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  For my mother, who put the “mama” in mama bear

  And if you’re lost enough to find yourself …

  —ROBERT FROST

  OPENING DAY

  Bow and Arrow Deer Hunting: Two-deer limit, only one of which may be a legal buck.

  —VERMONT FISH AND WILDLIFE REGULATIONS

  HENRY JENKINS WAS LOST. He got lost a lot, not because he was nine years old and not because he didn’t know where he was going—although his mother always pointed out that that was often the case—but because when he found a good path, he liked to follow it. Until it ended. But sometimes it ended far away from 521 West 23rd Street, Apt 3C, New York, New York, 10011.

  An okay address. If you added up the numbers, you got nineteen, a prime number. Henry loved prime numbers.

  He also liked the woods better than the city. The city was noisy, crowded, loud with color. But the woods were cool and green, the color of the number two, his favorite number. He liked green.

  Most people in Vermont liked autumn the best. His nana said people came from all over the world to see the reds and yellows and oranges.

  Henry wasn’t like most people. All those brightly colored leaves made his head hurt—although he liked watching them spiral to the ground when the wind picked up.

  That’s what it was doing now, and leaves were falling all around him. Henry was not wearing his coat or his shoes. He preferred his Batman pajamas and his Batman slippers, which he’d worn whenever he could since his mother gave them to him on his ninth birthday, thirty-three days before she left for California. He was counting the days—127—until he would turn ten.

  He knew his mother would come home. His father told him not to get his hopes up, that she was off finding herself, but that made no sense. All you had to do to find yourself was look at your feet. And there you were, like a tree with roots. The kind he had to watch not to trip over here in the forest.

  Henry knew his mother would never miss his birthday. She was proud that she gave birth to him on March Fourteenth. Pi Day. She said it was why Henry was so good at math.

  He looked up into whorls of color. Thinking about his mother upset him. He started walking again. Walking and counting trees. Counting calmed him down.

  Henry focused on the bark of the trunks. The bark was gray and patterned and felt rough against his fingers. He spotted three pine cones and five acorns and six beechnuts, stuffing them into his pajama pants pockets, which were now bulging.

  Hunters loved fall, too, because they could hunt deer and bear and moose. His nana said hunting was fine as long as you followed the rules and ate what you shot. He wasn’t so sure. In Henry’s Game—like Dungeons & Dragons only better, since he’d made it up himself—wild animals could attack you, and you had to fight back, kill or be killed.

  But that was just a game.

  This was real life, and real life confused him.

  He kept walking and counting. He didn’t stay on the trail; he went where nature called him. The bright flash flash flash of a blue jay. The beating drum drum drum of a woodpecker. The quick skitter skitter skitter of a red squirrel.

  Henry heard human voices in the distance, a reminder that he wasn’t alone with the trees and animals. His father was out here somewhere with his boss. This was Mr. Feinberg’s woods, and he was having a hunting party. Henry was supposed to stay with the housekeeper at the estate while the grown-ups were out hunting. But she tried to make him eat disgusting runny eggs, so he snuck out when she wasn’t looking. His father wouldn’t be happy if he found out Henry had gone into the woods. He wasn’t allowed to leave the house without an adult.

  He changed course, away from the voices. He walked faster, counted more quickly. He heard a fluttering, looked up. Dozens of black crows swooped above, streaking ahead of him before he could count them all. He ran after them but slipped and fell, landing on cold ground smack on his butt. He stumbled back onto his feet, brushing dirt and leaves from his Batman pajamas. He shouldn’t have run. He was no good at running.

  He sensed movement to his left—or right, he wasn’t sure—and turned to see what it was.

  Through the trees he spotted a tall woman on the trail. She was wearing pants and boots and a hat with feathers over her long blond hair. A longbow and a quiver of arrows slung across her back. She looked like a fighter from his game. Monster slayer, he thought.

  She moved quickly and quietly, like his nana’s cat, disappearing behind a curtain of golden leaves.

  Henry couldn’t help but follow.

  He’d seen her before, the monster slayer, with his father. He called her Alice. She liked him, he could tell. And his dad liked her. The kissing kind of like. Which made no sense, because he was married to his mother, and she would be coming back. By his birthday.

  The woman stayed on the trail. She had long legs and walked fast, like his dad. She was probably going to join the hunting party. If he tracked her quietly, like a Ranger, then he might be able to watch. He’d never seen hunting in real life before.

  Henry walked faster, shadowing her about twenty feet from the trail. Off-trail was hard going, and the faster he walked the harder it got. He tripped over a big rock hidden in the fallen leaves and fell down. He cried out as he struck the ground, knees first, right in front of a fallen log. He sat back on his butt and rubbed his shins. His pajamas were torn, and his scraped knees stung. But he did not cry.

  The leaves had scattered. The log was a good hiding place. Henry liked hiding places. He scooted over to take a better look. Stuck his head inside the opening and saw a black lump sitting in the middle of the tunnel of old bark. Maybe a raccoon or a baby bear. He crawled in farther, looked closer. Nothing as cool as a raccoon or baby bear. Just a backpack. Still, it could be full of secret treasure. He unzipped the big pocket and peered inside.

  Guns.

  Lots of them.

  He heard a crashing through the woods. He needed to hide for real now. He pushed the backpack deeper into the log and squeezed himself in, too, as far as he could. He wrapped his arms around his legs, trying to make himself as small as possible.

  “Henry! What are you doing here?”

  He looked up and there she was. The monster slayer.

  “You’re hurt.” She swept her longbow and quiver of arrows off her back and stood them against a tree. She dropped to the ground and sat on her heels, removing her hat, the one with the cream and gray-blue feathers.

  “Hat.”

  “It’s pretty, isn’t it? Why don’t you hold it for me while I check you out.” She handed it to him, and he studied it while she stretched the torn fabric away from his bloodied knees. The yellow cap reminded him of Robin Hood. The feathers were attached to the hat with a silver pin in the shape of a flower. He traced the image with his finger.

  “That’s an Alpine rose, Henry. A wildflower from the mountains where I grew up.” She straightened up. “I think you’ll live, Henry. But we should get you b
ack to the house so we can clean up those boo-boos properly.”

  Henry scowled. He hated baby talk.

  “Can you walk, or should I carry you?”

  He scrambled to his feet before she picked him up and rocked him like a baby.

  “What’s that?” She pointed behind him, to the backpack. “Is that yours?” She grabbed one of the straps and jerked the pack out of the log. One of the guns fell out.

  “Oh my God.” She stared at Henry. “Where did you find this?”

  A zoom of black to his left. Or his right. Again, he wasn’t sure.

  A gloved hand reached for the bow and the quiver standing against the tree, where the monster slayer had left it.

  Henry tried to speak, but no words came out. He stared at the thing with the gloved hand. There was a tree where its head should be. A tree monster.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Dark tree,” he said, pointing at the tree monster.

  “Run, Henry!” she whispered.

  Henry ran.

  And he didn’t look back.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Of what use, then, are the bow and the arrow and the target?

  —ZEN IN THE ART OF ARCHERY

  READY YOUR BOW.

  Mercy Carr raised the sleek longbow in a silent salute to her grandfather. He’d designed and built this bow himself, hand carving the black bears on its riser out of red maple with the help of his own grandfather while he was still a young man himself. Before he was killed in the line of duty in an arrest gone wrong.

  Grandpa Red bestowed the bow to her upon his death, but she’d never had the heart to use it. When she came home to Vermont from Afghanistan and bought the old cabin, she retrieved her grandfather’s bow from storage and hung it in a place of honor over her flagstone fireplace. On the mantelpiece below stood a Kenyon Cox sketch of Diana, goddess of the hunt, her bow in one hand and a staff and a quiver of arrows in the other. A thank-you gift from her billionaire neighbor, for catching the thieves who tried to make off with his art collection a couple of months ago.

  The memory of Martinez hung there, too, along with the bow and the picture. Her fiancé had been a champion archer—one of the many ways in which he reminded her of her grandfather—and they would hang out in his hooch with his bomb-sniffing dog Elvis between battles with the Taliban playing archers in Final Fantasy.

  Before she got shot and Martinez got killed and Elvis got PTSD.

  Nock.

  Mercy pulled a thin blue arrow from her quiver and brought it over the bow. Just playing target practice now, safe at home in her own backyard on a crisp and clear Saturday morning in October. Aiming not for terrorists or for deer but for a twenty-four-inch poster mounted on a bale of hay and emblazoned with the Olympic pattern of bright concentric circles. White, black, blue, red, and finally, the yellow bull’s-eye.

  She could feel her cheering section watching her. Amy Walker at her side, an eager Katniss Everdeen in the making. Her grandmother Patience with Amy’s baby, Helena, up on the deck behind them. Brodie McDougal, Amy’s latest male admirer, who spent more time at Mercy’s cabin these days than she did. Muse, the adorable Munchkin kitty they’d rescued over the summer, hiding under her grandmother’s chair. And Elvis, the handsomest Belgian shepherd in the world, in his classic Sphinx pose at Patience’s feet.

  Draw.

  She drew the string back with her gloved fingers to kiss the corner of her mouth. She wasn’t used to having an audience. When she came home from the war, she’d escaped into a solitude broken only by Elvis and her grandmother. But then she and Elvis discovered the baby in the woods, and before she knew it Amy and Helena were living with her. Mother and child had drawn Mercy right back into the flow of humanity. Like it or not.

  Mark.

  She eyed the bull’s-eye a mere thirty meters away, aiming right for yellow innermost circle of victory. She’d hit every other circle on the target but this one, and now that she was warmed up, she meant to nail it this time.

  Loose.

  This was the most critical part. The inhaling and the exhaling. The honing in and the letting go.

  Mercy let loose the string. The arrow flew. Seven pairs of eyes traced the arc of its flight.

  The arrow hurtled toward the hay bale, the autumn sun glinting on the steel field point. Pierced the yellow center of the bull’s-eye with a solid whop.

  “Perfect!” Amy studied Mercy. “You are such a good shot.”

  “Even better with a gun,” said Patience. “Best in her graduating class at Fort Leonard Wood.”

  “She was a soldier.” Brodie shrugged. “Of course, she’s a good shot.”

  “My turn.” Amy reached out for Grandpa Red’s bow.

  Mercy handed it to her. Corrected the girl’s stance, eased her gloved fingers closer to her lips as she pulled back the string, told her to breathe.

  “Grip it and rip it,” said Brodie.

  “Let her concentrate,” said Mercy. “Take your time. Focus.”

  Amy squinted her eyes at the target. Breathed heavily. Took her shot.

  Missed by a yard.

  Elvis raced after the wayward arrow. The Belgian shepherd loved this game. Especially when Amy had the bow, because she missed as often as not. For him, this was a variation of find-and-fetch. Whether he was sniffing out bombs on the battlefield or playing this bow-and-arrow game, he was busy. Busy was happy for Elvis.

  Amy’s bolt had landed at the foot of a burning bush, ablaze in autumnal glory. The dog scooped it up dead center with his mouth, turning to show off his prize. His dark muzzle marked the midpoint of the arrow’s shaft, with the point on one side of his nose and the fletching on the other.

  As if his elegant head were the heart shot through by Cupid’s arrow itself.

  “Here,” said Mercy, but he ignored her command. Apparently, there was little joy returning the fancy feathered stick to her when a worthier recipient was close at hand.

  Elvis bound across the lawn and up to the deck that stretched behind the length of the cabin. There in a white Adirondack chair sat Patience, holding Helena on her lap. Amy’s baby was nine months old, and she’d recently mastered the art of clapping. She blinked her big slate-blue eyes at the dog, slapping chubby little hands together in congratulations.

  The shepherd gallantly dropped the arrow at her grandmother’s feet, and the baby squealed with delight, all smiles and cheeks and dimples.

  “Good boy,” said Patience in that soothing singsong veterinarian’s voice that endeared her to all her patients.

  Elvis raised his head, as if to accept her praise as his rightful due, then sat back on his haunches. Wagging his curlicue tail, he cocked his large triangular ears at little Helena. The baby reached forward to pat his nose.

  Mercy watched. Elvis was having more fun than she was. He could enjoy this picture-perfect day—the kind of day that proved all the tourist brochures right and brought out the peepers in force. He was not thinking about hunting season, which began in earnest today with the opening of bow-and-arrow deer hunting. A season she had once enjoyed, but now felt deeply ambivalent about. She’d seen enough of death. And once you’d seen it, there was no unseeing it. No forgetting it. All you could do was acknowledge its terrible dominion. And keep on living.

  “I don’t get it.” Amy stood with her hands on her narrow hips, a frown creasing her heart-shaped face. “I should be better at this by now.”

  “It takes practice,” said Mercy. “You’ll get it. You’re just trying too hard.”

  Amy was determined to learn archery. She’d joined the archery club at Bennington College, where she and Brodie were both freshmen. He’d signed up with her. They said that archery helped balance the time they spent at the computer. But Mercy suspected it was more a by-product of their love for all things Hunger Games and Game of Thrones.

  So here she was, heirloom bow in hand, trying to teach them the finer points of the sport. Wherever Grandpa Red was now, he was laughing.

&nb
sp; “Let me try again,” said Amy.

  “You can do it.” Mercy grinned at her. “Be the arrow.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Yes, you do. Think of it as yoga with a bow and arrow.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “It’s, like, Zen,” added Brodie.

  “Martinez used to tell a story about two groups of student archers,” said Mercy. “Each group had its own master teacher. One group bragged, ‘Our teacher can even hit the bull’s-eye blindfolded.’ And the other group answered, ‘Our teacher is better. He can even miss the bull’s-eye with his eyes open.’”

  They all laughed.

  “Be the arrow,” repeated Mercy, and handed Amy the quiver full of arrows. “Keep practicing.”

  She sat down in the Adirondack chair next to Patience and the baby. Brodie hovered nearby. They all watched as Amy shot arrow after arrow at the target—and missed every time. Elvis ran back and forth, fetching them for Helena with grace and good humor.

  “Maybe Amy would be better at stump shooting,” said Brodie after Amy missed yet again. “She’s not a soldier, but she’s a good hiker.”

  Stump shooting was target practice in the woods—using stumps and logs as targets.

  “That’s a good idea,” said Mercy. “It may be easier for her to relax out in nature.”

  “She can read the woods just like you do,” said Brodie.

  “I can hear you, you know.” Amy put down the longbow and gathered up the arrows at Helena’s feet and put them back in the quiver.

  “Your game warden must be a good archer, too,” said Amy. “He can read the woods, too.”

  “He’s not my game warden,” Mercy said.

  Amy and Patience exchanged a look.

  Amy was referring to Vermont Game Warden Troy Warner. He and his search-and-rescue dog Susie Bear had helped Mercy and Elvis solve a murder over the past summer.

  “Troy’s like a Ranger,” said Brodie.