Footprints to Murder

by Marcia Talley

  ‘But the most important thing for us here,’ he said, lowering his voice mysteriously, ‘is that the FLIR One enables you to see in pitch-black darkness so you can detect intruders and observe wildlife at night.’

  ‘Ah, ha,’ I said. ‘Wildlife. Tell me more.’

  ‘Check this out,’ he said, aiming the device at me. I heard the familiar click of a shutter closing. The next thing I knew, I was looking at an infrared photograph of myself, apparently warm and healthy in psychedelic shades of fuchsia, gold and yellow.

  He handed the device to me. ‘See for yourself,’ he said. ‘FLIR won a MAC World Best in Show a couple of years ago,’ he added, waiting and watching as I panned the room with the demo device. Multicolored images undulated across the screen like a seriously good marijuana high during the Summer of Love. Vendors and their computer screens pulsated, glowing yellow against a colder, deep blue background. A bookstall vendor had vacated his chair, I noticed. Red patches smoldered on the seat and back cushions where he’d so recently been sitting.

  ‘Cool,’ I said, meaning it. ‘Do you have any in stock?’

  The salesman beamed. ‘I do. We take credit cards,’ he hastily added.

  I handed the device back to him. ‘Will it fit an iPhone 6?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Sold,’ I said. I was eager to try it out on my own phone, if I ever got it back from Jake, that is.

  Earlier that morning, optimistically thinking I’d have time to duck into the lodge’s gift shop to look for souvenirs for the grandkids, I’d tucked my Visa card into the pocket of my badge holder, along with my room key and some emergency cash. I fished the card out and watched while he swiped it through the portable credit card reader plugged into the top of his iPad. I used my index finger to sign directly on the screen. ‘Thanks for solving the question of what to get my husband for his birthday,’ I said as he handed me my new FLIR One in a small plastic bag with the company logo on it. ‘Maybe it’ll help turn the do-it-himself-list into a done-it-himself list.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘It’s almost like having a sixth sense, you know. Is your oven energy efficient? Has the dog been lying on the sofa? Are there rats in the walls?’

  I had no doubt that Paul’s new toy would make rats nests look as pretty as rats nests possibly could, but I didn’t want to think about it. ‘The grandkids will have fun with it, too, I imagine.’

  He laughed. ‘There’s a Zombie Vision app you can get. Gives everyone green skin and red eyes. Costs two bucks. My kids are crazy about it.’

  Turning people into zombies. What next? Thanks to my grandchildren I already had Talking Tom, Hair Salon and Plumbers Crack installed on my iPhone. Games like Candy Crush and Minecraft were also popular. Zombie Vision? Some app developers had entirely too much time on their hands. I promised to look the program up in the App Store, thanked the salesman again then wandered over to a small table near the door.

  Monique Deschamps sat behind a colorful banner that read ‘Support America’s Only Great Ape,’ babysitting her petition and a pile of her books – Bigfoot: Fact, Fiction and Fable – on sale at the conference special price of thirty dollars. I didn’t have to ask Monique if she was a believer. The proof lay on the table before me.

  Through the FLIR One, Monique had been a warm core with sharp, cold edges. After a few minutes chatting with her, I had to agree with the device’s state-of-the-art technology. ‘Hannah Ives,’ I said when she stared at me blankly. ‘Randall Frazier introduced us last night.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, her eyes flicking from my badge to my face. ‘Sorry, but I’ve met so many people since yesterday.’ She managed a tight smile. ‘Thank God for nametags.’

  ‘I’ve been pretty busy myself,’ I said. ‘Or I would have stopped by sooner.’

  ‘Poor Martin,’ she said, wagging her head sadly.

  ‘Did you know him well?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, no. I think everyone knows of Martin Radcliffe but nobody really knew him, if you know what I mean. We’d see him at conferences but he was always so aloof.’ She pursed her lips and aimed her nose at the ceiling. ‘Big TV star and all that. Doesn’t have time to hobnob with ordinary mortals.’ She leaned forward and gave a half-smile, quickly suppressed. ‘How ironic if he were to be killed by a creature he spent a lifetime debunking.’

  Thinking the customer is always right, I decided to smile, ignore the remark and move on. I picked up a copy of her book and opened it to the front flap. It didn’t tell me anything I hadn’t already gleaned from the title, except that Monique’s excursion into the fact, fiction and fable of Bigfoot promised to be ‘fascinating and comprehensive.’

  Reviewers tended to agree. Printed on the back of the jacket were blurbs from people I’d never heard of but I figured were experts in the field. ‘Skillfully weaves history, legend and honest research together …’ said one. ‘Readable and informative …’ stated another. ‘If you think monsters aren’t real, think again …’ claimed a third.

  But one name was glaringly missing. ‘Did Martin Radcliffe read your book, Monique?’

  The question seemed to take her by surprise. ‘What?’

  ‘I was just wondering if you asked Martin Radcliffe for an endorsement?’ I said.

  She snorted. ‘My publisher sent him an ARC, of course, but Radcliffe didn’t even deign to acknowledge it.’

  ‘What’s an ARC?’

  ‘Advance Reading Copy. It’s what they send out to reviewers.’

  ‘You must have been disappointed,’ I said, laying the book back down on the stack I’d taken it from.

  Monique grimaced. ‘He probably would have trashed it anyway. He’s not a particularly nice man. Can we change the subject?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you tell me about your petition, Monique.’

  Her face brightened; FLIR would have colored it white hot. ‘We believe that Bigfoot descended from Gigantopithecus blacki, an ancient ape that migrated from southeast Asia to the Americas over the Bering land bridge more than ten thousand years ago.’ She shoved a laminated card across the table. It showed the silhouette of an enormous ape, nearly three meters tall. Standing next to the creature for comparison was the silhouette of an average human male, one point eight meters high.

  ‘This bad boy weighed over one thousand pounds,’ she told me. ‘And we don’t believe for a minute that’s he’s extinct.’

  The petition, addressed to Daniel M. Ashe, director of the US Fish and Wildlife Service, was attached to a clipboard lying on the table in front of me. Each page had space for fifty signatures and the page on top was nearly full.

  ‘Our model is the state of Washington,’ she informed me. ‘Skamania County passed a law in 1969 declaring that any willful, wanton slaying of creatures such as Bigfoot would be deemed a felony subject to a substantial fine and/or imprisonment. And …’ she raced on, nearly breathless, as if she were just getting warmed up, ‘Whatcom County has actually been declared a Sasquatch Protection and Refuge area.’

  ‘No kidding,’ I said.

  She nodded. ‘In Washington state, killing Bigfoot is homicide.’

  ‘Doesn’t every state already have laws on the books to protect newly discovered species of wildlife?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah. Unless, of course, you’re in Texas where you’re allowed to hunt any “unprotected, non-game wildlife.”’ She drew quote marks in the air. ‘In Texas, unless an animal is specifically listed as protected, you can hunt it on private property as long as you have permission from the landowner. And you can hunt it by any means, at any time and there is no bag limit or possession limit.’

  ‘Any means? Really?’

  ‘Any. Even rocket-propelled grenade launchers, if you’ve got one.’

  I grunted. ‘Texas. Why am I not surprised? So,’ I continued after a moment’s thought, ‘if I want to see Bigfoot in his natural habitat I need to make my way over to Washington state. But if I feel more inclined to shoot one, I should head to Texa
s.’

  I meant it as a joke but Monique didn’t smile. ‘Some people think that current laws already protect all non-game species, including undocumented ones, but we believe the federal government needs to follow the lead of Washington state.’

  I had the clipboard in my hand by then. A ballpoint pen was attached to it by a red string. I must have looked like a fence-sitter because Monique suddenly chirped, ‘Think about what would happen if a Bigfoot actually turned up, Hannah. If whatever showed up on Jim’s camera this morning was real, not some trickster wearing a monkey suit. If we had positive proof CNN would have reporters on the scene in two-and-a-half seconds and the discovery would flash around the world in minutes, fueled by Facebook and Twitter. Within days, throngs of curiosity seekers and would-be captors would turn up in this area, creating chaos for the local residents and quite possibly threatening the Bigfoot itself. You might even have to call out the National Guard!’

  ‘Right,’ I said, fingering the pen. I wasn’t buying into her doomsday scenario, not exactly, but in my desire to help protect Bigfoot from crazy cryptozoologists packing high-powered rifles, I signed.

  Monique sighed with satisfaction then sat back in her chair. ‘Thank you!’ She reached into a small plastic box and handed me a sticker, bright green and in the shape of Bigfoot. ‘I Signed,’ it said.

  I peeled it off and stuck it to the front of my badge. A team player, that’s me.

  TEN

  Big Run, Jefferson County, Pennsylvania, November 1888. ‘People in this vicinity are considerably exercised over the discovery in the woods of tracks about eighteen inches long, which, being unlike those of any known animal, give rise to the belief that they are those of a wild man.’

  The Olean Democrat (Olean, NY), November 8, 1888

  The woman sitting behind the table wore her black hair in a single plait, long enough to drape over the shoulder of a plain, long-sleeve denim shirt. She was a born saleswoman, too. Once Prairie Flower’s dark brown eyes caught mine and she motioned me over, I figured my goose was cooked. I would end up buying something from her booth before the day was over, for sure.

  ‘I thought you were one of the organizers when I saw you running in and out, back and forth like a maniac,’ she said.

  ‘Is there something I can do to help you?’

  She grinned, revealing oddly uniform teeth, evenly spaced like cemetery tombstones behind full, unpolished lips. ‘No problem, really. It’s just that I’ve been watching you and I thought maybe you could use a break.’

  ‘Me? How about you?’ I indicated the array of items displayed on the table directly in front of me. Kachina figures, dream catchers, shell necklaces, silver and turquoise jewelry, pendulums fashioned of crystal and of glass and piles of CDs and books. ‘How do you even work in a bathroom break?’

  She bobbed her head in the direction of the booth next door where a bearded gentleman, presumably the ‘Marty’ of Marty’s Mountain Gear & More was showing a Coleman nine-can cooler to a customer. ‘Marty and me. We look out for each other.’ Then, ‘Is it true?’ she asked after a moment.

  ‘Is what true?’ I said.

  ‘Marty says that Don’t You Believe It! guy was attacked by a Bigfoot.’

  ‘Something certainly beat him to death,’ I blurted. ‘Did you make these?’ I asked, indicating the jewelry, eager to change the subject.

  ‘The dream catchers, yes, but the rest came from my aunt down in Taos.’

  Taos. I wracked my brain, trying to think what Native American tribes lived in that area. ‘Pueblo?’ I asked.

  She raised a single unruly eyebrow. ‘I’m impressed.’

  For the first time since the day began, I managed a genuine smile. ‘The shell necklaces are gorgeous.’ From among the assortment of single, double and triple-strand necklaces she had artfully displayed on the table, I selected one crafted of blue and coral shells.

  ‘Hee-she,’ Prairie Flower said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘H-e-i-s-h-i.’ She spelled the word out for me. ‘In our language, it means, quite literally, shell necklace.’

  ‘How much is this one?’ I asked, thinking it would go beautifully with the sundress I’d bought several years ago in the Bahamas, an off-the-shoulder number made out of teal-blue Androsia batik strewn with white hibiscus blossoms.

  ‘Forty-five dollars. It’s a nice one, Hannah. Fine quality coral and amazonite.’ She watched me examine the clasp, then added: ‘Don’t just touch it. Pull it gently through your fingers. That’s how you tell the quality. It should feel smooth, like a snake’s skin.’

  I’d never touched a snake before – eew! – but if that was what snakeskin felt like I wouldn’t mind so much. As I dug around in my badge holder fishing for the fifty-dollar bill I’d folded in along with my credit card, I asked, ‘Prairie Flower. Is that your given name?’

  ‘It’s what I go by now. When I was little they named me Cha’Kwaina which means “One Who Cries.”’ She snorted. ‘Can you imagine? By the time I reached my teens it no longer seemed appropriate, so on my sixteenth birthday everyone started calling me Leotie, Flower of the Prairie.’ She handed me a five-dollar bill in change. ‘Do you want a bag for that?’

  ‘No, I’ll just wear it. Thanks.’

  One of the books offered for sale, I noticed as Prairie Flower stood and leaned across the table to help me hook the clasp around my neck, had the most recent version of her name on it. It featured a garish cover in passionate purple and a pendulum superimposed over a full moon. The letters of the title – Secrets of the Pendulum: A Divining Guide – sprawled across the top in a spidery, practically unreadable neon-yellow font. ‘You write this?’ I asked stupidly.

  She beamed.

  ‘That’s what you do then?’ I tapped the title. ‘Divining?’

  I’d once worked as a counselor in a summer camp in Vermont where a succession of plumbers had been hired to locate the source of a water leak. One by one, they had failed. In a last-ditch attempt to stem the flow, a diviner was called in. Holding two L-shaped metal rods, he isolated the leak to an underground pipe running between the kitchen and the camp doctor’s cabin. I’d been mightily impressed. ‘Like a water witch?’ I asked, remembering.

  ‘I don’t have that gift,’ Prairie Flower said. She selected one of the pendants and held it aloft by its chain. ‘Just divining. I use a wand pendulum to help answer people’s questions.’

  ‘Will my baby be a boy or a girl? Like that?’

  ‘Hah! Sonograms put me completely out of the baby business,’ she said.

  ‘What brings you to this conference?’ I asked, wondering what divining had to do with Bigfoot.

  ‘Oh, I’ve been fascinated for years! When I was a little girl I saw what the Zuni people call an Atahsaia – a cannibal demon – up in the Sangre de Cristos.’ She looked both ways as if crossing the street, leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘Scared me so bad I wet my pants. He was enormous, with long gray hair and fangs. My aunt told me that if I were disobedient Atahsaia would catch me and make me into soup.’

  ‘I’ll bet you did your chores without being asked after that.’ I picked up a pair of earrings attached to a paper card labeled in a flowery script. I tried them out, tilting the card and holding it up to my ear.

  ‘I’ve got a mirror,’ Prairie Flower said, handing it to me.

  ‘How much are these?’ I asked.

  ‘Thirty-five, but I’ll give them to you for thirty.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, admiring the way the polished stones caught the light.

  ‘Have you heard about the Mount Saint Helens expedition?’ Prairie Flower asked.

  I nodded. ‘Randall Frazier mentioned it at dinner last night.’

  Her eyes flashed as bright as her crystals. ‘He’s invited me to go!’

  I wasn’t sure whether to congratulate her or sympathize. ‘You must be over the moon,’ I said, deciding against the earrings and hooking them back on the display rack.

&nbs
p; She pressed both hands flat against her bosom. ‘Are you kidding? I feel like I’ve just been asked to the prom by the captain of the football team. There isn’t anything Randall Frazier doesn’t know about Bigfoot, but he asked my advice. Me! Praise the goddess! I nearly passed out. Here, let me show you something.’

  Prairie Flower bent down, reached under the table and withdrew an oversized mailing tube. As I watched she popped the lid, inserted two fingers into the opening and eased out a rolled-up document. She shoved some of her merchandise aside, clearing a space, then smoothed the document out on the table. I could see it was a large-scale typographical map of Washington and Oregon states.

  She stabbed an index finger on an area in the southeast corner of Washington near the border with Oregon.

  I leaned in. Mount St Helens.

  ‘There!’ she said, tapping. ‘Lava caves. That’s where I told him we’d find Bigfoot.’

  Ah. Prairie Flower must be the ‘local Indian gal’ that Frazier told me had pinpointed the spot.

  ‘And you figured that out using one of these?’ I fingered one of her bejeweled pendulums.

  She nodded. ‘He was so excited, Hannah. He squeezed my hand and said, “I knew it!”’ She paused to take a deep, calming breath. ‘I didn’t know anything about lava caves, truly. I always thought Bigfoot built nests in the woods, you know. Who would want to live in a drippy, rocky cul-de-sac with no light?’ She shivered. ‘But you know what he told me?’

  ‘No, what?’ I said, genuinely curious, too.

  ‘The temperature in one of those caves is forty-four degrees Fahrenheit, year round. Where better to camp out in winter, huh? Or to stash the babies while you’re out hunting?’

  Where indeed?

  ‘How does this thing work?’ I asked, lifting the pendulum off the arm of the display rack. She took it from me, held the chain between her right thumb and forefinger and dangled the pendulum over the map where it calmly rotated. Keeping everything steady, she waited patiently as the pendulum spun in circles of increasingly smaller diameter.