Roanoke Ridge

by J. J. Dupuis

  He moves into position with visible reluctance. I imagine it would be the same for any request I could make of him — he’s not the type who likes listening to others.

  I walk over to the door and open it, leaving the chain across. “Good evening, Sheriff.”

  “Evening, Laura,” he says, examining the chain. “Can I come in?”

  “What’s this about?”

  “For God’s sake, Laura, you’re not in any trouble. Can’t we talk like two civilized people?”

  I open the door and catch a look of surprise on the sheriff’s face as he does a head count of the room. “Is everything all right?” he asks quietly.

  “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

  “Ranger Cassavetes, Moira, Mr. LeDoux,” he says, greeting everyone around the room in turn. “Clive the manager called to report the power outage and the alarms going off in the parking lot. I was just leaving the Paul so I thought I’d check up on the place.”

  “So why knock on my door?”

  “Well, you seem to be at the centre of all the trouble lately.”

  “Can’t argue with that, I suppose.”

  He looks over my shoulder at Ted, squinting to see his bandaged head wound.

  “Ranger Cassavetes, what the hell happened to you?”

  “I’m not entirely sure,” Ted says.

  “Okay, enough games, I expect you all to come clean with me now.”

  Sirens ring out from down the street. The red flashing lights of a fire engine light up the night and cast a red glow on the curtains.

  The sheriff takes a step back out into the parking lot. “What the hell is going on now?”

  The volunteer firefighters dismount off the truck and fan out. Clive the motel manager comes out to greet them. He shakes his head to whatever they ask him, pointing at several doors.

  “All right, folks,” a firefighter shouts. “Everybody out.”

  A second firefighter starts working his way door to door.

  “You heard the man — out!” Sheriff Watkins says before walking toward the fire chief. Chris and Saad come out of the bathroom. Chris is holding the camcorder.

  “Is the transfer complete?” I ask, whispering.

  “No,” Saad says.

  “Let’s just get that video copied,” I say. “We’ll worry about fire once we at least smell smoke.”

  “No thanks, missy,” LeDoux says. “It’s my ass if anything happens to my staff or equipment. Chris, move it onto the van.”

  A firefighter comes to the doorway. “What are you waiting for?”

  As LeDoux and I stare each other down, Moira helps Ted up and walks him out. Then Saad passes between us, his head down.

  LeDoux makes a sweeping gesture with his arm. “After you,” he says to me.

  “Please,” the fire chief says. “Everybody move to the other side of the parking lot. We received a report of a fire on the premises.”

  As the other patrons of the Tall Pines Motel gather beneath the stars, hands in pockets or arms crossed, I focus on the camera Chris is holding. I can hear a late-night, conspiracy talk show host’s favourite line repeat in my head: I don’t believe in coincidences. Personally, I do believe in coincidences, but this all seems like too much.

  The sheriff is going door to door with the fire chief, making a final sweep of the rooms while the firefighters investigate for signs of smoke or heat.

  Clive walks over to us. “Sorry about all the ruckus, folks,” he says. He’s wearing a long overcoat like he’s expecting rain, or is about to flash us. “At least it’s a nice night. No rain, no wind. First good night for camping we’ve had this year.”

  Clive’s wife, wrapped in a housecoat, stands away from us, watching her husband, giving off that vibe of wanting to be next to him — a sign that men are terrible at picking up on.

  Now he enters the focal point of our semicircle, a forearm’s length closer than what seems natural. He glances at the butterfly bandage on Ted’s head but doesn’t ask about it. Then he sidles up next to Chris and points up at the roof of the motel. “I don’t see any smoke or anything, do you? You’d think you’d see something rising up over the roof by now.”

  As Clive works his way in between Chris and LeDoux, like the family dog, I notice there’s something round and heavy in his pocket, something that causes his jacket to sway like a pendulum when it moves. I look from his coat pockets to the camcorder held at the same level.

  “Chris, could you come here, please?” I say.

  “What?”

  “Could you come here, please,” I say again.

  He walks over, and Clive’s eyes follow the camcorder.

  “That’s a neat old camcorder,” Clive says. “Can I see it?”

  “No!” I shout. “Chris, move!”

  Clive makes a lunge for the camera, but Chris has good reflexes. Like a high-school football player, Chris curls his body over the camcorder and ploughs forward. Ted and Saad both reach for Clive. He shakes off their initial half-hearted grabs but succumbs to the second, more concerted attempts. Chris is now six feet away and swivels to face his assailant, cradling the camera like a protective mother. Ted and Saad let Clive go, but their bodies form a barrier between him and the camcorder.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Sheriff Watkins says, hurrying across the parking lot.

  “I just wanted to see their camcorder, Sheriff,” Clive says. “I didn’t know it’d be such a big deal.”

  “Laura?” the sheriff says, raising an eyebrow at me.

  “He was trying to erase the tape in that camera,” I say.

  “What?” Clive says, aghast at the accusation.

  “I bet there’s a big magnet in his pocket, probably from a speaker or something. He’s trying to demagnetize the videotape,” I say.

  Saad takes a step back from Clive and starts examining his clothing. I shine my flashlight on Clive’s pocket, and he turns to avoid the beam.

  “What videotape?” Sheriff Watkins asks, glaring.

  “It’s an old tape of my father’s,” I say. “And apparently Rick Driver’s.”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  Saad meets my eyes and nods. Ted gives me the same consent.

  “We found it in a box of my father’s things,” I say.

  “Where’d this box come from?”

  “Rick Driver’s grandmother’s house a few towns over.”

  “You said you didn’t know where he’d been hiding.”

  “I didn’t know, not when you asked me.”

  “Take me there now,” he says. All the while, the sheriff has been giving me a suntan from the intensity of his glare.

  “It’s gone. Burned to the ground. Someone didn’t want us to find it.”

  At this, he finally gives me a break from his heat vision and looks over at Clive. “Empty your pockets, Clive.”

  “What? No.”

  “I know I can’t force you, but I swear …”

  Clive reaches into his pocket and produces a magnet the size of a hockey puck.

  Sheriff Watkins takes his hat off and rakes his fingers over his buzz cut. “For heaven’s sake, Clive.”

  “You know that tape could sink us!”

  The sheriff takes off his hat and rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Did I tell you to do this? Did I say burn a goddamned house down?”

  I chime in. “He also assaulted Ranger Cassavetes and held us at gunpoint.”

  “I was just keeping an eye on them!”

  “Well, Christ on a bike, Clive!” Sheriff Watkins hooks his thumbs into his belt, turns to me. “Have you watched the tape yet?”

  “Not all of it,” I say. “But we’ve seen enough.”

  “Then it’s game over,” he says, more to Clive than to me. When he speaks again, there’s something soft in his voice. “Keep in mind that I was friends with your dad, and I only wanted to do right by the people of this town. We were never out to scam anyone.”

  He begins walkin
g back toward the fire chief, eyes on the gravel of the parking lot. The firefighters come out of the last room in the motel and give the all-clear.

  My heart is still racing; I can feel it up to my temples. “What about Clive?”

  The sheriff stops and looks up at the sky as if he can see the northern lights. “I figure it’s best to let that lie,” he says, “unless you want to explain your own breaking and entering. There would be a lot of charges, a lot of paperwork, your ranger friend will lose his job …”

  None of us can say anything to that, so we just let him walk off.

  “So, can we have the power back on now?” LeDoux says to Clive, who quickly rejoins his wife and hurries back inside.

  The lights come back on and the fire truck leaves. The crowd moves back inside and it’s like the whole thing never happened. We’re the last of the motel guests standing outside.

  “Let’s get this show on the road,” LeDoux says.

  Back in our room, Saad and Chris connect the camcorder to Saad’s laptop. They push the ends of the beds together until the corners touch and a triangle is formed with the dresser. We all sit around like it’s movie night, only the popcorn and pizza are missing.

  The video starts with an exterior shot of Rick Driver’s grandmother’s house. The paint on the porch hasn’t peeled away yet, the steps are in perfect working order. The screen door swings open and a leaner, younger Rick Driver walks out onto the porch.

  “Don’t waste the battery,” he says.

  “Just testing it,” says the cameraman.

  “Get it in the car, then grab the suits,” Driver says. “We’re on a schedule.”

  Behind Rick, through the porch’s posts and the screen of the door, a smaller figure stands still, watching. The door opens slowly and a child stumbles out, not even as tall as the railing. The child nears the steps, turns, reaches up to the railing. The child smiles at the camera. The child is me.

  “Let’s get in the car, sweetie,” the cameraman says.

  “Are we making a movie?”

  “You bet. It’s going to be a big movie, too!”

  Static overtakes the screen, then the film resumes. Leaf-covered branches brush against the passenger window of a car. Music is playing on the stereo. Sunlight adds a glow to the greenery.

  “Shut that off,” Driver says.

  More static, then the start of the famous Roanoke Ridge footage. I’ve seen this a hundred times, maybe more. But this is different somehow. The adult Sasquatch is behaving the same way, moving slowly around the infant, not giving too much away. But the infant … the infant looks comical. It does not look like an animal at all. And the sound it makes —

  “Nate!” the Sasquatch yells to the camera. “Get her to behave herself!”

  “Damn it, Laura! What did I say?!”

  The infant Sasquatch holds still, slowly sinking behind a log with half the bark missing. The film is now precisely how I remember the footage. There’s a mist on the mountain that makes the costumes look greyer. The static returns.

  “Wow,” LeDoux says. “You’re a child star.”

  Static continues to play. Saad’s screen is like a window looking out on a snowstorm.

  “There’s got to be something else here,” I say.

  Danny LeDoux gets up and pulls his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll leave you to watch the rest, then,” he says, heading for the door.

  Chris stands up and follows his boss to the door. He turns quickly, reaches out for the camcorder, then hesitates. “I’ll come back for that,” he says.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I owe you.”

  “I’ll drive you home,” Moira says to Ted, standing by as he stands up, ready to catch him should he stagger. She’s watching Ted, maybe checking to see if his pupils are responsive. It feels like something more, though, the way her eyes drop down and linger.

  Ted walks over to me and stops about a foot away. He smiles and holds me in a half hug. “For what it’s worth, I know you’ll make the right decision about your website,” he says. His fingertips slide down my forearms as he breaks his embrace and walks out. He gets in Moira’s truck, rolls the window down, and waves before driving away.

  “What does he mean? What decision?” Saad asks. He looks confused, maybe even a little angry. He’s trying not to be.The room seems so much larger now.

  “I got an offer to sell ScienceIA,” I say.

  “When?”

  “Last week.”

  “And you didn’t say anything. Not to me.”

  “I was afraid to tell you.”

  “Why?” Saad asks, the purest look of confusion on his face. “You can tell me anything.”

  “I know. It’s just — I was afraid you’d be disappointed in me. You’ve always been so supportive of me and the website. I didn’t want you to think that I was a quitter.”

  Saad raises his arm like he might squeeze my shoulder, then drops it again. “I promise, I’ll never think that.” He steps forward and hugs me. He’s never hugged me. He’s always showed the poise and restraint of a British aristocrat. Even as he does it, he knows it’s weird, and he steps back and stares at the carpet. “Sorry,” he says.

  “Don’t be.”

  “I should call Ammi,” he says.

  Static and snow continue to play on Saad’s laptop for minutes after everyone has left. I fast-forward through the video. Just as I’m about to give up, there’s more footage of Roanoke Ridge. I quickly hit play and the video returns to normal speed.

  I see my own face, over twenty years younger, wearing a riding hood sort of thing made from fur.

  “Daddy, it’s hot.”

  “We’ll go get ice cream as soon as we’re finished,” the cameraman says.

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  “This is going to be a beaut,” Rick says. “A real beaut. We’ll give old Roger Patterson a run for his money.”

  “I don’t care about his money, I care about our money,” the cameraman says. “Just make sure Watkins pays up.”

  EPILOGUE

  I think Bigfoot is blurry, that’s the problem. It’s not the photographer’s fault. Bigfoot is blurry. And that’s extra scary to me, because there’s a large, out-of-focus monster roaming the countryside.

  — Mitch Hedberg, Strategic Grill Locations, Comedy Central, 2003

  IN THE MORNING, THERE’S A KNOCK AT THE door. Standing on the other side is Danny LeDoux, staring down at his phone as always. “You killed my show,” he says.

  “Excuse me?” I step outside, closing the door behind me.

  “No Sorel, no show. It’s dead, because of you and your friend there.”

  He finally looks up. His face is like that of a boy, with a look of naive innocence that almost makes me want to forget what he just said to me.

  “A man died, at the hands of someone who was like a grandfather to me, and you blame me?”

  “Gotta blame someone,” he says. “This is America. There’s a thousand Rick Drivers out there. But Berton Sorel? He’s one of a kind. And now he’s sitting in a jail cell.”

  “You played your part, too.”

  “I just let you use some equipment to expose a hoax. I didn’t turn Berton Sorel over to the cops. Besides, do you think any diehard squatcher cares that we got to the bottom of the Roanoke Ridge Bigfoot mystery? You watch, in a year or two people will have forgotten what we’ve done here. But they’ll remember the video with over two million hits on YouTube. Because people believe what they want. Which is why I’m rooting for the raccoons in the upcoming battle for resources on this overcrowded planet.”

  “Mr. LeDoux, there are no nice words for a person like you,” I say.

  “Well,” he says, smiling, “there’s persistent — some people consider that a virtue. I have another proposal for you. More generous — if you can believe it — than my last offer.”

  “Why?”

  “Frankly, Laura, you have what I want. You have the millennials. You got your hands so
tight around their overeducated, underpaid throats that the bruising is starting to show. I want that. I want to feel my hands where yours are. Sure, we own older white males, and homeowners who don’t foresee an increase in their personal fortunes. But only twenty-seven point two percent of our views have four plus years of college. Less than fourteen percent are white collar, professional, management. Our viewers are old, and getting older. I wouldn’t sleep with them and neither should you.”

  “I’m not sure what I can —”

  “Look at your audience. Sixty-five percent of them are college educated. You dominate the twenty-five- to thirty-four-year-olds, second strongest among eighteen- to twenty-four-year-olds. We’re talking about beautiful, fit, smart, health-conscious people. You have nineteen million likes on Facebook. And my personal favourite stat, seventy-two percent of traffic to your site is done via mobile platform. NatureWorld needs to be the go-to site for mobile science content for the under-forty crowd.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Consider my offer.”

  “What are you offering?”

  “Screw the deal with Geocomm. We’ll match their offer for your website. What have they offered you, a consultant position at your own website? I wouldn’t insult you. So, take the check and a month off, tan on a beach somewhere, then come work for me.”

  “I’ve invested a lot more than just time and money into my site, Danny. I’ve built it from pieces of my own soul. I’m not sure I can just give it up. It’s who I am.”

  “So is your driver’s licence. I hope you don’t get misty every time a traffic cop asks you to give it to him. Look, we’ll do one better. We’ll put you in front of the camera, give you your own programming to direct and host. Take your message to a whole new demographic in a new medium. Don’t you want to go out into the field?”

  “What do you mean, ‘into the field’?” I ask.

  “You may or may not know that our big ratings come from shows with the word monster in it. Ancient Monsters, Prehistoric Monsters, Monsters from the Deep, Hunting Monsters. The network wants you to spin that content for your demographic, weave them into the fold.”

  There was a time, growing up in a house where my parents rarely spoke to each other, that I spent rainy Sundays glued to the television. The Learning Channel — which, believe it or not, is what TLC once stood for — used to run marathons of their educational programs. I grew up on Paleoworld, Archaeology, and Connections. Even the ads for the network tried to impart a tidbit about the Sphinx or the Napoleonic Wars. There was a feeling of discovery watching those shows, like I was always on the cusp of learning something that might change my world. More than anything, that’s what I wanted to bring to people who clicked on ScienceIA.