Black Mountain (11 page)

Charles read the ME’s report, then frowned. He retrieved the photograph of the snow-shrouded figure and this time drew a magnifying glass from his pocket and studied every inch of the print. He pursed his lips and put down the magnifying glass to sip some coffee, then picked it up again and returned to his examination, this time reciting soft observations.

‘Hominid. Long arm-to-leg ratio, broad chest, short lower back, flat face, large domed cranium with bony ridge above forward-facing eye sockets providing stereoscopic vision.’ He drew back a bit from the print and squinted. ‘Hmm, prominent pectoral girdle and dorsal scapula, powerful ribcage that looks flatter front to back.’ He lowered the print, but held onto it. ‘And a Medical Examiner’s report that indicates a genetic match to some type of unknown primate.
Okaaay
, what is this?’

Matt brought his fist down on the table. ‘That’s exactly the right question –
what the hell is it?
But I think you know.’

‘Maybe.’ Charles frowned at the print again.

Matt leaned across the table. ‘C’mon, buddy, say it.’

‘No.’ Charles dropped the print and put his head in his hands. ‘No, I won’t, I can’t, they’ll burn me.’

Matt grabbed his friend’s arms and chanted, ‘Say it, say it . . . c’mon, you can do it.’

The woman at the next table clicked her tongue at them again.

Matt turned to her. ‘It’s for his therapy – the doctor says it’s good for him.’

Charles groaned and said something too softly to hear. Matt stopped shaking his arms but held on. ‘Louder, Charlie Brown; say it out loud.’

‘Momo, Nuk-luk, Mogollon, Skunk Ape, Fouke Creature, Old Great One . . .’ He looked up as his speech slowed. ‘Sasquatch . . . Bigfoot.’

Matt let his arms go. ‘And . . . bingo!’

Charles sighed and sat back. ‘Matt, I think you need someone a little more like my uncle, someone who likes to dabble in the exotic.’

‘Oh right, your uncle who went missing in Southern China around 1935? That’s a big help. Listen, Charles, I think there’s something weird going on up in those mountains. I’ve been doing some research on the history of the area. There’s a Native American legend about a place called the Jocassee Gorge – dates back to 1539, when the Spanish explorer Hernando de Soto documented some Southern Cherokee picture-script. Jocassee was supposed to be the daughter of a great chief. On hearing that the young warrior she was in love with had been killed in battle, she paddled out into the centre of the Whitewater River. The legend goes that she didn’t drown, just disappeared, and the gorge became known as the Place of the Lost Ones.’

An old man sitting at a nearby table moved his head slightly. His face was turned away, but one large rubbery ear was pointed at Matt and Charles.

Matt pulled a pen from his pocket and grabbed a napkin. He drew two sets of symbols on it and turned the napkin around for Charles to see. ‘But . . . look at this.’

Charles stared at them for a moment, then looked up and shrugged. ‘Same.’

‘
Almost
the same, Charlie Brown, except for these small wavy lines and some extra shading. The first is the Cherokee symbol for
lost
, but the other symbol’s much older – it translates as
great
, in the sense of size. I’ve seen the de Soto transcripts, and I think he got it wrong. I believe the legend was referring to something a lot older than the missing chief’s daughter. I don’t think the script referred to the “Lost Ones” but the “Great Ones” – as in a race that was
great in size
.’ Matt threw the pen onto the table and sat back folding his arms. ‘Charles, we have
got
to check this out.’

Charles mimicked Matt’s actions, an I’m-not-convinced-yet half-smile on his face. ‘Matt, I’m delighted to see that something has finally fired you up again, but what I see here is a partially obscured simian or protosimian shape. It could be a dozen things, and all you’ve got to support your theory is a carving and a photograph – and a bad one at that – of a man-shaped thing that could have come straight from the file of Sasquatch sightings that gets a run once a year on the Discovery Channel. If we’re not careful, we’ll end up driving into a wall that has ridicule and bye-bye career written all over it.’

Matt knew he had his friend hooked the moment Charles started using the word ‘we’. He laughed and shook his head. ‘Not a chance – I’m way too good a driver. Hey, we’re just doing a little consulting for the local police force. Where’s the harm in that? And you’re probably right – it’s probably nothing more than some overdressed camper lost in the snow.’ Matt paused for dramatic effect. ‘But then again, it might not be. After all, the Native Americans have numerous legends that refer to the Big Man, the Hairy Man or the Big Brother of the Forest. The Cherokee, Dakota, Sioux, Algonquin and dozens of others had stories about the
Chiye-tanka
long before white men showed up. Even the word
Sasquatch
is from a near-extinct First Nation language called Halkomelem – it means
hairy giant
.’

The old man turned to look at Matt and Charles, then turned back to his empty plate. Matt noticed his rising voice was attracting attention so he sat forward to speak more conspiratorially.

‘You know, Charles, little people were just legends, or make-believe, until they discovered the hobbit in Indonesia.’

Charles was staring down at the table top, seemingly lost in thought. ‘
Homo floresiensis
,’ he said softly, ‘found in the Liang Bua cave on the Indonesian island of Flores in 2003. A magnificent find, and one that proves some legends are real.’ He looked up at Matt and narrowed his eyes. ‘You said consulting . . . they’d pay us as well?’

Matt just jiggled his eyebrows.

Charles’s mouth split open in a broad grin. ‘Okay, buddy, I’m in.’

*

The old man rose from his seat as soon as the two younger men left the cafe. His thick, slicked-down white hair and faded light blue chambray shirt seemed to glow under the neon lights as he stepped lightly to their table. The perfectly pressed shirt, fastened up to the neck, hung on a frame reduced to sinew and brown leather over the man’s nearly ninety years. He placed one brown, wrinkled hand on the napkin, turning it slightly to study the symbols the long-haired young man had drawn. He mouthed the Lakota word he had heard the man use,
Chiye-tanka
, then crushed the napkin and pushed it into his pocket.

He left the cafe and followed the two men along the dark street.

TEN

Kathleen Hunter stared into the fire, the flickering orange tongues reflecting in her eyes. The flames were warm and comforting, and as she watched they opened familiar windows into her past, into her memories. Beside her on the rug lay Jess, fully stretched out like an enormous bear-skin rug – one hundred pounds of German shepherd and her last living family member. Settling further into the old chair, Kathleen let her eyes wander over the angled line of photographs in their wood, silver or plastic frames on the mantelpiece. The first was of Jim Hunter, her husband, in his youth, all whipcord muscle. Beside him, looking even younger, was his best friend Jack Hammerson – soldiers both of them. The next frame held another young man, the face eerily similar to Jim’s but the photo was sharper and more modern. It was her son, Alex Hunter. An older version of Jack Hammerson was standing beside him, a hand on his shoulder.
Another soldier sent out to serve and defend the nation. Another soldier who never came home
, she thought morosely.
Except for you, Jack, you could survive anything
.

She looked down at the dog. ‘Never love a soldier, Jess – they break your heart even if they don’t mean to.’

The dog huffed in her sleep, her feet slowly circling as she chased something in a doggy dream. Kathleen wiped her eyes, cursing softly at the way the pictures could raise her with feelings of love and pride, then cast her down into melancholy and even a little anger.

She sighed and lifted the newspaper resting on her lap to fan her face. ‘Phew, someone needs a bath.’ She sniffed again.
Odd smell
. ‘Did you roll in something?’ she asked Jess.

The dog came awake and rolled over to a sphinx-like crouch, eyes round and alert, ears up and pointed towards the window. Kathleen tucked her feet under the dog’s large, warm body and looked at the photograph on the front page. A little girl with a gap-toothed smile beamed back at her. Kathleen recognised the face before she read the name,
Emma Wilson
. She was missing, and the police were offering a reward.

‘Poor little angel. That’s not far from here, Jess. We can help look for her tomorrow.’

Jess hadn’t moved, remaining fixated on something outside that only she could sense. The fire popped then settled, making the dog jump. Kathleen looked at the woodpile – it was getting low; there wouldn’t be enough to keep the fire burning through the night. Though the big dog was warming her feet now, she knew that by morning the house would be colder than grandpa’s crypt. She sighed. She knew she wouldn’t feel like going outside to get more wood just after dawn – her old bones complained the most from the cold in the mornings.

She set the newspaper down and pulled her feet from under Jess. ‘Should have done it before, old girl.’

As she got to her feet there came the almost imperceptible sound of branches snapping in the trees near the house. The noise carried easily to the dog’s ears on the still, cold air and Jess was immediately on her feet, hackles up from her neck to her tail, making her seem twice as large as her usual huge self. Her bark was deep and booming in the small room, and her lips had pulled back to show all her teeth.

Kathleen put her hand on the dog’s head, then ran it down over one ear and along her back. ‘Stop that, you silly thing. You’re scaring me.’ She felt the huge chest working like a set of bellows, the muscles bunched and tight.

Jess hadn’t taken her eyes off the front of the house, and skittered on the rug now as she rushed to the front door. Kathleen went to the window and looked out into the clear, moonlit yard. The front of the house was clear, and there was nothing visible amongst the large fir and birch trees she had allowed to grow to within fifty feet of the house.
Weird old dog
, she thought, as she looked over to where the firewood had been stacked neatly by that nice Jim Miller boy, who had cut it for her.

Kathleen pulled on her cardigan, picked up the firewood bucket and headed for the front door. On her way, she stepped out of her slippers and into a pair of rubber half-boots. As she approached the door, Jess moved to stand sideways across the frame. The dog looked up at her briefly, before swinging her head back to stare at the door as though seeing straight through the wood and out into the dark night.

‘You’re not going out if you’re going to carry on like that,’ Kathleen said. ‘I’m not planning on chasing you up the side of the mountain. So move, please.’

Jess took no notice.

Kathleen scowled at the dog, then pointed down beside herself. ‘Heel, Jess.’

The dog reluctantly came and sat beside her. She tried to lick Kathleen’s hand, whining and obviously highly agitated.

‘Stay.’ Kathleen walked to the door and looked back. The dog was licking her lips nervously and started to get to her feet. ‘Stay!’ Jess sat down again, but Kathleen could tell she was struggling to obey the command. She frowned again and shook her head; Jess had never disobeyed her before . . . ever.

‘I’ll just be a couple of minutes.’

Jess got to her feet again, but Kathleen opened the door and went out before the dog could try to stop her.

*

Alex and Adira allowed their horses to amble along the Ashkelon shoreline. Both in T-shirts, jeans and bare feet, they were enjoying the late afternoon sunshine on the coast of the ancient city. Alex inhaled deeply, taking in the smell of salt, warm sand and drying seaweed. He felt Adira watching him and turned to smile at her.

‘It’s magnificent here – thank you. Smelling the sea, hearing the sound of the waves . . . I find it peaceful.’ He looked out at the ocean and breathed in deeply again. ‘It’s strange, I know how to ride a horse, but don’t remember ever actually riding.’

‘We’ve been here before; it’s one of our favourite spots. Don’t worry, it’ll come back soon,’ Adira said smiling and pointed to a small horseshoe-shaped cove, where the sand was flat and golden. ‘Let’s give the horses a rest,’ she said.

She slid from her horse and Alex followed suit. This far south the beaches were unoccupied – too close to the Gaza Strip to be considered safe, but perfect if you wanted solitude. A few trees stood at the edge of the dunes, and tough grass dared to creep down towards the water. Alex tied his horse up in the shade and walked a few paces to lie down on the sand. He closed his eyes. The gentle sound of the small waves breaking just a few feet away should have made him relax completely. But there was a nagging prickle behind his eyes – as if there was something he needed to do, or remember, and his overactive brain wouldn’t let go until he did.

He opened his eyes and lifted one of his arms, examining the skin on both sides. The fresh scars that had been visible a few days ago were gone – not just healed, but vanished entirely. There was something else too: he’d started to sense things . . . things beyond sight, smell and hearing. Adira had told him his name was Horowitz, and that he was a soldier in the Israeli army. He’d been injured in battle, concussed, and he’d lost his memory. It
sounded
right, but didn’t
feel
right.

Even as they got closer, he couldn’t tell whether she wanted to be his bodyguard, or his keeper . . . or something more. Back in Israel, he’d seen her talking daily to the man she called his doctor, but he’d known she was lying. She was good at it, but he could tell. He mentally shrugged.
Did it really matter?
Alex didn’t feel in any hurry to remember whatever it was that the doctors, or Adira’s superiors, desperately wanted him to remember. After all, he had everything he needed here – as Adira kept telling him.