by Paula Munier
Troy nodded toward the dogs, romping around together around the clearing. “He likes Susie Bear.”
“Everyone likes Susie Bear,” she said.
“True. But don’t worry. I know you’ll figure it out.” Troy whistled for Susie Bear, who was digging in a pile of yellow leaves. Elvis was watching his shaggy canine pal with his dark nose in the air, as if to say, We have better things to do. At the whistle, both dogs ran to Troy.
“Now let’s put them both to work.” He stepped aside, and let Mercy hold out the scrap of Batman fabric.
Susie Bear snorted enthusiastically while Elvis took a more restrained approach, carefully sniffing the cloth as if he were directly responsible for the chain of evidence.
He sat on his haunches and waited, ears perked, waiting for her command. He was ready when she was.
The Newfie thumped her plumed tail wildly, scattering leaves with every whomp, her large shaggy head tilted to one side, as if wondering what was taking them so long to say the one word that they were desperate to hear.
“Search,” Mercy and Troy said in unison.
And they were off.
“My dog is going to give your dog a run for her money,” said Mercy.
“We’ll see about that.”
Mercy and Troy jogged behind the dogs. They all wore hunter-orange vests, and she knew Troy was watching for a flash of the bright blaze, hoping that the kid who’d gone crashing through the woods in his Batman pajamas was wearing a hunter-orange vest, too.
First a murder and now a missing child. It seemed impossible that the two were not connected. She hoped that whoever killed Alice de Clare wasn’t also a threat to this kid.
She figured that one of the hunting party was to blame for the arrow piercing the victim’s heart. One of them was a far better shot than he—or she—looked.
Alice de Clare had not been a Vermonter or a peeper looking for foliage or a trophy hunter out for big game. Even dead, she had looked as out of place in the woods as Mercy would look at a fashion show in Paris. And vice versa. Alice had the look of a European, and a chic, rich one at that.
“Ethan told me he met the victim in the woods just before the hunting party officially began. They had a fight.”
“What about?”
“Their relationship. Apparently, she wanted to keep it a secret. Since they were working together and all.”
“And he didn’t.”
“No. It wasn’t much of a secret, as it turns out. At least not according to Daniel.”
“People notice.”
Mercy didn’t say anything to that, but she could feel her pale skin flush. She changed the subject. “The question is, who else was out in the woods, then?”
“Harrington will track down everyone’s movements. Maybe that will tell us something.”
“Seems like they’re all holding something back, if not outright lying, about their relationship with her.” She slowed down a little so she could talk more easily. The dogs were moving fast, and they were huffing to keep up. Not easy, as they were off-trail, making their way across a forest floor crowded with roots and ferns and leaves and rocks and sticks, not to mention trees. “Alice had to be more than just the hired help to somebody in that hunting party. The only one I know anything about besides Daniel is Ethan Jenkins. And I haven’t seen him since in years.”
“I don’t see much of him these days either.”
At her inquiring look, he added. “We were Eagle Scouts together as kids.”
“Always in uniform.”
“Go figure.” Troy slowed down, too, matching her pace.
“But not Ethan.”
“No. When he went off to college, we lost touch. He’s been living in New York for years now.”
“Working for Daniel.”
“Yeah,” he said, as they picked their way through another blowdown. Elvis and Susie Bear barreled on ahead.
“He seems to be more New York than Northshire now.”
“Gone to the dark side.”
“Lillian doesn’t talk about him much.” Ethan was the one child Mercy hadn’t heard Lillian talk about since he grew up and moved away. She was always bragging about her daughter, a baby doctor up in Burlington, and her son, an FBI agent down in Washington, D.C. But nothing about Ethan the financier. Maybe she didn’t approve of his profession.
“She’s more worried about Henry,” said Troy.
“Ethan’s son?”
“Yeah. He’s a good kid but needs looking after.” Troy held a low branch up and away from her face, so she could pass through a tight copse of birch trees.
“Thanks.” Always the gentleman, she thought. That probably started in childhood, too. She’d never met his parents, but she hoped that she would one day. If only to confirm her theory.
“Have you met Henry?”
“Sort of,” she said. “I saw him a couple of times at the Vermonter Drive-In this summer. He helps Lillian in the back when Ethan brings him home from New York to see her.” Like everyone else, she loved Lillian’s restaurant, home of the best burgers and milkshakes in southern Vermont, maybe the whole state.
“He gets lost.”
“What do you mean?”
“He just takes off, apparently. Gets lost. Lillian blames his mother.”
“Billie Whitaker?”
“Yeah. Well, Billie Whitaker Jenkins now. You know Billie?”
“We went to the same summer camp. She was a few years ahead of me. Very creative, artsy-craftsy. Kind of scattered.” She tried to imagine the Billie she’d known as a grown-up mom with a child—and failed.
Elvis and Susie Bear disappeared into a stretch of wetlands. They scrambled over a pile of dead wood and plunged into the marsh’s shallow waters, with no regard for the poison ivy, switchgrass and loosestrife that flanked the indistinct shoreline of small pools dotting the boggy plain.
She cursed as the game warden plowed ahead, his boots and uniform good protection from the elements. No such luck for her, as she’d run after Elvis in nothing but a pair of yoga pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt over which she wore only her hunter-orange puffer vest. On her feet were thin cotton socks and slip-on sneakers, cold and soaking wet now. Her grandmother was right. She should have changed into duck boots before running after a dog into the woods.
“Not really dressed for this, are you?”
“I was planning on spending the day on my couch, reading a good book.”
“Let me guess.” He grinned at her. “Hamlet.”
Troy knew about her obsession, and he liked to tease her about it.
“Nothing by Shakespeare.”
“Then what?”
She sighed, knowing she’d never hear the end of it. “Shakespeare and the Hunt.”
He laughed. “You lied.”
“I did not. It’s not by Shakespeare. It’s just about him.”
“That makes all the difference.” Troy grinned as he splashed along behind the dogs. “Sounds like a real page-turner.”
Mercy felt her cheeks redden. “In honor of the hunting season.”
“Of course.”
A sudden round of barking echoed across the wetlands.
They slowed to a stop, standing side by side in the reeds, staring across the marsh. On its north side stood a shack where the ground solidified.
“Is that a bob-house?” From here, the ice shanty appeared typical of the ones New Englanders used for ice fishing on lakes and ponds in the dead of winter.
“Looks like it.”
“A little early, isn’t it?” she asked. “Not to mention it’s on dry land.”
“Can’t put a bob-house out on the ice until November twentieth,” he told her. “And you have to take it down by the last Sunday in March.”
Always the game warden, she thought. Troy’s job was to make sure everyone followed the rules and regulations designed to protect the flora and fauna of the Green Mountains. That he took his job so seriously was one of things she liked best about him.
<
br /> Ahead, they could see the dogs—Elvis in front, a streak of tawny fur, and Susie Bear, a bouncing ball of black shag behind him—both headed straight for the hut.
“I’ll go after them,” said Troy. “You can take the long way.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re really not dressed for this.”
“I’m fine.”
He shrugged and waded across the marsh. She trudged on, up to her shins in the murky water, thick with water lilies and cattails, bulrushes and sedge.
“There’s a large pond beyond the marsh northwest of here,” yelled Troy over his shoulder. “That woods skirts it.”
“Presumably that’s where the bob-house belongs.”
“During the season only.”
“Right.” The spongy bottom of the marsh suddenly dropped off, and she found herself hip-deep in water. Even Troy, who at six-foot-three was some six inches taller than she, was up to his thighs now.
She watched as he unhitched his duty belt and raised it in one smooth movement above his head before settling it deftly around his neck. In the distance, Susie Bear and Elvis swam toward the far shore, reaching solid ground in a rush of cattails. She held back a laugh as both the Malinois and the Newfie mutt scrambled onto the bank, wiggling and wriggling violently, spraying each other with marsh water. A couple more twists and shakes later, they disappeared around the back of the bob-house. She hoped they were still on the trail of the boy—and not just taking a detour through the nearest body of water. Both dogs were good swimmers, and they loved a good dip. Neither minded getting wet, no matter what the weather.
She and Troy quickened their pace. The sooner they caught up with the dogs, the better. A real challenge, at least for her, as her feet kept sticking in the sodden sludge, her slip-on sneakers sinking with each step, the mud sucking at the soles. It was like marching in glue. She wondered if—when—she’d lose a shoe. Or both.
Troy, on the other hand, seemed completely at home in the muck. Graceful, even, as he made his way across the wetlands, his fine brown hair tucked neatly under his orange cap, his broad shoulders easily carrying the weight of his duty belt. The only hint of possible discomfort was a splotch of perspiration darkening the collar of his forest-green uniform shirt.
He hit solid ground first, not far from the bob-house, then turned and waited for her. She stumped along, sludge pulling at her sneakers. At least she still had them both on her feet.
As she approached the rise of the bank, he held out his hand. She grabbed it, and he swung her up to him with strong solid fingers. Her hands were cold in the crisp air, but his were warm. He seemed impervious to the weather, just like shaggy Susie Bear. Probably a good quality in game wardens and search-and-rescue dogs. They made a good pair. The two were as grounded as the forest they protected.
She and Elvis made a good pair, too, in their way. But they were more high-strung, more high-energy, more hyper-focused.
“Thanks,” she said as Troy helped her up to solid ground.
He smiled at her. That smile was one of the reasons she’d focused on Elvis’s search-and-rescue training the past couple of months. A deliberate attempt on her part to slow down the growing attraction between them. Like that was working.
They stood a moment, hands clasped together. She looked down at the murky water, away from that smile. She felt him watching her. She raised her head just enough to look him in the eye and smile back.
Susie Bear interrupted, pushing her wet pumpkin head between them. Mercy laughed and dropped her arms to give the shaggy wet dog a hug. She was a friendly beast, even if she could take down a bad guy as easily as Elvis. Mercy had seen her do it. She wondered what she was after now.
Susie Bear gave her a lick with her thick tongue. “I know, we haven’t had the time for a proper hello.”
“And we don’t have time now, either,” said Troy. “Susie Bear, show us what you’ve got.”
The Newfie mutt snorted her approval, then took off around the ice shanty.
Troy and Mercy trotted after her.
The bob-house was a hastily made affair of pallet boards. It was about six by four feet, with a flat plywood roof and a sled for a foundation. There were a couple of small windows cut high on the long side. On the shack’s south side, they found Elvis lying in his classic Sphinx pose, paws at the opening at the bottom of a crude door. His alert position.
At the sight of them, he thudded his black-tipped curlicue tail. Not another muscle moved. Susie Bear jigged at his side, eager to breach the perimeter.
“Okay, let’s see what you’ve found.” Troy pushed in the flimsy door—and the dogs rushed past him into the shed.
He gave Mercy a look. Both dogs were trained to wait for a command. But neither had waited this time.
Mercy and Troy went in after them.
This was not one of those fully equipped, plush ice-fishing houses whose owners preferred to fish in relative comfort, with gas stoves, ovens, and PlayStations. Whatever amenities this place once had—if any—had been stripped and stolen away. Not even the odd empty beer can was left behind.
The only thing in the room was a big old gutting table that commanded most of the space. Susie Bear bound over to it, sliding to a dead stop right in front. Elvis stood behind the shaggy black dog, triangular ears perked.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know.” She leaned over to look under the table, peering past the dogs. Tucked under the table was a small boy curled into a ball, his thin arms wrapped around his knees. She couldn’t see much of his face. His dark head was down, his chin tight against his chest, his eyes closed.
“It’s Batman.” Mercy turned to Troy. “I need to get closer.” She pushed through the dogs, and dropped to a squat, pitching her head under the table.
The boy rocked on his heels, back and forth, shivering in Batman pajamas. He was mumbling.
“Hi there,” she said.
The boy did not answer, only rocked harder and muttered louder.
“Do you recognize him?” asked Troy.
“I’m not sure.”
“What’s he saying?”
“I’m not sure.” She twisted toward the game warden and put her finger up to her lips, then turned back to the boy and closed her eyes, listening. “Numbers.”
The boy spoke in a soft voice full of rhythm, as if to a drumbeat only he could hear. “Two … three … five … seven … eleven … thirteen…”
She ducked further under the table, closer to him, and smiled. “Prime numbers.”
The boy raised his head. His was a sweet face, framed with board-straight chestnut-brown hair that fell over his pale forehead. Dark solemn eyes and a freckled nose. Small mouth and pointed chin.
“Henry,” she said. “You’re Lillian Jenkins’s grandson, aren’t you?”
Henry stared at her, or rather past her. She scooted a little closer, careful not to scare him. “We met at your grandmother’s restaurant.”
He kept rocking and reciting numbers.
“I like prime numbers, too,” she said. “Like three hundred thirteen. My birthday, March thirteenth.”
Henry stopped rocking and looked at her with round dark eyes. “Palindrome.”
“That’s right.” This was one smart kid.
Susie Bear pushed her shaggy mug past Mercy and gave Henry a lick on his cheek. The giant dog snuggled right up to him, using her pumpkin noggin to push through his hands. He released them, and when he did, Mercy could see that his pajama bottoms were torn, and that both of his little knees were scraped. The boy let his wounded knees fall open, sitting cross-legged. Allowing the Newfie mutt to crawl right onto his lap. Henry buried his head in Susie Bear’s damp fur.
She tried another tack. “I know you’re good at counting. I know you help your grandmother with the inventory in the back room at the restaurant.”
He mumbled into the dog’s thick coat just loudly enough for her to catch the words. “Fifty pounds of hamburger, thirty-three si
x-packs of hamburger buns, twenty-seven jars of bread-and-butter pickles, sixteen bottles of catsup.…”
“That’s great.”
Susie Bear licked both of the boy’s cheeks this time, and he laughed. It was a halting sort of giggle that made Mercy suspect this serious boy didn’t laugh much, or often. Elvis yelped and broke his position, slipping under the table and gently placing his dark muzzle on Henry’s shoulder. He was practically enveloped by wet dog now.
It was getting a bit crowded under there.
“Come on out.”
Henry did not respond, clutching at Susie Bear and Elvis.
“The dogs will stay right with you. Promise.” She held out her hand. Elvis nudged Henry’s neck with his nose.
He didn’t move. Just tightly hugged Susie Bear.
“Okay, you don’t need to take my hand. Hold onto her collar, and she’ll lead you out.”
She could see that this approach appealed to him. He unclenched his fingers, then felt around for the red leather collar fastened around the Newfie mutt’s thick neck, mostly buried in her dense double coat. Susie Bear sat still as he tucked his hand around the wide band; she seemed to understand how frightened he was.
“Don’t worry,” said Mercy quietly. “You won’t hurt her. She’s as sturdy as a mule. And she’s trained to help people out of tight spots.”
Kids loved Susie Bear. She was large and cuddly, like an overstuffed teddy bear with a tongue. Elvis was not cuddly; he was kingly. But together the two dogs were irresistible.
Susie Bear licked the boy’s chin, as if to reassure him, and then pulled him carefully along. Elvis flanked them, ever the vigilant guardian. They moved slowly along toward Mercy, the boy wrapping his legs around the big dog’s torso, hanging onto her collar with both hands. His eyes were closed, and he was reeling off prime numbers again. Susie Bear was basically carrying him, as if she were a horse and he the rider. No problem for the good-natured mutt, given her strength and stamina.
Mercy backed up to the edge of the gutting table, and once free of it, rose to her feet. Troy stripped off his vest, handing it to her. Susie Bear emerged from under the table, the boy on her back, and Elvis at her side.