Fall Hunter

by M K Dymock

  She crawled to the edge of the cliff and debated if she should slide on her stomach or her rear. On her rear meant she could see her footing, but on her stomach meant she could use her hands. A flash of lightning followed by thunder three seconds later forced a choice.

  She rolled onto her stomach and pushed out until her feet hung in space. She slid along the ground until her legs made the bend and her toes touched rock. Climbing up was so much easier than climbing down.

  The rock beneath her left foot had space for only a few toes. The stiff leather of bike shoes didn’t allow her to clench with her toes and the metal clips caught on the rock. She hugged her body against the cliff and reached her right foot for another hold. This foot found only air, and her fingers gripped a patch of weeds at the top of rocks. The roots ripped out of the soil, not able to hold so much weight. Her hanging foot finally hit a rock, but it couldn’t hold her momentum and her foot slid past.

  Keen’s other foot quaked in protest at the burden it was tasked with carrying. As she prepared herself for the fall, her right foot found a hold big enough for it, stopping her slide. She moved one hand down to clench a rock and then the other. It took a few more steps before her feet touched the grassy bottom of the first terrace.

  Her shaking limbs demanded a break before beginning the next descent, but the blackening clouds overhead insisted she rush. She took off her shoes and stuffed them into the back pockets of her jersey. With bare feet, the next wall came easier and she moved quicker. Three or four feet from the bottom, she grabbed onto a protruding rock. The rock stabbed her hand and she jerked it back. The quick movement threw her balance off and she fell backwards, landing on the shelf below.

  Her back arched at the pain screaming through her spine. She curled up into a ball, tucking her bleeding hand into her chest. The lightning struck at a distance that could be measured in yards. “Just go ahead and hit me,” she said into the dirt.

  But there was the tent.

  Below her lay help, and it was only that hope that pulled her up. She looked down the third and final ledge. Not as steep or long as the previous two, but the blood seeping out of her clenched fist meant climbing would be difficult.

  She debated jumping off the final ten-foot ledge, but didn’t want to add a broken leg to her list of injuries. She’d only fallen maybe four feet on the previous cliff and the pain of that mistake punished her.

  With no other choice and the descent becoming more intimidating the more she considered it, she lay on her stomach and pushed off. The rocks rubbing on her bare feet were nothing compared to the agony of grabbing hold with her bloodied hand. This time she steeled herself for the pain and didn’t let go until both her feet found sure footing. She let herself drop the last two feet onto her butt and cried out as her back absorbed the ground again.

  Scrub oak surrounded the base of the ridge, though not as thick as above. Her thrown stick landed not far from her own landing and she grasped it. She had lost sight of the tent but knew to move south along the cliffs. She replaced her shoes and stayed to the wall to keep out of the thicket.

  When she glimpsed bright yellow through the branches of the oak, she paused in disbelief. Somehow she’d made it.

  No cars were in the small clearing around the tent. She approached the site, her stick clenched in her hand not as a cane but a weapon. The tent had been pitched alongside a dry wash that came out of a crack where two cliffs met together, forming a crack.

  Ignoring the temptation of the bright red cooler, she inspected the site from a distance. Some tire tracks about the width of a four-wheeler led to the tent. A small circle of rocks marked an old campfire with a couple of blue camp chairs set around it.

  With no one in sight, she gave in and ran to the cooler, kneeling in front of it as if it was an altar. When she ripped off the lid and saw water bottles sunk into ice, she laughed. The sound came out muffled in the lonely area. She left a bloody handprint on the plastic and switched hands to avoid the pain. The seal took a second to break and she yelled at it to open, which it finally did. The water she sucked down tasted like life.

  With every bit of self-control, she slowed her intake, not wanting to throw up. She needed to keep every drop. She couldn’t remember peeing that day. Even with her hesitancy, she still felt queasy when the cold water settled in her stomach. A few bagged-up sandwiches shared the cooler with the water. She pulled one out and fingered it—turkey and cheese, along with mayo. Her stomach growled in response.

  “You can’t be both hungry and nauseous at the same time,” she told it. “Pick one.” She waited a moment and the nausea faded a bit, so she took a small bite of the bread. She could almost picture her stomach acids as small beasts ripping it apart and demanding more. She took a larger bite, but after a moment the nausea came back, and she sealed the sandwich back up. She had all the time in the world to eat and didn’t want to risk throwing up the water.

  Above her, the skies, which had stayed on her side until now, opened up with the rain they’d been storing. Keen unzipped the tent door to find two unrolled sleeping bags. She hesitated at the inviting space. Maybe he could find her here, but she had no other place to wait out the storm. The cold air pushed from the north and through every piece of thin clothing she wore.

  Death by cold or attacker?

  The last time she’d been caught out in a surprise storm in the mountains, she’d been hiking with Jake. At the surprise onset, she pulled out the bright red poncho she kept folded in her hiking pack. He’d laughed at the cheap plastic, but when the rains came harder, he complained the entire hike down. She’d even offered it to him, but he said no. Once back at his car, they cuddled until the heat came on, warming them up.

  Funny, she’d always remembered the cuddling part, how he warmed her up, and how taken care of she felt. But until today, she’d forgotten the moment he hesitated before refusing the poncho and how much he complained how she stayed dry while he got rained on. An errant thought had crossed her mind that he would’ve been happier if they both got soaked. The thought had been disloyal and quickly dismissed. Now, though, Keen couldn’t forget it.

  “I took care of me, not him,” she said out loud.

  Using the bottled water, she rinsed her wounds—her head, the hand, her knees—and cried out at the stinging pain. The breath of a hundred moms couldn’t quell that agony. What she really needed, but didn’t want, was to be doused in a vat of antiseptic.

  Drops pelted the tent, a sound as familiar to her as her favorite song, lulling her into a sense of peace. “No,” she said. “Time to go.” She grabbed one of the sleeping bags and hoped the campers—if they were campers—would forgive her pillaging. She stood up, or at least tried to, but her knees gave out. Another attempt and another fail.

  Keen fell back on the other bag. Her body refused any commands to move.

  22

  The discovery of the bike changed the search to a criminal investigation. Blake had wanted to rule Keen’s disappearance an accident, but both Clint and SAR had said that was unlikely. Another day and the bike never would’ve been found. The investigation would have to start where most criminal things start—the family.

  He returned to the Dawsons’ house with different questions. As they once again sat in the living room, Daniel stared straight past him and Blake resisted the urge to wave a hand in front of his face. Elizabeth swayed back and forth like those orphaned kids in the Africa commercials. He had no words of comfort left.

  “We have to face the possibility that someone abducted or hurt Keen.”

  Elizabeth’s swaying quickened.

  “Before we’ve been focused on who might know where she is, but now I need you to think about who would want to hurt her.”

  Daniel’s confused face turned to Blake. “No one. No one could’ve hurt her.”

  “Strangers.” Elizabeth kept swaying, and each word matched forward momentum. “Someone could’ve seen her at the store that morning, waited until she was alone.” She
glared at Daniel. “I never liked the idea of her being around strangers.”

  “Did you work Monday as well?” Blake asked. “Anyone in particular stand out?”

  “We had all sorts of people in. It was our end-of-season sale. I don’t … Wait, there was somebody. Clint saw him—that boy Gauge—you know him. He’s sort of backward. He kept following her around, asking questions.”

  Blake tried to place the name but couldn’t.

  Elizabeth scooted to the edge of the couch. “His brother is that kid who got arrested for busting a window at Bateman’s.”

  Blake knew the kid, or at least his older brother. He’d arrested Colt Ferguson a few years ago for trying to break into Bateman’s to steal some fireworks over the fourth. The store had already closed and the idiot didn’t want to miss the holiday. He was so drunk, he passed out in front of the fireworks display a foot inside the window. He got six months in jail for celebrating his freedom.

  “Gauge would be the younger brother,” Blake said. “He’s what, seventeen or so? Did he know Keen?”

  “No,” Elizabeth said. “He followed her around, asking about shotgun shells, which we don’t sell. I was helping another customer or I would’ve stepped in, but Clint did. Walked right up to that kid and asked what he was doing, and he mumbled something about fixing some fences for a rancher and ran right out of there without buying anything. He ran, Blake, when your deputy stopped him.”

  Daniel shook his head as the conversation went over him. “I don’t know, Elizabeth. He’s helped me out on a few jobs, and sure, he can be a bit—”

  “Creepy? Because that’s what the girls at the store say about him. Carrie won’t wait on him at all.”

  Clint hadn’t said a word about talking to Keen on Monday. “Right now, we’re looking at everyone she’s come into contact with in the last few days. I need your help to track her movements.”

  “Couldn’t she still be out in the mountains?” Elizabeth pleaded.

  The sheriff understood the desire to have a daughter lost in the woods rather than the possibility someone hurt her. He didn’t want to have to tell them this more than they wanted to hear it.

  Blake could picture Keen, a pretty naïve girl, biking down that highway alone and vulnerable—an opportunity. “We don’t know yet, but we’re going to look at everything and narrow it down until we find her. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but we know more today than we did yesterday.”

  Elizabeth stood and walked into the kitchen; Daniel didn’t budge. Blake stood to follow her, but she returned with a paper pad and a pen. “Monday morning, she was up by six and drank a cup of coffee with me on the porch.” Elizabeth’s voice cracked, but she shook her head and went on. “Seven, we left for the store.”

  When Blake pulled into the sheriff’s office parking lot, Clint’s Jeep was already there. The deputy sat at his desk; exhaustion and rain had wiped away his usual crooked grin. He followed Blake back to his office and waited while Blake took off his jacket.

  “Now what?” Clint sank into a chair.

  “We can’t assume anything for sure, but my best guess would be tourists. We know for sure at least two men with less than the best intentions spotted her.” He squeezed his forehead with his hand as if he could force his headache out. “Sol find anything?”

  “Nope.” Clint’s abrupt tone reflected his frustration. “Sol never showed up. With the rain starting, we had to haul the bike out. Kept the area tarped, but who knows how much of that ground is going to be under water by tomorrow. One more day and no one would’ve found that bike until spring. Would’ve been good to have the world’s best tracker down there.”

  The storm had turned the afternoon light into a dark gray mess. “Nobody’s seen him?”

  “Mina talked to him on the radio, but she says he’s sticking to the Pines for now. Says he found a woman’s footprints walking down one of the bike trails. Didn’t want to chance losing them in the rain. He thinks maybe someone took Keen’s bike and she’s still up there.”

  Blake reached into his drawer for an Ibuprofen bottle and counted out four. “Who knows where she is.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “We knock on every door and show them Keen’s picture. We track down every person who was in this town on Labor Day and where they are now.”

  “How are we going to do that?” Clint asked.

  “We take the searchers we have and redirect them. This is no longer a rescue or a recovery, it’s a crime. I need you to find Gauge Ferguson. Elizabeth said he talked to Keen on Monday; you saw them.”

  Confusion crossed Clint’s face. After a moment of consideration, he said, “I remember seeing them talking and asked them what they were up to. The kid said something about hunting and left. Saw him get in a truck with his brother.”

  “Go find him,” Blake said. “Elizabeth seems to think he made Keen cry.”

  Clint half stood but sat down again, his mouth working for a sentence.

  “What?” Blake said.

  “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

  Blake considered the possibility of Keen surviving the storm raging against their very windows. Weatherman was calling for temps in the 30s that coming night. Frost would cover the area by morning. “More than likely we’re searching for a body that will never be found,” he finally said. “As much as it hurts to admit it.”

  Clint found his feet and, without a word, went out into the darkening sky.

  Blake sent word to all the tourist businesses to track down every person who had come in from out of town during the holiday weekend, which would be no small number.

  The hotel provided an easy answer along with names and credit cards, but more campgrounds than you could swing a dead cat at littered the county. They had two state parks, five forest service campsites, and two privately owned, not to mention all the BLM land people could and did camp on without having to pay or register. Most of which had cleared out on Monday afternoon.

  He called the Forest Service rangers to bring in pay envelopes from every campsite that had been reserved through Sunday or later. Three of them soon sat at the conference table copying down names and license plates for his people to run criminal checks on. If, that is, they could read the handwriting of people using their steering wheels as writing desks.

  Darkness had overtaken the day, making it feel far later than it had any right to feel. Charlie processed the bike for prints and found Keen’s, her dad’s, and three sets of unidentified, but that didn’t mean much. Those prints could’ve been left there by the bike shop. Blake put out feelers for the few sex offenders in the area for alibis, but suspected there were many more unregistered in this remote, difficult-to-patrol spot.

  Blake knew all of it would prove worthless. But for the sake of the town, the people, and Keen’s family, they had to at least try.

  Blake called the other three people who worked at Dawson’s. No, Keen didn’t have any problems with anyone. No, she didn’t mention where she might be going that afternoon. And no idea where she might be now.

  When someone goes missing, and not by choice, most of the time the perp was someone the victim knew. But Keen Dawson had no enemies, no jealous exes, no abusive family members. Her bubble was small. The easy answer, the one most townspeople would want to believe, was that a stranger had done something to Keen. Blake wanted that to be the answer too.

  He took the list of everyone Keen had spoken to in the last few days; guilty or not, he would have to dig up their secrets, even the Dawsons’. They would need someone to point the finger at.

  Outside the storm pounded the town, reminding everyone what held the power. And somewhere amidst it all lay Keen.

  23

  Thursday Evening

  A strike of lightning woke her with a jolt, and Keen’s mind experienced the clarity that comes with rest, food, and water. Unfortunately, peace did not accompany her clarity. She remembered now what she’d only noticed earlier—the tent had been set up near a wash. S
he could picture the crack in the cliff filling with runoff water from the cliffs above. The sands of the desert couldn’t absorb much water, and floods formed in minutes.

  She closed her eyes, straining to hear past the rain. Outside a stream rushed, one she knew could get larger. She crawled out of the sleeping bag she must’ve climbed into in her sleep. With frantic fingers, she tried to unzip the tent door, but her fingers, stiff and thick, failed to grip the zipper. After several tries, she managed to pull it open. Her first attempt at stepping out of the tent ended with her lying in the mud next to it. There was no trip, no fall, just her on her back with the world swirling around her.

  Why did she feel this weak now, after actually eating and drinking? A crash of what sounded like thunder echoed, but she knew better from previous flash floods. The sound meant a torrent of water broke through the brush that had dared grow since the last storm.

  She forced herself to a sitting position. The open door of the tent faced her. She reached through it and grabbed the corner of the sleeping bag and pulled it out, almost on top of her. Attempting to stand made her throw up instead. Each heave brought a curse at the waste of it all. Once nothing remained in her gut, she crawled away from the tent, dragging the sleeping bag behind her. The wash surrounding the tent could soon be a river.

  After one more attempt to stand that brought on a few dry-heaves, she stayed close to the ground. The mud caked her hands and knees and the wound in her hand broke open, the warmth of her blood mixing with the cold of the mud. Only when the ground turned up and became more rock and less soil could she tell she’d climbed out of the wash. She kept moving a few more minutes to be sure. Behind her a new little stream gained in speed and size. She pulled herself up and clenched a nearby branch for support.

  With a jolt, she remembered the cooler. She’d left it behind and would need it. A few more halting steps proved she could walk a little without the dry-heaves. She grabbed on to branches as a sort of cane. A flash of lightning lit up the sky. Water flowed a few feet from the tent in what had been mud only a few minutes before.