Banner Elk Breeze

by Ed Robinson

  I was clean, but I skipped the deodorant and aftershave. I’d need a day to lose the scent of the soap and shampoo. I presented myself back in the kitchen.

  “I’m clean,” I said, spinning around for inspection.

  “Excellent,” she replied. “Now sit down and eat. Tell me all about it.”

  I told her about my day. I told her I knew where the shot had been fired from. I thought I knew from what direction the killer came up the hill. I could replay the scene in my mind. She followed along dutifully until I tried to explain my newfound ability to heighten my senses.

  “You’re jerking me around, right?” she said. “Did you get bit by a radioactive spider or something?”

  “I’m not kidding,” I said. “It feels completely normal. Like communing with nature.”

  “Maybe you should take a few days off,” she suggested. “Come back to earth.”

  “I will unless I see something that tells me I need to get back up there,” I said. “I want to patrol the road down to Banner Elk. Try to spot where he starts his hike.”

  “It’s two miles down to 194,” she said. “What do you mean patrol?”

  “I’m thinking he parks his truck along there someplace,” I said. “Climbs up the shortest route or the easiest.”

  “Okay, I’ve seen a truck or two off the road,” she said. “There are only two or three likely spots.”

  “Add the church,” I said. “And friends’ driveways.”

  “By the time you flag a truck,” she said. “He might already be up there.”

  “Good point,” I said. “Doesn’t mean I can’t get to him before he comes back down.”

  “Good lord,” she said. “I don’t like the sound of that. You need to be prepared.”

  “So I’ll have to stay prepared until it’s time,” I said. “Sooner or later I’m going to have to stake him out. Wait for him, maybe over a few days.”

  “You want to sleep up there?”

  “I’ll be fine at night,” I said. “He won’t come in the dark.”

  “What about bears?”

  “I haven’t seen one yet,” I said. “Pop spent years living up there. Bears didn’t bother him.”

  “This isn’t Florida, Breeze,” she said. “You aren’t on your natural turf. Are you sure you want to carry through with this?”

  “I feel like I can do it,” I told her. “You haven’t been up there with me. No offense, but you just don’t understand the transformation I’ve been going through. I like it here, living on dirt. Today I felt one thousand percent in touch with my surroundings… like I belonged.”

  “I’m not sure I’m buying this whole super sensory perception claim,” she said. “It sounds weird.”

  “Let me try to explain,” I said. “You and I both have always practiced discipline when it comes to awareness, right? We have an above normal ability to recognize what’s going on around us. We can spot anomalies, things out of place. We can size up people. We’re always one step ahead of what’s about to happen.”

  “I was trained to do that,” she said. “It seems to come naturally to you.”

  “Let’s extend that another step,” I said. “When we’re underway on the boat I can sense things. I hear the sound of the engine, feel the movement of the waves. I gauge the speed of the current and the phase of the tide. I was one with the boat and the sea.”

  “I always considered that your gift,” she said. “You were born to it.”

  “I’ve simply transferred that innate ability to my new surroundings,” I said.

  “Just like that?”

  “With Pop’s help,” I said. “In his own way, he instructed me how to be open to it. He must have sensed my capabilities.”

  “Doesn’t sound so unreasonable now,” she said. “I think I get it. I just haven’t been sharing that part of our new life with you.”

  “I’d love it if you would,” I said. “But now is not the time. Let me take care of this myself. When it’s over, you can join me.”

  “I think I’d like that,” she said. “Mountain Brody.”

  “Mountain Breeze,” I said. “Welcome home, baby.”

  Seven

  I was up early the next morning. Before I even got my coffee I drove the length of Pigeon Roost Road. No odd trucks were spotted. I turned right on 194 and circled back towards home. I quietly slipped back into the house and poured a cup of black goodness. I sat on the porch and watched a doe eat apples out of the creek. Have you ever seen a deer bob for apples? Hummingbirds alternated at the feeder Brody had hung. Something had eaten all the bird seed overnight, probably squirrels. I was behind on my wood splitting duties. I skipped the morning shower.

  Brody appeared in her robe, asking if I’d like her to cook breakfast. She wasn’t part of the advance team, but she did a hell of a job with support. I appreciated her patience with my shenanigans. I wasn’t sure how far I could push it though. I decided to take care of some chores at the cabin. I needed to bring in more wood and the ax needed sharpening. I’d drive the road a few more times throughout the day. In my bones, I knew the killer would be appearing at the weed patch soon. He could avoid tending the plants if we got a good rain, but none was forecast. The woods were dry. Even the creek was at a low ebb.

  After breakfast, I tended to my duties, but my mind was elsewhere. All I could think about was capturing a killer, getting his face on camera. I’d also developed a likely backstory to tell the Sheriff. Pop got himself killed by stumbling onto the weed farm. Pictures and video of the guy watering the plants would be incriminating. He didn’t need a body lying in his workspace, so he dumped it near my cabin, cleaned up the mess later. The evidence against him would be overwhelming. His only defense would be that he shot Pop in order to steal the weed. That it wasn’t originally planted by him. I doubted that would fly in court. The defendant would be in a bad spot.

  I drove the road again before dinner. I saw no trucks that looked out of place, but I did find something else. On a steep hillside, there was a grass track drive up into the woods. It wasn’t more than a trail, but the grass had been beaten down by tires over the years. A four-wheel-drive vehicle would be required to navigate it. It would be unpassable in bad weather no matter the truck or its tires. I’d seen it before but paid it no mind. I guessed it led to a hunting camp. No permanent residence would have such a rudimentary driveway. It wasn’t far from the White Rock Baptist Church. Pop had told me about the possible shortcut on this side of the mountain. It had to be the killer’s access point.

  I went home and told Brody what I planned to do, hoping she wouldn’t force me to abandon my plans.

  “I’ll get prepared tonight,” I told her. “You can drop me off at that grass trail. I’ll ascend the mountain from the Banner Elk side instead of from here. I’ll look for trails or signs of the guy.”

  “What happens when you get up there?” she asked. “What are you going to do if he isn’t there or doesn’t show up?”

  “I’ll wait for him,” I said. “I’ll bed down up there for a night or two. He’ll show soon.”

  “I knew it would come to this,” she said. “I’ll be fine here, but I’ll worry myself nuts about you up there.”

  “I’ll be armed,” I began. “I’ll have some food and water. I’ll find or make a shelter. I can do this Brody.”

  “You realize you’re not thirty anymore, right?” she said. “We’re supposed to be slowing down. Enjoying a stress-free life.”

  “I’ll admit I was feeling my age when we left Florida,” I said. “I don’t know if it was the heat, the Red Tide, or what. I was starting to feel old down there, but now I’m reinvigorated. I’m getting good exercise. My appetite is better. The air is clean and crisp. My joints don’t hurt and I sleep much better. Maybe I don’t feel like I’m thirty, but I feel as good as I have in years.”

  “I’ve been noticing that too,” she said. “I can breathe up here. I look forward to a new day. I’ve got room to move around in this house, n
ot like on the boat.”

  “Do you miss it?” I asked.

  “Do you?” she countered.

  “I thought I would but I don’t,” I said. “I don’t look back. I’m loving it here. That was one episode in our lives. It was a good one, but we’re beginning a new episode now.”

  “I thought I’d miss the beach or even the pool at the marina,” she said. “I don’t even think about it now. I do want to start hiking with you though, when things settle down.”

  “I’d enjoy that,” I said. “I know you’ll love it. There are hundreds of waterfalls around here.”

  “I’ll make a list and we’ll see them all,” she said. “Do you want to do that Banner Elk Vineyard tour soon?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll even suffer through the antique shops with you if you want.”

  After dinner, Brody cleaned and checked my pistol. I’d upgraded from my old 9mm to a .40 Smith & Wesson, mostly due to the possibility of a bear encounter. She was our weapons expert and a crack shot. I was not a good shot when we first met. I was never really a handgun or rifle guy. My trusty shotgun had served me well enough over the years. She taught me patiently until I was pretty decent with a handgun. I loaded a backpack with water, power bars, and some jerky. I couldn’t carry too much weight. I had the gun and camera to deal with too.

  I put all of the gear outside and covered it with my dirty mountain clothes. I went to bed early, planning on a full night’s sleep, but Brody had other ideas. This time she took charge. I gave in to her, not that I had a choice. It was nice to be taken care of sometimes. It also put me to sleep in short order. Thanks, Brody.

  I was up before dawn, anxious to get the expedition underway. Brody was still asleep and I hated to wake her. I took my coffee to the porch and listened to the sound of the creek. Sunsets here were obscured by the tall trees, but I enjoyed the quiet stillness of the morning. I noticed the fullness of the apple trees and the abundance of fruit on the ground beneath them. The deer would be happy about that. I saw that a few trees had already begun to change color, even though it was still August. My surroundings were already beautiful, but I bet they’d become spectacular in the Fall.

  Brody came out already dressed. She gave me a nod that said are you ready? I nodded back.

  “Let’s do this, mountain man,” she said. “I’ll hold the fort while you’re gone. Come back in one piece.”

  “That’s the plan,” I said. “Try not to worry too much.”

  She drove us up McGuire Mountain Road and turned left on Pigeon Roost. The road wound back and forth sharply for the first mile. I motioned for her to slow down before we reached the grass drive I was looking for. I rolled my window down to listen for approaching cars. She stopped and I got out quickly and closed the door. I waved her on. She disappeared down the hill and I hustled away from the road and up the trail.

  I climbed two hundred feet before stopping. I was out of sight from the road below. There were no fresh tire tracks. I hadn’t missed my man. I eyed the woods on either side of the trail. If a truck did start climbing the hill, I’d need a place to get out of sight. The brush on both sides was thick. I’d have to bash through it to gain concealment, and that would leave a sign. There was nothing else I could do. Hopefully, the driver would miss it or think a deer had come through.

  I continued the uphill climb until the land leveled out. What I found didn’t qualify as a cabin. It was more of a shack. It was roughly twenty by twenty square. There was a stout padlock on the door and thick curtains in the windows. A galvanized smokestack poked through the roof. Piles of split and un-split wood were scattered about. Empty beer cans littered the ground along with the occasional liquor bottle. The wood plank siding was gray and weathered. The tin roof was covered in pine needles and looked to have seen better days.

  Behind the shack, I found a wooden block and tackle with old blood pools beneath it. That’s where they hung deer to bleed out in the winter time. Near that was a small structure that may have been an outhouse. I looked for power lines leading to the shack but saw none. One of the hunters that used this shack must have discovered Pop’s weed patch by random chance. He saw an opportunity and took it. The harvest could easily be distributed from this home base. No one would see a thing.

  I remembered the camera and took some pictures of the crude structure. Then I thought of a question that a defense lawyer might have. Why would someone haul a body down the opposite side of the mountain in order to dump it near my place? It would be a lot of unnecessary effort. They could have disposed of it anywhere on their way back to camp, let the bears get to it. They could have buried it here on site. They could have dumped it near some other houses close the Baptist Church.

  These were good points, but a competent prosecutor should have some plausible explanation. If he was local, he may not have wanted to implicate folks he knew that lived near the camp. He didn’t know the outsiders who’d bought from Richard McGuire. They were probably transplants from the city that he despised. This was a detail for later contemplation. All I could do was identify the suspect. The rest would play out on its own.

  I’d gathered all the information that I could from the shack. I began my trek upward. There were several clear trails leading away from the camp. I got my bearings and chose the most likely one. It soon deteriorated and gave way to wilderness. Deer hunting should be good over here. The camp was just a place to stage and drink beer later. No one would spend much time there. Who wants to be without electricity and poop in a hole?

  As I put some distance between myself and the shack, I dialed up my awareness level. I was positive no one was out in front of me. I was certain that the shack was where my quarry would begin his ascent. I was ahead of him. I’d left no trace that I’d been there or anywhere along the trail. I felt good about the situation. He’d come later today or tomorrow. The plants needed water. He couldn’t be so dumb as to not realize that. The crop was his cash cow. He’d take care of it or his murderous act would be for nothing.

  I didn’t think I needed it yet, so I didn’t go into full-blown alert mode during the rest of the trip. I was aware. I listened and smelled and closely observed, but reserved my super keen sensory perception for when it was absolutely necessary. Occasionally I stopped and listened for sounds from below. I looked up for a man with a rifle. I listened for a truck or an ATV but heard none. It was a much shorter hike from this side of the mountain to the weed farm. I arrived before noon.

  I sat and observed from the perimeter for twenty minutes. Nothing had changed. No one had been up here since my last visit. I went to the boulder where I believed the shot was fired from. I looked back again at where I’d found the body. I felt like I had some time to look for the bullet. It was either in a tree trunk or long gone. I had nothing to lose. I used the camera to sweep outward and zoom in on the trees. There were dozens of potential resting places for a bullet. I also couldn’t know if the body itself had redirected its flight. It was a stab in the dark. Not even the detectives from Boone would be willing to take on the task. I was concerned about time so my search began.

  There were more pines up here than the hardwoods that dominated the lower elevations. That made it hard to see the trunks except for close to the ground. I couldn’t climb every tree I wanted to inspect. I also had to remain alert for intruders. It was difficult to direct my attentions to two separate tasks. Finding the bullet would require intense concentration. I’d need to focus, but dropping my guard could be deadly. It didn’t take long before I considered it an impossible task. I broke off my search and returned to the opposite side of the pot plants. I looked and listened downward. I walked back the way I’d come for a few hundred yards before stopping.

  Could I do it again? Did I really have that ability? I calmed myself and slowed my heart rate. I breathed deeply of the clean mountain air. I smelled the pines and the dirt. I listened to the slight rustling of the trees. It came to me again. Each sense expanded exponentially. I became ultra-aware of
what the mountain had to say. I directed my attention even further downward and held it. I had no sense of time. I kept it up, but it may have only been minutes. No one was coming up the mountain from the camp. I was alone.

  I hustled back to the trees that may have caught a bullet. I studiously examined each one. I looked for nicks in branches that might give me a clue. I pulled out the camera again and zoomed in on areas I couldn’t reach. I found nothing. It was hopeless. I crept about in my deerskin shoes all afternoon. I was getting tired and I needed to figure out my sleeping arrangements before it got dark.

  I went back towards the hunting shack and listened again until I was satisfied that no one was present or coming up the path. I didn’t expect they would at this hour, but my survival depended upon staying one step ahead. I wished I knew where Pop’s hideaway was. He’d revealed plenty about himself to me, but I guess the location of his home was something he wanted to remain a secret. Maybe after this was over I could hunt it down.

  I walked ever-widening circles around the weed plants, looking for a decent spot to lie down. I didn’t want to build anything yet. It might be spotted later and screw up the scene. I might leave clues implicating myself. I just wanted some cover and concealment. I didn’t want to get eaten by a bear. I had to claw through those mountain mangrove rhododendrons until I found a hollow spot that would allow me to stretch out. I drank deeply and devoured some jerky before dark. It promised to be a long night. I thought about Brody down there in our cozy cabin. I knew she’d fret about me. I was so lucky to have her in my life. I’d promised her many things. Sleeping in the weeds on a mountain wasn’t one of them. I’d make a strong effort to make it up to her, but for the night, I remained focused on my mission.