Excerpt from title story "Death of Bigfoot":

Bo halted in front of me without warning.
I sidestepped to avoid jabbing my arm on the shovel fastened to his backpack. “What?”
“I thought I saw—” Bo said. He rubbed his eyes, then squinted into the distance.
“What?” I repeated. Why didn’t men ever hear what a woman said the first time she said it? If they did, why didn’t they answer? I tapped his arm. “Did you forget where we put it?”
“Quiet, Lily.” He almost hissed the words and at the same time put a finger to his lips.
Listening, I only heard the calling of crows that had a predator cornered in a treetop.
I narrowed my eyes and gave Bo a how-dare-you look. It had been three years since we visited this trail; he probably needed directions, but would not ask for them. The little clearing we sought rested near the top of the hill and close to the path.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out binoculars. He trained them upon the area toward which we were hiking.
From my recollection, we had almost reached our goal. Getting what we came for was so close that I had already been planning our return home and the reward for a job well done.
“I’m thinking,” Bo said.
Uh huh, thinking. Right. Raising my hand, I shielded my eyes against the late afternoon sun’s glare and tried to find what Bo had seen.
Bigfoot stepped out of the shadows. In one hairy hand he held a dirt-covered blue duffel bag.
My husband made a gurgling gasp and dropped the binoculars.
“Oh, shit.” I whispered the words through a mouth suddenly as dry as Death Valley in August.

No comments:

Post a Comment