Bigfoot Beach

by Kristopher Rufty

  “Did you really want it back?”

  Lillard shook his head. “Not really.”

  “Didn’t think so. I’ll get you a new one.”

  Lillard nodded. “Maybe the boys had already left.”

  “You saw the cars, just like me. They didn’t leave.”

  Jon Schaffer’s mother had been the one to call it in. She was leaving to work the breakfast shift at Pancake Palace and discovered her car wasn’t in the driveway. When she’d checked Jon’s room, the bed was empty and showed no evidence it had been slept in. She told Junior on the phone that last she heard he was going out with Troy Basinger and Ellen Chambers.

  A year ago they would’ve waited twenty-four hours before opening up an investigation. Things had changed since last summer.

  Lillard’s cell phone jangled from his pocket. He tugged it out, checked the screen, and nodded. “Styles just texted. The mayor’s waiting up the hill.”

  Howie nodded. He turned around and looked up. The yellow tape was stretched across the top of the hill and made rattling sounds as it fluttered in the wind. A stinking notion crept up the back of his neck to whisper a message in his ear:

  This was just a part of something that was going to get a hell of a lot worse.

  15

  Through the lens, Becky watched the deputies move around the crime scene like ants over spilled bread crumbs. Each one carried something away from the cordoned area, and trudged up the hill to toss it in the back of an unmarked white van. Mayor Caine supervised as if he were a contractor making sure his crew completed the task in an exceptional manner. A small crowd had gathered atop the hill, but was being kept far back by Blake and the mayor’s bodyguard.

  Lowering the camera, Becky rubbed her eyes. They felt sore and achy as her fingers worked over the closed lids. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been hiding out here, but it felt like weeks. She’d heard the reports on her scanner and decided a trip to the beach was in order. It was supposed to be a nice day and she could also work on her tan while there was still warm weather to enjoy. So she’d changed into her purple bikini and put on her beach robe. Then she’d filled her beach bag with her camera, voice recorder, a thin blanket, towel, water, and sunscreen. It was kind of exciting, almost like a day trip to the beach. It had been a long time since she’d just gone to the beach and relaxed under the sun or swam in the ocean.

  But she hadn’t been relaxing. She’d been taking pictures through her powerful lens all day.

  Opening her eyes, everything seemed much brighter and made them hurt worse. She blinked a few times, then checked her phone.

  Four hours.

  She’d been lying on her stomach on this dune for four hours. The skin of her back felt tight from the sun. She’d lost count of how many bristle balls she’d plucked from her skin thanks to the shrubs in front of her.

  Becky reached behind her back and retied the straps of her top. She felt drained. And hot. A headache was coming on. Plus she was hungry. Checking her beach bag, she saw she was out of water too.

  Becky groaned.

  At least nobody had spotted her. That was a plus. She’d be really annoyed if she’d spent this much time out here only to be busted.

  “Get any good pictures?”

  Becky jumped, let out a squeaky cry, and rolled over to her back.

  Thompson stood over her, hands on his hips. With the sun behind him, he looked like a dark superhero.

  “Damn it,” she muttered.

  Thompson laughed. “Want us all to gather around and pose for you?”

  “Not funny, Thompson.”

  Thompson’s grin reeked of arrogance. “You know, we had a poll going—how long would it take for you to realize we knew you were up here? I won. I said you wouldn’t notice until I came up here to confiscate your camera equipment.”

  Becky’s eyes flitted toward her camera. It lay on the blanket, the lens still aimed at the crime scene. She looked back at Thompson. “You can’t do that.”

  “You’re right. But I can take the memory card if I deem it necessary.”

  “The hell you can. I’m the press. I have the right to take pictures and post them if I want.”

  Thompson bent over, reaching for the camera. Becky dived for it, throwing her body over the SLR as if it were a grenade about to detonate and kill innocent bystanders. “Stay away from my camera, asshole!” she yelled.

  Thompson jumped back, hands up. “Jesus, Aniston! What the hell?”

  “You’re not taking my pictures.”

  “Yes, I am. Don’t make me call Lillard over here to slap some cuffs on you. I’ll hold you overnight and still get the damn photos anyway.”

  “You have no right…”

  Thompson exhaled heavily through his nose. His lips were pressed tight. “I don’t want to do this, but my hands are tied.” His voice had lost its snarky tenor for a more somber tone. “If your photos might tamper with the ongoing investigation and put information out there that we feel can jeopardize things, I can rightfully take the pictures. And I’m sure you were planning to run with the photos, make a huge spread on the cover. Am I right?”

  “Nope.” She shook her head, nose in the air. “Wrong.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  Becky stomped her foot. She felt her breasts jiggle freely. “It’s my job, Thompson. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m the damn press around here. And this is news.” She pointed behind her at the clean-up taking place. “The people have a right to know what’s happening on their beach.”

  Nodding, Thompson’s face was almost a wince. “I agree with you. Believe me, I agree. But right now they don’t have that right, apparently. We’re in the same boat, you and me, and you’d make things a lot easier if you’d just give me the memory card. Keep the camera, so long as you promise not to sneak around and snap pictures every damn time we get a lead. Not right now, anyway. And keep your damn scanner shut off.”

  “Is this Caine’s call?”

  “What in this town isn’t his call?”

  Becky looked down. She sighed. Sure, she could fight Thompson until she was blue in the face. The end result wouldn’t change. She’d have to give up her pictures. “Will I get my card back? With the pictures intact?”

  “Yes. When we get the clear to release the information, you can write whatever the hell you want.”

  “You know, I could still write an article about this. Seashell Cove might find it interesting to know their sheriff is stopping the press from printing.”

  “It would be chalked up as tabloid nonsense and you know it. Caine would see to that.”

  Thompson was right, and she did know it. Nobody would take the story seriously without the photos. And Caine would just deny everything, so would Thompson. Her word against theirs and, in this town, their word was the gospel.

  “Fine,” she said.

  Sitting up, Becky set the camera in her lap. A soft layer of sand was glued to her inner thighs from the sunscreen she kept spraying herself with. It looked as if she’d rolled around in cinnamon. She suddenly felt very exposed in her purple two-piece. Her breasts were glossy and slick behind the thin patches of her top. She looked up, expecting to find Thompson ogling her.

  He wasn’t. He kept his head turned, as if avoiding any glance of her.

  She felt something like respect for Thompson faintly inside of her. Since she didn’t like him much, she wouldn’t allow it to be more than an indistinct notification. But she couldn’t ignore how most men would’ve gawked at her body, drooling over every shape and curve. It’d happened more than she cared to recall.

  Thompson had never been like that. And not just with her. He was a truly happily married man, devoted to his wife. And, so far as she knew, his wife was completely devoted to him.

  Becky opened the small compartment on her camera and removed the memory card. She held it up. “Here.”

  “Thank you for making this easy,” he said. He took the card, keeping his eyes on hers. They were Paul’s ey
es, soft yet piercing, nearly soothing in their gaze, and she was willing to bet their father had a matching pair.

  “Easy for you, maybe,” she said. “I’m getting fucked over.”

  Thompson stood up straight, slipping the memory card into the chest pocket of his shirt. He nodded. “You really are,” he said. “And I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged. “What can you do, really?”

  “Not much, I suppose. I’m just the damn sheriff here and I have no authority.”

  “Yeah,” she muttered. She looked up at him. “Just tell me this much. Do they think it’s real? First Butler and now whatever that was that you toted off in that body bag earlier. Do we have a creature running loose on the beach?”

  “I’d like to believe that I have enough sense to think not,” he said. “Maybe it’s just a madman.”

  “But do you believe that?”

  Thompson held her gaze. “Have a good day, Aniston.”

  She rolled her eyes. Should’ve known he wouldn’t divulge anything extra. “Whatever.”

  Thompson turned away. He started down the dune but paused. He looked back at her from over his shoulder. “Heard that you kicked my brother out of your car the other night.”

  “So what?”

  “He seems really sweet on you,” said Thompson.

  Becky felt cool prickles in her chest. She hid it from Thompson when she said, “And?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. He shrugged. “Maybe an apology’s in order? That’s all I’m saying.” He threw his hand up in a wave and started walking again. She watched the hill eat him up to the shoulders. Then his head vanished.

  “Asshole,” she whispered to herself.

  Takes my damn memory card, then tries to play matchmaker? Who the hell does he think he is?

  But it might be a good idea to apologize to Paul. Especially if she planned to do the hero cop comes to Seashell Cove story. He’d be more apt to cooperate if she cleared the air and said she was sorry. Besides, she just wanted to tell him sorry. Paul had done nothing to warrant the kind of treatment she’d given him. He was sweet, albeit a little goofy, which she found adorable.

  Maybe ask him out?

  Her stomach tightened at the idea. She hadn’t asked anybody on a date in a couple years. Usually she was too busy declining them to try establishing one of her own.

  What if he tells me to kiss his ass?

  She’d deserve that kind of response after what she’d done. Two days ago she abandoned him on the side of the road and now she was going to ask him out? What kind of mind games would he think she was trying to pull?

  Am I playing mind games?

  Not intentionally. But she was definitely up to something. What, she had no idea.

  And she knew she would tell him about her recent encounter with Thompson.

  16

  Paul, standing in front of the dishwasher, dropped the detergent packet into the compartment. He raised the door, programmed its cycle, and heard streaming water sounds, as if a troll inside was peeing onto the dishes.

  He walked to the sink and washed the icky feeling off his hands.

  He heard footsteps behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he spotted Gunner heading to the fridge. “Still hungry?” he asked.

  Paul had made spaghetti and garlic bread for supper. There was nothing left afterward except the dirty dishes. A salad would’ve been a nice addition, but he didn’t think about it until they were already eating.

  “Not really,” said Gunner. He opened the door, crouching in front of the shelves. He grabbed a pack of bologna and ham.

  “Thank God you're not hungry, or you might eat all the food.”

  While Gunner hung around the house today, Paul and Natalie had ventured into town, taking in the sights. Though there wasn't much to see other than souvenir shops and Bigfoot paraphernalia, they'd had a good time. Natalie had enjoyed all the cool statues and displays of Seashell Cove’s bestial mascot garbed in Hawaiian shirts, sunhats, and overly large sandals. One shop had its back wall covered in a mural that presented the giant monster on a surfboard with a shark swimming up from the depths ready to take a bite.

  There were plenty of places for them to purchase something with Bigfoot's large hairy face plastered across the front. But whenever he asked, nobody seemed to know why the town was sick with Sasquatch fever.

  On their way home, Paul remembered they had no food in the house other than what Howie and Trish had given them. So they'd stopped at Terri's Market and spent way more than he’d planned. But the market was a nice little place, just like something from an old family sitcom, owned by a jolly couple who couldn't stop smiling.

  On their way back to the car, Paul noticed the sign for the Seashell Gazette above the door of a tiny space and had all but dragged Natalie past its window. Wanting to avoid any run-ins with Becky Aniston, he'd even shielded the side of his face with his hand until they were far away from the tiny building. He'd half expected them to run into her somewhere around town, but fortunately it didn't happen. Nor did he spot Howie. He’d figured he would’ve bumped into his brother at least once. Maybe he was busy.

  Still rummaging through the fridge, Gunner stood with a groan. “I'm kind of hungry. Don't really know what I want.”

  Paul detected nervous energy that seemed to buzz from his son. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Of course.”

  He closed the fridge and headed over to the counter where the breadbox was with his arms full of sandwich accessories. He rolled the lid back and pulled out the loaf of bread.

  Crossing his arms, Paul leaned his hip against the counter. He was starting to figure it out. The inability to stay still, making a sandwich only because he couldn't think of anything else to do, the slight jitter in his movements.

  His son had a crush.

  Smiling, Paul said, “Who is she?”

  Gunner tensed, then went back to work on his sandwich. “Who's who?”

  “The girl.”

  “What makes you think there's a girl?”

  “I'm that good of a cop.” Gunner made a pffft sound. Frowning, Paul said, “Plus, I just have a feeling. Father's intuition.”

  Gunner pulled a slice of ham from the pack and folded it onto the bread. Then he added the bologna and cheese. He was squirting mustard onto the sandwich roof when Paul started to understand he wasn't going to answer.

  “Gunner, it's okay to talk to me about things,” Paul said. “I promise.”

  Sighing, Gunner turned around. “She’s just a girl.”

  “And is this girl the friend who invited you out last night?”

  Gunner shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Does she have a name? Or did her parents really curse her with Just-a-girl for a name?”

  Sighing, Gunner pressed his sandwich together. “Her name’s Megan Caine.”

  “Caine?” Gunner nodded. He took a large bite of his sandwich. “As in Mayor Caine?”

  “Yep,” he said between chewing. “His daughter. She has two brothers, too. Can you believe they're triplets? Isn't that weird?”

  “Wow. How were the kids?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What are they like?”

  “Oh, well, they seem pretty cool. I only got to know the brothers for a little while, but Megan was...” He smiled. “She’s nice.”

  “Well that sounds…something.”

  “I might introduce you to her sometime.”

  “I’ve met her dad…” Paul shook his head. “Hopefully she takes after her mother.”

  Gunner made a face. “You know, I don’t think she ever mentioned her mother.”

  And Paul was willing to guess Gunner never mentioned his. “But let me ask you this: Does she seem to have common sense?”

  Gunner laughed through a mouthful of food. He nodded. “A lot more than her friends, that’s for sure.”

  The phone rang, startling them both. Gunner looked confused, as if he’d never heard such a sound before.

&
nbsp; Shrugging, Paul said, “They must’ve connected the phone today. Want to answer it?”

  “Sure.” He walked over to the wall-mounted phone across the kitchen. He snatched it from the base, nestling it between his ear and shoulder. “Hello?” He looked at Paul. “Yeah, he's standing right here.” Nod. “Sure, hang on.” He took the phone with the hand that wasn't occupied by a sandwich, extending it out to Paul. The coiled cord straightened, pulling against the base. “For you. Someone named Becky.”

  Paul felt a tremor of excitement. “Becky Aniston?”

  “That's what she said.” Gunner smirked and for a moment he looked just like his mother. “Guess I’m not the only one who met a girl.” He laughed.

  “Hardy har-har. Give me that phone.”

  “It's all yours, stud.”

  Paul took the phone. “Want me to ground you?”

  “Nope!” Gunner sprinted out of the kitchen, the heavy padding of his footsteps echoing as he hurried down the hall to his room. Paul could feel soft vibrations through the floor.

  Shaking his head, Paul raised the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Paul.”

  The voice, though it was trying much too hard to sound courteous, was wonderful to his ears. “Is this who I think it is?”

  “I'm sure it is.”

  “Well, Ms. Aniston, what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “You sound like you're being sarcastic.”

  Paul immediately dropped the sardonic tone. “Sorry. I was trying to be clever.”

  “Well, keep working on it.”

  Paul winced. “So, how did you get my number? I wasn't aware it was even working yet.”

  “Come on, Paul. Give me some credit. I'm a reporter. It's my job to figure these things out.”

  “Called information?”

  “Exactly.”

  “That's putting all that investigative knowledge to good use.”

  “Ouch. Was that paying me back for the clever putdown?”

  “Possibly.”

  “I deserved it. And I also deserve much worse for throwing you out of my car the other night.”

  “Oh…that's what this is.” Paul was disappointed this was just a courteous phone apology. “Listen, I understand you were upset…”