by Paul Doiron
“I’m hoping you can help me with some information,” I said.
“Sure thing, bro.” His blue eyes appeared glassy, and the blood vessels around the irises were engorged. Even having just showered, his body gave off the skunky aroma of marijuana.
“Let’s start with your name.”
The smile returned, bigger than before, and he tapped two fingers against the brim of the sombrero on the table. “They call me McDonut.”
“He means your real name,” said Caleb Maxwell.
“Oh!” the young man said. “It’s McDonough. Chad McDonough.”
I held out my palm to him. “Can I see some identification, Chad?”
He looked at my open hand, as if not quite grasping the request, then began fishing around in the many pockets of his cargo shorts until, after several false attempts, he located a battered wallet stuffed with receipts. He opened a flap and held out a driver’s license, which gave his address as North Adams, Massachusetts. In the photograph, he was clean-shaven and his wavy brown hair was cut short in frat-boy style. His height was listed at five-eleven, his weight at 240 pounds. Was it possible to gain weight hiking the Appalachian Trail?
I set the license on the table and got out my point-and-shoot.
“Do you guys want some coffee?” Caleb asked.
“Thanks.”
The lodge manager disappeared into the kitchen. A moment later, I heard the sound of water running from a tap into a pot.
McDonough watched me closely from across the table. “Is everything cool here, sir?”
“Caleb says you’ve been here eight nights. Where are you coming from?”
“Um, Monson.”
“Are you a thru-hiker?”
“No, man, I’m a section hiker.”
“That means he’s doing the trail in pieces,” Nissen offered from across the room. He said this in the way someone might refer to a habitual drunk driver.
McDonough seemed oblivious to the other man’s contempt.
“Easy does it, right? I’m not hard-core like that dude.” He waggled a thumb in Nissen’s direction, as if they were old friends. “So what’s going on? Is there some sort of emergency?”
“We’re looking for two missing hikers,” I said. “They would also have been heading north from Monson.” I removed the well-wrinkled copy of the MISSING poster from my pocket and unfolded it so he could have a look. “Have you seen them?”
He squinted at the piece of paper. “Oh shit.”
“You recognize them?”
I could feel my heart swell with blood. Based on everything I’d learned so far, Chad McDonough might have been the last person to see the women alive.
“They never told me their real names.” McDonough returned the flyer to me, grease-smudged from the GORP he’d been eating. “Did something happen to them?”
“Well, they’re missing,” said Nissen from behind me.
I removed my notebook from my pocket. “When was the last time you saw them?”
His bleary eyes drifted away from mine, and he raised a hand to count with his chubby fingers. “Nine—no, ten days ago.”
“Where?”
“Back at Cloud Pond. We stayed together in the shelter there. Drank a little beer, talked about Georgia, where they’re from. I was a lifeguard on Jekyll Island once. Best summer of my fucking life.”
“Was anyone else with you at Cloud Pond?”
“There was another dude, but he slept in his tent outside. He came in after dark and was gone before we woke up.”
I leaned my elbows on the lacquered tabletop. “Can you describe him for me, Chad?”
“Didn’t really see him. He put up his tent beyond the edge of the firelight. Some people are just antisocial. You learn to respect their privacy. We’re all out here for different reasons, you know?”
“Do you remember what color the tent was?”
“Red, I think.” His tongue pushed between his lips, then slipped back out of sight. “Is he a suspect or something?”
I realized that I was getting ahead of myself. “Let’s go back to the beginning. Where did you meet Samantha and Missy?”
“In Monson.”
“At Shaw’s?” It was a legendary boardinghouse frequented by thru-hikers.
“No, we couldn’t get in because it was Saturday. We stayed at the other place, Ross’s.”
“Ross’s Rooming House?”
“Yeah, we had dinner together. The girls were studying French because they were going to Africa—one of those countries where they speak French—to become missionaries after they summited Katahdin. I told them I wanted to practice my français, s’il vous plaît. I spent my junior year in Paris. They thought I was a pretty comical character, I guess.”
“What do you mean?”
“I asked in French if they had any pets back home, because I miss my dog, Einstein, and it turns out pet is the French word for ‘fart.’” He grinned. “Naomi almost fell out of her chair, she was laughing so hard.”
“That must have been embarrassing.”
“Hell, no, bro. Back in high school, I was voted class clown. It’s my greatest achievement to date.”
“So you set off the next morning into the Hundred Mile Wilderness? That was on Sunday, the seventh?”
“I don’t know the date, but I remember it was Sunday because the girls wanted to know if there was a church in town. But we ended up cruising out to the trailhead together. We kept leap-frogging each other at first. They’d rest for a while, and I’d pass them. Then I’d rest for a while, and they’d pass me. The last time I saw them was at Cloud Pond. I was hoping we’d end up in the same lean-to, and we did.”
“They weren’t into you, I take it.”
McDonough leaned back so hard in his chair that it scraped across the pine floor. “I’m a gentleman. I don’t kiss and tell.”
I couldn’t imagine two Christian women engaging in a ménage à trois with this oaf. “Tell me more about this man in the red tent.”
He ran his hand through his wet hair, undoing the work he’d previously done with a comb. “He showed up after dark. It was hard to see anything beyond the firelight. He might have said hello to one of the girls—I think it was Naomi—and then he just crawled inside his tent.”
I glanced up from my notes. “What do you mean he might have said hello to one of the girls?”
“She was out using the facilities. When she came back, she gave a pretend shiver, like he was a weirdo. You know, her eyes were wide.”
“Did she seem frightened?”
“No, just like he was an odd individual. You meet a few out on the trail.” His eyes darted over my shoulder. “Right, Nonstop?”
Nissen stood with his back to us still, arms crossed, silent as a statue.
“So the man in the tent didn’t sign the Cloud Pond logbook?” I said.
“Not that I remember.”
In all likelihood, it meant his name wasn’t among the ones I’d found in the Chairback register, either.
“If you never got a good look at him, how did you know his tent was red?”
“I had to get up in the middle of the night to drain my vein. I had a few brews I bought at the store in Monson. I must’ve seen the color in my headlamp.”
“And in the morning he was gone?”
“I had kind of a hangover, so I decided to sleep in.”
“What about Samantha and Missy?”
“Naomi woke me as they were packing up, wanted to see how I was doing.” Clownish circles appeared on his cheeks, as if the memory embarrassed him. “The truth is, I had to yack a couple of times. I think it was because I was so dehydrated. I decided to stay another night there.”
“So you didn’t run into them again?”
“No, they were a day ahead of me. I saw that they made it to Chairback Gap, because they wrote in the logbook. You should go up there and check it out.”
Nissen startled me by speaking. “We just came from Chairback.”
> I flipped through the photographs I’d taken. When I came to the entry the women had left in the trail register, I passed the camera to McDonough. “Does this look like their handwriting?”
I saw his lips move, as if he needed to sound the words out. “Yeah,” he said. “Huh. That’s weird.”
“What’s weird?”
“That stuff about the coyotes. We heard them howling at Cloud Pond. Baby Ruth had read in a book that wolves sometimes attack women who are having their periods. I had to explain that coyotes weren’t the same as wolves. Naomi said, ‘If one of them gets too close, I’ll Mace it in the face.’ She had this pink canister of pepper spray. You don’t think the coyotes followed the girls to Chairback?”
“No.”
“Now you’ve got me scared to go back out there,” McDonough said, “and I’m not even having my period.”
“When are you leaving, Chad?” asked Caleb Maxwell. He’d returned with a pot of coffee and a pitcher of half-and-half. He poured a cup for me and offered one to Nissen, who just ignored him.
“Soon.” McDonough lifted his braced knee to show us. “My leg still hurts.”
I took a sip of coffee. “How did you injure it?”
McDonough shrugged. “Sprained it coming down Chairback. Slipped and fell off one of those big wet rocks. Thought I’d torn my ACL at first, because it hurt like a motherfucker.”
“Were you wasted? Is that why you fell?” Nissen asked.
“No, I wasn’t wasted.” The young man flicked his eyes at me in annoyance.
“What the fuck are you even doing out here, McDonut?” There was a sneer engraved on Nissen’s face. “You don’t belong on the trail.”
“Relax, bro.”
“Don’t call me ‘bro,’ monkey mouth.”
I held up my hand in a stop signal. “Knock it off, Nissen.”
“Two girls are missing, and all he cares about is stuffing his hole and getting wasted.”
“Did you just call me a monkey?”
“I called you a monkey mouth.”
“Take it easy, Chad,” said Caleb.
McDonough kicked over his chair as he rose to his feet. “Fuck you, old man. I don’t give a shit who you are.”
Nissen balled his right hand into a fist as he crossed the room in several quick strides. I reached out and grabbed his wrist; it was as hard as rawhide. The man might have been in his mid-fifties, but I wouldn’t have wanted to get into a wrestling match with him.
“Calm down,” I said. “Both of you.”
“He insulted me!” The circles on McDonough’s cheeks grew darker as they filled with blood.
I didn’t let go of Nissen’s arm until he had settled back on his heels.
“Finished?” I said.
“I don’t feel like talking anymore,” McDonough said, putting on his ridiculous sombrero. “I’m going to bed.”
I pushed my chair away from the table and stood up. “So which way are you headed from here? In case I need to contact you again.”
“Nobo.”
Caleb translated. “He means northbound.”
“It might take me a while,” McDonough said, “but I’m going to make it to the top of Baxter Peak even with my bum knee.”
“I appreciate your cooperation, Chad.” I tried to sound friendlier than I felt.
“I hope you find those girls, sir,” he said. “They’re really cool chicks. Not your usual Bible-thumpers.”
Giving Nissen one final glare, the fat young man stumped out of the dining hall.
After I’d heard the door slam, I said, “What the hell was that about?”
“Guys like him desecrate the trail,” said Nissen. “They’re an offense to everything the AT stands for.”
“He’s just a kid, Bob,” Caleb said.
“And you can go to hell, too, Maxwell,” Nissen said before he also stormed out into the night.
Caleb shook his head in disgust before raising the coffeepot at me. “You want another jolt?”
“Sure,” I said. “This is turning into a long night.”
Nissen had called Chad McDonough “monkey mouth.” The only other person I’d ever heard use that expression was a convict at the Maine State Prison. The term is jailhouse slang for a person who yammers on about nothing. Just when I thought I was beginning to get a handle on Nissen, he slithered again from my grasp.
7
I asked Caleb if I could use the lodge’s telephone to contact Lieutenant DeFord, and he led me through a sparkling metal kitchen to an office tucked behind the reservation desk. He turned on the computer in case I needed it, then left me alone. I seated myself in his mesh-backed office chair and dialed the number at the command post.
“DeFord.”
“This is Bowditch. I’m at Hudson’s Lodge. I haven’t been able to get a decent signal before now.”
“What did you find?”
“Samantha and Missy stayed at the Chairback Gap lean-to nine nights ago. They left an entry in the logbook. I’ve taken pictures of it and will send them to you now. I ran into Dani Tate at the ford across the West Branch of the Pleasant River, and she told me that the team that searched the next two shelters didn’t find any evidence they’d been there.”
“I just got a text from Tate. It’s looking like Chairback Gap was the point last seen.”
“There’s something else, sir. I found a hiker who claims to have spent the night with them at Cloud Pond.”
He took a moment to answer, probably counting back in his head. “When was this?”
“Ten days ago. His name is Chad McDonough. He’s twenty-three, from North Adams, Massachusetts.”
“What’s he been doing since then?”
“Staying at Hudson’s. Caleb Maxwell told me he came in with a sprained knee and has been hanging out here until it healed. McDonough’s trail name is McDonut.”
“How in the world did you locate this guy, Bowditch?”
I told him about the trail names I’d found in the Chairback logbook and how I’d come to the lodge hoping to ID some of the thru-hikers. Then I recounted my conversation with McDonough.
“What’s your take on him?” the lieutenant asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “He comes across as this guileless pothead, but I think he lied to me about a few things in his past. He has a temper, too. This whole McDonut persona might be an act.”
“Send us his identification information, and we’ll check him out. Do you still have Nissen with you?”
I fought the urge to ask why I’d been assigned the misanthrope. “Yes, sir.”
“Head on back to Monson. Report in at the RV when you get here. I’m going to move the circus back up to Greenville tomorrow. It makes sense to be closer to the point last seen.”
“I’ll be there in an hour,” I said.
“Drive safe. We had a fatal in Rockwood a couple of hours ago. The driver hydroplaned off the road, slammed into a tree. That’s no way for anyone to go.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Get yourself a cup of coffee,” he said. “Stay alert.”
I didn’t know DeFord well, never having served under him, but he struck me as a good lieutenant. He was on the young side for the job—early forties—but he projected a confidence that didn’t feel phony and had received more decorations for heroism than any warden in the service. People talked about him as a future colonel, and I could easily envision him in the big chair. The current holder of that office, Timothy Malcomb, had taken over in an acting capacity while the commissioner conducted a search, and he had also made it known he didn’t want the position long-term. (Nor was he a favorite of Maine’s hot-tempered governor.) Maybe DeFord had the political instincts to survive in the capital snake pit. If he hoped to rise to the colonel’s office, he would need to find Samantha Boggs and Missy Montgomery first—preferably alive. There had been a time in my life when it would’ve shocked me to think that someone might use a crisis to advance his career interests. I’d wised up
a lot since those days.
I removed the flash card from my camera and slid it into a port in Caleb’s computer. I opened my Web mail, typed a short message to DeFord, and attached the photographs. Then I hit Send.
I hadn’t felt this exhausted since the Criminal Justice Academy. Boot camp had been only five years ago, but it seemed like another lifetime. I was older, in any case.
Caleb Maxwell had one of the neatest desks I’d ever seen. There was a careful stack of yellow and pink forms—receipts for food shipments, etc.—in a wooden box beside the computer keyboard, and he had taped the five-day weather forecast to the wall. The sole personal effect was a framed photograph that showed Caleb embracing an athletic-looking woman with short brown hair and exceptionally white teeth. The picture had been taken against a background of blue sky and rolling green mountains. Both Caleb and the woman looked healthy and happy, but there was something about the photograph that made me think it represented a sad memory.
It was late now, and wherever Stacey was, she was probably asleep. I tried to convince myself she was still at the beach house, lying in the bed we’d shared earlier. I imagined that the window was open and the sea breeze was fluttering the curtain. But I knew she hadn’t stayed.
My first serious girlfriend, Sarah Harris, would have preferred to be awakened, rather than not hearing from me. Most women seemed to be that way. But not Stacey. Her frequent silences discouraged me from interrupting them. I wanted to believe that there was no special significance behind her decision not to leave a voice-mail message earlier. She knew I would be in touch when I had something to report. It wasn’t a lack of concern on her part.
I leaned back over the keyboard and opened the browser to my Web mail program again. Using two fingers, I typed an e-mail to her:
Dear Stacey,
I saw that you had called but decided not to wake you. No sign of the missing women yet. I found an entry in a trail logbook that proves they were at a shelter on Chairback Mountain 9 nights ago. But they seemed to have disappeared after that. I don’t know what to think at this point, but I don’t have a good feeling. My search partner is a jerk named “Nonstop” Nissen, who once held the record for the fastest thru-hike of the AT. I’m writing from a new ecolodge called Hudson’s in the Hundred Mile Wilderness. I tracked a thru-hiker here named “McDonut,” who seems to have had contact with Samantha & Missy. He’s another piece of work.
