Page 74 of Murder By the Millions
“What the heck is that?”
“It’s a fungal growth around a bat’s muzzle and on a bat’s wings.”
“Eww.” I wriggled in my seat. “You remember so much trivia, you really should have become a librarian.”
“Back to Patrick and what I hope to find,” she said, her gaze fixed on the road. “I believe everyone leaves a footprint.”
“Not him. He’s not a litterer. You heard him. He loves the environment.”
“There are other kinds of footprints. The man has huge feet. His Timberlands will leave a distinctive print.”
“Lots of people wear Timberlands.”
“Go with the flow.”
She quieted when she merged onto Highway 221. We sailed past Woodlawn. Then Ashford. For the remainder of the drive, I took in the beauty of the Pisgah National Forest, which was part of the Blue Ridge Mountains, one of the oldest mountain ranges in the world, having been formed over two hundred and fifty million years ago. Time, weather, and erosion had given these mountains a graceful, rolling hills–type feel. I would never grow tired of looking at the lush green vegetation.
Soon a large sign reading LINVILLE CAVERNS ENTRANCE and painted with arrows directed us to turn in. Tegan parked in the small lot. The welcome building, where I’d purchased myticket for the tour the last time I visited, was closed. The gift shop was, too. Delicate flowers jutted from the rock face of the caverns. It was illegal to pick them.
Tegan hopped out of the car and through the opened window said, “Let’s leave the lunch here and do some exploring first.”
I was hungry, but I wouldn’t argue. She was a woman on a mission, and I could tell she was eager for answers. I climbed out of the MINI Clubman and stretched. Though I spotted a Chevy Tahoe and a couple of mountain bikes parked in the lot, I didn’t see a soul.
Tegan popped the trunk of the car and swapped her pumps for tennis shoes. When they were snugly tied, she said, “Let’s go. Look for anything. Footprints. Gum remnants.”
“Gum remnants?”
“He chews gum like a fiend.”
For a half hour, we scoured the entrance and fifty yards in either direction. Birds twittered, undisturbed by our presence. Squirrels and other frisky creatures darted in and out of the nearby vegetation. We didn’t find any empty bottles, trash, or food wrappers of any kind. Not even discarded wads of gum. I peered into the public garbage receptacles, but they had been recently emptied.
“Ahem, Miss Researcher, I can’t find squat, and these footprints are useless.” I pointed to the ground, where dozens of footprints, none of them definable, went right and left. “Next?”
Something shrieked. We both stopped in our tracks.
“Was that a bird?” Tegan asked.
“Human, I think.”
She blanched. “Is someone in trouble?”
A young woman in jeans shorts, a tank top, walking sandals, and a sun hat burst through a stand of bushes and squealed again. But she wasn’t frightened. She was laughing in between heavy panting. “You can’t catch me!”
A man in his twenties, also in jeans, as well as an I LOVE ASHEVILLE T-shirt, stumbled after her and then bent over, heaving. He clasped his thighs to catch his breath. “You’re too fast, and I’m carrying the gear. Not fair.” The camping backpack he toted, complete with sleeping bag, looked heavy.
“Loser,” the woman teased, then spotted us. “Oh, babe, there are people here.”
He raised his chin and gazed at us. “So there are. Hi, people,” he said amiably, moving to the pair of bicycles chained to a bicycle rack. He unlocked the chain that held them together and slung the chain across the handlebars. “Caverns are closed, ladies.”
“We know,” Tegan replied.
“Have you been here all night?” I asked.
“Nah,” he said. “You can’t sleep here. We were up at the campgrounds by the falls for the past couple of nights.”
“Since Sunday,” his companion said.
“We thought we’d stop here, take one last look at the river, and have lunch before we headed back to Asheville on our bikes.”
