Search for the Missing Hunter

By Dave Hart

Early October 2013, an experienced hunter goes into a remote section of the New Jersey Pine Barrens alone … and disappears.
Five days later his pet cocker spaniel is found in his abandoned and unlocked SUV with the keys still dangling from the ignition. His wallet and cell phone lie undisturbed on the dashboard. For a solid week the authorities comb the forbidding woods but come up empty.
Nine months later the case has gone cold. There have been no new leads in the deepening mystery. The ‘widow’ and her family are anxious to get closure and collect on the missing hunter’s sizeable life insurance policy. But the insurance company remains skeptical. Under pressure the company sends a small team back into the woods to conduct one final search for evidence of what may have happened to the missing man.
The team includes Kelly Martin the insurance field investigator, her live-in boyfriend Danny Windsor who has scored a plum assignment with the local newspaper and Tom Banks, a well-known local guide and professional tracker. Also along are Park Ranger Randi Lee and the enigmatic FBI agent, Russell Shaw. Kelly’s brother Geoffrey is paired with Noah Parsons, a former Coast Guard commander to monitor the expedition remotely under the watchful glare of an incredulous NJ State Police Lieutenant and the growing irritation of an uncooperative cranberry farmer.
Based in part on an actual event all signs point to something sinister as the search team runs into trouble from the start before sending them on an unexpected and dangerous adventure of their own. With a large payout hanging in the balance and a man’s fate lingering in mystery and doubt, every snapping twig, every falling leaf and every rustle of the wind will have your hair standing on edge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781532098611

Dave Hart

A former insurance executive, award-winning songwriter, author, historian and filmmaker Dave Hart is a family descendent of a Signer of the Declaration of Independence. He is a Trustee for the Trenton Historical Society and a life member of the Ewing Township Historic Preservation Society. Author of ALL THE PRETTY PIECES and TIPPING POINT, other publications written with John Calu include TRENTON, a historical novel and ADVENTURES ALONG THE JERSEY SHORE featuring myths, legends and everyday mysteries of Garden State. Dave is also the writer-director and producer of the two feature length documentaries, John Hart: Portrait Patriot and Ballad of the Blue Heron & Red-Tailed Hawk.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Last Exit

(Monday, October 7, 2013)

7:25 a.m.

G rady Zelman kissed his sleeping wife goodbye, grabbed the lunch she had made him the night before from the fridge, and quietly slipped out the back door.

Jean Zelman didn’t stir. After fifty years of wedded bliss, she was oblivious to her husband’s comings and goings, especially his early morning jaunts into the woods. Whether hunting in the fall and winter or fishing in spring and summer, it mattered little to her which mission he was on. Today was no different … except that, had she opened her eyes, it would have been the last time she would ever see her husband.

Coco, their cocker spaniel, greeted Grady with a friendly yelp and a slobbery lick to the chops as he climbed into the cab of his late-model Chevy Blazer. More his dog than family pet, Grady, in a moment of weakness, had rescued the abused pup from the local shelter. Ever since that day, he never went anywhere without her.

Driving north on the Garden State Parkway from his home in Mays Landing, Grady left the highway for Route 9 just outside Port Republic, then merged onto Route 679. Wending his way along the remote back road through the heart of the New Jersey Pine Barrens toward Chatsworth, he felt alive, upbeat, and in good spirits.

His early morning destination was the Audubon Sportsman’s Club, an isolated outpost on Route 563 near Jenkins Neck. Situated on the eastern perimeter of the Wharton State Forest, despite its celebrated ornithologically suggestive name, the hunting lodge was a frequent getaway for Grady Zelman and likeminded men — men with guns who shared a sheer love of the great outdoors, men who told their tall tales with relish, men who drank their whisky straight up, and men who preferred their women waiting for them when they got home.

William Grademore Zelman was a charter member of the sportsman’s club, dating back to the early 1980s when he expanded his soft pretzel business in Ocean City and moved his family to the area. Known as the Pretzel King, his family-run business thrived first in Philadelphia, where his father had opened a stand on the corner of South Broad Street and Packer Avenue outside Veterans Stadium, home of the then-World Champion Philadelphia Phillies. From these humble beginnings, the Zelman soft pretzel business took off, enabling Grady, as he was affectionately known, to spread the business throughout the tristate area.

It didn’t take Grady long to get acclimated to his new rustic surroundings, spending weekends with friends and associates on deep sea expeditions out of Barnegat Light or traipsing through the woods, shotgun in hand, in search of all manner of game and wildlife. The sportsman’s life was more than a mere hobby. For the Pretzel King, it was an escape from the tedium of rolling dough and filling plastic mustard bottles. He became an expert angler and accurate marksman quite adept on land or sea. His twenty-eight-foot cuddy cabin, christened Grady’s Lady, was a testament to his business acumen and his prowess with rod and reel.

Grady knew the woods as well as any man and, following his retirement, at which point he passed the business on to his son, Jack, he spent an increasing amount of time away from home, sometimes for several days, on his impromptu woodland treks. Oftentimes alone, other times with various club members, it was all the same to him.

Jean Zelman, for her part, didn’t seem to mind her husband’s frequent absences. As long as the bills got paid and there was food on the table, he was free to scratch whatever outdoorsy itch tickled him, while she shopped, occasionally played the slots in Atlantic City, and spoiled their grandchildren mercilessly. Jean never gave the prospect of Grady’s infidelity or any other manly vice a second thought. She felt she knew her husband well enough, probably better than he knew himself. To her, he was a perpetual child. Peter Pan in hunter’s camouflage. She viewed his sportsman pursuits more or less as a never-ending coming-of-age ritual … and at times, for her, a welcome relief.

With winter just around the corner, the time was right for Grady to prepare for the annual opening of deer season. That meant shoring up his tree stand and prepping the foliage around it with a homemade concoction of cornmeal and molasses, which was frowned upon by state fish and game regulators but not strictly enforced. The mixture was intended to entice the deer to wander near and linger in the vicinity of his stand.

Grady listened to the latest weather report on the AM radio as he pulled into the gravel lot outside the cedar shake hunting lodge and parked his SUV. He rubbed his scraggly beard thoughtfully before alighting from his truck. The sparse tawny-gray beard was his one concession to winter. Jean didn’t care for it much and carped on him constantly to shave it. She wasn’t even sure it could be properly classified as a beard since the bushy ‘M’ over his upper lip failed to meet the hairy ‘U’ that angled up from his chin.

Jean told him it made him look like Popeye the Sailorman’s grandfather, which he understood to mean by association it made the woman seen with him appear that much older, too. He argued it helped hide him while in the woods and kept his stony-white face warmer when sitting in his deer stand for hours.

The weather report was calling for temperatures in the low- to mid-50s with a mild wind out of the southeast at 4 to 5 miles per hour, confirming that Grady had dressed appropriately in his dungarees, flannel shirt and Wallace T. Beery long-sleeved undershirt.

He reached across the passenger seat, opening the door to let Coco out, then waited patiently as she did her business in the bushes between the railroad ties that blocked off the parking lot from the rest of the wooded property. There was one other vehicle in the parking lot — a mud-speckled black pickup truck that Grady recognized as belonging to the current club president, Myles Donner.

Their lodge was a weathered two-story frame building with rickety wooden steps leading up to a creaky front porch. On the porch stood a set of high-back Adirondack chairs, stained a garish reddish-brown in a failed attempt to match the lodge’s faded cedar shakes and porch railing.

The heavy wooden front door stood slightly ajar, so Grady grabbed the handle to the screen door and yanked it open. The springs screeched, badly in need of lubricant. Grady and Coco entered the open interior of the first-floor lodge room, where a stone fireplace, ablaze with a toasty fire, lay at the north end of a large, dusky room. Dark paneled walls, upon which numerous framed, yellowing black and white photographs were hung, encircled the room. Over the mantle loomed the stuffed head of an antlered buck, majestically displaying a full ten-point rack like a crown. Eerily, Grady couldn’t help but notice how its huge polished glass eyes seemed to follow him around wherever he walked in the big room.

Across the way, a narrow hallway led to a small kitchen in the rear. Behind the main lodge room to the right, before the kitchen, was a cramped bathroom whose antique fixtures included a chipped porcelain basin, a worn commode, and a tarnished bronze clawfoot tub. A stairway to the left of the hallway led to a pair of upstairs bedrooms, each furnished with a double set of military-style bunk beds, enough bedding to sleep eight guests comfortably.

Standing motionless, Grady waited as Coco barked out her sharp greetings to the man in a green and black cambric shirt seated behind the big gunmetal gray desk at the far end of the room. A thick cloud of bluish smoke wafted up into the air above his head from the cherry wood stemmed pipe clenched between his teeth.

Morning, Myles, greeted Grady, scratching his scruffy whiskered face as he approached the desk. He sniffed the air around him. Let me guess, Captain Black?

Seven Seas, replied the balding, plump-jowled, former navy veteran, removing his pipe from his lips. A fine aromatic blend, don’t you think?

Grady nodded. It sure makes the room seem a might cozier. Kinda makes me wish my doctor would allow me to partake in the pleasures of the pipe again.

Humph, chortled Myles. Belay that. Mine’s been after me to quit for years.

I see it didn’t do any good, said Grady with a touch of faux envy.

On the contrary, Myles added, puffing contentedly on his pipe. It was just the advice I needed to change doctors.

Both men chuckled.

So what brings you into the woods today, Grady?

I’m guessing the old stand needs some sprucing up. And I brought along some bait to paint the area brush. Are the trails passable?

Sure are. Manning’s cranberry harvest’s been in for about a week. And I’m told the old bogs have been drained and the trails cleared of his machinery. Just planning to go in and get set up, are you?

That’s right, acknowledged Grady. High time I bag me one of those big rack stags, he said, jerking a thumb back toward the buck over the mantle, before it’s time to cash in my chips.

Not around here, you won’t, laughed Myles. Not enough food to grow ’em that big anymore. And not enough cover for them to hide in, neither. Hell, those punks and their damn all-terrain vehicles got everything all spooked.

Can’t the park rangers put a stop to the ATVs?

Too many of them, I guess, or not enough rangers. You can thank our fat-ass governor for this mess. Him and his budget cuts.

Grady scratched his beard thoughtfully. Maybe we ought to round up a few of the boys. Think about taking matters into our own hands.

Myles’ eyes lit up. Now you’re talking. Might even get the Pinelands Preservation Alliance to support us on that one. He grabbed a key ring from the top drawer and slid it across the desk, then passed the big leather-bound ledger book and ballpoint pen over to Grady.

Go ahead and sign in, Grady. I’ll see if I can get a few of the fellas on the horn and set up a meeting for later in the week. Myles stood and reached for the receiver attached to the ancient wall phone.

You do that, Myles. Meanwhile I better get my ass in gear, said Grady, noting the time as 9:55 a.m. and scribbling it down next to his name in the logbook. He picked up the key and slid the ledger book back over to Myles, who was cheerfully engaged in a breezy conversation with someone on the telephone.

Grady turned to leave, waving a hand over his shoulder to Myles. He slowly retraced his steps across the big room, then stopped abruptly. Holding a make-believe rifle, he took aim at the mounted mantle trophy. Gotcha, he said before he shuffled off. Pushing back through the screen door, he was followed closely by Coco and the fixed, glassy stare of the mounted buck.

CHAPTER TWO

Crazy

(Monday, June 2, 2014)

7:25 a.m.

T he barefoot girl in the delicate floral jumper darted in and out between the passing vehicles, narrowly avoiding them as they motored across the busy Causeway. Dashing among the two-way traffic, the girl timed her movements with the calculated precision of a prima ballerina.

Danny Windsor slammed on the brakes of his well-traveled Jeep Wrangler, lurching to a stop inches from the illusive waif, or so he thought, when suddenly the girl disappeared beneath the hood of his Jeep.

Fearing he might have actually hit the girl, Danny threw his Jeep into park and switched on the hazard lights. Stepping out into the steady stream of cars, he ignored the angry horn blasts as they swept past him.

Positioned at the eastern terminus of Route 72, the Causeway was, in essence, an extended stationary bridge that spanned the shallow bay linking the mainland at Manahawkin to the sandy New Jersey resort towns on Long Beach Island. Unlike a drawbridge that can be raised and lowered, allowing tall ships to pass safely underneath, the aging Causeway itself, badly in need of repair or serious upgrades, remained the solitary access road for the traffic to and from LBI. Recent signage touting your tax dollars at work suggested expansion was imminent.

For pedestrians, straying from the narrow walkway into the four lanes of traffic could mean a one-way ticket to the morgue. Several local schools boasted clubs whose initiation rights included feats of jaywalking designed to test a person’s courage, or stupidity, depending on one’s point of view. Danny himself was once a daring traffic dodger, when he attended Pinelands High School, but that career challenge was over ten years ago. He had matured a lot since then, although there were those who knew him who might take issue with that.

Apparently unharmed, the girl reemerged from below the Jeep’s grill, clutching the limp carcass of a dull gray-white seagull. Its compressed feathers were matted and stiff. She regarded it with a kind of dubious curiosity, then stuffed the bird into the burlap sack slung across her shoulder.

Are you crazy? Danny shouted at the girl above the din. You’re gonna get yourself killed, he screamed, leaping out of the way of a speeding car. And me along with you!

The girl bent down and picked up another lifeless gull. This one was smaller in size and had a black crown. You mean like this? she asked demurely, her almond-shaped eyes flickering above pursed lips that widened into a half smile.

Danny removed his sunglasses and hustled over to the bemused girl. Taking her by the elbow, he hastily guided her to the relative safety of the constricted pedestrian walkway that ran along the south shoulder of the bustling, windy roadway. A fenderless bicycle he guessed belonged to the girl rested against the concrete retention wall a few feet away.

Danny relaxed his grip. Don’t tell me you’re collecting dead birds?

The girl shrugged while producing a printed business card:

Rest Your Head in the Clouds

Gull Harbor Pillows by Amy Chin

100% Natural Down

These sea birds are not the brightest, she said, lifting the swelled sack from her shoulder to emphasize the heft of her current cache. Then looking skyward, she added, "With so much empty sky up there, I really don’t understand what causes them to crash into the bridge. But they do ... BANG! — she clapped her hands together loudly — and that’s how I get my pillow stuffing."

Provided you don’t get killed in the process, replied Danny, eyeing the passing traffic warily as impatient motorists snaked around his disabled Jeep.

Traffic is usually lighter than this in the morning, Amy continued in a half-shout, enabling her soft, sweet voice to be heard, but I am running a little behind. If I time it right, I usually can grab a few birds before they get squished by the cars and baked in the midday heat.

Yeah, I could see how that would make a difference, said Danny, frowning skeptically. Initially, he had taken the girl to be some kind of kook — a school club initiate or, worse, a misguided bird lover who planned to give her unfortunate feathered friends a proper burial. Likewise, the thought had occurred to him she might be a summer intern for the local roads department, someone just doing her part to keep America’s scenic highways clear of litter.

Now he wasn’t quite sure what to think. For a young man who had had his share of odd jobs without yet finding the one that would earn him a steady paycheck, the thought that she was an adventurous entrepreneur, collecting and reselling roadkill for profit, intrigued him. You mean to tell me you actually make a living doing this? Where did that hairbrained idea come from?

The girl appeared intransigent to his sarcasm. Lucrative or not, she obviously believed strongly in what she