Murder on Dirt Road
By R.A. Jetter & Lance Martin
PING! My head chimed again. This could be huge, tourism in our little town just got a boost. Sasquatch does exist around here, and there’s one in Earl’s freezer.
Arn waved his gun and yelled like an excited schoolgirl. I was about to shout “where’d you get bullets” when I saw it. Hairy, at least ten feet tall and close to 486 pounds, crashing through the brush like an out of control bulldozer. The swath it knocked down made a great path, but Arn was losing steam and I wasn’t used to such a chase. The creature leapt over logs and boulders with ease, leaving us panting. Arn stopped and squeezed off several shots. I was out of breath. “Arnie, where’d you get bullets?”
“Get the Chief on the radio. Tell him to get the crew up to East Humptulips River, near Devil’s Slide Lake.”
That didn’t sound like the Arnie Besmiller I knew. There’s more to his story then anyone can imagine. I was awestruck. Arnie wasn’t as lame-brained as he let on. I holstered my gun. That thing certainly wasn’t Earl skeedaddling from the house. If he was still in there, Earl knew we were coming for him.
We stopped for a minute, listened to the dying sound of Bigfoot hurrying through trees.
“Man, it was fast,” Arnie said, doubled over, hands on his knees. “I’m sure I hit it a couple of times.”
I nodded, gasped into the microphone of my shoulder-mounted radio and relayed the situation to the Chief. I requested backup at Earls’ and a search party mobilized for Devil’s Slide Lake. It took some convincing, but the Chief finally agreed. I guess he deemed the information reliable coming from me and not Arnie. I concurred, signed off and yelled, “That was unreal Arn, sorry for doubting you all these years. Let’s head back, gotta find Earl.”
We moved toward the house. Breaking tree line, I saw another cruiser behind ours. I motioned the two officers around back. We were going to make a two-way breach. Arnie covered the front door, from behind the cruiser’s fender. I knocked. “Earl, come on out.”
“Earl’s dead,” a voice called out.
“Then you’d better step out with your arms raised and nothing in your hands,” I yelled toward the house.
“OK, this first.” An ancient double-barreled shotgun slid out of the ripped screen-door butt first. Fritz Hatchett eased out of the doorway, hands raised.
“Fritz? What the hell? Where’s Earl?”
“Sasquatch got him,” Fritz said, grinning ear to ear, holding his new Wolverine boots. “Tol’ ya he stole my boots.”
“You stealing them back?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“I don’t steal nothin’,” Fritz shouted. “I’m just taking them back where they rightfully belong.” Squatting on the porch step, he pulled off his worn-out boots. “Got here just after you two did. Saw the ape-man go out the front door. It ripped Earl’s head clean off.” He slipped the new boots on and rubbed at fresh blood spotting them. “Guess ol’ Sasquatch was jus’ getting even. Earl killed his mate, ya know? Wondered why they were hanging around here so much.”
“Hanging around?” I asked. “What do you mean?”
“Them Sasquatches been ’round Dirt Road for the last month. I hear ‘em at night.” Fritz finished tying his boots and stood. “Ya’ll need to get in there and check out Earl, he’s a mess.”
“You stay here, Fritz. We got more talking to do.”