Curious Tracks
Bruce is sitting on his bike, swatting at a cyclone of rice flies. Rice flies are gnats the size of houseflies. They swarm in funnel-shaped clouds on summer evenings. They’re harmless but annoying and when they’re out a kid knows to keep the mouth shut. Rice flies always seem to hang at face level.
The light spilling from the Palomino’s front window outlines Bruce in gold. Without a word the three of us steer toward the boat launch. Tucker shifts a pack on his back and checks to make sure we’re not being followed. Inside the pack is everything needed for a plaster cast of our dinosaur track: a jar full of water, a beat up plastic bucket, wooden stir sticks and a plastic bag full of dry plaster-of-Paris.
By the time we hide our bikes at the boat launch, Bettina and Booger have uncovered the tracks. Bettina’s black dress blends into the night. Her bright hair makes her look like a head floating in shadows. Booger has on homemade camouflage. My guess is he’s mixed shoe polish with spaghetti sauce on his t-shirt. I hope the fresh mud he’s smeared on his forehead, cheeks, and chin isn’t from where he’s standing. Bettina grins when she sees us.
“I have to be in bed by nine o’clock every night, without exception.” Bettina is radiant. “I stuffed the bedcovers and climbed out the window.”
“Have you ever snuck out before?” I ask.
“Never.” Bettina shakes her head and smiles.
As soon as Bruce sees Bettina he trips over a log. He’s church-combed his hair again. He bounces up and pretends the trip didn’t happen. I’ve seen this sort of thing before. It’s as bad as rabies. Bruce can’t help himself. He’s in love.
Booger laughs and chews beef jerky. He smacks his hands on his legs and leans over the track, ready for combat. I hold the flashlight and Tucker empties the pack. He sets his materials out in the correct order and pours water into the bucket.
“One lake monster footprint.” Booger throws his hands up. “You’d think it would have more than one foot.”
“We’re just collecting evidence,” says Tucker. Booger stands on one foot and hops in place.
“Shhh!” I smack Booger’s leg. “I hear something.”
The whistle of a grebe curls through the tule reeds and ripples out over the black water. A fish leaps high and lands with a rowdy splash. Over the chirping crickets and bellowing bullfrogs comes another “shhh”, but not from any of us. We form a human wall around Tucker, but it’s too late. A spotlight turns the night into day. As soon as I cover my eyes, a rain of junk begins. Empty cans, stinky old shoes, rotten vegetables, spoiled eggs and things I couldn’t describe even if I wanted to.
Our attackers howl. I recognize the scream that shatters eardrums: Constance. A shiver slams through my body and explodes out the top of my head. I drop the flashlight, claw up rocks, and aim for the spotlight. If only I had my slingshot! Constance and her ogres go crazy. Twice as much garbage comes flying at us. I’m completely blind, I pick up whatever I can grab and throw it.
Suddenly the spotlight shuts off. There’s a triumphant cheet and the last piece of trash is launched. Truck tires peel out of the parking lot. A filthy hunk of plywood smashes onto the rocks. When we can see again, the mystery of the monstrous footprint is solved. The wood was cut in the shape of a dinosaur print and nailed to a greasy piece of two-by-four. This is what made the track.
Tucker sags. He empties the water bucket and shoves the materials back into his pack. It hurts to watch. More than anyone, I know how much he wanted the track to be the real thing. The five of us walk along the lakeshore. Nobody says a peep. I feel lightheaded now that I’m cooling down. One by one we plop onto the sand and look out into the blackness. On the far side of the lake I can see the twinkling lights of Eden. Tucker sighs and pushes sand up with his feet.
“You stink.” Booger sniffs at Bruce. Slimy apple peelings mixed with gloppy brown slime has replaced Bruce’s church hairdo. Bruce points at Booger and laughs. Rancid cooked spinach blended with what used to be a peanut butter and jelly sandwich is stuck at an angle on top of Booger’s head. It looks like a little flat hat. Booger looks down the front of his shirt. The bright yolk of a rotten egg drips from his homemade spy shirt.
“I stink?” Bruce runs into the shallows. “You’re the one who smells, my friend!” He churns the water and sprays Booger.
Bettina, her hair the color of mustard and ketchup, jumps in with Bruce. Booger bends over and shoots a ridiculously high geyser of water into the air. I can’t resist. I leap in and splash everyone. Tucker’s the last one in. It’s a relief to see him laugh. Bettina shakes water off her glasses and flops onto the beach like a fish. I sit cross-legged next to her. The night is warm and clear. The stars hang right over our heads.
“Look at me.” Bettina pinches her dress so it pulls away from her skin with a loud sucking sound. “My mom will kill me if she sees this.” She falls back on the sand. “This is the most fun I’ve ever had!”
“Better than Christmas?” I ask.
“Much.” Bettina grins. “If I get grounded, it’s worth it.”
“Are your parents strict?” I ask.
“Terribly.” Bettina adjusts her glasses.
“Is that why you always wear dresses?”
“Isn’t it sickening?” Bettina looks at me. “All I’ve ever worn are dresses. I’m not permitted to wear pants.”
“Last one in is a moldy rotten egg!” Tucker taps me on the head and runs for the boat dock.
“You’re it!” Booger pokes my arm. I jump up and sprint after the boys. Booger’s fast, but I’m faster.
“It!” I cannonball off the dock before he can tag me back. The water is cool and wonderful. We dip and float and flip like seals. The garbage Constance and her pals threw washes off in the clean water. One after the other, we climb out to rest on the dock, dripping wet and happy again.
We lay on our backs looking up at endless stars. We’re pointing out different constellations when a slow-moving vehicle pulls into the parking lot. We hit the deck and get as flat as possible, just in case the bullies have returned. Somebody pokes my ribs. Pretty soon everyone is jabbing and being jabbed and trying to keep silent. A car inches its way into the space closest to the beach where we were sitting before. We watch, quiet as mice, still as statues. Two men get out of the car. Even in this darkness I can tell who they are.
“It’s the sheriff,” I whisper. Two flashlight beams circle around. The sheriff and his deputy step into the beach and walk to the water. One of the men stops over the mystery-track.
“Boss, over here.” Deputy Dick Parelli’s voice is low but clear. Sheriff Marty Proud steps over the junk in his path and shines a beam of light into the other one. The two men sound excited, but they’ve lowered their voices and we can’t hear what they’re saying.
“Let’s get closer.” Tucker grips my arm. He crabwalks off the dock. It’s a good thing we hid our bikes in the bushes. As long as we’re quiet the men won’t know we’re here.
A flashlight beam sweeps the parking lot and we freeze. Booger looks about to leapfrog Bruce. Bettina’s glow-in-the-dark hands are covering her glow-in-the-dark hair. I hold my breath. The light moves to the shallows, exactly where the decapitated body was found. Isn’t that strange? The whole area was searched by four men today. What could the sheriff and deputy be looking for under cover of a coal black night? Sneaky. Officers of the law don’t have to slink around when they’re on duty. Unless they’re undercover.
Or hiding something.
The men mumble and wade into the water, searching and poking with long sticks. We see every move they make because their flashlight reflects off the water. They’re surrounded by a halo of light. It glows against the underbrush and into the trees. I feel like I’m watching a theater stage with two actors pulling something about the size and shape of a bowling ball from the lake.
We skitter across the parking lot and bunch up behind the black and white patrol car. Our heads form a pyramid shape and peek out together.
“I’ll get it.” Deputy Dick heads our way.
We crunch down low. He walks to the trunk and we waddle around to the front of the car. We’re petrified. I’m praying his lucky eye doesn’t see us. That would be…awkward. And we’d surely never find out what the two men put into the sack that Deputy Dick took from the trunk. We let our breaths out at the same time. Deputy Dick drops his keys and swings his head to look behind him. I’m sure he’s heard us. Tucker’s standing where the deputy was five seconds ago. If he shines his light, we’re busted.
Sheriff Proud hisses to hurry up and when he drops a big, roundish thing into the sack Deputy Dick grunts and swears it’s heavy as a cannonball. Whatever it is, it’s important. Deputy Dick wrestles it into a plastic bag.
“Evidence.” Tucker whispers in barely a voice. The men walk the beach, pulling and picking bits and pieces from bushes and the ground.
“Ooh, wait.” Deputy Dick plucks at Sheriff Proud’s poofy hair and pokes the eagle-egg sized bald spot. “Looks like some kind of nest.”
“Knock it off!” Sheriff Proud smacks his deputy’s hand. “We’re here for serious work.”
“Sorry, boss.” Deputy Dick apologizes where Blackberry Creek runs into Obsidian Lake. We huddle behind a handy bush about twenty feet from the men.
“Well.” Sheriff Proud scratches the naked spot on his head. He clicks his tongue on his piano key teeth and sucks in air. “Best stash it in the hotel.”
We know he means the old hotel. It was a fancy resort back when movies were black and white and silent. The hotel was beautiful then, a palace. Famous people came all the way from Hollywood to stay in it. But that was a long time ago. Now it’s a decomposing ghost mansion. The only guests are bats and skunks and owls and creepy-crawlies. And soon, a gross severed head.
But why hide the head of a murdered man in the old Triumph Hotel? Why aren’t they taking it to the police station or the morgue? Something’s not right here. I smell fishiness.
