Expecting to Die

What the hell is that all about?
The crowd parted a little as Lara Haas, seated in a wheelchair, was pushed
outside by an orderly. Sphinx motioned to a small woman, who produced a huge
bouquet of flowers and balloons, which she gave to him and he, in turn,
bestowed upon Lara. She was still wearing the splint, but managed to gather up
the posies and, squinting a little, her smile as bright as the damned Montana sun,
spoke both to the producer and the reporter. No longer was she without makeup.
In the intervening hours since this morning, when Pescoli and Alvarez had
interviewed her, Lara Haas had found her blush, lip gloss, mascara, and
foundation, at the very least. And she’d worked on her hair, which, shining and
shimmering with blond streaks, curled softly around her neck and shoulders.
Gone was the hospital gown, replaced by white shorts and a pink T-shirt with a
deep V neckline that offered a view of her cleavage. It also showed off the ring

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of bruises at her neck.
The whole scene smacked of being staged, and that little niggle of suspicion
she’d felt earlier in Lara’s hospital room grew. Something about Lara’s
encounter with Big Foot and her injuries was way off.
The doors opened again, and this time Lara’s parents, Arletta and Nelson,
headed outside, each carrying some of Lara’s belongings or other vases of
flowers. If ever there were a mother/daughter resemblance, it was visited on the
Haas women. Both were blond, buxom, and beautiful, though Lara, possibly
because of Nelson’s genes, was a few inches taller than her tiny mother. In
pressed chinos and a white dress shirt unbuttoned at the neck, Nelson was built
like a runner, lanky and slim, thinning reddish hair brushed to disguise a growing
bald spot.
Hadn’t Lara said her parents had split?
Now, perhaps brought together by their daughter’s trauma, they seemed
friendly enough, surely more than cordial, as they tended to Lara, talked to the
reporter and Sphinx. Then, after about five minutes, all left together in the same
sporty white Mercedes.
“Show’s over,” she said as she unlocked her Jeep and levered herself into the
warm interior. “Highlights at eleven.”
She headed into the office, where she found, on her desk, a new ceramic mug
decorated with a huge brown footprint and the words: B
IG
F
OOT
D
AZE,
G
RIZZLY
F
ALLS,
M
ONTANA.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” She set her things onto her chair. The effervescent
tempo of Joelle’s high heels clicked toward her door, and the secretary popped
her head into the office. She was dressed in beige and brown, and sure enough,
her earrings actually were dangling footprints.
“Don’t tell me,” Pescoli said.
But she did. “We’re already starting the celebration for Big Foot Daze. Mayor
Justison wanted every public employee to have a cup to display on their desks,
to promote the upcoming celebration.”
Pescoli hoisted the mug as if it were a beer stein. “We can’t get another
detective on staff or an improved heating system, but this is in the budget?”
She looked afraid that Pescoli might actually hurl it. “Publicity, you know.
Now, Detective, I’ve talked to some of the other officers and staff members, and
we’d all like to do a little something for the new baby.”
Pescoli was suddenly tired. “I know. I appreciate it. But I don’t need, nor do I
want a shower.”
“I got that message. Loud and clear.” Her lips pinched a little, and Pescoli saw
that she’d not only disappointed the woman, but hurt her. Oh, geez. “So”—she

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cleared her throat—“we all got together and . . . well, here.” She handed Pescoli
a card from the pocket of her dress. Pescoli took it and opened the envelope.
There was a cute little card inside with a rocking horse on the front, signed by
everyone in the department, and a gift certificate to a baby store in Missoula.
Touched, she found it hard to come up with the right thing to say. “Thank you,
Joelle. You know, I don’t mean to be such a bitch about the shower, but it’s just .
. . just not my thing.” Impossible to explain to a woman who lived in perpetual
party mode.
Joelle brightened. “Well, don’t be surprised if you’re inundated with food
once that little person arrives. I’m organizing a meal chain.”
“A what?”
“Kind of like a prayer chain in church, you’ll see. Everyone brings something
on a different day, gets a look at the baby, should be interesting. I wonder what
Deputy Watershed will be bringing.” She looked thoughtful. “He likes to hunt,
you know. Brags about eating all kinds of wildlife. I’ll contain him. No eel or
beaver or bear or God-knows-what.” She gave a mock shudder. “I might put him
on for a bottle of wine, but oh, then he’d bring some of that homemade stuff that
he makes himself. Have you ever heard of dandelion wine? It’s like his and
Frank Nesmith’s favorite, I swear. Well, don’t you worry, I’m handling it!”
“Really, Joelle, I don’t think you’ll need to—”
But she found herself talking to dead air as Joelle had slipped back into the
hallway and clipped away, the click of her heels fading as she headed toward the
front office of the station.
Pescoli had just checked her email and made a couple of calls when Alvarez
appeared, phone in hand. “Take a look at this,” she said, and handed Pescoli her
phone, which was connected to the website for a local TV station. Along the
bottom of the small screen, a running news ticker read: B
REAKING NEWS
: B
IG
F
OOT SIGHTING.
C
REATURE THAT APPEARS TO BE A
S
ASQUATCH SHOWN ON DRONE
FOOTAGE NEAR
G
RIZZLY
F
ALLS
, M
ONTANA
.
“Drone footage?” Pescoli asked as she watched what appeared to be a large
ape-like creature hurrying into the undergrowth.
“Apparently several members of the Big Foot Believers own drones. This film
was taken by Carlton Jeffe, and it’s very high-tech, of course.”
“Of course.” She stared at the screen. The drone, flying high over the forest,
moved downward, circling the area trying to catch a better view, but the creature,
for the most part, was in shadow or hidden completely by a canopy of branches,
only appearing where the foliage was less dense. Yes, the animal, standing on
two legs, walking quickly, seemed large, but Pescoli’s perspective was off. A Big
Foot? Nah.

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Alvarez said, “Jeffe does have a permit to own a drone. I checked.”
She watched the replay again. “Where was this taken? And when?”
“Today, a few hours ago, and it’s in a canyon only about half a mile to
Reservoir Point, as the drone flies.”
“Or the Big Foot lumbers,” Pescoli said dryly. “It’s a guy in an ape suit. A big
guy. Has to be.” She pointed to the screen. “So, how does this have anything to
do with Lindsay Cronin’s car crash? Or is it unrelated?” She didn’t believe it.
Two friends who died in separate incidents? The first, certainly the victim of
homicide, the second, one of the last people who was contacted by Destiny Rose
Montclaire before her death, in a single car crash.
And Kywin Bell had been close to both girls.
“I got a preliminary autopsy report on Lindsay Cronin. Looks like she died in
the crash. Ribs punctured a lung, head trauma, broken bones. Even though she
was wearing a seat belt, the car was crushed, just crumpled in on her.”
“Don’t tell me she was pregnant.”
“No.”
“Anyone told her parents yet?”
“Two deputies gave the Cronins the news. They’re destroyed, of course, the
older brother quiet, kind of keeping it all in. Roy, her father, called me and came
in and ID’d the body.”
“Not the mother?”
“Darlie declined.”
“I don’t blame her. That would be rough. Beyond rough.” As she sat at her
desk, nearly ready to give birth to her third child, a cute little card propped up
near her computer, anticipation growing to welcome a new family member, she
felt a bit humbled that she had this embarrassment of riches when the Cronins
had just lost their only daughter.

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