When Nature Calls

by Harper Crowley

  Relief that she’s not some teenager who can’t afford to pay us takes some of the weight off of my shoulders, and I feel myself nodding even though I know she can’t see it. “How about now? The motel’s closed, so we haven’t unpacked yet.”

  I can hear Ceridwyn suck in a breath through the phone’s receiver. “Yeah, sorry about that. I guess I didn’t think about where you guys would stay. I only have a one-bedroom apartment, but you’re welcome to stay here.”

  I shoot down the idea without having to ask Jess or Russ. It’s one thing to investigate someone’s house, where you might see intimate parts of their lives, but it’s another one entirely to sleep in the same space with them and share every moment of the investigation. The Oak Cliff case was a little too intimate in that regard. Graham and his sister were the first clients we’d gotten that close to, and that shouldn’t have happened. I want to maintain some distance—if not for our clients’ sake, for ours. I don’t regret investigating the MacIver house, especially since we helped Graham and Shelley solve the mystery of their mother’s disappearance, but I don’t want to get that involved in our clients’ lives again. Sometimes distance is a good thing.

  “Is there someplace we can meet in town?” I wave Russ and Jess over and hand Jess my dog before pointing at the phone. Russ pulls out his recorder. I put Ceridwyn on speaker phone so he gets better audio. You never know when a client is going to slip up and tell you something that could prove valuable later.

  “Um, there’s a diner just off of Cornell Street. Honey B’s. Want to meet there?”

  I relay the information to my team after hanging up.

  “I’ll stay in the van and check the forum,” Jess says. She likes building the excitement of a case, and initial interviews are often pretty straightforward and boring.

  “I’m game,” Russ says. “Maybe she can point us to a place to stay, too.”

  “One would hope.” I don’t have much confidence, though. We haven’t had very good luck today.

  Honey B’s Home Cooked Diner is tucked just off of the road, hidden behind what looks like an old law office abandoned to the bats probably roosting in its eaves. Dried brown ivy climbs the brick façade and window boxes stuffed with fake flowers rest under each of the windows.

  After I park behind the derelict structure, Russ gets out, grabs the camera, and takes a few shots of the building.

  “Too bad we’re not investigating there,” he says. “Subscribers would love it. An abandoned law office haunted by the ghosts of people wrongly convicted. It’d be a hit.”

  “Yeah, well, I think I’m up to here”—I put my hand above my head—"with haunted houses for now.”

  He snorts. “You’re no fun.”

  We leave Bear with Jess and enter the bustling little clapboard house-turned-restaurant.

  Ceri meets us at the front door. She’s about my age, with reddish-brown hair and freckles dancing across her pert nose. Astute green eyes light up when we approach, and she grins. “Hi, this is so awkward. I know you guys from your videos, and you guys have no idea who I am. It’s so cool, though. It’s like I’m meeting celebrities.” She shakes each of our hands.

  “Just to be clear, you’re Ceridwyn Sinclair?” It doesn’t hurt to check. There are crazies out there.

  She nods. “But please call me Ceri.” She gestures at an empty table in the back. “Do you want to sit down?”

  “Sure,” I say, and she leads the way to a worn wood grain table with cracked leather booth seats on each side.

  “Look at the bright side,” Russ says with a smirk. “It’s full of that small-town charm you love so much.”

  I roll my eyes at him. I would love to meet at a Panera Bread or an Olive Garden sometime. It never happens, though. Clients always want to meet at these hole-in-the-wall places. Maybe it’s because they grew up here and it makes them feel safe. Who knows? Maybe next time we can meet at a Red Lobster. That would be perfect.

  After we sit down, I pull out the standard paperwork and go over it with Ceri before she signs the contract. I take a picture of her driver’s license, as is standard, and I’m relieved to see that she’s 23—just a couple of years older than me, not that it really matters as long as she’s not a teenager. Ceri also hands me a folded check for our retainer, which we’ll cash as soon as possible. There’s got to be a bank around here somewhere, even if there isn’t a hotel.

  Russ turns the voice recorder on and sets it on the table. With all the people around us, the audio will be a little hard to hear, but it’s better than nothing. He also trains the GoPro on her. If one type of technology fails, we’ve always got backup. We’ve had too many failures to rely on only one source if we can help it.

  “So,” I say. “What can you tell us about the case?”

  Ceri takes a deep breath. “I guess it all started about two years ago or so, even though the stories have been going on for longer. This used to be Native American land, of course, and they have tales about strange creatures that were taller than me and covered in hair. I don’t remember what they were called, though.” I make a mental note to look it up then provide that information in the show notes. “This used to be a busier town than it is now, too,” she says. “There were a lot of ranchers, some mining businesses, a little bit of agriculture around the springs and lake, and a lot of tourists. This place was so busy during the summer that I hated it.” She frowns. “But that all changed a couple years ago.”

  Russ glances at me. I have the same feeling he does. “What happened two years ago?” I ask.

  “That’s when the first person disappeared. It happened during our annual rodeo. I was visiting my mom in Vegas, so I don’t remember much, except when I heard my dad talking about it when he didn’t think I was listening. The guy was a tourist. They figured he just got lost, but they never found him.”

  “How many have there been altogether?” Russ asks, moving the camera slightly to get a better angle.

  “Five, that have been reported,” she says.

  That’s a lot of people to go missing in a town with a population of only a few hundred. “What do you think happened to the rest?”

  “I don’t know.” Ceri reaches into her purse on the chair, pulls out a folded sheaf of papers, and smooths them out on the table between us. The top page features a black-and-white image of a smiling young woman with her hair down to her shoulders and dark-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. Missing: Ann Foster 9/17/2017, it says in large type. A short summary paragraph describes how Ann was vacationing and stopped in Atopka for a local folk festival. Her car was found the next morning near the edge of the festival parking lot, right next to several miles of state land, but she wasn’t in it.

  I pass the missing poster to Russ so he can zoom in and focus my attention on the next one. Anthony Jones, age seventeen. A runaway from a nearby town. Last seen hitchhiking through Atopka and looking for work on August 8, 2018. The next shows a couple, James and Viola Davis, ages sixty-four and sixty-six, respectively. Retirees traveling the country in their RV. Their trailer was found just outside of town on a service road by the state park on January 9, 2019. When their kids came down to identify their gear, they said the couple had taken basic hiking equipment but weren’t experienced enough to last for very long out in the wilderness.

  The last two were brothers, Greg and Fred Burrows. Their car was found a few miles from town, at a popular campground a couple of weeks ago.

  “This can’t all be a coincidence.” I show each of the flyers to Russ.

  He scans them quickly and then pans the camera from the flyers to Ceri. “What do the police think?”

  Ceri laughs. “You mean my dad?”

  Russ and I share a surprised look. That wasn’t in the file we had. “Your dad’s a cop?” Russ asks. Apparently, I’ve forgotten how to speak.

  “Actually, he’s the sheriff. We’re too small to have an actual police force. Sure, we could call in the state cops if there was a big enough problem, but my dad and hi
s volunteer deputies handle most of it.”

  “What does your dad think of all this?”

  Ceri shrugs, but I can tell by the troubled look in her eyes she’s concerned about something. “He thinks it’s a coincidence. Hikers getting lost. Runaways not wanting to be found. Maybe one of them could be related to that serial-killer trucker they caught a couple months ago in Houston, but he doesn’t think it’s anything specific to this town, especially since they’ve never found any bodies.”

  “But you think differently.” My voice is flat.

  She nods. “I think there’s something big going on and that it’s being covered up, but I don’t know if it’s related to Bigfoot or something else. That’s why I contacted you guys.”

  Her explanation is good, but it sounds rehearsed, as if she’s been practicing what she’s wanted to say for a long time. I wonder if she has something to hide. I hope not. I’ve had enough of lying clients to last a lifetime.

  “Have there been any developments or construction in the last couple of years? I know those have been linked to paranormal phenomena, like ghosts, so it stands to figure that if someone builds an apartment complex in Bigfoot’s backyard, he might get upset.”

  Ceri considers my question for a couple of seconds. “Not that I can think of.” She gestures out the window. “Almost all of the land out there is reservation, state land, or ranches.”

  “Have any of the disappearances taken place on the reservation?”

  Her eyes become troubled. “Not that I’ve heard, sorry.”

  Well, it was worth a shot. The more disappearances we can link together, the stronger our case will be and the more likely we will be to break it wide open. At least, that’s the way it should work in theory.

  After we wrap up a few more details about the case, I ask her if there’s anywhere to stay locally. “It could even be a bed-and-breakfast or one of those vacation-rental-by-owner places. We’re not too picky.”

  Ceri cocks her head to the side and glances down the road at the abandoned motel. “The nearest hotel is about 45 minutes away, but you probably don’t want to stay there.”

  Ah, one of those places. She’s probably right. “Anywhere else?”

  “Well, Henry’s Bait and Tackle rents out camping equipment. That’s what I figured you’d want, since you’re searching for Bigfoot like those guys in the TV shows do.”

  Oh yeah, Jess would love to be compared to those screeching Bigfoot hunters on TV. Just as much as she’ll love the prospect of sleeping in a tent, even if Ceri does have a point. I need to stop thinking like a ghost hunter and more like just a hunter. Maybe getting out there and being closer to nature will be good for us and help us find evidence for the case.

  “That sounds like a great idea.” I stand up and shake Ceri’s hand. Hopefully, we can find a map at the gas station so we can start pinpointing the disappearances and formulate a plan. Maybe there’s a similarity there or a clue that the sheriff hasn’t seen yet. He might not even be looking that hard, especially if he doesn’t think there’s a problem.

  Russ and I say our goodbyes, and Ceri promises to talk to her boyfriend and get back to us tonight. If there is a tonight and my sister hasn’t killed me at the prospect of sleeping in a tent, that is.

  Chapter 4

  “You have got to be kidding me.” Jess groans and throws her arm dramatically over her face. “You want me to go camping? Absolutely not.”

  “It’s just for a couple days,” Russ says. He slides into the driver’s seat, his eyes trained on the abandoned motel. “Ceri said that the bait-and-tackle shop will rent us the gear we need, so we don’t even need to buy it.”

  “Even better. The gear probably has fleas or something from other campers who don’t take showers,” Jess mutters. “This is so not cool.”

  Irritation wells up within me. “Do you want to go back to Detroit? Because I’ll gladly buy you a bus ticket. Then I wouldn’t have to listen to you complaining all the time.”

  Jess snaps her mouth shut and glares at me. “If you do that, I’ll never talk you ever again.”

  For a brief second, I weigh the thought. My life certainly would be quieter, and I bet Violet and Finn would jump at the chance to investigate Bigfoot. At least, I know for sure Finn would. He loves cryptids more than Russ. Violet goes where her brother goes. But no, I can’t do that to my sister.

  “It won’t be that bad. I promise.” Russ’s voice seems to calm my sister where mine only gets her more irritated. “Besides, Ceri said that the motel forty-five minutes away was a real dump. Roaches and bedbugs.”

  Jess shivers. My eyes meet Russ’s in surprise. Ceri had said no such thing, but I leave Russ’s lie alone. My sister hates bugs, not that I blame her. I don’t know anyone who’s a fan of something with that many legs.

  “Fine,” she snaps. “Just this once.” She shoves Bear into my arms and jumps out of the van, slamming the door behind her. Oblivious to my sister’s drama, Bear licks my face, his tail wagging.

  “That went well,” Russ says.

  A small smile plays across my lips. “Probably about as good as we can expect from her.”

  With a one-sided shrug, Russ says, “It runs in the family.”

  “Hey!”

  Whistling, he follows Jess to the corner across from Henry’s Bait-and-Tackle Shop, a small blue building with chipped paint and one wide glass display window to the left of an old metal-and-glass screen door. On the left, a couple of canoes rest upside down next to a rack of fishing poles with a sign marked “clearance.” Just past the window is what looks like a former auto garage. Its half-open door hangs crookedly, and old country music blasts from inside.

  “Lovely,” Jess says. A breeze picks up an empty beer can and rolls it in front of her, and she nudges it out of the way with her shoe. “Are you sure this is better than the motel?”

  “It’s closer, at least. Less driving back and forth.” Russ snaps a few pictures before we enter the shop.

  The inside of the bait shop is dark and reeks of fish. I wrinkle my nose, and Jess grimaces. Along one wall are racks of fishing poles accompanied by hundreds of hooks and various types of bait. A bottom shelf running along the entire wall holds a variety of tackle boxes, from tiny kids’ sizes to enormous double- and triple-decker ones. The other side of the store holds racks of clothes: fishing vests, waders, boots, hats, belts, and T-shirts with fishing and hunting pictures on them.

  At the end of the aisle, there are a couple of huge blue barrels full of water. Silvery flashes of fish dart deep inside. This must be the bait part of Henry’s Bait and Tackle and the source of the fishy smell.

  Across from the barrels, a young man with slicked-back blond hair that’s short in the front and a couple of inches past his shoulders in the back leans against the wall, head bent over a cell phone. Behind him, a narrow hallway leads to more doors, probably offices or storage. When he sees us, he stuffs his phone back into his pocket and runs a hand over his hair, as is making sure it stays in place.

  “Sorry about that,” the guy says. “I didn’t see anyone come in. Is there something I can help you with?” His voice has a western lilt to it that reminds me more of cowboys than dead fish, and I much prefer cowboys.

  “Hi.” I reach out to shake his hand but immediately regret it. His palm is sticky and damp. It takes everything I have not to wipe my own hand off on my jeans. “I’m Meredith, and this is my sister, Jess, and our friend, Russ. We heard you rent out camping equipment.”

  “My name’s Buck,” he says. “Who told you that?”

  I don’t want to get Ceri involved with this guy, so I quickly think of something else. “Sheryl over at the 7-Eleven,” aka the first name that popped into my head.

  Buck seems to accept this as some of the wariness leaves his eyes. “Are you sure y’all know how to camp?” The skepticism in his voice is thick, and I don’t blame him. It must be obvious, from the way we’re dressed to the way we act, that we don’t camp. Well, not really
. My dad took Jess and me back when I was in middle school. That one and only trip ended with poison ivy so severe my dad couldn’t sit comfortably for a week.

  “Oh yeah, we love camping. We heard Atopka had some great places to camp, so here we are.” The lie falls easily from my lips. If Sheryl’s attitude is any indication of Atopka’s general population, then I don’t want to say who we are right away. This guy has something we need, camping equipment, and without it, we’ll have to find the roach- and bedbug-filled motel that Ceri mentioned. Talk about a nice, relaxing investigation.

  Buck crosses his arms, assessing us, his jaw working up and down. It takes me a minute to realize he’s chewing tobacco. Gross. As if to add an exclamation mark to that thought, he turns and spits the chew into what sounds like a can at his feet. Double gross.

  “If camping gear is all you’re after, I think we can get you some of that.”

  That’s a strange way to say it, but whatever. I have a feeling this whole town is strange. Neither Russ nor Jess are paying attention, though. If they were, they don’t look concerned, so maybe it’s just me. That wouldn’t be a surprise.

  I decide to try a smile to see if that gets a positive reaction from Buck. “Since we’re not from around here, do you think you could tell us about a good spot?” I’ve never hunted for Bigfoot before, so I kind of want to ask him about that, but that would give away our game, and we really need those sleeping bags. If Bigfoot does exist, and the jury’s still out on that for me, then I bet they have a sizable range. If Buck can point us toward a nice state park, preferably one with indoor plumbing, that might be as good a place as any to start. I really should have watched a few of those Bigfoot-hunting TV shows before taking the case.

  Buck scratches the scruff on his chin. “You guys came all this way without knowing where to go? Maybe you should go back to wherever you came from.”

  I lean against the counter, widening my eyes and giving him a good view of my chest if he were to glance south. He does. “Please? We just want a weekend away from our parents. That’s all. We promise we won’t give you any trouble.”