Hairy Man (Zack Tolliver, FBI Book 12), page 1
HAIRY MAN
A Novel
by R Lawson Gamble
This is a work of fiction. Although the author describes many actual locations, events, organizations, and historical figures, any resemblance to other persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
HAIRY MAN by R Lawson Gamble
All Rights Reserved © 2024
R LAWSON GAMBLE BOOKS
Cover by KRYSTALYNN DESIGNS
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including information storage, artificial intelligence, and retrieval systems without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Some
TERMS, ABBREVIATIONS, and REFERENCES
as used in Hairy Man
KVEC: commercial radio station in Southern California owned by American General Media
CRF: Chiminea Ranch Foundation: enhances wildlife habitat on the Chimineas Ranch in San Luis Obispo County and supports recreational uses of its spaces
CAL POLY: California Polytechnic State University located in San Luis Obispo, California
CDFW: California Department of Fish and Wildlife
NBA: National Basketball Association
COD: Cause of death
Bluff Creek: Location of a film of a supposed Sasquatch made by Patterson/Gimlin
Pangea: Supercontinent pre-existing the current tectonic plate arrangement on earth today
SNAFU: Military term: Situation Normal; All F****d Up
Live Oak: One of several prolific oak species in Central California
MVD: Motor Vehicle Department
FDA: Federal Food and Drug Administration
AT-AT: All Terrain Armored Transport from the Star Wars movies
NST: Non-stress test of fetal heart
STAT: Medical term from Latin "statim" meaning "immediately"
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER ONE
Zack flipped back the file cover and found a photocopy of a newspaper clipping from the Fresno Bee. He glanced up at Janice, sipping her coffee, her dark eyes on him, waiting. He began to read.
June 21, 2023, 5:52 PM
MAN MISSING AFTER 911 CALL
Police in Porterville received a curious emergency call from a person "with a male voice" today, the message consisting of a name: "Harry Mann...". They heard the sounds of a struggle followed by silence. Officials located the caller's phone on a hiking path in a remote area of Sequoia National Forest. Upon investigation, they found disturbances to the path and undergrowth indicating a struggle. The phone was identified as belonging to George Packer, age 24, an avid hunter and hiker from Bakersfield, California. His whereabouts remain unknown.
Zack looked up at Janice. "This looks like a local police matter to me."
"Read on," she said.
Zack flipped to the next page, another photo-copied news article, this time from News Talk 920 KVEC. The report was dated June 27, 2023.
STRANGE FOOTPRINT NEAR MISSING GIRL SITE
A young girl has gone missing. Eleven-year-old Elvia Gonzalez went missing while on an overnight hike with her family at Chiminea Ranch. Access to the preserve is by permit only. The Gonzales family were part of a docent-led group of birdwatchers. The morning after their campout, Aretha Gonzales, the girl's mother, realized Elvia was missing. The girl could not be found. One of the searchers later reported a large footprint "like a bear but different" on a trail in the same area. The search for Elvia is ongoing.
After another brow-raised glance at Janice, Zack skimmed the next two articles.
The San Luis Obispo Tribune on June 28, 2023, reported a Cal Poly student sustained a fatal fall while hiking a mountain trail in the Los Padres Forest. Twenty-year-old Justin Hargrove appears to have lost his footing on a steep section of the trail. The incident is currently under investigation.
The final sheet in the file was a copy of a Carrizo Plain National Monument incident report filed by Ranger Bod Olsen on June 26, 2023, containing a complaint from a camper in the Caliente Mountain foothills who returned from a hike to find his camp destroyed while he was away.
Zack sighed and closed the file. "Okay, Janice. What's going on here? You didn't come all the way to Flagstaff to meet me"––he waved a dismissive hand at the file––"for this."
Janice set her coffee mug down on the table's burnished surface with an expression of expectant amusement. "Of course not. On the surface, these are all common incidents, hardly worth a glance."
"Yes..."
"There is a common thread to all of these incidences," Janice said. "You wouldn't know it from the articles themselves unless you were looking for something specific."
"Okay, what am I looking for?"
Janice gave a wry smile. "I could say, but I won't. Everything one federal agent might say to another, no matter the setting, could be subject to exposure under oath at some hearing or other." She leaned across the table toward Zack. "I want you to go see a man."
"Who?"
Janice removed a small notebook and pen from her purse, tore off a sheet, and scribbled on it. "This man. That's his name and address. He's expecting you."
Zack glanced at it and groaned. "Not back to California. I just returned from there!"
But Janice was extracting bills from her wallet and signaling the waiter. A moment later, he heard the bell on the cafe door tinkle as her wavy silhouette diminished in the glass.
"Damn," he said.
=
The man's name was Louis DeSoto. His address was 40 North Reservation Rd, Porterville, CA. On the drive to the airport, Zack's mind ran possibilities in an endless stream.
First and foremost, something here was important enough for his boss to bother to come to meet Zack in person. It was also sensitive enough that she didn't fully disclose her concern.
Then the articles. Missing people. So what? People went missing all the time. People do that. To Zack, as an FBI agent, the status of criminal subjects was a binary code: plus or minus, yes or no, present or not present, which determined one set of responses or another. People who were present could be handled tangibly––questioned, and dealt with in some manner. Missing people had to be handled intangibly––theorized, hypothesized, profiled.
What connection did Janice make when assigning these cases, or whatever they were, to Zack? What did they have in common? The outdoors, of course. Hikers. Campers. Okay...
Two incidences suggested the involvement of a second party. The 911 call led to a recovered phone and signs of a struggle. The other, a destroyed camp, suggested a vandal or maybe a large animal looking for food.
The third seemed like a simple accident. A fall.
Finally, there was the young girl lost in the wilderness preserve. She likely wandered off from her group. A bear-like footprint? Sure, okay.
By the time Zack steered his Jeep into the airport parking lot, his mind was quiet, realizing the uselessness of pursuing any attempt at analysis with insufficient data. Presumably, the man he was to interview would enlighten him. He just hoped the whole thing wasn't a waste of his time.
He called his wife Libby as he threaded his way through parked cars to the shuttle station.
"Hi, Libby. Yes. It's a case...well, maybe. She's sending me back to California, the Central Valley area. Yeah, again. I know, huh? Yeah, I've got everything I need with me. I don't think I’ll be gone long, there doesn't seem to be much to it. Yup, I will. Love you."
He danced around a surging cab and entered the terminal, walking briskly to the charter area. Janice had booked him on a small jet to Bakersfield, where an FBI vehicle would be left for him. He glanced at his watch. He should make it to Porterville in time to grab dinner and meet the man. He might even be back home for dinner tomorrow evening. He smiled at the thought.
The FBI vehicle, a black Jeep Laredo, was waiting for him at the Bakersfield Airport as promised, appropriately stocked with equipment. He grinned. Janice knew w
It was a hot day in the Central Valley. His route went north of Bakersfield, paralleling the Sierra Mountains looming on his right, with the cities of Corcoran and Lemoore, sites of a former investigation, somewhere off to his left. He was startled to see closure warning signs for roadways leading in that direction as he neared the Porterville area, then remembered that the ancient Tulare Lake was ghosting back into existence after the rainstorms of the previous winter and a significant snowmelt in the Sierras, rendering roads in the ancient lake bed impassible.
Humidity always accompanied heat in this vast valley and today was no exception. Zack opted for air-conditioning rather than opening the top of the Jeep, at least until his body could adjust away from the drier air he'd left behind.
His route finder sent him east onto S.R. 190 toward the mountains, then on Reservation Road, which wound alongside the Tule River through foothills into the Tule Indian Reservation. He turned left onto North Reservation Road and drove by a clumping of sagebrush, old pickups, and a few trailers until his electronic guide left him at a dirt driveway fronting a modest frame house.
It was just after four, the sun directly in his face as he climbed out of the Jeep and surveyed the place. Its white paint was weathered and stressed, multiple patches of tar paper quilted the shingled roof, and a brick chimney sprouted several tall, shiny antennas.
Zack walked briskly toward the house, but the sound of a deep growl from beneath a clump of thick shrubbery near the entrance brought him to an abrupt stop. In a denlike burrow within the brush, white teeth gleamed. A large animal, no collar, no chain. Zack decided not to move.
Unnoticed, the front door had opened, and a man now stood in its frame with long, unruly black hair streaked with grey, challenging red-rimmed eyes sunk behind mountainous cheekbones and a rifle cradled in his arms. His voice, gravelly and harsh, challenged Zack.
"Who the hell are you?"
CHAPTER TWO
The beast beneath the bush rose with the slow stiffness of taught, angry muscles, resonant growls threatening from its cavernous throat built like far-off thunder, lips rising away from monstrous incisors, ears flattened, eyes fixated on Zack. The man in the doorway seemed oblivious to the creature stalking his guest.
"Who the hell are you?" Again.
The man teetered on wobbly legs.
He's completely drunk! Zack realized. "I'm looking for a Mr. Louis DeSoto," Zack said. "He is expecting me."
By now, the beast had stalked clear of its shrub cave with a cascade of rumbling threats and was tensing back on its haunches like steel springs.
"Would you call off your dog?"
The man's head jolted as if unexpected neurons had just fired in his brain.
"Who the hell are you?"
Back to square one. Zack knew any movement at all, even reaching for his identity, would launch the beast at him like a catapult. He'd have to draw his gun from his shoulder holster. He would have to be fast, first try to subdue the animal with the gun's heavy handle, then turn it toward the moron with the rifle before he could––"
"Down, Terminator!"
The command came from within the house, a high-pitched boyish voice, yet stern. The beast immediately sank to the ground like a sack of potatoes, issuing a pitiful whine.
"Dad, give me the rifle. Go back to your TV show. This man is welcome here."
Zack sighed with relief. He watched his rescuer gently remove the rifle from the man's grasp and lean it against the door jamb, steer him inside the house as if guiding a child, then turn to Zack.
"You must be Agent Tolliver."
Zack's savior had owl-like glasses, a crew cut, and a button-down shirt, in every way the antithesis of his father. He looked twelve.
"I am." Zack reached for his credentials, but the boy waved them off with a smile.
"No need. I was expecting you. I was caught up at the computer, or I'd have answered the door myself." He paused. "My dad has, uh, moments. I'm Louis. Come on in."
Zack raised a wary eyebrow but followed the youngster into the house. At once, the interior coolness enveloped him, and a slight scent of mold and naphthalene came to him. He guessed from the extreme thickness of the wall at the entranceway an adobe structure hid behind the wood exterior of the house, its foot-thick walls bestowing natural air conditioning. A door stood partially ajar along a short hall to his right, where the flickering light of a TV screen and the grey-black hair of the father's head above a chairback evidenced the erstwhile terrorist now fully engaged in a cartoon show.
Zack followed Louis past a couched and carpeted living space toward a kitchen's bright windows, but before reaching them they entered a semi-dark room off the passage where tiny red, blue, and white pilot lights glowed everywhere like the cockpit of an airliner.
"Wait a moment," Louis said, "your eyes will adjust. Sit here." He indicated a swivel chair near a bank of instruments, then parked himself in a desk chair and began to type on a keyboard.
From his seat, Zack faced three large monitors, each loading different content as Louis typed. Glancing around the room with newly adjusted eyes, he identified a fax machine, at least three printers, a scanner, several disk drives, a large tabletop computer, and several other devices he didn't recognize, all arrayed on shelves and on the large table where Louis sat.
The boy paused his typing and swiveled toward Zack. "There," he said. "Those are all the articles I sent Supervisor Hooper. Do you see the common thread?"
But Zack had questions of his own. "How old are you, kid?"
"Is that relevant?'
"It is if you want me to take you seriously."
"So, the age prejudice thing. Okay, I'm seventeen."
"You look twelve."
"I can't help that. Supervisor Hooper took me seriously enough to send you, didn't she?"
"She hasn't seen what you look like," Zack grumbled. "But never mind that. Where did you get all this equipment?"
Louis sighed. He waved an arm. "Everything you see here was junked. People upgrade their electronics impulsively and don't know what to do with the old stuff, so I take it off their hands and rebuild it to accept the latest software updates. Can we move on now?"
"Not quite. How did you get in touch with Superintendent Hooper? Her contact info is restricted."
Louis didn't answer.
Zack stared at him. "Oh, I see. You hacked the FBI."
"Okay, are you going to arrest me, or can we get on with this?"
"Alright, for now. I already have these articles and have read them. So what?"
"All of these incidents occurred within a week to ten days. All occurred within what I call my Beast Corridor; that is, an uninhabited stretch of woodlands, empty fields, mountains, barren plains, and preserved lands that form a wilderness avenue from the Sequoia National Forest here in the Sierras through the San Joaquin Valley via fields and several wildlife refuges into the Carrizo Plains National Monument, the Chiminea Ranch, all the way to the Los Padres National Forest."
"Beast Corridor?"
"Yes, sir. It is a natural passage for animals requiring an extended range, such as wolves and mountain lions." He glanced at Zack. "And the beast."
"The what?"
"Never mind. Let's approach this another way. If you read the articles carefully, you noticed the mention in one case of a strange footprint; in another, a young, athletic hiker somehow slips and falls over a precipice, and in a third, a camp is destroyed as if by a vandal."
"Where are you going here? These are isolated, common occurrences. The hiker leaves food in his tent, and a bear goes in after it. The young college kid is either drunk or overestimates his abilities and makes a misstep. Strange footprints are reported all the time and usually turn out to be two footprints superimposed, a print from a twisting foot making it appear larger, or a hundred other explanations. You're wasting my time here."
"What about the 911 call?"
"The one who said, Harry Mann? The victim, if indeed that even was the case, was trying to identify his attacker."
Louis studied Zack. "Suppose you spelled the man's words differently? Like this, for instance." His fingers tapped the keyboard briefly. On all three screens appeared the words "Hairy Man."
CHAPTER THREE
Reading those words, Zack experienced a strange mixture of alarm and annoyance. The FBI kept a file for complaints involving man-like hairy creatures, a circular one. Yet, his boss had sent him here. Janice was as concrete a thinker as anyone he knew. She must have had a reason.
