Blue Stew (Second Edition) (15 page)

Another difference between this and most of the other manhunts Braylen had participated in—not a horrific difference this time, just an inconvenient one—was that this man had been swept down a river, as opposed to wandering lost and frightened through the woods, leaving behind a predictable trail of minute clues.

While this did invalidate a large slice of Braylen’s skill-set, he still maintained a very meticulous and thorough manner of scanning terrain: a trained talent that can’t be underestimated.

Braylen had been part of the first organized group that had set out down the river, the day after the infamous night. That search had been called off after covering somewhere between two to three miles. At the time the cars in the field hadn’t been found yet, so the picture of the night hadn’t begun to fill out. Everyone understood, then, that the search was only being conducted because of what one shaken man, in the dark and in the rain, had purportedly seen.

Braylen was aware that other—more thorough—searches had been conducted since the evidence boosting Walter’s claim had come to light, but due to personal obligations he hadn’t been able to assist in those, nor in the prior search that had turned up Victim Number Five. Upon learning that the latest river searches hadn’t turned up a body, Braylen had set aside today to conduct his
own
more thorough search. He was not so arrogant as to think that he alone stood a better chance than a full search party, but he felt he owed it to himself to try. At any rate, he had always liked working alone at his own pace.

It was around midday when he pulled his green Subaru off the road near the bridge, not far from where Walter had been slammed by the Jeep and the man best known as Victim Number One. Dressed fit for a man planning on being out in the cold for most of the day, carrying a backpack which held ample water and a lunch, Braylen started down along the river at his usual measured trot.

After a minute he reached the bend in the river and saw the mess of tracks along the sandy inner bank: the evidence of the other trackers that Walter would see later that night, before choosing to continue upstream, a choice that will change his life forever.

Braylen, however, saw the tracks and merely shook his head contemptuously, and then continued on downstream.

He hadn’t made it far when he saw something else, something far more irksome. There was a pale scrap of trash caught in a downed pine branch on the forest floor, some distance from the river. He started for it.

It was a folded piece of paper, he saw as he closed in.

His assumption being that one of the previous trackers had dropped it, Braylen grumbled aloud, “Come on, show a little more awareness and respect for the land, guys.”

Pulling it out from its pinch between two twigs, Braylen noticed that the paper was badly water-stained. This told him that it must’ve been dropped during the first manhunt, as it hadn’t rained since the more recent ones.

He unfolded the warped and stiff paper, curious to see if he could identify the owner, who would certainly be in line for some only half-playful grief.

It was a computer printout. However, nothing beyond that was so clear, as the rain had run all but a small, centralized block of smudgy text into watery oblivion.

Braylen had to go over a few words and sentences twice or more, using context to fill out some of the less intelligible letters. What he ultimately read was as follows:

“
. . . closest load-in point is about a half-mile from the sauna, so it will be a substantial hike through the woods with the firewood and the generators. Additionally, I work late on weeknights, so this will all have to be done well past nightfall, further complicating the task. However, I will gladly provide hot coffee and donuts, and, as indicated in the title of this listing, the pay is two-hundred dollars flat, CASH, up-front. This for what should only be two or three hours of labor! There is NO catch—time has become an unexpected factor for this project, and this has to . . .
”

From there the text meandered into puddles of faded grey ink. An inch below this there were three final lines of comprehensible text:

“
RE: One night of labor, immediate need, will pay $200 CASH, up-front!!

From: [email protected]

Hello. I saw your listing for urgent labor and I’m interested. I have two questions. One, are . . .
”

Although a whole half-page unfolded beyond this, nothing more from the printout remained in a state that anyone could hope to decipher.

Braylen cocked his head to one side, mouthing the name to himself, “F. Gross . . .
F. Gross
. I think I
know
him.”

He mentally ran down the names of those present for the first manhunt, holding the place of each name by tapping a finger to his chest. He knew all of them well enough, he discovered, and none of them even had a first name starting with F, let alone the surname Gross.

“Wait a minute,” Braylen spoke aloud. “Franklin Gross!”

An avid reader of the daily regional paper, Braylen had read a snippet yesterday morning which identified two victims from the “Night of Horrors” (as the media had now officially dubbed it, capital letters and all), and one of them—he now assumed it to have been the driver of the Jeep—had been named Franklin Gross.

This paper scrap, Braylen guessed with some excitement, must’ve fallen out of Frank’s Jeep when the police had gone through it, and blown some distance into the woods before being caught by the branch.

He reread the legible block of text again with renewed interest. There was nothing strikingly suspicious about any of it, not on the surface—not beyond showing that a supposedly masochistic, suicidal lunatic had been looking for extra cash on the side, which was odd. Though, the paper wasn’t dated, so there was no telling how long it’d been sitting in Frank’s Jeep. And, to be fair, just about
anything
a supposedly masochistic, suicidal lunatic did on the side would probably seem odd. It was an odd personality type, to say the very least.

On his second read-through, reference to the sauna caught Braylen’s keen eye. He remembered a friend of his—Matthew Wells—had mentioned being paid unusually well to help someone in Sutherland construct a sauna cabin on their property this summer . . . who had it been for? He crinkled his eyebrows and gnawed on his lips until it came to him: Timothy Glass, a notable newcomer to the area.

Didn’t Timothy’s property boarder the field where all the crazies set out?

That, Braylen concluded after a moment of consideration, was enough of a coincidence to warrant exploring further, especially with it bearing relevance to something so significant.

Braylen carefully refolded and pocketed the paper. As it happened, he was well acquainted with Officer Tom Corey from all the manhunts he’d assisted the police with over the years. Braylen decided he would contact Officer Corey about it when he got home.

He started back towards the river. The hope, now, was that he would have
two
discoveries to report to the officer by the end of the day.

T
imothy shook his head, “I left the light above on again, haven’t I?”

He didn’t lower the gun.

The spirit of immature, harmless adventure that Walter had allowed to possess him now abandoned him like a cowardly child. He felt suddenly naked, miles from where anyone might think to look for him, in a hidden room, with a rifle aimed at his thumping chest.

His mouth flapped uselessly a couple times before he managed to say, “Yes.”

Timothy nodded, “I
can’t
be so cavalier,” he sighed, “
but
, it’s good to see you again, so soon. The corn was good.”

Walter tried to nod. It came across more like a brief neck cramp.

Timothy looked down. His lips tightened. Looking back up, he asked, “Are you out here alone, Walter?”

Walter was sickeningly aware of how Timothy had
still
given no indication that he meant to lower his rifle, “Um, no—I mean
yes
—but my friend knows where I am . . .”

Timothy laughed, and it was the laughter of a man who had serious trouble with humor. “You say that as though you think I mean to kill you, Walter.”

“Well . . . well, why are you still pointing your rifle at me?” His voice trembled through quivering lips.

“Why? Because you are trespassing on
obviously
private property.”

“I—I’m sorry. I was just fucking around. I thought this was a grow room, like—for
pot
and shit. I wasn’t even gonna take anything . . . just fucking around . . .” For the first time, Walter’s eyes darted past the rifle and the shadows of the three scars, to the room behind Timothy. He had already taken in enough from his peripheral sight to know that this hidden room was
not
a grow room for marijuana. His eyes now confirmed this hazy prior conclusion.

Cluttered work tables extended along shoddy plywood walls and intersected throughout the dirt floor space. The tables were covered with things that reminded Walter of a chemistry class he’d taken years ago: There were rounded, plastic containers covered with tiny text, there were cutting boards, and digital scales, and metal bowls, and measuring cups, and propane burners, and more. On a table directly beside Timothy there was a series of beakers and vials interconnected by plastic tubes, some under open flame, all containing liquids of different shades of blue.

Walter couldn’t know what he was looking at, and although he had never seen even a picture of one, he concluded now that this must be a meth lab.

Timothy hadn’t replied. He wore a sour grin that warped the three dark scars along his cheek unpleasantly.

“I promise I won’t tell anyone . . . I don’t give a fuck . . .”

“Don’t worry about a thing, Walter.” It was in no way reassuring to hear this said when it didn’t coincide with the lowering of a rifle that was trained at his chest. “I’m obviously curious, however:
what
were you doing out in the woods, in the middle of the night?”

His mind had flipped into a defensive state, and in this state Walter’s typical first instinct, when his actions were questioned, was to invent a story. After a flustered second, he realized there was no need for this, and, in fact, flimsy falsehoods could only hurt him.

“I’m just going through some rough times. I had a rough night. I felt like going for a midnight stroll up the river, to clear my mind . . . you know?”

“Clear the mind? Oh, I know
exactly
what you mean,” Timothy Glass finally dipped the point of the rifle down, though only as far as Walter’s kneecaps. “Life is just one long attempt to clear the mind, isn’t it? The joke of it is, it’s
impossible
, so long as you’ve got that big old noodle clogging the
true
you with pointless, endless thoughts and emotions.”

Walter was in no state to follow abstract thought. However, you don’t question a man pointing a gun at you, typically.

“Yeah, that’s true . . .”

“Sometimes I talk to people, Walter. People gossip about you around here. Bad things mostly; well, ‘bad things’ as
they
see it. Walter, I have a suspicion
we
may see eye-to-eye on
many
things.”

“Oh yeah? Like . . . what?” Walter attempted to sound interested and agreeable.

“Life. Like
life
.”

“Life?”

“Yes, life. It’s a sad and silly diversion from reality, wouldn’t you say?”

“You
could
say that . . .”

“Yes. Unfortunately, most of us are fooled by a chemical imbalance in our brains to feel that there’s some powerful reason to hold onto it, onto life, even as it punishes us without any mercy.” Walter did not like where this was going at all, though Timothy had now lowered the rifle clear of his body. Timothy went on happily, “So, instead, we’re forced to seek temporary reprieves from life . . . drinking alcohol, popping painkillers, shooting up, or the laundry list of other recreational drugs people have tied to your name, Walter.” Timothy nodded knowingly while Walter began to sweat: Timothy’s final point was looming. “Yes, we’re all trying to escape, but there’s still that dang chemical imbalance that prevents most of us from simply
bailing
on the sadness and silliness that defines our existences.”