by Paula Munier
She reached for him, but she was too late. The current quickly carried him downstream. She could see him floundering. Elvis swam after him, and so did Susie Bear. The big dog was as graceful in the water as a seal—and nearly as fast. She was catching up to the boy.
The long-haired woman was on the other side of the creek now, farther downstream, closer to Henry than they were.
“I’ll get him,” she yelled. Her Southern accent took Mercy by surprise. The woman ran alongside the creek until she was just ahead of Henry, then flung herself into the water. Seizing the child by one of his thrashing arms, she dragged him to the bank.
Mercy assumed the woman would stop there, to see if the little boy needed CPR.
But she did not. She threw the boy over her shoulder as if he were a sack of potatoes and disappeared behind the line of weeping willows. The dogs swam to the creek’s edge, racing up the bank after her.
Mercy and Troy maneuvered the rocks, and then ran down the side of the creek to the point where the woman had fled with Henry into the woods. They could hear the dogs barking, and they followed the yowling.
Elvis would never let that boy out of his sight. And neither would Susie Bear. They’d lead Mercy and Troy to Henry and that woman, whoever she was.
She and Troy hurtled through the woods after the dogs. They tracked the woman for about a hundred yards to a small glade near a blowdown in the forest. In the middle of the clearing was what must have been the Japanese teahouse. At least according to the dingy sign that hung crookedly from the top of the structure.
The glass was broken in many of the pagoda’s wall and roof panels. Someone had boarded up these open spaces with logs, giving the place the odd look of a temple crossed with a tree house. A strange but somehow inviting retreat in the woods.
The woman disappeared into the teahouse with Henry through a makeshift door on the south side of the pagoda. Mercy and Troy and the dogs charged after her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Wolf: a strong and sleek magical animal companion trained to protect, guard, and attack on command.
—HENRY’S GAME
THEY ENTERED THE PAGODA through the wooden door, which stood ajar. Henry’s rescuer hadn’t bothered to shut it behind her. Certainly, she wasn’t afraid of the likes of them.
The room was about the same size as a one-car garage, but far cozier. The usual fire pit in the middle had been turned into a campfire, a circle of rocks in a freshly dug hole with a grate positioned neatly across the stones. At present it was unlit, but an old blue enamel coffeepot and a Japanese-style iron pot sat on top. Low black tables were battered remnants of tea ceremonies performed there in better days. And there were musty old tatami mats that Mercy would think twice before sitting on, although apparently the woman had tried to improve upon them with what looked like relatively clean cushions.
The woman laid the trembling boy down on an army issue–style cot, covering him in old quilts. Susie Bear and Elvis rushed to Henry’s side, licking his face while she positioned him to lean forward, so she could massage his back.
The dogs paid no attention to the woman. She must be safe, Mercy concluded. If Elvis or Susie Bear believed she were a threat to Henry, they’d be all over her.
Henry coughed up water. Mercy knelt at the boy’s side, brushing his brown hair away from his face. “Are you okay?”
He coughed again, then gave his trademark nod.
“Okay, let’s warm you up.” She helped the woman tuck the quilts around the boy’s shivering body.
“I’ll light a fire.” Troy helped himself to the logs and kindling neatly stacked in one corner of the teahouse, starting a fire as quickly and expertly as you’d expect a game warden to do. He looked up toward the ceiling. Mercy knew he was checking for a smoke hole.
“It’s okay. I didn’t fix them all. Between the broken panels in the ceiling and the ones around the perimeter, there’s plenty of air circulating in here.” Yolanda pointed along the base of the pagoda, where several missing boards let in the cold air.
With the fire burning strongly, the teahouse’s one room rapidly warmed up.
The woman was obviously living here, and she’d made an effort to make it as nice as possible. Mercy wondered how long she’d been here, and why she was hiding out. If that were what she was doing.
She gave them each a throw, and a couple of old army blankets for the dogs. The three of them huddled together, Henry tucked between Mercy and Troy, the dogs curled up at their feet, while the woman stood by the fire, watching them. The boy fell asleep at once, snoring softly. For a moment, they sat in silence, watching the rise and fall of his small chest.
Mercy looked up at the woman. “Thank you for saving Henry.”
The woman smiled slightly.
She extended her hand. “I’m Mercy Carr, and this is Troy Warner. We’re friends of Henry’s.”
The woman gingerly shook her hand. “Yolanda Yellowbird. Let me make us some tea.”
While Yolanda filled the iron pot with water, Mercy looked around. There was not much in the teahouse. A few changes of clothes—jeans, T-shirts, socks, stacked neatly in a cheap plastic basket—a worn-out army duffel bag, a military-issue trunk, and food in zippered plastic bags. Crackers. Chips. Cans of chili and soup and beans. Plastic bottles of drinking water. All easily stored.
Mercy wondered how she kept the bears out.
Then she spotted the weaponry. A longbow and a quiver full of several arrows stood in the corner. She glanced at Troy, also staring at the bow and arrows in the corner.
Yolanda caught them looking. “I didn’t kill that man in the gazebo. Or the other one. I’m done with killing.”
“What does that mean?” asked Troy.
“Three tours in Afghanistan.”
Troy nodded. Mercy knew he’d been over there too, just as she had.
“How’d you end up here?”
“I lost my job. I guess you could call me a squatter. I’ve been fine mostly, except for the creeps.”
“What creeps?” asked Troy.
“Creeps are everywhere,” Yolanda said. “All through these woods.”
“How much of the forest do you know?” asked Mercy.
“I’ve been up and down and around this wilderness, from Northshire to Stratton.”
“And you think poachers killed Caspar Farrow.”
“That his name?” Yolanda shrugged. “Maybe poachers killed him. Maybe not. I didn’t see anyone—just the body. And then the boy. The dogs. You all.”
“What were you doing at the gazebo?” asked Troy.
“Foraging. Still lots of mushrooms around, if you know where to look.” She pointed to an old basket in the corner. “Help yourself.”
“What happened?” asked Mercy.
“I heard shouting at the gazebo, so I went to take a look. By the time I got there, there was only the dead guy.”
“He was a guest at Daniel Feinberg’s house.”
“The rich dude.”
“Yes.”
Yolanda poured steaming water into three chipped blue-green matcha teabowls, dropping a tea bag into each one. “A while back, I ran out of the Japanese tea they had stocked here. All I got is Lipton.” She handed one bowl to Mercy, and one to Troy. The last she kept for herself. “Maybe poachers killed them both.”
“Both?”
“Two people murdered, right?”
“You saw the first victim as well?”
“No. Just the cops and the forensics techs.”
“What were you doing over there?”
“I was mushroom hunting, like today. I heard someone behind me, following me. I hid behind a couple of birch trees. Crouched in the ferns. Then I saw this little boy. He ran past me, and I tracked him.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
“I only saw the boy.”
“Did Henry see you?”
“I don’t know.” Yolanda sipped her tea. Her haunted look had faded, and her black eyes were brighter. Even more beautiful.
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“What did you see, exactly?” asked Troy.
“I heard someone moving to my right—the kind of sounds poachers make when they’re tracking prey. Weird because they usually only come out at night. Like vampires. And it was broad daylight. Maybe they were out checking their cameras or whatever. I don’t know.” She paused to sip her tea. “The boy must have heard them, too. I figured that’s why he was running. I didn’t know if he knew where he was going or not, but I didn’t want those guys to find him. I made a racket, yelling and screaming, so they’d chase me through the woods. Instead of the boy.”
“Weren’t you worried they’d catch you?” Mercy appreciated what she’d done to protect Henry. But it was a risky thing to do.
Yolanda laughed. “They tried to run me out of here a couple of times. But they can’t. I know these woods better than they do.” She slurped up the remainder of her tea and put the empty cup on one of the long low tables.
“Have you seen poachers with bows?” asked Troy.
“No. They usually carry rifles.” Yolanda took a seat next to Henry, folding her legs under her and sitting on her heels. “Whoever killed those people is a good shot. Although it doesn’t take much to be a good shot with a crossbow.”
She was right, thought Mercy. Most anyone could hit anything with a crossbow. It didn’t take much strength. “Where did you learn to shoot with a bow and arrow?”
“I grew up in the South. With my mama’s people. But my dad was from up here. He was a big archer. He was really good. A champion. You can see videos of him on YouTube.”
“Why didn’t you go back south?”
“Nothing for me there,” she said with finality.
“What about your service weapon?” asked Troy, changing the subject.
“I got it. Legal for me to carry it.”
Troy nodded. “That’s true. As former military, you’re allowed to keep your service weapon and carry it in the state of Vermont.”
“I just use it for protection. There’s lots of guys up to no good in these woods.”
Troy leaned in toward her. “What kind of no good?”
“Everything, I expect. The usual illegal game, drugs, guns, God knows what else. I try to stay away from them. I don’t trust them.”
“Could you identify any of them?”
“No way. They cover up. Camo and bucket hats. Dark clothes and ski masks. Waders and trapper hats. I can’t tell them apart.” She clasped her hands together. “And even if I could, I wouldn’t. I got no death wish.”
“You’re going to have to talk to Harrington,” said Troy.
Yolanda cursed. “I’ve heard of that cop. I don’t want to talk to him. I’m not talking to nobody.” She looked around as if in a panic.
“Don’t worry,” said Mercy. “We don’t have to tell anyone you’re here.”
Troy shot her a warning glance.
“We need to know if you saw something that’s vital to the investigation. Someone is going around killing people. Someone who might be a threat to Henry.” He lowered his voice. “Do you think the boy saw anything?”
“I don’t know. But he was running for a reason. They were chasing him for a reason.”
“We found him in an old ice shack huddled under a gutting table.”
“Yeah, I know the place. Night hunters have been using that shack to store things in, off and on.”
“Really?” asked Troy. “I’ll put a camera on it.”
“Who knows what you’ll see,” said Yolanda. “They’re always up to something, those guys.”
Henry roused, lifting his head and looking at Mercy.
“How are you feeling?” she asked. “Okay?”
Henry nodded. The dogs licked his face.
“He seems fine,” said Troy.
“We need to get him back to the inn, get him in a change of clothes and warmed up.” Mercy handed Henry her matcha bowl. “Have some of my tea.”
The boy took the bowl into his small hands and raised it to his lips.
“You can’t always count on us being around to rescue you every time you wander off. We can’t protect you unless you stick close. Promise me you won’t do that again.”
Henry looked at her with solemn brown eyes, but he did not nod his assent. He just stared.
“Okay, let’s get you back to the inn,” said Troy. “Yolanda, you’ll need to come with us, just to tell them what you saw. We don’t have to tell them about where you’re living.”
The woman looked ready to run.
“Troy has no choice,” Mercy explained to her. “He has to call the authorities.”
“I need to get back to the crime scene,” said Troy. “Secure it until the Major Crime Unit can get there.”
“You’re going to have to tell Harrington about this,” said Mercy.
“Not looking forward to that.”
And I have to tell Daniel what’s going on right under his nose on his property, thought Mercy. But not quite yet.
Aloud, she said, “I don’t want to put Henry through another bout with Harrington. I don’t think he’s up to it.”
Troy sighed. “Mercy.”
“You know I’m right.” She paused. “I’ve got an idea.”
“Uh-oh.” He grimaced. “Whenever you get an idea, I get into trouble.”
Yolanda laughed at that.
Mercy ignored it. “Go back to the crime scene. Do what you have to do. I’ll take Henry and Yolanda with me back to Lillian’s. We can set up a separate meeting to talk to Harrington.”
“There’s a murderer running around out there. I’d rather you all stay with me.”
“We can take care of ourselves. We’re both trained soldiers.”
“I’ve got my service weapon,” said Yolanda.
Mercy wished she had her own Beretta. But there was nothing she could do about that now. “We can say that we needed Yolanda to get Henry home. That he needed her. It’s more or less true. Henry seems to trust her.”
Yolanda shook her head. “I don’t want to go anywhere near any police. No government.”
“But you were a soldier,” said Troy.
“Yes, I was a soldier.” Yolanda smiled, and Mercy saw a world of hurt and heart in that smile. “In the army, we watch out for each other. But not out here in the world.”
Mercy took Yolanda’s hand. “We watch out for each other.”
Troy placed his hand briefly on top of hers in a show of solidarity. “We do.”
Mercy gently squeezed the woman’s hand before releasing it. “So, we’ve got a plan.”
“You have a plan.” He shrugged in surrender. “I’m going back to the gazebo to call in Caspar Farrow’s murder. You can follow me … or not.”
“I’ll take full responsibility.”
“Like that matters to Harrington.” He ruffled Henry’s still-damp hair. “See you later, buddy.” He gave her a hard look. “Stay in touch.”
Mercy smiled her brightest smile. “Yes, sir!”
Troy rolled his eyes. “Come on, Susie Bear, let’s go.”
The Newfie retriever mutt whined.
“Come on.” His voice was firm. The shaggy black dog shambled to her feet, gave Henry one last sloppy lick on his little nose with her long thick tongue, and ambled after the game warden.
The boy held up his hand in an awkward wave. Looking just like his father.
She turned to Yolanda. “Is there another way out of here? Where we get to the parking lot of the inn without bumping into Harrington at the gazebo?”
Yolanda stacked the now-empty teabowls. “We can circle back and skirt the gazebo completely.”
“How will we get back across the creek?”
“There’s an old bridge farther down the stream. We can take that route.” Yolanda picked up the iron pot and poured the remaining water onto Troy’s fire.
“You know they’re going to find you here eventually,” said Mercy. “They’ll kick you out of here.”
“I’ll take my chances.�
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“The cops are going to insist on talking to you. It’s better if you come in voluntarily.”
Yolanda shook her head, her long, dark hair falling across her face like a shield.
Henry was listening. At the mention of Yolanda turning herself in, he started stimming.
“Let me talk to Daniel,” said Mercy. “He’ll help.”
Henry flapped his arms harder.
So hard Mercy was worried he would hurt himself. “Henry, don’t worry, we’ll talk care of it. Yolanda will be all right. Promise.”
* * *
YOLANDA LED HENRY and Mercy and Elvis away from the creek. Away from the gazebo. They weaved through a blowdown area marked by what had obviously been a fire. Countless trees scorched by a fierce blaze, left bare and black. Dark ghosts standing sentinel to the other side.
Mercy thought about Henry’s dark trees. Maybe that’s what he meant.
Which still wouldn’t explain anything.
Several hundred yards downstream, they came to an old wooden bridge, about twenty feet long, built in the same pagoda style as the teahouse. The floor of the bridge was worn but appeared stable enough.
“Watch your step,” said Yolanda.
Mercy reached for Henry’s hand, but he wouldn’t take it. Instead, he reached for Elvis’s collar.
“Okay, but the dog’s in charge.” She clipped a leash from her pack on the shepherd, handing the other end to boy. “Elvis will lead you. Let him go first. You follow in his footsteps. I’ll be right behind you.”
Elvis was not a service dog, but he’d done very well course-correcting Henry on their morning walk to the general store. She had every confidence he could handle this.
They made their way carefully across the shabby structure. Yolanda in the lead, followed by Elvis, then Henry, and finally Mercy.
The Belgian shepherd led his charge across the wooden bridge as carefully as any certified service dog. Henry wobbled a couple of times, but he had Elvis to steady him.
They made it across the bridge without incident, continuing down the overgrown trail. This part of the property had gone to seed. No forest management here; it was difficult to keep to the path among the saplings and the scrub and the fern threatening to obliterate it.