Chapter 7 Hunting
Hunting
The man pursuing me descended to the floor of the grotto, searching the shadows and clefts in the sandstone, taking time to smack the mosquitoes from his arms. He passed within only a few feet of my hiding place, but when his back was turned I slithered away, ducking into a copse of fallen trees.
For kicks, I threw a stone at him. My father wouldn’t have approved—he took hunting seriously. But I was not his daughter, not always.
I chucked another stone, into the river. This one, I made sure to skip. Critters can’t skip stones.
He crouched and whirled, trying to find me.
I circled him, wading through poison ivy. I was immune to it, and no sane person who wasn’t would approach my position.
He climbed to an outcropping to try his cell phone, grunting in frustration when it didn’t connect. There wasn’t any signal here.
I wondered why he was here. I’d gotten close to something, to be certain.
I lay down in the poison ivy, listening. Ascending the hill, the guy walked right past me, so close…He was breathing heavily.
Feeling bored with my little game, I thought I should maybe start acting like a cop. I stood up in the poison ivy and aimed my gun at him. “Freeze.”
He whirled, panicked.
And he ran.
I rolled my eyes. Of course, I wasn’t going to shoot him. I took three steps toward him, but he lurched, then tumbled all the way down the trail to the very bottom, yelping as he went.
I peered down to find him in the gravel below, prone. There wasn’t an easy way to get to him from where I was. I got as close as I could, squatted, and called out: “Hey, man. Are you okay?”
“Ugggghhhh.” His response was pretty robust. Didn’t sound like he was hurt bad. His right leg was oozing blood onto the sand, but it didn’t look serious. Still, there was no way I could carry him out.
“What’s your name?”
He shook his head, not giving anything up. He looked young, too young to look as worn-out as he did. I felt a twinge of guilt about hunting him, about his winding up hurt as a result of my game.
“Why are you here?”
He stared up at me, unflinching.
“Are you here to meet Timmy?”
He was being completely uncommunicative. Stellar.
I sighed. “I’ll get a squad for you. Don’t move.”
I supposed that climbing to the rim to call for help was the right thing to do. I’d get the fire department to fish him out of the bottom of the ravine.
Above, the Hag Stone seemed to look upon me approvingly in the dusk. I’d given her blood, after all.
I climbed up to the trailhead, taking long, smooth strides. My legs burned, but I moved unerringly in the shadows. I watched for Timmy, but saw no sign of him.
When I came upon the trailhead, only my car was parked in the lot. Hell. Timmy was gone. But where had the tweaker I’d met come from? Had he arrived on foot?
I paused before my car, sensing that something was off. My ancient SUV was sitting too low. I walked up to it with a narrowed gaze, scanning the car. No one was inside, and the windows were intact. No one was underneath it, lying in wait, either…
…but my tires were slashed. All four of them.
Message received.
I ground my teeth and radioed for backup, for a tow, and for Vice to bring me a loaner from their stash of undercover cars.
I sat on the bumper of my SUV, with my gun unholstered, staring at the trailhead.
If that tweaker kid climbed out, I’d cuff him, though I had the urge to smack him in the back of the head.
My car was old, but it was my baby. It pissed me off that some fucker was trying to put me off the case.
Deputy Detwiler rolled up first. Didn’t surprise me that he was Johnny-on-the-spot.
But it must have been a slow night for Patrol, because two other cars showed up, too.
I filled them in, minus my fucking with my pursuer.
I told them that I had taken a walk to clear my head and I’d realized someone was following me.
Detwiler and the patrolmen headed down to the ravine to search for my pursuer.
They came up with bupkes. The tweaker must have been ambulatory enough to slink away downriver.
I was pissed, pissed at myself. If I hadn’t played with my quarry, I could have marched him up here and had a healthy subject to question.
I asked a patrol deputy to rustle me up a battery-operated trail cam from the local feed store. I took it down into the ravine with me.
I couldn’t access it remotely—there was no cell service—but what it saw would be saved on an SD card.
I found an unobtrusive spot on a tree to affix it to, aiming it at the graffitied wall beneath the witch’s profile.
I wasn’t sure I’d catch anything, but I hoped I’d be able to see who was leaving these ourobouros symbols.
As far as loaner rides went, all that was available was a dusty brown El Camino from the seventies that looked like it was entirely glued together with Bondo.
Sykes from Vice dropped it off for me with a great deal of ceremony, extending the keys to me as if he were presenting Excalibur.
He was dressed in a band T-shirt and skinny jeans that looked spray-painted on, and he was rocking a pair of hiking boots that looked like they were solid clods of mud.
“Thanks, man. Dare I ask what you’re working on right now?”
“It’s more fun than you’re having.” He frowned at my tires. “Interestingly enough, we’re looking for Timmy, too. Heard some rumors he was back in town.”
I filled him in on what I’d seen, and on the guy in the ravine.
“Hmm. Sounds like a guy I busted for possession last year. Give me a minute.” Sykes pulled out a cell phone in a sparkly case and summoned some mug shots to show me. “Is this your dude?”
“Yeah. That’s him. But he’s got fewer teeth now.”
“Zach Draper. This is weird for him. Dude is strictly small-time. I just popped him for possession of a small amount. Didn’t resist arrest or anything.”
“Sounds like he may have upgraded his talents.”
“I’ll put out the word that we’re looking for him. He won’t get too far. All the meth heads in the surrounding counties seem to be converging here, and I don’t like it.”
“Usually a big bust like last night’s drives them away, right?” I asked.
“Yeah. It was deeply, deeply weird.” Sykes rubbed his stubble. “I saw shit in that barn I’d never seen before. The cookers weren’t using the usual components. There weren’t any pool chemicals or lighter fluid, you know? But the end product was definitely meth. That worries me.”
“New recipe?”
“Seems like it. I sent samples off to the state crime lab for ID, to see if they’ve seen anything like this before.”
“Keep me posted. I’m curious.” I leaned forward to squint at Sykes’s collar. “Is that a puka shell necklace? You know what year this is?”
Sykes’s face fell, and he lifted the necklace with his thumb. “Not cool?”
“Not cool. You don’t have any temporary tribal tattoos going on?” I teased.
“No comment.”
I opened the El Camino’s door and wrinkled my nose.
A forest of tree-shaped air fresheners danced from the rearview mirror, but they were powerless against the onslaught of decades’ worth of cheap stogies.
I couldn’t complain. Beggars, choosers, and all.
I moved all my stuff from the SUV to the El Camino.
A flatbed truck arrived to load up my SUV, looking forlorn on the bed.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
I was going to make this worth my while, to interrogate as many of the Kings of Warsaw Creek as I could. There was one King I hadn’t spoken to, and he owned a car dealership.
“Lister Automotive, please.”
—
Lister Automotive was just off the freeway exit, so motorists could marvel at its selection of late-model cars and trucks. A red, white, and blue sign announced our arrival at Lister Automotive—Ask Mister Lister for the best deals!
As I tooled down the access road behind the flatbed truck, I surveyed the cars. The lot was sparse, cars parked with plenty of space between them. Off to the right were the used cars, with a classic red Corvette on a pedestal.
We circled around to the back, to the shop. While the truck driver dropped my car in an empty spot, I went inside the shop to drop off the keys.
“Can I help you?”
A salesman approached. His over-whitened smile looked positively painful, and it didn’t falter as he took in my grubby appearance.
“Hi. Is Mark Lister in?”
He blinked. “Mr. Lister’s a busy man, but I can help you.”
I flashed him my badge. “I’d rather speak to Mr. Lister.”
“Of course. Let me check to see if he’s still in.”
The salesman retreated down a hallway. I studied Mark Lister’s picture in the showroom, above a family tree of ten salespeople.
I got an impression of a middle-aged guy with not a hair out of place and with the same bleached teeth his sales force sported.
I noticed the wall paint had faded in spots that suggested there had once been fifteen salespeople. Business might not be good.
The salesman returned. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Lister’s in a meeting. Could I please have your card, and I’ll have him call you?”
I handed over my card. “Please tell him I’d like to speak with him.”
“Of course. But how about I show you this lovely blue coupe?”
I demurred, then headed out back, to the El Camino.
As I tooled around the lot, I could see through the glass of the sales area, and my gaze fixed on a man in the largest office.
His tie was loose and he looked rumpled, with sweat stains under his arms. I squinted.
Yes, he looked like an unretouched version of Mister Lister, King of the Midwest Dealerships.
He was talking on the phone, holding a business card that might have been mine.
His gaze met mine, and he froze. He turned out the light, plunging his office into darkness.
I was just disappointed I was unable to shake his hand. My hands were soaked in poison ivy oil, after all.
—
I got home late, late enough that Gibby gave me only a perfunctory huff before bolting out into the yard to do his business and then racing back to perform his nightly routine of eating, then snuggling in bed.
Nick must’ve given him a bath; his fur was fluffy, and he smelled like my citrus volumizing shampoo.
Snuggling would have to wait until I’d scrubbed the poison ivy off my body and put my clothes in the washer.
I might be immune to the poison ivy, but I wasn’t wanting to share with Gibby and Nick.
But I had something to do first.
I headed to the back of the El Camino and took out the snake. Its body was warm from the heat but stiffened by death. I cradled it in my arm and grabbed a small shovel.
I circled back to the garden, to Nick’s plot of civilized vegetables. At the edge of it, I dug into the earth, making a little grave for the snake. I dug the snake’s grave beside Nick’s memorial for his mother, maybe to keep the grief contained.
I placed the snake in the grave. It had curled in on itself in a circle. When I’d tucked it into that round hole, it looked like the ouroboros, the serpent without beginning or end.
I kissed my fingers and pressed them to its brow. “Sleep well.”
I filled the hole, and it was as if it had never existed. But it had, and it felt like a needless death to me.
I went inside to rinse the dirt off, but couldn’t shake the feeling of loss.
Loss of the snake, and the knowledge that I’d fucked up and lost a suspect.
I’d gone hunting…like my father had. If I’d kept things cool and professional, I’d have a suspect to question, unharmed and maybe cooperative.
I had nothing now, and it was my fault. I needed to toe the line, follow the rules.
Flouting the rules was supposed to be behind me.
Each time I dipped into my father’s power, I risked having his memory overtake me, and I couldn’t allow that.
I put the misshapen pearl Jasper had found on my nightstand, beside a mason jar full of feathers. My eye kept straying to the pearl as I dressed for bed and climbed in. In the darkness, I swore I could sense its presence humming beside me.
I’d been stupid to bring it home. I considered taking it outside and locking it in my car.
But that seemed silly. Who was afraid of something so small?
It wasn’t usable evidence.
But it felt important in a way I couldn’t articulate.
Gibby grumbled and rolled over, pinning my arm to my pillow. When Nick was working, Gibby slept in Nick’s spot. I found that to be incredibly charming, and I rubbed his back.
“You’re taking being man of the house very seriously.”
He licked his chops and snored.
I reached over him for the pearl, then tucked it under my pillow. Maybe I’d dream of what my subconscious was fixating upon, about oxbow rivers and tweakers running wild.
Or maybe my mother.
I just hoped my subconscious would shake loose a clue.
—
A woman was singing, distantly.
I opened my eyes in the dark. I heard her, just, through my open window. The frogs had long since gone to sleep, but ghostly singing echoed. Soft rain tapped against the window.
I slipped out of bed and let myself out the front door.
Damp grass was cool on the soles of my feet, and soggy moss squished between my toes.
I told myself we were in a drought…and all the moss on the property had withered.
As I walked, I sank into mud, and my footprints filled with water.
I followed the voice among the shadows of trees to the old creek meandering through my land.
“Who are you?” I called into the rain-spangled darkness.
Water rose up over my ankles, up to my knees, and spilled out into the forest. It lapped around the trunks of birch and cedar trees. It swelled, and I felt the creek pull at me, the current causing me to stumble.
The head and shoulders of a woman emerged in the dark. Black hair pooled on the surface of the water. I couldn’t make out the details of her face, only that it had the greenish tinge of the underbellies of certain fishes, the color of ripe corpses.
She reached out, and sharp claws clamped around my ankle.
“You’re meant to be mine. My sister,” she murmured, her voice low and melodious as wind chimes.
Something distant barked.