Untraceable (5 page)

Pulling on my backpack, I blaze the trail and sweep in an arch, searching for another sign. For hours, I move slowly and deliberately. Careful not to step on anything that could be evidence. A small something off to one side sends off an alert in my head. I bend down and inspect the compressed area filled with tiny crushed plants, a random pebble, and a broken stick. To the average person, these are just part of your everyday woods. To me, they’re prints. Signs, like this heel strike, that prove someone is out here. I lightly run my hand over the area and can tell the mud is dry. It hasn’t rained for a couple weeks so it’s at least that old. I quickly note the find and move on to find a scuff marking on an old dead log. After inspecting it further, it appears someone climbed over it, damaging the surface with a boot. On the other side, I spot a partial track. Up ahead, I can make out a faint trail someone left behind where the leaves bend at funny angles or are flipped over, showing their light underbellies.

After finishing the planned grid, I sit down to note everything. Chewing on the pencil eraser, I scan the forest. My spirits lift a little.

I was right. Someone is out here.

The question is who and if it’s related?

Even though it’s only four o’clock, the woods are already growing dark as if nature is slowly drawing its shades. The silver on my bracelet gleams in the dimming light. It’s too dark to keep searching. Maybe I have enough time to fish. Reward myself for a search well done. Relax and clear my head before the sun sinks behind the treetops.

After unpacking my stuff, I slip into my waders and a waterproof vest before slithering into the river. The current tugs at my boots, urging me to play. The soft sloshing sounds of the water stroke the embankment, and the crickets hum along to the forest’s natural buzz.

I start casting. Once I get a good rhythm going, my body relaxes and my chest fills, allowing me to breathe again. There used to be a time when Dad and I would fish for hours. Without talking. Without any worries.

Whipping the line back and forth, I focus on the meter of my technique. Two o’clock, ten o’clock. Two o’clock, ten o’clock. The moist air wets my face. I lick the droplets from my lips, tasting the pure mountain water. Being in the river makes me think about the fishing trip Dad was planning for us. A lump grows in my throat, blocking my airway. My chest hardens at the thought of possibly never fishing with him again.

Suddenly, I have a huge urge to get out of here, before my heart explodes.

I spin around and slosh out of the water. So much for relaxing. I pull on my backpack and stand at the tree line, watching the river slide by like a conveyor belt. Here, nothing has changed. Somehow, life keeps moving at the same speed it did before.

But for me, everything is different.

Before I can invite anyone else to my pity party, a few twigs snap behind me.

Instinctively, I squat behind a boulder and scan the horizon, wondering if Simon’s making another star appearance. It takes a few minutes for my eyes to notice a human silhouette snaking through the trees. By the gait, size, and shape, it appears to be a male. My heart rate skyrockets along with my curiosity. During all my searches, I’ve never come across anyone out here. This place is always deserted. It’s why Dad loves it here.

As the person moves further away, I decide to follow. Maybe this is the guy who owns the prints I’ve been tracking all day. I silently move through the leafy cover by using an old Apache stalking method, Fox Walking. Or as Dad called it, the Ostrich Shuffle. It comes in handy when tracking bears, so I assume it can fool humans too. Maintaining my balance, I lift each leg high in the air and lightly touch the ball of my foot to the ground. No matter how effective the technique, I always feel like a complete idiot doing this. Pretty sure I look like one too. Unfortunately, the silly walk only works if I’m patient, so I take my time and find a rhythm.

Lift. Bend. Step. Lift. Bend. Step
.

The figure darts through a clump of trees in the distance. No matter how fast the shadow moves, my body remains on cruise control. For a second, I lose him, but then a slight movement notifies my peripheral vision. I work hard to continue the method, but it soon becomes clear I’m falling behind.

Without hesitation, I shoot off toward the intruder, only to anger a dry stick.

Crack!

The figure stops.

I slip behind a mountain laurel, letting the fat bush conceal me, and wait a few seconds. Then, in a stealth move, I inch around the side and survey the wooded landscape, listening for any sound.

Nothing.

A deep voice cuts through the silence. “Oi! What are you doing?”

I spin around to face a guy standing only a few yards away. My wilderness survival class comes back to me.
Always size up your opponent. Note every detail
. I conduct a quick once-over and etch a physical profile into my brain. Never know when you might have to do a composite sketch. The subject is about 6’2”, 200 pounds, with longish dark hair. Probably my age. Looks older due to the thin scruff covering his face. He’s sporting khaki cargo pants, hiking boots, and an army-green t-shirt. A leather pouch hangs across his chest, and he’s carrying a small blue cooler. I look up into MoonPie-brown eyes.

He frowns. “Why are you following me?”

This time, I detect a slight accent that straddles the fine line between English and Australian. I can’t tell for sure because, to be honest, they both sound the same to me.

Never show your fear.
I assume that’s the case any time you come across something threatening, whether it’s a big animal or a hot guy. After straightening my posture, I make sure to project my voice, hoping to mask any nerves as well as my thick Southern accent. “Saw you in the woods. I was curious. No one comes out here.”

“You do.”

I center my weight over my feet, just in case this dude comes at me. “That’s different.”

He shrugs. “Not to me.”

This chitchat is not productive, so I change the subject to something more interesting to me. “You lost?”

“You a tour guide?”

“Obviously not.”

“Right. First off, I wouldn’t be lost. Second, if I was,” he holds up his wristwatch, “I have this handy little gadget called a … compass.”

I cross my arms and bite back at his sarcastic remark. “Then I guess you know where you can go.”

One side of his mouth curves. Somewhat crooked but stark white teeth sneak-a-peek through his fullish lips. “You’re a bit cheeky.”

Whatever that means. “Thanks. Now why did you say you were here?”

“I didn’t.” He gives me an indignant look then crosses his arms in defiance.

“You seen anyone else out here?”

His eyes dart around as if he’s watching a mosquito. “No.”

“So you’re out here alone?”

“If you must know, I was fishing.”

I narrow my eyes to slits and look him over. “You fish?”

“Abso-bloody-lutely.” He points to a short, stubby rod leaning against a nearby oak.

I frown. A bait fisherman. Flyfishing is about more than just fishing, not to mention it takes way more skill. Bait chunkers splash through the water, ruining peaceful runs with loud yelps and incessant booze breaks. How can slapping a fat, sedated worm on a hook be called
fishing
? I stare at his fishing rod, which is actually too short for his height. This guy is invading my turf, stealing my fish. “Haven’t you ever heard that
size matters?”

The guy’s eyes darken slightly, but I swear I see a sparkle. “No need to be rude. I’ll leave you to your business. This time, don’t follow me.”

I notice how his words go up at the end of every sentence like every statement is a question. “I’m rude, but
that’s
polite?”

He rubs the scruff on his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “Hmmm. Let me try again.
Please
don’t follow me. Much better I hope.” Before I can claim the last word, he pivots on one foot and trudges off into the trees.

I spy on the mystery guy until he fades into the green abyss, wondering what he’s really doing out here. I make a conscious decision to trek back to my bike off the main trail. That way, if this dude tries to track me, I’ll hear him first. Not that I’m worried. Then again, Dad and I have come across some whacky characters out here so one can never be too careful.

As I hike toward Luci, I can’t help but think more about the stranger.

Questions cloud my head like the early morning mist over Bear Creek.
Who is this guy? Where is he from? And, out of all the places to fish, why is he hanging around my fishing spot?

In fact, why is he out here at all?

As soon as I wake up the next morning, I spread out my notes, hoping to spot something I haven’t seen before. Detect something I’ve missed.

“Grace!” my mother shrieks from downstairs.

I ignore her and scramble to gather the papers sprawled across my bed. After shoving everything into my bag, I jump over to my desk and quickly begin tying flies to replenish my fishing stock. Mom’ll freak out if she sees me obsessing over Dad’s case.

What she doesn’t know won’t hurt me.

A few seconds later, she bursts into my room. The door slams against the wall, enlarging the long-standing hole caused by a missing doorstop. Mom is frowning and breathing heavy from skipping up the stairs in a hurry. “Grace! Did you hear me calling you?”

“Mm-hmm.” I study the diagram on my computer screen. Following the instructions, I position a size-twelve hook in the vice and load black thread into the bobbin. Holding a small duck feather in place, I loop the delicate string around it several times and add a few hackles. To top it off, I tie a perfect whip finish. It’s critical to make the fly just perfect down to the gnat’s eyebrow or the fish will know it’s a total fake.

She stomps over and flips off my screen. “You’re being rude.”

Without looking up, I mumble under my breath. “Ditto.”

Her face pops up over my shoulder. I catch a whiff of her flowery perfume and unwillingly soften at the familiar scent. Until she speaks. “Why do you keep tying flies? Don’t you have enough?”

Without looking up, I pin a fly onto my rack.
Why do you care?

Her breath tickles the nape of my neck. “Not talking? Why are you so crabby today?”

I hang up another one of my masterpieces. “Why is it that you come in yelling at me, and I’m the one who’s crabby?” Blowing my self-inflicted “bangs” away from my face, I lean in and admire my handiwork.

Mom grows strangely quiet behind me.

I twirl around on the wobbly stool, nervous she’s found my case notes. Instead, she’s strolling around the room, hands clasped behind her back as if she’s visiting a museum. I cross my arms in front of me. “Mary, can I help you with something? Or are you just browsing?”

She scowls back. “What’s this
Mary
thing lately? I don’t like it.”

“Sorry …
Mary
.” Fighting with her seems unavoidable. We can’t—or maybe won’t—stop tromping on each other’s hot buttons. The days of swinging on the porch together, sipping lemonade, are a distant memory.

Mom ignores me and continues perusing my room like it’s a cheap souvenir shop. She picks up a horse statue and flips it over, possibly checking for a price. “Heard you went to see Captain yesterday.”

I rub my temples and curse my oversight. Two of the hundred and eleven things that suck about living in a small town? One, dumb news travels fast; and two, it always visits the wrong people first. In this town, if I blow my nose wrong, it’s sure to be breaking news in the “Medical Section” of
The Smoky Review.

Before I can reply, she sneaks in a dig of her own. “I called Jim.”

“I figured.”

“He’s expecting you at noon.”

Great. I rub my forehead. “I’ll be sure to count the minutes.” It’s embarrassing enough that I’m forced to see a shrink, but one named Dr. Head? And I still don’t understand why I’m the one sentenced to whacko sessions when she’s the one who really needs it. “By the way, how come you get to call him
Jim
, but I have to call him Dr. Head? Or, should I say, Dr. Head-ache?”