The call had come in twenty minutes earlier - female, mid-thirties, no sightings since she fell into the water. The light was fading, and the river looked darker than normal. The surface broke in shifting currents, glinting with the cloudy Montana sky, and a thin mist rose from the water, curling around the rocks at the edge. The roar of the falls carried across the yellow pines as tourists huddled along the bridge, pointing and whispering. I kept my eyes on the rapids, letting the memories flow past, scattered and relentless like driftwood on the current. 

I followed each twist and eddy, feeling the weight of her sinking: the sun on a stone at Coeur d’Alene, a sudden slip, the quiet pull of a cold lake. My chest tightened, and I exhaled slowly, tracing the water’s surface as though it could carry the past away, turning my wedding ring impulsively with the fingers of my right hand. 

The ambulance had already arrived, its lights slicing through the evening haze, casting the mist into fractured shards of red and blue. On the far bank, a man - presumably her partner - stood stiff, beside a paramedic, his hands tugging the straps of his jacket. His face was pale, jaw tight. Eyes vacant, the world half-formed around him.  

A low, distant hum carried above the ceaseless rush of the falls. A Montana Highway Patrol helicopter droning somewhere downstream, its presence only a vibration over the water, muffled by distance and the rushing river. As I crossed the bridge, a tourist called out, briefly catching my shoulder as I passed. 

“They were taking a picture, we saw her slip…” he said, his voice quiet but firm. 

I nodded at him, silent, watching the weight of his words settle on him. The last time this happened, the engineers at Libby Dam had held back releases, lowering the river so searchers could comb the banks. Even then, the water had been indifferent, moving on without care for those who watched, waited, and hoped. Today would be no different; the water would reveal nothing until it chose to. 

I closed the small distance to the pair on the far bank. Kootenai Falls tumbled nearby as my boots pressed into the brittle needles blanketing the ground. The man did not turn or speak to me, so I spoke softly, asked his name, offered what small comfort I could. He didn’t respond, just kept murmuring her name, again and again, as if volume alone could bring her back. 
The paramedic’s eyes met mine for a moment, sharp and attentive. I didn’t recognise him, but that was nothing new. People came and went, fell in love with the summer, fell apart in the winter. 

“Keep him close,” I said.  

He nodded, and I started down the trail. 

The first shadows were creeping down from the surrounding hills, folding the slope into pockets of dim light and dark. It promised a long night, stretching past the end of my shift, and I pictured calling my neighbour to check on the dog, making sure the old boy wouldn’t go hungry. 

The steady crash of the water threaded through the trees, ricocheting off trunks and undergrowth. Autumn had left its mark: a scattering of leaves and twigs swept along by the flow. I hated it - ever since Coeur d’Alene. Smooth, indifferent, capable of swallowing everything in a single, thoughtless moment. 

The helicopter droned over the river, moving toward Troy, sweeping the terrain below. Its black-and-white paint stark against the grey mountainside.  

“Ground check - any units down there?” the pilot’s voice came crackling over the radio. 

“One officer. Northern bank,” I replied, forcing my voice to carry over the mechanical whine.  

“Copy. Can’t see anything yet.” 

“Copy that,” I answered, tucking the radio back on my belt. 

Small sandstone cliffs edged the river, giving way to shallow coves of shale. I moved carefully along the rim, looking down at the churning turquoise waters just beneath me. The current twisted and turned unpredictably, writhing in on itself - bubbling, dissipating, moving endlessly. A few feet from the edge, the river dropped sharply, forming a deep channel where the undertow coiled, invisible from above but lethal to anyone caught within. A wretched end, though what end isn’t? 

I moved along the narrow ridge, pressing into the softened soil, the helicopter’s thrum overhead masking the subtle shifts of leaves and the occasional snap of a twig. The scent of pine needles and damp earth from the afternoon shower mingled with the river’s faint, metallic tang, and the mist thickened as night settled in. Headlights from light traffic traced the highway between Libby and Troy, just a few hundred meters across the river. 

I saw no sign of the missing woman, and soon it would be too dark to see anything at all. I pulled out my flashlight, scanned the water, caught between the conflicting hopes of finding her and not having to be the unlucky sonofabitch who did. I could have retired two years ago. Should have retired.  

My mind drifted back to Coeur d’Alene. It was meant to be a celebration. A weekend camping trip. I rubbed my wedding ring between my fingers, shivering in the cool, late-evening air.  

Here, the falls eased for a moment - white rapids subsided, the current calmed, and shallow sandbanks formed along either side. Almost tranquil. Almost safe. I trained my flashlight across the river, tracking the bank’s edge. The usual autumn flotsam - branches and twigs from upstream, covered in moss - littered the sand, but something else caught the beam.  
A shoe: small, white, nearly invisible against the sand, the plastic logo reflecting the light.  

Maybe it had been there for years. Maybe it hadn’t. 

“Pilot, possible visual - shoe on the southern bank,” I said into the radio. 

He arrived moments later, engines booming as the searchlight cut through the deepening mist. 

“I see it, just about. Nothing else down there, though,” he said, voice faint, almost inaudible. 

"Focus on the south bank," I said. 

“Copy that.” 

I thought about her partner. Tanned, face flushed red, first greys creeping into his beard, but still a young man - mid-thirties, Irish accent, full of life and plans, another tourist on their great American road trip. And now this.  

The tree line thinned and the slope eased beneath my feet. With the cliffs now behind me, it was easier to move and search. Tiny whirlpools spun beneath the harsh torchlight, and I kept clear of the shale and sand. I watched the helicopter’s searchlight sweep slowly down the southern side of the river, moving toward Throop Lake, the beam cutting through mist and shadow, illuminating patches of water and shoreline. The chopper’s low, steady drone fading gradually as it receded. 

The temperature continued to drop, and the wind picked up. A light rain began to fall, leaving my clothes damp and my spirits lower. I realised that I’d forgotten to call my neighbour about the dog - the old boy would be hungry now. I pulled out my phone, but there was no signal out here.  

Too late. Another thing I couldn't protect.

 
Sighing to myself, I moved on again, along the river’s jagged edge, where each inlet formed a shallow pool, gathering leaves, twigs, cedar branches, and other debris carried downstream. The darkness pressed in, and by the fourth pool, I was ready to turn back.  

That’s when I saw her.  

The young woman’s body, lying half-hidden beneath two heavy logs pushed up against the bank. She was floating just beneath the surface, motionless. Her clothes were torn; her jeans had snagged on a branch, holding her in place. One shoe remained on her left foot - white, the same style as the one on the sandbank. A slight frown on her face, otherwise at peace.  

Just like Judith had looked in Coeur d’Alene. 

It had been our thirty-third wedding anniversary. A sunny Saturday afternoon in late summer. A weekend away, a stay in a log cabin. She had been planning it for months. We had taken the dog for a walk along the shore at Tubbs Hill and found a perfect, private corner of the rocky beach, with a panoramic view stretching back over the town. A seaplane was landing near the resort, the buzz of its propeller carrying over the bay.  

I still don’t know how it happened.  

I never will.  

A sudden slip, but the end of everything. I’d been unpacking the food, ranting about something or other - I don’t even remember what. I heard the splash. At first, I thought it was just the dog, playing in the shallows. I wish it had been that. 

When I turned around, she was lying face down in the water.  

The old boy started whining as I pulled her out. Kept trying to get at her. I pushed him away - angry at his stupidity. Still haven’t forgiven myself. He was more vigilant than I was. 

There were no bruises, no cuts - only that faint frown. The coroner said that she must have hit her head.  

Two years ago, last month. 

I approached the young woman and set my flashlight on the ground. Wading carefully into the shallow water around her, I freed her trousers from the log and gently pulled her onto the low shale bank. She was heavy, and I tripped on the ground, knocking my flashlight over as I dragged her. I sat there in the damp sand and stared at her. 

Her skin was pale, tinged blue in the moonlight.  

I’d seen a hundred dead people over the years, usually car crashes, domestic fallouts gone wrong - but she was just like Judith. No cuts, nothing that suggested a violent end, down there in the undertow. She could have been asleep. 

I moved her hair from her eyes, which stared blankly up at me. I closed them and sat there in the rain for a good ten minutes. All I could hear was the river, folding endlessly over itself. 

I reached for my radio.  

“Air unit, this is northern bank, do you copy?” I said, voice croaking. 

“Copy, northern bank. Go ahead.” 

“Visual on the female victim – recovered from the water. On the bank, north side.” 

“En route.” 

He reached us in less than a minute, the searchlight cutting across the river, blinding me as he zeroed in. 
 
*
 
The coroner didn’t arrive for another two hours, delayed by a shooting in Bull Lake. Third one this year. The woods were lit up now, with plenty of backup around. The mist had lifted and the helicopter was gone, having been called off to who knows where. Men’s voices merged with the river, carried inexorably along in its current. 

Once possession was handed over, I walked back along the north shore toward the bridge. I passed the young man on my way back to the car - sitting in the ambulance, a mylar blanket hanging limply over his shoulders, still muttering her name. The paramedic’s eyes met mine again - no words needed. 

It took another two and a half hours at the Libby station, filling out my report, before I could finally go home. They wanted a debrief, but I was done. Not just for the day - done. And I told them so.  

I could hear the old boy crying before I’d even switched off the engine, his whines the only sound on Ski Road. I made sure to give him an extra-large serving, and eventually he forgave me, coming to sit on my lap. We fell asleep together right there on the couch. 

I was awoken by shafts of light streaming through the mosquito screens. I stumbled, half conscious, into the bedroom - undressed, still exhausted. As I slid under the blankets, old boy came in and fell back to sleep on the floor beside me. I lay there, staring at the other side of the bed, thinking of her, for what felt like forever.