been a transient, unnoticed and missed by no one, something the bear had no concept of and wouldn’t have cared about even if he had; all he knew, all his ursine survival instincts had noted, was that this was easy food. If he crossed paths with this particular prey again, he would hunt it.
He also had no concept of fun, but he did of enjoyment, and he enjoyed killing. Whenever he saw or smelled something that signaled “prey” to him, he went after it, something deep inside spurring him on and reveling in the explosion of energy, the hot taste of fresh blood and flesh, the destruction, even the fear he could smell as he bore down on his chosen victim. Nature had equipped him well to be the predator he was, giving him aggressivenessand cunning, as well as unusual size and strength and speed.
He studied the sheep. He was downwind of the herd, the cold mountain air bringing the scent sharp and clear to his nostrils and whetting his appetite for the kill. He moved slowly through the trees, stopping whenever one of the wary sheep raised its head and surveyed its surroundings for a moment before returning to grazing. A big ram turned and looked right at the underbrush where the bear lurked; whether or not the ram had seen him move and would have given an alarm was something the bear would never know, because he didn’t wait to find out. He didn’t know caution; he knew only the finely honed killing instinct in him that said the moment for attack was
now
, and he exploded out of the underbrush with all the raw power he possessed, muscles bunching, claws digging.
The herd of sheep scattered; bleating in panic, the lamb scrambled to its feet and bounded for its mother. The bear swiped its huge paw at the lamb’s hindquarters, claws drawing blood, but the lamb wasn’t a newborn and it gave a tremendous leap that took it out of the bear’s reach. Within thirty yards, the bear realized its prey was gone as the sheep bounded up the mountain into the rockiest terrain they could find.
He went into a frenzy of destruction, bellowing his rage and frustration as he took out his killing fury on the vegetation around him, tearing saplings up by the roots, shredding bushes, sending rocks as big as his head rolling down the mountain. Eventually he wore himself out and stopped where he stood, huffing and snorting. The sheep were gone. He sniffed the wind, but no other smells took his interest. He pawed through the vegetation for almost an hour, looking for some nuts or insects, but the season was late and most of the nuts were gone. After a while he lifted his head to test the wind again; his temper tantrum had left him thirsty, and this time his acute sense of smell was attuned to thefresh scent of water. He found what he was looking for, as well as something even more interesting, and he began moving purposefully down the mountain.
The hiker’s name was Daniel Warnicki. He was twenty-three; last spring he had graduated from the University of California, Berkeley, but he hadn’t yet found the right job, so he was making do with a drudge job during the day and at night waiting tables parttime at a popular bar. It said something that his tips almost equaled his pay at the drudge job. Sometimes the hours were tough, but he was young and the extra money meant he could occasionally afford to get away like this.
He stopped on a high curve of the narrow trail and leaned on his thick, heavy walking stick as he looked out over the breathtaking scenery that opened up before him: a huge, natural V of landscape, starting with a curling, dancing creek at the bottom, splashing white as the water flowed over jutting rocks, widening to the narrow strip of sandy gravel beside the creek, the steep rise of meadow that had lost all its autumn color but gained a different stark perspective now that the lines of the land were clearly seen, then the rugged, majestic mountains lifting up to the crystal clear blue sky.
He sucked in a deep breath of air.