“Xavier, you didn't.”
“Yes, I did,” he says. “I've actually been tinkering around with it, and I think I might have improved the technology a bit.”
“Of course you have. Come on. We're burning daylight. Let's look around a little then go drop our stuff off at the cabin," I say.
Dean's face is like thunder.
"We're staying here?" he asks.
"Not at the campground itself," I tell him. "There's an old ranger's house up the way a bit that they said we could use. It has electricity and running water. And apparently better reception. It should be a good home base for us for a couple of days at least."
Xavier wanders by with the device, engrossed in whatever it's telling him.
“Did you get in touch with Detective Fitzgerald?” Dean asks.
“Yes,” I nod. “Actually, he's supposed to come up here tomorrow to talk to us. I get the impression he's not exactly thrilled to have the Bureau involved.”
“He'll feel differently about the situation once Emma figures this out for him,” Xavier says with an encouraging smile, heading in the other direction.
“I wouldn't bet on that,” Dean says. “Detective Fitzgerald isn't exactly the type of guy who likes help. He dug his heels into this investigation from the first day and has gotten a lot of flak for the way he's handled it. He's too emotionally invested.”
“Why?” I ask. “That’s the one thing I keep coming back to. I don’t know why he’s so involved with this.”
“I don't know,” Dean shrugs. “I haven't spoken to him since he questioned me sixteen years ago. I followed his investigation of the case for a while. It was weird. He kept that search party going for nine weeks. You never see that happen. And every year there was another case, he barreled in and took over from the responding officer. I don't know him well, but I can tell you he wants to be the one to solve this. He's not going to like your coming in.”
Xavier goes the other way again.
“Unfortunately for him, he doesn't have a say in that. I don't care whether he likes it or not. I'm not here for his approval,” I say.
Xavier appears beside me and seems to be reading me with the device. His eyes lift to me and he lowers the device.
"Bigfoot," he announces.
"We've been here five minutes, Xavier. You did not find a Bigfoot."
"No," he says, shaking his head. "This doesn't detect them, anyway. But if it did, I would be detecting a Bigfoot, not a Yeti."
"What?"
"You said we should go ahead and throw in a Yeti. But Yetis are only thought to exist in Nepal."
"They aren't thought to exist at all," I say.
"Depending on who you ask," Xavier says. "But if it's in Nepal, it's a Yeti. In Florida, it's a Skunkape. But for the majority of North America, it's a Bigfoot. Actually, come to think of it, in this area, it might be known as a Wood Booger. I'll have to check the dialect map.”
"Thank you, Xavier."
He nods and heads in the other direction again. I look at Dean.
"Did he just say Wood Booger?"
We explore around the campground for a few moments and the eerie feeling only increases. The entire space is too still, too quiet. All around us, there are memories flitting through the energy. This place once marked the days of summer fun and relaxation for countless families and couples and people who just came to be on their own. I understand why they didn't tear down the cabins or do something else with the land, but that doesn't take away the creepy feeling.
The thirteen years since the campground was active have taken a toll. Most of the buildings around here were little more than rustic log cabins to begin with. The time, weather, and lack of use have started breaking them down. Some of the smaller buildings look as if the land is starting to reclaim them. Ivy and weeds are crawling up along the walls, and small trees have broken through the steps and the sagging porches.
Fire pits that used to glow and roar each night are nothing more than holes surrounded by blackened rocks. Some still have remnants of wood in them. I wonder how many have actually sat dormant for the last thirteen years and how many have been used by the visitors who trespass this way.
I walk up to one of them and crouch down to rest my fingertips on the large, flat stone set in the middle. I remember from my days camping that stones like this hold on to the heat of the fire, so it burns better and can be used for cooking. I wonder if one of the victims used it.
I close my eyes. I can almost see Violet sitting on what used to be seats made out of stumps and slices of trees that have come down in the woods. She's laughing as her parents toast marshmallows and try to convince her it's time to go to bed.
Or maybe this was where the teenage friends their parents described as inseparable sat and told ghost stories, or the older ones drank bitter coffee and cooked cast iron skillets of bacon. At this moment, I want to believe in ghosts.
I can understand the draw, the desire to be able to reach out and contact people who have been lost. To know that they're still there, or to be able to communicate with them. To have even the smallest chance of finding out what happened to them and why. Right now, as I stand here in this campground looking around at a sliver of life that's been simply blotted out, I know the appeal of being able to reach through whatever stands between us on this Earth and what lies beyond it.
“Emma, let's go look in Cabin 13,” Dean says.
I wince.
“Sorry. You know what I mean.”
“It’s fine.”
I stand up from where I was crouched at the side
