by Lisa Jackson
Amid a roar of clapping, Sphinx led Bianca to the stage, and as she sat in one of the chairs, he replaced Carlton Jeffe center stage, standing at the podium.
Michelle and Luke moved into the main area, the larger room filled with cheering, standing fans, but Pescoli grabbed a couple of cookies and hung back, grateful to stand behind the stage in the doorway and observe the performance while being able to watch everyone who was in attendance. The audience, after the heartfelt welcome, took their seats.
Carlton Jeffe hadn’t been kidding. The place was packed, standing room only. Three, or maybe closer to four hundred people filling the space. She picked out many faces she recognized, including Santana as he walked inside and, a few minutes later, Jeremy. Closer to the stage, Manny Douglas was chatting up a woman reporter for a television station based in Missoula, a reporter who’d interviewed Pescoli on more than one occasion.
As Pescoli munched on a dry store-bought gingersnap, she saw that Alvarez, standing next to Dylan O’Keefe, was already in the crowd, keeping back, but viewing the event as it unfolded. Even Blackwater had shown up, taking a position in one of the dark corners, for once, it seemed, content to blend into the surroundings and not try to be center court or in the limelight.
Shifting from one foot to the other, trying to stand beneath a cooling AC duct, Pescoli finished the first cookie and started on the second, all the while observing the proceedings. For the first forty-five minutes, Barclay Sphinx talked about his career, the shows he was working on and specifically the success of Big Foot Territory: Oregon! The crowd was quiet, aside from a few whispers and, despite the warning, a couple of cell phones that jangled and were quickly quieted. Sphinx was an accomplished speaker, gave anecdotes and examples and proved to be able to laugh at himself. He drew everyone in. All in all, the spectators were rapt, hanging on his every word.
“. . . so it only seemed natural,” he said, “that we do a spin-off. The network is pushing for it, and we’ve got a production crew ready to go. I mean they are already teed up. The only question was . . . where? We discussed Alaska and Northern California, but there was talk of Montana and when we heard, just recently, about several sightings in the area, capped by Bianca Pescoli’s encounter, we thought, well, I thought Grizzly Falls would be a perfect location for Big Foot Territory: Montana!”
The crowd went wild.
They hooted and hollered, and someone actually started a chant: “Big Foot! Big Foot! Big Foot!”
“And I’m thinking this group, the Big Foot Believers, could be a big help. With your knowledge of the area and history of sightings, your intense interest in Big Foot, I think we could find one and catch it on film!”
More shouting and yelling and clapping and whistling. Like a damned revival meeting.
Pescoli half expected to hear, “Amen, brother!”
Instead she saw Fred Nesmith approach the stage. “I need to ask you a question,” he said to Sphinx.
“Shoot.”
“That’s exactly what I hoped you’d say!” Nesmith was a tall man, and thin, with a long face, an Abe Lincoln beard, and deep-set eyes. Pescoli looked past him but didn’t see Otis Kruger, who’d been with him earlier. “Cuz this is a real reality show, yeah?” Nesmith questioned.
Ivor Hicks had joined Fred. He said, “Not scripted or nothin’, so we can really hunt the sumbitches. Like they do on that gator show.”
“Excuse me?” Sphinx said. “You want to kill a Big Foot?”
“Absolutely!” Nesmith said, and a handful of men nodded their agreement. Nesmith went on, “How else ya gonna prove that they exist? What we need is the real thing. A carcass.”
Carlton Jeffe stepped in. “Fred, let’s not start all that killin’ talk up again.”
“I’m tellin’ ya, we need proof. This here’s our chance to finally get it.” To Sphinx, Nesmith said, “You all got a chopper, right? For the production. And tents and SUVs—the country around here is pretty damned rough.”
“Whoa, there.” Jeffe’s jaw was tight. “Not now, Fred. Let’s hear what Mr. Sphinx has to say. You and Ivor, take your seats.”
“We’re just sick of sittin’ around and havin’ damned meetin’s,” Hicks grumbled. “We need some action!”
“You tell ’em, old man!” a voice yelled out from the teenage boys who’d been at the party over the weekend. Pescoli zeroed in on Bryant Tophman. “That’s right!” Bryant averred.
His friends were agreeing as well, nodding and holding their fists in the air. “Let’s get ’em!” Austin Reece said, inciting the others, who reacted by shouting:
“Yeah!”
“Let’s kill ’em!”
“Find those bastards!”
Jeffe was shaking his head, and some of the others were doing the same. “Let Mr. Sphinx explain what he wants to do,” he nearly shouted.
“Goddammed sissies!” Ivor cried.
Fred joined in, “Yer all a bunch of blowhard pussies.”
“Hey! Watch your language!” Rod Larimer reprimanded. Owner of the Bull and Bear Inn, he was in khakis and a dress shirt, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. “We’ve got women here. Let’s keep this civil.”
“Civil, my ass!” another guy yelled. He was hidden by the others, but when Ivor moved, Pescoli caught sight of Otis Kruger’s red face. Ah, there he was. An instigator if there ever was one. He looked ready to charge out, guns blazing.
But Sphinx was cool, lifting his hands, then patting them downward, indicating that everyone should quiet, which they did, some grumbling, a few chanting a few final “Big Foots!” before trailing away as he spoke again.
“By now you’ve all heard about this most recent sighting that I mentioned,” he said to a murmur of agreement. “Bianca Pescoli, a local teenager, was chased by what she thinks was a Sasquatch, late Saturday night. The beast charged at her and forced her to run down a steep hillside, where she was injured and, believe it or not, nearly stumbled over the body of another girl, a classmate.”
Sphinx was solemn now. Sober as a judge. And appeared troubled.
“The girl, Destiny Rose Montclaire, was mercilessly killed, the victim of homicide. An innocent young life cut short. Someone or something strangled her and was strong enough to break her neck.”
Pescoli thought she should stop this and took a step forward, but she caught Alvarez’s eye and the quick little shake of her head. The meeting-goers were quiet, listening, all eyes on the speaker. It was so quiet that Pescoli heard her own breathing above the humming AC.
“Was her murderer a rogue Big Foot?” he threw out to the group.
More whispering and one loud, “Hell, yeah!”
Sphinx shook his head. “We can’t go there . . . at least not yet. And I’m not so certain. There’s a chance Big Foot just might be a gentle creature.” He paused for effect, then said, “But who knows? Maybe we can find out. And yes, we’ll use the most sophisticated technology: tracking systems, night vision, drones, whatever it takes. We’ll find ’em.”
More murmurs of agreement. He had them. Everyone in the room was rapt, and Barclay Sphinx knew it.
Gripping the sides of the podium, he swept his gaze over the crowd. “But we owe it to Destiny to help the police catch her killer.”
Whispered agreement swept through the audience.
“Along with the new series Big Foot Territory: Montana! I’m putting up a website connected to the show, but also to the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department, for people to access easily and offer up anything they might know about the tragedy. I’ve already talked to Detective Regan Pescoli, lead investigator on the case, and I’ll work with her to make sure the website is up to date, the best technology available.”
“Wait a second,” Pescoli said, but her voice was drowned by the roar of approval from the crowd. She hadn’t agreed to any of this.
Sphinx bent into the microphone. “It just so happens that Detective Pescoli is Bianca’s mother, so it’s one tight little family. Let’s get started, shall we?�
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And he did, sitting in a chair and facing Bianca as if they were alone, as if there weren’t three hundred people plus hanging on their every word. He began by asking Bianca question after question, leading her through her story so that she told exactly what she saw and experienced. He was good, Pescoli gave him that, even though her stomach was in knots as Bianca described the “monster with an eye that seemed to glow,” its incredible height, and how it smelled. With soft-spoken questions, he asked how she’d found the dead girl, and Bianca, white-faced, her splint visible, relived her terror and the sheer horror of finding the dead body, a classmate, as it turned out, in the water.
At that point, Sphinx turned to the crowd and said, “We’re not going to go into this any further. There’s an ongoing homicide investigation and a family that is devastated and grief-stricken, so we’ll confine the rest of this meeting to Big Foot.” To Bianca, he said, “I believe that’s what you saw up on the mountain, at Reservoir Point, a Sasquatch. A very close encounter. Thank you.”
His statement caused a fresh murmur to race through the crowd, a new jolt of electricity. “Don’t you?” he said to the group as he stood at the podium again. “Don’t you think Bianca, here, came across Big Foot?”
Whistling and clapping and hollering were the enthusiastic response.
Some of Bianca’s friends sidled closer to the stage. Pescoli made eye contact with Austin Reece and TJ O’Hara, but the others, including Lara Haas, Lindsay Cronin, and Maddie Averill, didn’t notice her and inched ever closer to the podium.
“I think setting Big Foot Territory: Montana! right here in Grizzly Falls is a great idea, and I think that Bianca Pescoli should relive her adventure, her encounter, on screen. Don’t you?”
More wild applauding. Even Bianca’s friends, the kids who’d been busted up at Reservoir Point, were clapping. Lara Haas and Maddie Averill were nodding enthusiastically, TJ sending Bianca a thumbs-up signal.
Pescoli realized then that her daughter was a hometown celebrity. Her stomach clenched. This was not good.
Sphinx stood and then, as Carlton Jeffe took command of the event again, the audience was allowed to ask questions. They fired them mainly at Sphinx, thank goodness, though Lucky had made his way onto the stage to sit next to his daughter and hold her hand in between his—ever the doting father.
At his side was Michelle.
When Sphinx asked Bianca if she’d like to star in the first episode of Big Foot Territory: Montana! she seemed to hesitate a minute. Did Luke actually squeeze Bianca’s hand? Oh, for the love of God! And then Bianca, staring straight at Sphinx, started nodding. “Yes,” she said. “Yes. I—I’d love to.”
Luke nodded and grinned.
Michelle was absolutely radiant.
Sphinx seemed pleased with himself.
The crowd let up a cheer of approval.
And Pescoli thought she might be sick.
CHAPTER 16
Alvarez didn’t like the feel of the meeting. Aside from the airlessness of the room, there were too many people packed into too tight a space, all of them riled up, some of them agitated. She felt the tension sizzling through the crowd, and it was more than just the excitement of something new happening in town. This new, electrified buzz wasn’t just because Grizzly Falls might become the center of a “reality” television show. No, there was something else, an uglier current rippling through the crowd that was contentious, almost antagonistic. The people packed into the hall tonight weren’t part of a congenial gathering, not a crowd of like minds.
O’Keefe felt it, too. “Not exactly a unified group,” he observed, leaning close so that he could be heard.
“Nope.”
“Militants and pacifists, all loving up Big Foot.”
“The militants are definitely hating on Big Foot.”
“Held together by belief, but at each other’s throats,” he said dryly.
“Like all of life.” Her gaze traveled over the gathering. Some of the more vociferous members had the mentality of a lynch mob, like the townspeople carrying torches and spears in old monster movies to “take the sumbitch down.” The other faction appeared only interested in proving the myth reality, and that Sasquatch was a shy, almost intellectual beast, smart enough to hide any trace of its existence. But all of the members of the group believed that Sasquatch lived and breathed—that was the uniting factor.
“I have to run. See you this weekend?” he said.
“Okay.” She was a little disappointed. She loved being with him, but he still resided in Helena, where he was a private investigator, and though he talked often of moving to Grizzly Falls, of setting up shop here and living with Alvarez full time, so far it hadn’t happened.
She worried a little about that. If they truly wanted to be together, to take the relationship to another level, then they should try harder to make it happen. Right? There shouldn’t be the convenient excuses of conflicting jobs and career paths. They should want to be together all the time. Wasn’t that the way it was supposed to be?
He planted a kiss on her cheek and said, “I’ll call.”
She wanted to say, “Stay,” or “Let’s make this coming weekend special,” or “I hate it when you leave,” or even, “I love you,” but she didn’t, not here in this crowded, loud room overflowing with people rabidly intent on proving Big Foot existed. Or was that an excuse? It didn’t matter. He was already moving away from her, through the crowd, and she watched him disappear past the cashier table and through the main door.
Her heart twisted a bit.
She’d known him for a long while. They’d been partners in the San Bernardino Police Department years before. He’d saved her life. Nearly lost his own. She swallowed hard, told herself not to be maudlin and to concentrate. She had a homicide to solve.
So what was she doing at a damned Big Foot Believers’ meeting, where it was so hot and stuffy she was actually fanning herself with a brochure she’d picked up on the main table?
The answer was simple: Almost everyone who was associated with Destiny Rose Montclaire, aside from her parents, was in attendance.
Maybe it was just a coincidence.
Maybe not.
As the meeting broke up, some of the attendees swarmed the stage, hoping to get closer to Sphinx, a man who could bring fame to Grizzly Falls and validate the members’ beliefs. Others stopped by the table to buy Big Foot mugs and T-shirts. Another group grabbed refreshments and chatted, while the people she was interested in, the swarm of teens or post-teens who’d been at the party on Saturday night, milled within their own private circles.
She’d interviewed all of them, studied their statements, felt she knew some of them inside out and was surprised that after being busted the past weekend and being involved, at least peripherally, in the discovery of a body of one of their own, they would be here in what seemed an almost celebratory mood.
They’re kids, one side of her mind reminded her.
The other said: Yeah, but nearly adults.
“You think Destiny Montclaire’s killer is here?” a male voice asked, and she turned to find that the sheriff was standing next to her. His gaze was fixed on Kywin Bell and Donny Justison, who were standing next to each other, two big men. Friends? Or rivals?
“I don’t know. Maybe,” she said, watching as they were joined by Austin Reece and Alex O’Hara.
“No one looks like they’re in mourning.”
She’d been thinking the same thing. As scared as the kids had been on Saturday, as somber as they’d appeared while being interviewed, the boys now were all laughing and joking, male bravado, camaraderie and animosity, hitting each other, giving fist bumps, glancing over at a group of girls, the center of which was Lara Haas. But the females, tonight, weren’t showing any interest in the boys’ antics. To a one, their attention was focused on Barclay Sphinx, who held an edge over the locals, an air of mystique, a bit of sophistication, an association with the glitter of Hollywood. He was the peacock tonight,
and he knew it.
“This is such bullshit!” a voice nearby yelled, and she caught sight of Kruger again, standing with Nesmith and Hicks near the back of the crowd. “I’m sick of meetings and talk, talk, talk. We need action, that’s what we need. We should be out huntin’ Big Foot right now instead of sitting around like a bunch of women talkin’ about it.” He snorted loudly. “And talk of a fuckin’ TV show? What will that do? Only bring more outta towners in.”
“And that would be a bad thing?” Sandy Aldridge, the owner of Wild Wills, a local restaurant, asked. She was tall and thin, and wore heavy makeup and a tough-as-nails attitude.
“’Course it would. We don’t need no more people up here, and no goddamned TV cameras and crew scarin’ off the Big Foot! This”—he made a wide arc with his arm to indicate the interior of the meeting hall—“this is nothin’ more than a publicity stunt, a goddamned fiasco, that’s what it is!” Kruger was practically roaring now, and Alvarez was standing close enough to smell the alcohol. His face was red, his eyes bloodshot. “It’s about money, people, not about Big Foot!”
“Oh, stuff it, Otis.” Sandy was having none of it. She was used to dealing with disgruntled loudmouths at the bar in her establishment. “Just shut up and listen to what the man has to say.”
“I did and he’s done! Paid my goddamned twenty-five bucks just to hear him peddle the same old shit I’ve heard a million times.”
“If you don’t like it, just leave,” Sandy snapped as a few others turned their heads. “You’re making a scene.”