“What difference does it make what clothes he has on?” said Dinsmore. “He’s the only one out there.”
Dr. Sam Honig put his hand on his little friend’s shoulder. “Dave, I think the warden means is Phil adequately dressed to survive the night outdoors.”
“Why didn’t he just say so?” The banty-legged man hugged himself against the chill. “Can’t we have this conversation inside?”
“I’d rather not get warm and then have to go back into the cold again, Dr. Dinsmore.”
Sam jumped in to make peace. “Phil is dressed in a wool coat and a knit cap. His pants are also made of wool, I’m fairly certain. And he has on some pack boots from L.L.Bean he bought last night on the drive up here. Underneath everything, he’s wearing one of those union suits with the buttons down the front and the flap behind. We were joking about it this morning.”
“Does he have a compass? Does he know how to use one?”
Dinsmore raised his chin at me again. “Because we’re professionals from Boston, we don’t know anything about the woods. That’s what you think. But Phil was a Marine in the South Pacific. He knows how to use a goddamned compass. Better than you, probably.”
I was irked that Dinsmore had been able to peer inside my skull and see my prejudices writhing around. But I was more angry at him for reading my mind than I was properly ashamed.
“What kind of rifle does he have with him?”
“An M1 Garand thirty-aught-six,” James said. “The same rifle he used in the Philippines.”
“What else might he have with him? Food? Water? A map? A flashlight?”
They looked around at one another’s blank expressions.
“How would you describe his state of mind?” I asked. “Was anything troubling him?”
“Are you suggesting he was suicidal?” said Dinsmore. I could have warmed my hands off the glow from his face.
“That’s not what the warden asked,” said Sam the diplomat. “Phil seemed in good spirits, relaxed, laughing at lunch. He didn’t have anything to drink, in case you were wondering. It’s a rule here: no alcohol until you’re done hunting for the day. How would you describe his state of mind, Jim?”
“He seemed a lot happier than last night when we arrived.”
That caught my attention. “What happened last night?”
“He was just quiet in the car riding up. Phil rode with me, and Sam brought Dave.”
“Dr. Honig, you said he is in excellent condition. How about his health history? Does he have any old war wounds?”
“None that I know of. Phil never talked about the war.”
I understood that impulse well enough. Ora had stopped asking me about Vietnam after our third date. Not once had she prompted me to tell her how I got all my scars.
“Phil Stoddard is the strongest man I ever met,” said Dinsmore. “The guy is as solid as the Cliffs of Dover.”
I could guess from the glance that passed between the Brothers Honig that they weren’t going to inform their friend that those English cliffs are made of crumbling chalk.
“One last question. Did you hear any gunshots this afternoon—even something faint in the distance?”
“No.”
“No.”
“No.”
They wanted to help me with the search, of course. Dinsmore being the most ardent to do so. Drunk as he was, he realized his crack about taking shelter from the snow had made it sound like he cared more for his personal comfort than for his missing friend’s welfare.
“Four of us searching is better than one man alone,” he said. “We have a responsibility to Phil’s family to do everything in our power.”
The last thing I needed was to lose another of those city men in the snowbound woods.
Sam Honig rescued me from saying something impolite.
“The warden is a professional at finding lost persons, Dave. We all want to help, but the best thing is for us to stay behind and let him do his work. Maybe Phil will show up at the cabin on his own.”
“I’ll find your friend for you, Dr. Dinsmore. You sit tight and I’ll be back with Dr. Stoddard in no time. You have my word on that.”
I fetched my sled from the truck. It was an old toboggan I’d repurposed with ropes and tie-downs for hauling deer out of the woods. I got a lot of teasing from my colleagues about that kiddie sled, but it did the job and then some.
Pulling the sled behind me, I picked up Dr. Stoddard’s tracks even before I reached the stream. The new snow was starting to fill up the boot-shaped indents. It wouldn’t be long until they were vague depressions, near impossible to see.
Now a lost person, being confused and panicked, will often make errors in judgment.
Some walk in circles.
Others will climb a hill or even shimmy up a tree to gain perspective on their dire situation.
Most will follow a stream downhill, thinking there’s civilization at the bottom when it’s just as likely to be a cedar swamp or a frozen-over beaver flowage.
Very few stay put and wait to be rescued. They keep on moving because they are embarrassed at being lost and overwhelmed by the need to do something to save themselves.
My suspicion was that Dr. Stoddard wasn’t lost but had, more likely, twisted an ankle or even broken a leg. Worse case, he had hit his head on a rock when he fell. The doctor didn’t sound like a candidate for a heart attack, but you can never tell about that muscle.
I worried about his state of mind, though. Getting turned around in the dark can drive many a confident man to lose his nerve.
Dr. Stoddard’s tracks showed a long, determined stride. Not what you’d expect from a hunter hoping to creep up on a buck. Could have been he was in a hurry to shoot a deer before the snow started and the darkness closed in.
Whenever I made a search for a missing person, I wore a whistle on a leather strip around my neck. I stuck the blowing part between my teeth and kept it
