Chasing the Demon

by Paul Sating

  A short, harsh laugh burst out of him. He never reacted well to manipulation, not from strangers, peers, friends or family. "Other people can kiss my ass," he finally said, drawing the line in the sand. It was up to Peter to cross it or not.

  "Would you feel that way if I told you that I'm one of those people?" Peter asked. There was a soft vulnerability in his voice.

  "What do you mean?"

  "They came today."

  Jared swallowed. They came? "What are you talking about, Peter? Who? You're not making any sense."

  "In the parking garage," Peter's voice shook. He didn't attempt to hide it from Jared. "After work. They followed me to my car. I didn't even notice them until ... until they had me cornered. Two of them. Middle-aged, white men. Large."

  "What happened?"

  "I'll be fine," Peter evaded the question. "Listen, I'm serious. I need you to take some time away from this. From everything. Give up this chase. Give up Sasquatch. Go invest your energy in Maria. Give her all of you, instead of this pursuit. It'll suck the soul out of you, Jared. I swear it. You've been doing this for twenty years. Isn't it time to do something else? Think about it, please. Do it for me. Do it for Maria. Do it for your marriage. Hell, do it for you. I know you love doing this. This is your passion. I get all of it ... I do."

  What did those bastards do to get to Peter like this? Jared wanted to push; he wanted to know the real story about what happened to his friend while he was up in Port Angeles making progress with Maria and that damned ape. While his world was headed in the right direction, his friend's life was being turned upside down by thugs from the fringes of cryptozoology? Peter didn't have to leverage guilt to get his attention; he needed to tell him the damn truth!

  What the hell is wrong with these assholes? Was it assault or simply a scare tactic? And to be so bold, so brazen, as to do it in a parking garage where they had to know there might be witnesses and surveillance cameras? That spoke volumes about their desperation.

  But ...

  What Peter was asking was impossible. There was no way he could honor it. Not now. Peter had to know that. They'd just seen each other. Peter had the goddamn prints! The only missing piece of the puzzle was what happened last night.

  And that didn't even matter. Nothing less than undisputable proof sufficed.

  Jared tried to soften the blow. "I'm hearing you, Peter. I am. Please don't think I'm not. What you're asking me to do ... I don't know if I can."

  "If you'd been standing there with me, facing those two behemoths, wondering if I was going to be able to crawl away after they were done, the decision might be easier." Another pause. Another deep breath.

  Jared bit back his response, sensing his friend was struggling. This wasn't Peter, not the Peter he knew.

  "Sorry," Peter moaned. "That's not fair."

  "I don't want you threatened. I'm glad you're okay but I'm enraged they think I can be bullied into quitting. I'd love to get my hands on them." He meant it too. Not a violent man by any measure, there were things that set him off. Wasn't everyone like that? Especially men? Wasn't there something in the evolutionary code of ethics that demanded it? You didn't threaten anyone he cared about. Ever.

  "That would do nothing for you or your cause."

  "I know, but it'd make me feel a whole lot better," Jared laughed tightly, trying to give his friend a sense that it was a half-handed comment, nothing more. Is it?

  When Peter laughed Jared relaxed. "You're a passionate man, I'll give you that."

  "Peter, I'm sorry," Jared said. "This is crazy. I don't care about them harassing me but I never wanted other people to pay the price for me."

  "I know," Peter said. "You're a good man and a great researcher. And I know I'm asking more of you than anyone should. Take your time. Think about it. But don't take forever. I don’t know how long you have." The change was as quick as it was unexpected. Had Jared's reaction scared Peter away or talked him off the edge? Or did it remind him that to ask Jared to stop would be to ask him to slit his own wrists? "Who knows? Maybe something will break soon, with the right attention, and all of this will be for naught."

  He couldn't waver. He couldn't appear to even consider Peter's demand that he quit. "I guess."

  For his part, Peter seemed to understand and stopped pushing. Even the tone of his voice changed. Jared didn't expect him to give up the fight but Peter was smart enough to know that wars weren't won in a single battle. There would be another day to fight; you only had to survive to show up for the formation. Jared secretly pitied his friend who still didn't understand that he wasn't going to quit, he wasn't going to stop looking until he completely walked away. What Peter didn’t understand, what a lot of people didn’t understand, was that no cost was too high. Sometimes in life, there were just things that needed to be done, things that a person had to accomplish before they spent eternity in a rotting box six feet underground.

  Peter reacted in a chipper tone. "I have a feeling it will. Those prints you brought me? They're very impressive."

  "Oh, yeah?" Jared tried to not sound too excited after forcing his friend to back off.

  "They're legitimate." Jared could almost make out Peter's smile through the phone.

  Jared chuckled. "I know that."

  "There's no doubt in my mind they are from dynamic compression, not a stomp impact," Peter was putting his scientist hat back on. "So you'll have to break the bad news to skeptics that Ray Pickens didn't come out of retirement to screw with researchers and an unsuspecting public." Jared was impressed at his friend's mention of one of the first, and most famous debunked claims of Bigfoot evidence, one that was over fifty years old and still haunting legitimate researchers to this day.

  "You saw the pressure ridges?"

  "Yeah."

  "Can you imagine how long it would take a hobbyist to individually carve thousands of those into some mold he could slap on a boot?" Peter asked rhetorically. "That'd be dedication. And the toes on the third cast? I'm not sure if you noticed but they aren't like the other two."

  "I didn't. What did I miss?" He hadn't had a chance to look at them. He intended to study them more closely when he had a chance to breathe.

  "The toes are flexed. It makes sense and it's a good thing you grabbed some pictures of the site so I could understand why. Cast three was the one on the slope that ran up from the river, right?"

  "Yeah, I wanted to grab a couple different casts there because once it got into the underbrush the ones I could find were too poor to cast."

  "No, no, that's good," Peter's excitement swelled. Something big was coming, Jared knew it. His friend was predictable that way. "Flat ground prints are one thing but prints from inclined or declined slopes are different altogether. This one is good, probably your best. The toes are flexed and deeply impressed like the Sasquatch was trying to gain a foothold. There's a ridge of river mud pushed up into the creature's forefoot, that is absent in the other two prints and the heel is barely noticeable, again unlike the other two. It shows a great degree of midfoot flexibility, greater than what you'll find in humans.

  "It clearly shows the midfoot bearing the weight of the animal, consistent with other suspected Sasquatch prints, and even other primates," Peter continued, the pace of his words picking up. "In your cast, the deepest part of the imprint is anterior to the midtarsal joint. As if that wasn't enough, I was able to find sweat pores in the damn prints, Jared. Sweat pores! You cast beauties."

  So that was why Peter was so excited. Because of the conditions of Forks, he might have cast the most solid print evidence in history. And all thanks to an out-of-towner who didn't think any of this was real until he saw it for himself. Thank God for Frank Hollenbeck’s decision to serve science. "I knew it! You've made my day, Peter."

  "Calm down, buddy," Peter laughed. "That's not all I found. Four billion years of evolution makes distinguishing bipedal species from quadrupedal brethren a whole lot easier. I'm confident these cannot be bear tracks. Bear pads taper
to a blunt point and are usually separated from the interdigital pad by a distinct crease. Plus, bears carry most of their weight on their forelimbs like most quadrupeds do, so those forward prints will show deeper impressions. Bipedal animals carry their weight towards their rear, so the beauty that is evolution gives us broader heel bones. Apes, humans, maybe Sasquatch, have thicker, broader heel bones than what you'll find in a quadrupedal animal. Just like these prints.

  "I don't want to get too geeky on you," Peter said while Jared thought it was too late for that, "but body weight increases to the cube of linear dimensions, and the surface area of the sole of the foot increases to the square. So foot length and breadth increase with the increased height of the animal. These prints are sixteen inches, Jared. Sixteen inches!"

  Jared's head swirled. He needed a translator with Peter sometimes. "This is starting to sound promising. What are you getting at?"

  "I called on a favor from a forensic analyst friend of mine."

  Jared laughed. "Damn, you're connected. I'm glad you're on my side."

  "I'm on the side of science," Peter reminded him, a playfulness to his voice that overrode any serious undertones. "You're only getting this intel because you're a decent guy. Anyways, using a superimposition method with a graduated pole, he came to the conclusion that whatever left these prints—"

  "Sasquatch," Jared cut him off.

  "He's not going to say that, buddy. Sorry. Whatever left these prints was big."

  "How big?"

  Peter's humor was replaced with awe. "Over seven and a half feet tall and weighing nearly seven hundred pounds."

  Jared drove in stunned silence, thinking about what it all meant. He clicked off the recorder. Frank Hollenbeck had unknowingly found a monster. Jared had probably the best prints anyone had ever cast.

  The western side of the Olympics was the place to be, the place demanding focus. If Bigfoot was going to be found, it would be there. To steal a rural American colloquialism, 'they grew 'em big out here.'

  Jared said his goodbyes to Peter, thanking him for his time and for his concern. He promised he would do a lot of thinking about the quixotic request that started the conversation. Peter got reflective, almost vulnerable when he thanked Jared for that.

  *****

  After they hung up, Jared drove in silence as he weaved his way back to Olympia.

  The moment moved him, the realization that a life's work was coming together.

  Peter, threatened.

  The print in Forks.

  Pushing forward.

  Pushing against resistance.

  He was going to make this right with everyone who supported him. He needed to finish.

  He was so close.

  So damn close.

  13

  The phone rang.

  His heart thumped against his chest wall. He swallowed the lump in his throat.

  Waiting.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  He was about to hang up when she answered. "Hey, Jared," Maria sounded concerned like his call was the last thing she was expecting. "Is everything—"

  "I'm sorry," he started, and once he began, the words came out so effortlessly. "I'm sorry for everything I've done, for every single time I put us off to go on an expedition. For every single time, I've asked you to give up something for me. For every single time, you slept alone in that bed because I was out chasing a childhood nightmare. It was unfair and selfish. I was unfair and selfish."

  "Where's this coming—"

  "Please," he interrupted again, gentler, "Please. I need to say this. You've deserved so much better than what I've given you. I don't know where I went wrong. One day we were partying in college, not having a care in the world beyond how many papers we could bullshit our way through and the next we were fighting day in and day out about everything. I don't know when it all changed but I know why it did. It was me and my self-centered fixation. I cannot believe you put up with me as long as you did. I owe you so much."

  "You don't owe me anything, Jared," Maria's voice was soft, warm. Welcoming. "There isn't a couple out there whose marriage doesn't have bumps and potholes. We're no different. I put up with your crazy pursuits just like you sacrificed for me."

  "Not even close," he countered kindly. "You put your graduate degree on hold. You let promotion opportunities pass because I was constantly gone and someone needed to take care of everything else. I didn't even ask."

  "Jared, listen to me. Those things don't matter anymore. We both made mistakes. We both screwed up and did things that harmed our marriage. I'm just as guilty as you."

  He shook his head, not that she could see it. "Don't. Don't say that. Please."

  There was a pause on the line, a reflective silence. "What's this about? Have you told anyone else what happened? Why you're really doing all of this?" The unspoken confirmation hung in the silence that followed. As he was about to speak, Maria said, "That's what I thought. You're going to have to deal with this before you can move on, Jared. You know that, right? If you're serious about this, if you're serious about us, you're going to have to bury your demons. I hope you can, because if you can't ..."

  Jared switched off the recorder. He was sure some people would question his judgment, determining for him what was inappropriate to record for the podcast. But they didn't matter. It was his podcast, his life, his journey that he was documenting. He wasn't doing it for their entertainment and enjoyment. He was doing what he needed to do. And this was part of that, what needed to be done. Capturing the cost of his research was always going to be part of it because it'd always been part of it, ever since that day at camp when Bigfoot traipsed into their world.

  And changed his life forever.

  Jared thought he was ready but Maria had a way of clinging to things he didn't want her to focus on. He'd called her to apologize for the way he'd wronged her throughout their marriage by putting the investigation first, and she'd taken that opportunity to focus on things that didn't matter anymore. Things that were far in the past. Things that were part of another life ... someone else's life.

  *****

  He didn't even look at the recorder again.

  Not for days.

  He didn't want to.

  That thing was permanently linked to this. Bigfoot. Peter. Maria. This group of ... what the hell were they? Rival investigators? Big-money thugs? It was the one tangible thing he actually had to point at and say 'there, you see, you fucker? Every goddamn thing that has gone wrong in my life is contained therein. You bastard. You. Fucking. Bastard!' There was no peace. No resolution and no progress.

  He hated himself whenever he looked at the recorder.

  So ...

  ... he didn't.

  Instead, he ate; he drank; he watched sports and read parts of a novel he had been meaning to read for a long time.

  He didn't leave the house.

  He didn't answer the calls when they came.

  Someone knocked on the door once; he couldn't remember which day it was. He didn't answer it.

  For days he sheltered himself in the house, away from the world and the thoughts it provoked. He sheltered his mind, body, and his soul ...

  ... before they destroyed him.

  14

  Jared took a deep breath before pressing RECORD.

  Am I ready to start this again?

  Such a simple question, yet one with so many implications.

  He could say yes, but wasn't that one of his biggest problems with other people? They answered their own personal questions well before they should, not taking the time to assess what those answers would mean. Instead, people acted, reacted, without regard, often times harming themselves in some form or fashion, or harming others in a way that sent them off course. Small decisions, big decisions, it didn't matter. People were busy with life or distracting themselves with things that entertained them, too busy to assess what it was they should be doing when faced with a decision. Cars and houses th
ey couldn't afford? No big deal, we'll spend the rest of our lives paying for them. Do we need a house that large? Well, the school district is nice and we don't have to have every room decorated; plus we can take out a thirty-year mortgage. No, no. we don't need to put anything into savings. 401k? Whose got money for those things? We're not rich. But, yes, I must have this huge house, no cars older than three years, two-hundred-dollar coffee makers. What? The kids need five hundred dollars in dental work? Well, where are we going to get that kind of money?

  People's poor choices weren't restricted to money either. Jared wasn't sure if people understood how to live happy lives when he saw so many of them dreading waking up each and every day to head off to jobs they hated. What about the vacation days they wasted traveling for some family obligation they didn't want to attend to appease some relative from an older generation? Drinking and driving. Affairs. Too much porn. Being absorbed by Facebook instead of watching their kid's soccer practice. He could go on and on about humans and their decision-making faults. He was sensitive to it and tried his best to not mimic the questionable tactics and choices of others, to not allow them to influence his own actions.

  Which was why he'd holed up for days now, his remote control trading places with that book—which he finished—and his thoughts. A few too many good beers thrown in for good measure. Craft beers, of course.

  Everything was getting away from him between what happened in Forks, the visit to Maria, and Peter's phone call about what happened to him.

  He didn't press his friend when he got back into town. He didn't even call him. Jared figured that if Peter had something to get off his chest then he would call or visit. He did neither. And Jared was grateful for that. The peace and quiet, the chance to be alone with his thoughts, was something he needed as soon as he got back from the mountains. The fact that at least a pair of Sasquatch had visited his camp was something he still couldn't wrap his head around. Stuff like that didn't happen to anyone, not any reliable investigator. It happened to liars and cheats. It happened to drunk hillbillies who wanted five minutes of fame in their tiny local newspaper. It happened to city people who'd been talked into camping by their friends and only went after a lot of pouting and tantrum-throwing. Deep down they were afraid of being out in the wild, without the protection of lights and walls and the comfort of television to get them through the dark night. They heard things, saw things, that were unfamiliar and their fear painted in the rest of the picture, usually with the most hyperbolic details. Sasquatch walking up to an experienced researcher's camp just didn't happen.