Untraceable (19 page)

I twist a strand of my hair. “Maybe.”

Les chews on one of his nails. “Listen, no matter what you think you heard out there, those two guys aren’t going to bother you anymore. You’re safe.”

A lump sticks to my esophagus as I obsess over his answer to my Al and Billy question. I push past it so he doesn’t become suspicious. “How long will they be in jail?”

“Depends on Carl. We didn’t catch them with any hides or nothing so if they’re hunting off season, I didn’t see any sign of it. Even if they get out, Carl’ll make sure they leave this town for good.”

I perk up after hearing his statement. “What do you mean,
if they get out?
”

Les ambles over to a small fridge and sounds a bit out of breath from exerting himself. “Carl needs some pretty heavy evidence to keep them more than a few days.”

“How can that be?”

He pulls out a can and holds it out to me. “Cola?”

“No thanks.” My thoughts churn. I can’t let Al and Billy roam these woods again. I’ve got to find something to connect them to Dad. Anything illegal to pin on them. Maybe come clean about how they attacked me. Then again, Carl would probably be more furious at me for getting involved.

As my mind reels, Les pops the top and slurps down the carbonated sugar. I can almost imagine his insulin sky-rocking, reminding his body to store more fat. If that’s even possible. He slams the can down on the desk and belches. “Just let me worry about them, okay? I don’t want you snooping around anymore.”

He tosses the empty can into a recycling box by the front door. Only the can misses and bounces off the wall, landing on the floor. He crushes the can under his boots, putting it out of its misery before throwing it away.

As I watch this, my brain sifts through files of random information until something clicks. I launch myself out of the sagging chair. “You know what? You’re right, Les. You can handle this now. I trust you.” I glance at my watch and then bug out my eyes. “Whooooa! Look at the time. I gotta go. I’m late for an appointment.”

Les blocks the door and gives me a hug, compressing all the oxygen out of my lungs.

I reluctantly return the gesture to escape his hold quicker. The rolls on his belly jiggle under the pressure. Finally, I manage to squirm free. “Thanks, Les.”

“You okay?”

“Sure. Never better.” I bolt through the door and leap over all four steps to the ground.

Les shouts after me. “Thanks for stopping by. Don’t be a stranger.”

After flipping him a wave, I jump on my bike and tear off down the dirt road, almost veering out of control and into a tree once or twice.

The image of Les’s soda can is etched into my brain. Dad used to buy them at a local government commissary to keep the station stocked with drinks. Al hit Billy in the head with one just like it.

There’s only two places nearby where Al could have gotten those cans.

Here at Station 11.

And up at Station 19.

If I can link Al to something up there, he might just rot in jail for good.

~~~~

The hike into the Smoky Mountains toward Station 19 is longer than I remember. It’s been years since I’ve ventured up here. Dad covered such a huge district; it took him months to patrol all of it. Took Les even longer.

As I gain altitude, the trail seems to disappear. I pass over a few small creeks, under the canopy of large hemlocks and yellow poplars. Intermittent breaks in the treetops provide views of the surrounding mountain range. The trail is a steady climb and by the time I’m close, my calves are cramping and my thighs burning. It takes me a couple hours to reach the station.

Digging my toes into the soft slope, I push up the hill until I finally reach the top. After winding through trees, I emerge from the dense forest and walk into a small clearing.

The old, dilapidated station leans at a weird angle. A redneck version of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Just as I’m about to step into the opening, a warning sound clangs in my brain. Something seems off, but I can’t tell exactly what.

I hide for several minutes and watch the area. Maybe my paranoia is finally taking over. Eventually, I slink towards the fire pit. When I reach the stony circle, I hold my palm over the small mound of charred sticks and twigs. Still feels warm. I spot the white outline of a boot print, telling me someone’s shoe got a little too close to the fire and the sole melted from the intense heat.

As I approach the building, I slide out my knife and remain low to the ground. The door is slightly ajar. I creep up the steps—avoiding the third beam that’s always been extra squeaky—and squat under the window. After a few breaths, I rise slowly until my eyes clear the sill. The station isn’t how I expected it to be. There’s upturned furniture. Open cupboards. Trash scattered everywhere. Including a few of the same soda cans I spotted at Al’s camp. On the ground, I find another partial print, same tread pattern. Just as I’m about to take out my camera for a picture, I hear a noise close by. The birds stop tweeting.

What if Al’s been released without Les knowing? And worse, what if he’s here now? Watching me.

My nerves respond to the thought, and my flight instinct kicks in. Instead of entering the shack, I slink back along the side, like a dog with its tail between its legs, and slip into the safety of the trees. I already learned my lesson with Al. This time, I need to be smarter.

As soon as I’m a safe distance away from the station, I hike off the trail and cut through a different way, constantly looking over my shoulder. Stopping every few yards to listen. The forest seems unusually quiet, making me uneasy. I wade through the underbrush quietly until my foot squishes into a small pool of goopy stuff.

Pausing, I squat down and touch my finger to the dark, tarry liquid and hold it up to the sunlight. It isn’t tar.

It’s blood.

As soon as the reality hits me, I cover my mouth. Part of me wants to wail. Not because it’s blood, but because I don’t know whose blood it is. I frantically wipe my hand on my pants and scan the area. I shift into tracker mode and follow the blood trail deeper into the forest until a foul stench slams into my nose. Something rotting. A cross between iron, feces, and old garbage.

My stomach lurches at the familiar smell of death.

Up ahead, a dark mound lies in the shadows. I freeze, not sure what to do. I rise up on tippy toes for a better look but can’t make out anything. Wish I had my binoculars. My hands shake and my stomach lurches as I inch forward. No matter how many times I’ve come across a dead carcass, the smell gets to me every time.

Gagging, I cover my nose with my shirt and breathe through my mouth. I’m relieved to see it’s a dead animal. From it’s massive size and dark fur, it appears to be a bear. A dead animal I can take. Just not a human.

I circle the carcass wide, maintaining a good distance. The bear’s mouth is wide open with its tongue hanging out to one side, as if surprised. Flies buzz in and out of its mouth, searching for a place to land. A frozen snarl on his lips.

That’s when I recognize the scar and white tuft of fur.

My heart sinks.

Simon.

“Damn it!” I hiss, pressing the heels of my hands against my forehead and shaking my head. I kick a log. Why Simon? Of all the bears, why did it have to be him? Without warning, a tear slides free, and I drop to my knees and stare into Simon’s deep brown eyes, once full of life. I knew I should have kept better tabs on him.

To me, he was a friend. To them, meat. A trophy. Another notch on their sick hunting belts.

I think of the Native American prayer Tommy taught me. The one Dad and I always recited for any dead animals we came across. “May the warm winds of heaven blow softly upon your house. May the Great Spirit bless all who enter there. May your moccasins make happy tracks in many snows, and may the rainbow always touch your shoulder.”

I sit still for a minute and let the breeze whisper a goodbye. The only thing I can do for Simon now is find out who did this horrid thing. Before checking him for clues, I tie a bandana over my nose and mouth to block out the stench. Batting at flies, I scan Simon’s body for evidence. A gaping wound marks his neck. A single gunshot.

I quickly scan the area. No shells or other signs of anything odd. Someone smart collected and removed any evidence. Tilting my head back, I scan the treetops and spot the remains of an elevated camouflage stand. I shimmy up the tree like a monkey and inspect the small platform. A few pieces of donut and corn kernels scatter along the top.

Someone lured and hunted the bear from here.

I climb back down and approach Simon. I can’t help but wonder what kind of person kills a bear, not for meat or its hide, but as a trophy. Then leaves it to rot. I’m not against hunting as long as it’s legal, respectful to nature, and not wasted. Dad says sometimes the populations have to be managed in order to be sustained. But that’s why we have hunting laws and specific limits.

This kill is what forest rangers call a “want and waste.”

I cover Simon with branches and leaves. Other than that, there’s nothing else to do.

It’s not until I’m about a mile away that my emotions boil over. I try to grab hold of a branch as my legs crumble underneath me. Sitting on an old stump, I bury my face in my hands and let my body tremble. Scenes of my time with Simon run through my head. Part of me wants to punch something, but the other piece just wants to melt down and give up on all this.

I wrap my arms around my stomach and soothe myself by rocking.

If Al and Billy killed this bear for fun, what else would they do? I try not to let my mind consider what they might have done with Dad and refocus.

The only positive thing to come of poor Simon is that now I have proof these guys are poaching. Carl can’t set these guys free now.

I speed down the highway and enter the town limits, passing derelict billboards, abandoned gas stations, and fading street signs. Once I reach the main strip, Luci practically slides into a parking space. Without ripping off my helmet, I bolt towards the Carl’s office.

Before I reach the police station, I spot Mr. Fields standing outside his store under a grand reopening banner and a revamped front with new windows, sparkly paint job, and a shiny, red sign. He smiles at me and waves. “Grace, want to come in for some tea? It’s my reopening!”

I stop in front of the open doors and catch my breath, taking note of his renovations: new hardwood floors, new shelving stocked with merchandise, and even an old-fashioned popcorn machine. The smell of fresh paints teases my nose. Looks like he finally got the money to stay open. Guess some things can turn around when you least expect them to. “Can’t today, Mr. Fields, but congrats on the new look.”

He wipes his hands on his apron. “Thanks. It’s about time us small town folks caught us a break. No matter what your daddy said, our town needed a change.” The hair on my neck stands on end at his random comment. He catches himself and turns red with embarrassment. “Sorry, Grace. That was out of line.” He spins around and leaves before I can respond.

I try to let his comment roll off my back as I sprint the rest of the way to Carl’s. But for some reason, it bothers me even though I know it probably shouldn’t. I mean, who says that kind of crap to the daughter of a missing person. Especially about someone who loved this town the way Dad did. He wanted the town to thrive, he just didn’t think strip malls and chain restaurants was the right answer.

I guess it’s true: dumb people say the darndest things.

The inappropriate comment slips out of my head as soon as I round the corner. I yank open the dinging door, yelling. “Captain!”

Bernice jumps to her feet and presses her hand against her chest. “Good heavens, Grace! You scared me!” She checks me out and hands me a tissue to wipe my face. “Sit down, child. I’ll get you something to drink.”

I flop down in a new leather chair in the linoleum-lined waiting area. “New furniture?”