Here's the excerpt. It's uncorrected copy. Please don't redistribute. Copyright 2012 Anthony Izzo.
Chapter Two
Jess Armstrong pulled her Dodge Durango into a slanted parking slot
at the Forgotten Diner. It was a low-slung white building. The lights
inside glowed bright, given the restaurant the qualities of a beacon
in the dark night. It was along the town's main drag and she got out
of the Durango and walked inside.
The counters
continued with the theme of gleaming white. She'd expected to inhalde
the aromas of meatloaf and fresh coffee, but she smelled nothing of
the sort. The front counter was empty, and there were a dozen red
vinyl stools lined up. She had driven all night to get here and her
stomach ached from hunger. There was a piece of pie in a clear glass
pie case sitting on the counter. That and a cup of coffee would do
it.
She took a seat
at the counter. A greasy menu was tucked between two napkin holders
on the counter. She took it out and looked over it. If the grill
wasn't closed, a burger actually sounded good, something with bacon
and blue cheese that wouldn't help her abs one bit.
She'd come here
working a case. A private investigator, she'd been hired to track
down a missing college student, a kid named Martin Vega. Two weeks
ago, she'd gotten a call from a tearful woman asking for a meeting.
She'd agreed to meet with Emily Vega and discuss the case.
Her office was in
an old feed mill that had been converted into offices. The heavy
beams and ductwork had been left after the renovation, giving the
building an industrial feel. Emily Vega entered Jess' office, a slim
Latino woman in a down vest and jeans. Her eyes were red-rimmed and
she carried a crumpled tissue in her hand.
“Are you good
at finding missing persons?” Vega asked.
“I've done it
before,” Jess said, taking out a yellow legal pad and gel pen. “Who
are you looking to find.”
“My son.”
“What's his
name?”
“Martin. He's a
student at The University of Buffalo. He called and told me he was
taking a break from college. He wanted to be a photographer,” she
said, wiping her nose with the tissue. “He liked to photograph
abandoned places.”
“So he cut
class to go take pictures?”
“That's right.”
“When's the
last time you heard from Martin?”
“Three days
ago. He called from a town called Forgotten. It's in Montana.”
“A long way
from home,” Jess said, noting the name of the town. “What did he
say?”
“He was going
into an abandoned mining town to take pictures.”
“How do you
know he's gone missing?”
She shifted in
the chair, reached in her pocket, and took out a cell phone. She
flipped it open and punched in a code. Then she put it on speaker.
A young man's
voice said:
“Mom, there's
someone after me. I'm up in the mountains. I'm lost. I called the
cops up here and they told me to stop bothering them. Call for help
if you get this.”
“Did you call
the police up there.”
She folded the
phone back up and stuck it in her pocket. “They said there was
nothing they could do. The local police said there wasn't enough to
make them think he was missing.”
“So you came to
me.”
“Mrs. Vega, I'm
sorry.”
“Will you do
it?”
“I get half my
fee up front. The other half when I find him.”
“So you'll find
him?” she asked.
“I'll do my
best.”
So here she was,
halfway across the country in Big Sky Country, hoping to find a
college kid who decided to blow off school. Before she looked for
Martin Vega, she needed something to eat. “Hello?”
No answer came
from the diner, so she went behind the counter and entered the
kitchen. The counters were spotless and free of food. It didn't have
that lingering greasy smell that seemed to linger in every diner.
“Anybody?”
A door slammed
shut in another part of the kitchen and a gaunt kid in white cook's
clothes appeared. His t-shirt hung on his bony frame. “Customers
aren't allowed in the kitchen.”
“I was looking
for a waitress.”
“We're closed.”
“The sign said
open. Plus your lights are on.”
“Doesn't
matter. We're closed. Now leave.”
“I've come a
long way. How's about a piece of pie out there?”
“It's no good.
I need to throw it out.”
“I'll buy it.”
“Do I need to
call the Sheriff? I said we're closed, you dumb bitch.”
Jess felt her
temples start to throb. At thirty-one, she didn't have high blood
pressure, but she could feel her blood start to cook. It was apparent
she wasn't getting a meal. “So much for small-town hospitality.”
She left the
kitchen, feeling the kid's gaze on the back of her neck. As she moved
through the diner, she was half-tempted to grab the piece of pie, but
she didn't. Might need the local law to cooperate. As she climbed
into the Durango, the kid was standing in the doorway of the diner,
his stare boring into Jess. If looks could've killed, she would be
pushing up daisies.
She arrived at the Three Pines lodge. The lodge was constructed of
logs, a main building in the center and two wings jutting off to each
side. A stuffed grizzly bear on hind legs stood outside the door.
After getting her bag from the rear of the Durango and making sure
her shoulder rig was concealed, she went inside. Looking around, she
saw the walls were lined with the heads mounted animals. Deer. Elk.
The head of another bear. Maybe it was the other bear's relative.
A red-haired
woman stood at the front desk, which was constructed of a polished
piece of rough wood built on top of logs. She was typing something on
a keyboard.
“I have a
reservation,” Jess said.
“Name?”
Jess told her.
The woman checked her in, swiping her credit card. She gave Jess a
room key. “Two eighteen. I'm sure you'll find it.”
“Thanks for the
hospitality. Is there a restaurant in the lodge?”
“There is. It's
closed. If you're hungry, there's vending machines over there.”
“Doritios for
dinner. I've had worse,” she said, gathering her bag and key. She
stopped at the vending machine and purchased a package of Oreos and a
bag of chips. Then she went up to her room, intent on having the
gourmet dinner provided by the Lodge.
After stumbling around in the woods, Ray found his way back to their
campsite. The fire had died down to a dull orange. The cold bit
through his clothes and his body ached from the tumble down the hill.
He didn't know what to do, so he could at least gather more wood for
a fire.
He threw some
more wood on the fire, but it only smouldered, refusing to light. He
scanned the woods, looking for any sign of Pete. There was only
darkness.
He didn't know
what he'd do if he lost the boy. Pete had grown into a good young
man. Gone were the days when he idolized Ray, when the simple act of
Ray fixing a broken toy truck was deemed heroic. But they still had
moments: like going to the occasional Buffalo Bills' game, the two of
them grilling steaks in the lot before kickoff. It made his chest
ache to think Pete might be gone.
He cursed himself
for coming back to the campsite. Should be out looking for Pete. Ann
Marie's voice echoed in his head, his wife sometimes exhibiting an
almost casual cruelty: Maybe someday you'll find your spine, Ray. He
shouldered his pack. If he died out there, at least he would die
searching for Pete.
Heading in the
direction of the footprints, he managed to find the trail. They
certainly were fucking strange. Some type of animal. He continued
into the pines, trying to follow the general path of where the
footprints might have gone. He was rewarded by finding snapped brush
and branches, meaning something large had come through.
After moving
through the woods, the moonlight his only companion, he spied a shiny
object on the ground and hunkered down: it was Pete's pocket knife.
There was no
blood on it, and he found that somewhat comforting.
He continued to
follow the footprints as they wound through the broken branches left
by Pete's abductor.
After travelling
another couple hundred yards, he came to a clearing. In the clearing
was a domed structure constructed of sticks and leaves. It stood
around ten feet high and gave the impression of a makeshift shelter.
Circling around
it, Ray listened to determine if anyone was inside. There was an
opening tall enough to admit a man of seven feet tall. He took out
Pete's pocket knife and clicked the blade open, thinking some weapon
was better than nothing.
The same sour,
musky smell that he noticed before Pete's abduction came from the
doorway of the thatched structure. Ray crept inside, the ground
spongy under his feet.
He squinted to
see, the darkness near total. He didn't hear anyone inside. “Pete?”
This place was
empty. But who the hell built it?
As he turned to
go, he stepped on something squishy and wet. He kicked at the unseen
object and it clung to his foot and he stumbled out the door. He
managed to unstick the mess from his shoe, and in the moonlight he
got a better look at it: pinkish gray and slicked with blood. The
rest of it trailed inside the shelter and he realized it was a loop
of entrails.
He fell to his
knees and fought the urge to vomit. Jesus, please don't let that be
Pete.
Stomach churning,
he stood. His hands shook and he looked at the viscera on the ground
at his feet. What if Pete's clothes were inside? There was only one
way to tell.
He ducked back
into the shelter and felt around, crawling back and forth on the
ground. He found no clothes but did manage to stick his finger in
something. He was glad it was dark.
When he climbed
out of the shelter, he wiped his hands on some leaves. “Maybe it's
from an animal.”
He continued
through the woods, following the broken branches until he came to a
cliff. From down below came the gurgle of water. Ray looked at the
ground and saw the footprints ended at the cliff. He peered over the
edge and saw the cliff went down to the riverbed. There were a series
of rock shelves on the way down. It was possible someone could climb
down, resting on each shelf.
The footprints
definitely ended here.
The first shelf
was about twenty feet down and he figured it was the only route the
abductor could have taken. He lowered himself, belly pressed against
the rocks. He found some footing and managed to climb down to the
first shelf, sweating and panting.
He searched the
rocky shelf for any sign of Pete but found nothing.
After another ten
minutes of climbing, he reached the next shelf down. This time he
found Pete's brown leather wallet. Still no blood on it, which he
took as a good sign.
Climbing to the
floor of the ravine, with resting, took him another forty-five
minutes, and when he reached the bottom, he was minus half the nail
on his right fingernail. He sucked on the wounded nail as if it would
help but was rewarded only with the tastes of blood and dirt.
His throat felt
as if he'd sucked dirt through a straw and swallowed. The water was
long gone.
He knelt at the
riverbank, scooped up some water, and swished it in his mouth. Then
he spit it out, the water silty and brackish.
After searching
the riverbank, he found the footprints. They headed down river and he
follwed them for another quarter mile.
As he slogged
along the riverbank, the hairs on his neck prickled. He got a tight
feeling in his guts, like he might let loose in his drawers. Fear.
Someone watching him.
As a shriek
echoed through the woods, he took out the pocketknife.
No comments:
Post a Comment