The reactions of animals provide warnings of any danger in the area.
~
Mom’s high-pitched voice sucks me out of a delicious dream. Think Mo plus kiss plus MoonPies. “Why are you in bed? It’s almost noon!”
I moan from under a mound of covers as my mind straddles between waking up and going back to sleep. “I’m tired.”
She yanks the pillow off my head, letting the bright light find my face. “Why? What were you doing all night?”
I squint, as dots blink in my vision. My hand shields my eyes until my pupils adjust. “Me? Where were you? You didn’t show up for our family dinner last night. Again.”
Mom acts nonchalant about standing me up … again. “I was offered another shift. I called but you didn’t answer. You must have gotten home late.”
I lean up on my elbows and stare at her. My muddled brain finally flickers on and starts to recall reality. “Really? Because I called the diner. They said you’d already left. Where were you?”
“Out.” Mom balls her fists and places them on her hips. “Anyway, I don’t have to answer to you.”
I cross my arms. “Well, you don’t have to lie to me either.”
She yanks off the bedspread, exposing my naked feet. “Get up. Jim’s only chargin’ me fifty bucks a session, the least you can do is be on time.”
I salute her and rise to a soldier’s stance. She ignores my military impression and leaves without saying another word. I sigh as soon as the door closes. Deep down, it sucks fighting with her. Wish I knew how to stop. Surely there’s a class or something. Troubled teens and their messed up moms 101.
Rubbing my eyes, I stuff my feet into bear slippers and shuffle to the closet. After squeezing into a pair of tan cargo pants, I flip through my collection of vintage t-shirts and choose a Cookie Monster one that says, “One Tough Cookie.” Don’t feel very tough today. Actually, the opposite. Beaten down. Weak. Spent. I wonder if Cookie Monster ever gets tired of obsessing over sugar. Who knows, maybe this shirt can give me some kind of super power. Like the big S on Superman’s chest.
As soon as I make it downstairs, Mom appears from the kitchen, wearing her diner uniform. “Gotta go, I’m late. I made you some breakfast.” She pushes through the screen door.
A couple seconds later, I hear the struggling clutch beg for mercy as Mom attempts to murder it once again. I smile. Weird, how the small, dumb things never change. Yet the big, important things you want to stay the same never do.
In the kitchen, I spot my most-important-meal-of-the-day on the table: two pieces of burnt toast, an expired yogurt cup (Hello, lactose intolerant!), and an open can of flat coke. What ever happened to Wheaties, fruit, and a good ole’ glass of OJ? I scrape the black crust off the bread and cram it into my mouth.
It’s official. Mom’s trying to kill me.
Just as I’m leaving the house for Dr. Head’s office, a photo perched up on the mantle catches my eye. The one of Dad and me holding up a huge fish we caught together. I’m wearing a big smile, unaware of the bunny ears he’s displaying behind my head. In pretty much every picture of us, he did something silly.
I stare at his smile and guilt pumps through me. I wasted so much time yesterday messing around when I should have been searching another grid. I need to regroup. Focus. Get back to my investigation. The gunfire replays in my head.
I need to see Les. Check and see if he found those guys. Tell him about the shooting noises. Find out why he never called like he promised.
There’s not much time before my appointment, but this can’t wait.
Dr. Head is not going to appreciate my “no show.” I know how it feels to be stood up when you are expecting someone. Like mother, like daughter. Gives Dr. Head and I something to analyze later.
When Luci and I turn down Station 11’s dusty road, Les’s truck is in the station’s driveway. I park and walk up the porch’s rotting stairs, creaking with every step. The ranger office is empty except for a walkie-talkie and ranger gear lying on his desk.
I knock lightly on the wooden frame encasing a torn screen. “Les?”
Muffled noises drift from behind the house. Sounds like whispering voices. I mill around the side to an empty yard. A sudden gust blows by, making a haaaa sound as if the trees are laughing at me.
A chill skitters down my spine. “Les? You here? It’s Grace.” Something scuffles through the underbrush. The hair on my arms tingle, and my heart drums in my chest. “Les? Is that you?”
Suddenly, a midnight-black dog bolts out of the woods. I yelp as Dad’s service dog jumps on me and muddies my shirt with his paws. “Bear! Geez, you scared me.” Since Dad went missing, Bear has lived at the station with Les. Mom thought it was the best thing for the dog, no matter how much I protested.
Bear leans all sixty pounds of himself against my leg and stares into the trees, waiting for someone to return. I scratch his pointy ears, still convinced he’s part wolf. After looking around a little, I leave him staring off into the woods, and trot back up the rickety steps to wait.
As I enter Les’s office, a strange smell of tobacco mixed with rotten sandwich meat and bad coffee makes me gag. Two huge rotating fans thump on the ceiling, circling musty air. Papers stack up on every guest chair. I step over random trash and sink into Les’s captain chair.
Bored, I flip through his park ranger manual outlining procedures on hunting permits, animal relocation, and wilderness laws. Then I shuffle through the loose papers scattered across the top. A weather report, an email about a new bear sanctuary, and a few old, coffee-stained invoices. Underneath the scattered junk mail, I spot Les’s patrol log.
First, I open the book and run my finger down the pages, scanning the most recent notes. There’s nothing recorded for the last couple of days. Slacker. Then I get an idea. I flip back to the week Dad disappeared and read a few entries, starting a few days before and after. One in particular grabs my attention.
Wed April 8th: Checked Station 19. Patrolled areas 11 and 12. Poacher citation #1248960.
It’s as if the wind has been sucked out of my sail. I fall back in the chair and think for a second. Does this mean Les or Dad issued a poacher citation the day before Dad went missing? And if so, to whom?
I yank the desk drawer where the documents are filed. Locked. I slip the pink Swiss Army knife out of my bag and choose a tool. I jimmy the lock, careful not to leave any scratches on the laminated wood.
After a few tries, it pops open. Scary the things you can learn on TV and the Internet these days. B&E is getting to be a bad, yet fun, habit. I glance outside to be sure Les isn’t coming before rifling through his files. As soon as I find the label marked “citations,” I slide the manila folder out and thumb through its contents until I find the reference number I’m looking for.
Bingo!
My jaw clenches as I slide out a paper with trembling hands. It’s dirty and crumpled, obviously trampled on. The ink is smeared, but I can still read it.
Poacher citation #1248960.
Location: 1 mile East of Station 19, on park border.
Offenders: Alfred Smith and William Barrett. Expired gun license. Suspected of bear hunting off-season. No carcasses found.
Action: Issue citation with fine of $500.
Notes: Remington .44 Magnum and a Winchester. Second offense.
signed:
I cover my mouth as I make the connection. Alfred and William.
Al and Billy.
No one signed the bottom. I double check a few other citations and confirm this is the only one without a signature.
Did Les issue this? Is that why he asked me about names? Did he tell Carl about this when Dad went missing?
I jot down the information in my notebook just as the front steps creak, warning me that someone’s coming.