Expecting to Die

The ring leader. “What about the Bell kid?”
“Kywin?” She shook her head as her phone dinged again and she glanced at
the screen. “He does what the others want. Goes along, you know. Never has an
original thought.”
“TJ?”
“Oh, geez. I don’t know, Mom,” she snapped, then a little more contritely.
“What . . . what if she wasn’t killed by a human?”
“We’re not certain her death is a homicide.”
Bianca sent her a look that said, Yeah, right. “But what if it was something
else that murdered her?”
The monster again. They were back to that. “Like?”
“You know, whatever it was that chased me.”
“We still haven’t figured out who that was.”
“Not ‘who,’ Mom, but ‘what’?”
“Okay.”
Anger flashed in her wide eyes. “You don’t believe me. You never believe
me!”
“I do believe you. I know you saw something and it chased you down to the
creek and scared the hell out of you. Of course. But, I don’t know what it was or
why. That’s all I’m saying.” Bianca looked about to explode again, and Pescoli
said, “I’m just thankful you’re okay.” To prove it, she hugged her daughter, and
for once Bianca didn’t tense up at the gesture.
“Just scarred for life,” she grumbled as Pescoli released her. A finger with a
now-broken nail tenderly touched her chin. “Jeremy came by my room a while
ago. You were still sleeping, and . . . well, so was I, but he came in anyway and
woke me up, said he heard about what happened up at the reservoir.”
“How?” Pescoli asked, as neither she nor Santana had woken him last night.
“On his iPad, I guess.”
“It’s out there? On social media?”
Of course.
Bianca stared at her mother as if she’d grown up during the time of Conestoga

---

wagons. “Geez, Mom. What d’ya think?”
Kids. Cell phones. Instant messaging. Texting. Tweets. Her heart sank. These
days, information passed in a nanosecond. One text, tweet, or post and the info,
bad or good, was sent into cyberspace, passed along exponentially at the speed
of light. Not good. Not good at all.
“Jeremy believes me. About Big Foot. He told me a lot of people around here
believe in it. There’s even a group that meets and discusses Sasquatch in the old
lodge building, the one that originally housed the Sons of Grizzly Falls, I think.”
“Yeah, I know.” There were nutcases who were a part of the group. Ivor
Hicks, a man who believed he’d been abducted by lizard-like aliens for testing
purposes, was one. Fred Nesmith, an anti-government nut, another. For that
matter Lex Farnsby was probably a charter member.
“Alex O’Hara. He’s a part of it.”
“What about TJ?”
“He’s never said. Probably. But some of Jeremy’s friends are members and he
says they put together these elaborate searches every year and go looking for
them. Families of ’em or loners.”
“Have they found any?”
“I don’t know . . . maybe . . . well, maybe not. It would be really big news, if
they had.”
Regan had made her point and wasn’t going to press it. Besides, she was
already running late. Really late.
Cisco, toenails clicking on the hardwood of the hallway, appeared in the open
doorway. The mottled little terrier peered inside, then, tail wagging wildly, ran
into the room and launched himself onto Bianca’s bed, where he wriggled up to
her and washed her face with his tongue.
“Enough,” she cried, but the little scrap of a dog had managed to bring a smile
to her lips. “Geez, Cisco, give it a rest!” But she petted Cisco, not stopping as he
nestled up against her.
Pescoli pushed herself to her feet. “Okay, gotta run. Please, don’t discuss
anything about this or post about it or tweet or whatever. Okay? Until we’ve
sorted out what happened to Destiny.”
“I think it’s too late.”
“Well, try.” Bianca was right, of course. For all Pescoli knew, the story on Big
Foot and the dead girl could already be trending. Closing the barn door now
would do little good.
Another text came in.
Bianca was already on it.
“Who’s texting you?”

---

“Lots of people.”
In her mind’s eye, Pescoli saw dozens of groups of kids, all with phones, all
writing as rapidly as Bianca, misinformation and facts all twisted into multiple
threads of conversation. That was how information was spread these days,
instantaneously with the touch of a keypad, exponentially, with one phone linked
to dozens and then again so that the conversations moved through the
community like an insidious epidemic.
“Look, you can’t text or talk about the case. It could be compromised.”
Bianca looked up then, her eyes holding Pescoli’s. She didn’t say it, but the
words too late silently passed between them. “Please, Bianca.”
She dropped her phone onto the bed and stared at it as another soft ding
alerted her to a new text coming in.
Great.
“Look, I gotta go. There’s stuff for breakfast or lunch in the fridge, yogurt and
cheese, bread and I think some tuna. Eggs if you want to make them. And some
cocoa mix if your brother didn’t wipe me out.”
Ignoring her cell, Bianca arched a brow and met her mother’s gaze. “What’re
the chances of that?”
“Not good.”
“Zero.”
“Probably. Call me if you need anything, okay? And oh, someone from the
department will be wanting to talk to you. You know, for your ‘official’
statement.”
“I already talked to you,” Bianca protested.
Pescoli nodded. “I don’t really count this time.”
“Because I’m your kid.”
“You got it.”
“Fine. Doesn’t matter. I’ll tell whoever the same thing.”
“I know. But if you want me around . . . ?”
“I can handle it, Mom,” Bianca said as Regan made her way to the door.
Bianca had scooped up her phone again, her thumbs working fluidly over its
surface, her head somewhere else.
Pescoli called over her shoulder. “I’ll check in with you later,” and picked her
way down the steps, careful to avoid Bianca’s pink Nikes and two dog toys.
“Bye!” she yelled to utter silence.
Bianca hadn’t heard or had decided not to reply.
No big surprise there.

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