Jack Kilborn - Endurance

No, that’s not a man.

It was the statue of George Washington, larger than life and dressed in period clothing. Deb found it oppressive, and gave it a wide berth as she passed.

The walls of the kitchen were lined with ephemera; magazine covers, newspapers, brochures, campaign signs. On the running board near the ceiling was a line of dinner plates, each bearing faces and quotes of Presidents. Unlike the unusual odor pervading the rest of the house, this room smelled delightfully like baked goods. Deb’s enthusiasm sank when she failed to see Mal.

Maybe he’s not coming. Maybe he just went to bed.

Then she noticed him peering into the refrigerator, and had to suppress her smile.

“There are enough cupcakes in here to feed the entire state of West Virginia,” Mal said. “There’s also a mystery meat sandwich. Interested?”

“I love meat in all of its permutations.”

Mal stacked a plate of cupcakes and the plate with the sandwich on one hand, and grabbed a glass carafe of milk and two apples with the other. He bumped the refrigerator door closed with his hip, and laid everything out on the dining room table.

“Pretty good balance,” Deb said, easing into a chair.

“I waited tables in college. Would madam care to split the sandwich?”

“Madam would like to eat the whole thing. But since you carried up my bags, I guess I’m willing to share.”

Mal went to the cupboard and found an extra plate and two glasses. While Deb poured the milk, Mal searched drawers for utensils.

“So you never got around to telling me about the history of Monk Creek,” she said, licking the pink frosting on a cupcake. It was buttercream, and very good. “You said you were researching it and discovered some interesting things.”

“Indeed I did. You want to hear something really interesting? This woman has dozens of forks and spoons, but not a single knife.”

“Not even a butter knife?”

“Not one. I guess you get the whole sandwich after all.”

Deb reached into her fanny pack, took out her Benchmade folding knife. She flicked the five inch blade open with her thumb and cut the sandwich in half. The meat was whitish, piled on high. The lettuce and tomato were still crisp. Eleanor had made this recently.

“Nice piece of cutlery,” Mal said, sitting across from Deb.

“I won’t be trapped in the woods without a weapon ever again,” Deb said, wiping it on her pants.

They each tore into their halves. Deb was surprised by how hungry she was. She was also surprised by the taste of the meat. It wasn’t unpleasant. Just unusual.

“Is this chicken?” she asked.

Mal shook his head. “Pheasant.”

“You sure?”

“Pretty sure. Dad used to take me hunting, when I was a kid.”

“You still go?”

“No. Lost my taste for it.”

“Pheasant?”

“Killing animals. I’m not a hypocrite, though. I still a voracious carnivore. But not enough to go after it on my own.”

Deb took another bite, then sliced into one of the apples. The crisp fruit was a nice compliment to the gaminess of the meat.

“So, Monk Creek,” she said. “What did you discover in your investigative reporting?”

Mal finished chewing, and swallowed. “The thing I liked best about being a cop was figuring things out. I didn’t like the violence, which is why I left the force to study journalism. So while researching this assignment, I wanted to learn about the history of the region, to use as a background for the interviews. And I found out some pretty strange things.”

Deb cut off another hunk of apple. “Such as?”

Mal polished his apple on his shirt and took a bite. “A lot of people disappear in these parts.”

When Deb finished chewing she said, “Quantify a lot .”

“In the past forty years, more than five hundred people.”

Deb did the math in her head. “That’s only about one a month. Doesn’t seem like too many.”

“Considering Monk Creek’s small population, that’s more than ten times the national average.”

She wiped some mayo from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’ve climbed the mountains here. It’s easy to get lost.”

“But the majority of lost people get found. Either alive or dead. These people are gone. Vanished, without a trace. You’d think some of them would have been discovered.”

“Odd,” Deb agreed. “Does anyone have any theories?”

“That’s also strange. No one seems to think it means anything. Because most of the missing people are from different states, there’s no joint task force treating this like a single problem. The only unifying factor is the sheriff of Monk Creek. And he’s... interesting .”

“In what way?”

“I spoke with him on the phone. Let’s just say I’m not convinced all of his cylinders are firing.”

“Why would the town hire him?”

“Maybe that’s why the town hired him.”

Deb finished off her sandwich. “So it’s a big conspiracy?”

Mal shrugged. “Could be. Could be just a coincidence.”

“You come up with anything else?”

“Just one thing. The disappearances began after a specific event in the town’s history. There was a pharmaceutical plant that employed almost everyone in the area. It was closed down by the government in the early 60s, and the town began to die out. As the population dropped, the number of missing persons rose dramatically.”

Deb set the apple core aside, and went back to the cupcake she’d been licking. She peeled off the paper, thinking about five hundred people missing in this area. Missing, presumed dead.

How does something like that happen? Don’t these people have families? Didn’t the families know where they were going?

And yet, Deb herself never told anyone she was going mountain climbing that fateful day. One of many rookie mistakes she’d made. If she’d told someone, and had been overdue, maybe they could have sent help.

Deb felt a stab of adrenaline kick up her heart rate.

No one knows where I am now.

Last year, Deb had lost her parents. Mom, to cancer. Dad, to grief over Mom. The tough exterior Deb wore like armor kept anyone from getting close.

So here she was, making the same rookie mistakes all over again.

I’m not mountain climbing, though.

No, I’m at a creepy inn, out in the middle of nowhere.

But this time, there is someone who knows where I am.

She glanced at Mal, who’d taken their plates and was dumping the apple cores and bread crust into the garbage can in the corner of the room. He lifted the can’s lid, peered inside, then made a face.

“You okay?” Deb asked.

“Remember when I said the meat was pheasant?” Mal asked.

Deb’s stomach turned a slow somersault. “What are you saying?”

“I think I was wrong.” Mal said. “It wasn’t pheasant at all.”

# # #

Maria’s alive.

The thought stunned Felix. After a year of hoping, despairing, and wondering, to finally have this confirmed was so overpowering he didn’t know whether to cheer, laugh, or weep.

“What have you done to her, you son of a bitch?”

Cam pushed Felix aside and grabbed John by his flabby neck. He raised the hunting knife.

“Answer me or I’ll scalp you.”

Felix reached out, ready to intervene, but John began to babble. It was a rant, mostly incoherent, but obviously sincere.

“Blue blood. It’s blue. We all got blue blood. Me ‘n my brothers. Direct line to Charlemagne. Like the Presidents. Ma says it’s too pure. Too presidential ‘n strong. We get sick. We need mixin’.”

“ We bled her. Same as the others. Nice and slow.”