Untraceable (22 page)

A rotting oak tree on the side of the path catches my eye. I touch my finger to the long chipped sections of the bark. Something hit it hard. Marked it for life.

Something like a bullet.

I scan the area for shells or human tracks, but only find a few broken limbs and flattened grass. When I part the branches with my hands, a faint signature print reveals itself. The edges of the track cave in when I brush them lightly. Definitely fresh.

A smile touches my lips.

I’m not a total nut job nor a dramatic teen. Someone was here. I take out my camera and take pictures of the boot print. Wyn calls my name from a distance. I quickly smear away the print with my hand, erasing a page in the story of this track. He doesn’t believe me anyway. Why waste my breath? He’ll probably question it like he does everything else.

I stand up just as he walks comes around the bend. “Did you find something?”

Sweat weaves down my back as I wipe my hands on my pants. “Nothing important.”

“Let’s go then. I’m over this place. It’s too spooky.” He stumbles off into the dim light until his shadow blends into the outline of the trees.

Trailing behind, I can’t help but wonder who would clean up so fast and how.

~~~~

On the way home, the wind whips across my face, stinging my eyes. When I pull into Wyn’s driveway, his mom waves at us through the kitchen window.

Wyn dismounts. “You want to come in for dinner? We can call Carl together.”

To avoid mumbling through the shield, I remove my helmet. “Can you just tell him? He won’t yell at you.”

“Sure.”

I gaze over his head at the mountains spiking in the distance. “Thanks.” Wyn nods and unexpectedly leans down. His face is only a few inches from mine. I panic and turn away. If I go down this road, there’s no turning back, and this time I could just lose the only friend I have. “I better get home.”

He pecks my cheek and steps up onto the curb. “See yah later, Little Miss Independent.”

I rebuckle my helmet. “I owe you one.”

“Shoot, you owe me more than that.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and winks. “I’m sure I can think of something.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.” I drive away, smiling. As I round the corner, the spot on my cheek where Wyn’s lips briefly visited still tingles. I can almost still feel him sitting behind me.

By the time I get home, it’s pitch dark outside and Mom’s still MIA. Shocking. I grab a snack and run upstairs, anxious to Google the names listed on Dad’s citation. Seems like forever since I found them, yet it was only this morning. I wait for my computer, aka Munster, to boot up. Nine minutes and fourteen seconds later, the Google search bar appears. I type in Billy’s name,
William Barrett
. Chewing my thumbnail, I beg the screen for results. Nothing pops up. Poor Billy. If you can’t be Googled these days, you aren’t anybody important.

My fingers peck the keys for
Alfred Smith
and wait another two minutes and fourteen seconds for results. This time, a few hits pop up. Skimming through the links and images, I click on a picture taken at a Tennessee hunting club party.
 

It’s Al.

I stare at the picture, almost seems as if he’s staring right back at me. I quickly close the file and page through the other articles. One in patricular catches my eye.

Tennessee man fined. Hunting privileges suspended.

Townsend, Tenn. A local judge has suspended the hunting privileges of a man who pleaded innocent to a felony charge of bear poaching.

Federal wildlife agents arrested Alfred Smith in December after receiving a tip that he was hunting and killing game out of season while using illegal weapons and forbidden trapping equipment.

He was charged by Game Warden Will Cameron for six counts of poaching and multiple counts of commercialization of wildlife.

Sitting back, I put my feet up. Just as I suspected, Al’s been in trouble before. After he did some time, he must’ve moved to North Carolina and started hunting again. Once an illegal hunter, always one. Dad probably busted him and issued a citation for killing off season. Maybe he ran into Al on that last day. Al knew he’d have serious jail time with a third offense.

Makes me wonder why Carl can’t keep him in custody longer. Surely he’s seen this article. One felony should be enough to book him.

In my notebook, I log a few unanswered questions:
Who was at Station 19? What is Sidehill? Why are Billy and Al killing bears for no reason? And, most importantly, what did they do with Dad?

I sit back and cup my head with my hands. What now? More waiting. I glance around the room, trying to figure out my next step.

Then I spot my camera on the table and jolt to life.

The pictures! How could I have forgotten those. Maybe I can find a match.

My heart races with anticipation as I upload all the photos I’ve taken over the last couple of weeks to my computer. Scanning through them, I print off the picture of the print by Al’s truck and the other photo I snapped up at Station 19. I study each one by zooming in on the tread, comparing them.

They don’t appear to be the same.

I flop onto my bed and sigh. Thought for sure the one at Station 19 would match one the ones by Al’s truck. Another dead end. There’s got to be another way.

Something Wyn said pops in my head. About the place in Cherokee that sells custom boots.

After Googling it, I find out Mama Sue’s place isn’t open tomorrow so I make a plan to visit first thing Monday morning.

Maybe she can help.

After a sleepless night, Wyn texts me first thing the next morning to inform me Al and Billy are still in custody and that Carl isn’t returning from his trip until later. Good news for me. But then if Al and Billy are still locked up, who was sneaking around Station 19? My head reels with twisted information, not knowing what is true or real anymore. Maybe Les was right about the woods messing with my brain. But being stuck indoors isn’t helping my mental state either.

No matter where I go, the walls seem to be closing in on me.

All day, I hide in my room until Mom finally heads into work. I try to piddle around the house for a while but eventually I just can’t take the boredom anymore. The woods are safe now that Al and Billy are behind bars, and it’s obvious nothing’s going to happen in Dad’s case until Carl gets back.

I need to escape the shrinking walls of my house and meet Mo at Bear Creek. Even if I’m a little early, I can just fish until Mo gets there.

If he even shows. I wouldn’t blame him for not coming, considering how I acted the other night.

I spend the whole afternoon fishing alone. The woods are alive and singing while the sun is warm and comforting. Once I’m done, I sit cross-legged on the embankment and wait for Mo as I watch the water roll by. The sun starts to droop behind the trees, spraying a yellowish glow across the water. A barred owl announces the day’s retreat, and the river babbles back. In the forest, night comes quicker than anywhere else.

My mind wanders. The popping noises, Al and Billy, the dead bear, the citation, and now, the station. It’s all connected. But how? I pluck a purple hepatica and weave a bracelet along with a matching head wreath. Braiding makes me realize how three equally separate things can easily be interwoven. It’s a matter of putting them together in the right way.

When it’s finished, I place the flower wreath on my head. “I now crown you, Grace, Idiot of the Forest.”

A voice behind me replies, “Every queen needs a king, no?”

I spin around and jerk the flowery crown off my head. No matter my effort, being cool isn’t coming so naturally to me lately.

Mo sits on top of a boulder, chewing a piece of grass. His eyes smile without requiring his face to follow. “Didn’t think you were coming.”

He was thinking about me?
I shrug it off. “Why? Were you worried?”

“More disappointed. Figured I scared you off.”

I relish in his smooth accent as it washes over me. “I don’t get frightened off that easily.”

“So you
say
.” He tilts his head toward the river. “Fancy fishing?”

I pretend my nerves aren’t bouncing around inside like a spaz on a pogo stick. “Actually, I want to show you something. If that’s okay.”

Mo raises his eyebrows. “Sounds mysterious.”

“You’re not the only one who knows cool places around here.”

He throws his bag over one shoulder. “Didn’t know it was a contest.”

I nip at my cuticle. “Do you want to see it or not?”

He beams, causing my stomach to do a pirouette. I gnaw on my bottom lip as he glides toward me. He motions me to walk in front of him. “After you, blossom.”

The nickname makes me beam like a little girl. I walk past him, fighting the magnet threatening to pull us closer together. As I lead him through the vivid green forest along a rocky path, I can’t help but wonder if he’s looking at it right now. When I walk over a log, Mo presses his hand on the small of my back to steady me. The gesture sends my heart skating. The whole time, I pretend to be cool as an ice cube.

Eventually, I stop in front of a steep rocky wall and point up. “Think you can climb this?”

Mo shields his eyes and looks up at the ridge. “Does an Englishman drink tea?”

I motion to him. “Age before beauty.”

He doesn’t hesitate and quickly scales the face of the wall with ease. I crawl up behind him, gripping the tiny ledges with my fingertips. Right when I reach the edge, Mo holds out his hand.

I shake my head. “No, thanks. I can do it.”

He smiles at me. “You know, it’s okay to accept help sometimes. Doesn’t mean you’re weak or anything.”

Man, this guy nails my psyche better than Dr. Head. “Fine. I’ll let you this one time, but only because you
begged
me.” I clasp his hand and allow myself to be swept up by him.

The flat ridge overlooks a deep canyon unobstructed by trees. The sky stretches out before us, creating a ceiling painted with the grey of a pending rain mixed with the pink of a long-setting sun. The stars peek through the blazing sky and a teasing wind flicks the back of my hair.

Mo’s voice is breathy. “Brilliant.”

I smile. “Told yah.”

I suddenly realize we are still holding hands. The moisture between our palms keeps my hand cool. It seems embarrassingly personal to share sweat. We stand close together. Wait, am I dreaming? I subtly pinch my thigh with my other hand and wince.

Nope, this is real all right.

As we clutch hands, the crimson sun dips slowly behind the green curtain of treetops. Bands of orange, red, and pink transform into a blueish gray as the fading light casts an odd-shaped shadow over the mountain narrows. Silhouettes of bats flutter and zing across the sky, feeding on unsuspecting insects.

The air turns a bit cooler. I don’t want to break our connection, but I do want to show him I can take care of myself.

I let my hand slip out of his. “I’ll start a fire.” I gather sticks together and tuck clumps of dry moss under the miniature twig teepee. Using my flint, I set off a few sparks until a small fire takes hold of the mound. Then I blow lightly until the flames dance out from under the twigs.
 

Mo moves closer. “Wow, a cute girl and a warm fire? Who could ask for more.”

My face heats up, and I’m not sure if it’s from the flames or the compliment. I poke at the fire with a branch. Sparks twitter in the air and flit off into the darkening night.

He leans back against a tree with his hands behind his head. “See, I’m fine letting a girl take care of me.”

“I bet you are.”