Beech Mountain Breeze

by Ed Robinson

  “Breakfast is my job,” she said.

  “Good morning, Glory,” I said. “I thought I’d give you a break for once.”

  “God, I was sleeping so hard,” she said. “When did you come to bed?”

  “Three or four, I guess,” I said. “Didn’t look at the clock.”

  “I didn’t have the heart to wake you,” she said. “You and that couch were one entity.”

  “We’re not teenagers anymore,” I said.

  “Speak for yourself, buster,” she said. “Another cup of coffee and some breakfast and I’ll be ready to do it all again.”

  “We need to take the evidence we collected to Rominger,” I said. “No long hikes in the wilderness today.”

  “Oh, thank goodness,” she said. “I’m quite beat.”

  “We’ll take an easy day,” I said. “The hermit is deep underground by now.”

  “How are we going to find him now?”

  “I don’t think it’s a matter of we,” I said.

  “Time for mountain man Breeze to do his Zen thing?”

  “Something like that,” I said. “I dreamt that the hermit schooled me last night. He was literally a ghost.”

  “Just a dream,” she said. “He’s a man, like you.”

  “I also saw Pop Sutton in the window,” I told her. “But he was part of the same dream.”

  “That’s weird,” she said. “A dream within a dream?”

  “Remember American Werewolf in London?” I asked. “The guy thinks the dream is over. You think the dream is over. Then they scare the crap out of you, but it’s still just a dream.”

  “That’s pretty intense.”

  “That’s why I’ve been up since the wee hours,” I said. “Dying for some bacon. Sorry, I woke you.”

  “No, this is sweet,” she said. “I’ll go watch the creek while you cook.”

  I took her plate out to the porch before serving myself. I joined her with what was left of the coffee, refreshing her cup. We sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the creek. There was a coolness in the air, but not enough to force us inside. Brody smiled at me with a twinkling eye. I smiled back but didn’t speak. It was a nice moment. It was I who finally broke the silence.

  “So what have we gained for our efforts yesterday?” I asked.

  “Fingerprints and DNA are only useful if the suspect has been in the system for some reason,” she explained. “If our hermit has never been arrested or otherwise tested for DNA, we won’t be able to identify him, no matter how good our evidence.”

  “What’s the likelihood he’s in the system?”

  “No way to tell,” she said. “It’s still a relatively new technology. It wasn’t used in an American court until 1987. I’m not sure when law enforcement starting collecting it as a matter of routine, but if he encountered the police before then, he still wouldn’t be in the database.”

  “How big is this database?”

  “There are several all over the world,” she said. “The first was started by Interpol. In the US, it’s called CODIS. There are over ten million samples on record.”

  “So a person might be in the Interpol pool but not in CODIS?”

  “Or any number of other national systems,” she said. “It gets tricky when it becomes an international case.”

  “I don’t think this will qualify,” I said. “The hermit is local. He knows this area.”

  “He would have still had to have a run-in with the law,” she said.

  “We won’t know until Rominger runs what we collected.”

  “Which is why we should get it to him as soon as possible,” she said.

  “Guess we’re going to Boone,” I said. “Ready when you are.”

  We cleaned up the dishes and gathered our evidence. We drove down the mountain to the headquarters of the North Carolina Highway Patrol. The dispatcher called Rominger in and offered us donuts while we waited. When our cop friend arrived, we greeted him with the evidence we’d collected.

  “This is your hermit,” Brody said. “Without a doubt. Great DNA and clear fingerprints.”

  “How in the hell did you get this?” he asked.

  “We found his home base,” I said. “Wasn’t easy. We did not find him, though we were on his heels.”

  “That’s freaking amazing,” he said. “I would have never thought it.”

  “Oh yee of little faith,” I said. “Never doubt Breeze, Brody, and Red.”

  “I’ll send this to the lab right away,” he said. “Son of a bitch. That hermit has been part of the local lore since I was a kid. Can’t believe he’s even real. Now we might be able to identify him.”

  “We want to know if you do,” I said. “Immediately. We’ve invested a lot in this.”

  “You say you were on his heels?”

  “We think he was at the camp but heard us coming,” I explained. “Red had his scent but it got dark on us. Didn’t want to risk continuing the chase. I was on his turf.”

  “If he did the girl, he could be violent,” Rominger said.

  “I’ve got no opinion on that yet,” I said. “But we chose the cautious route.”

  “Can you find him again?”

  “Seems to be the million dollar question,” I said.

  “If we can identify him, and depending who he turns out to be, we might be able to put you back on the payroll.”

  “I still can’t say if he’s connected to the girl,” I said.

  “Finding the Beech Mountain Hermit will be big news,” he said. “A feather in the department’s cap.”

  “More like Breeze’s cap,” Brody said. “Your department chose not to pursue the man.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “But it’s got to go through us. We’ll get all the credit.”

  “I’m okay with that,” I said. “As long as you know who’s really responsible.”

  “You’ll be a legend with my men,” he said. “Seriously. This is the biggest story to break around here in decades.”

  “If you can identify him,” Brody said. “Remains to be seen.”

  We surrendered what we’d collected to Rominger’s capable hands. We both trusted him. We weren’t sure how the chain of custody laws would come into play if the hermit turned out to be our killer, but we’d done all we could on our end. The lawyers could figure that out later. My gut told me the hermit was not the killer, but that didn’t dampen my zeal to pursue him. My subconscious kept telling me I couldn’t catch him. I took that as a challenge. Don’t tell me no, damn it.

  We suffered a bit of a letdown during the drive home. What do we do now? It was much too late to chase a phantom in the woods. We were both too tired to go through that again anyway. We went back to the cabin and lounged the rest of the day away. I did spend some time going over the maps. We used the GPS waypoint that we’d made to mark the location of the hermit’s homestead. Then we war-gamed surrounding areas for likely secondary hiding spots.

  What we’d found was in the deepest, thickest part of the woods. The fact that we’d found it in the first place was amazing. The combination of skills that our little threesome possessed had been just right for the job. Now that he was flushed out of his hiding place, he might be even harder to find. Would he stay on the move, or would he simply retire to another hidden camp? The only way to find out was to comb those woods again. The dilemma was who would be involved. The dog had a skill that neither Brody nor I possessed, but he was a dead giveaway as to our location. Brody’s critical thinking abilities were as good, or better than my own, but she wasn’t the woodsman that I was. It all boiled down to me.

  There was something otherworldly about how I could move about the woods. I didn’t fully understand it myself, but I knew how to use it. It was becoming more and more apparent that I’d have to use those skills to their utmost if I wanted to meet the hermit. I couldn’t say what would happen after that. I liked to think that I could sit down and have a chat with the man. That would be the most pleasing outcome for me,
but I didn’t have the final say. I told myself that if I could beat him in the woods, track him down and corner him, he would cooperate.

  Twelve

  I was no expert with topographic maps, but I noticed something during my study. It appeared to be a depression in a rocky area, like a bowl. I had to get Brody to assist me with the scale of the thing. We measured and re-measured until we were confident of its size. The diameter of the rough circle was ten feet, give or take. It was protected on all sides by solid rock. It looked like a great place to hide. We compared it to an aerial shot of the wilderness. The trees surrounding it were tall and thick. Their leaves and branches blocked any view of the ground below.

  “That’s where he went,” I said. “A secondary camp for emergency situations. Probably has a cache of supplies there, and shelter.”

  “How far is it from the original camp?” she asked.

  “Less than a mile,” I answered. “But through rugged terrain.”

  “I’m no rock climber,” she said.

  “I’m not fond of it,” I said. “But I thought I’d go alone anyway.”

  “Can you find it from the ground?” she asked. “Things look a whole lot different than on these maps.”

  “I’m going to sit here and figure it out,” I said. “Get me the GPS.”

  Paper charts were old school, but I knew how to use them. I had enough data on the various maps to make a GPS waypoint dead on that depression in the rocks. All I had to do was walk to the waypoint. It would be accurate to within ten or twenty feet. It would be easy enough to find, but would he be there? If not, I’d have to go back to the drawing board.

  I went to the garage and rounded up my stealth costume. The drab brown clothes hadn’t been washed in many months. They were caked in old dirt. I shook them out and hung them on tree branches down by the creek. I left the deerskin shoes on a rock up the hill a little bit. I took a shower, but without soap or shampoo. I slept in the spare bedroom, so as not to pick up any scents from Brody. I was out of bed at four in the morning and hiking the woods well before daylight. I had the GPS to guide me. I had my dirty earthen clothes to cover my scent. I had my deerskin shoes to silence my footsteps.

  I also had the ability to hear, see and smell at an elevated level. I had a feel for the woods. I could become one with the mountain. We’d been through this area a few times already. I had the GPS, but I almost didn’t need it. I’m coming for you, hermit.

  I went into full stealth mode right away. I slid through the trees like mist on a foggy morning. Once I was deeply immersed in the forest, I stopped to tune up my senses. I sat still and slowed my breathing, letting the sounds and smells come to me. I could feel my heart slowing down and the tension leaving my body. My eyes had become better accustomed to the dim light of early morning. I was ready to move on.

  Each step was carefully placed to avoid making noise. I looked far ahead and up close at the same time. I used the trees and rocks for concealment, always assuming someone was there. I avoided detection by the imaginary foe with every move. My progress was slow and careful. I didn’t want to announce that I was there, not even to the wildlife. I saw several animals on the move looking for breakfast. They didn’t see me. They didn’t smell me either. I was of the woods, undetectable even to the wary fox.

  I saw deer and rabbits, along with a few squirrels. I didn’t see any bears, though I had my spray at the ready. Not even the birds were alerted to my presence. I gained confidence with each animal encounter. If they didn’t know I was there, then neither would the hermit. I thought about the rock depression I was looking for. He’d have to have a way to get down into it, maybe a ladder made from small trees, or just enough footholds to make the climb. I figured that if I showed up at the rim of the bowl, he’d be trapped. He couldn’t climb out and get past me. He’d had an escape route at his other camp. Maybe he didn’t have one at his backup spot. It would be his refuge of last resort.

  If the rock depression was a bust, I would still have plenty of time to search the area. I could move like smoke all day if necessary. I was too close to give up if my first target came up empty. I could feel it in my gut. Today was the day. Yesterday’s rest had me feeling strong. I was comfortable in my mountain man disguise, and my skin. I don’t know why, but I was born to this. I must have had some mountain ancestors or something. Maybe it was in my blood all along, and I had never known. Now that I had discovered it, it seemed natural.

  The sunrise was blocked by Beech Mountain. As daylight crept in, I increased my efforts to remain unseen and unheard. I felt I was barely moving, but continued making progress towards the hermit’s suspected lair. I took a detour so that I’d be deeper in the woods and have more cover to use for concealment. The spring had brought green soft grass and weeds that didn’t make a sound when stepped on. I kept up my sound discipline nonetheless. Any movement that caught my eye caused me to freeze behind a tree or rock until its identity could be determined, either through sight, sound, or smell.

  There were no other humans in this part of the wilderness; that much I knew. The only person I expected to encounter was the Beech Mountain Hermit. He didn’t know I was coming. He didn’t know that I could find him. He didn’t know that I could sneak right into his living room without him knowing I was there. I had to tell myself not to get overconfident. This dude hadn’t survived anonymously for so long by being lax about his security. On the other hand, no one of my caliber had made an effort to hunt him down. Most folks weren’t even sure if he was real.

  I found a good hiding place to rest and let my guard down for a few minutes. I couldn’t keep up my ultra-vigilance indefinitely, though I kept listening and smelling my surroundings. I took a minute to reminisce about the Hook Man of my youth. According to local legend, he lived deep in a forest that was popular with young couples. He attacked them while they were making out, using his steel hook hand to cause maximum damage. The story had floated around for several generations at least. Of course, no one ever saw the Hook Man, but somehow his legend persisted throughout the years.

  Beech Mountain had its own legend, that of the Beech Mountain Hermit. The stories that circulated probably preceded the creation of the real thing. Some man, for whatever reasons, had turned himself into the myth. He’d dropped out and disappeared. He survived by the same methods that his mythical precursor had, breaking into houses and taking what he needed. It was an important part of the legend that he never did any harm. It made folks sympathetic towards him. During our search of the neighborhood he’d hit most often, we heard reports of people leaving things out for him to take so that he wouldn’t break into their house.

  It was a simple concept. If you were closing the place up for an extended period, just put a blanket and some canned goods out back. The hermit will accept your offering and leave your house alone. Some left books, warm socks, and even snacks, like cookies for Santa Claus. The real hermit had usurped the role of the mythical hermit and used it to his advantage.

  A big part of me didn’t want to take that away from the man. I had to give him credit. I almost admired him and his chosen path in life. It was a great big nose-thumb at society, something I’d done for many years in Florida. I couldn’t see a way to get what I needed from him without exposing him. Everybody wanted to know who this man was. We’d already started that ball rolling by collecting his DNA and fingerprints. I wanted to find out what, if anything, he knew about the girl’s death. I wanted to look into his eyes to see if he was lying, or telling the truth. I didn’t know what I’d do if he said he knew nothing and hadn’t seen anything. That was assuming I would be able to sit and talk with him. I’d find out soon enough.

  I resumed sneaking through the woods like a ninja. I was the steam rising over a millpond on a warm spring day. I wasn’t invisible in the true sense of the word, but I was as much a part of the scenery as a man could get. I made a slight detour to investigate the campsite we’d found. I doubted I would find him there, but it would be foolish not
to check. I crawled slowly in the tall grass, listening for any sound of him. I filtered the scents in the air, trying to detect anything man-made. I knew he wasn’t there, so I circled around the heavy thicket and took a more direct route towards the day’s target.

  I had to stop several times and consult the GPS. Brody was right about things looking different from the ground. The rock depression I was looking for was not visible to the casual passerby. It was well concealed by taller growth and rocks that appeared too difficult to climb. If this was his secondary dwelling, there had to be a way to get inside. I moved so slowly I thought that moss would start to grow on my skin, staying ever aware of the sounds and smells the mountain gave me.

  That’s when I smelled shit. No kidding, someone was pooping or had just finished the job. I knew he was in there, but how to get to him? I inched around the outside walls of rock until I saw some natural indentations that could be used for ladder rungs. A foot wide section was devoid of moss or other vegetation, worn down over time by the hermit climbing up and down. I checked it for trip wires or something that would alarm him of my approach and found nothing. I began my slow climb, remaining silent. I heard pooping sounds on my way up.

  The thought of catching this guy while he was taking a shit was an unpleasant one, but it left him in a vulnerable position. Now was the best time to catch him by surprise. I increased my rate of climb ever so slightly. My soft shoes made no sound on the rocks. I reached the top edge of the bowl-shaped depression and peered down inside.