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he had one foot in the grave just because she was pregnant. With all the tests she’d gone through due to her age making her condition a “high risk” pregnancy, she’d been told that the baby was healthy, was gaining weight, and should be here right on time.
“Don’t rush things,” she said, touching her protruding belly, “but your father and I can’t wait to meet you.” She smiled, then added, “I really can’t say the same for your brother and sister, though, but I’m betting they’ll come around.” She caught sight of herself in the mirror, a hugely pregnant person talking to herself. That probably wasn’t so strange, but not exactly the image she wanted to portray as she ignored everyone’s advice that she start taking her maternity leave. “We’d better keep these little chats to ourselves,” she advised her unborn child as she began to dress. “Otherwise people might think I’m nuts and you’ll end up being born in an asylum. Not the way you want to come into the world.”
Dressed, she headed into the hallway, where she spied other pregnant women being helped by people in the clinic. Every woman with a baby bump seemed to be at least ten years younger than she, some more like twenty, though she reasoned she was just being super sensitive after getting the word from her doctor. But she was fine. That’s all that mattered.
Outside, she slipped on a pair of sunglasses. The blasting sun was heating the asphalt of the parking lot that stretched from the clinics to the doors of Northern General, where, in a few weeks, she’d deliver the baby. On her way to her Jeep, Pescoli noticed a news van taking up two spaces near the main doors. The same reporter whom she’d seen earlier at Reservoir Point was interviewing Barclay Sphinx, who was standing front and center, his back to the building, a handful of onlookers gathered under the overhang of the main doors, watching.
What the hell is that all about?
The crowd parted a little as Lara Haas, seated in a wheelchair, was pushed outside by an orderly. Sphinx motioned to a small woman, who produced a huge bouquet of flowers and balloons, which she gave to him and he, in turn, bestowed upon Lara. She was still wearing the splint, but managed to gather up the posies and, squinting a little, her smile as bright as the damned Montana sun, spoke both to the producer and the reporter. No longer was she without makeup. In the intervening hours since this morning, when Pescoli and Alvarez had interviewed her, Lara Haas had found her blush, lip gloss, mascara, and foundation, at the very least. And she’d worked on her hair, which, shining and shimmering with blond streaks, curled softly around her neck and shoulders. Gone was the hospital gown, replaced by white shorts and a pink T-shirt with a deep V neckline that offered a view of her cleavage. It also showed off the ring of bruises at her neck.
The whole scene smacked of being staged, and that little niggle of suspicion she’d felt earlier in Lara’s hospital room grew. Something about Lara’s encounter with Big Foot and her injuries was way off.
The doors opened again, and this time Lara’s parents, Arletta and Nelson, headed outside, each carrying some of Lara’s belongings or other vases of flowers. If ever there were a mother/daughter resemblance, it was visited on the Haas women. Both were blond, buxom, and beautiful, though Lara, possibly because of Nelson’s genes, was a few inches taller than her tiny mother. In pressed chinos and a white dress shirt unbuttoned at the neck, Nelson was built like a runner, lanky and slim, thinning reddish hair brushed to disguise a growing bald spot.
Hadn’t Lara said her parents had split?
Now, perhaps brought together by their daughter’s trauma, they seemed friendly enough, surely more than cordial, as they tended to Lara, talked to the reporter and Sphinx. Then, after about five minutes, all left together in the same sporty white Mercedes.
“Show’s over,” she said as she unlocked her Jeep and levered herself into the warm interior. “Highlights at eleven.”
She headed into the office, where she found, on her desk, a new ceramic mug decorated with a huge brown footprint and the words: BIG FOOT DAZE, GRIZZLY FALLS, MONTANA.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” She set her things onto her chair. The effervescent tempo of Joelle’s high heels clicked toward her door, and the secretary popped her head into the office. She was dressed in beige and brown, and sure enough, her earrings actually were dangling footprints.
“Don’t tell me,” Pescoli said.
But she did. “We’re already starting the celebration for Big Foot Daze. Mayor Justison wanted every public employee to have a cup to display on their desks, to promote the upcoming celebration.”
Pescoli hoisted the mug as if it were a beer stein. “We can’t get another detective on staff or an improved heating system, but this is in the budget?”
She looked afraid that Pescoli might actually hurl it. “Publicity, you know. Now, Detective, I’ve talked to some of the other officers and staff members, and we’d all like to do a little something for the new baby.”
Pescoli was suddenly tired. “I know. I appreciate it. But I don’t need, nor do I want a shower.”
“I got that message. Loud and clear.” Her lips pinched a little, and Pescoli saw that she’d not only disappointed the woman, but hurt her. Oh, geez. “So”—she cleared her throat—“we all got together and . . . well, here.” She handed Pescoli a card from the pocket of her dress. Pescoli took it and opened the envelope. There was a cute little card inside with a rocking horse on the front, signed by everyone in the department, and a gift certificate to a baby store in Missoula. Touched, she found it hard to come up with the right thing to say. “Thank you, Joelle. You know, I don’t mean to be such a bitch about the shower, but it’s just . . . just not my thing.” Impossible to explain to a woman who lived in perpetual party mode.
Joelle brightened. “Well, don’t be surprised if you’re inundated with food once that little person arrives. I’m organizing a meal chain.”
“A what?”
“Kind of like a prayer chain in church, you’ll see. Everyone brings something on a different day, gets a look at the baby, should be interesting. I wonder what Deputy Watershed will be bringing.” She looked thoughtful. “He likes to hunt, you know. Brags about eating all kinds of wildlife. I’ll contain him. No eel or beaver or bear or God-knows-what.” She gave a mock shudder. “I might put him on for a bottle of wine, but oh, then he’d bring some of that homemade stuff that he makes himself. Have you ever heard of dandelion wine? It’s like his and Frank Nesmith’s favorite, I swear. Well, don’t you worry, I’m handling it!”
“Really, Joelle, I don’t think you’ll need to—”
But she found herself talking to dead air as Joelle had slipped back into the hallway and clipped away, the click of her heels fading as she headed toward the front office of the station.
Pescoli had just checked her email and made a couple of calls when Alvarez appeared, phone in hand. “Take a look at this,” she said, and handed Pescoli her phone, which was connected to the website for a local TV station. Along the bottom of the small screen, a running news ticker read: BREAKING NEWS: BIG FOOT SIGHTING. CREATURE THAT APPEARS TO BE A SASQUATCH SHOWN ON DRONE FOOTAGE NEAR GRIZZLY FALLS, MONTANA.
“Drone footage?” Pescoli asked as she watched what appeared to be a large ape-like creature hurrying into the undergrowth.
“Apparently several members of the Big Foot Believers own drones. This film was taken by Carlton Jeffe, and it’s very high-tech, of course.”
“Of course.” She stared at the screen. The drone, flying high over the forest, moved downward, circling the area trying to catch a better view, but the creature, for the most part, was in shadow or hidden completely by a canopy of branches, only appearing where the foliage was less dense. Yes, the animal, standing on two legs, walking quickly, seemed large, but Pescoli’s perspective was off. A Big Foot? Nah.
Alvarez said, “Jeffe does have a permit to own a drone. I checked.”
She watched the replay again. “Where was this taken? And when?”
