Raised by Wolves

Chapter 52

CHAPTER 52

DOWN AT THE station, Chester starts making calls to the informal network of Kokanee Creek good ol’ boys who have helped him out before: once to find a couple of teenage campers lost on a hike; once to locate a suspected thief hiding up on Elephant Ridge.

Chester pauses before the last number on his list. It belongs to the best tracker he knows. If anyone can find Kai and Holo, he can. The problem? Reginald Hardy hates Kai and everything she stands for. He wouldn’t care if she was lost forever. In fact he’d like it that way.

Randall glances over Chester’s shoulder at the list of names. “I wouldn’t want to be in the dark woods with that prick,” he says.

For some reason, Randall’s words settle the matter. “You don’t have to,” he retorts as he dials Hardy’s number. “I got other volunteers.”

It’s near nightfall by the time the small crowd has gathered in front of the station. Somehow Waylon Meloy is there, too, though Chester definitely didn’t call him. “You again?” Chester says, annoyed.

Waylon nods and thrusts his chin out, daring Chester to send him back home. Chester almost does it, too, but then he thinks of Kai. Maybe, if the search party finds her—sorry, when they find her—she’ll be glad to see Waylon’s face in the crowd. Maybe then she won’t run.

So Chester turns to the rest of the volunteers and greets them all. Says, “I know it’s not the best time to search the woods, but if we wait until morning, that’s another twelve hours they’ve got to disappear.”

The men—and it’s only men; sometimes it still feels like the 1950s in Kokanee Creek—mutter among themselves. Chester knows that most of them probably wish Kai and Holo had never come out of the woods, either. So why are they here to help find them? A chance at a little adventure, maybe, or the prospect of having a new story to tell down at One-Eyed Mike’s, the dive bar ten miles south on Route 20. We chased them dumb feral kids all night long…

Or maybe it’s just because their police chief asked for their help. It doesn’t even matter.

“We’re going to head up to my place,” Chester tells them, “since that’s their last known location.”

He’s about to get into his car when he hears the squeal of tires turning down Main Street. He looks up to see a battered old pickup with only one headlight come to a shaking halt. The door opens and a cloud of cigarette smoke rolls out, followed by Reginald Hardy.

“Let’s go find those little animals,” he growls.

Hardy’s wearing a camouflage vest, a belt festooned with knives and bear spray, and a headlamp. He’s got a thermos of coffee in one hand and a rifle in the other.

Jesus , Chester thinks. He doesn’t look like he wants to find these kids. He looks like he wants to hunt them.