As soon as he disappears behind the green curtain of leaves, my legs crumble underneath me and I slump to the ground. Even though my body has already surrendered to my nerves, I keep an eye out, just in case Simon decides to give a surprise encore.
Once I’m positive he’s gone, I muster the courage to leave. During the long trek back to Luci, every rustling noise and crackling stick sends my heart skipping. I’m relieved when I finally reach my bike safely. I hop onto my motorcycle, throw on the helmet, and stomp down the pedal with one foot.
The bike sputters a couple times before dying a slow death. I holler out, “Geez, Luci! Do you ever start on the first try?” Luci, short for Lucifer, has been temperamental since the day I got her. My boss, Tommy, restored the vintage motorcycle for my sixteenth birthday. Except for the testy starter, the bike works fine.
I attempt to wake Luci again. This time, more gently. She forgives my outburst and springs to life. I pat her engine like she’s a horse and steer her out of the woods. As soon as I hit the main drag, a breeze welcomes me.
On my way into town, I try not to think about the Cheetos bag stashed in my backpack. About what it could mean. I can’t help but allow a drop of hope to sneak in. I rev the engine and increase my speed, eager to get to the police station and show Captain what I’ve found.
Somewhere along the winding road, I think about Simon. Even though I was almost bear breakfast, seeing him brings back good memories. Feeding him milk from a bottle. Playing chase in the woods. Catching fish in the river. (Actually, I hooked the fish; Simon just scared them away.)
Through my rearview mirror, I watch the forest fade into the background and smile.
I love these woods, and so does Dad.
Protecting bears like Simon is what got us here in the first place.
Survival Skill #3
Understanding all aspects of the terrain is critical to successful hiking.
“Come on, Grace. We keep having the same conversation over and over.” Captain Carl Stevens readjusts his police baseball cap and pops two huge pieces of bubble gum into his mouth. As his tongue wrestles the sticky wad, he eyes me warily.
“But you can’t close Dad’s case. Not yet.” I clear my throat, hoping to shake loose the words that have gotten stuck. “He’s still alive. I can feel it.” I shift in the wooden seat, not from nerves, but because my butt’s numb from sitting too long.
Obviously, Carl didn’t hear me ask, do you have a minute? because he’s been lecturing me for exactly fifty-three.
Carl sighs. We’ve been at this a while. “Look, I know you’re upset, but it’s not up to me. Your daddy was a wildlife officer, so it’s the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service’s call. They’re always by the book. To them, it’s been over three months, and they want this thing wrapped up.”
Wrapped up or thrown away? My hands tremble as I display the plastic bag housing my newly found evidence. “I found something today. Something big.”
He frowns and grips the corners of the plastic Ziploc. “Dang it, Grace. I told you not to touch anything out there.” He wrinkles his nose and peers into the bag as if it’s a dirty fish bowl.
I cross my fingers behind my back and watch him inspect the snack bag, half expecting one of his unlimited professional opinions.
I can’t help but wonder how many he has left to go.
Carl scoffs. “In my professional opinion, this doesn’t mean a thing.”
I point to it. “It’s a Cheetos bag.”
“I see that.” He rolls his thin shoulders, triggering the familiar cracking sound of a wrecked collarbone. “But we don’t know how long it’s been out there. Let alone who it belonged to.”
My shoulders sag forward as an invisible force pushes down on my back. My hope drains a little, and I try to mask the frustration scratching at my vocal chords. “But Dad loves Cheetos.”
Carl shakes his head and smacks a bubble. “So does Chester Cheetah. Along with half of America, I might add.”
I ignore his bad joke. “Yeah, but he always carried them when he patrolled. Bags of them. This is his. I’m sure of it.”
Carl removes his hat again and brushes one hand over his spiky blonde hair. “Listen, Grace, I saw the bark with sap—that you thought was blood—and the empty toilet paper roll you found a few weeks before that. Nothing came of those items either. This is what we like to call litter.”
I twist the ring on my middle finger. “That far out? Who goes out there to snack and leaves no other tracks? I spent ten hours looking in that area and didn’t see anyone or even a sign someone else was out there.”
Carl reaches over to pat my hand. “Grace, do you hear yourself? You spent almost half a day in the remote woods, by yourself, and this is all you have to show for it.” He holds up the crumpled bag. “Only thing this proves it that the person eating it is pretty cheesy.” He smirks at his joke.
My frown doesn’t crack. Though in any other circumstance, I might have laughed. “I covered twenty acres. No other signs of anyone but this. Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”
He sighs. “Twenty acres? If I’m not mistaken, the Great Smoky Mountain National Park is over 500,000 acres. At this rate - ”
Carl whips out his ancient desk calculator and punches on the keys. He turns it to face me, displaying large block numbers that I could probably see from 1.2 miles away.
“- it’ll take you 25,000 days to search all of that land. And that’s if you search every day for 65 years. Forget sick days and vacation time. You’ll be 79 years old. Think how much trash you could clean up in that amount of time. Might even be able to save the earth.”
I drop my head and try to breathe, even though panic is cinching my insides. My fingers graze over the black leather bracelet Dad gave me last year. I stare at the flyfishing symbol engraved on the little silver circle. Two words are embedded into the flat surface. Fly High. My eyes sting, but I pinch back the tears. “Please.”
Carl comes out from behind the desk. I can’t decide what he resembles more, a Q-Tip or a teaspoon. When he passes by a statue of a man holding the North Carolina flag, it plays “Dixie.” Carl stops in his tracks until it finishes, as if he’s respecting the national anthem. I almost expect him to salute.
When it’s done, he pulls me to my feet and positions my body in front of the smudged mirror hanging on his wall. “Grace, honey, look at yourself.”
I stare at my scruffy reflection. My hair is knotted and jutting out in all directions like I’m Einstein. Lines of dirt are smudged down my pointy nose and a deep scratch marks my jawbone, covering my cheek in dried blood. I flip over my hands and notice the grime caked under my nails. My spirit sags, weighing me down.
Maybe he’s right. I’m going nuts.
Carl cups both of my shoulders with his hands and stands behind me, looking over my shoulder in the mirror. “I’m getting worried about you. Don’t you think this might be going a bit too far?”
Without saying anything, I study his eyes. They’re similar in color to mine, except mine resemble algae; his are more of a muted pine green, which reminds me of the deep forest. Which reminds me of my dad. My throat swells, making it hard to swallow. I drop my head and focus on my muddy boots to avoid Carl’s stare. A frayed thread on the toe teases me. I fight the urge to bend over and tug on it.
No sense in making anything else in my life unravel.
Carl steers me back to my seat and sits in a chair next to me. “Sweetheart, maybe it’s time you drop this for a while and focus more on your future.” He catches my eye and smiles a little. “Maybe get your head out of the woods.”
Carl’s on a roll for the dumb jokes today, 0 for 3. A quote from Dad’s wilderness survival course pops into my head. Never let an animal see your fear. Problem is, Carl can smell the stuff a mile away.
I raise my chin a fraction of an inch and decide to use my first secret weapon. “Please, Carl?”
He snorts, “It’s Captain to you.”
I flash my second tactic.
My ex-boyfriend, Wyn, says my puppy eyes get him every time. “Sorry … Captain.” Ever since I’ve known Carl, he’s insisted everyone call him Captain. Including his family. I bet he secretly wishes everyone would salute too.
Instead of falling into my pity trap, Carl returns to his chair in silence.
Time to pull out a new tactic of persuasion: The Art of Brown Nosing. Though I must say, I’ve never been very good at it. I clear my throat. “Captain, with your position and reputation, I know you can do something. Maybe convince the USFWS to keep my dad’s case open. For just a little longer. Maybe test for fingerprints or something?”
“First of all, don’t blow smoke up my ass, Grace. It’s not you.” Then he waves the air, as if I’m an annoying fly. “Secondly, this is not a CSI marathon. No matter how much you want there to be something out there, doesn’t mean there’s anything to find, especially if we haven’t found it already.”
My brain takes a second to process his attempt at being profound. I stare up at the flourescent light buzzing above me and focus on the popcorn ceiling. I will not cry, no matter how frustrated I become. “Captain, I can’t give up what happened.”
“We may never know. All of our evidence points to an accident. Grace, there’s no proof he’s even alive.”
The A-word stabs me in the heart, but I try not to physically jerk from the pain of it. My voice shows no sign of the turmoil going on inside. “Even if it was an accident, he could still be out there. Last year, a lost camper survived sixty days before anyone found him. Dad could survive for months longer than that on his own.”
Carl sighs and closes his eyes, appearing to be meditating. “Joe knows those woods better than his own backside. You and I both know he isn’t lost. Don’t we?”
I shrug off the doubt. “Maybe someone kidnapped him?”
“Why would anyone do that? Besides, there’s no evidence of any foul play.”
I grasp at straws. Anything. “Maybe he’s so hurt, he can’t call for help.”
Carl scratches the top of his head. “He’d signal, use smoke or something. Joe would find a way, but there’s been nothing. His trail’s as dead as a dinosaur.”
I hold up the Ziploc bag. “Maybe this is his signal? Maybe he dropped this for us to find. Please. Just dust it. To be sure. For me. I swear I won’t ask you for anything else.”
Before he can answer, a knock on the office door interrupts us. Carl’s secretary enters the room and smiles, revealing teeth stained with cherry-red lipstick. Bernice kinda reminds me of an eggplant. Not only in shape, but because she pins up her purplish hair with an enormous green leaf clip.
Carl stands and stuffs both hands into his pockets. “What is it, B?”
Bernice teeters in the hall like a weeble-wooble and winks at me before speaking. “Captain, Wyn called. He wants you to meet him over at Bob’s place for lunch.”
Carl looks a bit surprised. “Really? That’s odd. Okay, tell him I’ll be right there.” As Bernice waddles back to her desk, Carl snatches his police belt off the brass hook and cinches the leather strap around his wafer-thin waist. “Grace, I’ve known you your whole life. Grew up with Joe who was always a dang good friend. I want to find your daddy as much as you do.”
I wheel around in the chair to face him. “Captain, all I need is for you to believe me. Trust that I’m not being crazy or emotional.”
He pats my shoulder. “I don’t think those things, kiddo. Just wondering if you’re havin’ a hard time lettin’ go.”
It’s only then I notice I’m still shaking my head “no” as if trying to convince myself. “Not until I see a body.”
Carl stands in the doorway with his hands on his guns, trying to look intimidating like he’s in some kind of western standoff. He exhales slowly. “For the record, I don’t think this Cheetos bag is relevant at all. And I certainly don’t have to remind you that I, as an officer of the law, don’t have to discuss the details of any investigation with you, a teenager. But because I like you, I’ll dust the bag. But this is the last time I’m playing cops and robbers with you.”
Without hesitating, I jump up and bear hug him. He remains stiff, his hands still gripping the butt of both weapons. “Thanks, Captain!”
He blushes at the unexpected human contact and grunts under his breath. “Uh, you’re welcome.”
I step back a few inches to let him recover. “And if you find something? You’ll talk to the USFWS so they don’t close the case?”
“If I find something, yes, I will. But if I come up empty, I want you to drop this and try to move on.”
I can tell by his tone, he’s not asking, so I tell Carl exactly what he wants to hear. “Sure, Captain, whatever you say.”
He doesn’t fold that easily and narrows his eyes. “You promise?”
I hold up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
He appears to mull over my response. “I don’t remember you ever being a scout.”
I wave him off. “Well, I was.” Lucky for me, he’s obviously forgotten I got kicked out of my troop for punching his daughter, Skyler, in the boob. I quickly recite the promise. After all, no one ever doubts a Girl Scout. “On my honor, I will try to serve God and my country, to help people at all times, and to live by the Girl Scout Law.”
Carl studies me for a minute as if I’m on display at some museum for the strange. “So we have a deal then?”
I nod and shake his hand quickly. “Yeah, and you won’t regret this, Carl. I mean, Captain.”
He sighs and pops another bubble with his gum. A few pieces of it cling to his bottom lip as he shakes his head. “I already do.” Carl pets my head like I’m a mangy street mutt he doesn’t really want to touch yet can’t ignore. “Take it easy. I’ll let you know if anything shows up.”
Before I can say a word, he leaves me sitting there. In his office.
Alone.
I suppose since I’ve known him my whole life, Carl assumes he can trust me.
Unfortunately, he’s wrong.
Peeking through the office blinds, I watch Bernice picking off her Press on Nails and wait for my diversion to arrive. A few minutes later, the bells on the door clang, and she squeals in delight at her unexpected guest.
Wyn has finally arrived.
I was starting to wonder if he’d even show. Better late than never. I was lucky to get him here at all, considering we haven’t spoken in a couple of months.
My on-the-fly plan to get Carl out of his office worked.
Survival Skill #4
In survival situations, don’t be afraid to utilize any and all resources you may find.
With a quick glance through the plexiglass window, I check Bernice, who’s pointing at Wyn with her nail file. I don’t have long but already know exactly what I’m looking for.
I beeline to the cabinet and pull out the drawer labeled “Closed Cases.” My fingers walk past the Walkers and the Watkins until I reach “Joseph Wells.” As I slide out the crisp manila folder, the fact that criminals have been convicted and possibly jailed for doing what I’m doing is not lost on me. My hands quiver a little until I remember what Dad said once: If you want to get something done, sometimes you have to do it yourself.
Wonder if that’ll hold up in court.
In the next room, Wyn bursts into a coughing fit.
The warning signal forces me to hide under Carl’s desk just as the door swings open. I peer through a crack in the wood, wondering if this is what a roach feels like. Bernice reaches in and flicks off the light. Even after she closes the door, I remain hidden for a few minutes just to be sure. After stuffing the folder in my backpack, I sneak out the door and down the hallway. As soon as I’m clear, I race into the alley where Luci’s waiting.
I jump on my bike and tear out of town.
When I pull down my dirt driveway, Mom’s truck is already gone. Nothing new. She always works. These days, the only time I see her is in a photo. For once, I’m relieved she’s not here.
I charg
e up the porch steps and yank open the screen door. The frame flies off the hinges and crashes onto the floorboards. Great. My whole world is deteriorating right before my eyes, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Skipping every other step, I bound up to my room and lock the door behind me. After ripping off my shoes, I fall back into my duct-taped beanbag. A few tiny white balls escape and hide under the dresser next to a crowd of dust bunnies.
I sit there and fumble with the file for God knows how long, flipping it over and over like a hot pancake. Maybe this is it. Maybe I’ll crack this case wide open. Maybe I’ll find something everyone else missed.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
I take in a deep breath and open the folder.
The first thing I see is a photo paperclipped to the inside. Dad’s sitting in a chair with a trophy with a few men flanking him. I remember the moment perfectly. The picture was taken last year after he won the Wildlife Management Excellence Award. Staring at his face, it suddenly dawns on me how much I look like him. Same black hair, bright green eyes, and athletic build. When I was little, I always wanted to look more like Mom—curvier yet petite—but I got over that wish years ago.
My jaw clenches as I take note of Dad’s crooked smile. Whenever I was in trouble or scared, if that grin appeared, I instantly knew everything was okay with the world.
Panic takes over. I toss the file on the carpet like it’s a scalding pan and push it away with my foot.
My lungs feel like they’ve been sawed in half. I scramble to my feet and hang my head out the open window. As I gulp in air, the tide of panic recedes. I have to pull myself together. Freaking out isn’t going to help anyone.
Breathe, Grace. Just breathe.
My eyes water as I realize all the tiny details of Dad are dimming like a used lightbulb. His smell is gone. The sound of his voice, muted. And his hands? Why can’t I remember his hands?
Sitting back down, I take a deep breath before opening the folder again. This time, I avoid the picture and dive straight into the stack of papers. On top is a form filled out in Carl’s handwriting.
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