The Sasquatch Hunter's Almanac

by Sharma Shields

  He was cresting a scenic road overlooking the water when the slurping sound came back.

  Lake monster, he laughed.

  Then it happened again and he knit his brow.

  It was coming from the glove box. Without slowing down, with one hand on the wheel, he reached over and snapped the box open.

  An enormous dark fish—mouth like a suction cup, opaque eyes—flung itself from the interior of the glove box. It was mostly dead and flopping. Marion screamed and swerved from the byway.

  He was still screaming when some calmer part of his brain told him, It’s not a lake monster, asshole: It’s a walleye. An enormous dead walleye, crammed by that goofy old fucker into your glove box.

  He had caught walleyes with his grandfather in a similar lake, back in the days before he became a pervert, before he became a creep. His grandfather, he remembered, was a bit of a creep himself, if not a pure asshole like Marion’s dad. But no one was a creep out there on the water, not when they were fishing walleyes in the early fall. In those instances, they were just an old man and a boy; they were simple fishermen. Marion was a decent kid. Not an amazing kid, but also not a creep. What would it take, he wondered, to get back to some better, simpler life? A life where he owned a small rowboat? Where he fished on the weekends? Maybe where he had a grandson all his own?

  But it was too late now.

  He was an adult, jobless and floundering. His grandfather was dead. His father cared little about what he did.

  You’re a loser, his father would say as he opened his wallet. Always have been. It’s the Latin in you. Your goddamn mother. Well, might as well have a good time.

  What if he spoke back to his dad? Called him a racist piece of shit? Called him a rich useless asshole?

  But it was too late now.

  Marion was a sex addict and a statutory rapist and now a kidnapper. He had stolen a car. He had stolen this teenage girl and then abandoned her on the side of a dangerous road.

  Too late.

  The Jaguar had already crashed through the guardrail and plunged nose-first with great velocity into the lake. Water poured in through the open windows, pushing at him with powerful hands, the palms thick and cold, the palms of his dad.

  Stay down. Stay right where you are.

  It would be so easy to give up, Marion thought, almost like giving in to a generous kindness.

  You were heading nowhere special, anyway.

  He sank.

  At the bottom of the lake, the walleyes converged. They came to him with their somber faces, their opaque eyes. They regarded him balefully in the murk. Marion’s own face changed, drawing in on itself, rapidly aging. Detached as he now was from his body, oxygen-deprived, near insanity, Marion saw his own face: It was not the youthful handsome face of his recent years. It was the face of the old man in Electric City, the old man who was also a creep. Marion saw all of this and was thrilled. He felt he was dancing with all of the lost possibilities. He danced and twirled.

  The walleyes gathered in the water patiently, waiting with their endless dull hunger for Marion to stop thrashing.

  1978

  SNARE TRAP

  It was September, dry and warm, when Eli returned to Lost Creek. It had been a few years since his last visit. He was returning for abandoned equipment—a sonar piece of crap that had never really worked but that he wanted back, regardless, simply because he was trying to make a fresh go of things. The sonar detector was missing, but, fumbling through the underbrush, Eli uncovered a different treasure nearby.

  It was a bone. A foot bone. Long and lean. To Eli’s trained eye, it was clearly a metatarsus.

  It was caught in a rusted snare trap, pierced by a sharp metal tooth. It had been here for some time; the bone was ivory but filthy and almost, in the sunlight, yellow. There was no flesh and no other bone—all evidence had been stripped bare, chewed up, dispersed, or consumed by natural elements. All that remained was this long, lone bone.

  Even from above, squinting down at the thing, Eli could see that it was not the metatarsus of a typical woodland mammal. It was, at first glance, human. But it was far too large, too fat, to belong to a normal man.

  Eli’s heart raced.

  He knew exactly whose bone this was.

  It belonged to Mr. Krantz.

  * * *

  ELI REMEMBERED KRANTZ’S feet very clearly; he recalled perfectly the impressions they’d made in the dirt outside his home, when Mr. Krantz had fled with Agnes. Eli’s obsession with the footprints, so monstrous beside the dainty footprints of his mother, had led him down pathways geographical, emotional, professional; they led him into the woods, into loneliness, into podiatry and beyond. In the days following Agnes’s disappearance, Eli had stood in the yard, staring down into those mismatched tracks. His father had stood with him, incredulous, grief-stricken, faking cheerfulness for the sake of his young son. At first, Greg liked to insist that she’d left against her will, dragged into the woods by her tormentor or even carried, but they both saw the willing path she’d left in the dirt. Soon a rain came, bringing with it thunder and lightning and erasure. The prints were gone. Greg could pretend whatever he liked now, but Eli had memorized the feet. Their imprints would be on the backs of his eyelids forever, flashing in neon pinks and purples and reds and yellows, whenever he closed his eyes.

  Eli was a cautious man. Despite his desire to bend down and touch the foot bone, even sniff it, embrace it, he held back. He’d need to suffer through long days of testing to prove that the bone was not from a deformed bear or a giant human or an escaped zoo animal. Then would come the abstract, the scientific paper, the rejections at various scientific magazines, the inevitable jeering response of the scientific community. No matter how careful he was, how thorough, he would be thwarted by nonbelievers, so it was of utmost importance not to get too ahead of himself.

  But, look! The metatarsus was flat and sleek, despite its hairline fracture from the snare trap. It was clearly the bone of a flat-footed, flat-sauntering apelike creature. Humans walked more on their toes, creating a metatarsus that was more crushed, punished, by the force of gravity. Not so with this bone!

  Not that he needed proof.

  This was Mr. Krantz’s foot bone. Of that, Eli was sure.

  The problem now was to prove it to the world.

  Eli fingered the foothold snare, turning it over delicately, careful not to disturb the bone. Grass and moss clung to both the metatarsus and the trap. He considered depressing the levers to release the foot bone into his hands but then decided it might be best to take the entire specimen with him.

  He lingered for several minutes, wondering.

  It was Sunday, he remembered, and the SNaRL office was closed for the weekend. He had founded SNaRL—the Sasquatch National Research Lab—around the time when he married Vanessa, and it was one of the best moves he’d made as a cryptozoologist. It had become a thoroughfare for news of sightings and rumors regarding not only Sasquatch but a host of other Northwest beasts: the Pend Oreille Paddler, a man-sized tick outside Cle Elum, a three-headed Chinook in the Columbia (the latter was written off as an environmental disturbance caused by the nearby Hanford Site). Its focus remained on Sasquatch, however, and Eli refused to receive any information, no matter how promising, without forcing it through his gauntlet of serious scientific process. While this limited the availability of useful data, it also bolstered Eli’s reputation in the academic community. Despite his unconventional interests, he was a dedicated, respected researcher. The office was mostly peopled by interns from Lilac City’s community colleges, who signed on with SNaRL for a semester or two to fulfill credit requirements. Some of them were smart, ambitious kids, but a lot of them were lazy shits. Eli enjoyed giving them a challenging workload, and a few of them whined or quit. Eli wanted these naïve students to realize that he was not performing circus acts here. He was engaged in hard science. He hoped that each of them would leave with their belief system shaken to its core. Tomorrow, for exa
mple, he would school them on the rigors of scientific analysis.

  Eli touched the bone gingerly. He wondered if he should stay the night here, sleep with the bone, make sure that it didn’t up and hop away.

  And then, shaking his head, he decided to release it, to protect it in the lab. He depressed the levers. The trap groaned but held its grip. It was rusted shut. There was no choice but to take the entire snare trap with him, lest he disturb its precious cargo.

  Cradling the large trap and its fragile contents in his hands, he hiked back through the forest to his car and then drove to the closest gas station.

  He stood at a pay phone for a moment, fingering the coins in his pocket, and then phoned Vanessa.

  If his wife was excited for him, it was tempered by what he assumed was her usual mother-hen concern.

  “So,” he said. “I’ll be at the lab tonight. I want to prepare the metatarsus for testing. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.”

  Vanessa was silent.

  “What?” Eli asked. “What is it?”

  She reminded him of Ginger’s piano recital. Had he forgotten?

  “No,” he said.

  She waited.

  “Okay. Yes. I forgot.”

  And, by the way (Vanessa reminded him), he had promised Ginger that even if bombs fell and blew up the church, even if it rained fire and brimstone, he would still be there, ON TIME, DADDY, to watch her and other tone-deaf preschoolers plunk away on the keys as the world burned around them.

  Christ, he thought.

  Yes.

  He had promised.

  Ginger was an earnest, dramatic little creature. Every emotional pinprick was like being attacked with a chain saw. After he had missed her tumbling routine the month before, she had sobbed on and off for a week, all the while saying in a sweet little voice that broke Eli’s heart, “I know you didn’t mean to miss it, Daddy. I know. I don’t know why I’m so sad,” and then she would cry afresh.

  Eli’s other daughter had never been so sensitive. In fact, Amelia was insensitive. Why was it children were always the exact opposite of their siblings? What sort of chaos or balance did that explain about the world?

  “Shit,” Eli said to Vanessa, frustrated. “Tonight of all nights.”

  She would be destroyed if he didn’t attend. Not merely annoyed or even angry; no, it had to be total. Eli hated having that on his shoulders.

  And what could possibly happen (his wife suggested now) to the bone in one night?

  “I mean, you took it, right? You’ve got it with you? Can’t you just shove it in the glove box or something?”

  Eli winced. “It’s quintessential evidence, Vanessa. You don’t go throwing it around like a pair of old shoes.”

  “Well, you’re the scientist. I’m just a mom looking out for our kid.”

  She was not trying to be a nag, he knew. She was trying to be practical. But didn’t she see that this was it? Not it, but IT? His life’s work, finally vindicated? All of the laughter and finger-pointing he’d had to endure would now be silenced. Short of an actual corpse, this would be the necessary evidence he’d long sought. Mr. Krantz would be disclosed to the world for what he was. Didn’t she get that this was both a miracle and his destiny?

  “I am really happy for you, Eli,” she said now, reading his silence. “This is what you’ve always wanted. You’ll get the recognition you deserve now.”

  He forced himself to calm down, to take a long breath. She understood how much this meant to him. Somehow this allowed him to turn a corner emotionally. He could go home for the night. He could enjoy Ginger’s recital. It might even calm down the shaking in his hands, the twitching in his eyes.

  “Okay,” he said, “how much time do I have?”

  “Not much. You’ll need to head directly to the church, or else you’ll be late.”

  Eli agreed that he would meet them there. He could hear Ginger in the background, practicing her scales on the hallway piano—the same piano that Mr. Krantz had played all of those long years ago. Ginger played her scales unevenly; it sounded like a soprano alternating singing with coughing. It was a cheerful if discordant tune, and Eli felt happy enough as he buckled his seat belt and drove the thirty-some miles west to Lilac City.

  * * *

  HE MADE IT to the recital with few minutes to spare. The parking lot was crowded with cars and overdressed children and fussing, smiling parents. Eli considered the trap and the foot bone. He had rested it on the passenger seat, which was now flaked with dirt and brittle leaf remnants.

  What would he do with it? Lay his coat over it and close it in the car? Wrap it in fabric and place it in the trunk? He hesitated. It was a sunny Sunday in the early fall. He did not like to think of Mr. Krantz’s metatarsus sweltering alone in the hot dark. He was not paranoid about car theft, either, but still: What if? It would destroy him to return to the car and find the specimen missing.

  He decided to take every possible precaution. He would carry the foothold snare into the recital, bone and all. He took care to wrap it in his coat. Even so, it appeared bulbous and awkward in his arms, as if he were holding a stillborn horse.

  As soon as he entered the church, he saw Vanessa, standing taller and straighter than anyone else there, her wild hair framing her handsome, relaxed face. She saw him and brought a hand to her heart, grateful. He maneuvered through the crowd and noticed that some people were making room for him as he passed, eyeballing his laden arms.

  “You’re here,” Vanessa said with relief, and she leaned into him and kissed him. “Ginger will be so happy.”

  Ginger was, in fact, peeking through the dense red curtain at the front of the room. She beamed when she saw Eli, and he smiled back at her with what he hoped was encouragement.

  Vanessa noticed his coat. “Eli,” she said, “what are you doing?”

  “I couldn’t leave it in the car,” he said. “I just couldn’t. It’s too important.”

  She was more amused than horrified, and he was glad for it.

  “Ew, let me see,” she said. “Show me, show me.”

  He partially unwrapped the coat and she peered into his arms, smiling. “Good God, Eli,” she said with delight. “It’s positively gruesome!”

  Eli rewrapped the foothold snare proudly.

  Another set of parents approached them. They greeted Eli and Vanessa warmly, and Eli returned their greeting.

  “Whatcha got there?” the dad asked. He was a slim, overly tanned dentist with perfect teeth. His wife stood squat and white beside him like a freshly painted lighthouse, grinning broadly. “Some fancy camera or something?”

  Eli shook his head.

  “Eli is a cryptozoologist,” Vanessa explained. “He found a bone today.”

  “Crypto-what?” the dentist said.

  “He studies diabetes,” said the wife.

  “You’re thinking of an endocrinologist, Nora,” said the dentist, rolling his eyes.

  The wife said, “I was close, right?”

  “He studies Sasquatch,” Vanessa said. There was no shame in her tone, but Eli sensed a dry amusement. “He knows all about them. Ask him anything!”

  “Sasquatch,” the dentist repeated. He was puzzled, his orange forehead furrowing. “You mean, like Bigfoot? You believe in that shit?”

  Eli shifted uncomfortably. “I wonder if we should sit now? I think they’re about to begin.”

  “Listen,” the dentist said, leaning forward, “my brother-in-law saw Bigfoot once. Said he looked like a giant turd with legs. Over by Snoqualmie Pass. Almost hit him with his car. Of course”—and the dentist laughed hugely here, showing all of his perfect, white teeth—“he’s the drunkest bastard this side of the Rockies. Damn idiot swears he saw the Loch Ness monster, too, swimming in Puget Sound!”

  “He’s not a drunk, he’s a schizophrenic,” the wife said. “And he has diabetes. So, you know, if you have any advice for him?”

  “He’s a damn monster-stalker, Nora,” the husband cried. �
��He doesn’t know shit about diabetes. I told you.” The dentist bent toward Eli, shaking his head, and Eli smelled the man’s minty breath, a combination of Scope and whiskey. “She’s deaf in one ear, I swear to God. Denies it, but I swear on my life. Hears half of what I say, if I’m lucky. Or if I’m unlucky, ha!”

  Vanessa put a palm against Eli’s back, pressing him toward an empty pew. Eli hoped to escape, but the couple followed them, the wife squeezing in against Eli’s legs.

  “Funny, though,” the man said, leaning over his wife’s lap. “My Matilda told me you were a foot doctor. A pee-ologist, she called it. She’s as deaf as my wife, I swear. ‘Podiatrist,’ I told her, and she was like, ‘Yup, that’s it. Pee-diatrist.’”

  “Well,” Eli said, “I am. I’m still a licensed podiatrist, it’s true.”

  “Your daughter is the sweetest little girl,” said the wife now, sincerely. “She just raves about you both.” She turned to Vanessa and said, “She told me you’re a professor?”

  “Oh,” Vanessa said. “No. I teach some creative writing classes through the extension program, but, no. I’m a poet.”

  “A poet and a monster-stalker!” cried the dentist. “Your sex life must be amazing.”

  “Oh, my,” the wife said, reaching up and nervously tugging at an earring. “Christopher, the things you say.”

  “Big imaginations,” the dentist said. “That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Well, it is,” Vanessa said.

  “What is?” the wife asked politely.

  “Amazing. Our sex life.”

  The dentist laughed and the wife stammered and Eli wanted to shush his wife but refrained. The curtains drew back then and a child emerged from the recesses, sitting stiffly at the piano bench and beginning to struggle through a simple Mozart sonata. Eli tried to relax and enjoy the show.

  He did enjoy it, almost. He wanted to stand up and sing and dance and drown out the cacophony of the children, to show these little wonders what joy really looked like, but he remained seated, blazing from within, straining not to wiggle too noticeably on the uncomfortable wooden pew. The foothold snare grew increasingly incommodious on his lap.