Bigfoot Beach

by Kristopher Rufty

  As he approached home, he wouldn't have been surprised to find Becky in the act of rolling the house in toilet paper.

  The house was fine. All he found was Officer Lillard standing on the front porch with a concerned Trish.

  “What happened to you?” she asked.

  “My ride ditched me.”

  Lillard nodded. “Guess she found out you're living in her sister's place?”

  “Yep.”

  “Sucks.”

  “Yeah. Thanks for the warning about that, by the way.”

  “None of my business.”

  “You could’ve saved me a lot of trouble had you made it your business. You're her cousin, right?” Before Lillard could confirm, Paul was talking again. “You could’ve told her at the drugstore and then taken me home yourself. I hope you're a better cop than that.”

  Lillard looked fed up with Paul and was opening his mouth to say something when Trish intervened. “Let's not let tempers flare here. You made it home in one piece, so that's what matters.”

  “Tell that to my knees.” Paul wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean or even why he said it. His knees didn't even really hurt.

  He told Trish good night, ignored Lillard's farewell, and went inside. The house seemed uneasily quiet. It felt as if the walls were holding their breath and would suddenly shout Boo at any moment.

  Tiptoeing down the hall, he stopped at Natalie's room. He peeked inside. She had her nightlight plugged in and he could see her tiny form sleeping in the dim spill, head on the pillow and a smile on her face. So peaceful. He hoped he never disappointed her, and that her unyielding love for her daddy never faltered.

  He moved down the hall to Gunner's room. There was no nightlight in here, but the iPad on the pillow illuminated his features. A thin wire ran from the side of the device and split at his son's chin before going to his ears. He was sleeping just as Natalie, though void a smile. His eyes were pinched tight, and his mouth was a tense line. Even in his sleep he appeared to be annoyed.

  I really failed with this one.

  Sure, he got along pretty well with his son and they shared the same sense of humor, but he worried he'd already missed his opportunities for categorization as a good father. It was all the years of working so much, missing out on the family trips they would take with their mom and mother-in-law, not being home when it was time for homework, sometimes missing dinner. When it became that he was home all the time, Paul feared it was too late. He felt like more of a nuisance to his family than a provider or leader or protector.

  Paul's throat felt tight, eyes misting. He walked away from his son's room and entered his own. It took him a couple minutes to locate the bag with his shampoo, soap, and toiletries. Taking the bag, he headed for the bathroom, about to take his first shower in their new house.

  The new house and endless possibilities.

  8

  Gunner coasted downhill on his ten-speed, feeling the wind in his face, ruffling his hair. It felt good just to cruise, free and invigorating, almost like flying. He was tempted to take his arms off the handle bars and hold them out, letting the air flow all over, but he knew it would be a stupid thing to do. He'd crash.

  Just like the last time he'd tried.

  He was glad Dad let him take his bike out and explore. When he'd first asked, Dad had seemed a tad hesitant to allow it, but after a few minutes, he'd finally agreed. The wheels whirred and the tires made scratching sounds over patches of sand on the road. Gunner had no idea what he was going to do, but whatever it was, it would be on the beach. With it so close to the house, he planned to spend as much time as he could near the ocean.

  It was a hazy morning, hot and humid, though the sun was blocked by steel-colored clouds. His white T-shirt was plastered to his body, already darkening with sweat. The dirt under the bike's tires turned into sand. The wheels spun in place, unable to carry him any further. So he climbed off the bike, pushing it the rest of the way to the beach.

  He stood at the edge of an embankment, staring down at the flat plane of sand. Waves crashed on the shore, thinning out into fizzy streams. The crowd was scarce, though more than he’d expected were spread along the shoreline. The closest was a woman in a lawn chair, wearing a one-piece bathing suit and shorts, a hardback book propped on her large gut. Gunner couldn't tell if she was pregnant or just overweight.

  A volleyball net had been set up several yards down the beach. From where Gunner was, he could count the number of people playing: two. They seemed young, but he had no idea if they were around his age or not. He wasn't going to intrude on their game to find out. For all he knew, they could be older assholes that didn't want to be bothered and wouldn't mind showing him how much.

  Sighing, Gunner started downhill. The bike kept trying to tip over as he descended, and he needed to work harder to keep it upright. He wasn't going to go through this all day. Finding a cluster of weeds to his left, he walked the bike into the center and let it drop. Hopefully it would be all right there while he walked around.

  He made his way to where the water reached, kicked off his sandals, and crouched to pick them up. Then he stepped into the waves. The water crashed onto the shore, dispersing around his shins. Tiny bubbles tapped his feet like little fingers. It felt great. A tad cool, but not cold. By the time he'd finished walking around, it would feel great to jump in.

  Not knowing which way to go, he picked right and started walking, holding his sandals by his side. He walked behind the woman reading. She didn't look up at him as he passed by.

  The sand was warm, growing hotter as he walked. Clumps squished between his toes, powdering them with tan sprinkles. He went on for a long time, finding no one his own age. A little bit further, he still found nothing of interest, and started back.

  Several minutes later he reached the woman reading once again. This time he walked in front of her, seeing the cover of the book. It was written by an author named Heather Graham. He wondered if it was the actress or someone who just happened to share the name. This close to the woman, he also saw that she was not overweight. Her legs were thick and toned, her arms thin and muscular. The belly was obviously housing a baby inside. Her skin looked glossy, as if it was painted in clear coat.

  He noticed her eyes appear above the top of the book. Blocked by sunglasses, he could tell they were aimed right at him. He quickly looked away, picking up his speed in case she shouted at him for staring.

  No shouts came.

  Why did he always assume someone was mad at him? He smirked. If he really thought about it, he'd know the reason. But doing that would require his thinking about Mom, and reliving her mental collapse step-by-step in his head. He was enjoying his time alone on the beach too much to think about her.

  Gunner hadn't even noticed he'd neared the volleyball game until hearing, “Look out!” A moment later a white ball plopped in front him, the sand catching it.

  “Sorry about that!” called one of the two. Gunner had been right about his original notion that the guy was young. He looked close enough to Gunner's age, with spikey blond hair and a chiseled body. “Did I hit you?”

  “No,” said Gunner. “It's cool.”

  “Will you toss it back?” asked the other guy. He, too, looked Gunner's age and could have been made from the same factory the first guy was developed in.

  “Yeah,” said Gunner, leaning over and grabbing the ball. “Who do I throw it to?”

  “Me,” said the first one. “I was the idiot who hit it wild and almost nailed you.”

  Hardly nailed, thought Gunner as he threw it like a basketball to the first guy.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “No problem. See you.” Gunner started to walk away.

  “Hey, man.”

  Gunner stopped, looking back. “Yeah?”

  “You play?” asked the guy with the ball, rolling it from hand to hand.

  “Volleyball?”

  “No, table tennis,” said the other.

  Gunner felt
like an idiot for asking. “Well, I haven't played in a while.”

  “But you know how to?”

  “Sure. I guess.”

  “Want to join us?”

  “Um…”

  “I mean-if you don't want to, it's cool.”

  “No, I'm not saying that. But wouldn't it make things a little uneven if I join? I mean, there're only three of us.”

  “No there's not. There're four.”

  He pointed to his left, to the beautiful girl lying on her stomach on top of a beach blanket behind them. Her bare legs were bent behind her, feet crossed at the ankles and toes nearly touching her shoulders. Somehow Gunner hadn't noticed her before now. “Our sister needs a partner.”

  Gunner suddenly forgot how to speak. He nodded, hoping they understood he wanted to be her partner.

  “Great,” said the first guy. “Megan? We found you a partner.”

  Megan looked up, pulling her sunglasses down her nose to see him better. Her eyes scanned him up, then down, and back up once more. She nodded once, approving. “Good. So, I get to play now?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Awesome.” She rose to her knees, rubbing her arms. They glowed under the sunlight, blazing like two torches from the sleeves of her T-shirt. Her long yellow hair was pulled into a ponytail behind her head. She stood up. The seams of the shirt reached partway down her thighs and somehow it made her even more appealing that a lot of her was covered, though he had plenty of hints that what was underneath was beyond words.

  Then she gripped the bottom of the shirt and pulled it over her head. The world seemed to slow as she did this, and Gunner could see every movement, every dimple of tanned skin that wasn't covered by the skimpy white bikini. The gentle bounce of her breasts that were firm and round behind the triangle patches of her bikini top. Though Gunner didn't think she'd been swimming, her skin appeared slightly damp and sleek.

  Gunner ceased a gulp.

  “Kick ass,” said the second guy. He ducked under the net, joining his doppelganger. “We serve first.”

  “Cool,” said the other.

  “Shouldn't we flip a coin?” asked Megan, making her way to the other side.

  “Do you have a coin to flip?”

  “No.”

  “Then age has it and we're older.”

  “Barely.”

  “We're still older.”

  Megan shook her head. She looked at Gunner and he felt his breath snag in his chest. “You coming over here or what?”

  “Oh, sorry.” He walked over to the side she was on.

  “What's your name?” she asked.

  “Gunner.”

  “I'm Megan, and those two douches over there are my brothers. That's Malcolm.” She pointed to the first one who was trying to spin the volleyball on his finger. “And that's Max.”

  Gunner waved. “Nice to meet you all.”

  “They always like to point out how they came out first. Asses.”

  Now Gunner understood why the two guys looked so much alike. He'd assumed they were brothers, but now he realized they were twins. “So, you're all…?”

  “Triplets,” said Megan. “Yep.”

  “Wow.”

  “Ever met triplets before?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, scratch it off your list.”

  “What are we playing to?” asked Max.

  “Twenty-one. Like always.”

  “All right.”

  “You from around here?” asked Megan.

  “No. Just moved in yesterday.”

  “Oh. So, you're here to stay? Not just visiting?”

  “As far as I know, we're staying.”

  “Awesome,” she said, then moved to the front of him. She glanced at him over her shoulder, arching an eyebrow before bending over. She jutted her firm rump high in the air as she braced her hands on her knees. The seat of her bikini was a small white crescent that seemed to be failing its job of covering her entirely. The round gradients of her buttocks squeezed the fabric into a narrow patch.

  Holy shit on me damn…

  Gunner averted his eyes, not wanting her much buffer brothers to catch him staring.

  “All right, wimps,” said Malcolm. “Zero-to-zero. Serve's up!” He tossed the ball into the air. It seemed to hang there, spinning many times before coming back down. He smacked it with his fist.

  9

  In her confined, stuffy office, Becky leaned back in her chair, feet propped on her desk. The window unit strained to blow cool air into the room. She felt its cool breaths on her bare feet and wiggled her toes. She had her phone to her ear. The cord was stretched as far as it would go. The base trembled slightly as if it might launch at her face any moment.

  Tony Lillard answered on the fourth ring. “What?” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

  “You said you would give me an update at ten, it's almost one.”

  “I've been busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Dealing with this thing with Perry.”

  “Well, that's what I'm calling about.”

  “We don't know much yet. It's still way too early.”

  “Well, it's only the day after, so I didn't expect things to be wrapped up already.”

  “Again, you cannot print this.”

  “I won't,” she said, crossing her fingers. She had no cruel intentions in mind, but if it was something that the public should know, it would be on page one tomorrow morning. “Tell me.”

  “They found some strange hairs on the scene.”

  “Perry's killer?”

  “Possibly. Could just be a dog. We're waiting on the reports to come back.”

  “Thompson thinks a damn dog killed Perry?”

  “He's not ruling anything out.”

  Becky held the phone away from her, stared at the ceiling. Why me? Then she brought the phone back to her ear. “You better have more for me than that.”

  “Well…”

  “Come on, Tony. Tell me.”

  Static crackled in her ear from his sigh. “It's the prints.”

  “What about them?”

  “Not all of them are Perry's.”

  “Well-duh, how many people were tromping around out there last night, plus throughout the day?”

  “You don't understand.”

  “Make me understand.”

  “The big footprints. The tide washed most of them away, but we pulled some casts of what were left, around six I believe. The first two are dead ringers for Perry's, but the other four, well...they're different.”

  Becky felt squirmy inside. “Please elaborate, Tony, and stop being so damn ominous.”

  “There's no way those other big prints belong to the concrete plates Perry had on. Those other prints were from something completely different.”

  “And what do you suppose they belong to?”

  Tony was quiet for a moment. “I think it's real.”

  “Oh, Tony, come on.”

  “Call me crazy…”

  “You're crazy.”

  Another pop of static from an exasperated sigh. “Maybe I am, but I still think those prints might be from a real Bigfoot.”

  “They could be fakes as well.”

  “If so, they didn't come from us. We only have the one set and we take turns with it.”

  “Maybe Mayor Caine has other people out there when you're not. You know, to keep you guys wondering too.”

  “Then explain how Perry's body was snapped off his legs like that. They weren't cut off. Doc Summerset said they'd been broken off. Takes a hell of a lot of strength to do something like that. Inhuman strength.”

  “Tony…”

  “I might be labeled the village idiot if I say so in public, but between you and me, I think there's really something out there.”

  “And do your peers share your theory?”

  “What do you think?”

  If they had half an ounce of common sense, then she would say no. But she knew better. It was proba
bly a hushed theory flowing through the department. Maybe Thompson didn’t believe it, but she supposed the others did.

  “Thanks, Tony.” Before he could say anything more, she sat forward, and dropped the phone into its cradle. She stared ahead for a few moments, her eyes locked on her door. “Bigfoot. Yeah, sure.”

  Shaking her head, she spun her chair around to face the laptop at the corner of her desk. It was the only spot clear enough she could put it. The rest of her desk was buried under clutter: old papers, folders, unopened mail, and books, some for research, but mostly trashy paperbacks filled with even raunchier sex. She thought there was also half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich somewhere under the rubble as well. She'd brought it with her last week, and had only taken a couple bites when it vanished.

  Microsoft Word was opened to a blank page, the cursor blinking in front of her. She had no idea what to type. She couldn't make herself even peck the letters necessary to spell Bigfoot. Instead, she typed something else that seemed to flow from her fingertips: Tony is an idiot.

  That wasn’t news because the town was already well aware of that statement.

  “Shit,” she sighed.

  Becky leaned back, running her hands through her long hair. Adjusting her reading glasses, she sat forward once again. Though she loved her laptop, she hated the touchpad and had installed a cordless mouse to use with the computer. She put her hand on it, moving the arrow to the minus tab in the corner and minimized the Word document. Her research was waiting underneath where she'd left off.

  It was a newspaper article from the Granite Gazette, a weekly circulation for the small town of Granite Falls.

  Paul's hometown.

  As angry as she was, and how much she loathed the idea of him living in her sister's house, she hadn't been able to stop thinking about Paul Thompson. So much so, she'd decided to do a little bit of background checking on him. This was nothing his actions had triggered. She did this kind of thing to every guy she became interested in.

  Hardly interested. Curious, maybe, but definitely not interested.

  Typing his name in the search bar, she had been shocked to find several links to various articles about him from multiple sources. All of them had similar headlines, usually featuring Paul's name with hero following shortly after.