Untraceable (34 page)

Bear stares up at me with brown eyes. His eyebrows twitch. Like he’s asking me what’s going on and I have no answers for him. Then his eyes droop a little and flutter.

I bury his head against the warmth of my body so I can’t see his face and listen to the slowing of his breath, my hand covering his creeping heart. For some reason, I start rocking back and forth, humming some song I can’t remember.

My tears splash along his muzzle as I stroke Bear’s head. I remember all the times he’d curl up and sleep on my bed until Dad got home from work. Memories of Bear come flooding back. Him as a puppy chasing squirrels through our house. Him at Thanksgiving when he stole Mom’s turkey. Him laying in the station’s driveway for days, waiting for my dad to come home after he went missing.

Eventually, his labored breathing is consumed by complete silence.

My hand trembles as I check for a pulse. Any sign of life.

But Bear is dead. My dad’s dog is dead.

Then I feel Bear’s body relax fully and lighten.

In that moment, I realize there’s a glimmer of beauty found in death. When something bigger sweeps in undetected and cradles the dying. In the last breath, the place where pain finally surrenders to complete peace.

After covering his body with leaves, I sit facing the mound and cradle my head with both hands. Tears and sweat dribble down my face.

Soon, my sorrow and confusion shift into rage.

My body tenses and I clamp my jaws together, gritting my teeth.

Why are these men killing innocent animals for fun?

I stroke Bear’s fur at the same time I’m scanning the woods, on full alert. Even though I don’t want to leave Bear behind, I know I need to push on and end this thing, once and for all.

Whoever killed Bear is involved in the disappearance of Dad and probably Mo too.

I unfold Tommy’s map and plan my route to Sidehill. It’s critical I make good time and get as close to the camp as possible before the sun sets.

I will get my dad back, if it’s the last thing I do. At this point, that’s all that matters. I can’t see anything else.

I stand and march away. Leaving behind so much. A friend, a life, a family. But no matter what, I don’t look back. Step by step, I move away from safety.
 

Towards who knows what.

~~~~

Hours pass by, but I push on without stopping for food, water, or rest. My feet ache, and my muscles cramp. Over the long hike, my adrenaline and anger have faded, allowing logic and pain to seep in. If I’m going to stay alert, I need to get rehydrated and reenergized. I gulp down some liquid and pour a stream of water over the back of my neck. The coolness shocks my body, causing me to gasp. For the first time, I notice my stomach is grumbling. I can’t remember the last time I actually ate. While taking note of my coordinates, I slip the emergency pack out of my backpack and eat a stale granola bar.

I’m halfway there.

As I check my path, Tommy’s betrayal resurfaces. I can’t understand how or why he turned his back on me. On Dad. What was he thinking? I should have taken this trip months ago. Tommy’s lies and secrets have held me back from solving this whole thing.

Because of him, I’ve failed Dad.

As the minutes tick by, my body surrenders to exhaustion. I feel heavier, as if I’m becoming a part of this place and growing roots that keep me here. Alone. Forever.

The woods have a way of messing with you. Of tearing you down. If you’re not careful, it can break you. The isolation. The darkness. It can sweep through you unexpectedly.

I toss aside the weighted feelings and force myself on my feet. Sidehill is still so far away. The thought of Les struggling up this path actually makes me smile. Maybe there was a reason I never favored him, even though Dad loved him like a brother. I wonder if Dad knew about Les’s involvement with Al and Billy.
 

I snatch a walking stick for extra support and move up the steep mountainside. A thin path zigzags up the hill as I push through the snaking weeds and tangled vines. Eventually, I come to a rocky wall. Taking a small stick, I clean out the packed dirt and pebbles stuck in the lugs of my boots.

Hoping to make up some time, I scale up the cragged side. As I slither up the ridge, the edges of sharp rocks dig into my palms. I’m reminded of my climb with Mo—how quickly he scaled the wall. After recovering on a few slips, I finally reach the top and peer over the ledge to confirm it’s safe. Then after grabbing hold of a hanging root, I attempt to pull up.

The prickly vine snaps under my weight.

Suddenly, I’m sliding back down the sharp, rocky side. Scraping my hands down the wall, my fingers fumble for a crevice while the tips of my toes search for any foothold. I grab a thin ledge and cling to the wall by my fingertips. My arms burn, and my breath becomes jagged. Panic threatens my sanity as the weight of my bag begins tugging me backwards into the mouth of the mountain. Slowly, I manuever my foot around until it lands on a tiny shelf. My body presses into the uneven rock wall.

When I look down, my breathing speeds up as the sensation of plummeting to my death taunts me. I’m dangling a hundred feet above the ground.

Waiting to be unlodged. Like a pebble on a mountain.

My adrenaline and survival instincts kick in. Slowly, crack by crack, I creep back up the rocky face. This time, when I reach the top, I keep a firm grip and hoist myself over the crag. As soon as my body finds solid ground, I flip onto my back and stare at the dark sky through the treetops. The grass tickles my neck, and the wet ground seeps through my shirt.

I peer over the cliff and smile. I made it. Sometimes, things don’t look as hard as they really are until you conquer them. The drop is straight down. I whisper a prayer of thanks to whoever is watching over me on this mountain. The Big Man upstairs deserves a huge bonus for working overtime these last few weeks.

I stand up and turn to leave, tripping over something hard. Seems like I’m on my butt more than my feet these days.
 

Brushing off my pants, I look back and find two eyes staring right at me.

Billy.

Death has such a distinct smell, I don’t know how I didn’t detect it sooner.

A burning sensation slides up the back of my throat. I scramble away from the body and swallow a few times to settle my churning stomach. I’ve never seen a dead body before. Animals, yes, but not humans. The scent is so powerful, I can almost taste the rotting flesh. My stomach clenches, and all of a sudden I’m wretching. Luckily, there’s not much in my gut.

Once I finally stop heaving, I wipe my mouth on my sleeve and cover my nose. Breathing through my mouth, I look at Billy long enough to analyze his mangled body. He has a vacant look on his face and has obviously been dead for a few hours, given the bugs crawling in the cavities of his body. A large bullet hole sits in the center of his forehead. Streams of thick, coagulated blood streak out of his nostrils and ears. His mouth hangs open as if he was singing or yelling when he died. His arm is folded behind his head in an unnatural way.

Immediately, I double over and hurl again. My body convulses and my stomach cramps, but I can’t stop staring at the gray, bloated body.

Billy almost looks fake. Like some kind of strange yoga mannequin.

I glance up and study the palisade. A few broken branches cling to another cliff towering above me. Obviously, someone shot Billy and launched his skinny body over the side. Now what? Should I frisk him? Maybe I would find something. Something useful. The guys on
CSI
rifle through the pockets of dead people all the time and usually find something useful to their case.

Maybe Billy has something I need?

I steal another glance at the dead man and shake my head. No way I’m touching a stiff. Don’t care what he has on him, I gotta draw the line somewhere.

Wanting to put distance between me and the body, I charge off down the path. Not only away from Billy, but also what he represents. Death, deceit, and everything evil. My sporadic breath buzzes in my ear, and my heart beats against my temples. A wail sneaks out of my lips. My quiet life has become a bad B movie. Murder. Betrayal. Even zombies. If they can kill Billy, that means they can kill my dad without even blinking?

Billy’s warped body haunts me. His contorted face. Empty eyes. The cramped posture of his body. I can almost still smell him. The scent of rot. I gag and bend over the weeds. This time, only dry heaving. There’s nothing left inside me to purge.

I’m hollow. Empty. A shell.

Crouching down on the path, I crawl into a downed tree trunk to hide. A tree’s long roots drape around me, helping me feel safe. Sobbing, I smother the sounds with my arm and curl into a ball like a roly poly, wanting to disappear. Let the weeds grow over me until I’m no longer here.

I close my eyes and wish myself away to a special place.

Home.

~~~~

I must have cried myself to sleep because when I wake, the sun’s disappeared behind the trees. Squinting, I check my watch. Six p.m. Even though I don’t want to stop, I have no choice but to set up camp in the dark.

I force myself to leave the safety of the bushes. About a half mile down the path, I find a carved-out space dug into the mountainside. Good enough to provide some protection, shelter, and concealment. Not to mention, protect me against an ambush from the rear. Sitting against the rock, I do a quick inventory of the few supplies left in my bag. Unfortunately, I didn’t plan on camping so I only have a few items left: a small plastic tarp, a flint, a knife, a flashlight, a few pieces of gum, Bea’s smashed paper bag lunch, a small rope, and a poncho.

Deciding to make a lean-to shelter, I cut my tarp into two pieces. Half to make a waterproof roof and the other half for bedding. After collecting large, leafy branches, I construct two Y-shaped supports and hammer them into the ground with a rock. Then I suspend a long pole along the top and lean strong branches against the beam. Next step is to weave saplings over and under the sloping branches, creating a thick lattice that will not only hide me, but keep me from being exposed to any rain or wind. I go back and forth about starting a fire, wondering if it’s the safest thing to do. But I haven’t heard any out of place noises in a long time so I can only assume the guys are long gone and not looking for me.

A fire is one of the most important things to have if you’re lost or stuck out in the woods. Somehow it lifts your spirits. I stack up a small nest of tinders and use a flint to catch a spark. As soon as the pile starts to smoke, I blow lightly to massage any flickers of flame. Once a fire begins to dance, I break a few sticks and stack them on top until it’s roaring with warmth.

I sit on my rain poncho and rub my hands together. There’s something about making a small fire that makes you feel safe. The light cuts the darkness in half, preventing me from being swallowed. I grip the handle of my knife and keep it close.

Just in case.

Mosquitos hum in my ear as the dying embers mesmerize me. I can’t help but think about my last night with Mo. How we cuddled in front of a similiar fire. Was that only a day ago? I tuck my legs underneath me. In the distance, thunder warns me of the approaching rain. The ground shakes to get my attention.

A few seconds later, lightning cracks the sky in half, and the clouds begin to cry.

I know how they feel. I try to quiet my spinning thoughts. Mom pops into my head. Even though I know it’s out of range, I check my phone for a signal. It’s official, I’m on my own. She’s going to have a field day with this when I get home.

If I get home.

Even though I don’t want to admit it, I miss her.

~~~~

I barely sleep a wink. As soon as dawn approaches, I put out my fire, careful to stir the ashes, and bury any evidence. I disassemble my shelter and erase any sign of my temporary camp. Soon after packing up my stuff, I plod deeper into the mountains. Nothing stops me, as my body is on autopilot. I trudge on for miles. Hours. Nothing goes in or out of my fogged-over brain, as if I’m on cruise control. The tough terrain saps my energy, but I push forward, munching on the rest of Bea’s now-soggy sandwich for energy.