Bigfoot Beach

by Kristopher Rufty

  Inside the store, Paul stayed close to Howie, hoping to avoid Walt's wrath. The old man looked as if any moment he might break into a fit of rage. Face reddening more and more as he surveyed the damage. Walt let out a grunt every so often.

  The interior was small and old-fashioned, cramped with aisles of merchandise. It looked less like a drugstore and more like a general store that supplied a little of everything.

  They checked the cash register first, though Walt told them he kept the cash in a safe in the back. The drawer hadn't been busted. It appeared untouched.

  “Strange,” said Howie.

  “So they didn't want my money,” said Walt. “Must be the drugs. Let's head to the back.”

  “In due time,” said Howie. “We'll get there. Let's do a walk-through first, compile a list of what's missing. And for Christ’s sake, be careful, they might still be in here somewhere.”

  “Should I wait outside?” asked Walt.

  “Might be a good idea.” He turned to Paul. “You can too, if you want, you're not on the payroll just yet.”

  Although the thought of being ambushed by a fiending junkie terrified Paul, the idea of being alone with Walt somehow seemed even scarier. “I'll stick around.”

  Howie nodded. “We'll be out in a few, Walt.”

  “Fine.”

  They waited until Walt was outside before they started moving again. Howie kept his pace slow and cautious, gazing down each aisle on their way to the pharmacy in the back. Wherever there was a spot someone could be hiding, Howie checked. Other than cardboard displays, a bouncy ball pen, countless endcaps of greeting cards, they found no one.

  When they reached the pharmacy window, they noticed the aluminum shield used to block the window right away. It had been pried open. Paul thought it looked as if someone had punched something through it, something large. About the size of a beach ball, serrated lappets of tin dangled around the gap.

  “Guess Walt was right,” said Paul.

  “Yep. Went for the drugs.”

  Approaching the pharmacy window, Howie lowered his hand to his gun. He used his thumb to flip back the safety strap. Paul saw his brother's hand settle on the gun's grip, ready to draw it if he needed to.

  “Is anyone in there?” Howie called.

  The sudden shout made Paul flinch. “Do you really think they'll answer you and say 'As a matter of fact, there is'?”

  “Shut up, Paul.” Howie pointed at the door. “Try the knob.”

  Paul stepped behind the counter, heading for the pharmacy door. As he reached for the doorknob the image of someone from the other side suddenly opening fire came to mind. He pictured bullets ripping through the door, punching holes into his stomach. His hand froze in place, hovering an inch from the knob. Looking over his shoulder to where his big brother waited on the other side of the counter, he said, “Are you sure this is a good idea?” He was reminded of being kids and Howie daring him to poke a dead snake with a stick. Like a dummy, Paul had taken the dare, only to get bitten on the hand by a sleeping King snake.

  “I've got you covered.”

  “You could at least take the gun out of your holster, couldn't you?”

  “I never pull my gun, unless I absolutely need to.”

  Noble.

  And completely stupid.

  By the time he realizes he needs it, I'll be dead.

  Sighing, Paul gently put his fingers to the knob. The metal was cool and smooth in his hand. He gave it a couple quick turns. The knob stopped whenever he tried turning it either way. It was locked, and he told Howie so.

  “All right,” said Howie, frowning.

  “What's got you bothered?”

  “I don't know yet.”

  Instead of walking through the small breach in the counter, he planted his hand on top and swung his legs over to the other side. His feet landed with two soft clicks, then he walked to the window.

  To Howie, the hole was at shoulder level. He needed to bend slightly to look inside. Keeping to the left, he peeped through the aperture like a pervert trying to see through a keyhole. Eyes squinting, he sucked his bottom lip under his teeth. It was something he'd picked up from Dad, and Paul was caught off guard by how much Howie looked like their father at this moment.

  “Anything?” he asked.

  Howie shook his head. “I see some things have been thrown around, the floor's covered in bottles, but there's nobody in there.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. It's a small room. I can see all the shelves, looks like they're attached to the wall, so there's no way anyone can hide behind them.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “I can't fit through this hole, and I'm sure you can't, either.”

  “Calling me fat?”

  Howie smiled. “I'm calling us both slightly above average. Only someone very skinny, or a kid, could squeeze through here.” Howie faced him. “Let's get Walt back in here to let us in, so we can survey the damage, make a list of what was taken.”

  They turned around.

  A gorgeous woman stood in the space between the counters. She shoved a gun at them. “What's going on?”

  Paul took an involuntary step back, ducking behind his big brother.

  “Becky, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “I was driving by.”

  “Damn, is everyone going to Glory Doughnuts tonight?”

  “No,” she said. “The movies. I saw your car on the way back. Stopped to ask questions.”

  “And you decided to let yourself in?”

  “No. Walt let me in.”

  Paul wondered how Howie could talk so calmly to this lovely woman while she aimed a gun at him. He looked at the weapon clutched in her hand, realizing it wasn't a pistol after all.

  It was a voice recorder.

  “Is he the perp?” she asked.

  “Close,” said Paul. “I'm his brother.”

  “No way.”

  “Afraid it's true,” said Howie. “Paul, meet Becky Aniston.”

  “I’m truly honored,” she said.

  Paul’s cheeks warmed with a blush.

  “Honored to break the story that Sheriff Thompson's brother broke into the pharmacy. That will sell a few papers.”

  Howie shook his head, sighing. “One, my brother didn't break into the pharmacy, he came here with me. And another thing, you don't sell papers. People read the news on—”

  “Don't say it,” she said, cutting him off.

  Howie smirked. “The in-ter-net.”

  “You're so cruel.”

  Reporter.

  She looked like one of those reporters from a movie—sexy and firm in the right places, curved hips, pleasant breasts that pushed against her red T-shirt, wavy brown hair that swathed her shoulders, and tight dark pants that accentuated her toned legs. He imagined her butt was packed into the seat of those pants, tight and curvaceous. No way was she any ordinary small town correspondent. Paul gathered right away that she'd settled here, coming from bigger dreams that had been crushed to lick her wounds.

  And she'd never left because she woke up one morning and realized she’d become rooted here.

  He already pitied her.

  Howie stepped to the counter. Becky moved back to give him room to pass, which he did. He didn't stop, continuing toward the front. Paul wondered if he should follow him.

  Becky spun around, facing him. “So if you’re not robbing the place, what are you doing here?”

  “Nothing too exciting, I guess. Just sort of tagged along.”

  “Tag along on a lot of patrols?”

  Paul laughed. “Not if I can help it. Usually I'm the one on patrol. I start working on the force soon.”

  “Uh-huh.” She clucked her tongue, already tired of listening to him. “Well…this was a waste.”

  He sensed the disappointment in her posture, and knew no matter how hard he tried, she wouldn't be swooned tonight. But he didn't want to stop talking to her. She would leave, and he wouldn't
learn anything about her. “So…lived here long?”

  “Too long.”

  “Is it that bad?”

  “It's really not so bad…at least it didn't use to be.”

  “What happened?”

  “I'm sure you've heard.”

  “Ah, sure. The uh…the Bigfoot?”

  Becky made a face as if she smelled something foul. “Yeah.”

  “What is all this Bigfoot nonsense? My brother said something about it but wouldn't elaborate.”

  “Of course not. The authorities just go along as if no one has Bigfoot fever, as long as it keeps people coming here, spending their money. In the process, they're littering, polluting, and vandalizing.”

  “Really?”

  “Well,” she shrugged. “I made up the last part, but it's pretty damn close to vandalism.”

  “Why would anyone believe in Bigfoot, not to mention, think that one could live at the beach?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Maybe he's on vacation.”

  “Needed a change in environment?”

  “That's probably it.”

  “Maybe he'll get a house out here, spend his winters in the warmer climate. It would be an interesting change from the snowy mountains.”

  Laughing, Paul nodded. “He's a real estate genius. That would be the perfect time to rent at the beach. During the summer, he probably rents out the house to college kids.”

  Their laughter was interrupted by the banging of the door. He looked to the front. Howie was rushing toward him, a frantic look in his eyes. For a fleeting moment, Paul was worried something had happened to the kids.

  “What's wrong?” Becky asked.

  Not acknowledging her, Howie said, “Paul, we've got to go.”

  Paul's usual temptation to say something snarky wasn't there. It was his brother's expression that concerned him, the ashen tone to his face. He looked almost scared.

  Nodding, Paul stepped out from behind the counter. To Becky he said, “I hope we can talk again soon.”

  “Sooner than you think,” she said, walking with him.

  “No,” said Howie, pointing at her. “You stay here.”

  “Something's happened,” she said, convinced.

  “I'm not saying that. But I am saying you're not coming along.”

  “I didn't ask. And I'm saying that you can't keep me away. It's my right, Sheriff. Freedom of the press, you know?”

  “I can't keep you from following, but I can keep you off the scene.”

  “Scene?” she asked. “Crime scene? Murder scene? Give me something to work with.”

  Howie looked at Paul. “Let's go.”

  “You know she's just going to follow you.”

  “Nothing I can do about it.”

  “Might as well give her a ride. Am I right?”

  Becky opened her mouth to argue, but looked at Paul. A slight grin started to form on her face. “Asking me out, Mr. Thompson?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I'll ride along with you.”

  “Let's go.”

  Howie groaned. “Paul, did you forget who the damn sheriff is here?”

  6

  Other than calling Trish to tell her he would be late, Howie said very little on the way. Paul decided to not pester Howie for any kind of information. He knew his brother, and could tell when something really bothered him. In the swash of green light coming from the instrument panel, his big brother looked even more like their dad. It was how Paul remembered Dad, even though he looked nothing like this now. Whenever he thought of Dad, he automatically got the image of how he looked when Paul wasn't completely a teenager yet. Why this reflection had been cemented into his mind, he had no idea.

  If Howie looked this much like their dad, then Paul must have gotten their mom's characteristics. Which gave him a fairly good idea what he'd look like when he got older.

  “So, Thompson, are you going to share where we're going?” asked Becky from the back.

  “The beach,” he said grimly.

  Becky was quiet after that. They arrived at a small parking area. Paul felt a cold sensation inside when he noticed the two police cruisers already there.

  Howie was out first. Paul followed, opening the back door of the Suburban so Becky could climb out. As he walked with her around the side of the car, Howie held up his hand like a traffic guard. “Stay out of my way. Both of you.”

  Paul was shocked by Howie's bluntness. “Jeez, Howie—”

  “I mean it. Keep your distance. She'll only get in the way and your paperwork hasn't even been processed yet. Until I can officially start paying you, you're still a civilian.”

  Paul and Becky shared the same expression as kids who'd just been publicly scolded by their parents. They followed Howie, walking several feet behind him. Passing a small surf shack, Paul saw Bigfoot Beach T-shirts with You know what they say about big feet? printed across the chest area hanging in the windows. Women’s shirts, he figured. Beside those were boogie boards shaped like Sasquatch feet and countless other Bigfoot-themed souvenirs and surf stuff. Posterboards, covered with a bold scrawl, were tacked to the outside walls and trembled in the wind coming from the ocean.

  It felt ten degrees cooler when the asphalt vanished from his feet and sand took its place. The wind was heavier here also, fluttering his shirt, throwing it against his body. He looked at Becky. Her hair danced wildly behind her head as if she were the model in an ‘80s hair band video.

  Howie stopped, removed his Mag-lite, and fired three quick clicks to his left. In the distance, a series of blinks responded. Nodding, Howie lowered his light, aiming the beam onto the sand. “Come on.”

  Again, they kept to Howie's rear as they walked. Grits of sand got into Paul's shoes, making his feet itchy through his socks. The uneven surf caused him to stumble a couple times. Becky seemed to have an even harder time walking in her shoes. They weren't high heels, but some kind of open-toed footwear with a small heel.

  Noticing Paul watching her, she said, “I should take my shoes off, but I'm afraid I might step on a jellyfish or something sharp that washed up.”

  “Good idea,” said Paul. “I read an article once where a Killer Whale that had been attacked by a shark washed up on shore. Turns out it was a giant Great White and it terrorized this beach community for several days.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, if I remember it correctly.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  Paul feigned thinking it over. “It was either an article or Jaws 2.”

  Becky laughed. Paul thought it was one of the greatest sounds he'd ever heard. How could he ask her if she was seeing someone?

  Probably by asking her if she was.

  Nice, Paul. You’ve only been divorced from Alisha for a couple months and already have her replaced?

  Now he felt lousy. It wasn’t fair to think like that, he knew, but he couldn’t stop himself. Besides, he hadn't asked a woman out in twenty years, so he was a little out of practice. And he felt as if he was betraying Alisha.

  How would she know? She doesn't know much at all anymore.

  He felt crummy for thinking such things, even though they were true. His last visit with Alisha was back in the spring, and it would probably remain his last unless one of the kids wanted him to chaperone them. Seeing her in the room, sitting in a chair facing the window at the mental facility, oblivious to what was around her had been awful. But when she finally started talking, he wished she'd remained comatose. She'd hurled insults and expletives, making fun of his manhood, calling him a loser. She'd even called Natalie a Spoiled Daddy's-little-bitch. Thankfully, he'd left Natalie with one of her friends, and she’d missed her mother's adverse opinions of her. But Gunner had been there to witness all of her invasive admonishments.

  Dr. Guilford swore it was the illness talking, but to Paul—and probably Gunner—it didn't matter. Words were words, and they hurt even if the person saying them didn't mean them.

  “Watch out,
Sheriff,” called a man's voice. “You're about to trample over the prints.”

  “Shit,” said Howie, pausing with a foot in the air. He slowly brought it back down.

  Paul wondered how far they'd walked while he was lost in his painful thoughts. He looked over to Becky and found her watching him with a tilted frown. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I'm fine. Just sort of dazed out there.”

  “Must be some pretty emotional stuff.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You have tears in your eyes.”

  Reaching up, Paul wiped an eye with his finger. He rubbed his thumb across the tip and felt moisture.

  Damn.

  “Maybe it's the salt in the air, making my eyes water.”

  Becky’s face was a pale smear as she nodded. “Or maybe it's none of my business,” she said.

  Paul shrugged. He looked for Howie, not finding him right away. When he did spot him, he saw he'd moved off to the right and was a couple yards away. Becky hurried after him. Following, Paul walked slower as he lifted the neck of his shirt over his mouth. Pinching a section, he used the fabric to dry his eyes.

  Nearing Becky, he noticed she'd stopped walking. He stepped beside her and could see why. A block had been made of the area with yellow caution tape. Two uniformed officers stood inside the yellow square, waiting for Howie as he stepped under the tape.

  “You guys like working in the dark?” Howie asked them.

  “We were waiting on you, Sheriff. Didn't want to do much until you got here.”

  “Or draw attention to us,” said another voice.

  “Good call,” said Howie. “Sorry for being an ass about it.”

  “I understand. Want me to throw on some flares?”

  “Please.”

  Paul noticed two pale objects on the ground, smudged with darkness. The two officers stood to one side of them, and Howie's bulk threw another towel of black on top of them. They looked like tomato stakes, broken at the top.

  A snapping crack, followed by a flush of pinkish light pushed the dark back, unveiling two severed legs protruding from the sand. The cuffs of dark slacks belled around the ankles of dark boots. Two lines of straps ran over them.

  “Jesus,” said Howie.

  Becky gasped.