Death Climbs a Tree (29 page)

Joan laughed. Rebecca, coming to her defense? It was wonderful. Also unlikely to do any good. But she gave her daughter Andrew's cell phone number and enjoyed imagining the resulting fireworks.

She had hardly opened the book again when the phone startled her again. She grabbed it. But this time, it was Fred's brother, Walt, asking for him.

“He's out, Walt. Is something wrong there? Your parents?”

“They're okay. Mom asks for him all the time, but of course she's totally forgotten you.”

“That's all right. I didn't expect her to remember about me.” Helga Lundquist, whom Joan had met for the first time back before Christmas, was in the early stages of dementia, probably Alzheimer's. Joan hoped the family would get her properly worked up and diagnosed soon but was keeping her nose out of their affairs for now, at least. They were doing a good job of helping Fred's parents manage living in the house where he had grown up. Already, though, Helga had begun wandering, and neighbors in their little village sometimes had to help her find her way home. Joan wished they were closer. From Oliver to Bishop Hill, Illinois, was too long a drive for a weekend jaunt.

“I'll tell him you called. I don't know what time he'll be home, though.”

“No problem. Tomorrow's soon enough. If it gets to be late, tell him I'd rather he waited till morning.” Whatever was on Walt's mind wasn't something he offered to share with Joan.

She promised. “Give your family our love. We still expect Kierstin to visit sometime.” Walt's daughter, a high school senior, had entranced Andrew during their visit and had invited herself to visit them. “I take it she's not serious about looking at Oliver College.”

“No, she's accepted at Illinois. There's no way I could afford a private school, and she knows it. But if you wouldn't mind, she'd get a kick out of coming to see you. One of us would help her with the driving, of course, but we'd have to go straight back. Between the restaurant and the folks, there's not a lot of spare time.”

“We'd be delighted.” Once Andrew's safely out of the tree, that is. “When is her semester over?”

“Not for another month. Graduation's in late May.”

“That ought to work. Good to hear your voice, Walt. I'll be sure to tell Fred you called.”

The phone was finally silent then, and she caught herself nodding off. Not tonight, she thought. Not till I know what's going on. She went to the kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee before settling back down with Lady Susan.

If you'd had Lady Susan for a mother, Rebecca, she thought as she read, you'd have had a right to bite her head off the way you used to do mine.

This time when the phone rang, she reached for it almost absentmindedly.

“Mom?” This didn't sound like Andrew, either, but it wasn't Rebecca. It was more muffled.

“Andrew?”

“Mom, is Fred there? I can't rouse him on his cell.”

“No, he went back to work after you talked to him before.”

He said something unintelligible.

“I can't hear you.”

“I'm inside my sleeping bag.” That was clearer.

“Is it that cold now?”

“No, but I think someone's been shooting at me.”

“Shooting!” Her feet hit the floor. “Bullets?”

“I don't think so. There's no bang, but I hear things whizzing by my head, and I think one landed on the platform. So I'm as flat as I can get, inside the sleeping bag. Rebecca just called and told me I should get the heck out of here, but I'm safer this way.”

“Andrew, you call 911, and I'll work on finding Fred. I'll find someone, anyway. Can you see who it is?”

“Maybe Walcher?”

“You saw him?”

“No, it's too dark. But I heard one of his bulldozers arrive down there about half an hour ago.”

“You haven't been hit?”

“Not yet. But I'm well padded, and I'm flat. I'm not budging till someone tells me it's safe. I remember Sylvia.”

So did Joan. She called Fred's number but got no answer. Then she tried his cell phone. It invited her to leave him a voice mail. She hung up on the recorded voice and tried the number Fred had given her for when his desk phone didn't answer.

“Ketcham,” a familiar voice answered. Thank God.

“Sergeant, this is Joan Spencer. I've been trying to reach Fred.”

“I thought he went home.” She could hear him wondering whether he should have lied for his lieutenant.

“He did, but he got a call and left again. Didn't he check in with you?”

“Not yet. He knows I'm here, though.”

“I can't find him. But Andrew just called. He says someone's shooting at him. He had the good sense to crawl inside his sleeping bag, head and all, and lie flat on the platform. I told him to call 911, but I need to find Fred. I don't understand why he's not answering his cell phone.”

“He must've let the battery run down again. We'll get someone out there right away.”

“I'm coming, too.” She hadn't known it until it was out of her mouth.

“No. If you got caught in a gunfight—”

“It's not a gunfight.”

“You said—”

“Andrew said there's no bang, just whizzing past his head. Or there was, until he got inside the sleeping bag. I don't know how much he can hear now. But it sure sounds like the man with the slingshot.”

“Give me Andrew's number.”

She did.

“And leave his line free.”

“I will.” Not that it's a line. But I can't stay home. Not if someone's out there shooting at my son. “And Sergeant, he says he heard a bulldozer drive up.”

“Thanks. You sit tight. We'll handle it from here.”

30

Fred would skin her alive if he knew what she was planning, but there was no way Joan could sit tight, as Ketcham had put it. She pulled on a black turtleneck and pants and dark sneakers and socks. The socks were probably navy, but all that mattered was not to show up in the dark. Cover your skin, she thought, and rummaged in the living room coat closet for the ski cap in shades of blue, none too light, that Annie Jordan had made her for Christmas. If she pulled it all the way down, only her eyes would show. It had slid off the shelf, but she found it mixed in with the boots on the floor. Her navy gloves would hide her hands.

I'm not going to his house, she told herself. And I'm not going to butt in. But I have to know what's going on. That bulldozer … I don't know whether Fred ever checked Walcher. There's so much I don't know.

She soon was bouncing along the rutted road, not even trying to dodge the ruts. But before she reached the clearing, she pulled off to the side and killed the lights and the motor. Even the tiny flashlight in her pocket would give her away. She'd risk turning an ankle, instead. It seemed to take forever for her eyes to adapt to the darkness, but when the black sky sprouted more stars than she remembered ever having seen, she thought she must be ready. Almost as an afterthought, she reached into the wayback for her walking stick. It would give her a fighting chance at staying upright. She turned off the dome light before she opened and softly closed the car door.

No sign of the police. Where were they, anyway? She shouldn't have been able to beat them out there.

When she came to the clearing, she saw the bulldozer standing smack in the middle, silent and bulky.

The moon gave a little light. A little more would be friendly, she thought, but of course it would give her away, too. A few feet inside the woods, she skirted the clearing and made her way toward the oak tree. No point in making her silhouette an easy target.

So where was this shooter? She wished she could ask Andrew whether he was still hearing anything up there, but she didn't need Ketcham to tell her not to call now.

The man who had shot Sylvia hadn't been in the clearing that day, she knew. If he had, she and Andrew couldn't have missed him. But now—could someone be taking shots at Andrew from the other side of the bulldozer? She edged her way around the clearing toward it.

She'd put the knitted hat on, but when she pulled it down to hide her face, it obstructed her vision so badly that she slid it back up. Just as well. It would have muffled her hearing, too. She strained for any faint sound that might have been a stone hitting a tree or landing on dried leaves, even while she tried to keep her own careful steps as quiet as possible.

Just ahead, an owl hooted. Then a far-off owl answered. Finally, when she thought she was within the range of a Wrist-Rocket from Andrew's tree, she eased herself into a sitting position under a tree. Whatever happened, she'd be here for him.

At first, she sat coiled to jump up, as if she could somehow interfere. Gradually, though, suspense turned to peace. She leaned back against the tree trunk and tried to identify constellations. Even broken up by branches, the Big Dipper was easy, and she was reasonably sure she spotted Orion's Belt, but after that, her pitiful command of the night sky let her down. She wished she knew more.

Then she heard a
thwack
into the trunk of the tree beside hers. A few moments later, a sharp pain in her head on the side closer to Andrew made her yelp.

“Hey!” she yelled into the darkness. No point in staying silent if he'd already spotted her. She pulled the knitted cap down over her ears and face to give her a little protection, if nothing else, and scooted around to the other side of the tree—farther away, if the shooter was off to her left, and safer. Dark-adapted or not, her eyes gave her no clue. She wished the tree trunk were thicker.

In her pocket, her cell phone startled her by ringing. She tapped it to stop the sound and then held it to her ear.

“Mom? Was that you? Where are you?” Andrew asked.

“Down here,” she whispered.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, but he got me with a stone.” She lay flat and patted the ground around her with her free hand, feeling for that stone or the one she'd heard first.

“I can't see you.”

“Good.”

“Where are the cops?”

“That's what I want to know.”

“I'll call them again.”

“Good.” She pulled off a glove, closed the connection, and slid the phone back into her pocket. Flat on the ground felt good. And if the shooter was aiming at a silhouette, as he must be, it would show him almost none.

Sudden light blinded her. Involuntarily, her eyes squinched shut. “Turn that light off!”

“You again! What the hell are you doing out here at this hour?”

She still couldn't see him, but the voice was unmistakable. “Mr. Walcher?” He was the one? The bulldozer should have prepared her, but in spite of having made the case to Fred, she found it hard to believe.

“You better believe it, lady. And you better get your butt out of here before something happens to you.”

But the light moved away from her eyes. Gradually, she was able to focus on the man standing above her.

“You've got two minutes to get off this property!”

He was all bluster, she thought. He couldn't have been shooting at them. Nothing in his hand but a flashlight, for one thing, and no bulges in his pockets. Still, she wasn't sure. Should she take a chance?

“I—I can't.”

“What do you mean, you can't? You hurt, or what?”

While she hesitated, he jerked and swatted at his arm. “What the—!”

Now she knew. “You know that guy up there in the tree?” she said.

“Not to speak to. More like to yell at.”

Not to shoot at, either. “He's my son. The one you met. And someone's trying to shoot him down.”

“Look, lady, I been out here most of an hour. Nobody's shooting anybody.”

“Not with a gun. With a slingshot and a stone, the way he shot down Sylvia Purcell. That's what hit your arm.”

He clapped his hand to it. “How'd you—?”

“And my head.” She turned her head to show him, though there was no way he could see anything through the knitted cap. “See? He must not have been close enough to hurt us badly. But that doesn't mean he can't. One man from the DNR said he brought down a young deer.”

“Omigod. But who—?”

“I'm pretty sure I know. And if we can find the stones that hit us, they'll prove it's the same guy. Shine your light down here and help me hunt. But be careful not to touch them.”

“Right, like they're gonna find fingerprints on rocks.” But he aimed the light at the ground.

Almost immediately, she spotted two smooth stones on top of the leaf litter. One was shiny white, a lake pebble. The other was unmistakably a Petoskey. “There!” she told him.

“Those little things?” Keeping his hands to himself, he bent down.

The phone in her pocket rang again. She dug it out.

“Mom, they're on their way. What's going on down there? What's that light?”

“It's Mr. Walcher.”

“He's the one?”

“No, he just got hit, too. And we've found some of the stones. Have you reached Fred?”

“No, but I think Sergeant Ketcham did.”

“I hope so.”

“Mom, you shouldn't be there.”

“Neither should you, but we can't leave now.”

When she pocketed the phone, Walcher said, “Your kid?”

“Yes. Please turn off that light! Or aim it away from us. Maybe you can spot him—the shooter, not Andrew. And mess with his night vision.”

He moved away from her and aimed the light in the direction from which they'd both been shot. Joan flattened herself again and crawled a few feet in the opposite direction, leaving her stick to mark the location of the two stones.

Then the light went out, and she couldn't see him anymore. But she no longer believed keeping still would protect her, and she no longer cared about the stars. Come on, Fred, she thought, and kept crawling. When she reached a tree big enough to hide behind, she risked slowly sitting up.