Untraceable

Survival Skill #4

In survival situations, don’t be afraid to utilize any and all resources you may find.

~

With a quick glance through the plexiglass window, I check Bernice, who’s pointing at Wyn with her nail file. I don’t have long but already know exactly what I’m looking for.

I beeline to the cabinet and pull out the drawer labeled “Closed Cases.” My fingers walk past the Walters and the Watkins until I reach “Joseph Wells.” As I slide out the crisp manila folder, I can’t help but wonder if criminals have been convicted and possibly jailed for stealing confidential files. My hands quiver a little until I remember what Dad used to say: If you want to get something done, sometimes you have to do it yourself.

Wonder if that’ll hold up in court?

In the next room, Wyn bursts into a coughing fit.

The warning signal forces me to hide under Carl’s desk just as the door swings open. I peer through a crack in the wood, wondering if this is how a roach feels. Bernice reaches in and flicks off the light. Even after she closes the door, I remain hidden for a few extra minutes just to be sure. After stuffing the folder in my backpack, I sneak out the door and down the hallway. Once I’m clear, I race into the alley where Luci’s waiting.

I jump on my bike and tear out of town. Never looking back.

Miles later, I roll down my dirt driveway and notice Mom’s truck is already gone. Nothing new. She always works. These days, the only time I see her is in a photo. For once, I’m relieved she’s not here.

I charge up the porch steps and yank open the screen door. The frame flies off the hinges and crashes onto the floorboards. Great. My whole world is deteriorating right before my eyes, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Skipping every other step, I bound up to my room and lock the door behind me. After ripping off my shoes, I fall back into my duct-taped beanbag. A few tiny white balls escape and hide under the dresser along side a crowd of dust bunnies.

I sit there and fumble with the file, flipping it over and over like a hot pancake. Maybe this is it. Maybe I’ll crack this case wide open. Maybe I’ll find something everyone else missed.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

I take in a deep breath and open the folder.

The first thing I see is a photo paperclipped to the inside. Dad’s sitting in a chair holding a trophy while a few men flank him. I remember the moment perfectly. The picture was taken last year after he won the Wildlife Management Excellence Award. Staring at his face, it suddenly dawns on me how much I look like him. Same black hair, bright green eyes, and athletic build. When I was little, I always wanted to look more like Mom—curvier, yet petite—but I got over that wish years ago.

My jaw clenches as I take note of Dad’s crooked smile. Whenever I was in trouble or scared, if that grin appeared, I instantly knew everything was okay with the world.

Panic takes over. My lungs feel like they’ve been sawed in half. I toss the file on the carpet like it’s a scalding pan and push it away with my toe. I scramble to my feet and hang my head out the open window. As I gulp in air, the tide of panic eventually recedes. I have got to pull myself together. Freaking out isn’t going to help anyone.

Breathe, Grace. Just breathe.

My eyes water as I realize all the tiny details of Dad are dimming like a used light bulb. His smell is gone. The sound of his voice, muted. And his hands? Why can’t I remember his hands?

Sitting back down, I suck in a deep breath before opening the folder again. This time, I avoid the picture all together and dive straight into the stack of papers. On top is a form filled out in Carl’s handwriting.

Case File: 763452NC
Date: 5/07/11
Name: Joseph Wells DOB: 07-26-56 Age: 54
Race: Caucasian Sex: Male Height: 6’0”
Weight: 190 lbs. Hair: Black Eyes: Green

NOTES:
Last seen wearing a Wildlife Officer/Game Warden uniform – green pants, grey button-up shirt, green baseball hat, and black hiking boots. Size 11.

I flip the pages and read all the details of the case.

CASE ACTIVITIES:
4/9 – Joseph Wells left home on patrol at 0600 hours
4/10 – Wife Mary reported Joe missing at 0100 hours
4/11 – Point last seen, Oconaluftee River. Located radio in river. Hiking boot print (confirmed to belong to Joe), size 11, standard issue
4/12 – Search Party.
4/18 – Dogs. Search Party.
4/20 – Cross-referenced anon tip on 4/8 before incident. Refer to Call Transcript.
4/21 – USFWS enters investigation, Reviews case file
5/1 – Evidence: a partial boot track (make unknown)
5/11 – No blood DNA or other forensics evidence.
5/31 – Another search party sweep
6/1 – Presumed dead. Cause: drowning Oconaluftee
7/15 – CASE CLOSED

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION:
Evidence catalogue/photos: JW125543.doc

My eyes focus on one entry. A partial boot track (make unknown). I sift through the file. No picture? Wonder if it’s connected to the tracks I found in the woods? At the bottom of the case is an evidence file name, JW125543.doc, probably stored on Carl’s computer. Good luck hacking in there. There’s no way Wyn will help me again once he finds out I stole a file from his personal hero.

After jotting down the clue, I note another entry: Cross-referenced anon tip on 4/8 before incident. I page through the papers until I find the referenced call transcript. Out of the whole conversation, one line stands out.

Hiker reported suspicious campsite approximately one mile from Sidehill.

Judging from the date, the anonymous call came in a few days before my dad disappeared. Worth noting.

Nothing else in the file triggered any ideas. With hands trembling, I turn back to the photo and wipe my finger over Dad’s reddened face, remembering how embarrassed he was about receiving the award. There’s something so boyish about the expression on his face. Something I’d forgotten. Something I miss. I unclip the photo, replacing it with a different one from my drawer, and hide the new picture in my fly-carrying tin. No one will notice.

As my chest starts to tighten again, I shove the case file back in my sack and zip it closed. Like the tough Gore-Tex bag can prevent the picture from hurting me. Chewing on my bottom lip, I think about the case facts. Aside from the anonymous call and the random prints, Carl’s right. There’s not much to go on. I massage my forehead and think about all the places in the National Park.

But Sidehill doesn’t ring a bell.

Maybe Google knows. I sit down at my clunky computer and conduct eighty-seven keyword searches on “Sidehill” over the next few hours. Not much turns up, except for a few unreliable sites suggesting it’s some kind of historical trail. I scour through all my trail maps – old and new – to see if I can spot anything.

Nothing.

Eventually I go to bed, hoping and praying everything will make sense later. For now, I know what I need to do.

Find Sidehill.