Expecting to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

Pescoli had expected all the members to be mountain men, and there were definitely those who looked like they could be a part of the cast of Duck Dynasty or Swamp People. With long, unkempt hair, bushy beards, trucker’s caps, old T-shirts, and faded jeans, they seemed intense and what she would consider part of the outdoors-man landscape. But the rest of the crowd could have been found in any town in America. Men in khakis and work shirts, some wearing glasses, others in slacks, with wives, some even looking as if they were heading to church or, alternatively, a rock concert.

There were those who had tattoos visible, metal studs in their faces, and those clean shaven with trimmed hair, checking their smartphones. The ages ranged from preteen to an old guy in a wheelchair hauling an oxygen tank who didn’t look to be long for this world. But he was here, at the meeting that seemed, to Pescoli, more like some kind of rally.

Despite the vastness of the room, it felt stuffy and close, almost claustrophobic, and there was a definite buzz to the conversation. She heard Sphinx’s name said with what was almost reverence, and she recognized more than a few familiar faces. Lex Farnsby, the crime scene tech, was chatting up Jenner Stevenson, an accountant of about fifty who was standing next to his wife, Barbara, a schoolteacher. Along with the Stevensons was Ivor Hicks, who now sported a short white beard and yellow-tinted shades. Ivor was one of the local nuts and had suffered his own set of tragedies. Pescoli made a note to avoid him, along with the others gathered nearby. She also spied Sage Zoller, a junior detective with whom she worked at the sheriff’s department. She’d known Zoller was a bit of a conspiracy theorist but hadn’t realized she, too, was a Big Foot Believer.

Fred Nesmith was in a heated conversation with Otis Kruger. Nesmith lived off the grid, was an anti-government type who’d fathered six kids and probably would have had a dozen more if his wife hadn’t died in labor with the sixth. He hunted for meat and pelts and didn’t give a damn about the local laws. Like Nesmith, Kruger was also a known poacher and proud of it, another guy who considered the wilderness his own personal realm. Once again, no laws mattered to Kruger, a beanpole of a man whose face was weathered, his hair long enough to show where it had started to turn from brown to gray, his temper mean.

She recognized some of the kids, too, those she’d recently interviewed. Kywin Bell, a big, blocky guy stood out. He and Donny Justison were hanging out with the O’Hara brothers. Not far away, Maddie Averill sipped from a water bottle, her gaze drifting to TJ. Lindsay Cronin and Seneca Martinez were in attendance as well, huddled together and talking with Bryant Tophman and Rod Devlin near a table where T-shirts and Big Foot paraphernalia were for sale. Lindsay kept looking around, as if nervous, or more likely searching for someone she deemed more popular than Seneca. Tophman was a football player and looked the part. In the past year or so, he’d bulked up, developed a lot of muscle. Devlin, in contrast, was a little taller, but whip-thin, his skin acne-prone.

Pescoli caught glimpses of the others, as well, and decided that nearly everyone from the party at Reservoir Point had suddenly taken an interest in the Big Foot Believers, or, more likely, the rumors of a television show being filmed in the town and the fact that Barclay Sphinx was here.

Shifting from one foot to the other, she glanced back at the group of boys. Austin Reece, all smug smiles and obvious sense of privilege, had joined his friends and wasn’t far away from TJ and Alex O’Hara, the ubiquitous Madison standing by.

Rod Devlin and Austin Reece stood near the table with Simone Delaney, who caught Pescoli’s eye and quickly looked away. A second later, she disappeared into the crowd, and Pescoli wondered if her mother, perfect Mary-Beth, knew her daughter was attending the event.

Probably not.

“I’d like to talk to you before we get started,” Carlton said to Bianca just as Regan spied Luke moving toward them. In one hand, her ex held a water bottle, his other fingers laced with those of his wife, Michelle, who, in five-inch-heeled boots, was having some trouble

keeping up with him.

Bianca nodded. “Okay.”

“There’s a connecting room behind the stage.” He offered a smile. “It’s kind of like our green room. Barclay’s already there.”

“What?” Luke asked, joining the group. Then, “Hi, Carlton. You’ve met Michelle.”

Carlton brightened. “Several times. I was just telling Bianca that we should go meet Barclay before the meeting gets going.”

“I’m in!” Luke was grinning from ear to ear and Michelle was nodding. Aside from the high heels, she hadn’t over-glammed herself and was wearing a yellow shell and tight white jeans that funneled into her short, suede boots.

Pescoli just wanted her ex to butt out, but decided not to make a scene. Santana and Jeremy, who had both insisted upon joining, were meeting her here. Santana had to finish overseeing a project at the Long ranch and Jeremy had a class that wouldn’t be over until 8 PM.

So, she’d have to go it alone.

Single-parent it one more time.

Well, fine.

CHAPTER 15

Bianca and Regan followed Carlton Jeffe toward the stage at the far end of the room, where the crowd was mostly gathered. The room they walked through was cavernous, with high ceilings and velvet curtains that appeared as old as the building itself. Those curtains were currently drawn, and the room was dark aside from the illumination cast by hanging chandeliers that looked as if they belonged in a ballroom rather than over a meeting of the Big Foot Believers.

They passed a refreshment table pushed against a side wall with a coffee urn, bottles of water, and an array of cookies. A second table held CDs and T-shirts from some of Barclay Sphinx’s reality shows. Throughout the seating area, where the crowd was still milling, life-sized photographs of Big Foot had been placed, as if the tall mythical creature were actually attending the event.

The stage was elevated only about a foot off the main floor. It was set up with several chairs facing the audience, a podium with a microphone, and a few posters from Barclay Sphinx’s television shows. The podium itself was decorated with a large head shot of the guest of honor.

Despite the ceiling-mounted fans slowly whirling above, the room was hot, and Pescoli was glad when Jeffe said, “This way,” and led Bianca and her away from the crowds, circumventing dozens of folding chairs that had been set in a semicircle around a small stage with a microphone and an amp, circa 1970. A projector on one side of the stage was showing films of Big Foot on a drop-down screen. The images were grainy and unclear, pictures of the beast from a far distance, forever looking over its shoulder and always alone in the woods, footage even Pescoli had seen a number of times.

The “green room” was simple and small. Empty except for a few folding chairs and a low table where more refreshments had been placed—cookies fanned upon a plastic tray, two carafes of coffee marked decaf and regular, and about twenty water bottles that were chilling in a large tub of crushed ice.

Barclay, a tall, thin man in his mid-thirties, was standing, and despite the heat he wore a gray jacket over a black T-shirt, jeans, and leather flip-flops. His head was shaved and gleamed under the lights overhead, almost as if it had been polished. Clean-shaven except for a reddish soul patch, he wore John Lennon glasses.

“You must be Bianca!” he said as they approached. “I heard about the accident.” One long finger motioned to her booted foot. “You all right?”

“Yeah.” Bianca nodded. “Will be.”

“Barclay Sphinx.” He shook Bianca’s hand and then snapped his head up to survey the room. “Maybe you should sit down. Hey,” he said sharply to Luke, as if he were a gopher on a movie set. “Can we get a chair here?”