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Chapter 8

Gus Bridgier sat on a hard wooden stool behind the cash register counter of the Black Hollow General Store, staring out the window into the swirling fog. Spring always brought lots of fog to the valley, but it usually burned off by noon. Today it lingered, creating a grey landscape that matched Gus’s mood. It didn’t help business much either. Three or four locals were usually parked on the Liar’s Bench out in front, but today all but one had stayed home. Hank Garrett sat snoozing in one of the old rocking chairs by the pot bellied stove in the corner of the store. Gus had tried to maintain the “old time country atmosphere” for his store, as it seemed to impress the tourists. Not that there were many around this time of year. In the summer and early fall, most of Gus’s business was providing camping supplies, gasoline, kerosene, fishing tackle and bait to the campers and fishermen who visited the various scenic mountain and lake sites nearby. He also sold local crafts and wares produced by Black Hollow’s more industrious citizens. Luckily those few months of summer business mostly kept him going through the lean winter months. If it wasn’t for John Ravenwood, a local and notoriously reclusive artist who paid Gus a regular stipend to deliver supplies and tend to his shipping needs, Gus would probably have had to close down in the winter. I’d also probably die of boredom, thought Gus. Nothing ever happens here. As Gus watched, a small capped pickup truck emerged from the foggy road and pulled into one of the parking spaces in front of the store. A tall, pale, thin man dressed in jeans and a barn jacket climbed out of the truck and walked towards the front door. He wasn’t a local, and he really didn’t look like the tourists that normally passed through. Gus sat up straight on his stool as the stranger entered the store.

“Good afternoon,” said the stranger. He spoke with an accent reminiscent of the Deep South.

“Afternoon,” said Gus. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I was informed that this is the establishment where I can purchase a camping permit for the Black Mountain Forest.”

“Sure is.” Gus paused. “When did you need the permit?”

“Today. For two nights.”

Gus stared at the stranger. He really didn’t look like the cold weather camping type. In fact, he really looked like he needed to spend some time out in the sun, not in the woods.

“Are you sure you’re prepared for camping out this time of year? Gets a might bit nippy up on the mountain.”

“Yes, I prefer to camp in the early spring. I find the weather invigorating.”

“Well, you’ll surely have your choice of sites. Most people don’t start showing up out here until June.”

The stranger merely nodded. Gus felt slightly uneasy. There was something a little strange about the situation.

“I’ll need to go dig out the permits. Be right back. Feel free to, uh...look around.” Gus walked to the back room to his desk and began searching for the right folder. He saw the stranger walk slowly down the aisle to the crafts display in the far corner of the store. The man stopped in front of the shelf holding the pieces that Ravenwood had permitted Gus to sell in his store. They were mainly small wood carvings and pottery, and seemed to be fairly popular with locals and tourists alike. The man was studying them more intently than most, Gus noted.

Gus looked over at Hank, and saw that he was watching the stranger as well. That doesn’t bode well, thought Gus. Hank had a penchant for spinning tails about the area to in an attempt to frighten the tourists, although Gus suspected some of them actually enjoyed it, or were at the very least amused.

“You couldn’t pay me to go up on Black Mountain alone at any time of year,” said Hank in a loud voice.

“The hike up there would require too much effort on your part,” replied Gus, eyeing the stranger to observe his reaction. The stranger turned and stared at Hank, a mildly curious expression on his face.

“No sir, too many strange things happen up there: weird lights in the forest at night, strange sounds. Then there’s that crazy Injun than lives up there all alone. I’ve heard he’s chased people away from his shack with an axe, screaming curses and threatening to scalp them.”

“Hank, you know that is complete bullshit. Bunch of teenagers trespassing on his property scared themselves silly and made that up to cover up their own fear.”

“But I’m sure he still would do something like that. You know he hates people. He’s been up there over twenty-five years, and has never even been to town. You’ve been running errands for him all that time, and even you haven’t seen him. He’s a nut.”

“Some people like their privacy, and he apparently likes quiet in order to do his work.” Gus turned to the stranger. “He’s quite an artist.”

“Artist, nut, what’s that difference?” quipped Hank.

“What sort of art does he do?” asked the stranger.

“Woodcarvings, pottery, stuff like that. Some of the small stuff I sell in the store. Most of the rest he ships out to other places.” Gus lifted a small flat glass fronted case from the wall. “He gave me this just a few months ago.” Inside the case was a knife with an extremely well made stone blade. The handle was carved and polished wood, depicting an eagle with beak agape. The stranger peered closely at the knife.

“The workmanship on this is very fine. The detail on the carved handle is incredible.” He paused. “I believe I’ve seen pieces similar to this in a gallery in New York. The artist’s work is quite well respected in the area of primitive folk arts. He is a recluse, if I remember correctly.”

“I still say he’s a nut,” muttered Hank from his corner.

“I have found that artistic ability and insanity do tend to go together, with one often enhancing the other.”

Both Gus and Hank stared at the stranger for a moment. Finally Gus spoke.

“I found the permits. Sign here. Payment is in cash only, please.”

The stranger signed the offered permit, then withdrew his wallet, opened it, and handed Gus a fifty dollar bill.

“I’ll be right back.” Gus quickly went to the office and came back with the change.

“Will you be needing anything else?” Gus glanced at the permit. “Mr. Pendergast?”

“Directions to the site,” Pendergast replied.

“Oh, yeah, right, of course,” sputtered Gus.

“Go back out to County Road 23, turn right, go three miles to Cemetery Rd, turn left. The parking lot for the camp sites is 15 miles down the road, on the right. The sites are about a mile up the mountain. I recommend site A, which has a raised platform shelter. There’s firewood stored at the back of the platform, and there’s a fire pit about 15 yards in front of the shelter. You have to bring everything else in yourself.” Gus took out a small folded pamphlet. “This is a map of all of the public access hiking trails. About 500 yards to the north of the campsite, you’ll find a snake-fence which marks the boundary of the public lands. Beyond that is private property. It’s posted against trespassing. You’ll need to check back in by noon after your second night’s stay.”

“Otherwise we’ll send the search and rescue team out to find you,” said Hank. Gus shot Hank a dirty look.

“It’s required for our permit files,” said Gus. Pendergast nodded.

“Is there anything else I should know about the area?”

“Watch out for bears and mountain lions,” said Hank.

“Hank, there hasn’t been a bear sighting around here for 50 years, or a mountain lion sighting for 150.” Gus lowered his voice. “Ignore him, Mr. Pendergast, he’s just trying to get a rise out of you. It gets pretty boring for the locals around here, and they have to find some way to entertain themselves.”

Pendergast nodded again. “I shall take the necessary precautions,” he said so Hank could hear. “Thank you for your assistance, and I shall check back in with this establishment in two days.” He turned and walked out the door. Gus and Hank watched as he climbed back into his truck and drove off towards the campground. At least the fog is clearing out now, thought Gus. He should have no trouble finding the place.

“That city slicker won’t last two days up there,” muttered Hank.

“I don’t know,” said Gus. “Something tells me he can take care of himself.”



Two miles past the store, Pendergast drove the truck into a scenic overlook parking lot where a dark grey van waited. He got out of the truck, walked to the van, and climbed in the passenger seat. He turned to the driver.

“I reserved the campsite for two nights. Are you certain that will be enough time?”

“Yes,” Glinn replied. “You will need to stay in the campsite tonight, just in case someone gets curious. No one needs to suspect the real reason for your visit.”

“How will I find this associate of yours?”

“No doubt you were already told about the boundary fence. Follow that fence for 500 yards north, and there will be a stone marker. On the other side of the fence there is a rough trail that winds up the mountain for about two miles to a large clearing. On the far side of the clearing is a log cabin with a stone foundation.”

“What shall I say when I find your associate?”

Glinn smiled thinly. “Tigg will find you. State for whom you are looking, give your name, and say that I sent you. Answer any questions that are asked in return.”

“Are you sure this ‘Tigg’ has the information we need for this case?”

“Quite certain.”

“Will he give it to me?”

Glinn was silent.

Pendergast stared at Glinn for a moment, then nodded. He climbed out of the van and walked toward the truck.

“One more thing,” called Glinn. “Be very careful. Tigg is not the most...stable of people.”

Pendergast gave Glinn an inquisitive look, then climbed into the truck and drove off. Glinn was not really worried about Pendergast’s safety. Tigg had never hurt anyone, but was the only person that Glinn had ever met for whom he could not completely or even confidently predict motives or behavior. He hoped this time his predictions were right.

Later that evening, Pendergast surveyed campsite A. Everything was set up to look like a weekend outing: the tent was set up under the shelter, a fire was burning in the pit, provisions and extra gear were hanging from the roof of the shelter. Pendergast walked over to the fire pit, sat down on a large log, and stared into the dancing flames. Tomorrow would prove to be both interesting and enlightening, of that he was certain.

A quarter of a mile from the campsite, on an outcropping that was almost hidden from view, a human figure sat on a large branch of an oak tree. One long sinewy arm was wrapped around the tree trunk for balance, the other was raised to the figure’s face, an old pair of army binoculars grasped in one work-worn hand. The figure silently observed the lone camper sitting and watching his campfire as light faded and darkness crept over the mountain. Finally, when night had fallen and the camper had turned in for the night, the figure climbed down from the tree and followed a well-worn trail down the mountain.

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