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To find a place suitable to camp, they hiked another couple of miles descending into the forest proper. So far north, with so much moisture to draw on, it came close to a forest primeval in A
A
"Moose," she said idiotically.
"There're a lot in this part of the park," Joan said.
"Cool," Rory put in.
Cool indeed.
Camp was deliciously sylvan. Doused with DEET, the mosquitoes were tolerable. The quiet was so deep it was tangible, a force that cradled the brain in soft folds. Civilized quiet of the same intensity made the ears ring. Here it made the soul expand. A
"Story time," Joan said when supper had been eaten and the dishes- plastic sacks into which hot water was poured to reconstitute various carbohydrate substances- were cleared away and cached in a tree for the night. "What's been happening all these three days while we've been working for a living?"
In the hours since she'd realigned her brain and enjoyed the rejuvenating effects of Joan Rand and the wilderness, the murder investigation had retreated so far as to seem ancient history. A
A look at Rory let A
Leaning on her sleeping bag and pack, A
No competition in the way of TV, radio, the Internet or floor shows, A
"We're nothing if not thorough," A
"Flour and water?" Rory ventured.
"Protein, fat, fiber, ash and a few other things," A
Joan sat up, the look of passive interest sparked by something deeper. "How big was it?" she asked. "About the size of a charcoal briquette?"
"It was broken," A
"Do you remember exactly what it was made of?"
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"Omnivore food," Joan said.
A
"It's what we feed bears in captivity. A normal-sized bear will eat about six pounds of omnivore food and about that much in fruits and vegetables every day."
"Somebody's feeding the bears?" Rory said. "I mean, feeding them bear food?"
A
"Bears eat it," Joan said. "Bears aren't finicky. But it's no great lure. We spent years developing lures. Omnivore chow isn't even in the top one hundred. The stuff hasn't got much of an odor. The scent not only doesn't broadcast, it's not all that alluring. You might feed bears with it but I doubt you could use it to attract them."
"You could habituate them," Rory said unexpectedly. "You know, always have food for them at the same time and the same place so they come there over and over."
A
Between them they listed the obvious reasons: to shoot them, observe them, capture them, photograph them. All were possible, none practical. Glacier National Park was a place where bears were protected, monitored. Their numbers, habits and activities were scrutinized by rangers, researchers and an increasingly informed public. If a person wished to manipulate the bears in any of the suggested ways, there were thousands upon thousands of acres just to the north in British Columbia where, on private lands, it could be done either legally or with a much greater chance of remaining undetected.
"Boone and Crockett," A
"Not in the lower forty-eight," Joan said. "Because of food, genetics, etcetera, our bears are on the small side. A big old male could weigh maybe five hundred pounds. Maybe. Four or four-fifty would be more like it. The trophy hunters do Canada up north, or Alaska."
"An idiot?" A
"There's always room for another idiot," Joan admitted.
A
The nerves and hyperawareness that had poisoned her last night in the backcountry had passed. She was not lying awake waiting for the clack of sticks and the onslaught of toothy beasts. The man who had rolled a stone down at her and fired off a round didn't concern her much, either. He had not stalked her. It was she who'd sought him out. If he'd not already finished whatever he'd been up to and left the park, he was probably staying as far away from anybody in green and gray as he could.
Telling her story to Joan and Rory had loosed the scraps and facts she'd managed to tuck away. Now they blew about till the inside of her skull looked like Fifth Avenue after a ticker-tape parade. Joan and Rory; the conversation had triggered something. A