The Wild Inside (50 page)
I wasn’t going to open the memory vault very far. Not now. It would be too much to let it all come flooding back while visiting the actual place. Instead, I breathed more calmly than I expected, felt the solid rock under the soles of my damp boots, and closed my eyes and pictured the bear in his cage, pent-up angst surrounding him and myself. I breathed deeply, focusing on keeping it slow and rhythmic, and pictured him finding his den. Truly, I was glad he was free.
After sitting for some time, only the one harrowing memory flashed out of nowhere at me again, the one that surprised me the most after being at Two Medicine Lake:
Give me your knife, Ted. Give me your knife.
I closed the door as quickly and fiercely as I could to that recollection—shut my eyes for a moment. There may have been something about a knife that had fueled my unease all these years, but with a calm certainty, I knew there was no candy bar, and I knew there was nothing my young hands or my father’s adult hands could have done to change the outcome. When I opened my eyes, the place looked the same—as desolate and as raw as ever—and it had started to rain again. I put up my hood and listened to the drops make percussion sounds against the sides of the material.
No, I don’t know what to do with memories like mine.
As much as I’d like to say it was peaceful, I can’t say it was. I’ll just say this: there are places so wild the ominous, natural cycle vibrates around you and you stand in awe of its lack of good or evil, its neutrality in spite of its unpredictability. Then there are certain human environments where people actually choose to be destructive and in some ways, it seems so much worse because of that choice.
I know I’ve told you several times that I’m not superstitious, but during my time in Glacier, I had secretly harbored the idea that there are places where events so terrible happen something in the fabric of the place alters. Perhaps just the atoms bounce off one another in an altered pattern, or maybe the event brands itself into the ether or the atmosphere in some mysterious way—like a red-hot iron on rawhide—so someone attuned to such vibrations will forever feel it upon entering. Perhaps it was just my solipsism making me think such foolish thoughts and really, for humans—it’s simply a case of external reality matching whatever is going on internally. If you asked Monty, he might say something different about the place. But as sure as the quarter in my pocket (and I double-checked before we left to make sure it was there), in spite of my notions and superstitions, I was wrong. The place never changed after the night my father was lost to the wild. It just
is
as it
was
, as it will remain.
With the unforgiving and beautiful scenery surrounding me in close juxtaposition to Victor Lance’s case, I realized that my father’s fate was not at the hands of some evil nature god or some possessed grizzly bear. And nature certainly was not subject to my notions of justice. Out here, it was suddenly crystal clear that my attempt in my job to apply some measure of control to the wild was irrelevant. It was only relevant when people were involved because, in fact, the people Monty and I had investigated were much more destructive—by choice—than any grizzly simply surviving, even an erratic one. I felt relieved that the bear was loose now, not only because he seemed to be a metaphor for my need to let the bear inside of me go, as my Missoula therapist said years ago, but because the thought of someone like Tom Hess and Stimpy running free while the bear had been destroyed in the name of locking Heather up was too disturbing. At least, he was out where he belonged.
I took one more deep breath and looked for Monty. “You ready to go?” I yelled, hearing my voice echo. I could see him by the shore on the east side of the lake about fifty yards from me.
“Sure am,” he called back over the water. “Man, as much as I love Glacier, this place is giving me the creeps.” His fading echo,
eeps
,
eeps
,
eeps,
rang through the basin.
I smiled, grabbed my pack, and slung it over my shoulder to go meet him to make our way back. I looked at the campsite one more time and thought,
Let go of the grizzly
. I nodded to myself with satisfaction and turned to go, but before I started down the path, I checked—made sure of it once again for good measure—that my quarter was in my pocket.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I
DON’T KNOW A
writer who doesn’t understand that writing is a mixed bag of conflicting emotions: excitement, joy, pain, frustration, insecurity, euphoria . . . the list goes on. It’s no different for me, and without the support of those around me, writing would be a much more difficult task. I owe heartfelt thanks to my family: my husband, Jamie, for his unwavering support and belief I could get the first novel published; to my father and mother, Robert and Jeanine Schimpff, for a life’s worth of support; to my brothers, Eric and Clifford Schimpff, for their encouragement; to my stepdaughters, Caroline and Lexie, with their boundless energy and smiles; and to my son, Mathew, who, with big eyes, has asked me since he was four (he’s a teen now and doesn’t call me
Mommy
anymore), “Mommy, when are you going to publish one of those books you wrote?”
I am grateful beyond words to my agent, Nancy Yost, whose grace and professional savvy never fail to amaze me. And to the entire team at Atria, especially my editor, Sarah Durand, whose editorial instincts are spot-on; Sarah Branham, for her high level of expertise and generous help; assistants Daniella Wexler and Anne Badman; copy editor Toby Yuen; production editor Isolde Sauer; art director Jeanne Lee; and the sales, marketing, and publicity experts as well. It’s been an amazing journey for me to witness such skill and dedication from all these talented people in making a beautiful book. I am also grateful to Lou Aronica for his help and advice early on. I owe special thanks for guidance on law enforcement matters to Frank Garner and Bill Dial and to those who I interviewed about Glacier National Park: Michael Jamison, Chuck Cameron, and Gary Moses.
As for my mentors, fellow writers, and draft readers: thank you, Dennis Foley, Kathy Dunnehoff, Leslie Budewitz, Marian Ellison, Barbara DuLac, Janie Fontaine. Thank you, Roxanne McHenry, for all the great ebook information and advice, and thank you to all the wonderful ladies of the Montana Women Writers group. Thank you also to the many booksellers and reps who work hard to bring these books to the shelves.
And last, but definitely not least, my brilliant friend, Suzanne Siegel, deserves more than I am able to ever express for her writing advice, limitless research assistance, infinite support, encouragement, wisdom, and tremendous friendship. I am certain that I would have been unable to come this far if it were not for her support.
I took many liberties with this story. Park Police officers are more present in urban national parks than in Glacier Park. Commissioned rangers handle most law enforcement issues in Glacier. In many places, where the story seemed to need it, I’ve taken liberties with facts (for example, the bear being caged in a compound near Glacier National Park headquarters is unlikely). Any mention of made-up businesses that resemble local businesses, actual businesses, or real landmarks is only done in an attempt to gain verisimilitude, and of course, all errors, deliberate or by mistake, are wholly mine.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Christine Carbo grew up in Gainesville, Florida, until she moved to Kalispell, Montana, when she was twelve. After earning a pilot’s license, pursuing various adventures in Norway, and a brief stint as a flight attendant, she got an MA in English and Linguistics and taught writing, linguistics, and literature courses at a community college. She still teaches, in a vastly different realm, as the owner of a Pilates studio. She and her husband live in Whitefish, Montana, with their three kids, one incredibly silly dog, and one very self-possessed cat. Find out more at
ChristineCarbo.com.
MEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT
authors.simonandschuster.com/Christine-Carbo
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Christine Carbo
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First Atria Paperback edition June 2015
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Carbo, Christine, author.
The Wild Inside / by Christine Carbo. — First Atria Paperback edition.
pages cm
1. Government investigators—Fiction. 2. United States. Department of the Interior—Fiction. 3. Wilderness areas—Fiction. 4. Glacier National Park (Mont.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3603.A726W55 2015
813’6—dc23 2014018897
ISBN 978-1-4767-7545-6
ISBN 978-1-4767-7546-3 (ebook)
Contents
