Forsaken - An American Sasquatch Tale (9 page)

After Becky noticed Liberty wasn’t going to respond, or attempt to defend Adrian’s behavior, she continued, “I think it’s a little…” She opened her arms wide. “Out there.”

“The fact my daughter may be alive? Or that she may be human?”

“Both, actually.”

“And sitting here drinking coffee with a Sasquatch woman, in the basement of a kennel in Fairfield, Pennsylvania…you don’t think that’s a little ‘out there’?” Liberty made little air quotes.

“You got me there.” Becky frowned and looked down at her hands, silent for a moment.

Liberty watched her and nervously sipped her coffee, wondered if she’d made a mistake in sharing the story.

Becky raised her head, met Liberty’s eyes. “Okay. What do you want to do?”

“Seriously?” She grinned from ear to ear. “Go meet Adrian. Find my daughter. That’s all.”

Becky sighed, got up from her chair, and started to pace. Her platform sneakers squeaked on the linoleum and she bobbed her head with every step, running her hand through short blond wisps. Finally, Becky stopped, bit the corner of her lip, and blinked several times. Then her eyes lit up. “Do you have the photo of Adrian?”

Liberty pulled the sheet out of her pocket. “Yeah, why?”

“I want to see where it was taken.”

“Oh, I already know. Adrian told us it was at the campground pavilion.”

Becky didn’t reply. She unfolded the paper and set it down on the table underneath the overhead light. She smoothed out the creases, peered closer. “Hot damn.”

“What?”

She turned the photo toward Liberty and pointed at some fine print in the bottom left-hand corner of the picture. “You see that? The ‘V. Jenkins’?”

Liberty looked closer and nodded. “Yeah, what is it?”

“It’s a watermark. I think I know who took this picture.”

“I knew better than to trust that cowboy,” The muscles in Becky’s face twitched.

“Who?” Liberty asked.

“Russ Jenkins. He and his son moved into the old Marvin place and took over the business. A taxidermy shop no less.” Becky shivered. “He’s a regular at the River. And this…” She tapped at the watermark with a pink-painted nail. “This has to be his son. I mean, how many Victor Jenkinses can there be? Right?”

The River was a little whiskey joint on the outskirts of Fairfield, and Becky worked the dinner crowd before she came to the kennel.

Liberty looked at the photo again and then back at her friend. “So you think they’re not good people?”

Becky nodded, her face all twisted up, like when she spoke of her philandering ex-husband. “That’s right, I don’t. The eerie way his smile stops at his lips and hangs there like a scythe. It nowhere near reaches his eyes.”

“You pick up evil in smiles?” Liberty frowned, she learned something new about humans on a regular basis. “All I have are auras.”

“Oh, there are vibes, too.” Becky arched an eyebrow. “You know? I may not have a visual clue, like you, but I do get ‘em. Invisible, but usually as apparent.”

“Sure,” Liberty said. She reconsidered. “No, not really.”

“Well.” Becky grabbed their cups and refilled them. “It’s like this.” She handed Liberty her mug and sat back down. “If you feel a heavy sensation twisted deep in your belly, you should trust it.”

That, she understood. It usually followed a shift in auras, and was accentuated by gunshots or human voices in the woods. “I get that. But what specifically makes you think he’s evil?”

Becky shrugged. “It’s not his appearance. He’s decent looking if you liked the sweaty-faced Richard Simmons 80s type. Minus the frizzy mullet and striped shorts, of course.”

“Richard Simmons?”

“Oh.” She smirked. “I forgot you don’t do much TV. He’s like the father of aerobics.”

Liberty nodded politely, waited to figure out what the connection was to Sage.

“Anyway,” Becky continued, “I catch Russ staring at me all the time like he’s marked his territory.” She pointed to the last kennel. “Like old Rebel, except Russ only
visually
pisses all over me.”

“Yuck.” Liberty looked at the Montgomery’s fat, orange tabby sleeping on top of one of the two-level cat condos.

“Don’t I know it, but it isn’t just the looks,” Becky said. “I’m used to come-ons, but I’m telling you, this guy’s different. Doesn’t try to make new friends. Sits himself at the bar, drinks two beers, listens like a hawk to everyone’s conversations, and then slaps a couple bucks on the counter and slips out when everyone’s back is turned. It’s like he’s just waiting to pounce.”

Liberty let what Becky said sink in. If Russ was as bad as Becky made him out to be, what was his son like? And if Adrian had seen Sage, was there a good chance she was with this Victor? Liberty swallowed the questions feeling sick to her stomach.

“We need a plan,” Becky said, “right? I’ll go into work tomorrow and see what I can dig up.”

Liberty nodded and tightened her hands around her mug to quell the trembling.

“Honey? It’ll be okay. Everybody’s evil. They’re born with it.

“No they aren’t.” Liberty refused to believe all people were bad.

“Sure,” Becky nodded, “like how some of our cells are perfect until they mutate. Doesn’t mean it’s some fourth stage horror show. Could be a benign cluster kicked to the curb with the right medicine or scalpel, never to show its ugly face again.”

Liberty sat and stared at the stormy look in Becky’s eyes for a moment, not sure her friend believed Russ’ evil was that insignificant. Finally, she said, “You know what I can’t wrap my head around? What bothers me the most?”

“What?”

“The human part. I tell myself maybe Adrian’s delusional, maybe he saw a lookalike. But then I realize I’d also have to admit Sage wasn’t real.”

Becky nodded, she understood. Or maybe not.

Liberty voiced her concern, “Are you agreeing to help me just because you’re my friend, or because you think it’s possible Adrian did see Sage?”

“I’m your friend. And I believe anything is possible. So, a little of both.” Becky paused. “Are you okay with that?”

Liberty smiled. “I’m super okay with that. What more could I ask for? Sage’s own father refuses to even consider it.”

* * *

The next night, Liberty returned as they’d planned. Gave Becky the most recent picture she had of Sage, a printout Ellie had made, one with three head shots of each of them, Liberty, Sage, and Nathaniel.

Becky chuckled. “Mug shots anyone?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, look at you three, so serious.”

Taken against the painted cinder block walls in the lower level of the kennel, Ellie had said they were portrait shots, like you’d get at a real studio. They’d obliged, like they always had when it came to Ellie requests.

“Anyway, do you mind if I cut the one of Sage out?” Becky asked. “I don’t really want to bring attention to you and Nathaniel if I don’t have to.”

“Of course, whatever you need to do.”

Becky nodded, tucked the photo in her purse, “How did Nathaniel take it when you told him our plan?”

“He didn’t take it any sort of way because I decided not to tell him.”

“What do you mean you didn’t tell him?”

Liberty shrugged. “I don’t know. We’re not really talking right now and think if he knew what our plans were, he’d find a way to prevent me from going.”

“Huh. Okay.” Becky didn’t seem sure but had never been one to meddle in the lives of other couples. “Well I’ll tell you a couple of things I found out.” They sat at the table with their customary mugs. “First, Pete down at the Shell station said Russ comes in a bunch for gas.”

“Gas?”

Becky nodded. “Yeah. Pete said you’d think he commutes to Pittsburgh every day for the amount he buys. Except Russ is a regular in town, you know?”

Liberty shrugged, sipped her coffee. “Not really getting you.”

“Well, he’s punctual. Like at the post office every day around noon, at the River for his afternoon beer at three. No way he can be going anywhere too far and still make it back for his stops.”

Liberty shook her head. “I still don’t know what you mean.”

It was Becky’s turn to shrug. “Me, either. But doesn’t it seem odd? Like, where’s he driving all the time?”

Liberty knew nothing about cars, so she couldn’t venture a guess.

Becky continued, “Oh, and Victor? Seems he’s a pretty decent worker, according to Lindy’s brother, Matt, who works with him at the mill in Sparta.”

Lindy was Maggie Lindberg’s nickname. She and her husband, Pete, owned the whiskey joint Becky worked at.

Liberty raised her eyebrows. “Does he? Did he say anything about the photo?”

“Not that I know of. I mean, I didn’t mention it, of course. All Lindy knew was that Victor seems shy. He’s only eighteen, so doesn’t converse much with the other guys there.”

“Hmm.” Liberty mulled it over. “Does Victor drive? Maybe his dad is driving him back and forth to work?”

“Even if he is, it’s like twenty miles round trip at the most. Still wouldn’t explain all the gas.”

“So he drives a lot,” Liberty recapped. “And Victor works at the mill. Doesn’t tell us much.”

Becky clicked her tongue. “I’m sorry. I guess I don’t really know what I was hoping to find.” Her shoulders slumped.

Liberty reached across the table to pat her hand. “Hey. It’s okay. This is good news.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure. Like, no news is good news?” Liberty recalled Becky saying that once after a doctor’s appointment, while waiting for test results.

“Oh, yeah. There’s that.”

Liberty didn’t believe it for a minute either.

Chapter Seven

As it turned out, Liberty arrived home moments after Nathaniel went topside to patrol, his nightly routine. She breathed a little easier with the knowledge he would be busy. She didn’t have a clue exactly what she would say to him anyway, or even if she’d tell him what she and Becky had planned. He was open-minded only to a point; he would say chasing ghosts crossed a line.

She passed time in Sage’s room. It was the smallest of the five chambers and had an igloo-shape to it. When Sage was younger, she’d colored on the walls, created rows of penguin families around the base. Here and there, faint chalk lines had survived somehow.

Liberty crossed to the back wall, where stacked bins held her daughter’s belongings. She took out clothes and cosmetics, touched them, held them to her nose and breathed in their scents, then put it all back.

A few decorations still lingered. A purple beanbag chair, which she sat in now. A round black tote filled with every size of ball, a long mirror leaned against the curved rock wall. Next to it was another bin, filled with Sage’s books and lessons.

She pulled it across the chamber floor to where she sat and fished through the papers and notebooks.

She lifted up a couple of binders and found one of the first reports Sage had written as a teenager. She pushed the bin away with her feet, settled back in the beanbag chair, and opened the notebook.

The report was entitled “My Sasquatch History” and below that, simply, “by, Sage Brewster”

She read the first bit of it.

* * *

The sixty men, women, and children, established a camp on the western banks of what would later become known as Roaring Creek. After three months of crossing unforgivable terrain, facing the unknown at every crest and valley, the men and their wives sat around a large fire and counted their blessings.

The children ranged in age from two to twelve years old, and slept nearby, just inside the forest’s edge. They snuggled together for warmth beneath a large rudimentary lean-to constructed of pine boughs, vine, and sod. A couple of the girls developed a sickness the previous week, and deep, mad dog coughs penetrated through the laughter and merriment of the campfire. Nobody got up to check on the sick children, though, not with the spirits and cheer running plentiful.

Two nameless Pequot Indians, refugees of the massacre of 1643, sat together near the fire, but not as participants. They’d been brought along as slaves, to serve as guides to the group, and kept to the fringes of the travelers’ circle. The only possession they carried other than the clothes on their backs, was the vow of freedom at the end of their journey.

The group intended to shelter near the creek through winter and then, in the spring, break camp and head southwest. They believed the woods, located a stone’s throw from the creek and dense with evergreen and wildlife, would protect and sustain them for the next several months.

Two of the men, Joshua Thomas and Henry Fleming, considered themselves leaders of the group and laughed the loudest. Responsible for robbing the first U.S. Mint in Plymouth two years previous, they’d made out with four sacks of silver pine tree shillings.

Two of the other men in their party had acted as lookouts, Jeremiah Brewster and Samuel Flood, and therefore were each promised a share. All four men brought their wives, children and other various members of their families, and each man would get one bag of silver to divvy up when they got to the Promised Land they’d heard so much about.

The Indians intentionally encouraged the colonists to stay beside the creek because they knew a handful of their people, other refugees, had established in a valley just beyond the woods, and waited for them. First one, and then the other, took the opportunity when matters became especially raucous and slipped away into the shadows. They probably would have gotten away unseen, except the smaller of the two, the one missing an eyebrow, tripped over a pitcher as he made off with a bag of silver.

* * *

Liberty gave a wan smile, it was almost perfect. Except the smaller Indian hadn’t been missing an eyebrow, but rather an eye. Just as Sarah had told it to her, she’d passed the legend on to her own daughter.

She skimmed the rest.

* * *

The colonists, both the men and the women, gave chase. Grabbed up weapons, followed the rogue Indians through the forest, down into the valley, and launched a frenzied attack against the tiny establishment. Outnumbered, the Indian tribe was slaughtered in swift fashion. Afterward, the colonists raided what little the Indian tribe had for possessions. With blood lust and greed in their eyes, they gathered up fur blankets, calf skins filled with sweet wine, dried meat, and along with the recovered silver, hauled the supplies back to their camp.