Untraceable (4 page)

I nod and shake his hand quickly. “Yeah, and you won’t regret this, Carl. I mean,
Captain
.”

He sighs and pops another bubble with his gum. A few pieces of it cling to his bottom lip as he shakes his head. “I already do.” Carl pets my head like I’m a mangy street mutt he doesn’t really want to touch yet can’t ignore. “Take it easy. I’ll let you know if anything shows up.”

Before I can say a word, he leaves me sitting there. In his office.

Alone.

I suppose since I’ve known him my whole life, Carl assumes he can trust me.

Unfortunately, he’s wrong.

Peeking through the office blinds, I watch Bernice picking off her Press on Nails and wait for my diversion to arrive. A few minutes later, the bells on the door clang, and she squeals in delight at her unexpected guest.

Wyn has finally arrived.

I was starting to wonder if he’d even show. Better late than never. I was lucky to get him here at all, considering we haven’t spoken in a couple of months.

My on-the-fly plan to get Carl out of his office worked.

With a quick glance through the plexiglass window, I check Bernice, who’s pointing at Wyn with her nail file. I don’t have long but already know exactly what I’m looking for.

I beeline to the cabinet and pull out the drawer labeled “Closed Cases.” My fingers walk past the Walkers and the Watkins until I reach “Joseph Wells.” As I slide out the crisp manila folder, the fact that criminals have been convicted and possibly jailed for doing what I’m doing is not lost on me. My hands quiver a little until I remember what Dad said once:
If you want to get something done, sometimes you have to do it yourself.

Wonder if that’ll hold up in court.

In the next room, Wyn bursts into a coughing fit.

The warning signal forces me to hide under Carl’s desk just as the door swings open. I peer through a crack in the wood, wondering if this is what a roach feels like. Bernice reaches in and flicks off the light. Even after she closes the door, I remain hidden for a few minutes just to be sure. After stuffing the folder in my backpack, I sneak out the door and down the hallway. As soon as I’m clear, I race into the alley where Luci’s waiting.

I jump on my bike and tear out of town.

When I pull down my dirt driveway, Mom’s truck is already gone. Nothing new. She always works. These days, the only time I see her is in a photo. For once, I’m relieved she’s not here.

I charge up the porch steps and yank open the screen door. The frame flies off the hinges and crashes onto the floorboards. Great. My whole world is deteriorating right before my eyes, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Skipping every other step, I bound up to my room and lock the door behind me. After ripping off my shoes, I fall back into my duct-taped beanbag. A few tiny white balls escape and hide under the dresser next to a crowd of dust bunnies.

I sit there and fumble with the file for God knows how long, flipping it over and over like a hot pancake. Maybe this is it. Maybe I’ll crack this case wide open. Maybe I’ll find something everyone else missed.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

I take in a deep breath and open the folder.

The first thing I see is a photo paperclipped to the inside. Dad’s sitting in a chair with a trophy with a few men flanking him. I remember the moment perfectly. The picture was taken last year after he won the
Wildlife Management Excellence Award
. Staring at his face, it suddenly dawns on me how much I look like him. Same black hair, bright green eyes, and athletic build. When I was little, I always wanted to look more like Mom—curvier yet petite—but I got over that wish years ago.

My jaw clenches as I take note of Dad’s crooked smile. Whenever I was in trouble or scared, if that grin appeared, I instantly knew everything was okay with the world.

Panic takes over. I toss the file on the carpet like it’s a scalding pan and push it away with my foot.

My lungs feel like they’ve been sawed in half. I scramble to my feet and hang my head out the open window. As I gulp in air, the tide of panic recedes. I have to pull myself together. Freaking out isn’t going to help anyone.

Breathe, Grace. Just breathe
.

My eyes water as I realize all the tiny details of Dad are dimming like a used lightbulb. His smell is gone. The sound of his voice, muted. And his hands? Why can’t I remember his hands?

Sitting back down, I take a deep breath before opening the folder again. This time, I avoid the picture and dive straight into the stack of papers. On top is a form filled out in Carl’s handwriting.

Case File:
763452NC

Date:
5/07/11

Name:
Joseph Wells
.
DOB:
07-26-56
. Age:
 
54

Race:
 
Caucasian
. Sex:
Male
. Height:
6’0”

Weight:
190 lbs
. Hair:
Black
. Eyes:
Blue

NOTES:

Last seen wearing a Wildlife Officer/Game Warden uniform – green pants, grey button-up shirt, green baseball hat, and black hiking boots. Size 11.

I flip the pages and read all the details of the case.

CASE ACTIVITIES:

4/9 – Joseph Wells left home on patrol at 0600 hours

4/10 - Wife Mary reported Joe missing at 0100 hours

4/11 – Point last scene, Oconaluftee River. Located radio in river. Hiking boot print (confirmed to belong to Joe), size 11, standard issue

4/12 – Search Party.

4/18 – Dogs. Search Party.

4/20 – Cross-referenced anon tip on 4/8 before incident. Refer to Call Transcript.

4/21 – USFWS enters investigation, Reviews case file

5/1 – Evidence: a partial boot track (make unknown)

5/11 – No blood DNA or other forensics evidence.

5/31 – Another search party sweep

6/1 - Presumed dead. Cause: drowning Oconaluftee

7/15 – CASE CLOSED

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION:

Evidence catalogue/photos: JW125543.doc

My eyes focus on one entry.
A partial boot track (make unknown).
I sift through the file. No picture? Wonder if it’s the same as the tracks I found in the woods. At the bottom of the case is an evidence file name, JW125543.doc, probably stored on Carl’s computer. Good luck hacking in there. There’s no way Wyn will help me again once he finds out I actually stole the file from his personal hero.

After jotting down the clue, I page through some interview notes until I find the referenced call transcript.

Hiker reported suspicious campsite about a mile from Sidehill
.

From the date, the anonymous call came in a few days before my dad disappeared. Worth noting.

With hands trembling, I wipe my finger over Dad’s reddened face, remembering how embarrassed he was about the attention he got the day of the awards. There’s something so boyish about his face in this picture. Something I’d forgotten. Something I miss. I unclip the photo, replacing it with a different one from my drawer, and hide the new picture in my fly-carrying tin. No one will notice.

As my chest starts to tighten again, I shove the case file back in my sack and zip it closed, as if the Gor-Tex bag can prevent the picture from hurting me. Chewing on my bottom lip, I think about the facts in the case. Aside from the anonymous call and the random prints, Carl’s right. There’s not much to go on. I massage my forehead and think about all the places in the National Park.

Sidehill doesn’t ring a bell.

Maybe Google knows. I sit down at my clunky computer and conduct eighty-seven keyword searches on “Sidehill” over the next couple of hours. Not much turns up, except for a few unreliable sites suggesting it’s some kind of historical trail. I scour through all my trail maps to see if I can spot anything. Nothing.

Eventually I go to bed, hoping everything will make sense later. For now, I know what I need to do.

Find Sidehill.

The next morning, I hide in bed until my mom leaves for work. Then I ride Luci deep into the Smokies to start another search. The morning air is warm yet crisp, hinting at the beginning of fall. After passing the bent “bear crossing” sign, I skid my motorcycle into a turn and roll down an overgrown path. Hunching over Luci’s handlebars, I dodge the low-hanging branches and go as far as I can before trekking in the rest of the way.

Using the trees as handrails, I slide down the sloped forest, taking in the details of my lush surroundings. How the bark scratches my palms and how the crisp grass crunches under every step. The sweet smell of pine teases my nose, reminding me of the dreaded holidays only a few months away. I can’t imagine them without Dad’s light display, secret stuffing recipe, and our annual Christmas morning fishing.

To avoid the scent, I breathe through my mouth and refocus my attention on how the blooming bushes splatter the green forest with blotches of pale pink. I take in their sweet perfume, letting it replace the holiday scent.

After hiking a couple more miles, the murmur of gurgling water beckons me. I gallop to the tree line and stop to watch the river. Mossy boulders crowd Bear Creek as it glistens in the sunlight. I close my eyes, inviting the sun to stroke my cheeks and warm my soul. I’d give anything to go back to last summer when Dad and I spent every morning fishing and every afternoon patrolling the forest. Everything seemed so easy then. I can actually remember wishing for more adventure in my life. More excitement.

Be careful what you wish for.

Staring out at the river rushing by, I suddenly want so much to fish first, but it’s more important to get in another search before dusk. Eating a MoonPie with one hand and chewing a hangnail on the other, I spread out my gear and highlight a search path on my map. The plan is to fan out in a one-mile radius from the point where I found the Cheetos bag. My breath speeds up with excitement and anticipation. I don’t know if it’s the rush of hope I’ll find something more or the fear I’ll find nothing else.