by Nancy Cupp
Joseph nodded. He didn’t trust Lance to take care of Margret. He resolved to bring her along, even though it would slow him down.
Lance retrieved his pack from the tree. He stuffed the remainder of trail mix inside, leaving only M&Ms and Skittles for the other two. He paused to extend a hand to Joseph before he left, “Thanks Joe, er—Joseph.”
Joseph accepted the gesture, then got to work cutting small flexible branches. He wove them together, and tied them using laces from Margret’s pack. She watched him, fascinated. “I’m glad I’m going with you,” she said. “He makes me nervous.”
“There’s something wrong in his heart,” replied Joseph, producing two sets of makeshift snowshoes. As soon as they could, they got packed and ready to go. Joseph threw snow on the dying campfire and showed Margret how to put the snowshoes on her feet. Her first steps were clumsy. She fell into the soft snow, laughing, several times before she got the hang of it. Joseph gave her a sturdy walking stick, and eventually she found a rhythm that kept her upright while carrying her back-pack.
18
Minnesota
Robin returned from her seminar half-expecting Margret to be curled up on the couch with a good book and a bag of chips. Maybe she went to see her father, he wanted her visit, she mused. Robin was putting away her things when the phone rang. It was Margret’s father. “Hi, Mr. Malone, how are you?”
“I’m well, and how are you two?”
“I’m fine. I just got home from Chicago. Margret’s not here—I thought she might be spending her vacation with you. Did you try her cell?”
“She didn’t answer—sometimes she turns it off, like when she’s at the library.”
“She did say she was going on a trip to Yosemite National Park. But you know—I didn’t really think she would.”
“Yosemite National Park, that’s in California isn’t it? She said she was going there?”
“Yeah, for camping—and a hike. She said she had to shop for gear. Maybe she did go.”
“There was something in the news about that place—what was it? Oh—there was a death, a ranger was found dead.”
“What? In the park? That’s awful.”
“Now I’m worried. You know how she gets in the middle of things.”
“Oh—I wouldn’t worry Mr. Malone. She’s probably tucked away in the library, reading a book.” Robin straightened out Margret’s pile of books while she was talking to Mr. Malone on the phone. When she turned over the top book she saw the one about Yosemite. Tucked inside, for a bookmark, was a receipt from REI.
“Oh dear,—Mr. Malone? I think she did go camping. There’s a receipt here with a long list of camping equipment.”
“I’m going to call around to see if I can find out anything. Thanks Robin, I’ll let you know when I get some answers. Have her call me right away if she gets in touch, won’t you?”
☙
“Ahwahnee Hotel, this is Miranda speaking. How can I help you?”
“Hello, this is Martian Malone. I’m calling because I haven’t heard from my daughter, and I’m not able to reach her on her cell phone. I’m not sure, but I think she’s staying at your park.“
“I can check to see if she’s registered, sir, but there are a lot of places to stay in the park, campgrounds, Camp Curry or hiking in the back country.”
“Oh, I doubt she’s camping,” said Mr. Malone, with a smile.
“What’s her name?”
“Margret Malone.”
“I’ll check to see if she is registered with us. Please hold a moment. Sir,—Mr. Malone? I have no one by that name registered with us. Just so you know, the cell service is poor to non-existent in the park. The signal doesn’t get to us in the valley.”
“Okay, thank you. If she does check in, will you give her the message to contact her Father?”
“Yes, sir.” Miranda hung up and rolled her eyes. Like I can keep track of everyone in the park, she thought.
19
Art for Sale
Joyce closed the trailer doors, she’d swept it clean to be ready for the next load. She was relieved she made it through the storm. Picking up her broom, she heard a familiar three-note tone. It was a common sound when wind blew across rows of parked trailers.
The eerie howl made her shudder, and she had to laugh at herself. You’d think I’d be used to trailer harmonics by now, she thought. She’d heard other drivers talk about dead drivers haunting trailers.
Back in the cab of her truck, she gathered what she needed for a quick shower. She’d gotten lucky, and was able to stay ahead of the snow storm that blasted the mountain roads. Still on schedule, she’d be able to grab a shower, pick-up her load, and head to Salt Lake City in the morning.
As she crossed the parking lot, she noticed a man talking to a tourist, who was getting fuel for his bus-sized recreational vehicle. “This is an authentic Indian Artifact. A stone tool used for grinding—whatever it was they were grinding. And I have a handmade Indian basket. Look how tight the weave is—they carried water in these,” she heard the man say.
“Where did you get it?” The man pounded on the side of his RV. “Amber—come out here,” he yelled to his wife. “Do you want any of this stuff?”
“Oh—I love the basket. How much do you want …”
Joyce kept walking. She wondered how this guy happened to have an “authentic” Indian Artifact.
Inside, Joyce stood by the TV room, waiting for her shower number to be called. The news was covering the search for the person responsible for a murder in Yosemite Valley. “….enforcement officials are scouring the park for persons responsible for this horrible crime. Our sources tell us the young woman was a park ranger for a number of years. We will keep you updated as more information is available. Meanwhile, Yosemite National Park is temporarily closed to visitors…”
Joyce’s number was called. Standing with flip-flops on, she lingered in the hot steamy water, showers were one of the few luxuries she had on the road. She enjoyed every minute in the tiny, private room.
She walked back to her truck feeling refreshed, thinking about the can of stew she’d heat up for supper—again. Her hair was still wet, but the warm Nevada evening felt good.
“Could I interest you in some fine art?” The guy with the Indian Artifacts asked.
“Ah—no,” said Joyce, knowing it was either fake or stolen. The real-deal wouldn’t be for sale in a truck-stop parking lot.
“This is a genuine drawing of Yosemite National Park. It’s real old and quite valuable, but I’ll sell…”
“No, thank-you,” said Joyce. She kept walking, glad her truck was close by.
Joyce was heating stew and settling in for the night. Her shower took an hour, and dinner would burn up another half. If she allowed an hour in the morning, she’d be down to seven and a half for sleeping.
A walk would’ve been nice,—I need the exercise, but I gotta get some sleep. Ten hours is never enough time, but sitting around doesn’t make money. Either I’m stuck sitting, waiting for a load, or not getting enough sleep because I have to keep rolling.
The next morning, when she was tipping open the hood of the truck to check the oil, she noticed the artifact-guy getting into an old, green, Chevy Impala. She wondered if he’d made his sale. The guy’s a scam artist, she thought.
Joyce let the hood bang shut. She bent down, to check air pressure in the first of eighteen tires, and caught sight of the California license plate on the Impala. She wrote the number in the dirt, watching the car pull out of the parking lot, the bumper on the left side hanging down. I think I’ll give—who, local authorities? I don’t know who I’d call.
When she was done checking tires, she wrote down the number scratched in the dirt. Right now I need to get rolling, I’ll put this number away until I figure out what to do with it.
20
The Search
Thursday morning the day dawned bright and beautiful. Snow covered everything with a sparkling, white blanket
. Each rock crevice held a Christmas Card glitter accent. The air was clear—pristine like a hundred years ago. It was the kind of day that made you want to be a kid on a snow day. Unfortunately, it would make finding any bits of evidence next to impossible.
The park was reeling from the horrible news. Patty had been murdered. Oblivious to the ironic beauty, groups of park police, rangers, and law enforcement officials from outside the park system gathered for a briefing. Informed with what little information was known, they readied themselves to embark on a thorough search for clues, and to find—the rest of her.
A Search and rescue dog was brought in. Patty had been training with the handler, Karen Johnson, and her dog, with the hope of getting a rescue dog of her own one day. Now that day would never come.
The dog’s name was Bo. He was a huge bloodhound mix with long floppy ears, sad eyes, and a slobbery mouth. He was black and tan with a whip tail that was almost always wagging. Bystanders had to keep their distance, unless they wanted bruised knees from Bo’s friendly tail.
Bo seemed like just a big, sloppy hound—unless he was working. Then he was all business, and hard to stop, until he found what he was searching for. Once set on a trail, his mournful baying could be heard for a mile.
Karen saw Curt across the crowd, and their eyes met. Karen knew in her heart, Curt loved Patty and would never hurt her. He looked as if he’d aged twenty years overnight. His hair was dirty, he had a three day growth of beard, and the same clothes he’d been wearing all week. There was no light in his eyes, and his proud posture was sagging, like a deflated balloon.
Curt wasn’t at liberty to speak with Karen, he was on house arrest, a suspect himself. He’d been taken off the case, but investigators were keeping him close by for any information he might have to offer. Karen gave him a nod to let him know that she and Bo would find Patty’s body.
Usually crawling with tourists, the valley was strangely quiet. Tourists staying in the park were being questioned, and all entrances had been closed. A long line of grumbling vacationers sat in vehicles at the entrance, turning around only after being assured that, yes, they could close a national park. Large areas were roped off and placed under guard while the investigation was under way.
Karen brought Bo around to Patty’s cabin allowing him to get a good scent of her. At first he was excited to see his old friend again, wagging and silly. But once on the front porch his hackles went up and he was still, sniffing every surface. Knowing her dog had locked on to something, Karen reached down and released the leash from his collar.
The woods reverberated with Bo’s drawling cries as he followed a scent. The dog didn’t head toward El Capitan as expected, but went toward a narrow crag in the valley wall—Indian Canyon. Karen ran after him, knowing that she’d fall far behind, but confident she’d be able to hear Bo’s baying.
21
Captain Sheffield
At park headquarters Captain George Sheffield went over notes that Curt had taken detailing his interviews. He contacted everyone on the list, he wanted to speak to all of them again, in person if possible. He also requested that Curt be brought in for more questions.
George Sheffield knew Curt and his family well. They’d lived and worked in the same community for many years. Charles Coleson was two years ahead of him in high school, and in George’s sophomore year he played football on the winning team that Charles quarterbacked.
George found it hard to believe the Colesons could be involved in the horrible mess, but he wouldn't allow personal feelings to color the investigation. Even though Curt was one of his investigators, he couldn’t let down his guard for a moment. Curt was a suspect until proven otherwise.
Scanning the list, George’s eyes stopped on Margret’s name. “Who’s this Malone woman?” He asked. Curt explained about Patty’s necklace, he’d placed it in a plastic evidence bag, but he still had it in his pocket. He reluctantly turned it over to the captain for DNA testing, knowing it could help solve the case.
“Sir, I’d like to have that back—you know, when this is all over. It’s special to me,” said Curt, choking on the words.
“Sure, Coleson. Did you check out the story on where she found it?”
“We searched the area for any other clues, but turned up nothing except a couple of empty stew cans. She didn’t arrive in the park until Tuesday morning—on the bus.”
“Do you know her?”
“No—never saw her before she brought in the necklace.”
“Where is she now?”
“She was staying at Camp Curry—Lance Larson should be able to tell you where, he’s the manager there.”
“Were you in the park Monday?”
“Yes sir, I was here on a day hike. I went to the top of Yosemite Falls, and hiked around toward El Capitan, and back to the valley that way.”
“Did you have a permit?”
“Yeah, Paul Wilson issued it—should be on the books.”
“When did you get back to the valley?”
“It was late, I’m not sure of the time, but I got back to my house around eleven, eleven-thirty.”
“Where did you park?”
“In the lot over by Camp Curry, I don’t have a ranger’s permit anymore.”
“That puts you in the vicinity of Patty’s cabin shortly after the last time she was heard from.”
“That’s right sir, but I didn’t stop there.”
“Did anyone see you when you returned to your car?”
“No one that I know, some tourists maybe.”
“How about when you got home, is there anyone that can verify when you got there?”
“No,—I live alone.”
“That’s all for now Coleson, don’t go anywhere until this thing gets solved. And don’t hang around in the park either, it’ll just muddy up the investigation.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Coleson—I’m sorry.”
22
Bo
Karen was getting winded trying to keep up to Bo. She could hear him snaking through the woods, climbing into Indian Canyon. The way was narrow, not popular with hikers. There was no maintained trail, only a social trail. It was the shortest route to the top of Yosemite Falls, and a few hikers had gone that way, leaving an eroding track.
Pausing to catch her breath, Karen noticed something different in Bo’s baying. He’s found something, she thought. Pushing herself forward through thick tangles of brush, she caught up to her dog. “Good boy,” she said, gulping deep breaths of air. “What did you find?” The big hound lay down looking at a pile of bear scat. “Bo, this isn’t what we’re after—find Patty!”
Bo pawed the ground again and Karen took a closer look. Mixed in the scat were bits of fabric. She scooped it into a plastic evidence bag, and placed it in her pack. Bears will eat anything with a little bit of protein on it, Karen thought, even bloody clothes. Petting Bo on the head, she took a drink of water from her canteen. A moment later, the dog took off again.
As the sun climbed higher in the sky, the snow started to melt. Tiny rivulets of melt water were running down the canyon everywhere. Karen worried that the trail Bo was tracking could be obliterated by the runoff. Her hiking boots sank deep into soft mud, and she was having trouble slipping on the steep slope. Bo’s wails still echoed in the canyon, so she knew he was still on a trail—for now. The snow had covered any tracks she could see, but Bo’s nose could still find a trail.
Listening to her dog’s baying, Karen realized he was circling back toward her. Did he lose the scent? She climbed a few more feet over a wide rock ledge. From on top, she could see Bo, his nose to the ground, running fast over the rough terrain. He was starting to whine and was crossing the same area over and over.
“Darn,” she said, “he’s lost the trail.” She sat down on the rock to rest and wait until Bo decided he was done. It would do no good to try to convince him to leave until he was sure there was no trail. Karen took out her canteen and a protein bar and settled down t
o wait.
It was close to an hour later when Bo stuck his sloppy wet muzzle under her hand. It was his standard way of telling her, “Pet me, I’m a good boy. I’m done for the day.” Karen gave him his treats. He gobbled them up, then went to a small stream to lap up some water.
Bo stopped in mid-lap, water drooling out of his mouth. His hackles went up and his whole body stiffened, there was a low grumbling growl in his throat. He crossed to the far side of the stream sniffing back and forth. The muddy hound threw up his head, and let out a long mournful howl. He dropped his nose to the ground and was off.
Karen threw her pack over one shoulder and crossed the stream where Bo had been. She examined the ground, being careful to step only on rocks, so she wouldn’t disturb the area. There, partially uncovered, where the snow had melted, was part of a large boot print among Bo’s tracks.
Karen took several photos of the area, and tied bright colored plastic streamers to the bushes nearby to mark the spot. She walked in the direction of Bo’s cries, being careful not to follow his trail too close. She didn’t want to walk on any tracks that might be hidden in the snow.
The brambles were thick in this part of the canyon, Karen’s face and hands were raw and scratched from fighting through brush all day. In a narrow area, where there was only one way to get through, Karen was forced to cross Bo’s tracks. As she pushed aside a thorny branch, that threatened to make its mark on her tender cheek, she saw a tiny gob of something. It had three short, light colored hairs stuck in it. She took photos, and bagged the entire branch.
Pleased with her find, she stowed it in her pack. She marked the area with a streamer and continued on after her dog. She had to duck under an overhanging ledge, then slide down a flat rock that tilted into the ground. Tangles of Manzanita blocked her way. As she picked her path through, she found a small triangle of denim fabric. She bagged it as well and marked the spot before moving on.