Nighthawk

by Alan Monroe

  “I heard the sirens an hour ago,” said Curtis.

  “The guy drove the Tahoe off road where Hugh couldn’t take his police cruiser.”

  “Sissy judge in Seattle didn’t give the guy enough time in the slammer,” Roundtree interrupted.

  Davis glared at the young man as he drove. “I’m going to throw you out of the window if you interrupt me one more time Shorty.”

  Roundtree suppressed a laugh but stayed quiet as Davis continued to talk to Curtis. “Hugh was able to see the stolen Tahoe go up an old logging road about here.”

  Davis pointed to a spot on the folded map handing it to Curtis.

  The old man shook his head. “He won’t get far four wheel drive or not. Those roads haven’t been used in almost fifty years.”

  Davis nodded. “That’s exactly what Hugh thought. I have five deputies waiting, and ten more plus volunteers in route. The state police are on the way as well. Since you know the area so well, we want you to help us track him.”

  Curtis smiled and tried to straighten out the hump in his back. “I’d be glad to. I’m still pretty spry for an old fart.”

  Roundtree veered off of the road onto a well worn path created by Hugh and several other police Cruisers. The car bounced and shook its way down the bumpy path. Hugh had pulled his cruiser a full car length up the logging road in order to block it off in case the fugitive came back down. Hugh and the five other deputies stood gathered around a large map that covered the hood of Hugh’s cruiser. The storm clouds in the distance tried to force the sun behind the looming Little Chopaka Mountain, and Hugh held a flashlight over the map.

  Davis, Roundtree, and Curtis hurried from their Cruiser to the group of men gathered around the map.

  Davis glared at Tom again before he started to speak. “We have a pedophile some distance up this road with a ten year old girl. He is armed with a high powered rifle and a scope. I just got off the phone with the state police, and it turns out we are dealing with a bit of a survivalist. We need to find him before he gets lost in these woods. Hugh, how big of a head start does he have?”

  The large African-American spoke with a deep voice. “Not more than fifteen minutes. Of course he was driving part of the way, and we’re going to be walking.”

  Curtis allowed himself a small laugh. “He didn’t get more than fifty yards up this windy road. I was hunting rabbits up here last month, and there was a massive tree covering the road about fifty yards up from the tree line. No way to get around it or over it. He’s on foot by now.”

  The deputies stood quietly while Davis frowned at Curtis.

  Curtis quickly spoke again. “I meant I was hunting up here last winter when rabbits were in season of course. Either way he’s on foot by now.”

  “Here’s how we going to play this,” Davis said. “He’s on foot, and he’s dragging that girl with him. So he shouldn’t be tough to follow especially if the girl is resisting at all. Two of you will stay with the cruisers in case he doubles back on us. The rest of us will carefully follow this old road. Half of you will follow Mr. Curtis and me along the right side of the road. The other half will follow Tom and Hugh on the left side of the road. Look for any sign of him coming back down the road or leaving it to either side. He ought to be easy to spot in that bright orange fleece he’s wearing. Remember that he’s armed and dangerous; so stay close to the trees in case we need cover.”

  Hugh loaded his shotgun and slung it over his shoulder. “Tom and Jed are the best trackers we’ve got with us. Shouldn’t Jed lead the right hand column?”

  Davis shook his head. “Can’t let a civilian get shot instead of me.”

  “I’ll be glad to let you go ahead of me, Hugh,” Tom said.

  “No thanks,” Hugh said.

  The sheriff smiled. “Hugh is too big of a target. Ugly, but big. Tom, I wish we had your brother with us. He’s the best tracker in the county.”

  “Yea, he’s better than me,” Tom agreed. “But he’s been out of state for the past few days hunting in Idaho.”

  Davis walked a short distance up the logging road. “Let’s move out before the pervert’s in Idaho too.”

  I less than five minutes, the search party walked far enough up the road to reach the abandoned Tahoe; the suspect made no attempt to take the sport utility vehicle over the big log Curtis had described. Davis carefully opened the door and removed the keys from the still running vehicle. Hugh popped the hood, and Tom cut the battery cables with a pocket knife.

  Davis addressed his men. “Keep moving forward while watching for any sign of them leaving the road. But keep a sharp eye out because he has got that rifle.”

  A quarter of an hour hike along the muddy road led them up a steep grade toward massive Little Chopaka Mountain looming in the distance like a dark presence. Two sets of boot prints left clear cuts in the thick mud in the road’s center. Every minute or so, Curtis wordlessly pointed to a mark in the mud that he claimed was fresh and Tom nodded in agreement. The disappearance of the smaller set of prints accompanied by long horizontal marks in the mud showed where the girl had fallen and been drug for several feet.

  Upon reaching an unusually straight section of the road, Davis turned around and started to speak when a single bullet cracked down the road. Both columns of men dove into the forest on their respective sides of the logging road with one notable exception. Jed Curtis lay in the mud clutching a bullet wound on his hip. Davis immediately dove on top of Curtis and dragged him into the trees as bullets splattered in the muddy road around him.

  “Where are the shots coming from?” Davis yelled.

  Tom spoke first as he unshouldered his rifle. “They’re coming from about seventy yards up the road.”

  “How is Jed?” Hugh asked.

  “I don’t have a clear shot,” Roundtree said as he looked up the road through his rifle scope.

  Davis rose to his knees and applied a pressure bandage to Curtis’ wound. “Bullet shattered his hip, but he’ll live.”

  Suddenly the gun shots stopped as a feminine scream tore through the trees. However the pitch of the scream continued to change as if the source were moving up and down hills and passing behind countless trees while running.

  “You hear that?” Tom asked.

  “Yea, sounds like she got away,” Hugh said.

  Davis turned his first aid duties over to a deputy. “Tom if you get a clear shot, take it, but lay down some shots way high so he’ll keep his head down. Hugh you’re with me. Follow that scream.”

  Davis and Hugh tore through the forest trying to pinpoint the scream. The two men breathed heavily as they trudged through mud and wet leaves while they silently prayed they would find the source of the scream before the kidnapper. Davis carried his forty-five caliber automatic drawn and ready and Hugh followed with a shotgun. The girl’s screams slowly turned into a loud but panicked breathing as she ran through the forest, and the rifle shots from up the mountain stopped.

  Hugh and Davis rounded a particularly large tree and the terrified girl ran right into Davis’ arms. Hugh immediately brought the shotgun to his shoulder and scanned the forest behind the terrified girl. Large bruises covered her face, and she had a few teeth missing. Her mouth opened and close, but no words formed. Sweat coated her face, but her teeth still chattered as if she nearly froze.

  If he had not hugged her so tightly, the girl would have run right through his arms and down the steep hillside. Davis prayed that she had not been raped as he tried to grip her flailing arms while she tried to continue running.

  “It’s o.k. now. We’re police. It’s o.k. we’re going to take you home.”

  Hugh stood behind the large tree still searching the forest. “You ready to go back down the hill boss?”

  “You bet,” Davis replied.

  Davis picked up the young girl in his arms and carried her back down to the point where he and Hugh left Tom and the other deputies as the rain began to pour. When they arrived, they found that two deputies had
taken the wounded Curtis down the mountain on a collapsible stretcher.

  “You boys receive any more gun fire?” Davis asked.

  “No,” Tom replied. “He took off not to long after the girl got away.”

  “Hugh, take this girl down the mountain. Tom and the rest will stay with me so we track this guy.”

  Tom shook his head. “Sherriff, it won’t do any good. I walked up to where he was shooting from just before the rain started, and he’s finally left the road. I don’t know if he left the road because he’s smart or if it’s just his own dumb luck. With this down pour, we won’t be able to track him. It’s going to last at least a full day; we could walk within ten feet of him without knowing it. Dog’s will be useless in this weather.”

  The sheriff frowned and sighed. “I know you’re right. We’ll set up road blocks, and patrol all roads near the forest. Let’s head out.”

  “I hate to let this guy get away, “Hugh said.

  “Me too,” the sheriff responded. “I don’t like unfinished business, and I hate for him to have the chance to do this again.”

  Hugh spat into the mud. “Guy like that deserves to rot.”

  “Amen to that,” responded Davis.

  Tom shook his head. “Don’t worry sheriff. You did everything right, and we got the girl back.”

  Davis looked at the girl now being carried by Hugh a short distance away. “We didn’t get her justice though.”

  Tom turned and looked at the trees. “I wouldn’t worry boss; this guy’s in tough country.”

  “What do you mean, Tom?” Davis asked.

  "Sometimes the wilderness has its own justice.”

  Davis snapped out of his daydream as a soft hand touched his shoulder.

  “Didn’t mean to scare you,” Misty said as she sat down beside him.

  “Just thinking,” Davis replied.

  Monday May 6, 6:00 a.m.

  Nighthawk sat nestled against the east bank of the Similkameen River in a valley between Little Chopaka Mountain and Ellemehan Mountain. Initially, the slopes held only grass and few scattered trees, but further up both mountain sprouted dense forests. Abandoned mine tunnels pocked the side of Ellemeham Mountain while both bore the signs of logging activity in the past.

  Tom looked out his car window as he turned onto Log Camp Road; three trailers and even the cab of an eighteen-wheeler littered the grassy field on the edge of Nighthawk. The few residents parked in the median of the divided road. An abandoned log structure sat on the left side of the road while a large metal building occupied the right side of the road. Tom drove by long abandoned hotel and house of ill repute; he glanced up the hill at the mine’s collapsing bunkhouse. Weather marks pitted the old wooden sides of the abandoned buildings while multiple holes covered the roofs. Tom felt the potholes in his spine with every jolt.

  After driving quickly through the old ghost town, Roundtree found one of the very few inhabited structures for miles. The sign read, "Nighthawk Inn, Jedadiah Curtis, Owner, and Operator." The inn stood out as the newest wooden structure in the town at just over fifty years old; Curtis kept the giant log cabin in pristine condition. Roundtree met Jedidiah Curtis six years ago on the very day the man was shot in the hip by a kidnapper. He surprised doctors by recuperating quickly after his hip replacement surgery and regaining the ability to walk. A thick wooden cane helped him compensate for the slight limp that limited his mobility.

  At eighty-seven, the old man often stated he planned to die in Nighthawk. Curtis began working in the mine for which the town was named in 1932; after the mine closed in 1940, he worked for a timber company until 1955. What had once been a rosy future quickly evaporated when the timber company abandoned the town due to a series of accidents and equipment failures not to mention its isolated location. Jedadiah Curtis, however, refused to give up on Nighthawk. He had been renting rooms for fifty-two years, mostly to backpackers, fisherman, and people that wanted to spend the night in a real ghost town.

  Roundtree parked his truck next to a group of vehicles across the street from the inn; several of the other expedition members sat the porch with steaming cups of coffee in their hands. As soon as he got out of his truck, one man in his mid sixties immediately stood up and walked toward Roundtree leaving tiny footprints in the fresh snow. The bald, stocky man with a neatly trimmed white beard carried a never-ending smile along with a twinkle in his eye that reminded Roundtree of Santa Claus. The little man made the five foot five inch Roundtree feel tall.

  "Hey Tom, how do you feel about this snow in May?"

  Tom smiled, "Must be the global warming, Doc."

  Dr. Smith laughed and shook a finger at Tom. "I knew you would not be able to keep your conservative tendencies in check. Are you going pick at us liberals constantly for the next three weeks?"

  The two men warmly shook hands and walked to the porch. "Every chance I get."

  Tom met Dr. Smith when he while majoring in criminal justice at the University of Washington. Smith somehow managed to maintain a positive reputation in the scientific community while openly professing a belief in Bigfoot. Tom attended open discussion forums held on campus which conducted by the excited little professor. Tom began speaking with Dr. Smith after the forums and the two became close friends. Once he became a police officer, Tom shared Bigfoot reports from Okanogan County while the professor listened eagerly for new evidence in the sighting. When the Dr. Smith secured funding for an expedition in Tom’s home county, he naturally insisted Tom join the team.

  "Let me introduce you to the entire team."

  Dr. Smith stood in front of the entire group and cleared his throat. "I believe you all know each other, but I want to make formal introductions. I am of course Dr. Travis Smith, Professor of Biology from the University of Washington and your expedition leader. Please refrain from all height jokes." Dr. Smith paused for the expected laughter, and he then gestured to African-American woman in her fifties. "My colleague from the university is Dr. Susan Rhoades. She is without a doubt the best zoologist in the state." Dr. Smith pointed to two people in their mid twenties. One was an average height man of Latino descent; the other was fairly short young lady who looked as if she spent a lot of time hiking. "Our graduate students: Simeon Tamayo, from New Mexico studying biology; Rachael Patrice, from Southern California studying zoology." Dr. Smith placed his hand on the shoulder of a tall well tanned young man wearing a cowboy hat. "Mr. Luke Wallace will be our guide. He is well respected as a wilderness guide across the entire state." Finally he turned to Roundtree, “And last but not least, Mr. Tom Roundtree. A young man I have known for almost ten years. I am not sure if he is a true believer, or if he is humoring an old man. Tom is a chief deputy with the Okanogan County Sheriffs Department. Now that the formalities are out of the way, let’s have our last meal in civilization."

  The entire group filed into the dining room of the Nighthawk Inn made from the very timber cut around the town itself. Trophy bass, moose, deer, and even a bear covered the dining room walls. The chair legs, made by Curtis himself, looked like actual tree trunks. They sat around the huge dinging room table as Jedediah Curtis served them large helpings of bacon, sausage, eggs, pancakes, and biscuits.

  Dr. Rhoades finished her meal first. "Mr. Curtis, I was wondering if you could give a little insight on the local weather forecast. You probably have a better idea of the weather in this area than the weather man. Are we going to spend the next three weeks hiking around in the snow?"

  Curtis limped to a seat at the far end of the table from Dr. Rhoades and Dr. Smith. "If it’s snow you're worried about, you can ignore it. We won't get any more snow till after summer. When you’ve lived someplace as long as I have, you can feel the weather in your bones. You'll be plenty cool day and night though. But all of this snow will be gone by this afternoon, even up at the higher elevations."

  "You sound quite sure of yourself," Rachael said with a trace of doubt.

  Roundtree cleared his throat. "I wouldn't doubt ol�
� Curtis; he's right more than he is wrong."

  Curtis thanked Tom, and then looked down the long table. "I don't mean to be rude or to pry, but you folks have made no secret of why you’re here. And I appreciate the business. I've lived in and around this area for eighty-seven years, and I’ve never seen any trace of Bigfoot. I haven’t even heard of any Bigfoot sightings in this area in a long time. What makes you think you are going to find anything in these parts?"

  Dr. Smith stood up and began to adjust his pants; Dr. Rhoades closed her eyes and shook her head. "Mr. Curtis let me pose some yes or no questions please." Curtis nodded in agreement. "The Nighthawk Mine and subsequently the town of Nighthawk were established in the late 1800s, correct?"

  "Yes."

  He placed his hands behind his back circling the table. "This is well before sightings of Bigfoot became a common occurrence?"

  "If you say so."

  "That I can assure you is true. That is also before the Pacific Northwest was as populated as it is now?"

  "That I know is true. Not that you can tell the Pacific Northwest is populated by looking at Nighthawk population 5 whole people."

  "That is precisely my point, Mr. Curtis. How long has Nighthawk been essentially a ghost town?"

  "About fifty years ago the population shrank to less than fifty. Within ten years of that the railroad took up the tracks and the town has been dead ever since. I get by on folks hiking and cross country skiing in the hills east of here."

  Dr. Smith smiled. "Other than travel down the road, when is the last time someone ventured west of the Simikameen River?"

  Curtis pondered the question for a moment. “A few years ago the state cut a fire break west of here in order to protect an area of old growth forest. Aside from that there’s been very little activity west of the river.”

  Dr. Smith’s smile grew wide. “When the timber companies left over fifty years ago, they left an area of over one hundred square miles of old growth forest untouched. The area is on Little Chopaka Mountain. Since then the huge surrounding area once logged by timber companies has been allowed to recover on its own. My theory is that in the late 1800s Bigfoot left this area due to the mining and timber activities. The fifty year dead period combined with growth in other parts of the state has made this area attractive to the last unknown great ape; one might even describe Little Chopaka Mountain as a sanctuary. I believe we will find more and more evidence of Bigfoot’s existence the closer we get to that area of old growth forest on Little Chopaka Mountain. We will become one with the environment as much as possible. And we will hopefully bring back evidence of the first great zoological find of the twenty-first century. ”