October, 2016

Miles stood in silent disbelief at what he saw that morning. He spun in a slow circle, his hiking boots scraping the damp ground. He had no frame of reference for it in his forty years on Earth. It made him dizzy. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, retched, and vomited instant oatmeal into a shallow puddle.

Rain pattered on his back as he doubled forward. He heaved again, then wiped his face with the sleeve of his fleece jacket and stood upright. He crossed himself, padre hijo fantasma santo. His hands shook from the adrenaline, so he forced them into his pockets. He needed to tell someone, that was for sure. He pulled his phone out, and it showed zero bars of service. He let out a small amount of air through his pursed lips. He would have to drive a few tense miles back to let anyone know.

He scanned the scene again, trying to commit it to memory. He didn't want to, but he had to give an accurate description when he got close enough to Marblemount for his phone to work. The clearing sat a few miles into a quiet Forest Service gravel road, then down a disused spur road. Five tents flapped and crinkled in the fall breeze, arranged in a loose circle. In the center of the circle a tangle of dead bodies formed a perverse tableau.

One man clearly died before the others. Rictus and flies had already claimed him, and the stench was eye watering. Two other men lay on the damp earth, one by the makeshift fire pit and another halfway in an unzipped tent. A crow hopped around the circle, holding a severed eyeball and paying Miles no mind. Two women sat in folding camp chairs, one crumpled forward and the other pitched backward staring unseeing at the gray sky. Another woman lay in the open doorway of a tent, her hands folded across her chest. The last body was the most puzzling of all. The final woman's ankles and wrists were bound together with thick loops of climbing rope, leaving her hobbled. Two plastic folding tables in the center of the space were covered in a camp stove, books and journals, and discarded jackets.

Miles backed away slowly, until he felt the reassuring bulk of his pickup truck behind him. He opened the dented, mud-splattered door and heaved himself inside. The engine was still ticking away, the heater blowing warm air and the stereo playing the fierce ramble of Led Zeppelin's Kashmir. In the bed, white five gallon plastic buckets held his day's haul of chanterelle, lobster, and matsutake mushrooms, destined for restaurants in Seattle. He pulled the old column shifter into reverse and put his hand on the passenger seat to crane his neck around. He pulled a quick three point turn, and sped away. Gravel and mud sprayed behind him, and he could hear small stones flicking against the inside of his wheel wells.

The drive back to Marblemount tested Miles' patience under the best circumstances. The Forest Service Road was rutted, potholed, and criss-crossed with washouts. Sometimes, when they started to log a unit they would groom the gravel and smooth it over. No luck this season. Miles flew over it anyway, his foot buried in the accelerator. His truck crashed over the potholes, spraying fountains of grime feet into the air. His teeth were about shaken loose over a long section of washboard, and every part of his truck squeaked and rattled furiously. He fought to keep control around a tight bend, locking the wheel and then flinging it the other direction when the tail broke loose and tried to swing him around.

About fifteen minutes later, Miles stood on his brakes and slewed to a stop on the shoulder of Highway 20. He waited for a gap in traffic and then goosed the throttle. His old wheezy engine roared to life with a chirp of tires. He held his phone in one hand, keeping his truck pointed down the road with the other. At the first two bars of service, by the old Clark Cabins, he pulled into the gravel parking lot and dialed 911.

The dispatcher picked up. "911, what is your emergency?"

Miles was still out of breath from his frenzied drive. His chest heaved and his heart was pounding. "I just found... I mean, I think it was... I don't even know what to call it."

"Sir, please slow down. Catch your breath if you can. I'm still here."

He took a few long, deep breaths. "I found a lot of dead bodies. There were... seven of them. In a camp site in the woods."

"Okay. Can you tell me the location of the camp site, sir?"

"It's the... Mt. Baker ranger station. The national forest. Off road 1060."

"Road 1060. Thank you, sir. Where are you located now? I hear a vehicle running. Are you parked safely?"

Miles' windshield wipers were still slapping back and forth frantically. He turned them off, and shut off his truck. "Yes. I had to find cell service to call you. I'm parked at the..." He craned his neck to find the sign for the small restaurant. "The Eatery Drive-In. You know, the old Clark Cabins. Highway 20, around mile marker 108. I think. I'm in an old red Toyota pickup."

"Thank you, sir. We're sending the state patrol now. They'll find you when they get there."

She hung up with an unceremonious click. Miles breathed out slowly, in a long sigh. He rested his head against the torn vinyl on his headrest and closed his eyes. He thumped the back of his head on his headrest, in a mute expression of frustration. Why did this have to happen today? What did I do to deserve this?

He kept his eyes closed and waited. His pulse slowed back down, and his breathing settled. After a few minutes, the windows in his small truck cab were fogged inside and covered in rain outside. The cab was cooling. He decided to go inside and get a cup of coffee. The restaurant was a small, old-school diner inside. Vinyl booths and dark wood chairs tucked into laminate tables. The menu arrived in clear page protectors, and the table smelled like a weak bleach solution. A minute later, he had a steaming cup of coffee in a thick ceramic mug. He wrapped his hands around it to warm them.

He heard the distant wail of sirens. They grew louder, and then he heard the crash of a police car braking hard on the gravel parking lot. The door of the diner swung open, and two Washington State Patrol officers stepped in, big men in blue uniforms with striped pants and wide hats. Miles raised his hand and waved at them. They nodded, the motion exaggerated by the brims of their hats, and walked to his booth. They sat down, both across from Miles, shoulders crammed together in the booth.

One of the officers fished a spiral notebook from one pocket, and a voice recorder from another. They removed their hats and set them at the edge of the laminate table. He leaned forward intently. "Thank you for your call, Mr..."

"Ocampo, Miles Ocampo."

"Mr. Ocampo." He scribbled on his steno pad with a small scraping sound. "Okay. Thank you for your call." He took a deep breath. "So, we have another car heading up Road 1060 to take a look at what you found. But, can you describe it to me?"

Miles recited what he found. The tableau of bodies, the tents, the full camp table covered in rain all flashed through his mind again. He paused to sip his coffee.

The partner spoke. "Mr. Ocampo, why were you in the woods today?"

"Oh, God. I'm not a suspect am I?"

The partner shrugged. "Just a standard question. We want to understand how you found the bodies."

Miles looked at his tan, wide hands. He took a deep breath to steady himself and slow his hammering heart down again.

The partner smiled kindly. "It's okay. Take your time."

Miles smiled back, meekly. "Thanks. Look, I've seen a lot of weird things in the woods. This one time? I saw a dead black bear. A carcass. I mean, what can kill a black bear? It might have been a juvenile one, but still."

The first cop spoke. "Maybe a mountain lion."

"Could be. But anyway. I've seen a lot out there. I've never seen anything like..." He gulped. "That. Whatever that was."

"We understand. But Mr. Ocampo, what brought you to the forest today?"

"Oh, right." He shook the thought away. "I pick mushrooms in the fall. I sell them to restaurants."

The second cop squinted. "How's the picking this season?"

"Honestly? Great." A waitress stopped by to refill his coffee. He nodded appreciatively. "Some prime chants, and a couple strong patches of lobsters." He seemed to relax. "See, you need to get to the lobsters before they turn to mush inside." He gestured with his fingers a short distance apart. "See, you have about this much time when they're bright red and not liquid." He put his hand on the empty back on his side of the booth. "And don't get me started on the matsu. They're really popping."

The cops' eyes had glazed over. One looked away in the middle distance, clearly bored. They snapped to attention when they heard sirens and the urgent crunch of brakes on the gravel parking lot again. Red and blue strobing lights filled the diner front windows, and another state patrol officer stepped inside. He adjusted his hat, scanned the room, and walked quickly to the booth.

"Bad news." Said the new officer.

The first officer turned his body in the booth, with a small scrunch of vinyl. "What?"

"Seven bodies, like you said." The two officers nodded at Miles. "But one of them was all trussed up. Wrists and ankles tied together tight."

The first officer shrugged. "And?"

"We searched the tent, and found her ID. A passport. She's a German citizen. Or was."

The first officer breathed out. Somewhere between a huff and a sigh. "Okay." He leaned back to think. "If it's a kidnapping with a foreign national, we need to get the FBI on the line."

The standing officer nodded. "I'll call the Seattle field office."