Authors: Julie Kramer
So I decided to take a gamble by climbing onto a low-hanging branch on the large tree near the cave. Once up, I moved higher so I could watch the area in case rescuers arrived. I couldn’t see far in the moonlight.
Then a roar, more like a lion than a bear, came from the burrow. But Walden stayed inside. I prayed for him to turn around several times, get comfortable, then slip back into his long seasonal siesta. I only hoped I wouldn’t freeze to death first.
Just then, a dark figure approached.
T
he wind was harsher up in that tree than it was below. I pressed my body flat against the trunk, trying to blend into the wood in case Ike looked in my direction. Don’t look up, I mumbled to myself, over and over. I had no desire to stare into the eyes of my assassin.
Luckily, his face stayed glued to the trail on the ground. He paused at the entrance of the den. Even in the dark my path was visible. But while my tracks unmistakably led inside, it was not so clear I had exited.
Looking back, perhaps I could have or should have yelled a warning. But the cold had dulled my senses and I wasn’t thinking fast. I just remember being relieved Ike never looked up.
He probably thought he had me trapped and the showdown would be over in a manner of minutes. He was right about half of his hypothesis. Entering the bear den was the last blunder he would ever make.
From my perch, I could hear the confrontation. My stomach grew tight when Ike’s screams ended.
A few minutes later, Walden exited. He shook angrily from side to side and clawed the air. I stopped breathing, closed my eyes, and prayed some more. I’d heard of bears being treed, so I knew Walden could climb, but luckily for me, he didn’t.
When I opened my eyes, the black bear was gone. He might
have disappeared into the darkness. Or retreated back into his cave. I wasn’t sure so I stayed quiet and waited.
Teresa from the bear center had been typing a research report in town while watching the webcam of Walden hibernating when my cyberface popped up on her computer screen. She assumed my appearance to be an obnoxious television stunt and left immediately to chew me out for breaking my promise not to interfere with nature. Then she planned to have me arrested as a caution to other media.
She missed the ensuing online action.
• • •
Around the world, just under two thousand people watched the live webcam melee between Walden and Ike. Then someone posted the attack on YouTube and the confrontation went viral before the video could be taken down.
The bear clicked his teeth when Ike entered his lair. But the man didn’t heed the warning. With the bear clawing at his face and biting at his arms, the two rolled on the ground together. Faces were only seen twice and then only briefly. Blood spattered everywhere until the pinhole on the camera lens was covered and the scene went black.
Fortunately, the episode was in black and white, not color. Or it would have surpassed the gore of any B-list horror film.
Visually, the whole ordeal lasted only thirty-four seconds. But the audio dragged on for nearly five minutes. Roars mixed with screams. Low human moans were the final sound.
• • •
The medical examiner’s report listed the immediate cause of death for Isaac Hochstetler in clinical terms:
multiple injuries, shock, hemorrhage, due as a consequence of mauling by bear.
But thousands of witnesses, including me, knew he had been torn to pieces. Like the headless Amish doll.
W
alden’s fate was debated late that night by state wildlife officials who conceded that while the creature had been unfairly provoked, once he’d gotten a taste for human blood, he presented a “very real danger to people.”
They determined the big bear needed to be destroyed.
The bear center folks, especially Teresa, pleaded for compassion. As did other bear researchers worldwide, but no one for miles around wanted to risk living near Walden. So no local public support was forthcoming. The hastily assembled online outcry to Save Walden came from nature lovers who lived a safe distance away from the rogue bear.
Using his radio collar, the animal was tracked and killed later that day.
No media were allowed to record the execution. But shots of bloody snow led all the newscasts that evening.
I
speculated that Sarah must have discovered the Amish counterfeiting scheme while working at the store and threatened to talk. Maybe she tried to blackmail Ike. Or maybe she was simply offended by the deception.
With both players dead, we’d never know the truth.
The chain of evidence linking the quilt from Ike’s store to Sarah’s sinkhole convinced Sheriff Eide that he’d solved his first and only murder and could close the case with pride—two weeks before the election.
• • •
The Channel 3 van still sat torched by the side of the road. That Ike and Walden had both perished, and the fact that I had almost died, all weighed heavier on my mind. However, those casualties didn’t cost the station any actual money, so Bryce was more concerned that the price of my Amish murder investigation—one company vehicle, two broadcast cameras, and assorted other news gear, including my cell phone—was nearing sixty grand. For a television news director whose dream was to make more money being number two than number one, that’s a steep tab for any story.
I felt isolated without calls, texts, or emails. Although the good news was I didn’t have to worry about Bryce being on the other end of any communication.
I had unfinished business around Harmony, so my dad let me borrow their car, keeping the pickup for themselves. And because my purse had also gone up in flames, Mom gave me eighty-two dollars—the cash stash she kept tucked under the good china. I’d also used their phone to call the neighbor boy to take over Husky duties until I got back to the cities to hug my dog.
Knowing I’d be unwelcome, I stopped at the Yoder farm anyway just to clear things up between us before I left town. Even though snow was on the ground, Miriam was hanging dresses and pants on the line. A large basket of wet clothing sat by her feet.
She had already heard the news that Sarah’s killer had been found.
“It matters not,” she said. “Judge not, that ye be not judged.” Not wanting to be drawn into the whole forgiveness debate, I got right to the point. “Here’s what her murderer’s death means in terms of the media and you. Because the case is closed, there won’t be a trial. Which means Sarah won’t be in the news much longer.”
“No more stories?” she asked.
“Not from me.”
I was too personally involved in the case to cover it anymore. Bryce had sent Nicole down to report on Ike’s death. The law had put crime-scene tape around the bear den. I’d stood there, for my interview, pointing at the tree where I hid in fear, unsure if I’d die by man or beast.
“No more putting her picture on TV?” Miriam asked.
“I think that’s over, Miriam. The whole point of my questions and quest to tell her story was to bring her justice by identifying her killer. I know that’s hard for you to understand, but from my perspective, now Sarah can rest.”
Miriam was so relieved, she stumbled, dropping wooden clothespins on the ground.
“I’m sorry for the loss of your daughter, Miriam. And I’m especially sorry for all the ensuing intrusions into your world.”
My recent encounters with the Amish had taught me that the adults were generally an unemotional lot in public. So I was taken aback when Miriam began weeping. She probably felt some guilt over Sarah’s homicide. If they hadn’t shunned Sarah, she wouldn’t have left, and wouldn’t be dead.
“It’s never too late for a good cry,” I told her.
Then I wrapped my arms around Miriam, and she sobbed against my shoulder like she was a child instead of a mom. I didn’t often get a chance to physically comfort someone troubled. Usually a camera was rolling and I had to stay professional during an emotional interview. As she quieted, I was glad I had come to visit.
“Hey, Miriam, I don’t get down this way very often, but if there was any way we could be friends, I’d like that.”
Sometimes families want to stay in touch even after their news cycle ends. Other times they want no reminders of the torment. But she shook her head, and I understood this was goodbye for us.
Then her son, Gideon, pulled into the yard with the buggy. I didn’t hear the clip-clop warning because of the snow-packed road. He jumped out before the horse even stopped and raced over to us, shouting for me to go away.
Then for the first time since I met her, Miriam raised her voice. “Be still,” she told him.
And for the first time, I saw her flex her maternal muscles and take charge of her son. While I understood she and I could never be true friends, she had apparently decided not to let him be rude to my face. “The stories are finished, Gideon. She has promised to stop showing Sarah’s picture. It is finally over.”
That calmed him down. And while I should have just walked to my car without another word, and driven off without a look backward, I wasn’t as fond of him as of his mother.
Of course, she hadn’t held me down in the dark and cut off
my hair. I pulled off my hat and threw it at Gideon. It bounced against the brim of his own.
“I know you can’t give me back my hair, but at least give me back my camera.”
He didn’t answer.
“You told the sheriff the truth about painting over Sarah’s billboard, why don’t you tell me the truth now? What did you do with my camera?”
He started toward me, angrily, but Miriam held him back. I noted that he kept rather quiet so I took his silence as an admission of guilt.
Because I was a one-man band, I didn’t have anyone to hold me back and keep me calm. “You think this haircut sent me a message, Gideon? Just be glad I don’t send you a message of my own.”
“What is all this talk about cameras and hair?” Miriam seemed to be asking both of us.
“Ask your son,” I told her.
Then I left the world of the Amish behind. No regrets. I had expected a taste of mystery and had gotten an overdose of misery.
Just then, the modern world didn’t seem so tainted. And if there was a devil, I was more convinced than ever that his weapon of choice was not TV.
• • •
I was an hour on the road before I remembered Sarah’s journal, hidden in my top drawer at the station. Between Walden and the quilt, I’d had no time to find someone to translate the German writing.
Now that her killer was found, the urgency was gone. Sarah’s final thoughts no longer mattered. As a journalist, I respected that diaries are supposed to be confidential. So I was torn between honoring Sarah’s privacy and giving the journal to her mother.
I
was too sleep deprived to head to the station. I’d been working on adrenaline and caffeine the last thirty-six hours and was completely spent. I drove home torn between wanting to crawl between clean sheets and wanting to climb into a hot bath. Since it was just me, I decided the bath could wait.
Except I wasn’t alone. A rental vehicle was parked in front of my house. And behind the wheel, reading a newspaper, was my former fiancé.
He didn’t recognize me at first, probably because of my car and hair. I pounded on the driver’s-side window to get his attention. Within seconds, his arms were wrapped around me, and then our lips took over. Familiar kisses felt reassuring.
“I heard what happened with the bear, Riley.” My lover had a Google Alert on my name. That’s how he always knew about my latest story or mishap. “I couldn’t reach you, and I decided enough with waiting for you to want me. I want you enough for both of us.”
Soon we were inside, and rather than mention that I smelled like a combination of smoke, gasoline, bear, and blood, he merely turned on the shower and helped me undress.
“Oh Nick, I’m too tired for a shower.”
“I’ll do all the work, Riley. You just stand there. I’ll scrub your back, shampoo your hair, and give you a nice towel dry.”
The steam and heat felt soothing. I closed my eyes and pretended Ike Hochstetler had never happened. Minutes later, Garnett and I climbed between the bedcovers.
“Are you going to do all the work between the covers, too?” I figured Garnett didn’t fly all the way from Washington, DC, for a hot shower. Before he could even answer, I fell asleep curled against him and didn’t wake for fourteen hours.
• • •
When I saw the clock, I panicked. I should have been at work hours ago. Without a phone, the desk couldn’t reach me. Bryce would be furious. He’d probably write me up as AWOL.
“Relax.” Garnet was typing away on his laptop computer. “I called the station and told them you were sick.”
“Sick? I’m not allowed to be sick. I work in TV news.”
“Sometimes you need an objective observer to decide what’s best for you, and I decided you were sick.”
He was probably right. “The whole episode feels unreal. I almost wonder if I went a little mad out there in the woods. Maybe I still am.”
“We all go a little mad sometimes.” Garnett leaned back as he said the line with meaning.
I responded immediately. “
Psycho
. Anthony Perkins, 1960.”
“See, that was a test, Riley, and you passed. Now I know you’re cured of any madness.”
“Maybe I’m just mad about you, Nick.” And I took his hand and led him back to bed and proved it.
T
he next day I insisted I was well enough to return to work. Garnett had to fly back to Washington anyway after finishing a security meeting out at Minneapolis–St. Paul International Airport.
Usually he would try to talk me into going back east with him, and I would claim to be too busy at the station. But actually, I really didn’t like flying.
Neither of us brought up any future plans this time, probably because we didn’t want to jinx our present status. The past also seemed better left off-limits. So that restricted our conversation topics.