by J L Bryan
It wasn't hard to recall Snake Man flinging me back and across the history exhibit. “The ghost definitely has the strength for that,” I replied, keeping my voice very low so it wouldn't carry out of the room. “But how would Leydan get the ghost to do it? Or was the Snake Man even a ghost back then? We can't seem to find any evidence that he was ever anything but a ghost. Maybe we're not digging far enough into the past.”
I sighed, and I kept looking for articles and printing out anything that seemed relevant.
“Fifty cents a page,” I said. “I hope you really can get a heap of cash for that coin-operated carousel thing.”
“The Yankees one,” Michael said. “That's what you really want.”
“Well, I'd better do something about getting rid of his ghosts before I start picking over his belongings like a vulture,” I said. “We're short on time, so I'll print out anything that looks relevant. You guys can be in charge of collating and paper clipping.”
“Excellent,” Michael said. “I love collating. I was captain of my collating team back in high school. Thought about going pro, but I damaged my rotator cuff in the playoffs.”
“That's the spirit,” I said, handing him a sheet of warm print-outs.
I printed what I could find. There were articles like “Area Man Bawden Killed By Unknown Creature” and “Search Party Fails to Find Signs of Alleged 'Killer Creature'.”
Another article caught my eye, from about five months later: “Georgina Charrington, Retiree from Virginia, Declared Missing.”
Though the library was due to close soon, I stopped everything to read that one.
“What did you find?” Michael asked, and he and Melissa both stepped closer.
“Georgina's housekeeper was the first to report her missing,” I said, as I devoured the article with my eyes. “There was no sign of foul play. Georgina's back door was left standing open, as if the woman had simply gone for a walk in the forest and never returned. Nobody seems to have any idea where she could have gone. She was described as an outsider who'd moved to the mountains to retire after a busy life in Virginia...she was sixty-eight when she went missing...her late husband had worked in the defense industry, sounds like he left her with quite a bit based on this picture of the house she had built.”
“That's a heck of a spread,” Michael agreed, looking at the image of the dark Tudor mansion. I'd only glimpsed it from the road; it was mostly screened behind trees.
“She lived just downhill from the museum property. If Bawden was running from, let's say, the museum back to Georgina's house, he might have taken the old foot path that crosses the road.”
“So you think The Running Man might be Bawden's ghost?” Michael asked.
“I was kind of thinking of him as The Bloody Jaywalker,” I said. “But yeah. Maybe he's the one haunting that area.”
“It seems like the police would have looked into it, though,” Michael said. “If Georgina had a known dispute with her neighbor, Leydan, and Georgina's handyman was found all hacked up somewhere between her property and his. That would make Leydan a person of interest, at least.”
“Maybe they did,” I said. “But it seems like nobody ever doubted it was an animal attack, so maybe they didn't approach it like a criminal investigation.”
“But when the lady disappeared, wouldn't that make things more suspicious?” Michael asked. “Especially when she's in the middle of this legal fight with him.”
“I'm not sure it was still ongoing,” I said. “And clearly Leydan won, anyway, because the museum is still here decades later. Not shut down like she wanted.”
“Maybe it ended up that way because she died,” Melissa said. “That was Leydan's motive for killing her. Do you think he sent Snake Man after her, too? And maybe this time, he was smart enough to hide the body.”
“We don't have any evidence that Leydan was involved in the death of either person,” I said.
“Of course not!” Melissa said. “Because he sent Snake Man to do it.”
“Let's not jump to any hasty conclusions,” I said. “Maybe Georgina's fate comes up in a later article. Keep looking.”
“I'm afraid we're closing.” The librarian arrived, looking at us with an apparently permanent look of disapproval. “I hope you found all you needed.”
“We'll probably have to return tomorrow, actually,” I said. “It's too bad the library has to close so early.”
“You are very welcome to take that up with the county commissioners,” she said. “Good luck with it.”
We hurried out of there so she could lock up.
“Back to the hotel?” Michael asked.
“One more stop,” I said. “And I have to get to the museum a little early tonight. I think I'll have a trap to set.”
Chapter Thirty
Foxboro Tow n' Trash was a mostly outdoor facility surrounded by high chain link and barbed wire. One tow truck and a broken-down garbage truck sat inside the fence in an open area under a roof supported by wooden posts. A gaunt man with sunken cheeks and thin gray hair worked under the hood of the garbage truck, a cigarette glowing at the corner of his mouth, muttering curses to himself. I heard something like “Suzy on a sardine,” I think. Don't know what that means, don't want to.
Michael walked alongside me, looking at the trash bins with the Foxboro Tow 'n Trash logo on the side—a somewhat dejected-looking fox in overalls holding an overflowing trash can.
“Excuse me, sir?” I said, approaching the fence. “Do you know where I can find Gus McWhartor?”
The man coughed as he turned toward us, blowing ash off the cigarette in his lips, while wiping his greasy hands on a greasy towel.
“You looking to sign up for trash service, you can speak to Danielle in the office,” he said. He stepped toward the fence and regarded us. “You need a tow, I can help you. And if this is about any, uh, legal matter...”
“Not exactly.” I introduced myself and handed him one of my cards. “I'm a private investigator. One of my areas of specialty is historical research of properties.”
“Really?” His face scrunched up at this, and his cigarette end glowed bright red as he inhaled. He still hadn't touched the cigarette with his fingers. He blew out a sidestream like Popeye from the cartoons. “Who pays for that?”
“Clients can include prospective buyers and insurance companies,” I said. “Are you related to Peter McWhartor, a former county commissioner?”
“Commissioner, prosecutor, mayor, state legislator,” the man said. “That was my grandfather, yes ma'am.”
“Is he still alive?”
“Well, if he were, I reckon he'd be the oldest man in the United States, wouldn't he?”
“I'm sorry,” I said. “He must have passed.”
“Sometime in the Reagan administration, yeah,” the man said. I noticed the word GUS was on his coveralls. “Lucky him. So what does my granddad have to do with anything?”
“Does your family still own the property up on Old Trail Road? By the Monster Museum?”
He laughed, baring yellow teeth and blowing out a puff of smoke. The cigarette tumbled from his mouth to the dirt, where he crushed it under his boot toe. “I'm afraid not, ma'am. Not even close. My daddy, God rest him, wasn't as good as Granddaddy at managing...well, businesses, wives, take your pick.” He chuckled, which turned into a soft wheeze. “We lost Granddaddy's old place to the bank some time back, I'm afraid. Long time back.”
“I'm sorry. Can you tell us how your grandfather died?” I asked, trying my best to use a delicate, gentle tone.
“Now why on Earth would you need to know such a thing?” He looked a lot less friendly now.
“We're collecting statistical data about dangerous animals in the area, among other things,” I said, lying as casually as I could. “We've read a few reports over the years. Like the case of Davey Bawden. Was your grandfather attacked by a wild animal?”
“Not unless that nursing home in Sarasota went a long way to cover it up. He h
ad a stroke. He was ninety-one. Died in the common room while watching Sanford and Son, they said. Went real quiet. So, no. He wasn't attacked by no...” He squinted. “Y'all aren't here about the Snake Man, are you?”
“Have you heard the legend of the Snake Man?” I asked. “Or known anyone who encountered him?”
“Is that what you're here about?” He squinted, looking among the three of us. “You're just tourists, aren't you?”
“No, sir,” I said.
He looked among us. His gaze settled on Melissa for a long time. “You look a mite young.”
“Uh...thank you?” Melissa said. “Can you help us?”
He sighed. “Anybody who grows up here knows the story. Someone has to tell it around the campfire, sooner or later, kids trying to scare each other, you know. Boys trying to scare the girls out of their socks.” He winked at me, inspiring a slight curdling feeling in my stomach. “They say he lives up there among the ruins, the old temple ruins.”
“You mean the old Curing Springs resort?” I asked.
“Yeah, I suppose. We always called it the old temple ruins. Sometimes kids would dare each other to go in there, try to see him. I even went in there one time,” McWhartor said.
“Really? What did you see?”
He shrugged. “Just a mess. It's a wreck. I didn't go too deep. Place had a bad feeling. And a bad smell, like a lot of standing water. A swamp smell. Like wet dead things.”
“Sounds like a top-notch hotel,” Michael said.
“I didn't see any Snake Man, though. Not standing nor crawling on his belly like a crocodile. I think those are just made-up stories. And old Davey Bawden? He was a well-known drunk and questionable character. Near as I can guess, he only got the caretaker job at Georgina Charrington's place because she was from out of town. She didn't know his reputation. Or maybe she liked 'em rough.” He chuckled.
“How do you mean?” I asked.
“Some people say Davey's handyman services may have gone a lot deeper than trimming the lady's hedges and screwing in her light bulbs, you know what I mean? I'm talking about banging more than a few nails—”
“I understand,” I said. “Georgina and Davey had a close relationship.”
“If you want to call it that.”
“Interesting. So what do you think killed Davey Bawden?” I asked.
“Like they all say. Mountain lion. Bear. Maybe a coy dog—that's some parts wolf, dog, and coyote, in no special order. Not a Snake Man. Everybody's heard that story, but there ain't nobody who really believes it. Not once the campfire gets buried and the sun comes up, anyway. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a busy day out here—” He turned away.
“What about Georgina Charrington?” I asked hurriedly. “She disappeared. Do you have any thoughts on that?”
“No idea. They say she wandered off, probably gone soft in the head. Nobody knew her too well, like I said, she came in from out of town looking for a quiet mountain retreat. Well, not so quiet she couldn't get friendly with a handyman twenty or so years younger than her...or that's what they said, but I ain't a gossip...what I am is behind schedule, so unless you're paying customers of some kind...”
We weren't, so he headed back to his repair work.
“So what do you think?” Michael asked me as we turned back toward his truck, in which we'd ridden together. Melissa had already climbed back inside, holding her nose and closing the door against the overall garbage smell. He took me by the arm, and he seemed to be deliberately slowing me down.
“Well, it sounds like Peter McWhartor's death had nothing to do with any of this,” I said. “So maybe the zoning thing wasn't the real motive, if it was murder—”
“Listen.” Michael's grip tightened more.
“Ow.”
“Sorry.” He relaxed, but didn't let go. His voice dropped low. “Have you noticed anything strange about Melissa lately?”
“Yeah, mainly her unusual friendliness toward me,” I said. “But I wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Thought I suppose the Trojans really should have. Hey, you really grabbed me there.” I drew my arm back from him and rubbed the aching spot.
“I mean her mood swings. She's cranky and angry, then she's cheerful and chatty again. Like she's...adjusted herself somehow.”
“So...you think she's on drugs or something?” I asked. “I don't know how up and down her mood usually is.”
“She's usually pretty even keel. Until the last few weeks. And last night I was checking the bank account, and I noticed her savings account—her college account—has a couple of big withdrawals. Like hundreds of dollars at a time.”
“Wow.” I looked at Melissa beyond the windshield, drumming on the dashboard and looking annoyed, making impatient gestures. “And you think...?”
“She could be taking some kind of uppers,” he said. “We could be talking about...I don't know...cocaine, even methamphetamine. All that twitchiness.”
“Are you serious? Have you talked to her about this at all?”
“No. I thought it was just in my mind, maybe, or just the stress of her life changing, planning for moving out on her own...But now I've seen she's sneaking money out of her college fund. A lot of it. And not telling me about it.”
“Has she gotten into drugs before?” I asked.
“She had this sleazy boyfriend about a year ago, and I wondered about that guy. She acted weird while she was with him, but I haven't thought about it seriously since she broke up with him. But maybe she's been hiding it from me.”
“Have you asked her about any of this recent stuff?”
“I'm sort of steeling myself for it right now. I'm not looking forward to it.”
“Of course. Who would?” I took his hand.
Melissa blew the horn impatiently, giving us a sour look and a rude gesture (though not the rudest of all possible gestures). Michael's suspicions sounded a little overly dramatic to me—Melissa didn't seem the type to have a dark drug-using side in between her soccer matches and dance performances and good grades—but he knew his sister far better than I did.
I thought about people I'd known in high school and college who'd managed to perform well despite heavy drinking or drugs, but the effects caught up with them a little later in life. Maybe she was still young enough to juggle everything, keeping all the balls in the air for the moment, but they would inevitably come crashing down on her. And, really, it was less like juggling balls and more like juggling knives.
I hoped he was totally wrong.
“Anyway...thanks for listening,” he said. “I'll talk to her about it later.”
Melissa blew the horn again, pounding on the dashboard.
“Maybe tomorrow,” Michael said, and we headed for the truck.
Chapter Thirty-One
Melissa's mood improved once we returned to the hotel and she got some time to herself in the bathroom. She came out smiling.
“So what are we doing tonight?” she asked, looking me over. “Do you feel like dancing? They must have a dance club in this town somewhere.”
“If there is—which I doubt—they wouldn't allow people under eighteen,” Michael said. “How about an early night? We've been going all day—”
“You're kidding,” she said. “I'm going to go crazy. Why couldn't you pick a hotel with an indoor pool or something to do.”
“Because that would have cost twice as much,” Michael said. “And you know money's tight. With your college next year. Every penny counts.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, yawn,” Melissa said. “I thought we were on vacation, but it feels more like a prison. One loaded with cheesy Christmas decorations, which is just kind of sad now after the holiday. Maybe I should go get in a fight. That's what you do for fun in prison, right?”
“Are you feeling okay, Melissa?”
“I would be if I didn't have to sit around here doing nothing all night.” She sighed. “But...I guess we need to head home soon, right? Maybe tomorrow?” She looked at Michael.
>
“I don't have to be at work until Monday morning,” Michael said. “We have a few days.”
“Well, I want to go snowboarding or something tomorrow,” Melissa said. “Who's with me? Ellie? Snowboarding?”
“I've never tried it,” I said. “Hey, Stacey will be up here by tomorrow night. She'd probably enjoy that.”
“I'm talking about tomorrow morning. And you two. Not some girl I barely know in a couple days. Come on, we haven't done anything fun. If you don't want to go snowboarding, there's bungee jumping, ziplining—”
“What about skiing?” I asked. “I could try that.”
“Yeah...okay.” Melissa shrugged. “Skiing. And what about tonight? Let's at least go for a hike. It's not even dark yet. There's a trail that leads down to the old mill on the riverbank.”
“How long will it take?” I asked. “I have to get back to work before long.”
“Maybe an hour round trip,” Michael said. “It's not bad.”
“It'll be sunset before we get back,” I said. “Good thing I have some powerful flashlights out in the van.”
So the three of us bundled up, and soon we were hiking through the woods, Melissa in high and chatty good spirits, hopefully just from the cold fresh air and natural scenery.
We walked among old trees, their limbs glittering with ice and snow as the sun dropped away. We watched for owls, deer, and black bears, seeing nothing—our footsteps probably warned them off as we approached along the trail.
Michael's gloved hand held mine, and it was a nice, comfortable, casual feeling. I tried not to think about it too much and just have one of those life's-a-journey-not-a-destination moments.
The forest grew darker and colder as the night came on, and we turned on our flashlights. Night birds hooted and called overhead. The claws of unseen creatures rustled in the darkness around us.
We reached the ruins of the long-vanished old mill; one partial brick wall with a couple of empty window holes remained, along with a gigantic round boulder of a millstone. There were some neat little falls nearby, partly frozen, but with water still flowing over a layer of ice-coated rocks.
