Untraceable (The Nature of Grace Series) Read online

  UNTRACEABLE

  The Nature of Grace – Book 1

  by S.R. Johannes

  Coleman

  Stott

  Praise for Untraceable

  "Grace is a spunky, independent, nature girl who doesn't need a boy to save her. With wilderness survival, a juicy love triangle, and more twists than a roller coaster, this fast-paced novel had me holding my breath until the very last page!"

  Kimberly Derting, author of the popular The Body Finder series

  "This thrilling story is a dramatic entanglement of mystery, deception and teen romance. The author has achieved a stunning, high-tension tale that takes the reader on a journey over rough terrain as it follows a young girl's quest to find the truth and protect the sanctity of a national park and the animals that owe their survival to it. These unique, lively characters will rouse a gamut of emotions in young adult readers. The action flows like a brisk mountain stream interspersed with rapids, holding suspense to last page and then leaving an intriguing teaser in anticipation of the sequel. It is a riveting tale of family ties, friendship and community loyalty."

  Kirkus Reviews

  Coleman & Stott

  Untraceable: The Nature of Grace series, Book 1

  Copyright © S.R. Johannes, 2011

  www.srjohannes.com

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictiously.

  Cover photograph by Vania Stoyanova at VLC Photo.

  Photograph copyright © 2001 Vania Stoyanova at VLC Photo

  Internal design and typography by GraphicCat.com

  All right reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means - electronic, photocopying, mechanical, or otherwise - without prior permission of the publisher and author.

  ISBN: 978-0-9847991-0-7

  Dedication

  To my parents who always instilled courage, persistence, and a love of reading

  “Courage is just grace under pressure.”

  - Ernest Hemingway

  Preface

  Nature will talk to you if you listen.

  Every sound tells you something.

  I know the exact moment I went wrong.

  Three weeks, two days, twenty-two hours, and thirty-three minutes ago.

  I had no clue a few small decisions could puncture the perfect bubble of my existence.

  I zigzag through the forest’s brown pillars like I’m barrel riding in a local rodeo. The internal rhythm keeps me running at a steady speed along the broken path. Left, right, left, right. My muffled breath echoes in my ears, making me feel as if I’m underwater. Sinking. Drowning.

  Don’t stop, Grace, or you will die.

  I veer off the main path and into the arms of the darkening woods. Gnarled branches, shaped like broken fingers, comb my hair and scratch my skin. I fight against a clump of twisted vines grabbing at my ankles. Jerking. Pulling. Ripping. The rhythm of my running becomes choppy and uneven as I sludge my way through the curled tangles of vegetation. My lungs sear from the lack of oxygen. Burning.

  As soon as I round a corner, I slip behind a mammoth oak to catch my breath. A brown rabbit scurries by me and disappears into the safety of a prickly bush, giving me hope that maybe I can escape too.

  My eyes dart across the monotonous woods, searching for a way out. I need to calm down. Can’t lose it now.

  My chest rises and falls as my lungs finally pull in enough oxygen to settle my nerves. Pure air sweeps through my body like the dry wind over a starlit desert. Blowing away the doubt, and erasing aside the fear. Everything Dad’s ever taught me about wilderness survival comes flooding in.

  Suddenly, I know exactly what to do.

  Examining my GPS watch, I pinpoint my coordinates and map a way out. After assessing the area, I tiptoe out of my hiding place and backtrack down the trail, careful not to disturb anything along the path that will give away my position.

  I disguise my tracks all the way back to Dead Man’s Cliff. After securing my backpack, I clutch onto the cragged rocks and scale the steep wall, careful to place every toe and finger just right. My palm hits a sharp edge and begins to bleed as both my arms spasm from the strain. My toes cramp underneath my weight as they press against the tiny ledges. I slowly creep up the steep rock like a lizard, careful not to send showers of rocks or crumbling dirt onto the path that now lies several feet below me. My arms quiver, threatening to numb.

  When I finally reach the top, I fight against the pain and summon all my strength to pull myself over the ledge. Instantly, I roll onto my stomach and flatten against the cool dirt, scanning the horizon. Tiny pieces of sun punch through the thick canopy, dotting little amoebas of light along the forest floor. I listen for the slightest sound, search for the tiniest movement.

  Nothing.

  As a wildlife enforcement officer, Dad believed the woods would talk to me if I could be still enough to listen. Closing my eyes, I concentrate on the space around me.

  Listening. Waiting. Afraid to breathe.

  A light breeze slithers through the ghostly forest. The leaves rustle and the trees hiss as if whispering secrets to each other. The forest appears to exhale then hold its breath. Everything goes as quiet as a graveyard at midnight. Nothing scurries, burrows, or twitters. The trees stop swaying and freeze, as if they’re hiding too. And then I hear it: the distant snap of a random twig. The hair on my neck bristles.

  They’re still after me.

  Three weeks, two days, twenty-two hours, and thirty-three minutes ago…

  Survival Skill #1

  A good tracker learns to follow every print and every lead - one at a time.

  Dad used to always say, nothing is untraceable.

  Everything that touches this earth leaves a special imprint, a unique mark that proves we existed in some way—no matter how invisible we may feel.

  I follow the thin trail, staying a few feet to one side, and search for any sign of humans. Every time there’s the slightest blemish in the dirt, I drop down and study it, to see if it’s something important—something my dad left behind. Even if it’s nothing, I draw a circle around it with a stick and mark the spot with orange surveyor tape. Just like Dad showed me. Then I document it by snapping a few photos with my digital camera and logging some notes. A tracker never knows how two separate things might be related. Connected in some way.

  At the next bend in the path, I squat and scour through a mound of dead leaves. The Arnold Schwarzenegger of ants pops out from under a stick, lugging a dead beetle ten times his size. No matter how much he struggles, he never gives up. Another lesson to me from Mother Nature herself.

  A few feet away, a squirrel rifles through a pile of twigs, searching for acorns. He freezes and stares at me as I inspect a nearby shrub. An earth snake, or Virginia valeriae as Dad calls it, slithers over my hiking boot. I pinch the tip of the snake’s tail and dangle him in front of my face. “You seen anything out here?”

  His forked tongue darts out and kisses the tip of my nose.

  “Great, now I’m talking to animals.” I sigh and place him down gently then watch h
im slither away.

  Dr. Head thinks I’m in denial, Captain thinks I’m distrusting of his police investigation of my dad’s disappearance, and my mom just thinks I’m nuts. What if they’re right?

  I pick up a stone and chuck it at a nearby tree. The rock bounces back and hits my kneecap. “Owwww!” My voice echoes a little before being swallowed by the thick humidity. My body relaxes after I drop down onto a boulder. Leaning forward, I rest my forehead in my hands and inhale deep breaths, trying to let the woods calm me.

  Three months, and not one solid lead.

  Finding evidence should be easier than this. Especially for me.

  Technically, I’ve been a wildlife officer’s assistant since I could trace my own hand in the dirt with a stick. My first friend was a bear. My first potty, an oak tree. My first swing, a forest vine. I’ve lived in the North Carolina Smokies my whole life. Tagging along behind Dad when he patrolled, I’ve soaked up everything he taught me about wildlife, tracking, and wilderness survival. Over the years, I’ve created a mental map of every side trail, memorized plant species, and studied the scientific name of forest animals.

  One time, when I was smaller than a river otter, Dad hid from me in the woods. Took me less than sixty minutes to track him down. I remember him being shocked. But it didn’t surprise me. After all, I’ve been his shadow all my life. I know his gait, how his right foot drags slightly when he walks because of an old motorcycle injury. I memorized the tread of his size 11 hiking boot - ranger standard issue. Mostly, I know how his mind works.

  Yet none of this seems to help me now.

  Even though it’s pretty unlikely that a sixteen-year-old tomboy—who can build a fire from scratch, yet can’t seem to cut her own bangs straight—could dig up something when more than a hundred searchers couldn’t, I know deep down that if anyone can find Dad, it’s me.

  After looking a few more hours with no finds, I reluctantly stop my search for the day. I flatten my trail map against a boulder and smooth out the tiny creases.

  I wish it were that simple.

  To wipe my hand across a crumpled page in my life and erase any unwanted wrinkles.

  After studying the map of the Smoky Mountain National Park, I highlight my search coordinates.

  Marking another failed day.

  I dig my notebook out of the backpack to jot down my findings before heading home: absolutely nothing.

  I stroke the pink camo cover. Dad used to tease me about how the bright color stood out against the all-real green backdrop. Strange how random things pop into your head at strange times. The little, insignificant things you never think about until they’re triggered by something totally unexpected, without any warning.

  A tightness fills my chest when I picture his smiling face, so I quickly put away the notebook. Beads of sweat race along my spine as the humidity presses down on me. The heat seems much worse this year. I dampen my bandana with water from my canteen and drape it across the back of my neck. I steal a drink, letting little droplets of water trickle down my chin. Pulling the sticky strands off my neck, I roll my long, black hair into a bun. The warm air is a small relief to my suffocating neck.

  After gathering my things, I begin the long five-mile hike back to my bike. Along the way, I get lost in the simple sounds of the woods. The crunching of my boots through the dry leaves. The bickering birds and crickets in the trees. All the random sounds that don’t seem like much on their own but, when put together, create a special song.

  Just as I reach the main trail, I spot an azalea bush with a few broken limbs on one side. A scar on the hand of nature, marking an unnatural break. My heart stumbles as I stop abruptly. To the average person, this is nothing. To me, it could be everything.

  As I inspect the jagged branches, the bugs beneath me stop buzzing. I peer into the thick foliage and spot a splash of orange. Even though the limbs scratch my face and arms, I reach into the brambles until my fingers skim something stiff and crinkly. I pinch the edge and retract the object slowly before laying it on the ground.

  It’s an old Cheetos bag.

  Dad’s favorite snack.

  At first, I freeze, not sure what to do. Then I remember how to recover items properly. My hand trembles as I slip a Ziploc and tweezers out of my pocket. It takes me a few minutes to get the evidence into the bag and seal it. Once it’s safe, I stare through the dirty barrier. Who would have thought a cheesy snack could mean so much? That a simple piece of trash could crack Dad’s case wide open. I shove the plastic baggie into my backpack.

  I need to get it back to town. Now. After three months, time is definitely not on my side.

  Before I can stand, the bushes ahead of me shiver.

  My body tenses as I spot a dark shape crashing through the dense underbrush. I wait quietly, not sure what it is.

  Then a deep groan pierces the silence.

  Survival Skill #2

  To avoid wild animals when hiking, make lots of noise and stay alert.

  About one hundred feet in front of me, a huge black bear lumbers onto the path, blocking my exit.

  His dark fur glistens in the broken streams of light, and his nose twitches. Bears have a wicked sense of smell—seven times that of a bloodhound. They’ve even been known to detect a human’s scent hours after the person has left a trail. I’m not worried. If I stay upwind, I can probably go unnoticed long enough to sneak away.

  As if on cue, a slight breeze strokes the back of my neck. My body stiffens.

  I’m downwind.

  Whether this guy has seen me or not, he’ll get a good whiff in about two seconds. The bear rears up on his hind legs and wiggles his snout, sniffing the air. His beady brown eyes shift around until he locates me. He huffs a warning and stares me down.

  I remain still and size up my opponent. Black bear. Adult male. About four hundred pounds. Six-feet tall. Definitely the largest one I’ve ever faced out here without Dad. This is the first time I’m totally on my own.

  I keep my eyes on the bear, remaining stiff. Even though black bears are generally passive, Dad once told me they cause more injuries to hikers than any other bear species. Partly because people don’t seem to be afraid of them like they are grizzlies. Unfortunately, thanks to Yogi Bear, people wander too close to them. I assume they think the bears are cuddly, tame animals just out looking for a picnic basket.

  I scroll through all the facts Dad has drilled into my brain over the years.

  Can’t run. Bears can bolt about thirty miles an hour.

  Forget climbing. They can scale a tree trunk faster than you can yell “bear.”

  My best chance is to retreat slowly and try to widen the space between us. I suck in a breath and inch backwards. The bear immediately senses my small movements and drops down on all fours. A series of huffs and growls pour from his throat. I keep my feet grounded, but my heart takes flight.

  Time for Plan B: when a 140-pound girl scares off a 400-pound Ursus americanus.

  Waving my hands over my head, I speak in a loud voice. “Go on! Get outta here!” I stomp my feet on the path a few times for show.

  The bear is not amused. He swings his massive head from side to side and snaps his jaws, displaying long, sharp fangs. And I’m almost positive he’s not smiling. The bears roars an awful sound.

  My chest heaves, my mouth turns dry, and my stomach cramps. I force my eyes to stay open and prepare for his next move, “The Bear Two-Step,” as Dad calls it.

  Just as I predict, the bear lunges forward, invading the small space between us. His feet hammer the path as he charges. My legs threaten to move, but fear has kidnapped my entire body and shackled my feet to the earth.

  Lucky for me, I’m right about the bluff. When the bear’s only a few yards away, he suddenly jerks to a stop and stares me down.

  I drop my head and look away, breaking any eye contact, so he doesn’t consider me a threat. However, my brain remains on high alert. If this thing charges again, I need to be ready or I’m dinner. I p
eer out of the corner of my eye. It’s only then that I notice a white necktie marking on his massive chest and a single scar running over his left eye.

  Simon.

  I’m amazed at how much he’s grown since I last saw him.

  Years ago, Dad found Simon when he was just a cub. His mother had been killed, and Simon had been shot right above his eye. Against his own rules, Dad brought Simon home, hoping to nurse him back to health. During the months of rehabilitation, the little cub and I were inseparable. He was a silly animal. Forty percent human, forty percent dog, only twenty percent bear. The day Dad returned Simon to the wild was one of the worst days I can remember. For a year after that, every day after school, I’d hike deep into the national park, hoping to catch a glimpse of Simon.

  But I never saw him again.

  Until now.

  Part of me wants to run up and hug him, but I force the feelings aside. Even though we have a history, Simon is wild at heart, and that’s how it should be.

  Simon notices me watching him out of the corner of my eye. His amber eyes seem to soften and his eyebrows twitch, giving him a strange human-like quality. He moves his lips around in a circle as if he’s trying to tell me something. I wonder if he recognizes me.

  A few minutes later, he finally gets bored and lumbers off, uttering grunts under his breath, getting in the last word.

  As soon as he disappears behind the green curtain of leaves, my legs crumble underneath me and I slump to the ground. Even though my body has already surrendered to my nerves, I keep an eye out, just in case Simon decides to give a surprise encore.