by D P Lyle
Maybe Gold Creek wouldn’t be a bad place to live. Of course, the air was a little thinner up here. She slowed her pace and wiped sweat from her face with the hem of her tee shirt.
She continued to follow the trail, which cut through knee-deep grasses dotted with blue lupine, raspberry and lemon colored Indian paintbrush, and purple polemonium, before meandering upward toward a grove of aspens, which hugged the base of the mountains. She settled into a comfortable stride, losing herself in thought. The rhythm of her breathing melded with the soft pat-pat-pat of her footfalls.
*
He followed her progress from deep in the trees, her form visible in flashes through rifts in the thick foliage. He moved higher, mounting a rock outcropping, and pushed a sagging spruce branch aside. Now, with an unobstructed view, he saw her more clearly. Her body was tight, athletic, and he marveled at her grace. Strong, lithe, she seemed to run without effort, her strawberry-blonde ponytail bouncing behind her in rhythm with each stride.
Who was she? Where had she come from? He knew everyone in town, or at least at one time he had, but had never seen her. Or the young swimmer he had seen earlier. He settled back into the shadows and watched her glide up the meadow’s slope toward the forest.
*
By the time Sam reached the trees, the sun had dipped behind the peaks to the west, casting the entire valley in deepening shadows. She continued along the path, winding her way through a grove of white barked aspens. Their apple green canopies fluttered in the breeze and threw a protective shroud over their saplings, which, though slim and delicate, stood as straight as their parents.
The trail continued upward into the thicker spruces. Ahead, she heard the muted rumble of waterfall, a sound that grew louder with each stride, and then she saw glimpses of it through the trees. The trail swept around a cluster of pines before opening into a small clearing at the fall’s edge. She stopped.
Before her, the water swirled and tumbled over a rocky ledge, and then fell a hundred feet or more in a thick column toward a clear pool. The ground beneath her throbbed with the water’s power and its bracing spray cooled her skin. Sweat and mist collected on her brow and she wiped it away with the back of her hand.
After taking a few deep breaths, she continued along the trail, which climbed the steep slope, paralleling the swirling waters for a short distance, before turning to the west, toward home. She had been running for 45 minutes and guessed another 30 minutes would bring her back to the Aspen Creek Inn.
Just before the trail turned back into the trees, she caught a glimpse of a broad rocky ledge that cantilevered over the falls, a hundred feet above her. She veered off the trail and trudged upward through the spruces.
As she stepped from the trees and onto the flat ledge, the valley opened before her in a panorama that literally took her breath away. The valley floor was a blanket of rich green and to the west the sun gilded the edges of the peaks and painted the sky a golden peach. She looked down on the rumbling waterfall as it plunged into the mist-shrouded pool she had seen earlier. From the pool, a broad creek emerged and wound its way toward town.
She absorbed the view and the clean crisp air for a few minutes, before turning to head back down to the trail.
Then, she saw it.
Something moved through the trees above her. She eased to the edge of the clearing and ducked behind a thick spruce trunk. Her heart jumped to a higher gear and suddenly the air seemed even thinner.
Peering around the tree, she saw nothing but she heard it, plowing through the brush and tree limbs, seemingly unconcerned. Then, the dark form reappeared. It moved among the shadows, a difficult to define mass, coming down the slope, directly toward her. She couldn’t make out any details or colors, only its size, which was huge and seemed to grow second by second.
What the hell was it? A bear? What should she do? She spun her fanny pack around and unzipped it. Her fingers closed around the Berretta. Not exactly the ideal weapon for bear hunting. No way it would kill or even harm it. More likely only anger it.
Think, Samantha.
She had read somewhere that defending yourself from a bear differed, depending upon whether it was a Grizzly or a Black Bear. One you fought; the other you played dead. But, which was which? It didn’t matter, she wouldn’t know one from the other anyway.
Her first impulse was to run, but she also remembered reading that running was dangerous regardless of what type of bear it was. It would be bigger, faster, and would think anything running from it must be food.
She sidestepped to her right and squatted behind a stocky boulder. A small gap between two other nearby rocks looked inviting and she considered wedging herself in the shadows of the crevice. But, if the bear found her, sniffed her out, she would be trapped. Indecision paralyzed her.
The crunching and scraping grew louder. She peeked over the rock. It was closer, maybe a hundred feet away, but was still difficult to see clearly in the deepening gloom of the forest. Yet, now she could tell that it didn’t move like a bear, but rather walked upright.
She dug her toes into the loose soil as would a sprinter. Hopefully, whoever or whatever it was would pass by and not notice her. But, if it did, it was too big to fight and her small caliber gun wouldn’t stop anything that size. Her only hope would be to outrun it. She crouched, coiled for flight.
It moved to her left, rounding the boulder. She tensed, her legs burning with anticipation. Just as she prepared to launch herself forward, the hulk spoke.
“Hello there.”
She jumped, losing her balance, grabbing the face of the boulder for support. She looked up into two dark eyes and a thickly bearded face.
To say he was big didn’t cover the subject. Not even close. Six-four, possibly 300 pounds, with a barrel chest and muscular arms. He held a tall walking stick in his left hand and a stuffed backpack hung from his other shoulder.
“Hello,” he repeated. “Who are you?”
“Sam,” she managed to squeak out.
“I’m sorry.” A broad smile erupted. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“You did. I thought you might be a bear.”
He laughed. A deep laugh that resonated in his cavernous chest. “Well, I am. People call me Billy Bear.”
Billy Bear?
The Billy Bear that killed Lloyd Varney? Or might have anyway. He possessed the same bull like build as the man who ran over her last night. Was it just last night? She looked down. His boots. Big, wide, new, but in the shadowy light, she couldn’t determine the make. Her hand slipped within the fanny pack and once again wrapped around the gun.
Her mind raced. Stay or run, be cool or panic? Show the gun? Fighting didn’t seem a good option. Her sore fists would probably crumble against his square jaw.
As if he sensed her apprehension, he said, “Don’t be afraid, I’m harmless.” He extended a hand toward her. “Nice to meet you, Sam.”
Sam froze for a second, unsure what to do with the thick-fingered hand that he extended toward her. Finally, she released the gun and they shook hands, her fingers disappearing inside his massive paw, which pumped her arm up and down.
Sam couldn’t imagine Billy actually being born. He must have been constructed. Probably by Peterbilt. He was as wide as a freeway and appeared as solid as concrete. A thick brown beard, peppered with gray, hid everything except his nose and a pair of intense espresso-colored eyes, which emitted an impish twinkle when he spoke. Unruly dark hair swept back into a ponytail that hung to his mid back. He wore a faded, sweat-stained yellow Caterpillar hat and a brown and green checked flannel shirt, sleeves ripped off at the shoulder seam, exposing biceps as big as her thighs.
“Nice to meet you,” Sam said.
“A little flimsy for hiking,” he said, eying her outfit.
“I wasn’t. Just out for a run.”
“From where?” Billy crossed his arms over his chest.
Conflicting signals. His size and mountain man crudeness were intimidating, b
ut his relaxed manner, soothingly resonant voice, and soft brown eyes were non-threatening, even comforting. Sam felt her inner tension wane slightly.
“I’m visiting a friend. Alyss Cameron.”
“Yeah. Don’t really know her. Seen her a few times. Seems like a nice lady.”
“She is.”
“Well, how do you like our fair city?”
“I just got in last night. Haven’t seen much of it yet.”
“Well, right here’s one of the prettiest sights in the state.” He moved out of the trees and across the open area to the edge of a shear cliff. He slipped his backpack from his shoulder, eased it and the walking stick to the ground, and took a deep breath. “Ain’t this grand?”
Sam stepped out of the trees, hesitated, looked back over her shoulder toward the trail below them. “I should be getting back.”
Either Billy didn’t hear her or chose to ignore her. “Right there,” he said, pointing downward, “is where Gold Creek begins.” He sat down on the ledge, his feet dangling over the edge. “Isn’t this the prettiest place you’ve ever seen?”
“It’s beautiful,” Sam agreed. She adjusted the gun in her fanny pack so she could easily grab it if needed. Yet, she didn’t sense Billy meant her any harm. He didn’t act like a murderer on the lam. Of course, he could simply be a cool customer. Maybe trying to get her to let down her guard.
He rocked back and forth slightly as he gazed out over the valley. “I love it up here. Not just right here, but up here anywhere. Away from people. Just me and Mother Nature.”
“A real renegade, huh?” Sam said.
He smiled. “Yes. And no. Like everyone else around here, I’m a landowner. With a house made from trees and a gas guzzling truck. I just apologize to nature for it. Others don’t.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just that. I spend part of everyday up here. Hiking, enjoying what Mother has to offer.”
“And that’s an apology?”
“Of sorts. I believe it makes her happy when we enjoy her beauty. Aren’t most women that way?” He flashed a devilish grin.
Despite her earlier apprehensions, Sam began to relax. “Most men would like to believe that,” she laughed.
Billy laughed with her, rocking back on his hands. “Still, nature is pure, people are mostly bullshit. She’s beautiful, glorious, and honest. Also deadly and merciless. But either way, whether she kisses you or kills you, it’s real.”
“I’ve never heard it put that way before,” Sam said.
“Look down at that meadow.” He pointed with his walking stick. “Peaceful, serene, full of renewing life. But, also a killing field. Mother rabbit gives birth to her young, hides them, protects them. Yet, a coyote or a bobcat or a hawk can take one of them in a heartbeat, without warning. The young rabbit’s death squeal might silence nature for a brief moment, but soon the sounds of rooting and feeding and hunting and singing return as if nothing had happened. That’s pure, simple, honest.”
“You’re quite a poet,” Sam said.
“A regular John Muir or Walt Whitman.” He rocked back again and released a full-throated laugh.
Billy slid a thick hunting knife from its scabbard, which rested against the small of his back, the blade making a soft twanging sound. Sam gripped the gun, her trigger finger sliding into position. An apple appeared from Billy’s backpack and he deftly sliced off a chunk, offering it to Sam on the knife’s blade.
“Thanks.” With her other hand she took the apple slice and bit into it. “Hmm. Good.”
Billy nodded, cut off another piece, and shoved it into his beard. “Got a pear, too. If you’d rather have that.”
“No. This is great.”
They chewed noisily on the apple, Billy carving off slices for them.
Sam thought she should feel uncomfortable. After all, Billy could be a murderer. But, something inside her said that this man wasn’t a killer. Stupid, she told herself. She’d known him how long? Fifteen minutes. And murderers don’t usually wear a “Scarlet Letter” or have “Guilty” tattooed on their foreheads.
She looked at him, considering whether to bring up the murder or not. Confront him or hurry her butt back to civilization. Her cop’s curiosity swelled.
He lazily chewed an apple slice while gazing out across the valley. As if he sensed her watching him, he turned toward her. “What?”
“Did you know a man was murdered in town last night?” Sam asked.
He gave her a quizzical look. “In Gold Creek?” He said it with the incredulousness of someone who believed murder and Gold Creek didn’t belong in the same sentence.
“Yeah.”
“I haven’t heard. I slept up here last night. Who was it? One of those biker morons from Tankersly’s?”
“No,” Sam said. “You up here all night?”
Billy cocked his head and looked at her. “I been up here for two days? Why?”
“Doing what?”
A frown appeared on his face. “What’s with the questions?”
Sam shrugged. “I’m a cop. It’s a habit.”
“Cop? From where?”
“California.” She casually put some distance between them by walking over to pick up a pinecone. She turned it over in one hand while the other rested on her fanny pack.
“So? Who was it?” Billy asked.
“Lloyd Varney.”
Billy recoiled. A chunk of apple fell from the knife blade and bounced over the edge of the cliff. He ignored it. “Lloyd Varney? When?”
“Near midnight.”
“What happened?”
“Looks like a botched robbery.”
“Oh, Lord.” He hauled himself to his feet. “I’ve got to get down there. Louise’ll need me.” He wiped the knife blade on his pants. “She’ll go to pieces. I’m the only family she’s got.”
Sam eyed the knife. “You’re related to them?”
“Not really. But, they’ve been like parents to me.”
“And you know nothing about his murder?”
“No. But you can damn sure bet I’m going to find out.” He snatched up his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
“So, why does Chief Wade consider you a suspect?”
Billy stopped and turned toward her. “Me?”
“That might be my fault.”
He gave her a quizzical look, but said nothing.
“I found Lloyd’s body. And in the process got run over by the killer. Someone big. About your size. Wade said that could only be you.”
Billy’s eyes narrowed, darkened. Her heart quickened to a trot. Maybe she should have kept her mouth shut. She suddenly became aware of her isolation.
Billy shook his head. “Well, that don’t surprise me none.”
“It doesn’t.” My God, she thought, he’s going to confess. And then what? She looked at the sheer drop to the valley floor, at the knife he held, at the size of the man before her. She didn’t like any of the scenarios that came to mind.
Billy shoved the knife back into its sheath. “Wade’s a moron. And he and his buddies don’t like me too much.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Sam said. “All I know is that Wade wants to talk to you.”
“Well, let’s not disappoint the man,” Billy said. “Come on. I’ll show you the best way down.
Chapter 12
By the time Sam returned from her run, dinner was nearly ready. She snatched a piece of bread from the basket Alyss had placed in the center of the table between two tall white candles and munched it as she headed to her room. The warm shower refreshed and soothed her aching muscles. She flexed her hands as the water flowed over them. Still sore, but better.
While she stood beneath the spray, she thought about her encounter with Billy. He was nothing like she had expected. Everyone--Wade, Burt, even Alyss, who had only seen but never met him--had portrayed him as a rough, crude, possibly dangerous man. But, Billy had seemed intelligent, gentle, almost passive. As
she toweled off and pulled her damp hair into a ponytail, she decided she would talk with Alyss later. After dinner, after everyone had gone to bed.
She tugged on a pair of jeans and a pullover long sleeved shirt, and then joined Alyss, Shelby, and the Kendalls as they were taking their places at the table. “Hmm. Smells wonderful.”
The table was set with a pale green cloth, matching napkins, and Alyss’ best china. The candles cast a soft, romantic glow. Kurt held Debbie’s chair for her, kissing her lightly on the cheek after she sat.
The dinner was exquisite: the stuffed hens, tender and moist; the salad, crisp and clean; the polenta creamy and flavorful; and the blackberry cobbler, served piping hot with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, defied description.
While they ate, conversation revolved around the Kendall’s wedding. Debbie had several Polaroid pictures of the ceremony, reception, and the cutting of the three-tiered wedding cake. She in her lacy white gown and Kurt in his tux and tails looked like the perfect couple, as if they themselves had sprung from the top of the intricately decorated cake.
That they were in love was evident in the way they spoke, held hands, waited patiently for the other to finish a story or snippet of conversation, giggled in duet, and in the way their eyes held each other. Finally, they excused themselves and headed upstairs to their room.
As Sam watched them go, she felt a pang of jealousy. For their youthful exuberance, for their obviously deep devotion to each other, for the family they would one day have. She thought of her own parents and wished they were still living. And she thought of Nathan. She blew a wayward strand of hair out of the way.
Shelby, who had seemed bored and offered little to the conversation all evening, announced she was going to her room “to listen to my music.”
Sam helped Alyss clear the table and wash the dishes. Drying the last plate, she said, “I met Billy Bear today.”
“When?” Alyss asked.
“On my run. He scared the hell out of me.”
“What?”
“It was an accident. Our paths crossed up in the trees. I thought he was a bear at first.”
