Gil pointed to the map. “Where?”
Zoe let out a sigh and kept her eyes on her pizza. “Off the fishing trail that bisects the main trail by Big Lake.”
Gil traced his finger over the trail and found the hand-drawn addition to the map. “Here?” Gil pointed a few feet west from the large body of water labeled Big Lake.
Zoe had always mocked the inventiveness of the park staff that had named the body of water. “They were fishing there but saw it further down the trail. Fifty yards at least. But Gil they were teenagers, it could be some stupid prank or maybe they know about the reported sightings.”
Gil scratched his chin, then shook his head. “Seems to be a peculiar prank for teenagers. I will mark it down.”
He added a tack to the map, propped the corkboard up on the counter, and stepped back to examine the data. Zoe rolled her eyes and brought her plate to the sink. As she wiped it clean, she looked back to see Gil carry the map back into the living room. Zoe put away the leftovers and joined him. She let herself sink into the couch.
“What is the pulse of the rangers? Is Mathias—”
“He’s still Mathias. Nobody seems to think twice about any of it.” Zoe turned on the TV. “They all just say it’s people seeing what they want to see. What’s that called again?”
“Confirmation bias. It is unclear if it applies to this case though. Typically, it fits with—”
“Nobody seems inclined to do anything besides take a lazy drive by with a truck if the location is convenient.” Zoe fiddled with the remote. “We’re still pinning them to the map like you are, but that’s where it stops. Although, I think I saw Clem taking pins off the map the other day.”
Gil shook his head. “There is always a non-believer in the bunch. They are hard-pressed to take action. A significant development may do the trick. But action will be difficult to force.” Gil mumbled to himself as he looked at the map. “Perhaps a nudge from a government official. Perhaps a photograph as evidence. Or perhaps an attack.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right. Although, personally, I just want this to be over.” Zoe sighed. “We’re so close to winter. Shorter hours and fewer visitors in the park. I can almost smell it.” Zoe clicked on their Recently Watched queue. “Anyway, did you want to try and finish that documentary or—”
“No TV for me tonight. This has my full attention,” Gil said with his eyes fixed on the map.
Zoe rolled her eyes. I’m playing second fiddle to hairy beasts again. “Well, I’m going to watch Longmire reruns until I pass out then. Come get me from the couch when you go to bed?”
“Of course, dear.” Gil kissed her on the cheek and scurried off with a newfound enthusiasm to his office.
Zoe grinned and let her mind wander off as a tenacious team of Sheriff’s deputies investigated crimes in Wyoming. For the time being, fiction was far more interesting than the boring reality that had become her life.
Chapter Seven
The dawn chorus reached its crescendo as Kyle drove. Daylight was dim behind the horizon. Mockingbirds and bluebirds sung their finest soundtrack songs. Dew clung to blades of grass. Droplets had begun to evaporate in the rising temperatures of the morning hour, but many remained nonetheless. The slam of the car’s trunk lid echoed and bounced off the maze of pine trees that bordered the illegal parking spot. Kyle glanced around, but there wasn’t another soul in sight. He tossed the backpack over his shoulder.
He jumped back into his car, drove another mile toward the entrance gate of the park, and cruised into a vacant spot between two other cars. Each had empty bike racks and bumper stickers from various marathons and triathlons. A not-so-subtle signal to onlookers that they were active and fit. Like a patch on a backpack in junior high.
Kyle pulled his car key off the ring, wove the drawstring of his shorts through the keyhole, tied a knot, and tossed the rest of his keys into his center console. He slung the backpack straps over his arms. It hung too high on his back, so he dropped the shoulders down and connected the front buckle over his chest to prevent it from bouncing along as he jogged.
A split-rail fence made of cedar and ash marked the edge of the park property, but a path with well-worn tread led around the edge. He cleared the security measure with ease. Posts that marked each segment of fence splintered beside marks from a creature’s gnawing that scarred the bottom.
Pine needles crunched beneath his running shoes, the give and take of each needle bracing together with every step. A tenderness in his knee ached with the first few steps, but he transitioned into a jog before long. One foot in front of the other. A cyclist whirred past and dove down the driveway. Kyle veered off the main road and onto the trails. Pine trees bracketed the path. Scrape marks from a buck rub scarred the trunk of a red oak to the side. Rhododendrons nodded along in the breeze with their familiar waxy leaves. Soil mixed with fallen leaves and seeds dropped from gum trees along the path. The smooth introductory tones of Nina Simone’s Sinnerman blared through Kyle’s headphones as he started at a steady pace as he passed the entrance gate.
The forest thickened, and shadows appeared in the last traces of moonlight. There was always something special about dawn. The fresh day still finding its footing. Sunlight on the horizon, just out of reach. Birdsong was a backbeat to the rhythmic thump of feet on the trail.
His cushioned soles supported him as he drove his knees upward and climbed the first hill of the day. His lungs burned from the cold air that marked an autumnal Carolina morning. Sweat beaded on his brow. A drop trickled down his forehead and tickled his skin like a crawling ant. The weight of the bag dug the straps into his shoulders, so he tightened the chest clip and took some pressure off.
Within thirty minutes, Kyle had cruised into the depths of the park and turned onto the shortcut trail, his shortcut trail, which had taken shape after countless trips. Rangers had stacked logs and debris over the beginning, but Kyle hurdled over them and continued onward. He grinned at the recent additions to the obstruction, constantly built up wider and taller, as if there wasn’t always a way around. The rangers failed to respect Kyle’s determination. Plus, the shortcut bisected the park and stripped at least twenty minutes off his round trip time. Better than that; it was empty. There were no joggers out for their morning miles or dog walkers holding their leash tight as their puppy snarled. Kyle’s only company was nature. The birds in the trees. The tread on the trail. The still air mixed with morning sunshine.
Ten years and twenty pounds ago, Kyle would have said he could carry on for another hour without a break. His mind often flashed back to his moments of glory on the track. Diving across finish lines after the rubbery surface had rubbed his feet raw inside his flimsy track spikes. Friends and family cheering him on from uncomfortable aluminum bleachers. Teammates shouting out splits with each lap that he completed. The feverish excitement that would course through his veins upon hearing the official ring the bell for the final lap. The last fourhundred meters where everything hurts and nothing is easy. He’d leave it all on the track. His lungs on fire, but his legs carrying him through. Through, past the faded line on the surface that marked his end. His triumph. His trophy.
There were no moments where his teammates carried him off the field or when the crowd chanted his name. Track and field wasn’t that kind of sport. Neither was cross-country. No, that type of reaction was fit for Olympians and world record holders, not middle-sized-state-college superstars that were, at best, the top runners in their counties. Maybe their state.
Instead, he basked in the glow of moments that were less than spectacular from the outside. Rowdy laughter on the team bus on the way home from a meet. Fast food trays covered with burgers and fries that toppled over as they moved. Hotel room shenanigans on road trips. The alluring look of a girl as he jogged past her on campus. Pasta parties where ten pounds of spaghetti would get wolfed down in the drop of a hat. Walking off their overstuffed guts on familiar trails that wove through peach orchards and family farms. A sil
ent bond that didn’t need formal recognition or naming. A brotherhood of sorts that made the misery of training and running a little more bearable. Some things were more meaningful than the numbers on a stopwatch.
Years stretched after graduation and much like Kyle’s knees, most of the ties to that brotherhood grew weak. Strained by distance and time. Left instead with hurried moments of after-work happy hours and run clubs at breweries. FaceTime reunions and “we should catch up sometime!” on every birthday. It wasn’t equivalent to the joy he once felt. But he’d kept running. Lower mileage. Slower times. More pain. His legs were sturdy, but the tendons ached each morning. Another sign of life passing him by.
Kyle slowed to a walk and took off his headphones. In college, such a break would earn a loud boo from his teammates. In those days, he would eventually give in and run with a forced grin. Not anymore. Now, he stood still and listened to the trees as they performed their swaying dance in the breeze. A scampering animal rustled leaves in the distance. An easy sound to distinguish from human footsteps. There were no humans around. The only other sound Kyle could hear was his heart thumping in his chest. Nerves and fatigue often came on with similar symptoms.
Your body doesn’t tell you when you’re out of shape. It happens like a river wearing down its banks. The body looks the same, but it’s changed. The force of that flowing water has weakened. There’s less blood pumping. Lactic acid becomes an all-too-familiar friend. Muscles ache in areas that you didn’t know could ache. Early morning steps out of bed become reminders of every year you’ve lived. Of every mile you’ve run. Of every pounding your foot has taken against the pavement along the way. Age had a cryptic way of sneaking up on a person, every time your birthday neared like an annoying neighbor who seems to inch their house closer.
Kyle eyed the spot. He dropped to a knee and reached around the base of a moss-covered log that had fallen across the path. Ants crawled and fled the scene like a guilty party. He reached for the small latch under the natural camouflage of the greenery and flipped it open. The top of the log rose like an opening treasure chest. Creaked like a car door in desperate need of oil. The insides were bare, as they always were when Kyle arrived. He dropped the backpack into the log, lowered the top, re-locked the latch, and stood back up.
On the route back, Kyle let his mind wander back to the beach. His soon-to-be home. The sandy soil that mixed with the debris on the surface of the trail reminded him of warm summer days in the Outer Banks. Reminded him of the surprise on his friend’s faces when he told them he’d rented everybody a house for a week. The looks that the women shot him after he told them about his side hustle that brought in extra dough. The brief, fleeting joy that came from that break from reality. The harsh return to the world that awaited him back home.
In moments of doubt, Kyle reminded himself. There was an endgame. A target set of numbers that were his ticket out. A net worth in his bank account that would justify the means. No more students who don’t give a shit about literature. No more crappy teacher benefits. No more eleven-hour days at a school that smelled like old erasers and bleach. None of that would matter.
He dreamt of how his friends would react when they learned that he’d split town. His co-workers would gossip. Assume he lost his mind or went back to live with his parents. After all, no profession is more criminally underpaid than teachers. They’d emphasize the underpaid part and assume he fell on hard times. Nobody would take a second to re-examine the sentence. Criminally underpaid.
Chapter Eight
The sun snuck over the horizon as Delaney turned off of the Bourne Bridge and steered South away from Cape Cod. The butterflies that tickled Casper’s stomach faded as they made their way through Rhode Island and into Connecticut. Conversation was light, and the playlist he had made for the occasion struck a chord with his co-pilot. Delaney was in a playful mood. Before long, he almost forgot about the ominous note buried inside his duffel bag.
The internet provided little clues to what the cryptic message could mean. The first part was clear enough. Delaney was hiding something. That didn’t bother Casper. Everybody had secrets. Monsters in their closet. Demons that they wrestle with when they’re alone. Hell, Casper had just come to see the edge of relief from crippling claustrophobia although he had a long way to go. Who am I to talk?
The added mystery was that aside from the note, Delaney seemed like an open book. She was transparent and direct. Never one to shy away from what she meant or wanted. But that all made sense in its own way. If she had something to hide, there was likely a damn good reason for it. That made his internal debate even more difficult.
95 South looked like a parking lot. Hoagie curled up in a ball on the back seat and snored the day away. Casper watched their arrival time tick up from mid-afternoon into the early evening hours. The scenery grew bland. Exit signs and rest stops repeated and blurred together. After a three-hour stretch where Casper’s mind echoed with the words Raven Rock, Delaney pulled into a scenic overlook that overlooked nothing but office buildings. She returned from the tiny crowded bathrooms and encouraged Hoagie as he searched for an ideal spot to pee.
“Where are we?” Casper asked.
“Connecticut. Your turn!”
She tossed him the keys. Casper shrugged. “It all looks the same to me.”
Delaney smiled. “Just keep it under one hundred, okay?”
Traffic cleared just south of the Tappan Zee Bridge. Delaney fiddled with her phone in the passenger seat. “You sure you’re alright with whatever I choose?”
“Gimme your worst, Del,” Casper said with a grin.
The speakers crackled and after ominous notes of a homemade theme song created on a synthesizer, a smoky voice with a thick British accent introduced the show.
“Welcome to another episode of The Elusive Beast. I am your host, Gil MacDougal. Today, we shall dive into the history of our beloved creature. Some mistakenly know it as Sasquatch. Others have labeled it a Yeti. But we know and will refer to our furry friend as Bigfoot.”
“I did not take you as a Bigfoot truther, Delaney Shepard,” Casper laughed.
“Give it a listen, will ya?”
“In the early afternoon of Friday, October 20th, 1967, Roger Patterson and his friend Bob Gimlin were riding northeast on horseback on the east bank of Bluff Creek, just northwest of Orleans, California and thirty-eight miles south of the Oregon border. After stopping for lunch, they continued onward, and around one-thirty in the afternoon, they came to an overturned tree with a large root system. The downed tree sat at a turn in the creek and they described it as being ‘nearly as tall as a living room’. They rounded it and spotted a figure behind the tree that was crouching down just to their left. Gimlin stood in pure shock. Patterson was awestruck. He tried to size up the creature with his eyes. He surmised it was at least seven feet tall. Standing on two feet. Bipedal. Apelike. Dark reddish-brown fur covering most of its body. Prominent breasts. It turned and saw them.”
“Is this going to turn into some fetish thing? I’ve never heard somebody talk about Bigfoot’s breasts with a straight face before. Who is this clown?” Casper said.
“Well, you can ask about that detail yourself.”
Casper raised his eyebrows.
Delaney turned the phone his way. The podcast logo was the profile of a man looking off into the wilderness. “This is Zoe’s fiancé, Gil.”
“This is the same Gil? Oh, I’m sorry I said anything, I—”
“No, you’re not wrong and this is nothing new. Zoe’s heard it all. But she loves him anyway.”
“Where’s he from?”
“Outside of London. In the country. I forget the name but something ending in ‘shire.”
“Interesting. Okay, I’ll keep an open mind. Let’s hear some more. Maybe it gets better.”
Delaney pressed play.
“Patterson grabbed his camera and started filming. They were over twenty-five feet away, but got footage of the creature walking awa
y from them. He looked at Gimlin, who stood in pure shock, and then grabbed for his gun and ran after the creature. Within seconds of following, they had lost the creature’s trail. It was nowhere to be found. They hurried home and reviewed the footage. They called in local researchers to show what they had found. A female ape-like creature that was taller and steadier on two feet than any they had ever heard of. They left convinced they had captured indisputable evidence that Bigfoot did indeed exist.”
Once the advertisement started, Casper provided a review. “He’s a natural storyteller. That’s a fact. I am the furthest thing from a Bigfoot believer, but he’s got my attention.”
“You don’t buy into any of that? Mr. Paranormal Investigator?”
“Bigfoot isn’t paranormal, and neither is my work. You know that’s just a gimmick from the past. I guess I could see a world where he exists—”
“Or she. Breasts, Casper. Prominent breasts.”
Casper turned red as a tomato. “Press play before I get more uncomfortable.”
“This infamous film, which you in all likelihood have seen, lasts less than thirty seconds. The creature walks with ease away from the camera, turns to glare at the men, and then continues onward. Certain details were baffling to the experts. How did it evade their pursuit when they went to follow? Why did the creature have breasts when all reported sightings in the past were of male Bigfoots? What was the speed of the capture setting on the camera? More questions than answers surfaced.”
“And we like Gil, yes?” Casper asked.
“He’s a kook, but he’s a lovable one. Just wait and see. He’ll win you over within minutes. I get why Zoe is with him.”
“Has she dated guys like him in the past?”
“She’s got a string of poor choices and mistakes in her past, just like most of us. She was big on the dating apps for a while but said she found all the guys too boring.”
Trouble Afoot (Shepard & Kelly Mysteries Book 2) Page 4