Expecting to Die

They’re kids, one side of her mind reminded her.
The other said: Yeah, but nearly adults.
“You think Destiny Montclaire’s killer is here?” a male voice asked, and she
turned to find that the sheriff was standing next to her. His gaze was fixed on
Kywin Bell and Donny Justison, who were standing next to each other, two big
men. Friends? Or rivals?
“I don’t know. Maybe,” she said, watching as they were joined by Austin
Reece and Alex O’Hara.
“No one looks like they’re in mourning.”
She’d been thinking the same thing. As scared as the kids had been on
Saturday, as somber as they’d appeared while being interviewed, the boys now

---

were all laughing and joking, male bravado, camaraderie and animosity, hitting
each other, giving fist bumps, glancing over at a group of girls, the center of
which was Lara Haas. But the females, tonight, weren’t showing any interest in
the boys’ antics. To a one, their attention was focused on Barclay Sphinx, who
held an edge over the locals, an air of mystique, a bit of sophistication, an
association with the glitter of Hollywood. He was the peacock tonight, and he
knew it.
“This is such bullshit!” a voice nearby yelled, and she caught sight of Kruger
again, standing with Nesmith and Hicks near the back of the crowd. “I’m sick of
meetings and talk, talk, talk. We need action, that’s what we need. We should be
out huntin’ Big Foot right now instead of sitting around like a bunch of women
talkin’ about it.” He snorted loudly. “And talk of a fuckin’ TV show? What will
that do? Only bring more outta towners in.”
“And that would be a bad thing?” Sandy Aldridge, the owner of Wild Wills, a
local restaurant, asked. She was tall and thin, and wore heavy makeup and a
tough-as-nails attitude.
“’Course it would. We don’t need no more people up here, and no goddamned
TV cameras and crew scarin’ off the Big Foot! This”—he made a wide arc with
his arm to indicate the interior of the meeting hall—“this is nothin’ more than a
publicity stunt, a goddamned fiasco, that’s what it is!” Kruger was practically
roaring now, and Alvarez was standing close enough to smell the alcohol. His
face was red, his eyes bloodshot. “It’s about money, people, not about Big Foot!”
“Oh, stuff it, Otis.” Sandy was having none of it. She was used to dealing with
disgruntled loudmouths at the bar in her establishment. “Just shut up and listen
to what the man has to say.”
“I did and he’s done! Paid my goddamned twenty-five bucks just to hear him
peddle the same old shit I’ve heard a million times.”
“If you don’t like it, just leave,” Sandy snapped as a few others turned their
heads. “You’re making a scene.”
“I said I paid my money!”
“You need to show some respect.”
He spat out a stream of tobacco juice, which arched upward before hitting the
floor with a splat.
“That’s it, Otis!” Alvarez stepped in. “Time to leave.”
“Who the hell are you?” He whirled and she saw the outline of a pistol in the
pocket of his baggy jeans.
“The woman who’s going to escort you out of here quietly,” she said, and he
snorted derisively.
“Sheeiiit.”

---

Ivor warned, “Jesus, Otis, watch out. She’s a goddamned cop!”
“You got that right. Detective Selena Alvarez, Pinewood County.” She
showed him her badge, and Otis stared at it long and hard.
“Fuck me,” he said, tottering a bit, and she pulled his gun, a small pistol, from
his pocket.
“Hey, wait!”
“You got a permit to carry?” she demanded.
“Damned straight. Give that back to me.”
“Tomorrow, you can pick it up at that station.”
“You can’t take my gun! It’s legal! I told you, I have a damned permit to carry
a concealed weapon.”
She made sure the safety was on and slipped it into her bag. To Otis’s stunned
friends, she said, “Anyone sober enough to give him a ride home?”
Ivor Hicks only blinked at her through the yellowish lenses of his glasses. No
help there.
“Yeah, I can get him home,” Nesmith said reluctantly. “But I really wanted to
talk to Sphinx.” He gave a nod to the stage, where people were still swarming.
“Find out if he’s the real deal.”
“He’s not!” Otis spat. “Goddamned pantywaist. Gonna just poke around the
woods, have the actors hear somethin’ or spy a shadow flittin’ by. Maybe a bear
messes with the camp or somethin’. Make a big deal of it on the show when it’s
probly jest the stage crew. That’s all that’ll come of it. Trust me, he ain’t gonna
find no Big Foot. Not with his cameras an’ lights an’ microphones, all that crap
production gear.” He glared at Nesmith. “Has he found one in that Oregon
show? Huh? No. Just a damned footprint or two, right? He finds an actual Big
Foot and his show is over. Kaput! Mystery solved. Ratings gone. End of the
fuckin’ story.”
“Come on, Otis,” she said, nudging him firmly.
“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” Otis protested and tried to wriggle away, the reek
of alcohol mixed with the pungent smell of his body odor. She rewarded him by
twisting his arm behind his back. “Shit! Goddamn it!” he squealed.
“This way, Otis.” She was pushing him toward the main entrance. Nesmith,
muttering under his breath, followed behind.
“I don’t need a ride! I just want my damned gun!” Kruger was angry enough,
she thought, to maybe take a swing at her with his free arm.