Ghost Roads

By Lisa Stowe

Five years after the suspicious death of her father, Harlow Grafton returns to Wallace, Idaho at the frantic request of her mother. But the discovery of a young woman’s body in the mountains puts Harlow once again under police scrutiny. As each body is found buried with bones from the catastrophic fire of 1910, Harlow realizes the past lives within the present and the deaths all point back to her. If Harlow can’t lay ghosts to rest, a young girl will not survive. But burying those old memories means Harlow will lose much more than just her nightmares.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lisa Stowe
• Release date: Jul 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310426957

Lisa Stowe

Lisa Stowe writes and edits in the Pacific Northwest woods where her family has given her the nickname of 'bear magnet'. After living off-grid in the past, she has now joined the 21st Century and can be found telling stories on her blog, www.thestoryriver.com, or on her website at www.lisastowe.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Harlow Grafton was back in Wallace, Idaho, back at the frantic request of her mother, back to try again. But with so many fractured memories and failed attempts she didn’t know exactly what she hoped to mend, heal, or abolish. Other than the anger she never seemed able to resolve no matter how far she ran. The only thing Harlow did know was that she didn’t want to be here, in Wallace, or in the woods.

Summer light, diluted and broken, filtered through the dense forest canopy. Many years ago she’d believed trails led to the homes of fairies, woodland creatures, and all things magical. But when Mike Grafton died among the tall tamaracks, she’d lost any desire to be in the mountains.

Yet here she was.

At least she wasn’t alone. This time she had a companion, a rescued dog that jerked at the leash she gripped. He jumped at bugs droning in the shafts of light, he lunged at birds flitting through branches, and then, as she tried to adjust her backpack, he charged a squirrel and pulled Harlow down on her knees. The collar slipped off the dog’s head and he was off, sprinting after the squirrel while she struggled back to her feet with the useless leash.

Furious, she bent, scooped up a stick, and threw it so hard her elbow popped.

She missed her dog’s butt by several feet.

Damn it, Weda! Get back here!

The dog responded by crashing deeper into the woods. His odd gold-brown color blended with the bark of the tamarack trees as he surged ahead.

Harlow charged after the dog, jumping tree roots, leaving the trail behind. The backpack thumped against her and the safety pin holding her already-fragile bra gave up. She caught the strap and chugged uphill after Weda, breath coming hard.

Get back here you, stupid dog! She meant to shout but the words came out in a breathless gasp, emphasis lost.

Harlow stumbled, caught a tree branch for balance on the steep, rocky slope, and stopped. Bending, she gasped for air and heard a faint shout.

Great. All she needed was her dog scaring someone.

Straightening, she shoved dark blonde hair out of her face and, gripping Weda’s leash, followed the sounds of barking and shouting. It was only as her breathing slowed slightly, that she made out words.

Your dog’s up here!

No shit. She could hear the silly animal clearly.

Rounding a boulder, she saw Weda standing at attention, his stubby excuse for a tail wagging, his rough fur standing up in a hackled ridge, and his round ears upright and aimed forward.

At a forest ranger.

Weda!

The dog glanced back at her, gold eyes in his square face intent. He returned his attention to the tall ranger, standing in a finger of late summer sunlight through the forest canopy.

Dogs are supposed to be leashed, he said calmly.

Harlow, still trying to catch her breath, held up the leash with the attached, dangling collar, gripped in her hand.

Ah. I see the problem. And aren’t dogs supposed to come when you call? The ranger tilted his head to one side as he studied Weda.

How the hell would I know? Harlow asked, pressing a hand into the small of her aching back. When it didn’t help she shrugged out of the backpack, letting it drop to the ground.

Well, I assume this killer is yours. The ranger squatted and held out his hand, palm down, fingers relaxed.

Harlow sank onto a rock. I don’t think two days constitutes ownership. And he might just be a killer you know.

His butt is wagging. The ranger wriggled his fingers slightly. Weda stepped forward, nose up and twitching.

His butt was wagging when he bit the last ranger he found. Harlow unhooked a water bottle from her pack and took a long drink. When she capped it, she realized the ranger was watching her.

Hey, don’t I know you?

Harlow squinted into the late afternoon light that illuminated the ranger’s red hair. I don’t know, do you?

I remember you from school. Grafton. Isn’t that your last name? The only reason I remember is because of the connection to Grafton Tunnel.

Harlow rolled her dark eyes. That poor excuse for a mine is owned by five great uncles and three great aunts. I haven’t been there since I was a kid. She rummaged around inside her shirt, caught the free end of the bra strap, and sighed. The safety pin was still there.

One of those great aunts wouldn’t happen to be Ruth Grafton? She of the ‘pull tabs, cocktails, and smoking until I die’ fame?

I haven’t seen her since I was a kid, either, Harlow said cautiously.

I know some old miners who tell stories about her around the campfire, the forest ranger said, grinning broadly.

I just bet they do. Harlow clenched her jaw. She’d come reluctantly to the woods, steeling herself to face painful memories but needing to start walking the road to letting go. Chatting with some stranger when she’d hoped for solitude wasn’t going to help.

Weren’t you in that rock-hound class in school? he continued, still cheerful.

Briefly. That’s going back a few years, Harlow said.

Almost six. He picked up a backpack Harlow hadn’t seen and slipped his arms through the straps. You got a name to go with Grafton?

Harlow. You got a name to go with ranger? She refastened the safety pin, feeling secure once again.

Kelly. The easy smile left his hazel eyes, became tight politeness around his mouth. Naylor.

Harlow looked down, focusing on untangling the leash.

No comment about crooked politicians or nepotism? Kelly asked, his tone light, his frown not.

Hey, whatever works for you. I avoid politicians personally. Come on, Weda. She knew about the mayor of Wallace of course. A beautiful woman who once told Harlow she’d look better if she wasn’t so white trash. That had been in middle school, but Harlow carried grudges.

The dog, of course, ignored her summons, dropping his head to snort through layers of last year’s dead leaves and fallen pine needles.

Hard for me to avoid politicians since my sister’s mayor. But I’m not one of them, Kelly said. Yes, family members have been in politics since they climbed out from under rocks. But I’m not.

You sure protest a lot. Harlow shook the leash, making the tags on the collar jingle. The dog continued snuffling, digging, and then snorting dirt.

Kelly held out his hands in supplication. Hey, wouldn’t you if you had to admit to those relatives? And then he laughed. It would probably be easier to change my name.

Probably, Harlow answered. Come on you stupid animal.

What kind of name is Weda?

She walked over to the dog, now digging in earnest. It’s Shoshone for ‘bear’. If you look at his face he has that squared off broad nose and forehead like a grizzly.

He’s kind of a grizzly color, too. Kelly frowned. What’s he got?

Harlow pried open the dog’s teeth, slobber coating her fingers. Something yellowed dropped, and when Weda dipped his head toward it, she slid the collar over his nose and ears.

Caught you, you little bastard, she said in satisfaction and wiped her fingers down her jeans.

That looks like bone, Kelly said, coming forward.

Weda stretched for the piece and Harlow pulled him back, hauling with both hands. The fragment looked small enough for the dog to choke on. Kelly picked it up, held it in the palm of his hand, and poked it with one finger.

Well it’s bone, but this small, probably a squirrel. He looked up, the humor back in his hazel eyes. Want it for a necklace? Since the killer dog found it for you?

No, thanks, Harlow said. I need to head out. I didn’t mean to be gone this long. She glanced around. Trees, rocks, huckleberry bushes. Her stomach fluttered in sudden trepidation. Where the hell am I?

Don’t you know? Kelly asked. You’re standing on a ghost road.

Explain ‘ghost road’. Weda lunged forward, nose to the ground and Harlow tugged on the leash again.

Kelly hooked his thumbs through his backpack straps. It sounds more dramatic than the reality. It’s a term for old forest service roads that have been forgotten over the years. Not maintained, no budget. We come across them occasionally and then have to decide what to do with them.

Harlow looked carefully at the surrounding woods. She could barely make out where a road might have been. And that was only, she thought, because she’d been told the track existed.

I see trees younger than the ones around them. That what you mean?

Kelly gestured outward with one hand. That’s it. The forest reclaims its own. More than likely this one will be allowed to return to its natural state. I’ve walked most of it and I think it was just logging access way back when.

Where does it go? Harlow asked, planting her boots as Weda pulled again.

About another five miles up. But the more important question for you is, where did it come from?

Why would that be important? Harlow’s voice sharpened, irritation with the dog coming out against the man.

So you can find your way back, Kelly said. But tell you what. Since that brute animal of yours seems to be giving you heartburn, how about if I walk out with you? I was headed back anyway. Then you won’t get lost chasing him again and I won’t have to come back with a search party.

Okay, Harlow said grudgingly. She didn’t like owing someone, needing help with anything. But she’d lost all sense of direction when she’d chased after Weda.

This way, Kelly said.

He came up to her and as Harlow fell in step beside him, Weda lunged again. The sudden jerk sent sharp pain through her shoulder.

You damn dog! she shouted. The stress of being in the woods again overflowed and seemed to suddenly fixate on this animal she barely knew.

Why don’t you let him loose? Kelly asked, head to one side as he studied the dog.

Dogs are supposed to be leashed, Harlow said shortly. So forest rangers tell me. She shoved hair out off her sweating face with one hand, and with the other grabbed Weda’s collar. She tugged him backward until he sat, panting, beside her.

I think it’s smarter to let him violate the leash law than break your neck, Kelly said. I won’t say anything if you don’t.

Harlow unclipped the leash, silently relieved. She lightly touched Weda’s ear, and he was off, leaping forward with no hesitation, bolting into the woods.

The rescue society said he knew how to walk on a leash, Harlow said, shoulders slumping in defeat.

Maybe he can, Kelly said, laughing. But it looks more like he can run on a leash, and pull on a leash, and escape a leash…

A scowl tightened its grip across her face and Harlow drew in a deep breath. She told herself Kelly was just joking, being friendly, teasing. That he wasn’t pointing out her actions as failure. As one more screw up. She looked down, fiddling with the loose leash as a way to hide her face, and drew in another deep breath, muscles relaxing in increments. When she felt like she had her emotions under control, she looked back up. Kelly, watching the direction Weda had gone, didn’t appear to have noticed.

Weda did okay in town, she said finally. Walked in a perfect heel, not pulling at all. It wasn’t until we got up here that he started acting up.

A lot of dogs do, Kelly said. He gestured for her to follow and started downhill. Maybe it’s sensory overload. Think about it. Going from all those city scents to all the wild smells here. Maybe it triggers some recessive gene. The inherited memory of wolves or something.

Weda crashed back through huckleberry bushes, jumped to snap at a dragonfly, and ran a large circle around them.

Or maybe he’s just insane, Harlow said.

That’s a distinct possibility. The main thing with requiring leashes is so dogs don’t chase wildlife or meet up with a bear and lead it back to the human. In this case I think he’s just burning off steam. He probably won’t go too far from you.

Weda came back toward them, panting in the afternoon warmth. He took point, moving out on the trail as if he knew where they were going. Pacing the way, he glanced back occasionally, tongue lolling.

They followed the dog without speaking, and gradually the knot of tension between Harlow’s shoulder blades loosened. She rolled them under the backpack straps, and shook out her hands. The sounds of birds, of wind in the trees, of buzzing insects, soaked into her. These were the sounds of late summer in the woods. Sounds she’d associated with good things when she was small.

The ghost road descended gradually, switching back and forth as if the original builder couldn’t decide where to go. Harlow, holding a young sapling away from her face, glanced around.

Where’s the trail I came up?

Kelly pointed over her head, to her left. About three hundred yards or so that way. We’ll join back up with it before long.

Weda, still ahead of them, came to a stop, nose up. He licked the air, as if tasting a scent. Fully expecting him to bolt again, Harlow stumbled into him when he remained in place, growling. His hackles bunched upward as he lowered his head, licking the air again.

He’s smelling something he doesn’t like, Kelly said.

Harlow put a hand on the dog’s head, resisting the urge to say something sarcastic. Mike Grafton had often told her, before he died, that she needed to learn to keep her mouth shut. She hadn’t learned that yet, but she at least tried to rein in what her mother called her natural rudeness.

Weda’s body heat soaked into her hand, easing the suddenly chilled fingers. Come on bud, she said, stepping around him.

Weda reacted, but not the way she expected. His growl deepened, as if rising from a dark chamber in a cavernous chest. Startled, she pulled her hand back.

What’s he doing? she asked, realizing she really didn’t know this dog she’d adopted. Maybe he was a killer.

Kelly, behind her, touched her shoulder briefly. He’s blocking the trail. See how he moves to keep us from going forward? I think he’s protecting you.

From what, trees? Harlow glanced around, her heart rate bumping up in spite of her slightly derogatory tone.

Kelly shrugged. Wild animals, probably.

Then shouldn’t you pull out your gun?

Left it in the truck, Kelly said. I don’t like guns. Besides, it’s probably just a cougar or something.

"Just a cougar?" Harlow turned on him.

Kelly laughed easily. Be patient. Whatever it is will pass by, especially with Weda here. We’ll know when it’s gone. The dog will go back to being loopy again.

Harlow stared at Weda. I wouldn’t call that loopy.

The dog was now stiff-legged, weight forward as if ready to launch. She could see solid muscles bunched for flight. Or maybe fight.

Give it another minute or two, Kelly said. He spoke low, his voice soothing, and Harlow wondered if that was for her or the dog.

And then what? After giving it a minute or two, she asked. We stand here longer? We go back? We shove the dog out of the way? We try to find what he’s smelling? What if we get charged?

You always talk so much when you’re scared?

I’m not scared. Harlow gripped the waist strap of her backpack tightly to hide the trembling in her hands.

It had been over five years since she had entered the woods. She’d just started hiking again, beginning with short trails. The one today had been the longest. But it wasn’t fear that kept her out of the forest. It was rage. She could feel it now, unfurling. Though she wondered sometimes if that anger might be terror she just didn’t recognize.

She’d come home from Montana one month ago, after the emotional call from her mother, and it had taken her that long to get up the nerve to enter the tree line.

Now she stood next to the dog, fighting the emotions, whatever they were. Facing her demons by coming back to hiking trails clearly wasn’t working. So much for the psychobabble books.

If something charges us, Kelly said, I hope you don’t run faster than me.

A surprised laugh bubbled up through the stew of emotions inside, and Weda glanced back at Harlow briefly, as if wondering what the strange sound was.

Okay, Kelly said, voice still calm and easy. You stay here. Nothing is going to get past your guardian. I’m going to see what he smells. Might just be a raccoon. Or old bear scat.

Or not, Harlow said.

Or not. But I can’t stand around all day. I’m meeting my boss for a burger. He’s buying.

What if something mistakes you for a burger? Harlow asked. Or bites your leg off, or what if the raccoon is rabid?

My boss’s name is Matt Tanner. You can go enjoy the meal for me. Kelly laughed. Relax. I have no intention of dying in the woods. This kind of stuff happens all the time, running into wild animals.

Not to me. Harlow bit down on her bottom lip. No, this definitely wasn’t what happened to her in the woods. She moved closer to Weda as Kelly shook his head and pushed through bushes.

The moments stretched out in the peculiar silence of deep woods, the sounds of rustlings and tiny movements, of wind and water and branches rubbing, of birds and bugs and the simple fecundity of summer. And yet, now alone, all that life around her simply accentuated her feeling of abandonment.

She shifted, feeling the tenderness of a forming blister on her heel. The boots were old and well worn, just not worn recently, and her feet needed time to remember their shape.

Her backpack straps dug into her shoulders. The safety pin in her bra strap poked her.

She fidgeted, antsy to move away from tiny irritations, to step toward the bigger problem. Toward the absence of Kelly, toward what kept him out of sight, what kept her dog growling low and steady.

And then Kelly was back, pushing through the low tree branches, tall and lanky and suddenly the best looking man Harlow had ever seen.

Fear did that, as she’d learned years ago. Made a person see things more intensely, more detailed, more alive. Harlow shook her head. She knew that reaction and pushed it away, focusing instead on the ranger’s face.

The lines framing his eyes and mouth were made for laughing. Which made the seriousness deepening those lines look like a mistake.

What? Harlow said, sinking her fingers deep into Weda’s fur. Tell me.

Bones. Kelly pulled a radio from his belt. Well, more like old bones. Someone who’s been there a very, very long time. We actually have this happen more often than you think.

Bones that just decided to make an appearance when we’re here? Harlow felt a hollow sensation in her chest and took a deep breath.

No. Looks like the winter slides took out a small tamarack tree. The bones are tangled in the root ball like the tree grew around the body. Probably would never have been found if it wasn’t for your dog.

The emptiness in Harlow’s heart spread, as if haunting her soul. How long do you think?

I’m no expert, Kelly said, frowning. Fifty? A hundred years? Probably from the Big Blowup.

She had a vague memory of the famous forest fire from school, but Kelly had keyed his radio, talking to someone, so she didn’t ask, instead bending to pat the dog. The action couldn’t distract her from the rising sadness, the deep sense of loss that pushed upward to clog her throat and leak out her eyes.

How did one label old feelings? Betrayal twisted into hatred. Guilt deepened into a loss of self. She swallowed against it, then knelt next to the dog who was a stranger and buried her face against his shoulder.

Too old. These bones were too old.

But they resurrected memories of a body.

Chapter 2

Since Kelly had to wait for others to arrive, Harlow also waited until a forest ranger and a sheriff’s deputy showed up, not sure she could find the original trail by herself.

Kelly shook hands with a tall blonde ranger, then gestured at the trees behind him. I’ll show you where the bones are then I need to get Harlow back out to the main trail.

The blonde slapped Kelly on the back. So much for burgers.

Damn it anyway, Kelly said. You owe me, Matt.

The blonde looked vaguely familiar, and Harlow figured he’d been in school the same time she had. She’d struggled then, avoiding dances, social circles, anything that distracted her from her goal to graduate and escape. Now that she was back in Wallace, she was surprised at how many of those from her past she actually recognized.

The deputy, a young Asian man with hair cropped to a mere shadow, caught Harlow’s elbow as he came up to her.

You’re the one who found the bones? he asked.

Harlow pulled her arm free. My dog did.

He shook his head, frowning, like he thought she’d made a major screw up.

What’s your problem? Harlow asked.

There’s a reason dogs are supposed to be leashed in national forests, he said. Your animal’s probably contaminated the crime scene.

Matt put a hand on the small of Harlow’s back, gently pressing her away from the stranger. Hey Butler, we don’t even know there’s been a crime. Sounds like these are old bones. Let’s not start with blame.

And hey, Butler, Harlow said, planting her boots and pressing back against Matt’s hand. Lose the attitude. My dog wasn’t near your imagined crime scene.

Kelly stepped between her and the shorter deputy. Ready?

Past ready, Harlow said. She looked up at Kelly. Sure you don’t have to stay? Keep an eye on all the assholes?

No, help will be here soon and then I’d just be in the way. Besides, I haven’t had all the crime scene training yet. He kept his voice and words light and she sensed he wanted to diffuse the tension.

The small deputy scowled at Harlow then waved a hand as if dismissing her and followed Matt who was headed in the direction of the old bones.

Weda had been lying on the ground at Harlow’s feet, but now he stood, his stub of a tail wagging.

Guess we have permission to go, she said, gesturing at