Untraceable (The Nature of Grace Series)

by S. R. Johannes

  When I realize the store is only a few doors down from the bear pit attraction, a sick feeling ignites in my belly. I hate this place. People hitting animals with rotten apples. Bears living in cement corners without so much as a blade of grass in sight. Obese cubs begging for crappy food.

  Stretching along the beautiful Oconaluftee River, the bear park is massive, offering a variety of bear species, a gem mine, a tubing center, a shooting range, and an indoor mall. For reasons I still don’t understand, the park isn’t subject to any national bear laws. Keeping animals in an unnatural habitat with these awful conditions is not only disrespectful to nature, but it goes against everything Native Americans represent.

  I park and notice Wyn has already called twice and texted once. I turn my phone off to avoid him. The more I hang out with Mo, the more I find myself hiding from Wyn. I’m stuck between wanting to tell him what’s going on and not hurting him. A part of me is afraid I’ll lose him again too.

  I head toward the shop, keeping my face down. I’m not supposed to be here. Chief Reed banned Dad and me from the reservation last year because of our persistent protesting. Hopefully, the chief isn’t around today.

  As I walk by the reinforced walls of the complex, I hear snippets of the things going on behind the scenes. Bears groaning, kids screeching, and people shouting, “Bear! Bear!” Don’t those people see how unhappy the bears are? Maybe if they understood the animal’s natural behavior, they’d be more appalled. What’s worse is that the chief doesn’t see it either. Or doesn’t care.

  At last, I reach Mama’ Sue’s. The scent of leather wafts through the store, its walls lined with shoes: cowboy boots, hiking boots, and wellies. A few clothing rounds break up the large, open space, displaying outdoor wear for fishing, hiking, and camping.

  Mama Sue is helping a customer in the back. Dad always liked Sue, called her “Mama Grizzly.” From what he said, the woman is hardcore and tough as a rhino’s horn. Once, after being attacked by a bear, she crawled back to her cabin and sewed up her own head before calling for help.

  Everyone knows Mama Sue doesn’t fool around.

  As I wait for her to finish, I browse the store. A few articles about her attack hang on the wall next to a large bear hide. I’m guessing Mama Sue got her revenge after all. I lean in to read one about how she used to live so remotely that she could only provide her address by giving the latitude and longitude.

  “Well, hello, young lady. How can I help you?”

  The scruff voice startles me. I spin around and face Mama Grizzly. She’s wearing a leather river hat, chambray shirt, and black jeans. Her kinky brownish-gray hair is braided and hanging down to her waist. She crosses her arms. “Well? Speak up, child. I don’t have all day. Come to think of it, at my age, I probably don’t have much longer at all.” She coughs then smiles. “That means, you had better ask me something now. Before it’s too late.”

  I make a point not to stare too long at the three deep scars running down her left cheek. “You’re Mama Sue?” Dumb question, I must be nervous.

  She grips the blue spectacles hanging from a chain and balances them on the end of her pointy nose. “Maybe. Who wants to know?”

  If she can take down a four-hundred-pound bear, I can only imagine what she could do to the average sixteen year old. My voice cracks. “I’m Grace Wells, and I wanted —”

  She cuts me off. “Grace Wells! Good Lordy. As in Joe’s daughter?”

  “The one and only.”

  “My. My. Look how much you’ve grown!” Her face brightens. She yanks me into a bear hug with a vice grip that shows exactly how strong she really is. “Why, you look just like your daddy.” She wraps one arm around my shoulders and leads me in front of a photo hanging on the wall. She points to the picture of her and Dad. “He was a fine man.”

  All I hear is the past tense. The room tilts a little bit, and for a second, I feel like I’m going to pass out. I center myself and can’t help but tug on the top of my t-shirt, hoping to stretch the collar to keep it from squeezing my throat. “Yes … he is.”

  Her eyes soften as she nods slowly. “Is. Was. All the same to the big man upstairs.” We look in each other’s eyes for a second.

  I prickle. “Well, it’s not the same to me.”

  She pats my shoulder and smirks. “I see that. You know, you’re spunky. Like Joe. I like that. Now, why are you here? You must have come for something other than nothing.”

  I slide the pictures out of my back pocket. “I want to know if you can tell what kind of boots made these prints.”

  “Honey, do you know how many boots are out there? What makes you think I would know one from the other?”

  I point outside. “Sign says, We know boots. I assume ‘we’ is you. Unless it’s false advertising. Which I doubt. Plus Dad always says you’re the best.”

  Mama Sue busts out laughing. “You got guts and a sense of humor. Good for you.” She takes the pictures from me and studies the one I found by Al’s truck. She walks over to the wall and inspects the treads of a few shoes. “Hm. This one here is probably a High Tec. Size 10. I can tell by the tread. Pretty common around here.” She points to a larger print. “However, this bigger one looks custom made. Probably a size 11.”

  I study the prints over her shoulder. The smaller one must be Billy’s and the custom one has to be Al’s. I summarize what’s she’s said to be sure I understand. “So these are definitely from two different boots?”

  Mama Sue nods once. “That’s what I said.”

  I stare at the custom one. “Has anyone been in here recently for custom-made boots?”

  She scoffs. “A few. But none of these are mine.”

  The knots in my stomach form a noose around my gut and cinch tighter. “How do you know?”

  “Most boot makers I know mark their work with a signature tread.” She holds up a shoe. “This is mine. I try to do an S in the pattern. This one looks to have a couple notches in the heel.”

  I hold up the picture from Station 19 and pray her assessment is different than mine. “What about this one? Do these prints match either one of those?”

  She studies the photo for barely a second. “Nope. This one’s different.”

  I sigh in defeat. Just as I feared. Why can’t anything be easy? If these are all different, who was the person at Station 19 that day?

  Mama Sue takes off her glasses and studies me for a minute. “I know most of the people who do custom boots around these parts. Why don’t you let me keep these photos, and I’ll do some digging for you?”

  I only hesitate a second. If Dad trusts her, so can I. After making copies of the pictures for Mama Sue and leaving her my cell number, I leave the air-conditioned store, but not before sneaking a peak at the photo of my dad.

  Outside, the heat attacks my skin and fills my lungs with hot air. This time, I cross the street and walk in the shade on the opposite side of the bear pits.

  I shuffle along the sidewalk, staring at my feet. I’m so close to figuring this thing out, but something is sitting just beyond my mind’s grasp. Think, think.

  Just as I round the corner, I smack right into a man.

  A deep voice chastises me. “What the hell are you doing on my reservation?”

  I shield my eyes and look up to find Chief Reed staring down at me. Something tells me to note specific details about him in my head. Dressed in faded jeans and a white button-down shirt, he plays with a Native American bolo tie made of braided leather, silver, and turquoise beads dangling from his neck.

  I stutter at first, trying to come up with a good explanation. “Visiting Mama Sue.” I back up a few steps to put some distance between us and collect my wavering confidence. “Besides, just because you ask me not to come here, doesn’t mean you scare me away from trying to close these bear pits.”

  His face remains stoic, his eyes black and menacing. “I didn’t ask, I forbade it. Do you want to get arrested?”

  I scoff. “You can’t arrest me.”
>
  He plays with his braid. “The rules are different here on my reservation. You may not know that, but your dad sure did.”

  My lip quivers. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Chief Reed shrugs. “He knew the consequences of hanging out around here. You should too.”

  I grit my teeth. “What are you saying? Did you have something to do with my dad going missing?”

  “Me? Why would you say that?”

  I cross my arms to hide my shaking hands. “My dad was all over you about those bears. Was close to shutting you down, which would cost you millions of dollars in profits.”

  “Those bears are well taken care of.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Wow, you’re either really dumb, lying to yourself, or just plain evil. Last year, you wrote in your book ‘respect of nature, the animals, the winged ones, and every living creature is honored as demonstrating sacredness.’ By the way, I didn’t buy it. Just saw it at the bookstore. Wouldn’t give you a dime; I know where it all goes.” I point to the bear pit.

  Chief Reed acts all innocent, but I see a smile hiding behind his eyes. His amusement frustrates me but I try to hold back from saying anything. “On the reservation, accusing a Tribal Council official could be considered a crime.”

  “You can’t do that. Free speech.”

  He grabs my arm and leans in with a fake smile on his face as to not attract attention. “On my reservation, I can do what I please.” He taps his finger on my forehead. “The sooner you get that into your sweet little head, the safer you’ll be. Now get out of here,” he sneers and winks, “before you disappear too.”

  Chief Reed walks off and shakes some hands of a few tourists. I’m left standing alone, steaming, with my mouth hanging open. Wishing more than anything I could throw his butt in a cement pit and toss tomatoes at his head.

  He looks back over his shoulder and waves goodbye.

  Here I am, stuck on Al. But maybe there’s a suspect I haven’t considered yet.

  Chief Reed.

  Survival Skill #27

  Proper navigation consists of three distinct stages: orientation, navigation, and route finding.

  I spend the rest of the morning and early afternoon, searching for more evidence. As usual, no finds. I pick up my rod and wade into the water to wait for Mo. As I cast, I allow some of my frustrations to drift away in the water’s ebb. Eventually, my body relaxes and Mo’s smile creeps in.

  Goosebumps prickle my arms as I picture our first kiss. Again. I’m so caught up in my daydreaming that my line gets caught in a tree.

  “Hello, blossom,” a low voice says.

  I jump. “Why do you always do that?” I spin around to find him perched on top of a large boulder.

  He’s lying on his back with both hands behind his head and one knee propped up. Perfect and poised. Like some kind of lazy nature God.

  My cheeks blaze in embarrassment, wondering if he can hear my thoughts. “How long have you been watching me?” I can’t see his eyes through the dark sunglasses.

  “Long enough.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I was afraid to.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Actually, I just fancy watching a pretty girl fish. Is that a crime?” He smiles and motions to my line, still dangling from a limb above. “You trapped?”

  I want to say, You have no idea. Instead, I smile. "Not quite.” I jerk my rod and the line slumps out of the tree, snaking around me. I wade through the rippling current toward the embankment. “Wanna join me?”

  Mo pushes his sunglasses up on his forehead. “What happened to stranger danger?”

  “I think we’ve made progress.”

  “Well, how can I refuse then?”

  I skip across a few slimy rocks until my foot slides out from under me. I attempt to recover, but this time, I lose the battle and timber into the shallow stream. A bit shocked, I roll into a sitting position and wipe my face with my shirt, hoping the redness washes off with it.

  I’m an idiot.

  Mo bends over me with a big grin strung across his face. “Bloody hell, are you all right?” He stretches out his hand to help and, this time, I accept it.

  Only instead of pulling up, I yank on his arm, catching him totally off guard.

  A look of shock replaces his blazing smile as he tumbles into the river. He catches himself with his hands, but not before his face smacks the water. I immediately crack up. It feels good to laugh again. Like really laugh.

  Mo springs to his feet in a nanosecond and plasters on an I’m-going-to-get-you expression. He cups his hands together and splashes me, soaking the small part of me that’s still dry. I fight back with a fury, kicking water in his face. At this point, we’re both hysterical. When I see my chance, I slop off through the water, lifting my legs high for speed.

  Mo chases after me.

  Screaming, I try to escape, but he tackles me. As I scramble to get away, he clutches onto my ankle and pulls me backwards. Rolling over, I fight him by squirting water in his face.

  Instead of splashing back, he holds down my hands and kisses me. I feel as if I’m gliding on top of the river like a canoe. The water sloshes in my ears. We kiss for several long minutes before parting.

  I frown. “I think that was cheating.”

  “All’s fair in love and water war. Couldn’t let myself be brought down by a girl again.” Deep crinkles spray the corners of his eyes. Water droplets fall off his dark hair and land on my lips. “Your eyes are the same color as the Alexandrite I gave you.”

  I tilt my head back and laugh. “Are you serious? That’s your line! Wait, are they twinkling like the stars too?”

  He smirks. “How come every time I give you a compliment, you make a joke?”

  Because I’m scared to death? “Because I’m naturally funny?”

  He doesn’t bite. “Maybe you’re afraid of something.”

  I shift uncomfortably at his insight. “Of what? You? Hardly.”

  Mo pecks my forehead. “No, not me. Of us.”

  Us? Are Mo and I an “us”? A “we”? My face singes. For once, I can’t come up with a clever retort.

  He opens his mouth as if he’s going to speak but stops short.

  “What is it?”

  He props his butt on his heels. “Nothing.”

  “You were going to say something.” Mo doesn’t respond. Instead, he slicks back his wet hair and pulls his soaked shirt away from his toned chest, making a sucking sound. I click my lips. “Now who’s pushing who away?”

  Mo holds out both hands and lifts me to my feet. Our wet bodies press against each other. He wraps his strong arms around me. “Is this close enough?”

  I shrug. “Not quite.”

  He pecks me on the lips. “Come on, then.”

  “Where to?”

  Mo tosses his backpack over one shoulder. “To my place.”

  “Out here? Isn’t that a little strange?”

  He shrugs like he’s never thought about it before. “I don’t think so. I like it. It’d be harder to hike in everyday and find samples. Why not just enjoy it before my semester starts up again?”

  “Good point.” I try not to appear too excited at the thought of heading off into the woods with him. “But I’m all wet.”

  “Don’t worry, there’s no dress code. I’ll get us warm. Plus I owe you some home cooking.”

  I bite back another protest and follow him up the embankment. After gathering our things, we trek deep into the woods scattered with shadows dancing in the dimming light. The further we go, the thinner the path and the thicker the foliage. The sun is still setting in the sky, but down on the forest floor, it’s already night time, making it hard to follow his outline.

  “Mo? Where are you?” I whisper.

  A beam of light breaks through the trees a few yards ahead. “I’m over here.”

  I steer in his direction, with my hands out in front, protecting my face from protruding branches and c
reepy spider webs. I wince as a wiry branch snatches onto a clump of my hair and rips several strands at the root.

  Up ahead, an arching line of light sweeps across the ground and reflects off something shiny to my right. “Hey. Shine the light over here a second. I want to see something.”

  Mo doesn’t answer.

  Squatting down, I press the faint LED light on my watch. Something glimmers from under a pile of wet leaves. I brush my hand along the ground until my fingers touch something hard and cold. I hold up the shiny object, trying to make it out in the glow of my watch. Too dim. I try to note the coordinates too even thought it’s hard to see.

  “Mo, I need your flashlight.” He doesn’t answer so I stuff the object into my pocket. “Mo?”

  I try to focus on anything in front of me, hoping my eyes will adjust. The woods grow quiet. My heart flutters.

  Then out of nowhere, someone grabs my shoulder.

  Survival Skill #28

  The type of shelter needed depends on the equipment, terrain, and climate.

  Directly in front of me, Mo flips on his light with it glowing under his chin. “Boo!”

  I clutch my chest, checking to see if my heart has stopped or fallen out. I hit him with both hands in the chest. “Geez! You’re lucky I didn’t flip you over my shoulder.”

  “Come on. You knew it was me.”

  “Doesn’t matter! Any time someone jumps out in the dark, it freaks you out.”

  “Sorry.” He squeezes my hand. “Come on, my place is over here.”

  I stumble behind him as his boots crunch through the dead leaves.

  He stops me with both hands and holds me still. “Stay here.” I stand solo for a few seconds, watching the shadows move around me until a lantern offers a reassuring light. “Time to relax.” Mo motions for me to sit down as he pokes a long stick into a heap of charred twigs.

  Minutes later, twirling flames illuminate the area. It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust before I notice his man-made, lean-to shelter. A roof, made of leaves, nestled between two tall trees. Under the shelter, a piece of black tarp stretches along the ground. A rolled-up, army green sleeping bag and a wool blanket rest on the artificial floor.