by Carol Miller
Bobby hurried over to Laurel’s car. The doors were locked. He peered through the windows.
“Nothing, Daisy. It looks like it always does.”
Although she hadn’t expected anything different, she still felt a slight stab of disappointment. How nice it would have been to discover a friendly little note tucked under one of the windshield wipers—Gone with Chris to collect caches/prepare for wedding. Will return shortly.
Bobby went to Chris’s car next. Its doors were locked too. Daisy almost smiled at the irony. Their cabins had been left wide open, but their cars were sealed tight. The unidentified vehicles were the same way. All of the windows were closed, and all of the doors were locked. Even the truck bed was covered. Following Bobby’s example, Daisy peered through the windows, but there wasn’t much for her to see. The interiors were too shadowy. There appeared to be some papers on the seat of the car and a few soda cans on the floor of the truck. Both vehicles could have belonged to the geocachers. They also could have belonged to somebody else.
“Anything?” she called to Bobby, who was still inspecting Chris’s car.
“Naw.”
She walked toward Rick’s truck. His doors were unlocked. Unfortunately, the inside wasn’t at all helpful. There wasn’t one item that had any connection to Laurel, Chris, or the geocachers.
“Bobby,” Daisy said, “do you know why Rick was here?”
“I guess he was looking for me. He knows this is where I park.”
“I assume that he also knows this is where Laurel and Chris park?”
Bobby answered with a shrug.
Daisy sighed. There wasn’t a single clue to go on. Nothing that told her whether Rick had come there for Laurel, either romantically or because he had somehow figured out that things were in the process of taking a bad turn. And also nothing in relation to the geocachers. No maps. No inkling of treasure. Only the Confederate history tome in Chris’s cabin that had been whacked against Rick’s head. It may have proved that they wanted him out of the way, but it didn’t offer a hint in locating Laurel or Chris. The one bit of good news from Daisy’s perspective was that she hadn’t encountered any evidence of the stolen revolver. Better not to find the gun at all, than to find that it had been used a second time.
Shutting the door to Rick’s pickup, she looked around the clearing. It was roughly circular and was bordered by the same weedy scrub that lined the path leading to it.
“Where do you drive in?” Daisy asked Bobby.
“See that scrawny rhododendron?” He gestured toward a spot opposite from where she was standing. “Next to it is the road.”
Referring to it as a road was a gross exaggeration. It was really just another path of trampled grass that had grown wide enough to accommodate vehicles. The incline was so steep, it made the path difficult to see from the clearing itself. There was no marking for it or for the smaller path that Daisy and Bobby had used from the campground.
Daisy looked around the clearing again, slowly and more carefully this time. Finally she saw it—a narrow, barely visible break in the scrub not far from the unidentified truck.
“Is that the trailhead, Bobby?”
“Yup.”
She approached it. It wasn’t marked either, except that didn’t surprise her. This wasn’t groomed park land. Rarely were the trails leading into the mountains marked. There were too many of them—too many that went nowhere and whose original purpose had long ago been forgotten, too many that snaked around in seemingly endless loops or that vanished suddenly halfway up a ridge.
Pushing back an even scrawnier rhododendron, Daisy stepped from the clearing onto the trail. She had assumed that it would be as narrow as its opening, covered with the usual layer of pine needles and dried leaves that blanketed the mountains of southwestern Virginia in October, but she was wrong. The ground was bare red clay that had been ripped raw by all-terrain vehicle tracks.
“Bobby!” she called.
“What?”
“Did Laurel ever mention to you that they were using ATVs out here?”
“ATVs?” He jogged over to her.
“Take a look.” Daisy pointed at the unmistakable tracks.
“That’s weird.” Bobby’s brow furrowed. “They weren’t there before.”
“When before?”
“Last week. I told you I ain’t been up the trail myself, but I’d seen the beginning of it. I came with Laurel. We’d been foolin’ around and—”
“Thank you, Bobby,” Daisy interjected, rolling her eyes. “I’m not interested in all the lovely specifics.”
His cheeks reddened, and he grinned like a wily barn cat.
“But Laurel wasn’t using an ATV on the trail?” she pressed him.
He shook his head. “She always hiked. Chris too. As far as I know, they all hiked.”
“Of course,” Daisy replied, more to herself than to Bobby. “They hike, because they like geocaching and it wouldn’t be the same with off-road vehicles. The hunt would be a whole lot easier, nowhere near as competitive. It’s like Laurel said about the GPS. That’s why they picked this place for the event. With so many experienced participants, the fickle GPS around here made it tougher for them. They had to rely on their actual skills more. They wouldn’t have needed to do that nearly as much if they had used ATVs.”
Bobby went on shaking his head, understanding her words but clearly not their relevance.
“So the ATVs came later,” she continued, working it out aloud. “They came this week after the area was closed off and the event was canceled. The ATVs would be ten times faster than hiking boots. With them, they could explore more of the trail quicker, and they could go back and forth between the cabins and the trail before you and I could even get to the campground this afternoon.”
“The cabins? This afternoon?” Bobby echoed. “Wait a minute, you don’t think—”
Daisy didn’t bother to let him finish. “That’s exactly what I think. Whoever is driving those ATVs whacked Rick in the head with the book, is responsible for the condition of Laurel’s cabin, and in all likelihood knows precisely where she and Chris are.”
Bobby stared at her for a long moment—processing what she had said—then spun around and raced to his truck. Pulling his Winchester from the gun rack behind the seat, he slung it over his back.
“Hold up!” Daisy hollered, following him. “You’re not going to—”
This time Bobby didn’t bother to let her finish. “I’m gonna go after ’em. That’s what I’m gonna do, Daisy.”
“Out on the trail? At this hour?”
He responded by grabbing a handful of cartridges from an open box on the floor of the pickup and stuffing them into the pocket of his jeans.
“You don’t know how far the trail goes,” Daisy cautioned him pragmatically. “It could run for twenty miles. They could have turned off onto another trail somewhere along the way or be hunkered down for the night on the side of the mountain. You don’t know how many of them there are, what kind of weapons they’ve got…”
Grabbing a second handful of cartridges, Bobby stuffed them into his other pocket.
“Be smart about this, Bobby,” she said. “It’s already almost dusk. How are you going to follow a trail in the dark?”
“ATV tracks are easy to follow,” he rejoined simply.
She couldn’t dispute him on that. ATV tracks on bare red clay were certainly much easier to follow than footprints in dried leaves—day or night.
“I’ll bring a light,” he added, digging a flashlight out of his toolbox.
Daisy hesitated, debating how hard to argue with him.
“I’ve only got one, but Rick’s probably got another.” Bobby began walking toward his brother’s truck. “He’s always got everything.”
Rick was an exceedingly clever moonshiner living on the edge of Appalachia. Of course he was going to have a flashlight in his truck, along with a plethora of other rural essentials. Regrettably—based on her earlier inspection of
the pickup—Daisy knew that in this instance the essentials did not include a supply of likker. Otherwise she might have been able to convince Bobby to sit down with her for a nip or two and further discuss the situation, instead of watching him gallop heedlessly onto an unmarked mountain trail at sundown with every probability of him inadvertently drifting off that trail a quarter of a mile in.
“Maybe you should wait,” she suggested, even without having a jelly jar as a prop. “Maybe we should talk to Deputy Johnson about all of this first.”
As she said it, Daisy winced slightly, anticipating Bobby’s unhappy reaction. She wasn’t mistaken. His head snapped toward her with a look of undisguised horror, as though she had just proposed putting down his favorite bluetick.
“I know. I know.” Daisy raised her hands in apology. “You and Rick don’t do well with the law. You don’t trust ’em, and I understand why. But it would only be the sheriff’s office, not anybody federal. Don’t you think Laurel would want us to call Deputy Johnson and ask him for his help?”
“We don’t need his help,” Bobby retorted stiffly. “We can take care of ourselves.”
“Yes, but—”
“We can’t call him from here anyway,” he cut her off with vigor. “There’s no reception. And even if we could reach him, he wouldn’t come until tomorrow. What good is tomorrow gonna do Laurel? She needs me now!”
Daisy found herself almost impressed. That was as assertive and self-possessed as she had seen Bobby in ages. Had she been there, Laurel would have no doubt been flattered. Bobby obviously cared for her dearly. Even though Daisy was still of the opinion that they should contact Deputy Johnson for assistance—or at least to apprise him of the state of affairs—she decided that she wasn’t going to argue with Bobby any more on the subject. If he wanted to go after Laurel, then that was what he should do. She was his fiancée, after all.
“She’s been gone for a day already,” he said, surveying the contents of Rick’s pickup. “Can you imagine what might happen to her overnight? Even if they don’t hurt her, she could freeze to death!”
“She won’t freeze to death,” Daisy assured him. “We’re not even getting frost around here yet. Temperature-wise, Laurel will be just fine. Maybe a little chilly, depending on what she’s wearing.” She stood on her toes next to him and looked into the bed of the truck. “Why don’t you take that sweatshirt with you, Bobby? You might get cold too.”
“You should take it,” he countered. “You’ll need it.”
Her eyebrows lifted in surprise.
Bobby turned to her. “You’re coming with me, aren’t you?”
The eyebrows went higher.
“That’s why I wanted the second light,” he explained, picking up Rick’s wide-beam flashlight and holding it out to her. “So we could both have one.”
Daisy didn’t touch it.
“Oh please, Daisy. You’ve got to come. What if Laurel’s really hurt? What if Chris needs help too? What if I—” Bobby’s voice dropped to a mumble. “What if I get lost out there?”
They were all legitimate concerns, and that was the problem. Laurel could be hurt. Chris also. And Daisy was fairly sure that Bobby would indeed get lost out there. Given enough time, he could even end up meandering into North Carolina. Who would help Laurel and Chris then? And who was going to explain it to Rick?
“All right,” she muttered, taking the flashlight from him with a grim expression. “But you’re staying on the trail! Do you hear me, Bobby? No marching off in whatever direction you feel like just because you suddenly think you might have caught the rustle of some poor pheasant hiding in the underbrush.”
He nodded in agreement and let out a cheery whistle.
“And no whistling either!” Daisy warned him. “We don’t want everybody between here and Fuzzy Lake to know that we’re coming.”
“Okey-dokey, Daisy.”
“You take Rick’s sweatshirt. I’ll take his jacket.”
She was dressed for a combination bridal shower and bachelorette party at the inn, not a search-and-rescue mission through the backwoods of Pittsylvania County. At least thanks to Rick, she now had a jacket for the occasion: a warm, comfortable, albeit considerably oversize jacket with a pair of deep and sturdy pockets located conveniently on the outside. Perfect for holding Rick’s other temporary gift to her—the Ruger.
Daisy pulled on the jacket. It was made of rugged waxed cotton, and it smelled like its owner: old tobacco barn and the slightly sweet aroma of aged corn whiskey. She raised the Ruger. In the orange blaze of sunset, Daisy looked down at the cylinder and slowly rotated it with her thumb. Six chambers, all loaded. Her lips curled into a smile. Rick could always be counted on to have his gun at the ready. And she intended on having it at the ready too. You never could quite predict what you might stumble across in the backwoods of Pittsylvania County.
CHAPTER
22
With Rick’s Ruger in her pocket and his flashlight in her fingers, Daisy set off on the trail with Bobby. Courtesy of the damage caused by the ATVs, it was wide enough for them to walk abreast, which allowed their flashlights to work in conjunction. That was good. She could tell within the first mile that they were going to have problems as it got darker. Although the tracks themselves were easy to follow, the trail was rough.
For starters, the ascent was steep. Some slope was to be expected, of course, considering that they were heading up the side of a mountain. But the grade was particularly sharp, and the continual switchbacks only made it worse. In theory, the switchbacks should have helped by rendering the route less precipitously vertical, and they surely did help more casual hikers, as well as the ATVs. For Daisy and Bobby, however, the switchbacks made the trail significantly longer. The relentless zigzagging also forced them to look at the interminable climb ahead—how far, how high, how strenuous it was going to be.
Under different circumstances, while still physically demanding, it would have been a beautiful late-day ramble. The fireworks of color shooting up from the sinking sun were glorious. Ginger and ruby rockets joined with the glittering gold reflection from the early evening stars. The farther Daisy and Bobby climbed, the better they could see the spectacle. The orange blaze in the horizon set the vast expanse of land beneath them aflame in dazzling hues. The already painted maples became a carpet of shimmering copper, and the oaks turned into a blanket of gleaming bronze. But they couldn’t really enjoy it, not when they didn’t know where they were going or what they might find when they got there.
Gradually, the orange blaze faded to a russet glow. The waning puffs of clouds grew pink, then periwinkle. And the only remaining metallic luminescence came from the previously sedate pines that glimmered silver against the violet sky. It would be a clear night, which meant two things: it was going to be considerably colder, and the lingering light would last longer, especially when combined with the round, rising moon.
As dusk fell, the trail got rougher. The rocks jutting out of the clay became harder to see. The protruding roots were more easily stumbled over. And the creeping vines and broken branches became increasingly difficult to push out of the way. The hairpin turns got tougher too. They were tight, so much so that Daisy and Bobby had to slow down and tread with extra care. There were no guardrails or protective natural barriers. If the crumbling dirt suddenly decided to slide away beneath their feet, then they would slide down the face of the mountain with it.
The first time that Daisy felt the ground shift under her, she realized that even though she and Bobby needed to be more cautious on the turns, they were actually an advantage. The heavy and less nimble ATVs couldn’t manage them in the dark. So wherever they had stopped at sunset, they had to stay until dawn. That provided her a certain level of comfort. Until daybreak, she and Bobby were safe both from being run off the trail and from being run over on it, at least by a motorized vehicle.
She also realized why the trail was such an excellent choice for true geocaching. The terrain was challengin
g. The scenery was fantastic. And most important of all, there were countless recesses and crevices in which to conceal the caches, with varying degrees of difficulty to accommodate everybody from the novice to the expert. Daisy understood now why it had taken Laurel so long to collect the remaining caches. Climbing the trail was hard enough all by itself, but then she had to head off into the woods in a dozen different directions to locate each specific hiding spot. That took time and energy.
They stepped onto a stone outcropping and a sudden gust of wind blew past them. Startled, Bobby tripped over the remnants of a dead dogwood.
“Ow!” he complained, grabbing Daisy’s shoulder to keep from falling. “Where the heck did that blast come from?”
“I don’t know. We’re getting pretty high, so I guess—” As she steadied him, there was a second gust. Daisy lifted her head toward it and was too surprised by what she saw to finish her sentence.
It wasn’t wind. It was an enormous rush of bats—hundreds, maybe even thousands of them. The exact number was impossible to calculate. They were a swirling tornado. A thick vortex of fluttering creatures spiraling upward into the sky. The sound of their wing beats was like falling rain, except their bodies were lighter than the dusk surrounding them, so they looked more like flurrying snow. It was an immense blizzard of bats, circling tightly counterclockwise and then spreading out as a long ribbon unwinding from a spool. In a great noisy mass, they disappeared around the edge of the mountain.
“Dang.” Bobby exhaled in admiration. “Where do you think they’re going?”
“Fuzzy Lake,” Daisy said. “There are millions of moths and mosquitos down by the water. For a bat, that’s about the perfect place for a drink and dinner.”
He nodded. “But where did they come from?”
She squinted at the opposite side of the ridge. There were numerous black spots speckled in between the trees. The usual mountain grottos and hollows, no doubt. They varied in size. Most were quiet, but a few had movement in front of them—flapping stragglers racing out after their brethren.