by D. K. Greene
“Hey there,” the stranger says as he approaches. “Car trouble?”
“Yeah, she’s pulling a little to the right, so I thought I’d check to make sure I don’t have a leak.” Peter wiggles the tire pressure gauge at him and plays at checking the air in the rear tires.
“Low tires suck when it’s this cold out.” The guy’s smile spreads across freshly shaven cheeks. Have you been out here long?
“Oh, boy. Yup.” Peter pulls the sleeve of his jacket up and checks his watch. “It must have been a whole four seconds before I noticed you pull over. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t stopped. Would have had to wait for your backup to arrive, I guess.”
Puffing up his chest, the stranger plays at being offended. When Peter doesn’t react, he takes the hat off. “Well, if you’re having trouble, you may as well let me help.”
Tossing the gauge in the trunk, Peter gives him a dirty look. He slams the lid. “You know what would help?”
“What’s that?” The man rolls his sleeves up.
“You could tell Inspector Douglas to give you the day off. Go back to wherever you came from and leave me the hell alone.” Thumb twitching, Peter balls his hands into fists.
The good Samaritan puts his palms up and stops moving closer. “Calm down. There’s no need to get hostile. You know I can’t leave, Peter.”
“Why not? Are you afraid it might affect your annual review if you don’t file a report saying you followed me to the woods and watched me take a walk?”
Moving his hands to his hips, the undercover agent scowls. “Is that what you’re doing?”
Peter looks to the sky, exasperated. “For fuck’s sake, yes!”
“You’re a long way from home for a walk. There are wonderfully pleasant trails to wander in the park by your apartment.”
Peter wants to punch him, but assaulting law enforcement probably won’t get him anywhere good. “I’ve seen all those trails. I’m exploring the woods farther south.”
“How am I supposed to trust you aren’t running?” The agent raises an eyebrow.
Attempting to pierce him with his gaze, Peter’s sure the daggers in his eyes aren’t nearly as lethal as he wishes them to be. He picks up a foot and wiggles it in the air. “I’m wearing hiking boots.” He moves to the side of the car and pulls his backpack out of the back seat. He dumps the contents on the trunk lid. “I’ve got a trail map for the Rogue River-Siskiyou National Forest and a sack lunch.”
The guy doesn’t look convinced. “You could be playing us.”
“I’ve got fifty bucks in my wallet and didn’t bring a sleeping bag. I promise, I’ll be back before my chariot turns back into a pumpkin at midnight.” Peter starts clumsily re-packing his bag. One of his sandwiches gets squished, but he’s too mad to care.
“Isn’t that another six hours from here? I can’t just let you go, Peter. I’ve got a job to do,” the agent insists.
“It’s a good day for a drive,” Peter asserts. It’s clear the guy’s coming with him, no matter what he says. “What’s your name?”
“Inspector Smith.” He stands tall as he gives the curt introduction.
“I’m not calling you Inspector unless you want your title to be followed by Gadget.” Shaking his head, Peter yanks the rear door open and tosses the bag inside.
The inspector’s eyes narrow. “Just Smith, then.”
“Fine.” The keys in Peter’s hand jingle involuntarily. “If you’re coming along, how about we do the environment a favor and carpool? That way you don’t look like such a giant douchewhistle driving that thing, and I don’t have to listen to my navigation system barking at me every thirty feet.”
Smith turns to look at the gleaming hulk of Suburban behind him. “I suppose there’s no reason to keep my distance.”
Gesturing that he agrees, Peter moves to get back in his car. “Follow me to the next stop. We’ll dump your rig there.”
Fifty-One
“My file on you said nothing about mushroom hunting.” Smith doesn’t look at Peter as he talks. Instead, he stares at the tiny map on his cell phone.
“It’s a new hobby,” Peter says, hiding his disgust for whatever Smith has read about him. “Have you ever been?”
“No. I hate mushrooms.” Smith drops the phone in the cup holder between them.
Peter pretends at disbelief. “That’s a shame. They’re some of the finest treats nature has to offer.”
Smith picks the phone up and fiddles with the navigation again. Aside from the rare comment about how much farther they have to drive, he doesn’t talk much. While Peter brought a couple sandwiches and a bag of chips along, Smith declined the offer to share. Peter pulled into Grant’s Pass at lunchtime so Smith could grab a bite to eat from the Taco Bell drive-through. Now the car smells like greasy beans and sour cream, which isn’t doing much to improve the atmosphere.
Outside the car, yellow lines wink at Peter as his car chews up the asphalt. The sun forces its warmth through the glass of the windshield. It’s an excursion through Oregon that makes a person realize there’s nowhere else they’d rather be. The ground is unseasonably dry, and the pine trees wave their evergreen branches as if inviting Peter out for a walk. Everything about the day would be perfect, if it weren’t for the company.
As charged as Peter feels about the trip, he still only has a vague idea about what he’s doing. His chances of success were slim to begin with, and now he wonders how he’ll pull it off with Inspector Dickhead riding shotgun.
They reach the turnoff and Peter pulls the car onto a thin layer of gravel tossed over a level patch of ground. He parks directly beneath a sign announcing the trailhead’s location. He gets out of the car and rummages through the back seat and trunk, collecting his backpack, his coat, and the book about edible mushrooms and their poisonous copycats.
He’s ready to go, but Smith hasn’t unbuckled his seatbelt. Peter leans against the car and the inspector props his door open just wide enough to talk.
“You’re really going in there?” Smith nods toward the woods. He’s abandoned the plaid jacket he wore on the interstate’s shoulder. Peter watches him shiver when a chilled breeze whispers around the open door.
“Aren’t you?” Adjusting his backpack, he grins.
“I’m wearing dress shoes.” He drops a foot below the door to show off his black loafer. The laugh lines crossing the surface of his chiseled jaw darken as he frowns.
“What’s it they say in Boy Scouts? Dress to survive, not to arrive.” Peter considers Smith’s dangling foot. “You might work on that.”
Smith glares at Peter. He undoes the seatbelt and grabs the plaid jacket and trucker cap he wore earlier. He slams the door harder than necessary when he exits the car. Marching up the trail, he yanks the warmer clothing on as he goes.
Peter overtakes his companion on the footpath and Smith follows with the enthusiasm of a reluctant prom date. They hike an hour before they find anything resembling a mushroom. The fungi Peter first discovers is something his book calls Hedgehogs. Perfectly edible. He picks the mushrooms carefully, storing them in a plastic container he carries in his backpack.
Smith continues ahead, bored with the discovery before Peter’s returned the container to his bag.
Catching up with him at a fork in the trail, Peter notices the inspector scanning the forest. His features are cemented in an expression of dissatisfaction. Peter suggests they head north. Soon they find a ring of red-capped mushrooms beneath a pine tree. Peter flips the book open to identify them.
“You seriously came all this way to look at mushrooms.” It isn’t a question.
“Yes.” The textbook says the mushrooms are potentially poisonous, but most likely won’t cause any more harm than an unpleasant psychedelic trip. Peter kneels beside them and pulls his pocket notebook out to jot down the details of the discovery. He snaps a few photos of the mushrooms and the tree above them with his phone. Finished, he looks up at Smith. “It’s a nice,
quiet hobby.”
Smith grumbles and shuffles his feet in the dirt. “How long do you think we’ll be out here?”
Peter checks the time. “It’ll be daylight another three hours.”
Shoulders slumped, Smith carries on down the trail. Peter follows behind. Tree roots rise in the dirt, waiting for the right moment to interrupt his casual hike. He trips a couple times as he searches either side of the path instead of watching where he’s placing his feet.
The quiet of the woods would relax him if it weren’t for Smith’s repetitive sighs. Peter tries engaging him. “What do you do for fun?”
Tilting his head, Smith thinks a minute. “I like to go to the gym.”
Peter bobs his head. Smith’s love of weights is visible. “What else?”
“I’m a remote member of the C.C.I.R.I.” Smith’s cheeks rise in what threatens to be a smile. “Cold Case Investigative Research Institute. We collaborate to solve famous cold cases. The group’s based in Atlanta, but we’re working the Kyron Horman case in Beaverton this year. Since I’m in the area, I’m collecting information.”
“When you’re on the clock you train and look for people, and on your days off you solve missing persons cases and go to the gym?” Peter shakes his head. “You’ve got a lot of depth, Smith.” A fallen tree off the trail catches Peter’s eye, and he’s into the woods before the inspector can process the sarcastic comment.
The rotting tree fell long ago. Peter flips through the mushroom book and finds what he’s looking for. He pulls latex gloves and another plastic container out of his backpack. Smith is slow to follow. Peter quickly collects a dozen of the generic brown mushrooms before his chaperone is close enough to peer over his shoulder. By the time Smith is paying attention, he’s tucked the gloves and container away, replacing them with the pocket notebook. Peter busies himself writing detailed remarks about the area.
“What did you find, now?” Smith kneels beside Peter and squints at the log.
“Galerina Marginata. They look similar to your garden variety mushroom, don’t they?” Smith nods as he leans over Peter to see what he’s writing. He doesn’t hide the paper from him. “That’s why they’re so dangerous. These little guys look like something that might be edible, but if they’re actually a toxic copycat, they’ll kill you.”
“How can you tell the difference?” Smith rocks back on his heels, putting some distance between himself and the offensive fungi.
“Shape of the gills, spore print, coloration...” Peter pretends to know what he’s talking about, but he’s just parroting something he read. He considers Smith may have seen him picking them and offers, “I took a couple samples so I can study them at home.”
“Wouldn’t it be safer to get your mushrooms at the grocery store like everyone else?” Smith follows as Peter gets up. They pick their way through the underbrush until they get back on the trail.
“It would be,” Peter quips, “but where’s the adventure in picking mushrooms out of Styrofoam wrapped in plastic?
Fifty-Two
A half-dozen food-storage containers and a handful of sandwich bags fill Peter’s dining room table. He has three fungi identification books open beside them and busies himself with verifying the ID of each mushroom from his haul. Peter tosses anything edible or mildly irritating in the trash. If anyone asks about Smith’s report of their adventure, he’ll have to play up how well the mushrooms might’ve gone in a stir-fry. The truth, though, is Peter’s not a big fan of mushrooms either.
After the sorting, he’s left with three bags of mushrooms likely to mimic food poisoning, but end in death. He skips details of each mushroom’s fatal symptoms. The little he’s read about dying from any species of fungi is horrific. He spares himself any extraneous details. He’s come so far in his plan that he can’t let graphic descriptions of kidney failure talk him out of it now.
Peter feels the pressure of the appointment with Glen looming on the calendar. He dons gloves as he pulls fungi from each bag and places them on a tray to dry. He puts the arrangement in the oven to speed up the air-drying process and dumps the leftover samples in the trash.
While Peter waits on the mushrooms, he pulls Glen’s name and address from his files. He palms the AA phone and wonders if talking to him will change his mind. Maybe Glen will be pleasant today, convincing Peter to give him the electric guitar and be done with it. Peter puts the phone against his ear and it rings a dozen times. He’s about to hang up when the line connects.
“Yeah?” Glen’s voice is hoarse.
“Hi Glen. It’s Ted from Alphabet Apes. I’m calling to confirm our appointment for tomorrow.” Peter slides his appointment book closer. He’s circled Glen’s name in repeating red strokes.
“Did you figure out what I won?” Glen’s tone is brash and demanding.
“I won’t know until you bring that winning box to the office. You still have it, don’t you?” A part of Peter hopes he’ll say he doesn’t. He’s overwhelmed with a mixture of anxiety and euphoria when Glen answers.
“Yeah. Got it right here.”
Peter clears his throat, dissolving the tense scream building inside. “Great. I look forward to seeing what you’ve won.”
“Did you get anything with the Alphabet Apes logo?”
Lips pursed and body tense, Peter grips the phone so tight, the plastic case creaks in protest. Even when he hopes Glen will change his mind, the selfish prick focuses on getting something he can profit from. “A few things. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”
Glen grumbles something unintelligible. He makes a smacking sound that makes Peter’s skin crawl. “I hope so. The price on my crossbow jumped two-hundred dollars over the weekend. I’ve got to flip this shit before it’s totally out of my reach.”
“Oh, right. The crossbow used by Derrick Something?” Peter pulls the phone away from his ear a couple inches and rolls his neck to release some tension.
“Daryl Dixon,” Glen corrects.
“Right. From that zombie show people used to like.”
Glen’s disgust is palatable. “It’s more than a show. It’s a fictional documentation of a sociological reboot brought on by a mass viral plague. The characters’ resilience is not only plausible, but the storyline is probable should such an event occur in present-day society.”
“Maybe I’ll check it out sometime,” Peter says, not bothering to care if the other man recognizes his disingenuous tone.
“With the present state of bio warfare, and global history of viral outbreak, I suggest you do. Unless you don’t care about becoming a mindless drone who eats your neighbors.” The wet gargling sound in Glen’s voice makes the idea more vile than necessary.
“On that note... I’ll see you tomorrow.” Peter hangs up.
After checking the oven, Peter wanders the apartment. He collects the boxes of cereal he’s been using as prize displays and arranges them in a neat stack. He has more Alphabet Apes than he thought. Thirty packages tower above the kitchen counter. Peter pulls his vacuum sealer out of the cabinet and sets it up on the table.
Opening one, Peter is careful not to tear the cardboard tabs so he can glue them back together later. The plastic sleeve of cereal slides easily from the carton. He uses a straightedge and a hobby knife to slice the top open evenly.
Now, he has to wait for the mushrooms to finish drying. He’ll pound them into a powder and mix the compound into the cereal before resealing it. If he’s careful, the package will look factory fresh.
Fifty-Three
Butterflies drum against the walls of Peter’s stomach as he sets up the prizes. He hasn’t set other appointments this week. Not only is he nervous about Glen, but it’s also Christmas Eve. Despite the number of goodies he has left to distribute, there haven’t been many calls from potential winners. The few he’s spoken to are busy with holiday plans, so it seems an appropriate time to take a break.
Peter stacks a pyramid of cereal boxes in the room's corner. The package he tampered with sits front
and center. It looks almost identical to the others. A slight crease on a corner of the top flap is all that announces its presence. He tries convincing himself the difference isn’t substantial enough to turn Glen off opening it. He supposes only time will tell.
The intercom beeps and the receptionist announces the winner is on his way. It doesn’t take long for Glen to make the hike from the lobby. Soon, his bulk fills the doorway, a flattened cereal box tucked under the folds of his sweaty arm.
“You made it.” Peter forces a wide smile and reaches out to shake his hand. Glen doesn’t return the gesture.
Instead, he slides into the room and sits beside Peter’s laptop and barcode scanner. He eyeballs the prizes. “Let’s figure this shit out.”
“Okay.” Peter squirms through the narrow gap his visitor has left behind his chair. He settles in the seat behind the laptop and taps the keypad to wake it from sleep mode. “Exciting, isn’t it?”
“I’m trembling in my boots,” Glen says, his tone saturated with boredom.
Peter feels his smile falter but pushes it out again in his best attempt at enthusiasm. “May I see the box, please?”
The tattered cardboard has long, heavy creases. It looks like someone folded it down to fit in a manilla envelope. Peter glances sideways and wonders if Glen cares he’s made the connection between the folds and his comments about shopping online. “Where did you say you bought it?”
Glen stares Peter in the eye, defiant. “Does it matter?”
Rage simmers below Peter’s bracing grin. He wishes he could reach over and wrap his hands around Glen’s flabby throat. For a split second, he fantasizes about pressing the life out of him, watching his blotchy skin depress in long rows beneath his fingers. His eyes would bulge, glassy and bloodshot as he struggled for breath. He’d flail against Peter in a battle of wills before falling limp in his chair.
