Free In the Barren Ground by Loreth Anne White Page B

atop wolf prints. Others had been covered by canine prints. She was unable to tell which animals had come first, especially given the very fine layer of snow that dusted the trace. She laid a small forensics ruler in the snow beside the tracks, and photographed them. She also documented the various boot prints.
    Working in a concentric circle, meticulously recording and photographing as she went, she gradually made her way inward toward ground zero—the bodies. Something made her look up, a sense of being watched—with intent. By the eyes of something hungry. Her gaze went to the cliff, to Van Bleek.
    He was regarding her. Still as a stone statue. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled.
    The man unsettled her on some very primitive level. Even so, she was grateful for his help. Without him, she would not have gotten in here. There’d have been nothing left of these kids at all.
    Tana moved in closer to the bodies, and came to where she’d thrown up. Shame washed through her. She’d fucked up again, gotten her DNA all over the scene. She swallowed her distaste and photographed what she’d done, the words of her old instructor going through her mind— take pictures of everything, and I mean everything, no matter your thoughts. Something seemingly irrelevant could become important after the fact. In court. Lawyers will pick you apart . . .
    A raven cawed. Tana glanced up. A giant gleaming black bird had perched itself on the outstretched arm of the inukshuk, something long dangling from its beak. She took her field binoculars from her belt, zeroed in on the bird. A ribbon of pale meat flapped from the bird’s beak. As she watched, a gunshot cracked the air in the valley. Shock rippled through her body. The feathers exploded from the bird, and it tumbled down dead to the ground.
    She lowered her binoculars, heart thumping. Van Bleek stood under the cliff, gun still raised.
    “What in the hell did you do that for?” she yelled.
    Slowly, he brought his rifle to waist level, and reseated himself on his rock. He glared at her.
    Sweat prickled over her body. She glanced at her watch, willing the sound of a chopper to appear in the distance.
    Focus. He’s not going to shoot a cop . . . you’re just getting twitchy . . .
    Tana re-centered on her task. She snapped photos of the shredded blue woolen hat with the ripped-out eyeball congealing to the fabric, and then she crouched down to get a better look. Clumps of scalp and long strawberry blonde hair also stuck to the wool. Selena Apodaca’s eye, hair. Tana’s gaze followed drag marks, prints, what looked like arterial spurt, toward the hump under the blue tarp. Near the hump lay a shotgun in red snow amongst bits of backpacks, a bloodied boot, shredded clothing, plastic, a can of bear spray. And two ripped jerry cans with black stuff on them. The black contents also stained snow around the cans.
    What happened here, girl? You were attacked by what? Bear? Or circled by wolves coming in closer for nips as you tried to fight them back? You were still alive—your heart still pumping when your blood spurted like that. Did the animals drag you down, tear at you from all directions as they fought for your flesh while you were still clinging to life?
    Tana photographed the weapon, then examined it. Twelve gauge, Mossberg 500A. One round in the chamber, two in the mag. No sign the gun had been fired. She thought of herself last night, those orange eyes staring at her through the fog. Judging by the height of the eyes from the ground and the distance between them, she was pretty sure it had been a big bear. And if it had charged from that distance, she would probably be dead, but she would have fired as it came at her. So what happened here? Something took the biologists by surprise? If the unarmed victim had been attacked first, the other could have fired. Into the air, at least. Perhaps the biologist carrying the weapon was attacked first. Perhaps they’d frozen in