Case File 13 #3 (3 page)

“Braithwaite,” Dad said cheerfully. “Looks like you've got quite a crowd here.”

“Senior butterfly watchers,” the man said, looking down at his paperwork. “They
come from all across the country this time of year to see the monarchs.”

Mom smiled. “We're pretty excited about them ourselves.”

The man with the clipboard frowned, his tanned forehead wrinkling. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Braithwaite,” Nick's dad said. “B-R-A-I-T.”

The man flipped up the paper on his board, checked the one under it, and shook his head. “Sorry. I don't see you anywhere on the list.”

Mom's smile began to fade. But Dad held out his paper. “I've got the reservation right here. I made it months ago.”

Nick's stomach began to tighten. “Please don't let this be another one of Dad's screwups,” he whispered to himself.

The ranger took the sheet of paper and looked it over. “There's the problem,” he said, nodding.

Nick began to feel better. It was probably just some kind of computer error.

The ranger held out the reservation and turned it so Nick's dad could see it. “This is for February, not December.”

“What? Let me see that.” Dad grabbed the paper, read over it, and looked at Mom, who was biting her lower lip.

“Huh,” Dad said, rubbing his chin with one hand and turning back to the ranger. “I don't understand this. I'm sure I put December in the computer.”

Nick's heart sank.

“Any chance you could squeeze us in?” Dad smiled weakly.

“Maybe a week from now,” the ranger said, glancing back at the long line of vehicles waiting to get into the campground. “But this week I couldn't get my own grandmother in, even if she offered me a hundred dollars to do it.”

Nick looked from his dad to his mom, expecting her to blow up. Instead she only looked sad.

“Wish I could help,” the ranger said. “Maybe you can check the other campgrounds. Or possibly a hotel.”

“Sure,” Dad said, turning the car around so he could drive back out. “They can't
all
be full.”

But they were all full. Every campground, hotel, and motel they tried within twenty miles said the exact same thing. “Senior butterfly watchers have everything booked up solid.” The longer they looked, the sadder Nick's mom seemed, and the more determined his dad grew to find an opening.

By the time they checked the last hotel in town—a hole in the wall that looked like
only the dirt on the paint was keeping it from collapsing into a pile of splintery boards—the sun was beginning to set.

“I think we better go home,” Mom said. “Everyone's hungry and tired.”

Dad sighed and pulled back onto the freeway. “I feel terrible.”

“It's not your fault,” Mom said. “Mistakes happen.”

“Sure,” Nick chimed in. “We can come another time. Who wants to stay in a crowded campground anyway?”

Angelo stared silently out the window as they drove up the twisty highway.

Nick leaned over and quietly asked, “Are you bummed out because we didn't get to see more of the butterflies?”

“What?” Angelo jerked his gaze from the woods. “Oh. No, I'm sure we can see them another time.”

“Why so quiet then?” Carter asked.

Angelo tapped his fingers on the car window and looked at Carter. “I've been thinking about what you heard out there.”

“The kid?”

“What if it wasn't a kid?” Angelo asked. “What if it wasn't even human?”

Nick narrowed his eyes. “What are you saying?”

Angelo opened his monster notebook to a page with a series of names written in bold red ink. Momo, Yowie, Meh-Teh, Raksha, Kikomba, the Great Bear, Yeti, Sasquatch.

“Bigfoot?” Nick asked, unsure if Angelo was joking.

Angelo flipped the page to where a picture of a large, hairy creature was pasted next to a map of the Santa Cruz Mountains. The map was covered with blue dots, each of which had a date written beside it.

“June 1980,” he said. “Two campers smelled something like rotting garbage. A few minutes later, they heard snapping branches and a twelve-foot-tall creature came running down the side of a hill.”

He tapped another dot. “In 1998, a family thought they saw a really big homeless guy dressed in animal fur.”

“Maybe it
was
a homeless guy,” Carter said. “You know, one of those hermits.”

Angelo pointed to a picture of a deep, animal-like footprint. “Not unless he had feet six inches longer than a size-twelve shoe.” He flipped through several pages of notes. “There are dozens of reports of Bigfoot sightings in this area.”

“Where did you get all this stuff?” Nick asked. He knew Angelo collected a lot of monster information. But this was amazingly detailed, even for him.

Angelo opened his pack and took out the new iPad his mom had given him for a birthday present the week before. He tapped a few links and pulled up a website with a picture of a large, hairy creature next to a map of the United States. “The Bigfoot Field Researchers Organization. I've been following them for years. But I looked a little more closely when I knew we'd be near here.”

Carter stared out the window at the darkening woods. “So somewhere in those trees there might be a twelve-foot-tall beast with feet the size of snowshoes?”

At that moment, the car jerked to the right and Nick's head banged against the window. “What happened?” he yelped as his dad pulled the car off the freeway. He stared out the front windshield, halfway sure they'd just hit a Yeti.

“Didn't you see the sign?” Dad cried. “There's a campground here with openings.”

“I'm not so sure about this,” Mom said as Dad steered the car slowly down a narrow road.

“What's not to be sure of?” Dad asked, staring into the darkness ahead of them. “You wanted to go camping, and that's just what we're doing.”

“I wanted to go camping in a state campground near the beach. This looks like the kind of area where you'd hide a dead body.”

Nick had been looking forward to this trip for weeks. But although he hated to admit it, he sort of agreed with his mother. The road they were on didn't look like anyone had driven over it in years. Weeds poked up through the middle of the asphalt and the trees seemed to be getting closer and closer to the road the farther they went. “Are you sure there's an actual campground here?” he asked.

From where he was sitting, Nick saw his dad's jaw clench. “Maybe I forgot the stove
fuel. And maybe I made the reservation for the wrong month. But I
can
read. I definitely saw a sign that said S
WEET
W
ATER
C
AMPGROUND
. N
O
R
ESERVATIONS
R
EQUIRED
.”

“I think it's awesome,” Carter added. “The woods look totally creepy. I'll bet we run into a Sasquatch before we even get unpacked.”

Mom turned around, her lips pressed tightly together. But Dad laughed it off. “Sure we will. And a dragon too. And brownies riding unicorns.”

“You brought brownies?” Carter asked, rubbing his stomach.

Angelo elbowed him. “He's talking about the little people, not the snack. And, from what I've read, most of them live in Scotland. So the idea of seeing one of them here—especially riding a unicorn—is rather preposterous.”

“Not any more preposterous than running into a large, hairy creature that doesn't exist,” Dad said.

Angelo shook his head and clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, but didn't say anything more.

“Look!” Dad hooted as he drove the car off the road into a small gravel lot. “We made it!” He pulled forward and the car's headlights illuminated a dirt clearing with a rock fire pit and a few logs dragged up beside it.

Nick leaned over the seat to get a closer look. “This is it?”

Dad pulled the car a little farther in and bumped against a wooden sign. He waved his hands at the tall redwoods surrounding them. “It's magnificent. Look at those trees. They've got to be five hundred years old at least.”

Mom frowned. “There are no picnic tables. No bathrooms. I don't even see a water spigot. What kind of campground is this?”

“The best kind.” Dad opened his door and drew in a deep breath. “Smell that fresh air? No crowds. No RVs. No blasting stereos. Makes you wonder why we even considered being packed in like sardines with those ancient butterfly watchers.”

Nick stepped out of the car and looked around. The air
did
smell good—sort of like Christmas trees. And it definitely wasn't crowded. In fact, as far as he could tell they were the only ones there. “Are you sure this place is open?” he asked, staring into the darkness. Beyond the car, there wasn't another light anywhere. What kind of campground had no lights, no tables, and no people?

“Dude, this is sweet!” Carter said, bounding out of the car. “Let's go see if we can find Bigfoot tracks.”

“Hold on now,” Dad said. “You don't want to go running off in a place like this. These woods go for miles. You could get lost.”

“Or eaten,” Angelo said under his breath.

“Shouldn't there be a ranger or something?” Mom asked as she stretched her legs. “Where do you check in and pay your fees?”

“I imagine a ranger will come around at some point.” Dad grabbed a flashlight out of the car and pointed it at the weathered sign that was now tilted into a pine tree from where he'd bumped it with the car.

Nick walked up beside his dad and stared at the words painted on the dark wood.
Gefahr! Bleiben Sie weg! Kein Campingplatz! Wandern, angeln und jagen verboten!

“I think it's German,” Angelo said.

“What does it say?” Carter asked. “If it mentions anything about sausages and sauerkraut, I'm there.”

“Don't ask me,” Mom said. “I took four years of French.”

Dad scratched the back of his neck. “I took a year of German in high school. But mostly so I could sit by Hannah Holmes. What a cutie she was. The only thing I memorized was ‘
Möchten Sie ins Kino gehen Samstagabend?
' ‘Would you like to go to the movies Saturday night?' Unfortunately every time I asked her, she said
nicht
.”

Mom glared at him.

“Let me try translating it,” Angelo said. He typed the phrase into his iPad before shaking his head. “Darn. No service.”

“Look,” Carter said, pointing to one of the words. “
Campingplatz.
Could that mean camping?”

“Sure,” Dad said. “I think that's right. Maybe I got more out of that German class than I thought. I'm pretty sure it says, ‘Welcome. Plenty of spaces. This is the best camping. Set up a tent, relax, and have dinner.'”

Mom's mouth twitched. “Either that or ‘Your husband is an idiot and you're all going to get killed in your sleep.'”

“Well, if we're going to die, let's do it on a full stomach,” Dad said. “Who's going to help me set up the camp stove?”

Carter raced after him. “Anything that will get the food here faster. I could eat an entire pizza all by myself.”

Nick chuckled as Carter continued to name every food he could think of. “I don't think he's completely clear on the concept of camping food.” When Dad did the planning, most everything they ate was add-water-and-mix. And the last time Nick checked, there was no such thing as dehydrated pizza.

Angelo continued to study the sign under the illumination of the moonlight.

“Any idea what it really says?” Nick asked.

“No,” Angelo answered. “But that's an awful lot of exclamation points for a welcome
message.”

Nick sighed, hoping this wasn't going to be another trip where something disastrous happened.

Fortunately, things went more smoothly than he could have imagined. Dad got the stove going with no problem and even managed to light a fire. Mom took over the cooking while Dad and the boys set up a pair of tents, inflated the air mattresses, and dug a latrine behind a nearby tree. Dinner—chili, corn on the cob, and biscuits—was delicious. They even made s'mores for dessert while Dad told a story about a one-eyed miner who discovered his mine was actually home to a giant demon.

“Who knew your dad was such a good storyteller?” Carter asked, licking marshmallow off his fingers.

“I think camping brings it out in him,” Nick said. He looked up at the stars that filled the black velvet sky and had to admit things had worked out pretty well.

Yawning, Mom got up and began putting away the food.

“Wait,” Carter said, reaching for the marshmallows. “I wasn't done.”

“Any more sugar and you'll be up all night,” Mom said.

“She's right,” Angelo agreed. “Remember that time you were sleeping over at my house and ate an entire bag of peanut butter cups right before you went to bed? You got up in the middle of the night, sleepwalked out the front door, and started shooting baskets at three o'clock in the morning.”