Thinking of my grinning friend is almost as good as having him beside me. I feel the strength of his resolve as he fled the bear poachers, and it gives me new energy to follow Shadow. Humor brings me hope.

I drag my feet to keep from slipping. Then a mischievous gust yanks down my hood.

Before I can cinch it in place again, the wind drops and everything becomes still. The snow settles. I find I can hear the ice rumbling behind me in the Androscoggin.

I hear something else, too. Very faint. An engine.

It’s not a car or truck. The sound is higher pitched, like the whine of a giant, mechanized insect.

A snowmobile.

I cup my hands around my ears trying to echolocate the machine. It seems to be coming straight down the channel. Under the circumstances, that can mean only one thing. The rider is actively searching for me. And the odds are against him being a Good Samaritan.

Like Charley Stevens, I am being hunted. But for me, there is no hiding inside this frozen lodge.

Nor can I reach the far shore before my pursuer catches me in his headlights.

Having no other choice, I stagger back, slipping and sliding, to the unnamed island I thought I’d left behind.

20

The hills across the Androscoggin were low and mouse-brown, except for the white of the snow fields. Here and there, were also stands of pines, dark against the hillsides like the shadows made by heavy clouds. Swirls of smoke rose from houses hidden among the trees. I could see a crease in the woods where a road cut through, parallel to the river.

Shadow was snoring again. The odor coming from his cage wasn’t entirely doggish. There was also a hint of earthiness that often put me in mind of his native North Woods. It was as if I could smell his essential wildness.

The road entered a mixed thicket of pines and maples, and I saw a wide spot ahead where school buses and snowplows turned around. A single vehicle was parked in the pull-out, beneath the swaying branches. It was an ivory-colored Mini, the all-wheel drive model.

Bibi Chamberlain was waiting for me.

By reflex, I pulled in behind her the way police are taught to do when we conduct traffic stops. Positioning the front of your patrol truck—or cruiser—so that it juts into the road gives you cover as you approach the driver’s window. You’re not as likely to be struck by a careless passerby who refuses to pull into the opposite lane.

Bibi had put on a man’s tweed topcoat that she might have picked up in a thrift shop. Her hat was a gray wool newsboy with the brim pulled low. Everything the woman wore seemed intended as an ironic statement. As usual, she had her e-cigarette pinched between the first two fingers of her left hand.