Untraceable (10 page)

I try not to look too dejected, but before I even answer, she scoots off to take care of her patrons.

Only instead of waiting on tables, she walks back into the kitchen and starts chatting with Kenny, the short order cook. I stare down at my stale turkey sandwich with mayo, a wilted salad, and a milkshake. Somehow, Mom’s forgotten her daughter is vegetable-resistant and lactose-intolerant.

She’s lost it.

Finally, we have something in common.

I slide the drink away and nibble on the bread like a chipmunk. Scanning the room, I observe all the people stuffing themselves. Up at the buffet, people scoop all-they-can-eat onto a plate, determined to get their $6.99 worth. Dad loved the buffet here. Then again, he loved anything on sale.

I soak in my surroundings and listen to the buzz around me. I study each person, noting peculiar things about them most people wouldn’t catch. The way they walk. The way they laugh. One lady slips on a smudge, and a man drops food on the floor then pretend he didn’t. It’s amazing what you see when everyone assumes no one is watching.

At the end of the line, a large man scans the dessert selections and sticks his finger in the pudding to test it. Gross! He spins around and faces my direction. That when I notice him. The redneck from Tommy’s store. He lumbers toward me, balancing two overfilled plates. I slouch down in my seat, hoping he doesn’t notice me. Luckily, he slides into the booth in front of me. I sigh in relief but continue to spy on his reflection in the window.

He chews his cud and talks at the same time. A drizzle of ketchup cakes both corners of his mouth as he stuffs in a double cheeseburger and a spoon full of mashed potatoes at the same time.

A twiggy dude with a thin mustache, already eating in the booth, leans in and speaks with a lisp. “Think we gonna get close this time?”

The redneck jams a few fries into his pie hole before he’s even swallowed the previous bite. He struggles to speak clearly. “Billy, I told yah already. All we gotta do is get us some donuts and corn. Maybe rub some honey on us. They’ll come beggin’.”

Billy scoffs. “Aw, geez, Al. I just want to catch ’em, not
date
’em.”

Corn? Honey? Either these guys want to hunt bears, or they’re trying to be the next big hit on YouTube. Some people do whackadoo stuff just to get a kill. One guy even tried baiting a bear by holding marshmallows in his teeth. That didn’t go over so well with the bear or the guy’s face. Dad’s told me some crazy stories. A few sick ones too.

Al whistles the song I still can’t place. He wipes his mouth on his t-shirt. “You ready?”

Billy nods. “
Bear
-ly.”

Al cackles. “Ha! Good one.” I roll my eyes at how many times I’ve heard that joke up here.

Billy stuffs some of the free bread and packets of crackers into his pockets. “Let’s get goin’ then. Catch us some you know what.”

Al lowers his voice and smacks Billy upside the head. “Sshhhh.”

Both of these guys are a donut short of a dozen. For one, this is not bear season. Two, unnaturally baiting bears in North Carolina is illegal. Any way you look at it, these guys are breaking the law. Big time.

Whether they know it or not is the question.

Al snorts. “No need to waste your last brain cell worryin’. We won’t get caught this time.”

My ears perk up like a dog tuning into a high pitch.
This time?
I hold my breath for fear I’ll miss something important. My hands tremble under the table. There are only two people here who would bust these guys for illegal hunting.

Les.

Or Dad.

Billy whispers with a slight lisp. “You sure?”

Al hisses like a deflating tire. “Positive.”

I slink down even further, praying they don’t see me as they stand to leave. After the two men pay and walk outside, I peek through the mini-blinds. They walk down Main Street and disappear into the back alley. As soon as they’re out of sight, I sprint out of the diner and bolt to the corner. Peering around the side, I watch them climb into a shiny green Dodge Ram with temporary tags.

I hesitate for a second. Should I tell Les, or should I follow them and see where they go first? What if they’re totally innocent? That’d be the last thing I need. Carl and Les would never believe me again. On the other hand, if these guys are hunting around up in these mountains, maybe they know something about my dad?

Out in the woods, these are the tiny decisions that contribute to someone losing their way. To act or not to act. To move or not to move. Those basic questions can make a huge difference.

Between life and death. Lost or found.

I bolt toward Luci.

If these idiots know something about Dad, there’s only one way to find out.

Dark, billowy clouds roll across the sky like tumbleweeds as I snake up the mountain, leaving a safe distance behind the truck. Once the men turn down a dirt lane, I wait a little before inching my bike around the bend. Their truck is parked off to one side, partially concealed by the trees. What Dad called a 4-5-9 or suspicious vehicle.

As Luci rolls closer, the reality of my decision to follow these guys finally clicks. This plan would definitely be a “don’t” in the
Dumb Girl’s Guide to Wilderness Survival
handbook. However, if I don’t chase after these idiots now, they may be gone by the time I get help.

I park Luci behind some bushes and sneak along the tree line. When I peer inside the shiny truck, a new cowboy hat rests on the shiny leather seat. I scan the area and notice a few shoe prints leading away from the truck. Dad called this a confirmed sign or spoor.

After taking pictures, I pause at the mouth of the trail leading into the darkening woods. It’s late, and the woods will only allow a couple more hours of light. I hesitate only a fraction of a second before allowing the trees to swallow me whole.

My plan? Sneak in, get coordinates of their camp, and sneak out. Then I’ll go get Les or tell Carl so they can haul these guys in and arrest them.

What could go wrong?

I trek along the overgrown green alleyway, weaving in and out of trees while inspecting the path for prints. Shafts of sunlight break through the lush foliage, creating orange stripes along the forest’s green floor, reminding me of the setting sun. Oaks, pines, and spruces border the trail. I move noiselessly. As if my feet aren’t touching the ground. These guys could be anywhere, so I need to find them way before they notice me.

After barely escaping a fence of poison ivy and almost stepping on a sleeping timber rattlesnake, I stop to regroup. Fear and anxiety is a tracker’s Achilles’ heel. Dad used to track poachers all the time. So I know I need to pay attention to the whole world around me, not just the trail. Any place where these guys have disturbed the natural grain of the forest. Broken twigs. Crushed weeds. Pebbles pressed into dirt. A good tracker anticipates movement and searches for forced lines that blemish the natural flow of the forest.

Every nerve switches on and tingles, probing to find something out of place. I trek for a couple miles. Suddenly, a soft whistling and the smell of smoke hitch a ride on the wind. Cupping my hand behind my ear, I zero in on their location. With each step, I breathe and release.

Step, roll foot, weight transfer, and breathe.

I inch my way to the border of their campsite and hide. To conceal the whiteness of my eyes and teeth, I squint and close my mouth. It’s surprising how those two things can give you away in an all-green environment. Then, like Dad taught me, I poke my head around the side—not over the top—of a fat shrub to get a better view.

Al sits next to a blazing fire, methodically scraping his new collector’s knife back and forth along a sharpening stone as he whistles. The campsite seems scant, except for a couple of small iceboxes, a few large duffle bags, and some scattered trash.

Off to one side, Billy stuffs a few things into a large satchel. “Why do we need all this crap anyways? We got guns.” His lisp is magnified in the still evening air.

Al stops whistling but keeps a steady rhythm with his knife. “You never know when we might need ’em. Them creatures is unpredictable.”

“Yeah, but bear spray? Seems like that’s for a buncha sissies.”

I roll my eyes. It’s hard to take these idiots seriously. Some men drink from the fountain of knowledge.

Obviously, these guys only gargle.

Or maybe they’re just plain parched.

Al chuckles. “Got it off one of those bear-huggin’ sites. Wanted to be sure we were prepared to dance.”

Billy reads the label aloud. “Bear Smart. Repels bears in a non-toxic, non-lethal manner. This pepper spray will not permanently injure the bear or the outdoorsman. Holster is also available.”

I smile thinking of how many times people end up hurting themselves by spraying into the wind.

Al opens one side of his hunting vest, revealing a gun. “I got me a holster right here.”

I only get a glimpse, but from the shape of the handle and length of the barrel, it appears to be some kind of .44 Magnum. All those hours of watching Dad polish his antique gun collection might finally come in handy.

Billy loads another bag. “Where we huntin’ this time? Some place new, I hope.”

“Doesn’t matter. Everything’s under control. We don’t need to be afraid of none of those forest cops this time.”

Forest cops?
Wildlife officers, game wardens, and park rangers are often referred to as forest cops around here. Hard to tell the difference unless you know the uniform or what each person actually does.

My brain shuts down, and my ears buzz as if a swarm of bees is trapped inside my head. Their voices sound all nasally and distorted, like a McDonald’s drive-in operator. I jerk out of my daze and quickly note the coordinates on my GPS watch. When I spin around to leave, my head is so jumbled, I forget about staying quiet and step into a pile of dead leaves and twigs. A horde of birds explodes from the bushes around me. I stop and look back to see if the two men heard me.

“What was that?” Billy grabs his rifle. From the size and color, I’d guess it’s probably a Winchester or a Colt.

Al glances in my direction and slips a hand into his vest. “I dunno. Let’s check it out.”

Billy’s voice quivers as he stares off into the trees, his gun cocked. “Maybe it’s that friggin’ bear again. Feels like he’s huntin’
us
sometimes.”

Al slides out his pistol and storms in my direction. “I got me a weird feeling about this.”

Without too quick of a movement, I slowly slink to the ground and press my body against the earth. Keeping my eyes down, I spy on the men, hoping they don’t investigate my location too closely. I bury my face in the leaves. As footsteps pound toward me, I suck in my breath and breathe shallow so they can’t hear the oxygen filling my lungs. The loud crunching of Al’s shoes gets closer and closer. He stops on the other side of the bush and rattles the branches directly above me.

Billy whispers from further away. “See anything?”

Al kicks his foot into the roots, stirring up some dirt and leaves. A gritty cloud of dust particles billows around me. My nose twitches as I fight against the urge to sneeze.

Unfortunately for me, I lose.

Al’s voice hisses above me as he leans over the line of bushes. “Well, well, well. What we got here?”