Untraceable

by Johannes, S. R.

  Les leans over and snatches a nail between his fat fingers, getting back to work. “Hm. I must say this is all mighty … interestin’. Can definitely bring them in for questioning. If I can find them. Usually these kind of guys run off once they’re seen.”

  Part of me wonders if he is saying that to get me off his back. Like Carl does. Then again, Dad trusted Les, so I know I can too. “Will you ask them about Dad?”

  “Of course, I will.” He trudges back toward the truck and calls out over his shoulder. “Don’t you go out in them woods ‘til I call you. Those guys sound like they could be trouble.”

  I nod. That’s an understatement.

  ~~~~

  Early the next morning, I stand at the window, waiting for Les’s call. The distant sky seems darker than usual. Clouds shaped like massive clumps of cauliflower hang on the horizon. I press my face against the cold window, letting my breath create patches of fog so I can draw little hearts. Through the glass, I squint at the dense woods enveloping my house. What once was my best friend, my retreat, seems to be turning on me a little. But I can’t let those guys scare me away from everything I know. Or I’ll lose everything that’s keeping me safe.

  Chewing my fingernails, I pace in a square along the room like a caged lion. No matter how much I want to head out, I promised Les I’d wait.

  An hour later, Les still hasn’t called. Forget this. I’m going fishing whether those guys are busted or not. No way I’m holing up in this place any longer. Probably not something my dad would approve of.

  Then again, he’s not here.

  I check my backpack for all my supplies and jump on my bike. The whole ride, I feel fine. Until I start walking deeper into the woods. Every rustle and every creek rattles my nerves. My body stiffens and tension balloons in my chest, crowding my lungs. I force the fear aside, telling my nerves there’s nothing to worry about; Al and Billy are probably miles from here. It’s just for a couple hours of fishing then back home. I need this.

  Most people don’t get why I love flyfishing so much. They seem to think the sport is about having the perfect looped cast like in A River Runs Through It. Or about snagging the largest fish. To those of us who spend hours and days on the river, it’s about so much more.

  Thoreau’s quote trails through my mind. Many men go fishing all of their lives without ever knowing that it is not fish they are really after. So true. After suiting up, I wade into Bear Creek’s quickening tide. As I strain to find a rhythm, the angry water slams against my ankles, pushing me off the slimy rocks. It takes me a few tries, but I finally manage to dig my heels into the silt and cast smoothly. However, instead of finding peace, my brain jumps around from Dad to Al to the case and back again. There’s got to be a missing piece to this whole puzzle, one I can’t wrap my brain around.

  Seconds later, something snags my line. I rejoin reality, only to find my tippet trapped in a low-hanging tree. Great. I wrestle with the line, hoping the branch will release my fly. No such luck. Instead, the line snaps in two and coils around me. Resting on a boulder, I pick at the jumbled knot, reminding me of when Mom used to untangle my hair, a tiny clump at a time. Somehow, this mangled mess becomes a metaphor for my life.

  No matter how much I try to straighten everything out, it remains muddled.

  Eventually, I tuck the twisted mess into my pocket and tie on a new leader and fly. Just a few more minutes of fishing before I hunt for more clues. Scanning the river’s brown canvas, I spot a few fish splashing downstream and stalk my quarry, teasing the surface with my line. One of Dad’s fishing tips scrolls across my brain.

  Take it easy, Gracie. You’re better off letting it happen than making it happen.

  Instead of recasting, I let the line float along the glassy surface. Just as I’m about to give up, something nibbles my fly. Breathing evenly, I do a quick jerk before reeling in the line. Seconds later, a shiny fish flaps along the surface, trying to escape. I counter his reaction by anticipating his next move. My body tingles with excitement. I feel more alive than I have in a long time.

  For one brief moment, I forget all my problems.

  I grab my net and scoop up my catch before he flops on the sand. The fish’s brown-spotted body gleams with water and a reddish-pink band decorates his side. A rainbow trout. I hold him up to my face and stare into his big, bulging eyes. The fish opens and closes his mouth, as if telling me his life story.

  The current tugs at my ankles, begging me to release him back to nature. I ease up on shore and carefully remove the hook from his mouth. It’s important to respect every catch or it isn’t flyfishing. Since I’m not going to eat him, I need to let him go. Nature shouldn’t be wasted.

  I whisper, “Thank you,” just like Dad always did and open my hand. The slimy fish slides down my fingers and plops into the gurgling water. As he squirms away to freedom, I envy him. Wishing it was that easy for me to swim downstream and start over as if nothing bad had happened.

  As I take off the waders and gather everything, my sixth sense kicks into overdrive. The hair on my neck rises.

  I’m not alone.

  I freeze and tune into every noise around me, waiting for the one that’s out of place. A cricket. A bird. A fish jumping. Then I hear it.

  Two pebbles clap together.

  Then another crunch. This time, much closer.

  I wait and let my intruder approach, knowing I’m not prepared to face Al alone.

  Survival Skill #17

  Nature can be unforgiving; therefore, you must be prepared to defend yourself in a variety of situations to survive.

  As soon as my ear detects a sound behind me, I pivot, sweeping my leg along the ground. My foot clips two black boots, catching my attacker off guard. He trips and as soon as he falls, I pounce on top and jab my knee into his chest, pinning him to the ground.

  I do all this in a flash, without thinking or even realizing who it is.

  Mo stares up at me with wide eyes. “Bloody hell!”

  It takes a second to register his face. “Jesus. Don’t you know it’s rude to sneak up on someone?” I roll off him and jump to my feet, still tense and on guard. Darting my eyes, I search the woods to be sure someone else isn’t with him.

  Mo lies on his back with his mouth hanging open. “I wasn’t sneaking. I was walking.” He sits up and smacks dirt off his pants. “Anyway, I believe it’s much ruder to attack someone who’s only armed with a fishing pole and a smile.”

  I take my hand off the handle of my knife before he notices I almost drew a weapon on him. “Well, if we’re getting literal, I wasn’t attacking. I was defending.”

  He holds up two hands. “Is it safe for me to get up?”

  I shrug and hide a smirk. “If you can.”

  Mo stands and massages the back of his neck. “Crumbs, I can’t figure you out, Grace.”

  My tummy flip-flops when he says my name. “Are you trying to?”

  He teases me with his eyes. “Maybe.”

  I recoil, surprised at his bluntness. “So then, what’s the big mystery?” After all, Dad says I wear my emotions on my sleeve so I can’t be that difficult to read.

  He picks his bag up off the ground. “Do you always react like this?”

  “Do you always stalk girls? In the woods? When they’re alone? Anyway, after the other day, do you really blame me?”

  Mo frowns and shakes his head. “No, I guess I don’t. You’re right. It was daft of me not to say anything. I apologize. Then again, I told you not to come out here alone. So in a way, maybe it was a lesson.”

  “Only it looks like you’re the one who learned something.”

  Mo grins and bows. “Touché.” He studies me and moves his lips to one side, chewing on the bottom one. “Well, not many people can throw me off guard. I believe you’re one of the first.”

  I wish, I think. Instead, I say, “Guess there’s a first time for everything. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. Might ruin your reputation.”

  He purse
s his lips before smiling. “It’s all right. Those are overrated anyway. Where’d you learn to move like that?”

  I tuck my hands into my pockets so he can’t see the lingering tremors from an overflow of adrenaline. “My dad taught me self defense. He was a black belt.”

  “Hmmm. Smart man.”

  “Yes, he wa ... I mean ... is.” The pit of my stomach boils when I realize I almost used the past tense. My heart sinks, wondering if deep down, I’m secretly giving up. Letting go. I shake off the feeling. No, I will not let that happen. Ever.

  Mo eyes my rod. “So let me get this straight. You’re a flyfisher, a tracker, and a black belt’s protégé?” He flips into a bad American accent. “Grace, you are one whacky chick.”

  I return to the moment and crack a grin. “Ha ha. What are you doing here anyway? If I was paranoid, I’d think you were following me.”

  He pushes his longish bangs to the side, out of his inviting eyes. “I was out collecting samples and wondered if you’d be here.”

  “Thought this wasn’t a ‘good idea.’”

  He laughs aloud. A deep throaty laugh that divides the tension between us in half. “And telling by your reaction, I was right. You out here fishing alone sure isn’t the best idea.”

  “So then why’d you come?”

  He claps the dirt off his hands and smears the rest on his pants. “I wanted to be sure you were safe.”

  I grin and wrinkle my nose. “Only it was you who needed protection.”

  “Who knew?” Mo moves next to me and stares out at the river. His elbow jabs me lightly between the ribs. “Oi. Fancy showing me some of your fishing moves?”

  I inch to the right. “I changed my mind. I don’t fish with strangers.”

  He throws his head back and laughs. “Oh! Pardon me, but if I recall, this bloody stranger saved your life. That should count for something.”

  I tap my finger to my lips and contemplate. “Why? You could be a mass murderer, casing riverbanks for your next victim.”

  Mo shakes his head in disagreement. “That’s poppycock. If I were a mass murderer, I’d pick a more populated spot. Nothing ‘mass’ about it if it’s just one poor ole’ sod. Anyway, I don’t think a killer would take time out to fish. Do you?”

  “Maybe it’s your cover.” I shrug. “Never know these days. The world’s a dangerous place.”

  He smacks his forehead dramatically. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

  “Did you think I would?”

  “I guess not. Oh well, if you’re not going to fish with me,” Mo tosses his bag over one shoulder and shifts into an odd drawl, “then I’ll just mosey along.” He begins slowly walking away, every few feet looking back over his shoulder with a sad puppy face.

  I giggle at his horrific attempt at a Southern accent and pitiful expression. Almost as bad as my English one, though my puppy eyes could take on his any day. “To where?”

  “My secret fishing spot.”

  My smile drops, and I call out to him as he leaves, hopping from rock to rock. “That’s ridiculous! I’ve lived here all my life and know every spot here.”

  He shakes his head without looking back. “Not this one.”

  I grow slightly irritated, shifting from foot to foot in a swaying motion. “Impossible. I’ve hiked out here almost every day since I was three.”

  “Then you have nothing to fear, my dear. Fancy coming along? Or are you scared you might actually enjoy hanging out with a foreign stranger.”

  “Hardly.” I pause for a few seconds. Part of me needs to stay. Yet a larger piece of me wants to go check this guy out. If he knows of a place I don’t, then maybe it’s a new place to search. Or maybe I should just go along because I deserve a break. “Fine, I’ll bite. What’s the catch? No pun intended.”

  He grins mischievously. “If I show you a spot you’ve never seen, you have to teach me how to fish.”

  “Thought you knew how to fish.”

  He scoops up some water and runs his wet hands through his hair. Little drops land on his lips. “Bloody hell, woman, you know what I mean. Flyfish.”

  My stomach flip-flops at the thought of spending more time with him. “What if I’ve been there before? What are you going to do for me?”

  He scratches his scruffy cheeks for a few seconds until his face lights up. “I’ll cook you a fabulous dinner.”

  “Can you cook?”

  “Abso-bloody-lutely.” I pretend to think for a moment, letting the suspense accumulate. Mo urges me on. “Come off it. What are you afraid of?”

  Everything, I think.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “So, you in?”

  ~~~~

  Yellow star grass borders the overgrown trail. Beams of sun pour through the scattered canopy. Mo walks a few yards ahead of me. I’m preoccupied by his gait as he saunters along the path. He moves with a slight rhythm and confidence.

  He sneaks a peek over his shoulder to check on me. I pretend to be studying my footsteps so he doesn’t catch me gawking. We traipse along the wooded track in silence, an unspoken agreement not to ruin the peace with mindless chatter.

  After tracking our coordinates, I’ve come to the dreaded conclusion that I probably haven’t seen Mo’s secret hideaway. I scrunch my face. Crap. I know these woods are vast, but how can some dude all the way from England find a place I don’t know about when I’ve lived here my whole life?

  “We there yet?” As soon as I say it, Dad’s silly response plays in my head. What do you mean by ‘there’? Because wherever you go, there you are. I smile to myself thinking about how he never answers a question directly.

  Mo obviously doesn’t get the joke, because he responds, “Nearly. Does anything look familiar?”

  “Keep walking, English boy.” I’m not about to admit anything yet. Might as well stretch out my inevitable defeat. I’m not looking forward to confessing the truth.

  That I’m wrong. Something I hate almost as much as losing.

  After winding around a few more bends, Mo stops in front of a huge rotted tree trunk that stretches across a wide creek. The wood appears to be scarred, battered by Mother Nature. We inch across the log to the other side. He jumps down and holds out his hand to help me.

  “I got it.” I leap over the gap on my own. Why do guys always assume girls need help?

  He points ahead. “We’re almost there. Nervous?”

  “You wish,” I say.

  We hike downhill, deeper into the green canvas splattered with brown hues. The broken path disappears as we trudge along a lane decorated with splotches of different-colored flowers. He stops and looks both ways before continuing down a patchy trail.

  I tease him. “I’m starting to think you might be lost?”

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  “I’m traipsing through a dark forest with a stranger after only knowing you a day. What do you think?”

  He smiles at me over his shoulder. “Sounds exciting!”

  A few minutes later, he stops in front of a small opening, surrounded by thick foliage, and motions me through a leafy doorway. “Welcome to paradise, blossom.”

  Survival Skill #18

  If you are unfamiliar with an area, avoid getting boxed in or isolated.

  I blush at the nickname and duck into the tunnel. As soon as I pop out the other side, I gasp.

  Walls of glittering rock surround us covered in patches of painted trillium and purple phacelia. The creek we passed earlier has relaxed some, allowing tiny waterfalls to trickle over clusters of smooth boulders.

  I lower my guard and squeal in delight. “I’ve died and gone to flyfishing heaven.”

  Mo arches his left eyebrow in surprise. “Does that mean you haven’t been here before?”

  I love how he pronounces been as “bean.” Ignoring his question, I circle the area, staring up at the rocky towers encasing us.

  “Well?” he presses.

  I throw my hands up in the air. “Okay, fine
! You win.”

  A beam of triumph sparks across his face as he cups his hand behind his ear. “Sorry, but could you say that a tad louder?”

  Playing along, I yell. “I said … you WIN!”

  Mo’s smile brightens up even more. “A day to note in history, I’m sure.”

  I gawk in amazement at the pure beauty surrounding me. “I’ve lived here a long time and have never seen anything like this before.”

  “The Smokies are huge. Did you really think you knew every place out here?” He trails his fingers along the moist wall encasing us and pats it. “Look at these limestone formations.”

  My eyebrows rise. “Interesting.”

  Mo laughs. “Fine. I won’t talk about rocks, but it’s time for you to pay up.”

  I hand him one of my flyfishing rods. “Only if we do it my way!”

  He bats his black spidery eyelashes at me. “I’d expect nothing less.”

  “Let’s start with the basics. You right handed or left handed?”

  He wiggles his fingers on one hand. “A lefty.”

  My stomach sinks. My dad was also a lefty. I shake my head and fight through the rising sadness. “Haven’t even started and already you’re high maintenance.”

  “You’re calling me high maintenance? I had to save you on our first date.”

  My heart drops into my belly. “Uh. What … what did you say?”

  Mo protects his face with both hands and peers through his fingers. “You’re going to smack me, aren’t you?”

  I giggle nervously, which sounds more like a witch on helium. So much for sexy. “Very funny. Of course not.”

  He smiles an amazing toothy grin. “Good. My ego can only take one thrashing a day.”

  I decide it’s safer to skip the awkward moment and move straight into the fishing lesson. “I need to change out your rod first.” I quickly flip the reel and re-thread the line. “There. Now let’s get down to business.”