman’s hair was black and fine and cut carelessly at neck length. Through the open door behind her, the living room was visible in the dim interior light, a cluttered place.
“Could we come in and talk for a few minutes?” Jewell asked.
“No,” the woman said. “Frank’ll be back anytime. You gotta go before he comes.”
“Frank?”
“My husband.”
“Sara’s uncle?”
“Yeah.”
“When was the last time you saw Sara?” Dina asked.
“Cops asked the same thing,” she said. “Almost a year ago. She took off one day, never came back.”
“Did you notify the police?”
She shook her head. “I was expecting it.”
“Why?”
“It wasn’t working out here.”
“What exactly wasn’t working?” Dina asked.
The woman looked at her, her brown eyes hard as hickory nuts, giving away nothing. “Who are you people? Why are you asking about Sara?”
“We live in Bodine, where her body was found. We’re trying to understand what she was doing in our
