Heather Gudenkauf - Not A Sound

“Could belong to anyone,” I read his lips, but the crease in his forehead lets me know he’s not so sure. “We’ll tag it just in case.” I nod and move out of the way so that he can make his phone call.

There has to be a logical explanation as to why a running shoe has been abandoned in the weeds, though nothing I come up with makes much sense. An involuntary shiver runs through me. Gwen was a serious runner. Could the shoe belong to her?

My neighbor approaches. He’s tall, about six feet, and I have to tilt my head back to get a good look at his sharply planed face. “Evan Okada,” he says, holding out his hand. “...live next door... I wish...meeting under better...”

“Amelia Winn,” I say and take his hand. His fingers wrap around mine—a warm cocoon.

Evan goes on to speak and from what I can decipher and from the wary look on his face he is telling me that he’s tried to stop over to my house but the dog runs him off.

“Really?” I ask as if dumbfounded. “He’s normally so friendly.” In reality, when Stitch alerts me that someone is at the door I pretend to not be home or if I see my neighbor walking down the path from his house toward mine I let Stitch out the back door with the order to stekje and scok—to jump and bark, sending Evan scurrying back to the top of the bluff. My little revenge for all the unwanted foot and river traffic his business has brought to my backyard.

He turns away from me and gestures toward the trail. I have no idea what he’s saying and I should probably tell him that I can’t hear but I don’t particularly want to share any personal information with him. Though I’m fully capable of taking care of myself, I don’t advertise that I’m a single woman living all alone. My ex, David, used to say that I have a thin layer of ice encasing my heart that makes it hard for people to get to know me and that the warm temperature in the room when we first met must have melted it enough for him to be able to wriggle his way in. I would laugh, because it was true. Ever since my mom passed away when I was thirteen, I’ve been guarded, cautious of getting close to others. When David came along I let him in, let myself trust him. Now, once again, the thin layer of ice has thickened and has developed a bad case of freezer burn.

Thankfully, the officer has finished his phone call and though Evan is still chattering away I take the opportunity to extract myself from his side.

“Can I head on home?” I ask the officer. “It’s not far, just down this side of the ridge. I really need to get home,” I say. “I have an appointment that I’m already late for.” He hesitates and I know he’s grappling between following the order that he was given to make sure Evan and I get home safely and securing what could be a new part of the crime scene after Stitch unearthed the woman’s shoe. “Please,” I add. “Officer Snell has all my contact information. And I’m freezing,” I add for good measure. The officer reluctantly nods.

Without meeting Evan’s eyes, I lift my hand in farewell and make a wide berth around where the shoe lies atop a pile of jewel-toned leaves. I climb back on the ATV and summon Stitch to join me. I turn the key and make sure the engine stop switch is in the run position, engage the clutch and start the engine. The scent of diesel fuel assaults my nose. Slowly, we begin the descent down the bluff.

I have no idea if the officer has allowed Evan to leave too and I don’t look behind me to check to see if he’s following on his ATV. Periodically, Stitch lays his chin on my shoulder, his silver eyes imploring me to let him run ahead. “Zustan,” I say. Stay. The trip down the bluff goes more slowly than the first half. The rocky trail tapers and is so steep in spots that I’m afraid that the four-wheeler might tip over. If I didn’t have my board and paddle strapped to it, I would abandon the ATV altogether and walk the rest of the way. Though I’m glad to be rid of the officer and Evan, I find that I’m feeling a little bit exposed and vulnerable. Without my hearing, I have to rely on my vision to gauge the world around me.

I have to so fully concentrate on maneuvering down the trail in front of me that I can’t be as cognizant of my surroundings as I usually am. I have no idea if someone is hiding in the woods, watching and waiting. Every shadow, each sway of a tree branch seems ominous.

I mentally scold myself. I’m sure I’m perfectly safe. As an emergency room and sexual assault nurse examiner or SANE I know more than most people; I know that assaults are much more likely to be committed by an assailant familiar to the victim. But something nags at me. I’ve worked enough domestic assaults to know that most violence occurs in the home—not in a remote, wooded location. Could Gwen and Marty have been hiking the trails, gotten into an argument that escalated, resulting in her death? But that would mean that Marty would have removed her clothing and deposited her in the river to cover his tracks, destroying any evidence that might lead back to him. I only met Marty a few times, but he seemed like such a nice guy. I just don’t see it.

It’s unnerving to know that a murderer may have recently been walking this very trail. I release my right hand from the steering wheel and reach behind me to rub Stitch’s head. He’s accepted his plight in having to remain on the four-wheeler and is contentedly surveying his surroundings. I know that he will immediately alert me if something’s not right.

Finally, we reach the base of the trail and I can see my A-frame through the trees and much to Stitch’s delight I release him and he darts toward the house. Right now I’m living in a house that belongs to my dad. It’s just a simple fishing cabin where we would spend summer weekends when Andrew and I were kids. For now, this is the perfect place for me. The remote location keeps me out of the bars, the dozens of windows let the light in and the river is just yards from my door.

I drive past three police cars and Jake’s unmarked vehicle that are parked along the gravel road that runs right up to my driveway. I stop the four-wheeler next to my storage shed. I don’t have a garage, just a covered car park where I keep my old Jeep. It’s one of the few things I came into my marriage with that was completely my own and one of the few I left with. I thumb into place the correct numbers on the padlock in order to unlock the door to the shed, unload my board and paddle and set them inside next to my kayak, cross-country skies and snowshoes.

I drive the four-wheeler to where Evan has constructed a garage-like structure from log-cabin wood. This is where he stores his four-wheelers, canoes, kayaks, life jackets and other outdoor gear. I know this because all summer I’ve seen the wannabe outdoorsmen and women emerge from behind the hewn logs with all manner of outdoor gear. They are dressed in their two-hundred-dollar hiking boots, neoprene bodysuits and GoPro cameras.

The garage is locked up tight so I leave the four-wheeler where I’ll at least be able to keep an eye on it from my house. I may not want to be in a coffee klatch with my neighbor but I also don’t want to be the one who let his four-wheeler get stolen.

I trudge back to my house, about a football field away. My muscles feel heavy and achy. I’m chilled through and all I want to do is take a hot shower and curl up on the couch with Stitch and a cup of coffee. I kick off my water shoes, unlock the front door and call to Stitch. “Ke mne!” Stitch comes to my side as I open the door, waiting for me to enter first.

I refill Stitch’s water dish that I keep in the tiny laundry room right next to my stacked washer and dryer, peel off my damp clothes and drop them to the floor and push open the door that leads to the only bathroom in the house. If I end up getting this job, if I still have a chance considering I missed the interview, the first thing I’m going to do is gut this area so that I can have the biggest, most luxurious bathtub I can find. Right now all I have is a primitive shower, and no matter how much I bleach and scrub it, the mold and mildew always return, creeping ominously up the walls. I turn the water to full throttle and step beneath the showerhead, letting hot spray wash away the mud and dirt and the chill of my morning trek.