by M. K. Coker
Karen preferred the color. “Well, I can say this for your bur oaks—they’re probably the poster child for Halloween. Creepy.”
They approached the very solid, very new restrooms, or “comfort station” as a discreet sign attested.
Karen asked, “How’d you get Dahl to cough up the money for that? I can’t even get him to sign off on a new vehicle unless I give up a deputy. Who or what did you sacrifice?”
“Nothing,” was the faintly gloating response. “I simply brought him here and pointed him toward the original vault toilets—not much better than the ones at the overlook—and told him to be my guest. He went in and, a second later, flew back out—pursued by a swarm of mosquitoes, a pack of flies, more grasshoppers than a plague, and one very angry hornet that got him by the eye. He released the money that very day.”
“So all I need is to put a hornet’s nest in the Sub? Good to know.”
With a laugh, Biester led them down a leaf-strewn trail that gave slightly underfoot. The rich smell of earth and decay arose to distract her sunburned nose. Though it wasn’t impenetrable forest, the tree cover still cut down dramatically on the light. Birds chirped and alerted. Aviary alarms.
She should get out more to tango with Mother Nature, especially in her own county. But as they descended into a hollow, something approaching tension leached into Karen’s enjoyment. For no apparent reason. She looked around but saw nothing in the denser undergrowth. They didn’t have bears or mountain lions. Right?
“You feel it, don’t you?”
Karen glanced over at the park manager, who’d stopped at a fork in the trail. “You a mind reader, Mr. Biester?”
“No, just observant. It’s primal. That awareness. That something out there in the wild can kill you. I worked at Yellowstone for several summers when I was in college. Bear country. Those first few nights out in the open, with nothing more than the thin protection of a pup tent, I was scared to death. I heard every twig snap as death incarnate. I finally had an epiphany: we’re just part of the food chain. Animals, all. If we have the might, the wile, to survive, then we will. I learned how to live with death at the door. It gives you an edge, a heightened appreciation for each day, knowing it can be your last.”
Behind her, Marek slipped on the trail, nearly crashing into her, a grizzly bear of a man whose sheer size and strength could kill without meaning to, just like his grandfather. But he grabbed one long, twisted arm of a bur oak, which to its credit, held his considerable weight.
With cheekbones reddened by more than the sun, Marek asked, “Do you have poachers, Mr. Biester?”
Karen remembered Mary Redbird’s claim of an unseen hunter. And Hugh McGurdy’s bearded man in camos.
Biester’s lips parted in surprise. “Yes, how... oh.” He followed Marek’s finger to a bowed piece of wood and a dangling hoop of wire set well back from the trail. “A snare. Good eye. Yes, we have a poacher. Well, more than one, if it comes to that. Though legal hunting started earlier this month. I don’t mind the poachers, or the hunters, frankly. They eat what they kill and clean up after themselves. That’s living with nature, as part of it. The homeless down by the river? They don’t have a clue.”
Biester led them down to a small clearing with a parking lot, where a number of cars huddled together despite the absence of anyone at the picnic tables or shelter nearby. Karen grimaced as she crunched over fine glass near a post. Walrus was right. People didn’t have any respect anymore.
Biester held a finger to his mouth as he skirted the parking lot and led them down another trail, wider, with lots of footprints—and not a little trash. The soft earth turned mucky under her boots. A gurgling, sloughing sound told Karen they were approaching what the trailhead map called Connor Creek. She’d never, to her memory, come down this path before, and as they descended, the undergrowth grew more impenetrable.
And just behind that barrier, as they carefully took a side path, was another clearing, filled with about a dozen makeshift homes. Most were pup tents, but one was made of plywood, and another looked like an earth-bermed structure. And in the air, a smog of smoke lingered with the scent of brats on a grill.
Taking an involuntary step toward that siren song of late summer, Karen brushed against a post and felt the grind of glass under her boot. Again. She looked down. Not just glass but bent metal and plastic. For the first time, she understood just what she was looking at.
When she glanced back up, she saw Biester nod. “Trail monitor. Or was.”
CHAPTER 21
Marek had dealt with urban homeless—squatting under bridges, panhandling along tourist strips, and drifting in and out of trouble or running from it. At night, they slept in doorways or stayed in shelters, cars, and abandoned RVs. And yes, in city parks. Whenever the issue hit critical and cops were sent in to clear the homeless, an interagency system was set in place to deal with it, from emergency shelters to job training, though the social services were never adequate.
But he never imagined he’d find a mini-Hooverville in Grove Park.
On the surface of things, it could be any lazy Indian summer Saturday, a last-ditch camping trip before the hard frost.
From his vantage point, Marek could see a man flip sausages on a grill, and a cutoff-jeans-clad boy, a fishing pole in his hands, swing his feet off a makeshift bridge of fallen logs over a surprisingly wide and deep creek. At a picnic table, an older woman sat reading a paperback, swatting at flies absently as she turned a page. Most of the encampment, though, seemed abandoned. But he imagined, come nightfall, it would fill up, as would the parking lot. Sundays were rarely days of rest for the working poor.
Barely above the spit of animal grease on the grill, Biester said, “I paid for those trail monitors out of my own pocket. Six of them. A sweet system with online monitoring and recording connected wirelessly to my phone. But almost as soon as my back was turned after the last installation, someone with a scarf over their face took a hammer to every last one. That proof your deputy demanded went poof. Now do you understand?”
His voice had risen, and with it, so had the heads of those in the clearing. Marek could see them make a quick calculation of their chances to evade detection, and they decided to stay put.
Seeing the same, Karen stepped into the clearing, her thumbs hooked into her belt, her gun unholstered. The grizzled, paunchy man of about fifty by the grill hefted his spatula in what could be a hello—or a threat. “Sheriff. A good day to you.”
“And to you,” she said evenly. “May I see your camping fee permit?”
He didn’t break his gaze from hers but patted his shirt pocket then his cargo shorts pocket. “Seems I’ve misplaced it. Sorry. But no doubt you’ll find it in the dropbox.” He gave her a smile that didn’t touch his wary eyes. “Though I’ll warn you now, my handwriting’s been called chicken scratch.”
Marek heard Biester’s low snort. “That’s their game. One fills out the form, drops it in the box with the money, and they all claim that’s them—and I can’t prove otherwise. All of them put the tear-off permits on their windshields up in the parking lot then throw away the pay stub. When I point out that the numbers don’t match, they claim that someone obviously broke into the dropbox and took their money.”
Homeless encampments were, in Marek’s urban experience, inhabited by those who had nothing more to lose. Often they’d lost their minds, to addiction or mental illness. But he didn’t get the same vibe here, though he kept alert, with his hand resting on the gun holstered at the small of his back.
“Your name?” Karen grilled the griller.
“John Johnson.”
“I see... Mr. Not-Johnson. Let’s cut to the chase. You and your... neighbors... have been living here in the park, illegally, for some time.”
“You have no proof of that,” he returned, just as evenly, impressing Marek. “I just came down for a Sunday grill after a hard week’s work. That ain’t a crime. You like brats? I’ve got plenty.”
Karen�
�s eyes didn’t so much as flick down. “Where do you work... Mr. Not-Johnson?”
“Well, I’m what you might call an independent contractor. I take work as I can find it. And I can’t find enough of it because I’m not as nimble as I used to be.” He turned one bared-below-the-knee leg to show her a deep, twisted scar. Marek wondered just how he’d gotten up and down the trail. Maybe he used the log bridge instead. “Lucky to keep that leg at all, doctors told me. Wasn’t able to keep the job that caused it, and I lost everything from the hospital bills the company wouldn’t pay just because I had a beer with lunch. Said I was drunk. And from there, the shit hit the fan, after decades of hard work. No family to take me in—I admit I burned those bridges. Too young for Social Security, too mobile for disability, and too—”
“Tell your sob stories to Social Services,” Biester cut in as he stepped out from the woods to stand beside Karen. “This isn’t a charity. It’s a public park. You need help? Fine. Get yourself on welfare, on food stamps, on Section 8—”
“Have you tried any of those, Mr. Biester?” Not-Johnson challenged. “I have. Got nowhere. You can get Section 8 in this county, yes, but only if you’re a senior. Under sixty-five, and you’re a risk, apparently. For the other programs, you need a fixed address, lots of paperwork, lots of free time, and a huge tolerance for bullshit. Many of us are on waiting lists. All of us work. That’s the rule here. You work, you stay. You don’t, you go. Surprised?”
“Your brats are burning,” Karen murmured.
Not-Johnson blinked then hurriedly moved the blackened brats onto a paper towel before he turned back to Karen. “I’m telling you my story, but I’m not sobbing, just looking for some understanding. Yes, I came down in the world from when I made good money, but I still had work, and I had a home—a fifty-year-old trailer just across the creek there.” He waved his spatula toward the log bridge. “And I thanked God every day for a landlord like Ted Jorgenson. He knew I was good for the month’s rent, even if it was a bit late when my hours got cut. You want someone to blame for our little home away from home, on public land that we pay taxes to support? You go looking for a man named Alan Digges. Ah, I see you know that name, and let me guess, he’s just given you a big new stack of evictions to serve.” Karen’s expression must have registered the hit because he seemed to deflate. “Expect to see more of us, not less. That man’s your one-man wrecking crew here, not us.”
As Biester sucked in a breath to speak, or more likely spew, his face reddening like the coals in the grill, Karen took a step forward. “I’m sorry that things have taken such a bad turn for you. And I’ll do whatever I can to help you find housing. But my job is to uphold the law. You are breaking it. I’m afraid you will have to leave. Now.”
He just gave her a sad smile as he put down the spatula. “Sure. We’ll leave.” At a few dissenting sounds from the tents, he went on. “We’ll pack up what little we have left to our names into our shitty cars, and we’ll drive off with a hefty fine in our pockets that we can’t pay. But we’ll be back. Because we’ve got nowhere else to go. You can, of course, lock us up. Believe me, once the snow flies, we’ll be glad for three square meals and a heated cell. All I’ve tried to do here is keep us all fed, clothed, and protected until something better shows up. That means pooling our resources, looking after each other, and keeping the women and children safe. Can you find us the same?”
Biester made a sound deep in his throat. “Don’t make it sound like you’re some kind of saint, Johnson, or whatever your name is. Have you forgotten about those dopeheads who smashed a brick through a couple vans at the campground and stole hundreds’ worth of electronics?”
“They weren’t part of our group. Transients. Ted kicked them out six months ago.”
But Biester was on a roll. “You people have trashed this place. You use the water, the restrooms. You destroyed my trail monitors, worth hundreds of dollars. But worst of all, you’ve disrupted the native habitat, upset the entire ecosystem.”
Not-Johnson just stared at Biester. “All we’re trying to do is survive, same as the animals you put so much stock by, but they seem to be better protected than us.”
Seeing no end to the argument between two men with violently opposed aims, Marek stepped into the clearing. Brawn, enter stage right. The spatula came up, and Biester gave Marek a tight nod of approval, at least until Marek spoke to Not-Johnson.
“You were here last night.” Because Marek had made it a statement, Not-Johnson seemed stymied as to how to answer, so he remained silent. Marek raised his voice. “I want to hear what, if anything, you or your neighbors saw or heard last night. And I want the truth.”
Birds chirped, the boy jerked as his lure bobbed, and the woman with the book rose. As she did, a German shepherd slunk from under the pilfered picnic table and shot out into the clearing with a growl.
“Don’t make me shoot your dog,” Karen warned, snatching her gun out of the holster.
“Quiet, Daisy.”
Remarkably, the dog quieted, pink tongue lolling, a silly grin on its face as the woman caught up and grabbed hold of the collar.
“She’s a big softie, really.” The woman patted Daisy’s sleek head. “But she’s protective and the only family I’ve got, other than... Mr. Johnson... and the others. I’m not saying we’re all saints, ’cause we aren’t, but we’re not bad people. Just unlucky, mostly. I got laid off from working in the school cafeteria at Dutch Corners when it closed and haven’t found much else but part-time work at the Reunion cafeteria—but it’s all outsourced now, so I don’t get a pension or nothing.”
She looked around at the tents. “All of us lived in the trailer park, and all of us were evicted in the last two months since Ted had his stroke. Digges plays dirty. Said I hadn’t paid, but I had the money. And do you know who helped him throw us out? Who threw his weight around, backed up Digges with his lies? Yeah. Bob Bunting.”
The boy on the bridge, head down, jerked again, but without the bob of the lure. Marek changed course as his antennae quivered. “Who is the boy?”
“My son,” Not-Johnson said without blinking, but his head jerked, and the boy reeled in his line. “Andy.”
Surprisingly, Karen countered. “I don’t think so. I’ve seen him before. That ball cap...” Karen snapped her fingers. “Baseball boy. Little League. Bobby. Bobby... begins with J.”
“Johnson,” Not-Johnson insisted. “Like I told you. Andy’s his middle name. How I call him.”
The boy hopped to his feet and ran lightly across the logs toward the trailer park. Interesting. Marek wondered if he was the boy young Hugh McCurdy had seen. And if so, who had his companion been? Not-Johnson certainly didn’t fit Hugh’s description.
As if to head off further questioning on that tender head, the woman blurted, “He was here that night. Bunting, I mean. You may not believe it, but we were all pulling for you to win, Sheriff Mehaffey. I stayed up to listen for the recount. I don’t sleep so good with a bad back on the uneven ground. So I was still awake, keyed up to think Bunting finally got what he was owed, when I heard that big SUV of his roar into the lot up the trail. We try to be as quiet as mice, not disturb nobody.” She shot a heated look at Biester. “Bunch of us work late hours, or early, and don’t want no trouble.”
“That’s all you’ve been to me,” he shot back. “Trouble. Trouble for me, trouble for the park, trouble for the paying campers. Do you know how hard I worked, early and late, to get the state interested in this park? And you’re risking it all.”
“No, Bunting was the one to stir up trouble. He was your lackey, though, wasn’t he? He told us you had an ‘agreement’ between you. Said he was going to set fire to our tents. Once he had a badge, he’d be able to do whatever he pleased.”
Biester’s eyes bugged. “You think I’d risk burning down my own park? That’s insane. I just wanted him to do the job that I thought he’d been elected to do. Enforce the laws. No more, no less.” He shot Karen another heated look. “I
’m not the lawbreaker here. You do your job; I’ll do mine.”
Marek stepped up again. “What did you hear that night, Ms....?”
She gave him a twisted smile. “Johnson. Mary Johnson. What I heard? Some kind of argument. Yelling. Engines starting. Cars leaving. Lots of people just stay in their cars and never even come down here, especially when it’s raining. After, it got quiet, so I tried to go back to sleep. Then I heard some crashing and cursing. I’m thinking Bunting’s coming down the trail and gonna do what he said. I pulled the flap, ready to sic Daisy on him, take a bite outta his nasty butt.” Her chin trembled, but she firmed it, looking at them straight on. “And... you’ll say I’m seeing things... but I saw... the evil eye. All red, burning. Looking right at me. I pulled Daisy right back into the tent and waited for Armageddon.”
CHAPTER 22
Karen had heard a lot of strange claims in her tenure as acting sheriff. Aliens in the attic, bombs in the basement, but not an evil eye. And not from someone who seemed, on the surface of things, sane.
Even Biester was silenced.
“Mary...” Not-Johnson heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I told you. I’m pretty sure Bunting must’ve had an infrared scope. I don’t know just what he intended to do... shoot us all?” He swatted absently at the flies that’d scented fresh meat. “Whoever killed him did us a favor. I won’t say otherwise, though I slept through the entire thing, as did everyone else, so far as I know.”
Any one of these people had motive for murder. Self-defense, even, if Bunting was hunting them. “Do you have a... knife?” Karen stopped herself, just in time, from saying pocketknife.
