by Harper Lin
“I don’t suppose you saw any of these notes.”
“No. Sorry. We don’t pry into the patrons’ research.”
Normally I appreciated that trait in librarians. Now I felt as if we might have missed something vital.
We continued up the slope, hearing only the steady patter of rain. The trail made several switchbacks, and I felt myself beginning to tire. Even though it was still well before noon, my legs had that heavy feeling you get at the end of a long day of marching.
I bit my lip and tried to ignore it. I had done pretty well for the first two days. It appeared that three days was my limit.
Well, I didn’t have the luxury of limits, not right now. We kept going.
“Look,” Martin said when we were nearly to the top of the ridge.
I turned to where he was pointing and saw a mineshaft about two hundred yards to the right of the trail. Because of the roughness of the terrain, it had not been visible until just now, and walking another few steps would have put it out of sight again.
What had caught my grandson’s attention was not the mine itself—we had passed two or three already that day—but the fact that a couple of the boards had been removed from the entrance, allowing a narrow space that a person might pass through.
We stopped. The boards lay at the entrance, as if they had fallen off naturally. I wondered.
“Should we check it out?” Butch asked.
“Check what out?” Quinten asked.
I did not relish the idea of exploring that mine. But it seemed too important to ignore.
“Let’s take a look. Kids, you stay here.”
Quinten and I cut along the slope toward the mine entrance. The two boys followed about twenty yards behind us. They obviously didn’t want to be left alone on the trail. I couldn’t blame them, although I did motion for them to hang back a bit more.
As we approached the entrance, I saw my suspicions were correct. While the rain had erased any footprints, I could see the grass had been trampled down in front as if someone had been walking around there frequently. I also noticed that the two boards, while positioned to look as if they had simply fallen off the barrier, had been placed with the nails down. If they had naturally fallen off, the nails would have been pointing up. Our friend obviously didn’t want to risk stepping on a nail, and so he had flipped them, thinking no one would get close enough to notice.
We paused. Quinten and I exchanged a glance, and the librarian nodded.
Brave folks, librarians. They fight for the right to information, for people to read whatever they want to read, and for their privacy to read whatever they like without the government looking over their shoulder. I’d never fought alongside a librarian, however. That was a different type of bravery. I wondered if Quinten had that sort of bravery too.
Hopefully, I wouldn’t have to find out.
Quinten moved toward the mine. I held him back and motioned for us to circle around it so that if someone was standing right inside the entrance, he couldn’t strike at us. Of course, if he had a gun, he could shoot us, but if he had a gun, we were all going to die anyway.
We edged around the entrance and peered in. Daylight filtered inside just enough that we could see that it had been occupied. The rubble had been cleared out from the front part of the mineshaft and lay in a heap about ten feet back. Among the rocks and sticks were a couple of cans of Sterno that looked new, the blue labels unfaded. There were also a couple of plastic wrappers from camp meals, the ready-made kind that you only need to add water to and heat over a stove. Quinten flicked on a flashlight, and we saw the gleam of a couple empty water bottles farther in.
“Ms. Chipper would get angry if she saw all this litter,” Quinten said.
I examined the wooden props holding up the walls and ceiling. They looked newer and better made than the others I’d seen.
“I think this mine is from the late period of prospecting, back in the 1940s, rather than the turn of the century or earlier,” I said.
“How do you know that?” Quinten asked.
“Didn’t you hear Ms. Chipper’s lecture on the first day?”
“No. Butch was making fart noises.”
“It should be stable enough. Our suspect obviously thought so. Let’s go in and take a closer look.”
“Is he in there?” Martin’s concerned voice asked.
“No, but he was,” I replied.
The boys hurried to join us.
“Keep watch outside,” I told them. “We’re going to investigate his campsite.”
The opening was a slantwise hole in the latticework of moldy boards that was low enough that even I had to duck to enter. I felt a twinge in my back as I did so.
Not now, I told my body. Mr. Chong and his needles are miles away.
Quinten joined me. For a moment, we stood side by side, peering down the mineshaft with our flashlights.
The floor, covered with dust and a scattering of dirt, showed a confusing blur of marks. I supposed they were from the sleeping bag and other gear being set down and moved around. Near the back, close to the heap of rocks and twigs that the occupant had swept out, were a couple of muddy footprints that hadn’t been obscured.
I pulled out my strings to measure them.
“Why are you bending over so slowly?” Quinten asked. “Do you have a bad back?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “It comes and goes.”
“Let me do it.”
“Chivalry isn’t dead.”
“I’m a member of the Knights of the Round Bookshelf.”
“Just measure the footprints.”
He compared the string lengths to the dimensions of the boot prints and got an exact match.
I felt my skin prickle.
So he had camped here, out of the rain, cooking his food on the Sterno stove right inside the entrance, where it would be well ventilated but the dim glow could not be seen except for along a short length of the trail, a trail nobody would be hiking on at night. More importantly, we wouldn’t be on that trail, since it wasn’t part of the planned hike. The mine was close enough to our campsite that he could get there easily and then retreat here, and it was stable enough that he could camp here safely.
He had known our movements, and he knew the terrain like the back of his hand. It seemed he had all the advantages.
“Psst, Grandma,” Martin said in a frightened whisper. I turned to find both boys right up against the wood barrier, looking terrified.
“What?”
“There’s somebody moving around out here.”
NINE
I ducked back out through the space in the boards, feeling another twinge.
“Where?” I asked, my voice coming out strained.
Butch pointed. “Down there, by that clump of trees.” The boy indicated a cluster of trees about halfway down the valley, a good quarter of a mile away.
I stared but saw nothing. “You sure?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Martin said. “We both saw it.”
“It could be someone on the lower branch of the trail,” I said. “Perhaps another hiker.”
“Or it could be him, Grandma. Let’s get out of here.”
“Hey!” Quinten said from inside the mine. “I found something.”
“What?” I asked, sticking my head through a small gap in the boards. I did not want to have to duck through the entrance again if I could help it. My back was still complaining about the last time.
“I found a receipt.” He held up a crumpled piece of paper.
“You have sharp eyes.” First time for everything.
“I cleaned my glasses.”
“Grandma! I saw him again!”
I pulled my head out of the gap and turned. “Where?”
“Down there in the same place.”
“He was looking at us,” Butch said.
“We need to get out of here!” Martin said.
Quinten came out of the mineshaft and grabbed his pack. By the time he had put it on, h
is glasses had fogged again. I picked up my pack as well, keeping an eye on the clump of trees. As I turned my torso to put my arms through the straps, I felt a sharp twinge.
Not now!
“I don’t see him,” I said through gritted teeth.
“I swear to God he was there,” Martin said.
“I saw him too,” Butch said. Both looked terrified.
“Let’s go,” I said. “He’s pretty far down the slope. If we keep a good pace, he won’t be able to keep up with us.”
Quinten gave me a knowing look. He, too, had figured out that whoever this was, he was fit and knowledgeable about the area. He could catch up with us if he wanted to.
“The top of the ridge is open and more exposed,” I said. “He won’t be able to sneak up on us there. Once we get into the clear, we’ll take a look at what you found.”
Quinten nodded, and without another word, we headed out.
Marching quickly up the steep switchbacks really began to take a toll on my legs. Where they had felt heavy before, now they began to feel sore as the lactic acid built up in my overused muscles. I soldiered on, glancing over my shoulder every few moments, hoping to catch any sign of movement downhill from us.
I saw nothing. Whoever was down there was being careful.
I would have liked to think that perhaps the boys had seen another hiker, someone innocent going along the path. I couldn’t quite convince myself. The worst-case scenario was always the best one to plan for.
We passed the last of the trees and came to the rocky upper reaches of the valley, where only a few shrubs and clumps of grass grew.
“Everyone, hunch over as you walk,” I instructed.
“Why?” Martin asked.
I took a deep breath, preparing to steal a bit of my grandson’s innocence. “To make less of a target in case he has a gun.”
That got no reply. In fact, no one said a thing for a long time. I couldn’t bear to look at Martin. I didn’t want to see his face.
Walking hunched over began to make my back twinge. I felt tempted to stand back upright but was afraid that would set a bad example for the boys and they would straighten up, too, making better targets.
No shots came.
We made it to the top of the ridge just as my calves started screaming. The ridgetop was fairly flat and a good hundred yards wide, with a few bushes and several outcroppings of rock. The trail ran along its center, putting us out of sight of the trail leading up. We were all grateful we could stand up straight again, although it worried me that we couldn’t see if our hidden friend was coming up after us.
The ridgetop gave us a spectacular view. While we couldn’t see the closest part of the slope, we got a sweeping vista of the valley and the other ridges, valleys, hills, and mountains all around. Not a soul was in sight, nor was any sign of civilization. It would have been beautiful if we hadn’t been in mortal danger.
And the landscape itself was a danger. With such rough terrain and no map, I could see how easily we could get lost here. Our path down the valley was clear enough, but if we got off it, we’d be in trouble.
Our pursuer knew this, of course.
My back twinged again. My legs felt like lead. “Let’s stop a minute,” I said, leaning against a boulder.
“Grandma, we need to keep going!”
Peru, 1980: I’m hustling the mayor of a rural village over the foothills of the Andes as we’re being pursued by guerrillas of the Sendero Luminoso, the “Shining Path.” Their shining path is supposed to lead to communism for Peru and, eventually, all of Latin America. They say they want to free the peasants from the chains of capitalist oppression, and they’ll strangle or stone to death any peasant who doesn’t obey them.
Some liberation.
Guzman Alvarez, mayor of Dos Colinas, population four hundred, is one of those brave peasants who has stood up to the rebels. That got his brother killed and him nearly so when they attacked his house.
Now I’m trying to get him to a Peruvian army base and safety.
I’ve gotten separated from the rest of the CIA team and the other peasants we’re trying to save. Guzman and I are alone, struggling through thick bush and over steep hills. Guzman is of peasant stock, born to these hills, and normally would be outpacing the little gun-toting gringa who has come to save him.
Bullet wounds through his shoulder and thigh are slowing him down.
“No puedo, Barbara,” he gasps, blood staining the field dressings I’ve put on him. “I can’t.”
“Just a little farther,” I say.
“Let’s stop a minute,” he says, leaning against a boulder.
“Guzman, we need to keep going!”
A shot rings out from the jungle. Guzman falls dead.
“You’re right, Martin. Let’s go.”
We walked a mile along the ridge top, glancing back every now and then. At points, we could see several hundred yards behind us, but we caught no glimpse of our pursuer.
It appeared he wasn’t following us.
That worried me. It meant he was going by a different route, a route we didn’t know. He could end up ahead of us.
We came to a cluster of rocks with a good view of the path both ahead and behind. Here, I called a rest. My muscles were begging me to stop, and we still hadn’t looked at that receipt Quinten had found in the mine. Fear had momentarily overcome our curiosity.
We took off our packs and sat for several minutes, the boys looking nervously around us. My muscles slowly began to forgive me, although I knew they’d start complaining again as soon as I got up. The rain still pattered down, and other than a slight wind, it was eerily silent.
Quinten took out the receipt and handed it to me. I held it at arm’s length, not wanting to rummage through my pack for my reading glasses. Quinten lifted up his rain-fogged glasses and got in close, squinting at it from an inch away.
“Omigod, give it to me,” Martin said, snatching it away. He looked at it for a second. “It’s from Footloose Outdoors Supplies in Millersburg.”
Millersburg was about twenty miles from Cheerville. Another sleepy bedroom district.
“Whoa,” Butch said. “That’s where we got our tents.”
“Dad and I bought my tent there too,” Martin said. “He told me it was the only big hiking store around.”
I nodded. I’d heard that, too, although I had gone to Megaton Army Surplus. Old habits die hard.
“So I guess it’s not surprising that the killer went there for his gear,” Quinten said. “What’s on the receipt?”
Martin read through it. “Four cans of Sterno, ten Insta Cook Camp Meals, and twenty Power Up Protein Bars.”
“My God, we’re dealing with a psychopath,” I said. “No sane person would ever eat that many protein bars. What’s the date?”
“A month ago.”
Long enough that the clerk would probably not remember the killer but recently enough that the hike’s itinerary had already been sent to faculty and parents.
“Was it paid by cash or credit card?” I asked.
“Cash.”
Of course it was. Our killer had been careful.
Not too careful. He could have just as easily gone into the city to buy his supplies and avoided suspicion.
Or perhaps not. He was obviously a seasoned hiker and familiar with the local state park. Thus he was probably a regular at the Millersburg shop. Not going there the previous month might have attracted as much attention as going there.
I took the receipt and stowed it safely in an inner pocket in my raincoat. This was a vital piece of evidence. A good detective could track down the killer this way. Of course, a defense attorney would say there was no proof that the person camping in the mine was the same person who killed Thomas Cardiff, but it was certainly a big step closer to breaking open the case, another piece of the puzzle that would lead to a picture of what had happened.
Now all I had to do was get out of the state park alive and hand it over to the police.
I checked my watch. It was a little past noon. Plenty of time to get out of the park. The worst part of the hike was over. All we had to do was follow the ridge a short way then go downhill to our original trail, where a food cache would be waiting courtesy of Ms. Chipper. From there, it was mostly downhill except for one low ridge we had to cross over. We could be back in the parking lot well before dark. With any luck, we’d meet the police on the way up.
Of course, the killer knew this too. He also knew that we had been to his campsite. Even though he would be unaware that he had left an incriminating receipt among his rubbish, he’d want to stop us.
I popped a couple of painkillers and washed them down with a drink of water from my canteen.
“Let’s keep moving,” I said.
My back twinged in protest as I put on my pack, and my legs felt heavy and sluggish. I ignored the signals my body was giving me. I didn’t have time for them.
Not far beyond the cluster of rocks, we came to a spot where the trail bent around a patch of rough terrain and took us close to the edge of the ridge. It turned out to be directly above where the landslide had occurred. The slope was curved inward to form a broad funnel, and a little way down, we could see where the landslide had started. A hole in the earth like the gum after a tooth has been extracted showed where a boulder had been dislodged. With the rain and erosion, the entire slope had been weakened, and that boulder bouncing downhill had set off the landslide.
The killer must have pried that boulder loose with a crowbar or something in an attempt to kill us or at least block our path so as to kill us later.
The boulder had been a sizeable one. It would have taken some serious strength to pry it loose, and when it had fallen, it could have dislodged enough earth to take the killer with it.
He had risked his life to try and kill a group of innocent schoolchildren.
“He’s a total psycho,” Butch whispered.
I nodded, and we continued.
We got to the downward trail within a matter of minutes and began to descend into the forested level of the valley. That got me nervous. The trees and underbrush offered too many places to hide.
“Everyone keep watch,” I said.
