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“Who is this?” Martin quietly asked Critter.
“What?” Raising his head, Critter looked around. He’d been so intent on his phone again that he hadn’t realized someone had joined them. “Ah, Oliver Cox. He runs the post office and is in charge of the mail delivery around here, such as it is.”
“I saw him,” Cox declared again. “I saw him with my own eyes.”
“Calm down, Ollie,” Rufus said. “When you’re ready, I want to hear every detail.”
A battered notebook appeared in Rufus’s hand, presumably pulled out from the front pocket of the plaid padded jacket he wore, and a pen, too. He was prepared to record the details of what Martin suspected was a Sasquatch sighting. Even Critter stopped monitoring his rising fame.
Stopping in front of him, Magnus said, “Sorry, Martin, I was a bit distracted there. Can I pour you a beer?”
Martin eyed the colorful tap handles. “I’ll have a Rainy Day Pale, please.”
A minute later, Magnus set the beer in front of him. “How’s the tarp holding up on Five?” He asked.
“Fine.” Martin waggled his head. “Kinda wish we could do more work on it, but it’s touch and go in this weather.”
Magnus leaned a hip against the bar, clearly intending to chat for a few minutes and not interested in the Bigfoot retelling happening a few feet away.
“Nice of you to let Nick stay with you.”
Martin waved off the compliment. “Anybody would’ve done it.”
“Not so sure about that,” Magnus teased. His bushy eyebrows waggled, resembling caterpillars on steroids. “Our Nick can be a handful, but just ignore the sharpness and bluster.”
“Eh, it’s growing on me. Nick’s a good person.” His eyes met Magnus’s thoughtful gaze and Martin thought he saw some sort of satisfaction, or maybe it was an approval of Martin’s reply. It seemed he’d answered correctly and passed a test he didn’t know about? “Anyway,” he continued, “any news about the missing girl? Blair Cruz, right?”
A gusty sigh escaped Magnus as he straightened up from the bar. “No.” He shook his head. “Nothing. Poor Levi is losing his mind.”
“I don’t think I’ve met Levi.”
“Aye, likely not. Vincent says he’s staying at home by the phone.”
“Hasn’t it been around a month now?”
“Aye, it has,” Magnus nodded. “A month, and no hint of a sign at all. And after Lizzie, too,” he said as he nodded his chin in the direction of the beach. “He’s beside himself with worry. Blaming himself for all manner of things. Not paying attention—so Blair could do whatever she wanted. Paying too much attention—so Blair felt stifled. Missing signs of unhappiness. At least this is what Vincent says.”
“Vincent—Xavier Stone’s Vincent?” Martin did an inner fist bump at getting the name and partner correct.
Magnus nodded, his attention shifting back to the mail carrier and Rufus.
Martin eyed Oliver Cox. He was one of those people who could be fifty or eighty. Tall and skinny to the point of cadaverousness—was that a word?—he’d clearly spent a lot of his life out of doors. His cheeks were leathery and deeply lined, and everything about him was long. Long fingers—slowing moving in front of him as he told his story—long nose, narrow head.
He reminded Martin of a stick bug. And it didn’t help that Cox’s jacket and heavy pants were army green.
Martin remembered that Xavier had told him Rufus was the President of the local Bigfoot Society. At the time, Martin had inwardly scoffed, but now… it was clear that Rufus Ferguson took sightings of the creature very seriously.
Cox sipped at the lemonade, continuing to hold the glass in his hand while he related what he’d supposedly seen. Martin only half paid attention as he wasn’t a believer. Yes, there were as yet uncontacted tribes in the Amazon rainforest, but not on the Olympic Peninsula, just over one hundred miles from Seattle.
Did he believe thathumansprobably lived in the forests and on other public land? Yes. And not humans like the Quinault, Hoh, and Quileute tribal members, who had legal access to the forest land as well as protected sacred areas where not even the likes of Critter and Mags were allowed unless invited.
Martin dismissed the newcomer. Instead, he sipped his beer and half-listened to theDirty Dancingsoundtrack which—tragically—had been permanently embedded in his memory. He supposed there were worse things than knowing the words to every single lyric. He was humming along withSome Kind of Wonderfulwhen Nick wandered in and claimed the seat next to him.
“Sasquatch sighting?” Nick asked.
He must have been carving because he smelled like rain and freshly cut wood. Since it was raining, Martin was going to assume he’d been working somewhere covered.
Martin nodded. “How did you know?” He shifted in his seat, and his cock twitched. The scent of woodchips and sawdust was quickly becoming some sort of weird Nick-related turn-on.
