The Trail Read online

  The officer had left the shack hours ago. After he departed, the man in the red shirt entered the shack and disappeared into a back room. The hiker could hear what sounded like a hacksaw cutting though wet wood. Suddenly, a bloody arm whirled into the room and came to rest near the face of the dead girl. That’s the man’s arm, the hiker thought.

  The hiker ripped furiously at the chains. He had no more tears. No more screams. He scanned the room, searching for an escape. He noted the rusty screwdriver and broken shovel next to the white spray paint cans.

  The hiker snaked his right leg as far as he could until his hiking boot touched the screwdriver. He strained against the chains, finally reaching the tool with the top of his shoe. With slow, deliberate movements, he worked the tool across the dirt floor until it rested under his body. He dropped down against the wall and awkwardly grabbed the tool. The chains around his arms made the grasp nearly impossible. He turned and studied how the chains were mounted to the wall.

  Screws!

  For what felt like hours, the hiker twisted the screws out of the wall. His progress was slowed by his awkward grip and periodical appearances by the man in the red shirt. Whenever the crazy man burst into the room to fetch something, the hiker would stand completely still and conceal the screwdriver behind his back.

  At last the screws came loose, and with one final twist the chains came free. With both arms liberated, he made quick work of the rest of his restraints.

  The sound of sawing wet wood continued in the other room. Occasionally laughter, or possibly crying, punctuated the horrible grinding noise.

  The hiker crawled past the room. His body felt strange, like the rubbery fatigue that would overcome him after a twenty mile hike. He gradually rose, and limped past the fire, the boiling pot, and the dead girl on the floor.

  The hiker staggered forward, tripped on an uneven section of floorboards, bumped a table, and sent a glass jar of yellow liquid crashing to the floor.

  The sawing stopped.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Run! Run! Run! Run! Run! Run! The one word screamed in the hiker’s brain—but he couldn’t get his legs to move. He was frozen in fear. Time slowed. Pain ceased. He heard the heavy footsteps of the man in the red shirt approaching. As his tormenter emerged, blood-splattered and smirking, his green eyes flat and dead, the trance was broken. The hiker tumbled through the doorway, leapt off the front porch, and scrambled toward the twilight woods.

  The man in the red shirt ran behind him, laughing.

  The hiker splashed through a creek and ripped his shirt on a branch. Fresh blood poured from his arm.

  The hiker allowed himself a momentary glance behind. The man in the red shirt stood motionless by the creek, head down, examining a metal saw in his right hand.

  The hiker looked around, trying to orient himself.

  “Gotta get out of here…gotta get out of here…gotta get out of here,” he whispered, all the while scanning the deep forest of pine. He started to the left, away from the false trail markers that had led him to the shack. He walked for what felt like an hour, periodically limping or dragging his broken body, which was now beginning to acknowledge the full register of pain.

  The man in the red shirt did not follow.

  The hiker came across small stone steps almost completely concealed by moss. He prayed that this path would lead to help. Beyond the steps, a black iron fence formed a rough oval. Inside the area, the hiker looked at eight tiny headstones, some no taller than the top of his boot. The overgrown roots strained to pull the markers back into the earth. A heavy fog hung over the place. The metal gate groaned in the wind.

  Behind the cemetery stood an old stone church. A hope grew in him, but quickly faded, because like the cemetery, the church appeared abandoned and withered by neglect. A modest-sized tree grew from a fissure in the wall. The window frames sparkled with hints of stained glass that had been shattered long ago. The back of the church butted up against a mound, giving the structure a cavernous look.

  The front door was slightly ajar. The hiker poked his head past the frame. Cracked stone benches faced the front wall. A rotten red carpet through the center of the room led to a stone altar. A chiseled crucifix embellished the granite tabernacle. Water dripped from the ceiling. The hiker shivered in the dank, squalid room.

  He walked slowly down the aisle, his breath echoing off the clammy partitions.

  “Hello?” he called out. “Hello? I’ve been hurt.”

  He reached the altar and stood behind it, looking back over the benches. Above the entrance, a pentagram had been spray-painted in white.

  The man with the red shirt stepped out of a concealed sacristy and grabbed the hiker by the throat. He smashed the hiker’s head against the altar, then drove a rock into the side of his temple.

  The hiker, dazed, felt his body being lifted onto the altar. He stared at the slick, gray stones of the leaky ceiling.

  The man in the red shirt brought the saw to the hiker’s neck. The hiker screamed, but his own voice sounded far away, like a voice in a dream. The hiker felt the first two strokes—the first one as a searing pain, the second as a dull, muddy stabbing.

  Then everything went black.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Harmless nut, Sheriff Adams thought, as he hiked away from the shack toward the trail head and his patrol car. He’d been called away from his investigation by an urgent request to inspect an auto theft. Nice home, buddy, Adams chuckled to himself, recalling the tattered shack and charred front yard.

  Adams had seen a number of these survivalist types during his years on the force. Most of them kept to themselves, just hunting and fishing and praying to Jesus, and that’s how Adams liked it. Of course, sometimes they’d go crazy and start trouble. The isolationism got to them.

  He remembered reading about that guy who lived in the woods and started mailing letter bombs to corporations. Adams felt a pinch of admiration for that guy. Someone that could throw a real monkey wrench into the system. Could fuck things up. Could stand up against the machine. Although Adams was a cop, there was a part of him that hated authority. Officer Bryson was quick to call that “ironic”. Smart-ass college boy, thought Adams.

  Nope, no letter bombs from this guy. This…he glanced down at his black flip notebook to remember the name the man had given him. This Martin Levy. You’re a good boy, right Martin?

  The radio crackled again.

  “Sheriff Adams. This is Officer Bryson, come in.”

  “Adams here. What is it, Bryson?”

  “Just a follow up on the second missing hiker report. Single white male in his fifties, hiking the trail south. Last seen passing Tucker’s Store around 3 o’clock yesterday.”

  “Okay, okay, got it. Anything else?”

  “No, sheriff, that’s all.”

  “Thanks, Bryson.”

  “Sheriff, wait a minute. One more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Well, sheriff, Nicole from the diner called. She wanted to talk to you.”

  “She did?” Adams stopped hiking and stared at the ground. “Are you serious, Bryson?”

  “Sure I’m serious.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Nothing. That she wanted to talk to you. That was all. Why? What’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure, Bryson. I’ll give her a call.”

  “Okay, sheriff, sounds good. Over and out.”

  “Over and out.”

  Well, I’ll be damned, Adams thought. Perhaps there was a chance to get breakfast in bed after all. He imagined Nicole in those little black waitress pants. He licked his lips.

  He was just over the last hump of the trail when he saw a green Ford Explorer pull up next to his patrol car and park.

  Four occupants, two males, two females, all roughly in their early thirties, exited the vehicle. By the way they stretched, they had been driving for quite some time. The sheriff quickly sized them up. The blonde who’d been in the passenger seat had
nice long legs and a great chest. She looked like a goodie-goodie. The black haired girl was hot, too, but in a slutty way. Her boyfriend looked like a stoner, and Adams thought about searching him for pot. Then Adams glanced at the driver and figured that the kid’s old man was probably a lawyer, and the search wouldn’t be worth the headaches.

  The stoner smirked at Adams and said, “Good afternoon, officer. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Where you folks coming from?” asked the officer.

  “Philadelphia,” Jack responded.

  Kim was relieved to see Jack drop his funny guy routine.

  The officer peered into the back window of the truck. “Doing some camping?”

  “Yeah,” Scott said. “We’re just gonna hike out a bit and set up our tents.”

  “You ever hike out here before?” the officer asked, his tone official, neutral.

  “No. Not this exact spot. But I’ve hiked around here before,” Scott replied.

  “Umm hmmm. Rocky. You can slip and break your ankle. Although with all that beer in your trunk, I guess you plan on falling down a lot anyways.”

  No one laughed. The statement didn’t appear to be a joke.

  Jack grabbed his backpack and turned to the officer. “Yeah, well…we better start getting our gear together. We want to get—”

  “Couple of hikers missing in there,” the officer said, pointing vaguely into the woods.

  “I know,” Kim blurted. “I read about that!”

  “You read about it? Where’d you read about it?” the officer asked, moving closer to Kim.

  “The paper. It was in the paper at the gas station.”

  “In the paper, huh?” the officer said. He continued studying Kim. “And what’s your name?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “Kim.”

  “Kiiiim,” repeated the officer. Kim didn’t like the slow way the cop pronounced her name.

  “Do you think you’re gonna find them?” Susan asked.

  “Don’t know. Woods are pretty big.” The officer turned his attention to Susan. “Got yourself a blow up mattress there, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Susan muttered, looking at the deflated bundle of black plastic visible through the back window of the truck. “Blow up mattress,” she repeated lamely, unsure how to answer the question.

  “Nice,” the officer said. “Very nice.”

  Scott opened the tailgate and started to unload the gear.

  The officer ambled over to inspect the equipment. “How long you plan on camping?”

  “What is this?” Jack broke in. “Some sort of interrogation?”

  The officer smiled. “Not an interrogation. Just like to know how long you’ll be out there, in case you don’t turn up.”

  “Two days,” Kim said. “Just a little getaway.”

  “A weekend getaway in the woods,” the officer said, looking off dreamily. “Sounds nice. A little partying in the woods. Very nice.”

  Kim looked at the ground.

  “Well,” the officer said, taking a deep breath and looking at all of them. “You folks be careful.” He turned to Kim. “And have fun partying.”

  “Thanks officer,” Scott said. “We will.”

  “Oh, and if you happen to run into those missing hikers, please tell ‘em that we’re looking for ‘em.”

  “Will do,” assured Scott. “What do they look like?”

  The officer grinned. “Well, the guy is in his late-twenties, six foot tall, with brown hair. The girl…” The officer’s voice trailed off. He moved very close to Susan and looked into her eyes. “The girl looks just like you,” he said with a laugh.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The cop had freaked Scott out. The missing hikers, too. He hadn’t wanted to say anything in the truck when Kim read the article about the hikers, but he was surprised by how blasé everyone was acting. He wondered if he was overreacting. He didn’t think so. He knew about these woods—sometimes hikers didn’t go missing by accident.

  Scott always relied on his instincts to get him out of a jam. Especially when he traveled. He’d gone through some pretty turbulent territories. The jungles of Peru. Congested middle-eastern cities. Places that were lawless and you had to rely on your wit. Scott had wit in spades. He sensed the cop at the trail head was not exactly on their side. Not there to serve and protect. His bloated belly and greasy hair made Scott uncomfortable.

  Those hikers. What if they’re not just lost? What if something...happened to them?

  Scott smiled and dismissed the thought. His imagination was starting to get the best of him. His mind often drifted when he hiked, and now was no different. The silence was getting to him, that was all.

  They had left the parking lot about twenty minutes ago. At first, they bantered and joked, but very quickly the weight of the gear turned the hike into a somber march. Scott, Susan, Jack, and Kim. Each in their own world.

  “Beer break,” said Jack, throwing his bag down on the trail. He unzipped a front pocket and extracted a Yuengling Lager. He twisted the cap off and beer foamed over, jostled from the hike.

  “Not here, Jack. Not now,” Scott protested. Jack was already sitting down. Scott knew from his college days that it was almost impossible to move Jack once he had a beer in his hand.

  Dammit, Scott thought. Jack is jamming us up again. Scott had wanted to have the tents set up and everything ready before they broke into the beer. But just like the pot earlier, Jack couldn’t wait. Why is Jack so impulsive?

  Scott wondered why he was still friends with Jack. Had they lost that college connection somewhere along the way? Had Jack changed? He thought of the Pearl Jam lyric, “You change by not changing at all.” That was Jack.

  “Anyone else want a brew?” Jack asked.

  Kim and Susan shook their heads no.

  “How ‘bout you, roomie?”

  “No, Jack. I just want to get there,” Scott said. “We all do.”

  Scott hated sounding like a nag, but Jack always forced him into this role. The responsible one. Writing the checklist for camping gear, packing the car, studying the maps. Jack didn’t realize that his whole world would collapse were it not for planners like Scott. And Susan. He looked over at his wife, but she was gazing at Jack, watching him slowly sip his beer.

  “Relax,” said Jack. “We’re almost there. Five minutes, tops. And then we’ll go for a little swim.”

  “Five minutes?” replied Scott. “Not according to the trail map. The lake is at least a half hour away.”

  “No way. I know this area. We’ll take that alternate trail over there,” said Jack, pointing to an overgrown path obscured by shadows. “Five minutes.”

  “No, look,” said Scott, moving closer to his old roommate with the open map. “We have to stay on this trail, the one with the white blazes. It will take us straight to the lake.”

  “Yeah, the long way.”

  Jack finished his beer, wrestled his pack back onto his shoulders, and started to descend the path towards the alternate trail. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Scott stood still, holding the map in his hand.

  “Come on,” said Jack again.

  Scott looked at Susan. She avoided his eyes.

  “Jack’s been here before,” Susan said in a whisper.

  Scott started to say something, but stopped himself.

  “Maybe he knows a short cut,” Susan said, and turned toward Jack and the trail. Kim followed.

  Scott muttered, “Dammit,” and followed the two girls.

  Martin, standing on the next ridge over, put down his binoculars.

  Chapter Twenty

  He was rude. Sloppy. She hated all the stupid racial remarks he made. And yet, Nicole felt that Sheriff Adams had a good heart. That he made those comments out of nervousness. Shyness. She liked that. Adams was nervous around her. Like a schoolboy. A big schoolboy with a gun.

  A cop. Ha! She wondered what her friends would sa
y if she dated a cop. She was liberal. Strongly liberal. Union yes. War no. It wasn’t that she disliked cops, it was just that interactions with them often left her cold. Their smug arrogance. Their know-it-all attitude.