“Where are we?” I asked.
Ramsey cocked his chin toward the trees ahead and to the left. “See that gap?”
“Mm.” I didn’t.
“It’s the head of a trail leading down into the gorge. They’re all named. Pine Gap. Bynum Bluff. Babel Tower. This one’s called Devil’s Tail. Used to be popular with advanced hikers.”
“Used to be?”
“The park service stopped maintaining it after a storm knocked out the lower portion.” Ramsey’s eyes met mine. “Devil’s Tail’s off the websites now, so only the locals know it exists.”
I nodded, indicating I caught his meaning.
“Ready?”
“Bring my gear?” I asked.
“First, let’s see what we see. Follow Gunner’s nose.”
Hearing his name, the dog rose and wagged his tail once. Ramsey and I got out. When the rear door opened, Gunner stepped forth with that refined grace I had come to admire.
“Watch your footing,” Ramsey warned.
Oh, yeah.
Ramsey’s “gap” was little more than a barely perceptible thinning of the old-growth forest. With Gunner in the lead, we picked our way through pines and hardwoods on a narrow scar of soil covered with ivy and creepers. Bursts of sunlight through the bare-branch and pine-needle canopy created an almost dizzying effect. Invisible spiderwebs feathered my face, and fallen branches threatened to strafe my ankles. But not for long. Ten yards from the road, the earth dropped away.
No guardrail. No reassuring park service signs. Just open sky and weathered rock ancient as the planet.
A pump of adrenaline set my nerves humming. Maybe the sheer drop-off. Maybe the fact that Ramsey was right. The spot was deserted and easily reached. An object thrown from it might never be found.
As I held back, Ramsey and Gunner trotted straight to what looked like the end of the universe. One deep calming breath. Then, moving cautiously, I joined them and braced a boot on a half-exposed boulder at the rim of the precipice.
“It’s a long way down.” Ramsey spoke without looking at me.
Heart rate in the stratosphere, I arm-wrapped a maple, planted both feet, and leaned forward. Below, I could see snatches of what remained of the Devil’s Tail, descending sharply among the trees. A stretch of forest, then the trail reappeared at a shallow depression bordered by a small rocky ledge. The arrangement reminded me of the formation at the Burke County site.
But several things differed. This ledge was even more heavily wooded. On it appeared to be a crude shack. Beyond it and just below, the ground pooched out again, like a third stair step, then plunged as a naked cliff face straight into the gorge.
I looked at Ramsey. He was studying Gunner. The dog was tense. Ears back, head low, eyes fixed on the shack.
“What is that?” I asked.
“Probably an abandoned park service shed.”
“It has Gunner’s attention.”
“It does.”
“Could he catch a scent from this far away?”
“He’s done it before.”
“Is it possible for us to get down there?”
“The path from here to the first outcrop is in pretty good shape.”
I must have looked skeptical.
“How about I check out what’s tweaking Gunner,” Ramsey said. “Anything suspicious, I’ll report back.”
“Not a chance.” Sounding monumentally more confident than I felt.
“Okay, then. Let’s do it.”
Ramsey whistled once, short and shrill. The dog bounded to his right, vanished, and, seconds later, reappeared on the Devil’s Tail. A flash of brown, then he was gone.
Ramsey took the lead. I followed, eyes glued to the ground.
The deputy’s “pretty good” translated to steep and treacherous. Lurching from tree trunk to tree trunk, I picked my way downward as though traversing a minefield. Now and then a boot skidded, sending pebbles and clumps of mud cascading before me.
As I progressed, my brain logged information. The scent of pine. A faint trace of skunk. Lichens. Black lace branches overhead. A delicate chain of silver bell at my feet.
Birds cawed complicated grievances. Far below, a river carved igneous rock. At one point I heard a flurry in the underbrush followed by a truncated shriek. I paused, breaths puffing from my mouth like tiny fog clouds. I pictured a hapless rabbit or squirrel, eyes already filming, fur darkening with blood.
My mind flashed possible predators. A copperhead. A timber rattler.
Ignoring my overly gruesome imagination, I continued for what seemed another five miles. Actually, ten more yards and the gradient leveled off.
Gunner was on his belly, gaze fixed on one corner of the shed. Ramsey was beside him, jacket unzipped, elbow flexed, hand poised at his hip. Shadows marbled his face like deep purple bruises.
For one lunatic moment I felt a chill, as though some feral presence inhabited the dark stained-glass world we’d invaded.
Shake it off, Brennan.
I crossed to Ramsey. Up close I could see that the shed was barely managing to hold together. The roof was tin, each sheet rusted and pulling free from the nails meant to secure it. The walls were crude pine planks, probably homemade and quickly slapped together. Here and there a board had fallen free, or loosened at one end to drop to an unworkable angle.
Wordlessly, Ramsey pulled a Maglite from his belt and gestured me behind him.
Really? I questioned with lifted palms and brows.
“Another reason the trail’s unused is the hefty black bear population.”
“Right.” Moving to Ramsey’s back.
“I’ve spotted no scat. Still, it’s wise to avoid surprises.”
“What about Gunner?” For some reason I felt compelled to whisper.
“What about him?”
“He’s okay with bears?”
“He ignores them, they return the courtesy.”
Without warning, Ramsey banged the tin with his torch. Causing me to jump.
No hibernating hulk jerked awake with a snort. No enraged mama Ursus charged out to confront us.
“Yo!” Ramsey shouted.
Silence.
Satisfied that no one was home, Ramsey rounded the corner of the shed. With me beside him, he pushed with his free hand, and the door swung on its hinges. We both craned forward.
The shed’s interior was a tangle of shadows. Where the curling tin and errant boards had created gaps, faint gray slashes crisscrossed at disparate angles.
Ramsey thumbed the switch, raised the flashlight to shoulder level, and we stepped across the threshold. The air was cold and dank. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, my nose took in earth and damp wood and rotting vegetation.
Ramsey swept his light slowly and methodically. Particles of dust twirled and danced in the bright white beam.
Wooden shelving lined the wall directly ahead. I noted a roll of chain linking, several saws, pruning shears, a long-handled ax, a stack of park service signs, all rusty and coated with grime. On and among the tools lay the desiccated remains of generations of spiders and insects.
The beam crawled on, probing. Found a rake and shovel leaning against the north wall. A ladder at its base.
“Sure enough,” Ramsey said, perhaps to me. “Park service storage.”
Every angle in the place was thick with cobwebs. One corner held a crumbling bird’s nest. Below it, white rivulets streaked the walls and dried twigs scattered the floor.
“Looks like no one’s been in here for a while,” I said.
“Looks that way.”
Ramsey ran the beam across the floorboards.
“Zero evidence of trespass.”
I referred to the absence of the detritus typically found in abandoned dwellings: cigarette butts, fast-food wrappers, empty cans and plastic bottles, used condoms. The reek of human feces and piss.
“None,” Ramsey said.
“That strike you as odd?”
“Can’t imagine the locals slogging down to pilfer old tools. Too much sweat hauling the junk back up the mountain.”