The Trail Runner: a murder mystery in two parts

THE TRAIL RUNNER, Part I

It was already dark, and there was still another hour back to the trailhead. Her lungs pulled in the scent of sage and bitterbrush—the air heavy from the day’s heat. An owl flew overhead. She heard its wings cut through the night. A coyote’s eyes tracked her and her chest tightened. Panic quickened her breath.

That’s it, she thought. What’s done is done. She choked back a sob, wanting to drop to her knees and howl like a caged animal. But her feet kept pounding the dirt in a rhythm of their own because what else could they do. Running would set her free.

Years later, she’d count this night as one of her greatest accomplishments. But for now, she just ran.

THE TRAIL RUNNER, Part II

The moon cast shadows across the only two cars parked at the trailhead: hers and his. Shit, she thought, annoyed by this glitch in her best laid plan.

I’ve gotta make some stops, he’d said. Drop me a pin and I’ll meet you there.

At the time she had counted it as a win, getting him out by any means for a late evening run. When everybody else would be home. Watching TV. Nursing a drink. Whatever it took to get him deep into the canyon, high above the river. The rocky banks below. Her mind not on him but on the animals she’d seen the night before. A leopard in a climate-controlled warehouse, restless and on guard. Two young spider monkeys clinging to each other in the corner of their cage. More animals than she’d been prepared to see. More than the rumors had let on. The smell of fear, feces, but most of all, greed, stinging her nostrils.

He had described himself as a broker on their first date, and she pretended to be impressed by the glint of gold at his wrist. The body that came from hours in a gym. The admission that he was a sucker for a girl in running shorts. Their second date had been the warehouse tour, a show of what a really big man he was. This third date, a challenge to the big man’s ego.

Whoever turns around first buys dinner, she’d said of the route that would take them near the canyon’s edge—the outfit she wore keeping his eyes on her and not on the path she was leading him down…

Now, back at the trailhead alone, there was no getting around his pricy G-Wagon sitting white and ghostly beneath the moon’s laughter.

She reached into her own car, pulled out her phone, then held her breath until she was a drowning victim gasping for air.

“There’s been an accident,” she said to the 911 operator, her voice winded, urgent. “My friend has taken a fall.”

Images and stories by Suzan Ahrens. All rights reserved.

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