Hairwolf
Chapter Thirty Eight

Foster parks at the Troopers headquarters in town. The driver’s door of a pickup truck kicks open

to a brown leather cowboy boot punching the dirt parking lot. A large man, wearing jeans, a sports jacket over a buttoned shirt and a black cowboy hat, exits the truck. His hat hits the

roof and flips to the ground revealing a forty-something year-old man. He bumps his head on the door trying to grab for the hat, but misses. He raises his hands, cautioning himself to “slow down.” He bends over for the hat. As he does, his rear-end hits the truck, pushing him back into the door, hitting his head again.

“Jesus Christ almighty,” he says, laughing at himself.

He takes hold of the door and squats down slowly for the hat. He’s got it. He rises slowly, hoping not to have been seen by anyone and notices Foster, watching.

“You can tell a lot about a person just by watching them deal with the little things in life,” the man says.

Foster knows this very well and is impressed by the man’s handling of the whole ordeal.

The man smiles, fluffing his matted red hair, “One of those days. How you doing? Agent Foster?”

“Yeah. You alright there?”

“The legs. Long ride. Ralf Meyers. Nice to meet you,” he says extending his hand. Foster shakes his hand not revealing any connection to the name despite the fact Stef mentioned it. At least not yet.. So, for now, Foster doesn’t know who he is and Ralf doesn’t know who Foster is.

Ralf slaps his hat against his legs, shaking off the dirt while, “I remember my dad asking me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I said, tall. Careful what you wish for.”

“Have we met?” Foster asks.

“I doubt it. Boy it’s good to stand. Been driving all day. Is there someplace I can get a bite to eat? Greasy spoon or something similar.”

“Round the corner. We can walk it,” Foster says, leading the way. “So what can I help you with?”

“You heard about that thing they had running around in Vermont. From what I’ve heard from your press, I’m guessing you may have the same thing here.”

“Really? I don’t know what Vermont has but we’re thinking ours is just a rabid bear.”

That’s not the direction Ralf was heading towards. He’ll have to tread lightly if he wants any truth out of Foster, knowing the complexity of the situation.

“So you were in Vermont last night?!”

“Yes, I was,” Ralf says pulling out his wallet. He locates a receipt and hands it to Foster.

“That’s the motel I stayed in. I’m showing you this because it took me nine hours to get

here. Look, I think we both know it’s not a rabid bear. You wouldn’t have dropped everything in your investigation to come and meet with me if it was.”

Foster gives him an odd look as if to say “”How’d you know we have an investigation going on?”” Ralf notices, adding,

“One of the agents told me I’d be lucky to see you. I had to push it pretty hard.”

Foster approaches a small walk in diner. It’s one of Maine’s oldest. They walk up to the counter and Ralf asks for a cheeseburger on a hard roll with all the fixings and a coffee to go.

He turns to Foster with a quiet voice, “the word on the street is Bigfoot. Now I’m not a big fan of that hypotheses, but I am a believer.”

Foster breaks into a smile, shaking his head. “What do you want Mr. Meyers?”

“What’s so funny?” Ralf asks, glad the ice is being broken. “You don’t believe in Bigfoot?! That’s okay. Not everyone does. I write articles relating to some of the lesser known creatures in our world. You’d be surprised what some of the research reveals.”

Foster is finding himself between a rock and a hard place. He wants to jump in to the conversation but he also has to be careful with this journalist-stranger he just met.

“I don’t think you had the same thing Vermont had,” Ralf says. “I think you had another one. Both events occurred at the same time.”

“So what do you think it is?”

“I think it’s an unknown species. At least to most. Here’s the problem. You and I need to know we’re talking about the same thing without sounding like …”

“. . . a couple of idiots,” Foster says impulsively. “Look, can you just get to the point?”

“I’m trying. I understand the situation,” Ralf offers. “You know what you know and we both know you don’t know me. And that means I need to change that before I can say what I have to say.”

“Well, you need to get to it because I got to get back to what I was doing.”

The waitress returns with the food order. Ralf pays and they exit. Ralf is already chewing down the burger as they hit the curb.

Back at Brizzbee’s Cabin, Stef walks to the living room and notices Brizzbee handing Lillian one of several types of firearms from his collection. He proceeds to show her the differences between revolvers and semi autos.

Stef exits to the front porch and settles in to finish the finer details of Fosters hiking stick. She’s still in her new sundress, eyes bouncing off of the stick and the distant dramatic clouds. She sands the bare wood with a clump of worn steel wool, sweeping her hand along the wood, checking for tiny burbs. She takes a rag from her bag and wipes away the dust from the stick. She reaches back into the bag and removes a foot long piece of string rawhide. Holding it up with dismay, she realizes it’s too short for what she has in mind.

In the backyard, Brizzbee points out to Lillian his ideas for the rear property. Stef approaches.

“Right now we’re sending all the wounded animals off to rehabilitation centers,” Brizz says. “Once the sheds are built we’ll keep them hear. We’ll get Vet Interns to take care of them.”

“That’s a great idea,” Lillian says.

“Brizzbee, do you have any rawhide laying around,” Stef asks from the porch. “I don’t have enough to finish the hiking stick.”

“No! I used the last on my fly-rod handle. I keep forgetting to get more.”

“Where do you go?”

“Up the road, left. Down the road, right. Can’t miss it! Taken a ride?”

“Yeah. I’ll be right back. Need anything?”

“Rawhide!”

Lillian, concerned with the time questions her. “You gonna be alright?”

“I got plenty of time.”

Stef drives along a rural route bordered by deep forests, fields and the occasional dirt road. It’s nice out here. Her windows are down and the breeze stirs her hair. She smells something foul in the air. It’s familiar and not pleasant. She parks on a small dirt pull-off, focusing intently on the scent and it’s direction. It’s pretty quiet and beautiful here. She turns off the engine and opens her door. There’s a smell but she can’t tell from where. She exits, very vigilant and aware and walks towards the rear of the truck. It’s coming from inside the woods, concealed by thick bushes. She pushes through, revealing an old fire-road. Come winter, it’ll serve the ski-mobile community as a snow-trail.

She vents her nostrils, vying for a scent. She found one. But it’s weak. She drops to her knees, head low to the ground, finding a stronger scent. “Blood.”

She retrieves a first aid kit from her vehicle and locks the truck. She then spots her jeans, knives and hiking stick in the back and quickly considers her dress but she doesn’t have time to change. She has to find the source, deal with it and continue on for the raw-hide all before dark.

She places the keys on the passenger tire and proceeds down the dirt-road, alert and watchful. She can’t help but notice how well groomed the trail appears, at least from fallen trees. They’ve all been pushed aside, lining sections of the fire-road. There’s over-growth but nothing like what’s concealing the entrance from the road. That may be deliberate.

She pauses, hesitant to continue. She’s getting a very uneasy feeling about this place. She’s starting to see empty bottles and the occasional beer can tossed to the side. She notices something out of place. It’s a small collection of bones. Large bones. Could be from a bear.

Further in she notices another pile. And another. It suddenly dawns on her what this is. An

old dumping ground for road kill. It makes sense. She checks the position of the sun. It’s getting

late. She’s already traveled farther than she wanted, any longer and she’ll be pushing it. “I could skip the rawhide,” she says to herself, continuing onward.

Up ahead something stirs on the ground. She steps slowly towards it to find a large clump of black fur, rocking on one side. It’s a black bear. He’s wounded and in a lot of pain. From this distance she can’t make out exactly what’s wrong with it. She’ll have to get closer.

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