by M K Dymock
The email icon at the bottom of the screen signaled unread messages. Without a thought of privacy, she launched the program. Most of the messages popping up were about school. Professors wondered if Keen was dropping their class along with homework assignments and announcements to opening socials for clubs. One group announced running sessions three times a week, another weekly yoga. For the first time, it hit Elizabeth how much of a life Keen had outside their small family world. She was no longer just an extension of her parents, but an adult.
“How much do I really know about her life?” she whispered. Elizabeth could only know what Keen herself allowed her to know.
The emails continued. Another came from Mina, a schedule for some hikes the local girls were going on in the fall. One was an email Keen sent to herself, subject line city records. She did that occasionally as a reminder to herself to do something.
Under that was one from Jake sent Monday. The subject line read, meet up?
She clicked it open. Attached to the email was a flyer advertising a band playing in the college town where both Jake and Keen attended school. What do you think? We had a blast last year. I’ll text you.
What the hell? He breaks Keen’s heart and then asks her out. Elizabeth picked up the phone and dialed Jake’s cell phone, but no answer. He hadn’t answered his phone anytime she’d called in the last few days. It was time to call in the big guns, mother to mother.
Blake and Clint booked Camden and Sebastian into jail during the night. Once their high came down, they called their faraway parents. Posers like them would have parents with expensive lawyers who love nothing more than billable hours.
While the parents called lawyers, the boys hadn’t yet asked for them. They sat down with Sebastian first, as he seemed the most likely to talk. The boy had pulled on a pair of flip-flops and a T-shirt before they brought him to the office. He fell asleep in the Tahoe and again after they processed him. Despite the naps, he still had a hard time holding his head up. Blake wouldn’t wait for whenever this guy’s day began. He pounded on the table and the kid jerked awake.
He set out the photo of Keen. “Just tell me where you saw this girl and you can go sleep.”
Sebastian forced his eyes wide open and shook his head hard, like a dog trying to shake something off. “Didn’t see her.”
“Come on, kid. Tell us now and we may forget to make you pee in a cup.”
“I don’t care where I pee.”
This kid is the dumb one. “Pee now, we find drugs in your system. Am I right?”
“I don’t know her.” A light finally shone through the kid’s hazy mind. “Camden saw her, not me. I got a flat.”
“Where did Camden see her?”
“On the trail, I guess. Complained about some stupid chick who couldn’t ride blocking the way. Said she looked cute enough, though.”
“Which trail?”
“Don’t know; wasn’t paying attention.”
In Chicago, Blake had worked with cokeheads who had more brain cells. Clint dragged the kid back to his cell, where he could sleep off the partying but not the stupidity.
They brought Camden in next, who stared past both of them, looking bored with life. “I’ve called my lawyer; you can talk to him.”
“You can send smoke signals to a hooker for all I care, but I need to know about the girl.”
For a brief second his eyes flickered to Blake’s before returning to the wall. “I saw a girl standing on the side of the trail with a purple bike. Didn’t talk to her, just kept going.” Every word said in a monotone voice. “That’s it.”
“Go get the map,” Blake said to Clint, who returned with a trail map he laid out on the table. “Where?”
Camden ran his fingers over the maze of trails before stopping at a fork about a half mile from the bottom trailhead called Lucky Jack.
“You seem fairly sure,” Blake said.
“That’s what I know. Can I go now?”
“We’ll see.”
Clint returned Camden to the cell and returned to Blake’s desk with coffee in a desperate attempt to compensate for no sleep. “You think they had something to do with it?”
“You don’t?” Blake asked, curious at what Clint’s response would be.
“Not Sebastian, the stupid one. He would’ve confessed by now. He admitted to peeing in his teacher’s plant in college when I was fingerprinting him. Not sure how that’s relevant, but it sure was entertaining. Why? You really think they’re part of this?”
“Possibly. Camden lawyered up fairly fast. Maybe Keen rejects him, he gets angry, and pushes her. Maybe they’re standing on the edge of a cliff or something. Boys like that will run away from any responsibility. And deeply insecure boys don’t like rejection.” Blake typed his arrest report into the computer.
“We can’t hold them for long. They didn’t commit a crime in our county.”
“Not that we know of. Talked to the Summit sheriff; his jail is empty and he’s not in a hurry to fill it up. He won’t lift his rear out of the chair for less than an election. We can hold them here for now.”
“Thought you didn’t find it worthwhile to arrest people for smoking weed.”
Blake’s typing halted at the snide note in his deputy’s voice. This issue had been one they’d butted heads about before. His deputy was still too young to see gray areas. “I don’t, right up until it stops being ‘recreating.’ The charges give us leverage to get them talking.”
Blake didn’t share his second reason for booking the boys. The town needed to see him doing something. This spinning their wheels didn’t look good; progress had to be made.
17
Thursday Morning
Hours passed before Keen drifted off to sleep, and dawn rose earlier than her body welcomed. Drowsiness pulled her back into sleep, but she fought to wake up. At least this hole wasn’t as cold as the previous night’s had been. Her eyes shot open; something wigged against her butt. She snuck a glance behind her.
A small rattlesnake had curled up beside her to sleep.
Keen swallowed the high-pitched scream she ached to relinquish. She didn’t mind snakes at certain distances, but this was not one of those distances. She’d gone to sleep with the stick she found the day before and slowly reached for it. Maybe she could get it to coil around the stick instead of her and then hurl it. No, she wanted a lot more distance between her and that snake before jarring it awake.
Rattlesnakes can only strike half their body length, so if she could get at least a foot away, she’d be safe.
Without breathing, she slid sideways out of the hole without taking her eyes off the snake’s patterned green back. Its tongue slipped out and she resisted the urge to run. She didn’t trust her ability to outrun how fast it could strike. The tongue settled back in. With one movement, she pushed out of the hole, rolling over a few times before leaping to her feet, stick in hand.
The snake slithered out of their bed with its rattler shaking at her, angry at its disturbed slumber.
“Serves you right. You don’t jump into bed with a woman without her say-so.” The snake took off into the bushes while she jumped up and down to get the icky feeling off her.
Without the warmth of the snake and hole, she shivered in the cold morning air.
She spent about an hour eyeing the trough from a vantage point to see if anyone waited for her. No movement broke through the calm of morning. She couldn’t chance approaching it directly, but she needed water to walk out of hell.
She scoured the area for anything she could carry water in, and dug an old plastic Mountain Dew bottle out of the dirt. It missed a lid and had more holes than a strainer, like it had been through target practice. A friend took her shooting a few weeks ago, her first time, and she shot a .22 rifle, which left a hole smaller than a pinky in the target. Whoever shot this had something similar.
Feeling better about life with the bottle and the hope of more water, she scrambled through the brush to the wash. She would n
ot go to the trough and its false promises. A small puddle remained untouched by the cows. She drank a little, then considered how to carry water in her bottle.
She tried stuffing pebbles in the holes, but they fell out. Then mud, but it washed away. Small sticks worked a little better, but the water leaked out around it. With a large sigh, she removed her underwear and ripped it into pieces. With the fabric and sticks, she fastened plugs into the holes.
“Well, Keen,” she said in a reporter’s voice once she made distance between her and the watering hole, “how did you manage to keep hydrated?”
“That’s a good question, Bob; I simply made a canteen out of my panties.” She set off to follow the tire tracks.
Gauge used to share a room with his brother, but that changed when a woman moved in, forcing him to the couch. He didn’t mind much. He didn’t mind much about anything, but he didn’t particularly like sharing a room with a brother who punched in the way some brothers wrestle.
Over the last summer, he’d stopped coming home most nights. During the week it was easy enough to find a campsite to roll out a sleeping bag. The forest smelled a lot better than the singlewide, which stank of whiskey and crap. His work had a shower if the campsite lacked a stream. This occasional habit of living in the woods had started around the time he turned sixteen, and now, at age twenty, his father had yet to notice. The last month, however, had made him think maybe he ought to get his own place, a real place. A home maybe he could bring someone to without anyone knowing.
He pulled down the dirt road to the singlewide, a wad of twenties in his pocket. His dad forced him to chip in on expenses every now and then. The old man knew his son’s paydays and if cash was delayed would show up at his job raising a fit. Gauge didn’t have time to deal with it that day, but wanted his dad far away from the only good thing he had going for him. Especially didn’t want him asking questions.
His dad didn’t know that Gauge’s boss had given him a raise. He didn’t change his family contribution, and he wanted to keep that secret for as long as he could. He also wanted to get to the search early and maybe, just maybe, be the one to find Keenley.
He winced at the smell as he opened the front door. Wasn’t immune to the smell like he used to be.
“That you, boy?” his dad, Ferg, yelled from the kitchen.
“It’s me.”
The old man came out of his room wearing jeans and a stained Princeton T-shirt—most of his clothes came from castaways at the church—and carrying a breakfast beer. Gauge handed over the cash and his dad counted it. “Should be more. That boss of yours is like all bosses and thinks he can use you like a slave. You should quit.”
“He treats me all right,” Gauge protested. “He just gave me a raise.” He cussed inwardly at his dumb words.
“Good, go pick up some beer and fried chicken, Mr. Money, since you’re so much better than your old man.” Ferg stumbled to the recliner facing the TV and collapsed in a heap. “Of course, you probably won’t even come back, like your mother. Even your dumb ass brother has been gone all week.”
Gauge didn’t much remember his mother, and he went back and forth between hating her for leaving or admiring her for it. “I’ll bring back some food tomorrow, I promise. I’ve got stuff to do today.”
Ferg pulled the tab on the can. “Stuff to do or someone?” He smirked. “You think that blonde is going to notice you now that you’ve got a few more dollars than nothing? Take my advice, boy: once you get yours, get rid of her. Skanks like that bleed a man dry.”
Gauge nodded like he always did at his father’s orders. “I’ve got to go.”
“Don’t forget to bring the beer back!” his father yelled as Gauge let the wind slam the screen shut.
18
Blake sent Clint home for a few hours’ sleep, while he made do with a nap on a couch in his office.
They left the boys under the watch of Charlie Shinlock, his part-time deputy, whom he called in the night before to help out. At this rate, Blake would need to deputize a few searchers to keep track of all the chaos.
Charlie knocked on his door, pulling Blake out of slumber that was both too deep and not long enough. “Sorry to wake you, but Summit County’s search and rescue team is here. They brought the dogs.”
Blake sat up, a wave dizziness washing over him. “About time.” He stood and stretched. “Any later and the rain might’ve rendered them moot. Anything else?”
“Just got off the phone with Croft; he wants his truck back. Says he has a few sheep to butcher.”
“We’ve got a missing girl and he’s worried about that stupid truck?” Blake scoffed. “I had Clint drop it off a day or so ago. Tell him to look in his barn. Idiot.” The “idiot” came out as more of a curse.
Outside the office, a truck with two dogs and a few handlers waited for him. One man jumped out of the cab to meet him. “Sheriff, we’re here to help.”
“I appreciate it, but I’m hoping you’ve got a few more dogs and men hiding in that truck. We were expecting more.”
“I know. Sorry about that, but we had a group of three hikers fail to come home from the weekend, and we sent out a team to search. Dogs had to rest yesterday or they wouldn’t be any good to anyone. Don’t you love the holidays?”
Blake could sympathize; holidays always meant more work. He had the men follow him down to the church to meet Sol, who would know better where to send the canines.
Three or four trucks pulling horse trailers lined the street in front of the church. The trucks were empty but the trailers full. The horses inside shifted back and forth, waiting to begin their day. He counted fifteen four-wheelers on trailers and a few driving around the lot. More people than the previous day got out of their cars, wearing hiking boots and carrying camel packs over their rain jackets.
Blake grabbed Sol before he could get inundated. “I’ve got your dogs.”
“Good, I need someone with a sniffer to search up here and along the river.”
“Along the river?” Blake said. “Wouldn’t they be more useful on the trails?”
“We don’t know where she is. She could’ve had an accident along the highway as easily as up here.”
Clint pulled in, apparently getting as much sleep as everybody else. Blake waved at his exhausted deputy. “I don’t know, Sol. You only have a few dogs; I’d keep them up here.”
Clint jogged up and interrupted. “Good news: Keen’s boyfriend is back in town. Want me to go talk to him?”
“Took him long enough to come back. Isn’t he coming up to help the search?” Everybody else sure had.
“His parents said maybe later.”
“I’ll worry about the dogs,” Sol said. “You worry about the humans.”
By the looks of things, the chaos of the previous two days would be surpassed within an hour. Going on three days without a sighting weighed on the town and they were out in force, determined to bring Keen home. “No,” Blake said to Clint after considering. “I want you and Charlie here to help keep people in control. I’ll go talk to him.”
Keen followed the tire tracks leading away from the trough, but at a distance of fifty yards or so away. She didn’t dare chance staying right on them, not knowing who else may traverse the area.
As the day wore on, the winds grew stronger. The sand pelted her, forcing her to walk backwards to spare her face. The tiny grains wedged in her eyelids. Her eyes, nose, everything watered except for her mouth. She allowed herself one swallow of water every hour, or what felt like every hour. Her footprints grew longer as her feet dragged. She’d run cross-country in high school and had plenty of experience at gauging distances. All that meant nothing in this rough country where it might take an hour to go a mile—or more.
The water bottle slipped from her weak fingers and it took several steps for the loss to register in her mind. When it did, she went another five feet, not caring.
Keen turned back. The green bottle didn’t just fall; it tumbled down an embankment.
Rather than chase it, she sat on the rocky slope and stared at the foreign spot of color. She took out her last bite of granola and held it in her mouth for as long as her will lasted, so maybe thirty seconds.
Shelter, water, food—always in that order. She lacked all three.
The old tire tracks she followed wound higher into the foothills, growing fainter. Large patches of scrub oak overtook the junipers. The terrain grew rockier, which she would’ve considered impossible an hour ago. This particular area, though not as high as the peaks surrounding Lost Gorge, still stretched high enough in elevation to turn summer into winter with a slight shift in the winds. Freezing temps in the little clothes she wore would kill her before anyone else could.
The southern wind kept temps warm, but Keen didn’t buy into that deception. Once the storm descended, the wind would shift to the north and the temperatures would plummet.
She managed to get to her feet. Three days and only a few swallows of water. Any rain would be a blessing and a curse. She would need shelter more than water. The road disappeared, but she stumbled across an old cow trail winding through the rocky terrain. Maybe the cows knew of a good place to outwait the storm.
After a few hours, the faint trail crawled up along a steep ridge, offering a vantage point of the low foothills to the west and the dark clouds pooling over them. She longed to see beyond those hills to know what the storm held in its quiver. A distant bolt struck the horizon. She counted to ten before the thunder. Far away, but coming closer.
She picked up her pace along the ridgeline, desperate for a place to drop down as the storm closed in. The cow trail meandered along, offering no help. A flash of color at the bottom of the cliff below her and fifty or so yards ahead halted her slow steps. She squinted. Fluorescent yellow had no place in this landscape, yet there it was, nestled in the rough green of a cedar patch. She moved closer, too hungry and tired to put words to what she saw.