Jumping Rise

by S. W. Hubbard

  Frank set off on the main route out of Verona, turning left onto the smaller Hawk’s Nest Road in two miles. There were no businesses here—just a few houses spaced far apart and far back from the road. In another five miles, he turned again onto an unnamed gravel road, marked only by two faded, hand-painted signs: Buck’s Place and Haringtons.

  He leaned out the truck window and snapped a picture, which he texted to Earl.

  Frank’s pick-up jolted along as the forest closed in on both sides. He hoped he wouldn’t encounter another vehicle coming toward him because there was no room to pass and no place to pull over. Every twenty feet or so, he passed Posted: No Trespassing signs. Finally, down a dirt track, he spotted one of the cabins promised by the signs, and in another mile spied the other through the trees. He couldn’t tell if either was currently occupied.

  The road became rougher.

  Frank navigated around a huge boulder, and the road dead-ended in a wall of trees. If this was as far as it went, Penny’s friend was wrong. He was nowhere close to The Balsams. Frank put the truck in park, leaving it in the middle of the road. Turning around would be a bitch.

  He walked toward the trees. One pine had a fresh orange blaze painted on its trunk.

  Searching for a path, Frank stepped through the low scrub brush growing beside the pine tree. Soon, he spied what he sought: two rutted tracks leading through the trees at a 45 degree angle to the clearing where he’d left the truck.

  Could his truck drive along there? He examined the tracks and saw signs that another vehicle had made the trip: freshly disturbed dirt, broken twigs, an upturned rock.

  Frank returned to his truck and positioned it to line up with the tracks. At least it wasn’t a steep climb, but he could count on a few new scratches in his paint job. As he approached the tree with the orange blaze, he remembered to snap a photo. When he tried to send it, he saw that the earlier photo had failed to send.

  “Try again?” his phone wanted to know.

  Frank pressed send, doubting it would do much good. If the message hadn’t gone through when he was out on the paved road, it was unlikely to go from the woods.

  He was in this alone.

  He kept the truck in second gear, and it lurched slowly up the track. The height of the vehicle allowed it to pass over the scrubby undergrowth between the tracks. His wide tires crushed a small sapling that scraped his window as it went down.

  Frank kept his eye on the odometer. So far, he’d driven seven miles on the unmarked road and one mile on the track. If the truck got stuck, he could still hike out.

  He wasn’t sure how he’d turn around for the return trip. But someone had been here before him, so he had to believe it could be accomplished. The truck lumbered along through the dense trees. The logging of the first growth forest had taken place nearly 100 years ago, so the trees here, mostly hemlock, were closely spaced and similar in height. Frank suspected this old logging road must come in handy for hunters wanting to carry out their kill. He supposed if a couple of trucks per season made the trip, it was enough to preserve the remnants of the road.

  He had traveled three more miles—definitely getting closer to the back end of The Balsams. But the road was becoming increasingly hard to navigate. The undercarriage of his truck got caught on a branch, and the wheels spun. But when he reversed a few feet and tried again, he got through.

  Frank kept plowing forward. He told himself there had to be a spot where the track widened, or else how did anyone ever turn around? But his impatient nature made him doubt this outcome.

  He squinted over the steering wheel. Up ahead, the track looked muddy. As he grew closer, he could see that a small stream crossed the track, but in this hot summer, it had slowed to a trickle. Nevertheless, erosion from spring floods had washed away some trees, creating a small clearing. Beyond this, the tracks disappeared.

  Frank got out of his pick-up and unfolded his maps. By calculating the distance he’d driven and using his compass, he estimated that The Balsams was about five more miles northwest of here. He certainly couldn’t bushwhack that far on his own. And besides, he didn’t have any desire to pop out of the woods in the backyard of The Balsams. He wouldn’t have a good explanation, and he couldn’t expect a warm welcome.

  Penny’s historical society friend had mentioned going the rest of the way by ATV. Frank hadn’t noticed any ATVs in the outbuilding at The Balsams, but with 80 acres, there were plenty of places where one could be kept.

  However, Desmond didn’t seem like the ATV type. The machines were loud and at odds with peaceful enjoyment of the tranquility of the forest. But maybe the boys had demanded some more fast-paced entertainment.

  Time to look around.

  Frank ate one of his energy bars and took a long drink. Then he slung his backpack on his back and set off to see if he could find a trace of a trail. The little stream ran in the direction he wanted to go, so he followed it for a quarter mile. But eventually it dried up, and he found himself surrounded by trees on all sides. The only sound came from a woodpecker hammering for his next meal.

  An ATV couldn’t make it through trees this dense. Yet Frank liked the theory that Caitlin had reached The Balsams by ATV. The young woman had been wearing shorts, a t-shirt, and sneakers when she left the Mountain Vista. It would be a hard hike through this underbrush, and when her body was found, her legs and arms showed no scratches, her feet no blisters.

  Following the stream had led him into a little valley. Frank climbed up toward the ridge. From the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of orange. There, to his left was another orange blaze, just a crude splash of paint on a tree trunk. He plowed toward it, and the trees opened up a bit.

  Frank saw some small broken branches, leaves and pine needles brushed off the forest floor—all signs that a small vehicle had passed through. He pulled out his phone and clicked some pictures to give him the evidence he’d need to convince the state police to come out here and search. That was enough—he didn’t need to go any further.

  Frank pulled out his compass and got himself oriented toward his truck. As he walked away from the orange blaze, he could see more signs that the ATV had passed this way. How had he missed the start of the ATV’s journey in the clearing?

  He trudged along the path the vehicle had made, a trickle of sweat running down his back. The cool morning had burned off—they were headed to another scorching day. No more looking at the scenery—Frank wanted to get back to the truck and back to civilization.

  He took a few more steps and realized the path had disappeared from beneath his boots. Frank lifted his head and checked his compass. He seemed to still be headed in the right direction to the clearing. He pulled out his binoculars to search for a glimpse of the truck through the trees. He should be close. He scanned, slowly pivoting.

  Green leaves, brown branches, gray rocks—no bright blue truck.

  Green, brown...yellow. Frank adjusted the focus. What was that patch of yellow?

  The fuel tank of an ATV.

  Frank crashed through the underbrush toward the vehicle, which was parked in a slight depression behind a large rock. Branches had been laid across the seat and tires to conceal it as much as possible. When he had been walking along the stream, it was totally invisible to him. Frank moved the branches away to check the make and model. He pulled his notebook from his pocket.

  This was the ATV that Blaine had stolen from Rollie Fister’s nephew-in-law, Todd.

  Chapter 33

  Frank snapped more pictures. He hadn’t pressured Blaine much about his theft of the ATV since Todd had written it off. He’d assumed Blaine had stolen it as a way to pay off part of his drug debt. But a used ATV would hardly put a dent in the huge sum Blaine must owe for the lost kilo of heroin. What if Blaine had stolen this ATV to order for someone who needed it to transport Caitlin?

  A throb of excitement rose in his chest. This must be the information Blaine had hoped to trade for a sentence in Federal prison. With Blaine’s th
eft connected to Caitlin’s murder, Frank knew he needed to make another visit to the county lock-up. Who had paid Blaine to steal the ATV? If it wasn’t the murderer himself, certainly it was someone who knew why Caitlin was murdered.

  After consulting his compass, Frank set off through the woods in what he hoped was the general direction of his truck. His best guess was that someone had driven Caitlin up the old logging road, and then she, either alone or escorted, had hiked the short distance to the ATV.

  She had ridden—or been delivered—to The Balsams. Then someone had reversed the journey with the ATV.

  But without Caitlin.

  Behind him, a twig snapped.

  Frank stopped to listen. A deer?

  The next sound: a metallic click.

  Frank reached for his gun.

  “Put your hands up. I got a rifle aimed at your back and I ain’t afraid to use it on a stinkin’ trespasser.”

  Frank lifted his hands above his pounding heart. He worked to keep his voice calm and steady. “I’m Police Chief Frank Bennett from Trout Run. Put away your weapon, please.”

  “Ya ain’t no cop. Yer wearin’ blue jeans. What kinda fool you take me for?”

  Frank really wanted to see who he was dealing with—a criminal, a madman, or just a grouchy old hermit. “I’m going to turn around now. My ID is in my pocket.”

  Slowly Frank pivoted. A wiry man in his sixties with a grizzled beard and a camo cap came into view. He stood twenty feet away aiming a 308 Winchester at Frank’s torso, his hands trembling but his gaze unwavering. On the positive side, he didn’t appear deranged. On the negative side, with a gun that powerful, he could kill Frank with one shot even if his aim was lousy.

  Frank kept his eyes focused on his opponent, showing neither aggression nor fear. “My ID is in my chest pocket. I’m going to lower my right hand to pull it out.” He stated his intention. He didn’t ask permission.

  The old man gave a brief nod.

  Frank pulled out his ID and flashed his badge.

  “Hmph.” The man lowered his rifle. “What’re ya sneakin’ around out here for? I don’t care if you are a cop, you can’t hunt on my land.”

  Frank didn’t point out that he’d hardly be hunting with his service revolver. He was, technically, trespassing, so he kept his response polite. “I’m following up on a lead. I wasn’t sure about how reliable my source was, so I came out here on my day off. Didn’t want to waste taxpayer money.” He thought that last line might go over well. “I’m sorry for trespassing. Do you live in one of those cabins I passed?”

  “Yep. Buck Dwyer. Lived here for forty years.”

  Frank relaxed. Now that the guy wasn’t pointing a gun, he might prove useful. “Well then, you must know these woods like the back of your hand. If I kept following this trail,” Frank pointed over his shoulder, away from his truck, “where would I end up?”

  “Mallard Lake.”

  “You know a house called The Balsams?” Frank asked.

  “ ’A course. Roddy Sutton won it offa James Hale in a poker game. Then Hale’s son bought it back for a shit ton ‘a money.” Buck shook his head. “Bought the same house twice! Them Hales don’t have the brains the good lord gave ‘em.”

  “You’re friends with Desmond Hale and his sons?”

  Buck snorted. “Do I look like someone they’d be invitin’ over fer dinner?”

  Frank smiled at the vision of Buck swilling cabernet and eating imported cheese with Desmond. Then he remembered what Olivia had told him—that Chet and Cora had a friend who helped out with the heavy work at The Balsams. “But maybe you’ve been to the house? I thought you might work for him the way Chet and Cora Flanagan do.”

  Buck coughed and spit. “I help out Chet sometimes. Get paid in cash. Never talk to the Hales—just do what Chet needs me to do.”

  Frank was beginning to warm up to the old codger. He clearly didn’t share Chet and Cora’s fanatical devotion to the Hale family. And that could be useful.

  “Let me show you something.” Frank led Buck to the hidden ATV. “Any idea who this belongs to?”

  Buck’s eyes widened. “I heard an ATV going through these woods at night a few times. Came out to see what was going on and couldn’t find them. Woulda shot ‘em if I had.” He kicked the ATV’s tire, and moved his rifle onto his shoulder.

  “Whoa, whoa!” Frank pulled him back. The last thing he needed was the old man shooting up important evidence in the Lupton investigation. “Have you ever seen Keith or Justin Hale riding this ATV?”

  Buck scratched under his cap. “Nah. The older one lifts weights...swims...paddles. The younger one’s always got his head in a book or his eye pressed up against a camera. That was one of my projects this spring. I hadda help Chet build a duck blind. Except it wasn’t for hunting ducks. It was so Keith could hide and take pictures of the beavers and the loons.” Buck wagged his head at the preposterousness of this occupation. “Besides, if this ATV belonged to the boys, they wouldn’t leave it out here. There’s plenty of sheds on the property where they could keep it.”

  Unless they didn’t want their father to know about it. Unless they were using it to bring girls back and forth.

  “Have you helped Chet recently?” Frank asked.

  “Nah. He comes by if he needs me, but he hasn’t come in a while.”

  Obviously, Buck didn’t have phone, internet, or TV, so unless he’d gone into town for some gossip, he was probably totally unaware of Caitlin’s murder. Which suited Frank just fine. “Can you remember what night you heard the ATV?”

  Buck scowled. “I heard it twice. Not sure of the dates. The days all run together.”

  Frank turned away from the ATV and started walking back toward his truck. “I understand you don’t want people riding out here, but I’m going to ask you to leave this vehicle alone for now. The state police will come out here tomorrow and take it away.”

  Buck scowled but didn’t protest, following along silently next to Frank.

  “You notice any girls out at The Balsams last time you worked there?” Frank tried to toss this out casually, but his voice sounded too loud amid the trees.

  But Buck didn’t seem to find his question odd. “No, not this summer. Lots of girls last year, though.” He chuckled. “Ol’ Cora didn’t like it. Complained about the extra work having to climb the stairs to make beds and clean the bathrooms.”

  Buck elbowed Frank with a grin. “Plus, Cora don’t like to see anyone havin’ too much fun.”

  Chapter 34

  When Frank got home, he could tell Penny was relieved to see him but determined to give him the cold shoulder for a while since he was still alive.

  He pretended not to notice, chatting cheerfully about the discovery of the trail and the ATV while omitting all mention of Buck Dwyer’s gun. “And I owe that lead to you, honey.” Frank slipped his arms around Penny and nuzzled her neck.

  She squirmed away. “Don’t you try to sweet talk me, Frank Bennett. You know it was stupid to go off there alone. You’re lucky it ended well.”

  Frank realized how grateful he was not to have a softball-sized hole in his gut and two gallons of his blood soaked into the rocky ground on the old logging range. “You’re right,” he whispered into his wife’s hair.

  When she relented and kissed him back, Frank knew he was out of the doghouse. He pulled Penny onto the sofa beside him. “I want to ask you something. Why do you think Desmond really invited us to The Balsams? Both the guy who rents Desmond garage space and this Buck Dwyer character said that last summer, The Balsams was full of guests, especially women. This year, no one came but us. Isn’t that a little weird?”

  Penny gave Frank a wry look. “Maybe his other guests were a lot like us—they enjoyed the views but didn’t appreciate being challenged and dragged into arguments. So they came once and never wanted to come again. All three of the Hale men are unpleasant, each in his own way. It’s hard to imagine any of them creating the carefree party atmosphere we saw
at the Etheridges’ house.”

  Frank considered this. Penny had done a dramatic one-eighty turn in her reaction to Desmond Hale. But would all of the man’s guests have felt so strongly? “Lots of rich people are obnoxious,” Frank said. “That doesn’t stop them from having a crowd of hangers-on willing to drink their booze and eat their food.”

  “True.” Penny kneaded a throw pillow as she pondered his question. “You’re actually asking two questions: Why didn’t Desmond and his sons invite any friends or relatives to visit this summer? And why did Desmond invite us? I think there might be two separate, unrelated reasons.”

  Frank could practically see the gears turning inside his wife’s head. “Keep going...you’re onto something.”

  Penny shifted on the sofa to get more comfortable. “Your garage landlord guy said that last summer, there was a lot of back and forth with the guests, but this summer, he only saw Desmond and occasionally Keith.” Penny raised her index finger. “Except for the one time it seemed that the two brothers sneaked out together late at night.”

  “So you think Justin is under house arrest?” Frank asked. “Is that why Desmond told you all that nonsense about reforming and redirecting his sons?”

  “As you’re fond of saying, it’s a theory that fits the facts,” Penny answered. “As for why you and I got invited to The Balsams, maybe Desmond thought by winning me over and giving a big donation to the library, he could become a hero in the High Peaks.”

  “Wouldn’t it be more impressive to make a donation to a museum in Manhattan and become a hero there?”

  Penny squeezed Frank’s hand. “Yes, but Desmond’s grandfather was humiliated here in the Adirondacks when he lost his grand house in such a ridiculous way. So maybe Desmond’s on a campaign to restore his family’s reputation among people who matter to him.”