Thomas Matheson had purchased more than 300 acres of forested property off Hwy. 170 ten years back. He’d built his big home on the lake front and had private roads made so he could reach it without hindrance. Thomas loved nature, and he loved walking in the woods so he decided to share his good fortune, although with restrictions, with the public. Mr. Matheson had a path cleared of trees and thick brush then hired people to take care of the path that walkers, joggers and bicyclists took advantage of. The use of the trail path was free to the public but he made money from the concessions. The public wasn’t allowed on Matheson’s private property and the only time he’d allowed the gate open for locals was four years ago when a woman’s dead body had been thrown over his fence. The deceased was a local woman and her killer admitted he’d killed her in a fit of rage then thrown her over the fence in hopes her body wouldn’t be discovered for a long time. What he hadn’t planned was Matheson’s property workers had ridden the fence line to check the fence for breakage the very next day and discovered the body. Now Matheson is really squirming; his trails were being violated by a killer and he is pissed, threatening to close public access to the trails. This has all the local users in an uproar.
One of the killer’s victims was my brother, Silas. Yes, his name was Silas and my name is Amos; our mother has this thing about keeping ancestral names in the family. So we were named after our parent’s grandfathers, from about seven generations back.
I remember the last time I spoke with Silas. We’d talked on cell phone while he walked the trail the day he was killed. I remember every word of that conversation. We’d discussed the trip we intended making to see our father the upcoming weekend, dad’s health issues and of course my wife. Just before we hung up and about 2 miles toward the trail end, Silas had seen a woman about 100 meters ahead of him. She, he had said was just going around a rough bend of the trail. She had tanned, shapely legs with nice muscular thighs. The woman was wearing Nike shorts, black with lime green and a lime green T-shirt. Silas said he felt he’d seen her before but unless she turned around so he could see her face, he couldn’t say where or when. He was concerned since she appeared to be sliding her feet and hurried off to try and catch up with her. Silas had promised a call back when he left the trails. That call never came.
Silas was a genius, I admit I was blessed with intelligence but he was special. My parents say it was because I had taught him from birth. I read to him, showed him pictures and sit with him as I did my school homework. Most times I’d explain what I was doing and why. I felt he’d inherited his brains from our parents. Mom was an esteemed paleontologist and also a renowned plant pathologists and my dad a State Attorney General. Silas was born when I was five and in Kindergarten. He was well published for one so young and had lectured on archaeology at prestigious colleges. The one dig he most wanted to do was at our home in England. The town of Thatchenhouse, named after our family because we owned all the land, leasing only small acreage for farmers and those who had businesses in the town. I was the landlord of all Thatchenhouse as the oldest son of our father who was the oldest son and so on down through hundreds of years. This year Silas was so confident in his students that he scheduled a dig and the students had paid their fees to assist. One of those students Rebecca Rae Denton was missing, had been since the day before her brother, the second victim had been killed on the trails just like Silas. I was trying to find her. Silas had numerous papers on the planned dig. Grids were drawn and numbered and he’d listed in each grid which students he wanted to dig them. Now, I sat on a bench and drank convenience store coffee as I waited for the morning shift to open Shadow Trail Head Concessions. I’d been doing this daily either at the Head or Shadow Trail End since we buried my brother. Silas had been killed three weeks earlier. Officer Dan Greene always showed about five minutes before the morning shift arrived to open the concession for business. The PD habitually sent someone to stand watch over the concession workers as they went about their duties early morning and late evening. The concession carried coffee, water and any kind of sports drink or juice you wanted. They had fresh fruits readied in small plastic bowls. Officer Greene and I usually had one of these as we watched all the runners, walkers, and bicyclist arrive, sign in and head off into the wood’s trail.
“Good morning, Amos, still watching for that woman, I see.”
“Yes. I am. I’m convinced she had to have seen someone or something the morning Silas was killed.”
“Surely she headed into the trail before the camera was activated and failed to sign the sheet. Everyone doesn’t, regrettably. I’m not sure you will recognize her if you do see her.”
“I am sure I will recognize her. Are you walking today?”
“No, maybe tomorrow, I worked all night so I want to head home and sleep. We had a slow night but that always makes the shift a little boring and tires me faster than a really busy night. Busy nights are mentally tiring, but slow ones have both mental and physical effects on me. Congratulations on your election, by the way.”
“Thank you, not really an election, the mayor and town council asked me to take the job and I agreed. I can’t see anything really to do as a police chief except maybe watch for speeders and night security checks around town. I’ll be the only town archeologist on the payroll,” I added and laughed.
“And a criminal psychologist. It certainly shows they have respect and confidence in you.”
I smiled then said, “look, I am headed to the trail end to check the sign out sheets.”
“See you tomorrow morning, we can have that go at the trail if you want.”
“I do want,” I said.
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