Secrets of Ugly Creek

by Cheryel Hutton

  “The people of Ugly Creek have been protecting our Bigfoot tribe for generations. Not to mention they do a good job of protecting themselves,” Mom said.

  “Not from the likes of a Hollywood filmmaker,” Henry said. Dang, he was on my side? That was unexpected.

  “Gibson McFain ruined the reputation of Senator Carson, and she had a severe heart attack because of it.” I found myself looking into Henry’s eyes and hoping for backup. “What if he does that here?”

  “There aren’t scandals like that here,” Mom said. “If he wanted something like that, why not stay in DC and bother the politicians, or go to New York or L.A. where things are more interesting?”

  “Because we have the Dyami, among other things,” Henry said before I could comment.

  Mom chuckled. “Finding Bigfoot is hardly the kind of thing a man like Gibson McFain would be interested in.”

  “Who knows what he’s interested in?” Henry shoved in a bite of meatloaf.

  “He’s interested in anything that gets him notoriety,” I said. “Proving the existence of the Dyami would do that—while destroying the Dyami way of life, and maybe our town too.”

  “The Bigfoot tribe has been warned,” Mom said. “They know how to stay hidden.”

  “Abukcheech was at the filming,” I said, gaining a stare from both the others. “He’s just a kid, I know he doesn’t understand. But that’s the point. A Bigfoot is a Bigfoot. He stayed back behind a tree, but I got a look at him. What if one of the documentary people had.”

  Henry stood. “I’ll go make sure Nootau and the rest of the Dyami know.”

  “Liza said Steve would get word to them.”

  Henry nodded. “Good man, Steve. Still, won’t hurt to talk to Nootau.” With that, Henry took off.

  As I watched him leave, I decided he might not be quite the old man I’d thought. “Sorry Mom, I didn’t mean to run him off.”

  She smiled. “You are so much like your dad, always worrying about taking care of the town.”

  I swallowed the tears. Like my dad, the hero, the man who had given his life to save others. The man who had been loved and respected by the whole town. It was the nicest thing anybody had ever said to me.

  ****

  Later that evening, I did some Internet digging—yes, I should have done that before I started the job. I found McFain was actually Dr. McFain, since he had a PhD in anthropology from the University of Tennessee.

  So he was back to anthropology. I couldn’t help but wonder if that was why he’d come to Ugly Creek. If there was an odd culture to study, this was it. Ugly Creek had more than its share of different. He’d been in the general area for several years while at the university. He might know more than he let on. Especially since there was that photo of a Bigfoot that had slipped out a few months ago. Due to Ugly Creek’s network, the photo had been discredited and dismissed, but maybe McFain somehow figured out it was real. Maybe the photo reinforced something he’d already been aware of, or maybe it just got him thinking. Who knew?

  For the next few hours, it was all I could think about. He probably had researched how to recognize the signs of a Bigfoot. Even if he didn’t come after them, there were other creatures.

  Whatever he was really here for, the man could endanger all the non-human creatures, and our very way of life.

  My cell phone chirped. A look at the thing had me groaning. I clicked it on. “Hello, Mr. Grainger.”

  “I don’t have a contract.” My boss’s voice could boom like no other.

  Oh boy. “I’ll speak to Ace, um, Mr. Ellsworth. I’m sure it’s just an oversight.”

  “I’ll give you twenty-four hours, Clark. Lord knows why. After that, I’m sending a staff photographer down there.”

  “I understand. I’ll get it taken care of.”

  “You’d better.” The phone clicked.

  I was so screwed.

  Chapter 4

  The grounds of the county courthouse was the location for the second day of taping, and I got there early in hopes of having a chance to do some more begging—I mean asking nicely—Ace Ellsworth. I was right too. There was Ace, like a good little professional photographer.

  I started toward him. He was handsome, in his own boy-next-door way. He was a pain, but not a bad guy. If I had to have the hots for somebody, why not him? Why was it I had to be attracted to that slick con artist, Doctor Gibson McFain? It was crazy. I was crazy.

  Ace turned and looked right at me, as if he knew I’d been staring. He gave me a once over. I gave him a pretty smile. With one hand, I brushed my long blonde hair over my shoulder. As I walked slowly over to him, I widened my smile. “Good morning, Ace. How are you?”

  “I’m not doing the photography for your article.”

  Stubbornly, I held onto my smile, as I crossed the ground toward him, careful not to sink my prized Manolo Blahnik stilettos in the ground. Wearing heels outside isn’t practical, but they are so cute.

  “Ace…”

  “No.”

  “At least sign the contract so you can be paid for what you’ve already done.” Either that or I’ll deck you. Actually, I preferred the second option.

  He took the papers from my hand. “This is for the whole job.”

  “Mark that out and initial it.”

  He looked at me like I held a poison apple in my hand. “No. I want a limited contract. And you can’t use my photos until I sign one.”

  “Fine, I’ll get you one.” I opened my big blues as wide as they’d go, and set my bottom lip in just the hint of a pout. “Are you sure you won’t think about doing the job?”

  The side of his mouth twitched up, and I got the feeling my attempt at convincing him was amusing him.

  “Does that usually work for you, princess?” Yep, he was amused.

  Anger stormed through me, and it was all I could do not to knee him in the princely jewel section of his body. “Look, I asked you because I wanted a local photographer to help protect Ugly Creek from this documentary-making slimeball.”

  “McFain?” He crossed his arms. “Like you don’t make a living digging out secrets just like him.”

  My anger gathered like a tornado and threatened to take this Ace idiot right off his feet. “I’m a journalist. He’s an unethical opportunist who doesn’t care who he hurts. Besides, this is my hometown. I love it here. I’d never let anything happen to it. You’ve only lived here two years, so maybe you don’t care as much about Ugly Creek.”

  “Three years.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Still not a very long time.”

  “Look, I like this town. I do. But I hate tabloids. They ruin the reputation of serious journalism. Why don’t you just get me a contract for what I’ve done and leave me the hell alone.”

  “Whatever you say. Fine. I’ll get you your contract.” I turned and made myself walk in a normal fashion to where I planned to observe the taping. Pulling out my notebook and a pen, I tried not to think about the scoundrel sitting not far from me. So he didn’t want to protect his adopted town. Big deal. Maybe he didn’t know, or understand what was at stake.

  It did matter to me. A man who lived in Ugly Creek had to be more likely to want to protect the place than someone who spent their lives ferreting out secrets in the big city. It would be horrible if Ugly Creek became some sort of freak show attraction. Even worse for the Bigfoot if they were proven to exist, they might be hunted, exploited, even dissected. I gagged a little at the thought.

  I studied Gibson McFain, handsome documentary maker and pain in the rear, while I wondered if he suspected Bigfoot lived in the area. On the other hand, maybe he knew there was something different about the little town. Something magical. Something that seemed to pull in creatures that most people didn’t believe existed.

  I shook my head to clear it. It was possible McFain really did just like the area. It was beautiful. Then I thought about the people he’d hurt with his previous films, and shivers skittered through me.

  “Mr
. McFain.”

  I knew that voice, and the sound made me want to pound hard on somebody’s head. Preferably the woman with the voice.

  McFain looked up, and the dressed-in-this-season’s-top-labels woman smiled fetchingly at him. “Hello, I’m Dani Phillips, New York Times.”

  “Ms. Phillips.” He looked pointedly at his watch. “I thought our appointment was at six.”

  Her laugh was practiced and perfect. “I simply like to observe my subjects in action prior to the interview.” She tilted her head and smiled again. “I hope that’s all right?”

  “Fine. Just don’t get in the way.”

  He went back to work, and Dani looked toward me. The smirk on her face had me wanting to slap it off her, but I managed a smile.

  She turned away and I worked at putting my anger back where it had been for twelve years. Maybe I’d won the editorship of the high school newspaper, but Dani had the dream job. The rotten little thorn in my side.

  I forced my thoughts back to my own job. I had articles to write and a town to protect.

  ****

  When the production crew broke for lunch, I headed to Golden’s Photography. Golden was the local photographer and had been around since I was a kid. All he did was portraits, weddings, reunions, things like that. I would never have thought of him except Mom mentioned he was a photojournalist before he became a town institution. Besides, what the hell. I was in enough trouble already. What was a little more?

  Mr. Golden offered me coffee, and I took it just to moisten my mouth.

  “I need your help,” I said.

  He leaned back in his seat and took a sip of coffee before he answered. “Why do I get the feeling you don’t need your portrait taken?”

  I smiled and leaned slightly forward. “I understand you majored in journalism and worked as a photojournalist for several years.”

  That brought a chuckle from him. “Yes, I did. Which goes to show you a spring chicken I’m not. Now what do you want from this old man?”

  “You aren’t old.”

  “You’re a sweetheart.”

  “I need a photojournalist.”

  He laughed, almost spilling his coffee in the process. “You did catch the part about not being a spring chicken, right?”

  Honesty seemed to be the best choice here, so I went with that. “Look, I need a photojournalist until my boss can get somebody down here. I know you’ve had the experience, you’d be great.”

  “You are a beautiful young woman, therefore you don’t understand how older folks just can’t keep up anymore.”

  “Number one, you aren’t old. Number two, you are still an excellent photographer. All I need are a few pictures of this McFain dude, and the shoot. And it’ll only be for a day or two. Mr. Grainger will be sending somebody soon.” I grinned. “Plus the money’s good.”

  Golden chuckled as his face turned cherry red. “I don’t think I can turn down an offer like that.”

  Relief tingled through me. “That’s great. Can you meet me at the courthouse grounds this afternoon?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Golden.”

  I headed to my car with a mix of relief and serious anxiety swirling in my middle. It was great that Mr. Golden was willing to pinch hit for me, but with Ace definitely out of the picture, so to speak, things were not as stable as I’d like. We were one step closer to Gibson McFain figuring out that Ugly Creek wasn’t just a quaint little town. Not good. Not good at all.

  I pulled out my cell and straightened out the contract issue, then reluctantly made the call I’d been dreading all morning. I had no choice.

  “Mr. Grainger, this is Madison.”

  “Calling to give me good news, I hope.”

  I cringed. “Actually no. Mr. Ellsworth is not going to do the job.”

  “You’d better be kidding, Clark.”

  I swallowed back my trepidation and dove in. “I’m sorry, Mr. Grainger. I honestly believed he’d take the job. There was no reason not to. Photojournalism is what he does. He rescues animals too, and I heard he could use the money.”

  “Let me get this straight, you led me to believe this guy had committed to the job when he hadn’t.”

  “I’m sorry. I honestly never thought there would be a problem.”

  “Doesn’t matter, and you know it. Like that old Richard Marx song, don’t mean nothing ’til it’s signed on the dotted line.”

  My stomach twisted. “I know.”

  “You understand I could fire you.”

  “Yes, sir. I do.” Ouch!

  “I’ll have to find somebody to do this job, and everybody’s busy.”

  “I know.”

  “You know, and yet you did this to me.”

  “Sir, I thought a local photographer would be the best choice for this job. Someone who knows the people and the area.” Someone I could trust.

  “Isn’t that supposed to be you?”

  “But having a local photographer along might help open people up.”

  “You’re covering a documentary, not doing an exposé.”

  “I’ll get the job done.”

  “You’d better.”

  The line clicked, and I dropped my head onto my steering wheel. What a fun day this was turning out to be.

  I headed to the nearest drive-through to grab a burger and fries—hey, I have a great metabolism, okay? I was heading back toward the courthouse by way of a back road when a sight had me double-taking and dang near running a red light. Kate, McFain’s assistant, and the married mayor coming out of a run-down motel.

  Not my business. Not my business. So not my business.

  But the journalist in me wanted so badly to stop I had to promise myself chocolate later if I kept going.

  ****

  Back at the courthouse lawn, I ate my burger while watching Gibson McFain’s team working like an organized ant farm. Okay, I’ll admit to being impressed. It was a small production staff, but they got the job done. My question was if the team was small because that’s all the project needed, or was there another reason? Maybe because these people were who McFain trusted?

  Footsteps caught my attention, and I turned to see Mr. Golden coming toward me. “I’m here,” he said, “and I’ll do my best.”

  “I really appreciate you doing this.”

  “Thank you for believing in me.” He gave me a wobbly smile.

  His unsure expression had me smiling. “Mom says you were an excellent photojournalist. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “You’re still a photographer. A good one. You have the instincts.”

  “Thank you.” He smiled again, more confident than before, then pulled his equipment out of a big, black bag.

  I sat and waited while the crew did the final set up for the shoot. Mr. Golden snapped a few candid shots, then returned to his seat near mine. “I heard McFain has a load of his own money tied up in this project.”

  Well, that got my interest. “Seriously?”

  “Yep. Rumor has it that he couldn’t round up enough funding for his pet project, so he funded it himself.”

  Golden went back to his photos, while I made a note to check out this new development. Maybe it was just a rumor, but it was definitely worth checking.

  It was neat watching the crew set things up. In spite of the bright sunshine, they used extra lighting to fill in shadows. There was a huge microphone on a pole that the sound guy held above McFain, high enough that it wouldn’t show on film. The “boom” the sound guy called it.

  They finished the first shot, and the crew was setting up for a different one, when suddenly there was a pop and smoke filled the air.

  There was sudden cursing and coughing and scrambling to get out of the lung-tightening, dark, thick smoke. The epicenter of the attack seemed to be the middle of the production itself, so being on the fringe gave me the advantage of fresher air. I immediately looked for the source of the assault and ca
ught a glimpse of a shiny green and orange wing. The wing vanished, and a beautiful young woman stood where it had been. Perfectly straight black hair reached to her waist, and her lithe little body easily slipped behind the courthouse and was gone.

  “Damn faeries,” Mr. Golden muttered close to my ear. “They just can’t stay out of trouble.”

  When I looked at him, he shrugged. “Don’t dislike them, they’re gorgeous creatures. But, like I said, they’re always getting into trouble.”

  I’d heard that about faeries, but right now I was more interested in whether anybody was hurt. It seemed to be just a smoke bomb, but we were far enough back that somebody closer could have been hurt. I wanted to go to make sure nobody was. Okay, I especially wanted to make sure Mac was all right. He’d shielded me when we got rocks thrown at us, okay. And he is a fellow journalist after all. I got as close as I could, but the smoke was too thick, I couldn’t get through.

  There was the sound of serious coughing, and then Mac appeared from the smoke. He saw me and his lips pulled into an almost-smile before he leaned over, his hands on his legs to support himself, and coughed some more.

  I rushed to him. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” he croaked, then went back to coughing.

  I don’t want to admit how relieved I was that he was safe. I didn’t trust him. I didn’t like him. I wasn’t attracted to him. Not much anyway. Just glad he, and his crew, were okay. Honest.

  The sheriff investigated for hours. The culprit was officially declared a smoke bomb, no clue where it came from. Thankfully, nobody was hurt, but nobody saw anything useful either. Including me. What? No, I didn’t tell ’em a faery was standing right where the attack probably originated. Probably she was just watching. There was no point in me investigating the faeries. It was a smoke bomb, nobody got hurt.

  Oh good grief, the journalist in me had apparently packed up and gone on vacation. What had I been thinking when I volunteered for this job? Actually, the answer to that was easy. Another journalist would have told the cops about the fairy.

  Things were beginning to clear out when I caught a glimpse of Gibson McFain sitting in his chair at the center of the production area, looking like he needed to sleep for a week. My journalist self came back, at least that’s what I told myself, and I headed toward him. “Any idea who wants you shut down?”