The trail, p.22
The Trail, page 22
The statement throws me. ‘What’s made you so certain?’
He points at the printed pages again. ‘Because there was a bank robbery in Darby a couple of days after the festival. That means they were in the area when your mum tore off into the trees. They’d already shot her once, but what if she stumbled into them again, and this time they finished the job? She could identify them as responsible for the robberies and attempted murder. It isn’t an angle the police ever followed, because we never told them about our run-in with the two of them, but now it makes perfect sense to me.’
Whilst this sudden leap sounds like a stretch, I find the theory more palatable than Isaac’s suggestion that Mum died at the hands of a power-hungry sheriff with a Messiah-complex.
‘I think we need to contact the police or the FBI and relay this story,’ Bruce says, while I’m still processing. ‘I can tell them about our encounter with them, about them shooting your mum, about the robberies; the lot. And if they arrest and question them, maybe they’ll reveal the truth.’
I want to tell Bruce his theory is probably the result of listening to too many true crime podcasts, but maybe there is some truth in it.
‘We can’t blame it on people called Snake and Weasel,’ I say, tempering his enthusiasm. ‘What were their real names? Do you remember?’
He stares blankly at me, and I can almost see the inner workings of his mind, as his eyes dance. ‘Um, I don’t think they ever actually said. I remember one of them was from Sonoma County in California.’
I roll my eyes, search the names Snake and Weasel on my phone, expecting to see the usual sponsored links to social media pages, but one news story stands out above them all.
SEARCH CONTINUES FOR MISSING CALIFORNIA HIKER
The story is decades old, and I freeze when I read and learn Kyle Daws (a.k.a. Weasel) was last seen while hiking the Appalachian Trail in Maine in 1993 – the same year Mum disappeared. I’ve never been a believer in coincidences, and my mind races with connections between the two disappearances. I instantly rule out the possibility that Mum turned her back on Dad and me to get together with someone who adopted the name Weasel over Kyle, but could Bruce be right, and something happened to the two of them? Gary Horowitz (a.k.a. Snake) is quoted in the same article, describing how his friend vanished from camp one night after an argument, and hasn’t been heard from since.
I try to relay as much of the story to Bruce as I can, but my phone is ringing in my hand, and although it’s a private number, I answer, and my worst fears are confirmed when I hear Isaac’s voice.
‘I spoke to my friend, and he says he has proof your mom was definitely in Rockston at some point.’
39
NORA
September 1993, Appalachian Trail, Maine, USA
Nora wakes to the unfamiliar sound of bleeping and whirring. Her head feels as though it is trapped in a vacuum, as muffled conversations happen just out of reach. Her eyelids crackle as she prises them apart, and it feels as though they’ve been glued shut for weeks. She doesn’t know what she’s expecting to see, but the white sheet covering the length of her body isn’t it. In fact, the whole room is bathed in white: the walls, the blind covering one wall, the door at the far side of the room.
Is this heaven?
She tries to sit up, leaning on her elbows, but her arms ache and her shoulders creak as they engage. She lifts herself fractionally, blinking several times in an effort to clear the dried gunk, and eventually rubs them with her left hand, surprised to find something grey and plastic pinched to one of her fingers. The plastic is attached to a thin grey cable that she follows back to a white box on a stand beside the bed, which she now realises she’s lying in. There is a silver frame or rail, cool to the touch, trapping her inside the bed.
How did I get to a hospital?
She racks her brain, trying to recall the last thing she remembers, but all she can see is the endless paths through trees. She pushes the thin sheet back, and is surprised to see tight strapping around her waist and abdomen, and as she runs her fingers over the bandages, she winces as she remembers the gunshot. She also sees the bracelet hanging from her wrist, and thinks it did little to protect her from getting shot.
On cue, the door to the room opens and a man with grey skin and dyed black hair enters, keeping his eyes fixed on the paper connected to the clipboard in his hand.
‘Hello, good morning, and how are we feeling today?’
Nora tries to speak, but can’t get the words past the frog in her throat. She coughs and tries again. ‘Where am I?’
‘You are in the Critical Care Unit of Darby Hospital, and I am the physician overseeing you today. I’m Dr Terry Copeland. And you are…’ he studies the notes on the clipboard, ‘Mr Jacob Feeney.’ He peers at her around the side of the clipboard. ‘I’m just kidding. You are Mrs Nora Grogan from the UK, right?’
She nods, wincing as she tries to shuffle into a more comfortable position in the bed. ‘What happened to me?’
He looks back at the clipboard. ‘Well, let me see. Seems you were presented with a gunshot wound on Tuesday, and have been in recovery ever since.’
‘Did you remove the bullet?’
‘Nope, says it had already been taken out. Looks like you were assessed, opened up to check for any internal damage, then sewn back up. They’ve had you on a saline solution to keep your fluids up, but you’re allowed solids now, so someone should bring some food by in a little bit.’
He places the clipboard on the end of the bed and moves across to her. He shines a pen torch in her eyes, and checks her throat and mouth before collecting the clipboard and heading for the door.
‘Do you know if any of my friends are here, or who brought me in?’
He stares blankly back at her. ‘I’ll send one of the nursing team in, and they should know more.’
‘How long will I need to stay in here?’
‘Well now, for a wound like yours, we’d usually keep you for a day or so more before letting you return home, but it is the darnedest thing: you are healing right up as if you’ve been kissed by the Lord our God Himself. The way your wound is healing up is nothing short of miraculous. So, really, unless anything changes, we can probably let you go home tomorrow. Now, I need to carry on with my rounds, but if you have any difficulties, just buzz for the nurses and they’ll attend to your needs.’
He ducks out of the door before she can ask him anything else, but a moment later, Bruce strides in, all smiles, and offers her a grape from the brown paper bag he’s carrying. ‘You’re awake!’
‘The doctor said we’re in Darby, but I have no recollection of how we got here.’
‘Your life was saved by a cowboy of sorts. Long story short: he removed the bullet and stitched you up, but you’d lost so much blood that it was touch and go as to whether you’d recover.’ He leans in closer, lowering his voice. ‘Nelson said he had some magical medicine that would aid your recovery, and… I told him to do whatever was in your best interests.’
‘What kind of medicine?’
Bruce shrugs. ‘He refused to tell me what was in it, though I have to hand it to him, whatever it was, it did the trick. Once you started to recover a couple of days later, he helped me carry you to a town where I managed to get us a ride here to Darby. I thought it best to get you properly examined, and this is the biggest hospital in this area.’
‘W-what about the trail? What about the sponsorship?’
He rests a warm hand on her head. ‘You don’t need to worry about any of that. Ken and Charlie are still hiking, and should be with us by tomorrow. Nobody back home is going to worry an inch about us driving part of the course given the fact you were shot. Anyway, how are you feeling?’
She drops back onto her pillow. ‘Like I’ve been shot. It’s going to be tough going for me to get back on the AT.’
He snickers. ‘You’re kidding, right? Nobody expects you to finish the trail. I’ll hook up with Ken and Charlie and complete the course, and then we’ll come and collect you, before—’
‘No! I said I would walk the course for my goddaughter and that’s exactly what I intend to do!’
Bruce frowns again. ‘Listen, I know that your recovery is miraculous, but there’s no point in putting your life in any more danger. Rest up. Ken has Rex the cuddly lion, and is getting plenty of photographs of him. Let us finish it from here.’
She shakes her head. ‘Please. I want to do it for Ashley. And for Jess. I don’t want to have caused her so much upset and then not complete the trail. I know I’ll be a bit slower than before, but I’m going to do it one way or another, and I’d rather not be on my own.’
He glances at his watch. ‘Well, the doctor did say you’re free to go for a little walk if you fancy stretching your legs. If you’re serious about heading out with us, it might be an idea for you to get you up and moving about before we’re ready to continue in a couple of days.’
‘Where’s my pack?’
‘In my motel room. Do you need something from it?’
‘I have a photograph of Jess. Could you get it for me?’
He stands. ‘Absolutely. Sorry, I should have thought about that. Anything else you need? Your diary?’
She shakes her head, and then changes her mind. ‘Oh, actually, can you find my least dirty and smelly clothes?’
‘I have taken the liberty of washing all our clothes at the launderette, so is there any specific outfit you’d like me to fetch?’
‘What’s the weather like outside?’
‘I’d describe it as Brighton in late October. Not cold and wet, but not warm and sunny either. Why don’t I choose you something weather-appropriate?’
She nods, and he disappears through the door. She counts to sixty, and then pushes herself up and off the bed. An alarm sounds from behind her, and a nurse appears at the door, looking in uncertainly.
‘The doctor said I could go for a walk.’
The nurse nods, ducks past her, and switches off the bleeping machine, before returning to hold open the door. ‘I’d suggest you use the elevator if you want to get down to the cafeteria. It’s only one floor, but you probably shouldn’t be using the staircase.’
She leads Nora to the bank of lifts, and calls one, making sure she’s inside before carrying on her duties. When the doors open, Nora feels as though she has woken in Narnia. All around the corridor, there are decorations of lanterns hanging, shiny bolts of lightning, and candles. A poster hanging from one of the walls advertises the town’s Festival of Light, and as she moves slowly along the corridor, she is amazed by the lengths the townspeople seem to be going to for the event. There are tables and stalls just outside the hospital building advertising raffles and games, but there is one particular table that draws her eye.
A woman in a green wig and dark purple cloak is shuffling cards, and looks up when she feels Nora staring at the handmade poster advertising tarot. ‘Would you like your fortune told?’
‘I don’t have any money,’ Nora says, patting her hospital gown.
‘Well, that doesn’t matter.’ The woman smiles, nodding at Nora’s arm. ‘I can see by the bracelet on your arm that you’re a fellow believer.’
Nora’s hand shoots to the silver charm bracelet. ‘You know what this is?’
‘Of course. I’d recognise the Bracelet of Utlvyidedi anywhere.’
‘Oo-thla-ee-day-dee?’ Nora tries to sound it out. ‘What can you tell me about it?’
‘Only that it brings good fortune to whomever wears it. Would you like me to see what good fortune it will be bringing your way?’
Nora chuckles. It’s been years since she had a tarot reading. Her mum used to drag her along to them once a month when she was younger, but Nora had seen how obsessed she’d become with fortunes and fate, and has been cynical of such practices since.
‘Thank you, but I don’t really believe in that kind of thing.’ An image of Jess forms in her mind, and she feels compelled to know that she’s okay. ‘Perhaps you could do a reading for my daughter instead?’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Jess.’
The woman hands her the deck of cards. ‘I need you to shuffle the pack three times while thinking only of Jess – I need the cards to get used to your energy about the relationship the two of you have – and then hand them back to me.’
Nora does as instructed, and hands them back, subconsciously twirling the bracelet, while she watches as the woman rests her palm on the top card and silently recites unintelligible words. When she is finished, she looks at Nora.
‘The Major Arcana cards represent the life lessons, karmic influences, and the big archetypal themes that are influencing your life and your soul’s journey to enlightenment,’ she says as she cuts the pack into three piles, face down on the table.
‘Which pack do you feel most connected to when you think about Jess?’
Nora stares at the three piles and points at the middle.
The woman picks up that pile and places it on top of the other two, before fanning the cards out across the green tablecloth. ‘I want you to pick out three cards. The first will tell you where she is right now; the second will tell you where she’s headed; and the third will tell you where you fit in with that. Okay?’
Nora does as instructed, but when the tarot reader turns over the final card, the blood drains from her face.
She looks from the card to Nora and then back again. ‘There must be some mistake… No, this can’t be right.’
Nora’s pulse quickens. ‘What mistake? What is it?’
The woman drops the card to the table and points at the bracelet. ‘It’s not possible.’
Nora tilts her head and stares at the image on the card: a knight on horseback, but where his head should be is just a skull.
The woman’s face twists in pained surprise. ‘Someone wearing the Bracelet of Utlvyidedi can’t be a bringer of death.’ She fixes Nora with a horrified expression. ‘Who are you? What do you want from me?’
Nora doesn’t even question the possibility that this dramatic response is just for show; nobody could be that good an actor. ‘Please, I don’t understand. What does this mean? Is my daughter okay?’
But the woman doesn’t answer. She pulls off her wig and cloak and throws them at the table, before running off, shouting back over her shoulder. ‘Y-you stay away from me. Do you hear me? You stay away!’
40
JESS
April 2023, outskirts of Rockston, Maine, USA
I continue trying to find out as much information about Snake and missing Weasel while Bruce drives us back towards Rockston, but the news stories I find seem to be duplications of each other. In my previous research into Mum’s disappearance, I had stumbled across the name Kyle Daws, but hadn’t seen any connection between the events, as they were on different parts of the trail when they went missing.
From what I’ve now read, Snake and Weasel were heading away from Maine when their argument flared up, and it isn’t stated exactly what their argument was about. But if they were headed away from Rockston, it seems unlikely that Weasel would have ended up there as one of the blood sacrifices that Isaac DeWalt spoke of. I also can’t fathom why the name Kyle Daws didn’t feature in Chester’s list of names.
Gary Horowitz – the man formerly known as Snake – set up his own investments company in the late nineties and was imprisoned on charges of fraud in 2016. He has seven years of his twenty-year sentence still to run. According to one article, his private equity firm was little more than a complex pyramid scheme, and the monies he stole were never recovered. I desperately want to understand what he remembers of his time on the trail, and whether he suspected a cult of abducting his friend, but have no way of phoning and speaking to him now. I will look to follow up with his lawyer as soon as I’ve collected my rental from the Rockston motel car park.
Coming here no longer feels like a mistake. There are layers of conspiracy – I’m certain of that now – and I just need to keep unpicking until I find the truth.
I can’t escape the niggling voice in the back of my head suggesting that Snake could have killed Weasel and hidden his remains on the trail after their argument. It seems more likely than him being abducted and sacrificed, but I’m not ruling out any possibilities.
Bruce is noticeably quiet, his jaw set as he focuses on the endless highway ahead of us. He has made it clear he thinks returning to Rockston is a bad idea, but I need to collect my rental either way, so we have little choice. We have no evidence of wrongdoing to take to the police and FBI, and if Isaac can be trusted, then hopefully his friend will give us something tangible. It’s a risk I have to take.
The ‘Welcome to Rockston’ sign looms ahead, and I shiver involuntarily as we pass it.
Isaac said he would meet us there, but we’re the only car on the road as far as I can see. Tall trees now darken the route, casting a dark shadow over our progress, and inside the car there’s a noticeable drop in temperature. Neither of us speak as we reach the first buildings of the town centre, and Bruce follows the signs to the motel.
Bunting hangs from every lamppost, as if there’s a celebration planned. We pass a group on the street, dressed in brown fur coats and Davy Crockett-style coonskin hats. I’m not au fait with all the public holidays in the US, so I can’t think what event or festival would lead to such revelry. An online search reveals he lived far away in Tennessee and Texas, and celebrations for his birthday don’t occur until August, so maybe the outfits are symbolic of something, but I can’t be sure.
‘Looks like we’ve got a welcoming committee,’ Bruce says, nodding towards the patrol car just inside the entrance to the car park. ‘Do you want me to keep driving?’
I crane my neck for a better look, but it isn’t obvious whether the car has anything to do with me, so I direct him to continue in regardless. It won’t be long until the sun sets, so the timing is suspicious. Bruce parks up in the bay outside the room at the end of the row. The rental is where I left it, and it takes me a moment to fish through my bag for the keys.
