by Craig Hansen
Table of Contents
About Lies My Parents Told Me
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
About the Author
Author’s Note
Other Books by Craig Hansen
Tools of the Trade
About Lies My Parents Told Me
A murder suspect…before I even graduated high school
My name is Shabbat Abbott, and I remember the first lie my parents ever told me back when I was a little kindergarten girl. I’ve always been like a magnet for trouble; so when my mother sends me, one summer, on an “intensive therapy-hike” program for troubled teens, it doesn’t come as a huge surprise. “You’ll have fun, see a lot of nature, maybe even make a few friends along the way.”
The hike, called the Fireweed Trail Program, involved walking nearly four hundred miles along the western coast of Oregon over the course of a month. Fun? Only to those who might compare the Bataan Death March, where my Grandpa Abbott perished, to a day at the beach. Lots of nature? Given. But … friends? When the girl who seems the best candidate for friendship quickly disappears and is presumed dead, and I find myself pegged as the top suspect in the investigation, I quickly go from hiking out my problems and my rage against these and other lies my parents told me, to running…for my life!
LIES MY PARENTS TOLD ME is Book 1 in the new Lies Thrillers trilogy by THE WOODSMAN author, Craig Hansen. Look for Book 2, LIES I TELL MYSELF in early 2019 and the concluding volume, book 3, LIES WE ALL BELIEVE, later in 2019! Note: an earlier version of this book was previously published under the title Fireweed Trail.
Lies My Parents Told Me
Copyright © 2015, 2018 by Craig Hansen. All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: December 2018
ISBN-10: 1-7920-7759-9
ISBN-13: 9781-7920-7759-3
Editor: Editor by Serenity Software and Craig Hansen
Cover and Formatting: Blue Valley Author Services
This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
Originally, I dedicated this tale to my wonderful wife, Andie. However, while re-working Fireweed Trail into Lies My Parents Told Me, my father passed away at the ripe age of 96. A World War II veteran, he was a man who did his best to raise a son more at home in front of a keyboard than in a cornfield or working clean-up after the hog-kill at a meat-packing plant, the life he’d known.
Your memory will always be a blessing, Dad.
You’re missed.
1
Day 2
Shabbat Abbott
July 6, 2018
8:59 p.m.
MY NAME IS SHABBAT ABBOTT, and I remember the first lie my parents ever told me.
I was maybe five at the time, shortly after starting kindergarten, and I walked in from school one day to find them fighting. I remember loud, angry voices, and the sound of our dog barking, struggling to be heard over the parental din. At the time, I found the chaos I’d walked into both overwhelming and terrifying. I don’t remember my parents ever speaking even a cross word to each other before that day. Looking back on it now, I can say it felt to me like starting your first day of driver’s training on a busy interstate, or trying out a videogame on super-advanced, ultra-hard mode, skipping any demo or training mode at all.
Admittedly, I come from a unique family.
My mother, a dark-haired Lakota woman named Lootah, had dropped out of college, where she had met my father, in order to marry him and have me slightly less than eight months after their wedding. Her parents, who had encouraged her to pursue a career in law and knew how to do math, were furious with my father for, “despoiling our daughter.”
Dad, for his part, was descended from a line of British Jews named Abbott. He, too, had been pursuing a law career, and met my mother in their freshman year pre-law class. What began for them as a five-person study group meeting every Wednesday before the Thursday classes, ended as a series of late Saturday-night hookups between the two of them, resulting in me.
Though mom dropped out of college to have me, dad, relying on a steady flow of income from his parents, continued his studies, eventually earning his juris doctor from nearby William Mitchell School of Law, located in the Twin Cities, in Minnesota, about a ninety-minute drive from Mom’s home in Hope, Wisconsin. Upon graduation, dad, whose name was Shlomo Abbott, which he Americanized to Solomon Abbott, immediately went to work for Mom’s tribe, helping them with managing their then-newfound, casino-based prosperity.
Mom, who possessed a slightly sharper mind than my father, often pointed out her superior understanding of the law, believing she would have had the better career, had pregnancy not forced her to take a two-year timeout, that was turning in to a lifelong hiatus, from her legal studies.
“I’m the only reason you even have a practice,” Lootah said, her voice already hoarse from shouting. “You think the tribe would have even hired you, if you were not my husband?”
“Hard to say,” Solomon said, enjoying the role of playing devil’s advocate, as he often did. “Let’s see, I aced my LSATs prior to William Mitchell, made top of the law review immediately upon graduation, and I still rank as one of the top contract law and criminal law attorneys in the upper Midwest. So, yeah, who’d want to hire me?”
“Good night, you are so arrogant! Honey, you work for the Lakota Band of Northwestern Wisconsin, not some law firm. The first, and only, reason you have a job with them is me. Because I am your wife and I am Lakota. Lord knows, you’re not Lakota.”
Dad’s face curled into a snarl. “Like I’d want to be. No, I’m perfectly happy as a British Jew descended from the tribe of Dan.”
About that time, I dropped my school books on the floor, drawing their attention to me.
“Shabbat,” Mom buried her face in her palms and began to weep.
“Is everything all right?” I asked, the tone in my voice making it clear I already knew the answer, but simply didn’t want to believe it.
Dad turned toward me, spread his arms wide, and wrapped them around me as I threw myself against him, burying my head in his neck. That’s when he told me that first lie: “Yes, darling, don’t worry,” he whispered to me, his lips a flutter away from my neck. “Everything’s just fine. Your momma and me, we just talk loud sometimes. But it all turns out just fine in the end.”
Two weeks later, they had filed for divorce.
2
Day 2
Shabbat Abbott
Ecola State Park, Oregon
July 6
9 p.m.
Hiking would be great if it weren’t for the backpacks, boots, and ever-changing terrain, I thought, groaning as I slid my backpack off, setting it onto the lower bunk of the Adirondack-style log cabin to the right of the doorless entryway, glad to be rid of the sixty-pounds-plus of gear I�
��d been hauling for the last two days. If I’d known so much of the walk would be along the shoreline of sparse sand-and-rock beaches, I would have insisted on a pair of hiking sandals, or at least a comfortable pair of leather moccasins, though I doubted it was an argument I would have won. My mother, Lootah, had insisted on over-the-ankle leather hikers, explaining she didn’t want me leaving my toes uncovered on the trail. At least two of my companions had opted for flip-flops. I envied them.
Mystelle Grant, the late-twenties group leader of the girls, a friendly-faced black woman whose eyes seemed guarded and cautious, stuck her head in the cabin as three other girls and I were unloading our burdens. “Ya want to eat, best not get too comfy. It’ll be dark soon enough.”
“I’ll go gather wood and kindling for the fire.” Fang Sung, a Chinese girl who seemed a bit younger than me, volunteered first.
“Who’s your partner?” Mystelle asked.
Fang, who’d claimed the top bunk over mine, clasped my shoulder as if we were best friends. “Shabby will help me, yeah?”
Weary from hiking up the always-steep path on the Tillamook Head promontory through thick and endless Sitka spruce, I bit my lip to prevent myself from lashing out at my bunkmate for the night. Instead, I nodded.
Samara, a Cuban teen who had claimed the other side of the cabin, stared daggers at Fang, but Brena, a red-haired Irish and Mexican teen, chirped happily. “We’ll prep the campsite and clean up after, Sam and I.”
“Good.” Mystelle popped back out, a satisfied look on her face.
Fang sized me up, inspecting me like someone thinking of buying a racehorse, and it irritated me. “Ready?”
“May as well.” I liked that Fang seemed straight to the point and not a gabby type of girl. She started to leave and noticed me hanging back.
“Just grabbing something. Be right there.”
I nodded and stepped back out into the open, taking in the primitive campsite. The lack of doors on the cabins made me feel jittery, exposed, and I rubbed my forearms vigorously, even though it had been a warm, if overly windy day. I felt gooseflesh spring to life beneath my hands.
On the opposite side of camp, Tim Azure, the male counselor of their group, stood in front of the boys—Tuco, Jori, and Jazz—issuing them assignments for the night and setting some rules. I looked at the barren fire pit and frowned at the state of the camp. It was a mess. I felt cross, upset previous hikers hadn’t cleaned up after themselves, leaving the work to whoever came after them. Which, in this case, meant us.
“All right, let’s go.” Fang tapped me on the shoulder. “Gonna be dark soon.”
I nodded and followed Fang, who sprinted ahead through a wide spot between the trees. Not a formal trail, but an area where others before us must have searched for branches as well. Soon the sounds of the campsite faded. I began scanning the ground looking for dead branches, but Fang found an old stump and promptly sat down. She waved me over, then placed a finger on her lips, indicating I should stay quiet.
Fang pulled out a plastic baggie from her pocket and I recognized it immediately as marijuana. I’d seen it often enough.
“Four-twenty. You down?”
I shook my head and Fang’s eyes narrowed.
“Narc?”
I shook my head again. “That why you’re here?”
“S’it matter?” The other girl opened her baggie, selected a flimsy piece of white paper, and began sprinkling pinches of the dried leaves into it. “We’re all here cause someone thinks we’ve messed up, one way or another. The rest is details.”
I couldn’t find the best words to counter that, so I shrugged and began looking around again, scanning for branches.
“Relax. Unwind. We’ve been hiking all day. We’ll have plenty of time to gather wood in a bit.”
My feet itched. Not physically, though. I hated sitting or standing around doing nothing. Fang seemed to revel in it. This could turn in to a long hike.
“God, you’re twitchy. Meth?”
“Say what?”
Fang’s face darkened and she spoke slowly, as though to a grade schooler. “Are … you … a … meth … smoker?”
I shook my head again. “Nothing like that. Why you ask?”
“Because you’re so restless and twitchy. Meth-heads are like that. Only, probably worse than you.”
For a girl who had seemed quiet the last couple days, Fang had been speaking constantly since we’d broken off from the group. Maybe the goth girl hated groups.
“I just don’t like standing around, that’s all.”
“And I’ve asked you twice to sit down.”
I was about to respond when I spotted something. Slowly I raised my hand and pointed off to the left of the path for Fang’s benefit. “Look.”
Fang looked and spotted what I was pointing at. Off in the distance, a dark-brown spot of fur shifted. A tan snout sniffed the evening air. “Holy…”
“I know, right?” I had only seen one in person once before, back home in Wisconsin, rather than on television or in movies, but I knew a bear when I saw one. “Don’t scream.”
Fang nodded, still more transfixed in wonder than scared at the moment. “Do you think it knows we’re here?”
“Hope not.”
The bear rose up and leaned against a tree. Fang giggled. “That’s cool. He’s scratching himself.”
I nodded. “Probably has fleas.”
“You just took the cool out of it.” Fang finished rolling her joint but when she dug a lighter out of another pocket, I motioned for her to hold up.
“Not yet.”
Fang told me to perform an impossible anatomical act.
“No, Fang, because of the bear. He’ll smell it.”
Our voices were soft now. I was hoping not to attract unwanted animal attention. The bear growled, fell back to four feet, sneezed, and shook itself. Then it swiveled its head around, trying to decide what to do next.
A hand clamped down on my shoulder and out of the edge of my vision I saw another hand clamp down on Fang’s wrist: the one holding the joint.
“What are you two girls doing out here?” The voice, and hands, belonged to Mystelle. “You are supposed to be gathering wood, not weed.”
Fang pulled away and shouted, “Get off me!”
I nearly jumped twice my height, startled. A frightened yelp escaped my throat.
“This better not be what I think it is, Miss Sung. You know the rules.”
The bear roared. Mystelle, seeing it for the first time, offered her version of a roar. “Holy—!”
The bear roared again, no low growl, but a full-throated, territorial declaration of dominion. It reared up on its hind legs, not to scratch its back this time.
“Whatever you do, don’t—” Mystelle began.
“As if!” Fang pulled again and freed her arm from the older woman’s grip, turned, and sprinted into the trees.
“—run. Damn it!”
I felt as if my legs melted as the bear dropped forward and began moving straight toward us. I pulled on the counselor’s arm.
“We need to go.”
“Don’t run, Shabby. It’ll only—”
I pointed at the bear. “It’s running.”
Mystelle nodded. “Run. Camp’s that way.”
I knew the path we needed to take, but stopped when I noticed the older woman wasn’t following. “Miss Grant!”
“I have to make sure Fang gets back to camp. Don’t worry about me. Go. Now.”
I stood frozen for a moment, feeling I should help my counselor pursue Fang, too, instead of running to the relative safety of the camp alone. Mystelle had already disappeared into the trees, and the bear roared, drawing closer. The sound of the animal forced my feet to move in the direction of camp. Maybe there, I could find Counselor Tim or the guys and they could figure out what to do next.
I ran, glad for the moment not to be wearing flip-flops.
3
9:22 p.m.
TYEE AZURE’S
FACE TRANSFORMED FROM a smile to a wrinkled forehead of concern to a tight, pursed mouth of contemplation as I related the events that had just unfolded in the forest. He nodded, remained silent for a moment, and then called together the campers nearby from their tasks.
“Campers, we have a challenge before us.”
“Nine people and only one outhouse?” That came from Jori, a black teen who looked twenty but wouldn’t reach that age for another five years. He wore a full beard and mustache despite his youth, a gray, black, and yellow Batman shirt, and droopy jeans he had to keep hiking up every few minutes. The other boys giggled at Jori’s joke.
“Guys, somewhere nearby, a bear has been spotted. It’s running, and Shabby here believes it’s chasing after Counselor Mystelle and one of our girls, Fang Sung.”
“What kind of bear?” Jazz Kealoha was half-white, half-Hawaiian. I hadn’t had a chance to talk to him yet; even though he was a few months older than me, he came across as younger. I’d noticed his tendency to hang with the guys, always whispering and pointing at other campers. Snickering when we got annoyed, but only intensifying his efforts when we didn’t.
“Probably a black bear, around this area. Does it matter?” Tyee seemed more patient than Mystelle, or at least calmer. But he hadn’t seen the bear for himself, yet.
Jazz shook his head. “Just thought it might be a grizzly.”
“Probably not. Grizzlies are bigger than the bears you’ll see here near the coast.”
“Forget Jazz, Counselor Tim.” Samara twirled her pointer finger around her temple, indicating her opinion of her fellow camper. “He just had a joke ready if you said grizzly. Are Mystelle and Fang okay?”
“We don’t know.” Tim straightened to his full height of more than six feet, three inches tall. With Mystelle gone, he towered over all the other campers. “Sam, Brena, Shabby, you girls stay here and make sure no one else takes our cabins or our belongings. Guys, follow me.”
