So far as he could tell, Tuesday, October seventeenth was just another day. Even the discarded newspapers he’d fished out of trashcans and swiped off benches indicated nothing out of the ordinary.
Though Jack was careful to watch the headlines, they never changed. Sometimes a synonym might be used; ‘called’ instead of ‘visited,’ or ‘purchased’ instead of ‘bought.’ Nothing significant. Still the same stories, the same pictures splashed across the front page.
For all that he remained determined there had to besomething that would help him, there really wasn’t much for him latch onto. No theories. No evidence.
Mud stained the hems of his pants, splashed across his shoes. Tomorrow, it would vanish. His suit would be pressed once more, his shoes merely scuffed instead of destroyed.
Tomorrow, he would try to convince them that he was here for an inspection. For now, he’d carry on muddying himself.
Outside of town, the woods were dense and thick. Trails crisscrossed along the coastline. Some led deeper into the mountains. Others skirted along the edge of the cliff, overlooking the beach. Another led from one scenic point to the next.
Though he was woefully unprepared for a hike, Jack determined that he had no choice. Information must be gathered. If that meant stomping through the underbrush in his good shoes, then so be it. If he sat idle any longer, he’d surely go insane. At least the pretense of investigating gave him something to do.
On a Tuesday afternoon, the trails were all but devoid of visitors. Jack drew a rudimentary map in one of his notebooks, copied from the directory at the trailhead. He’d start with the scenic route first, he decided, though it looked rather long and complicated and he wasn’t quite sure if he’d replicated it correctly.
He was almost as bad at following maps as he was at managing time, but there was nothing for it. This had to be done. If he got lost, or eaten by a cougar or a bear, so be it. Chances were, he’d wake up at 7:03 a.m. in his hotel room, sore and confused. A theory he was reluctant to test, but eager to trust in.
The sky overhead was blue and cloudless. Wind whistled through the pine trees and rattled the shrubs along the trail.
No one stopped to talk to him. An elderly hiker ignored his attempts at polite conversation. A teenage couple sat on a bench, locked at the lips. They didn’t even bother to break apart as he walked by. Mothers with strollers kept walking. A passing jogger broke into a sprint when he gave a friendly wave.
Jack frowned.That was uncalled for.
He wandered late into the afternoon. He had no water orfood, but the weather was mild and he could hear the rumbling of the road in the distance, so he tried not to worry.
The scenic points weren’t terribly impressive. A copse of trees saved from the logging industry after the tireless work of environmental activists. A tiny waterfall, just a dribble between dark stones. A stream that barely reached his ankles. And at long last, an overlook even Jack could admit was majestic.
By now, the sky had darkened. The trees across the forest were cast in shadow and mist. Beyond them, the ocean was glassy and grey. White boats dotted the murky coastline.
On the way back, walking quickly so as not to be caught alone in the woods at night, Jack spied trampled brush, strange marks in the nearby dirt. Almost as if something had been dragged.
Orsomeone.
He stared for a long time. The car park was only a quarter of a mile away, maybe less. Road noise filtered through the trees. The sign for the trailhead was just barely visible over the pointed tops of evergreens.
It was probably safe to linger, he decided, even as a shiver clambered down his spine.
He stooped to examine the tracks. Two, maybe three sets of footprints. Drag marks scarred the dirt.
With his curiosity piqued and nothing but a gas station hot dog waiting for him, Jack abandoned the path and followed the trail of broken branches and brambles. By no means was he an expert tracker, but whoever had come through here made little effort to conceal their movements.
Maybe he should be more concerned about that.
Jack slowed and tried to move quietly.
Birds sang. Insects chittered. And Jack followed the marks all the way to their stopping point.
He stopped. Stared.
Jack was no horror movie enthusiast, but he enjoyed mysteries and crime dramas, and this was a familiar sight.
Beneath a towering oak rested a strange mound. Six feet long,three feet wide, dirt overturned. There was a crust to it, almost like it had rained recently.
This was a burial site.
Minutes passed. Jack stared at the mound, heart in his throat, palms sweating. Who was out here? Was there a cemetery nearby? Surely not. It hadn’t been indicated on the map. More importantly, there was no attempt to mark the grave. No headstone, homemade or otherwise.
There was a dead person beneath that tree, Jack was sure of it.
