Tailspinner, page 1
part #5 of Frank Bennett Adirondack Mountain Series
Tailspinner
Frank Bennett Adirondack Mountain Mystery Series, Volume 5
S.W. Hubbard
Published by S.W. Hubbard, 2018.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
TAILSPINNER
First edition. December 8, 2018.
Copyright © 2018 S.W. Hubbard.
Written by S.W. Hubbard.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Read these mysteries by S.W. Hubbard
About the Author
Chapter 1
Police Chief Frank Bennett vaulted up the steps of the Trout Run Town office powered by a flash of inspiration that had struck in the middle of the night. Eager to share it with his second in command, he dashed past Doris, as ever, on the phone, and flung open the door to the office he shared with Earl.
Empty.
Frank glanced at the clock. 8:15. Very unusual for Earl not to already be at his desk scanning any reports that had come in overnight from the State Police. The patrol vehicle was parked out front, so he wasn’t out on a call.
Frank returned to the outer office and stood in front of Doris until she acknowledged his presence with her gaze even as she continued her conversation about the best way to get a grease stain off a tablecloth. “Where’s Earl?”
Doris shrugged while writing on a scratch pad. She held up the paper for Frank to read: Not in yet.
Frank sighed and returned to his desk. He was restless to launch his plan. The summer concerts on the green were due to start next week, and Frank thought he’d finally figured out a way to control the traffic flow in the center of town. If this plan worked, directing traffic wouldn’t be a two-man job, so one of them could keep an eye on the crowd of concert-goers. And, as an additional benefit, listen to the performance. But the plan required a series of signs, and he wanted to map them out with Earl.
Where was he?
Frank looked at the clock on the wall for the third time in five minutes. He was positive his plan would work. Maybe he’d just call the road department to order the signs right now. His hand hesitated on the phone.
What about that third turn? Earl would have some ideas. He’d better wait. Frank busied himself looking through the state police reports that Earl usually reviewed.
When he reassured himself that no dangerous criminal activity had occurred anywhere near his turf yesterday, he glanced at the clock again. 8:35. Had Earl told him that he’d be late? Had he forgotten? Or was there a problem? Just as he picked up his phone to call Earl, the familiar Ford pickup rolled into the parking lot.
Seconds later, Earl walked through the door.
“Hey! Where’ve you been?”
Earl slid into his chair with his eyes downcast and fired up his computer. “Sorry I’m late. I overslept.”
Overslept? Earl always rose with the birds. No matter. Frank launched into his road sign plan as he dug through a filing cabinet looking for last year’s concert parking diagram.
“Whattaya think? Will it work?” Frank slammed the drawer and spun around.
Earl winced.
For the first time that morning, Frank looked closely at his assistant. “You look kinda pale. Are you feeling okay?”
“Just a headache,” Earl said. “Do we have any Tylenol?”
Frank tossed him the plastic bottle. Earl raised his hand a moment too late, and the bottle ricocheted into the middle of the room.
Frank picked it up on his way to show Earl a comparison of the two diagrams. “I think if we keep the cars flowing in one direction around the green, and then block off Chestnut Street, we can create a parking area with one entrance and one exit, instead of the free-for-all we had last year. Except I’m worried about this turn. Do you think people will peel off and try to go in the other direction?
“Huh?” Earl massaged his temples.
Frank tapped the diagram. “Right here. Do you think—”
Just then Doris entered bearing a Tupperware container. “Look what I brought you, Earl. My sister Gloria made her famous venison sausage casserole. I told her I hafta take some in to Earl. He just loves it.”
The heady scent of onions, game, and fennel wafted through the office.
Earl’s eyes widened. He leaped from his chair and tore across the room, nearly knocking Doris down in his sprint toward the men’s room.
Frank nudged her back toward her own desk. “Better put that in the fridge and save it for tomorrow.”
“But...”
Luckily, the phone rang, saving Frank from further explanation.
He now knew what was wrong but saw no need to share with their gossipy secretary.
For the first time in the five years they’d worked together, Earl was hung-over.
On a Wednesday?
THE STORY EMERGED AFTER Earl returned, shaky and gray-faced.
“I ran into Billy Flynn at the Stop ‘n’ Buy last night after work.”
Frank knew the guys Earl usually hung around with. Billy Flynn didn’t ring a bell. “Do I know him?”
Earl shook his head. “He’s been in the Marines since before you moved to Trout Run. I hadn’t seen him since high school graduation. He enlisted right after, and he’s been all over—Iraq, Afghanistan. Now he’s out and back home in Trout Run. He asked me to go to the Mountainside for a beer.”
“Looks like you had more than one.” Frank was more amused than shocked. He’d never known Earl to drink more than a couple beers.
Earl massaged his temples. “It was the tequila that did me in.”
“Tequila? I didn’t know the Mountainside even stocked tequila.” The nectar of the agave seemed pretty exotic for Trout Run’s grittiest tavern.
“Billy learned to drink it in the Marines. He kept buying more rounds.”
“How did you get home?” Earl was a stickler. He’d write a DUI citation to ladies who’d had two glasses of wine at book club.
“Walter drove us.”
Frank laughed. “Damn good thing you’re a cop. I’ve never known any of the Mountainside’s bartenders to offer chauffeur service to drunks.”
“Then I had to go back over there this morning to get my truck. Billy’s truck was still there. He’s only been home a week or so, so he doesn’t have a job yet.” Earl took a long drink of water. “He kept saying how he dreamed of Trout Run every day he was over there fighting. He was so glad to be back. It was hard to say ‘Gotta go. Catch you later’, you know?”
“I understand.” Frank clapped him on the shoulder. “Go on home. Take a long nap. You’ll be fine tomorrow.”
Earl looked at the pile of work on his desk. “But I should—”
“Go. It’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”
Chapter 2
Frank set off on the morning patrol with the windows of the department SUV rolled down. The worst of blackfly season had finally passed, and the cool, late June air didn’t require AC. He drove past the old covered bridge which crossed Stony Brook, still high from all the spring rain. The water could put goosebumps on an Eskimo, but with the school year finally over, the rocks below the bridge would soon be filled with swimmers and sunbathers. But at nine-thirty in the morning, the brook surged over the rocks unimpeded by people.
After he climbed the hill on the other side of the brook, Frank saw two men on ladders taking down the sign in front of the defunct Asian Bistro restaurant. The place had opened with great fanfare last year. It wasn’t often that a new culinary hotspot disrupted the usual routine of eating at Malone’s Diner or the Trail’s End, so everyone in a twenty-mile radius had gone to eat there once. But this ill-considered attempt to bring sushi and pad thai to the North Country was doomed to failure. There simply wasn’t enough customer traffic to ensure the freshness of the tuna and salmon. And men who worked outdoors all day plowing snow or repairing roofs didn’t want a platter of cold raw
Frank drove on, daydreaming about the possibility of a Bar-B-Que restaurant or a good Italian place. He’d have to ask Doris when he got back to the office. As the issuer of building permits, she always knew what was going on. In fact, it was strange that she hadn’t already mentioned the coming of a new business to town. Then again, perhaps she had somewhere in the daily tsunami of words that Frank tuned out.
Frank made the next turn in his circuit around the outskirts of Trout Run. Two muddy and grizzled backpackers trudged along the side of the road. They’d probably just come down from hiking Dix Mountain and were heading toward the parking area a quarter mile from the trailhead. When they saw the police car come into view, they suddenly started jumping up and down and waving their hands like bearded cheerleaders without pom-poms.
Frank pulled over.
“What’s the problem, guys?”
The two young men crowded around the window of the patrol car. “There’s a guy up there on the trail,” the taller hiker pointed behind himself. “We think there’s something wrong with him.”
“He’s in trouble,” the other hiker chimed in. “He was wandering off the trail with no water. We asked him if he was lost...offered to lead him out. But he ran away from us. He was talking crazy.”
“Crazy how?”
The taller hiker grimaced. “We couldn’t understand him. I mean, the words were English, but he wasn’t answering the questions we were asking. It was like he was having his own conversation with someone who wasn’t there.”
“Dehydration can do strange things to a person,” Frank said. “This early in the morning, he must’ve been out all night to be in such bad shape. You say he didn’t have a backpack?”
“Just a little daypack.”
Inexperienced, unprepared hikers were a growing problem in the High Peaks. Vacationers came expecting a stroll in the woods and got rugged terrain and changeable weather they hadn’t bargained for. “He must’ve been out in that cold rain last night.”
The hikers nodded. “He was wearing a wet cotton T-shirt and shorts—no fleece, no rain gear.”
“Age?”
“Early twenties, thin. He looked fit enough to hike the trail. He just didn’t have the right gear.”
“I’ll call it in to the rangers. How far up the trail did you encounter him?”
They exchanged a glance. “I think we hiked about twenty minutes after we left him before we got to the trailhead.”
“Thanks—you did a good deed. We’ll take it from here.”
Frank squinted at Dix Mountain looming on the horizon. It didn’t have to be winter for a person to die of exposure in the Adirondacks.
Chapter 3
When Frank called the Department of Environmental Conservation forest ranger outpost in Keene, he was glad to hear Rusty Magill’s voice answer. All the DEC rangers were good, but Rusty was the best: calm, exceptionally fit, and tremendously knowledgeable. He knew the High Peaks Wilderness like a mother knows every inch of her infant’s body.
“Not another lost hiker!” Rusty complained. “That’s the third extraction this week. We’re coming up to a full moon. Brings out all the crazies.”
“It’ll take you twenty minutes to get here,” Frank said. “I’ll start up the trail and see if I can locate him.”
Frank could sense the objection ready to come through the line. “I’ll stay on the trail. No bushwhacking, I promise.” He knew Rusty didn’t want to be searching for rescuers as well as hikers.
Frank parked the patrol car as close to the trailhead as possible. He always kept a backpack with some emergency gear stowed in the trunk, and now he slung it onto his back and headed up the trail. He wasn’t wearing the best boots to navigate the rocks and tree roots disrupting the path, but at least the steepest part of the climb hadn’t begun yet. Hopefully he’d find the lost hiker before the real scramble began. He walked steadily upward through the birch and balsam, pausing occasionally to listen. But all he heard was the chattering of a chipmunk and the rush of a small stream.
The scenery here was nothing special. The lookouts with glorious vistas of Elk Lake were several miles in. So there was no reason for a hiker to be tempted off the trail here. Frank assumed the young man had become exhausted and disoriented on the way down the trail. People could get hopelessly lost in the forest even when they were only a mile from civilization.
Frank stumbled over a root and turned his ankle. “Godammit!” he protested. A good, loud shout always soothed an injury.
A weak voice answered him from somewhere further up the trail. “No...don’t...I’m trying.”
I’m trying? Or did he say, “I’m dying”?
“Hey! Stay where you are. I’m coming to help you.” Frank quickened his pace, but the trail grew rougher and he had to watch his step. “Where are you? Shout again.”
Silence.
Frank pulled out his binoculars and scanned the dense forest looking for a human amid the trees.
Rocks...leaves...logs...movement. Just a flash.
He scanned back, adjusting the focus. A young man came into view. Crouched on his haunches, he held his head in his hands. His mud-caked clothes and limbs provided excellent camouflage.
Frank thrashed through the undergrowth to reach him.
The kid lifted his head, eyes round with fear, and raised his hands as if warding off an attack. “No, no—please. I’m trying.”
“Easy, son.” Frank slipped off his pack. “Let’s get you some water and food.” He held out a bottle of water to the hiker, but the young man edged away like a skittish stray dog. Frank unfurled the silver space blanket, and the hiker rose and staggered a few steps further away from the trail. Then he swayed and collapsed in a heap.
Frank rushed to the hiker’s side. The kid’s lips were blue and his pulse rapid and thready. Frank covered him with the blanket and radioed Rusty. Luckily, the rangers were much faster hikers than Frank and were already just ten minutes down the trail.
Frank watched over the unconscious patient as he awaited their arrival. The kid didn’t have any obvious injuries. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, tall and thin with a scruffy, two-day growth of beard, matted auburn hair, and prominent eyebrows.
Soon Frank could hear the rangers on the trail and shouted to direct them to his location. First Rusty appeared, his bright orange hair like a beacon in the green and brown landscape. Two other rangers, a guy in his forties whom Frank had met before, and an attractive young woman who must be new, were right behind him carrying all the rescue gear.
Rusty clapped Frank on the shoulder. “Thanks, man. You made this one easy.”
Easily the friendliest, most easy-going man that Frank knew, Rusty looked entirely disgusted as he watched the other two rangers tend to the hiker. “I don’t understand what possesses people to go into the wilderness totally unprepared. Look at his shoes. Look at his shirt.”
Frank’s gaze left the victim’s face and took in the rest of his body: a torn Grateful Dead t-shirt, cargo shorts, and Teva water sandals. His feet were filthy, and his toes cracked and crusted with dried blood.
“How did you spot him?” Rusty asked.
“He just passed out a minute ago. Before he went down, he cried out. Good thing, or I would have passed right by.” Frank kept talking as the rangers loaded the hiker onto a stretcher. “The weird thing is, when I found him, he tried to run away from me, like he was scared of me.”
FRANK HAD OFFERED TO help carry the stretcher down the trail, but the young woman ranger took that as a challenge to her competence. She hadn’t left the fallen hiker’s side and wasn’t about to surrender her position now. Given her impressive fitness, Frank reluctantly conceded to himself that she was far less likely to stumble under the load than he was.
As they reached the end of the trail, Frank could see the Trout Run EMS crew standing next to their ambulance. “Do you think they can handle this kid in Saranac, or will we need the chopper to take him to Plattsburgh?” The Adirondack Medical Center in Saranac Lake was the nearest hospital, but it wasn’t a trauma center.
