Wasp Canyon

by Danielle McCrory

  Moser picked up the phone, rubbing his temple and wishing for his budding headache to ease up. How long does it take aspirin to work, anyway? He planned to call the lab first, in hopes that the hair analysis had already been completed. When the victim’s ID came up as Jasper, they had put a rush on the hair microscopy, and Moser hoped he’d have that all sorted out before the press resumed their incessant calling.

  After calling the lab, Moser planned to touch base with Fish and Game to see if they had had any luck with the damn bear yet. If they did—and if the hair matched the bear they put down—then maybe this thing really could be over by the end of the week. Please Jesus, please let it be over by the end of the week. Or sooner. Sooner would be even better.

  Before Moser could dial the lab extension, the call-waiting light began to flash, indicating that he had an incoming call. Maybe Fish and Game was calling because they caught the damn thing. Prayer received and answered! God, what a relief that would be! He answered the call and braced himself for the good news, but instead of feeling relief he felt his heart sink. It wasn’t Fish and Game or the lab, it was a reporter. And she wanted to know what the police were going to do about the animal that killed Cameron Jasper.

  Moser sighed, said he had no comment, and hung up. He rubbed at his temples again, this time with both hands.

  Chapter 27

  Cynthia Wyatt set the newspaper down with trembling hands. She let out a shaky breath and closed her eyes. An uneasy weight had filled her stomach as she read Friday’s Tribune article: guilt. It was an emotion she did not feel often and did not care to be burdened with. But she could not shake the guiltiness away; it gnawed at her insides and refused to be silenced. After all, it was her grand idea to send Jessica out there. It was her idea to have her patient go gallivanting into the wilderness. Alone. She sent a fragile, grieving girl into a slaughterhouse. Well, a slaughter canyon actually.

  Wyatt took another deep breath and straightened her suit jacket. Straightening her clothing was a nervous tick Wyatt had worked hard to overcome in her early thirties. It had been two decades since she compulsively pulled at her suit jacket, or attempted to rub away wrinkles that weren’t there. But today, she kept finding herself smoothing the front of her blouse and pulling at the hem of her skirt.

  It was 1:59 p.m. on Monday, August 6th, and Jessica Cleary’s appointment was about to begin. Wyatt stood from her desk, pulled at her suit jacket once more, straightened her skirt, and headed to the door of her office.

  The waiting room was empty except for Jessica, who was staring blankly at the wall. She did not look up when Wyatt opened the office door.

  “Jessica? Are you ready to begin?”

  Jessica looked away from the wall, her eyes clearing. She tugged at a piece of hair and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The left leg of her jeans was consumed by a large, black boot that was securely fastened to her left ankle.

  Jessica stood up without speaking. Wyatt could see her grimace as she pushed herself up from the chair. It wasn’t until she was standing that Wyatt saw the extent of her injuries. There was a large laceration on her right upper arm that appeared to be held together by some sort of surgical glue. A large purplish-yellow bruise surrounded the laceration. Bruises and scrapes covered her arms and face, although none were nearly as bad as the one on her right arm. Her palms were dark pink with red trails going across them. The raw flesh looked angry and exposed with its top layer removed. And then there was the boot—a clunky, awkward thing that dwarfed the girl’s small calf.

  Jessica limped toward the door. Her feet made an unsynchronized shuffling sound as she went. Swish, clunk. Swish, clunk. She shambled into the office and headed toward the oversized chair in the center of the room. Swish, clunk. Swish, clunk. She sat down, grimacing again.

  Wyatt closed the door and returned to her desk. She smoothed down her jacket as she went. “How are you doing today, Jessica? Are you having a lot of pain?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Have they given you something for the pain? Is it working?”

  “Yeah, they did. It works fine, I guess.” Silence filled the room. Then: “It makes me groggy, though.”

  “Yes, pain medications can do that. I hope that the pain subsides for you very soon.” Wyatt looked down at the cumbersome walking boot again. “That is quite the boot they gave you to wear. How long does it have to be on?”

  “Six to eight weeks. But I might need surgery if it doesn’t heal on its own, so maybe longer. I’ll find out in a couple weeks when I see the doctor next.”

  Wyatt pulled at the hem of her skirt. Her hand, apparently with a mind of its own, went up to smooth her suit jacket. With some effort she brought both hands to her desk and laid them flat. She looked up, flustered. Jessica was watching her. Jessica offered a small, knowing smile when they made eye contact. Wyatt couldn’t tell if it was sympathetic or a smirk. She was really off her game today.

  “Your mom called me and told me what happened. And I saw the article in the paper.” Wyatt gestured to the newspaper that she had inadvertently left lying on her desk. She wanted to smooth her jacket, but she kept both hands firmly planted on the desk. “I would really like to hear the story from you, though. If you are willing to tell me.”

  Jessica stared out the picture window, eyes scanning the mountains. She looked anxious, like something might crawl out of the mountains and come after her. She looked away and tugged on a strand of hair.

  Jessica went over the encounter quickly, skimming over the details about the condition of Jasper’s body. She tugged at her hair as she talked, and the color drained from her face when she described getting chased through the canyon. Wyatt said nothing as Jessica told her story, however she became increasingly uneasy as Jessica described the creature in the shadows.

  Once Jessica finished, Wyatt asked, “And what do you think it was?”

  “I don’t know,” Jessica said in a low voice. She glanced nervously at the mountains. “The police said it was a sick bear, or a mountain lion. But I really don’t think that’s what I saw. They said my memory can play tricks on me . . . I don’t know. I really thought I saw something . . . else. Everything about the attack felt wrong. Normal animals don’t do that.” She gripped the armrests as she talked, so tight that Wyatt feared the stuffing might burst out.

  “A sick animal may behave differently than a healthy one,” Wyatt suggested.

  “Yeah, but it didn’t seem sick. Not at all. It set a trap. It came after me. I—I really feel like it was something else.”

  Wyatt smoothed her blouse. “Jessica, let’s look at this rationally.”

  “Rationally?” Jessica asked, looking wounded. “You don’t believe me either.”

  “Jessica, I do believe you. I believe you went through a very traumatic experience. One that has deeply upset you—as it would have done to anyone. It is miraculous that you made it out unscathed.” Wyatt looked down at the walking boot. “What I mean to say is that you made it out alive.”

  “But you don’t believe me. You think I saw a normal animal—just like everyone else does.” Jessica made no attempt to mask the hurt in her voice.

  “The explanations the police gave you in regards to your description were compelling. The lack of fur due to mange, the protruding spine due to starvation, the aggressive nature due to the same.” Wyatt paused, searching for the correct way to proceed. She hated how flustered and out of control she felt. She knew her guilt was at least partially to blame, but this was something that simply could not be undone. Her suggestion to begin an exercise routine was a sound one, and it was working just fine until that damn cougar screwed everything up. She smoothed her suit jacket.

  “Fear can do things to our minds,” Wyatt continued. “It can meddle with our memories—”

  “Yeah, I heard that already,” Jessica interrupted. She looked out at the mountains, refusing to meet Wyatt’s eyes.

  “Jessica, I believe you saw what you saw—something horrifying tha
t was chasing you. I could not imagine that degree of terror. However, I cannot deny that I believe there is a logical explanation for all of this.” She pulled at her skirt hem. “The police told me they thought—”

  “You spoke to the police?” Jessica asked, turning away from the window.

  “Yes, I called them just so I knew what to expect during our meeting today.”

  “So you already heard their explanation before you even talked to me?”

  “I just wanted to be prepared,” Wyatt said.

  “Prepared to tell me that I’m crazy for thinking it was something else?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Ok, so what about it setting a trap then? What’s your logical explanation for that?” Jessica looked at Wyatt. The hurt was still there, but now anger had joined it.

  “Didn’t the police suggest that the coug—that the animal in question knocked over the rock when trying to relocate the body?”

  “That rock weighed a thousand pounds. I really don’t think it could just get knocked over, especially by something that was sick or starving.”

  Wyatt smoothed her jacket with both hands. “I do agree that it is peculiar. But I don’t think it is unheard of—not for a predator of that size.”

  The anger drained from Jessica’s face, leaving only a naked hurt that caused Wyatt to tug at the buttons of her blouse.

  “It’s because you feel guilty, isn’t it?” Jessica asked.

  Wyatt stared at her, startled. She placed her hands on the desk.

  “Pulling on your clothes like that. You’re doing it because you feel guilty.”

  “Jessica, I—”

  “I’m not mad at you for suggesting it,” Jessica cut her off. “It was a good suggestion. And there’s no way you could have known what would happen. Cameron sure didn’t.” Jessica squeezed the armrests at the mention of Cameron Jasper. Her knuckles began to turn white. Suddenly, she stood from the chair with obvious effort. The plush chair and padded armrests made it difficult to get out of, something Wyatt was unaware of because she never sat down in the chair she so painstakingly picked out for her patients.

  “What hurts me is that you refuse to even consider that what I saw was real.”

  “Jessica, I am sorry for sending you out there.”

  “Like I said, that wasn’t your fault. I don’t blame you for what happened. But why couldn’t you at least consider that maybe I didn’t imagine what I saw out there—that maybe it was actually real. I thought you were here to help me, Dr. Wyatt.”

  Jessica winced as she put weight on her left leg. She headed toward the door, the sound of her boot marking her progress. Swish, clunk. Swish, clunk. She turned at the door, her hand resting on the doorknob. “I was really hoping you’d believe me. How are you going to feel when it gets somebody else?”

  She left before Wyatt could respond, shutting the door softly behind her. Wyatt smoothed her jacket and looked at the new chair sitting in the center of the room. A thread had come loose on one of the armrests.

  Chapter 28

  Howard Dunlap owned Lindy’s Eatery for the past twenty-two years. He inherited it from Charles Lindy—Chuck for short. Chuck and Howie had been good friends since grade school. They were both Tucson born and raised, neither living anywhere else except for Chuck’s stint in the army. Neither man had ever married, and they found it was nice to have a friend that knew you so well—someone that knew when you wanted to shoot the shit or when you just wanted to drink a few beers while quietly sitting next to one another, not wanting to talk but also not wanting to drink alone.

  Chuck got the cancer back in ‘96. Didn’t take long. Pancreatic, the doctor said. At least he didn’t suffer, Lindy’s regulars said. And that was true. By the time Chuck found out he was on borrowed time there were only a few months left. He met with a lawyer once, unbeknownst to Howie, and put Howie as the sole beneficiary to Lindy’s Eatery and Pub.

  Howie found out after Chuck’s funeral. A pleasant enough affair, if you could ever call a funeral that. It was in March, when the weather in Tucson was nice and standing in a cemetery much more tolerable—if you could ever consider standing in a cemetery tolerable.

  A lawyer contacted Howie later that same day. Told him Chuck left him the bar—bar none, pun intended. Howie damn near shit his pants. He didn’t know piss about how to run a bar, let alone a restaurant. That’s when Lindy’s Eatery stopped doing the eating part. Howie quit his job at the garage without much objection; he never cared much for grease and car oil anyway. He kept on Chuck’s bar staff and promised the kitchen crew free drinks if they ever cared to stop by and chew the fat with him.

  Howie opened Lindy’s right back up and was surprised by the loyalty of Chuck’s patronage. He never saw an empty bar top, except when he was closing up for the night. Customers came and went, mostly blue collar workmen on their way home after a long day. As the years went by and the town’s college grew in popularity, Howie started seeing more and more young faces in the bar. He didn’t quite understand what the draw was for them college-aged guys and gals, but he welcomed them all the same. Maybe they thought it was rustic, these kids from out of town. An authentic southwestern dive bar—something to tell Ma and Pa about back home.

  Whatever the reason, Lindy’s was booming with business and Howie had to hire on more help to deal with the demand. He threw in pool tables and a dance floor, and even updated the broken down jukebox that Chuck never quite got around to doing himself. Someday, he might even open up the eatery part of Lindy’s Eatery again, but he doubted it. Don’t mess with a good thing, that’s what his ma always told him.

  It was still early in the day on August 6th—the heat almost a living thing outside the doors of the bar. Early for Howie was 3:15 in the PM, and that was prime burning time for an August afternoon in Tucson, Arizona. The term, he believed, was swelterin’. The clouds were making their way over the mountains and he suspected another monsoon downpour before the afternoon was up, which he welcomed with open arms. Get that temperature down and take the burden off his aging air conditioner units. Those things were going to need replacin’, and sooner rather than later.

  Howie came out of Lindy’s kitchen area, which was now used primarily for booze storage. He had opened the doors fifteen minutes ago and expected a few regulars to start trickling in as they got off their early shifts.

  He came out of the kitchen, wiping his thick, sweaty palms on the front of his jeans. There was only one person in the bar, and it wasn’t somebody Howie would ever have expected at this time of day. He slid around the side of the bar, tucked his bar towel into his back pocket, and ambled over to his only customer.

  Chapter 29

  “Well, you might be the prettiest thing I ever saw walk in here this early in the day,” Howie said to Jessica Cleary, who was sitting in her regular seat at the side of the bar despite the ample supply of available barstools.

  “Hey, Howie,” she said, sounding downtrodden.

  Howie glanced around the empty bar, checking the dance floor and pool tables. “Claire in the bathroom?” he asked, more to himself than to the sad girl sitting across from him.

  “No,” Jessica said with the same downcast tone. “Just me today.”

  Howie turned his attention to Jessica. He had known Claire’s parents from his time in the garage—they had even invited him over for holidays on occasion. Not ripping people off when their car was broke can incite that kind of generosity. Jessica he did not know as well. She seemed plenty nice, although lately she had been looking pretty low and worse for the wear. A year ago her daddy had up and died the same way as Chuck, although Howie wasn’t sure if it was from the same kind. He hadn’t felt it was polite—or even necessary—to ask.

  Today she looked kind of scuffed up, like she had been in a bit of a brawl. Jessica and Claire weren’t the fightin’ type, though, although Howie had seen plenty of women that were. Her face was scratched up a bit, but it was her arm that looked pretty torn into. Es
pecially that big number near her right shoulder—that there looked like it needed some doctor work.

  Jessica saw him looking and smiled wanly. “That’s nothing compared to my ankle,” she said.

  Howie couldn’t help himself, curiosity and the cat and all, and leaned forward to look over the bar top. Jessica stuck out her left leg so he could see better. A giant, robot-looking, black thing was strapped to her left ankle.

  “Well, what in God’s name is that thing?” he asked.

  “Controlled ankle motion boot,” Jessica muttered.

  “Fancy stuff for a fancy gal,” Howie said. “Now how in God’s name did you wind up with that thing on your leg?”

  She sighed and tugged on a strand of hair, looking nervous. “Long story,” Jessica said. “Beer?”

  “Absolutely,” she said, and smiled.

  Howie made his way over to the tap and poured a Dragoon IPA. He knew Jessica was partial to IPA’s, and with her current state he doubted she cared much which kind it was anyway. He set the dripping glass down in front of her. She watched as foam cascaded down the side of the glass, and he watched her. This girl had been through something—he was sure of it. And it was a lot more than her daddy dying, which was already bad enough.

  She took an admirable sip from her glass and looked up at Howie. He knew with her size it wouldn't take long for the beer to start talking for her. He wished that the eating part of Lindy’s Eatery was working right now, because he desperately wanted to offer this girl some food. Fries, chicken wings . . . God, she needs to eat somethin’, he thought, looking at her thin frame.

  He was about to start moving away to give her some space when she asked, “You hear about the guy at Wasp Canyon?”