Blind Search

by Paula Munier

  Henry nodded.

  “Lillian says he has a photographic memory for things he’s interested in.”

  “Like some kind of math genius,” said Yolanda.

  “Exactly.”

  Troy leaned forward. “This means he may remember all the license plates he’s seen this week.”

  “That’s right.”

  “It would be helpful to know the license-plate numbers of all the cars in the parking lot at Nemeton, all the cars that went in and out, on the morning of Alice de Clare’s death,” said Troy. “And all the cars that have been back and forth since. And the number of the license plate on the SUV that was following you.”

  “That plate was caked over,” she said. “I couldn’t see.”

  “Four five three,” said Henry.

  “Is that the partial that you saw, Henry? Four five three?” Troy grabbed his pack and pulled out a notebook and a pen. “Okay, Henry. Tell me the numbers of the license plates that you saw on the morning that Alice de Clare was killed.”

  Henry rattled off a list of numbers, and Troy wrote them down. “Great, I’ll track them down first chance I get.”

  “What a memory,” Yolanda said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “It’s phenomenal,” said Mercy. “Henry can list prime numbers, too. And I’m betting he knows pi to a zillion places.”

  “Two hundred fifty,” said Ethan.

  “Get out,” said Yolanda.

  Henry started rattling off the numbers on pi. The recitation seemed to go on forever.

  “I bet you can add and subtract numbers, too,” said Yolanda. “What’s three hundred forty-three plus one thousand twenty-six plus four hundred eighty plus ninety-seven?”

  “One thousand nine hundred forty-six,” said Henry.

  “Don’t ask me,” said Mercy.

  “Don’t ask me,” said Troy.

  “We’ll have to take it on faith that you’re right.”

  “He’s been adding and subtracting numbers in his head since he was little,” said Ethan. “But I haven’t seen him do it in long time.”

  Yolanda proposed another list of numbers, but Henry shook his head.

  “You don’t know how to do it?”

  “I don’t think that’s it,” said Mercy. “Maybe he doesn’t want people think he’s a one-trick pony.”

  “Sorry,” said Yolanda.

  “Good Little Henry,” Henry said.

  “The story?” asked Mercy. “You’d like to hear the rest of the story?”

  He nodded.

  It was cozy in the teahouse now. A blur of blowing snow outside, huddled inside an ice palace, trapped in a snow globe. A perfect place for storytelling.

  “It’s quite a long story, but I’ll see what I can remember of it,” she said.

  Troy sat cross-legged close to her. Henry snuggled with the dogs and his dad and Yolanda.

  Mercy began as all storytellers began:

  “Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Good Little Henry. He lived with his mother in a small house in the woods. He loved her very much. When she fell ill, and the doctor told Henry there was nothing he could do, he called upon the Fairy Bienfaisante. She told him he must travel to the top of the mountain, where a holy man would give him the Plant of Life. Only that could cure his mother.

  “And so Good Little Henry set out for the mountain. He traveled many miles and still the mountain seemed as far away as ever. He encountered many obstacles. Raging rivers to cross. High walls to scale. Wild beasts to outwit. Along the way he saved a crow from a fox, and the crow carried him across the raging river. He harvested grapes for a giant, and the giant crumbled the high wall with the sounding blows of his terrible voice. He helped a wolf feed his family, and the wolf gave him a magic stick to carry him home. But Good Little Henry could not go home without the Plant of Life.

  “So he kept on, using the magic stick as a walking stick, and after many days and nights he came to the base of the mountain. And he began to climb. He was tired and hungry and thirsty, but he kept on climbing. Finally, he reached the peak, where to his surprise he found a lush garden full of strange and wonderful plants. But how was he to know which was the Plant of Life? And then he remembered the Fairy Bienfaisante, and the holy man who would give him the Plant of Life. He searched the garden thoroughly, and there in the middle of a maze he found the monk. He told the holy man about his mother, and the monk gave him the Plant of Life. But the holy man warned Good Little Henry that he must hold it in his hands at all times, and if he should drop it, it would disappear, never to be seen again.

  “Good Little Henry thanked the monk. But as he began his descent, he wondered how he could hold the Plant of Life all the way home if the journey back was as challenging as the journey to the mountain had been. And then he remembered the magic stick that the wolf had given him. He mounted the stick, and off he flew, the Plant of Life in hand, all the way home. Whereupon he pressed the Plant of Life against his sick mother’s pale lips. She sat up, fully cured, and hugged Good Little Henry.

  “And they lived happily ever after.”

  Henry smiled.

  She smiled back. “Now it’s your turn to tell a story.”

  Henry shook his head.

  “Hard for a kid who doesn’t like to talk to tell a long story,” said Yolanda.

  Mercy considered this. “You like to draw. Why don’t you draw us a story?”

  Troy pointed to his notebook and pen.

  “I’ve got something better.” Yolanda pulled paper and colored pencils out of an old, battered suitcase. She placed the suitcase in front of Henry to use as a desk. “Go ahead.”

  The boy took the pen in hand and started drawing. It looked like a map.

  “That looks like a ley line,” said Ethan. “Henry’s into ley lines.”

  “What’s a ley line?” asked Yolanda.

  “A line connecting special places.” She explained about Skellig Michael and how ley lines had inspired Henry’s Game.

  They all watched in silence as the boy worked on his map.

  “I think it’s a map of the woods here,” said Mercy. “Look, there’s the bridge that goes over the creek and there are the stepping stones farther up the creek, where Henry fell into the water. There’s the Japanese teahouse and there’s the gazebo. There’s Nemeton and there’s the glen where we found Alice.”

  Henry drew an arrow there and an arrow in the gazebo, to show where Alice de Clare and Caspar Farrow died. But there were other marks on the map as well. Marks that Mercy wasn’t sure she understood.

  “What’s this, Henry?”

  Troy and Yolanda leaned forward. It was a stick figure of a cat and a jagged object.

  “Is that a trap?” Troy asked.

  Henry nodded.

  “A bobcat trap,” said Troy.

  Henry shook his head.

  “Lynx?”

  Henry shook his head again.

  “Marten?”

  Henry beamed.

  “What does that mean?” asked Mercy.

  “It means that night hunters are illegally trapping marten,” said Troy. “Their fur’s worth a fortune.”

  “I didn’t think there were any martens left anymore,” said Ethan.

  “They’ve made a comeback in southern Vermont,” said Troy. “But no one should be trapping martens. They’re endangered, like lynx and mountain lions. There’s no trapping them at any time.”

  “What about bobcats?” asked Yolanda. “I’ve seen them around.”

  “Bobcat season is only two weeks in December. And you’re never allowed to use a toothed foothold trap. Which is what this looks like.” Troy pointed to the line drawing of the jagged-edged object.

  “So maybe the night hunters aren’t running guns,” said Mercy, “they’re trapping.”

  “What about the guy you caught at the bob-house?” asked Ethan.

  “Macon Boone,” said Troy. “But it looks like he’s more into gun smuggling.”

/>   “Two separate groups of offenders,” said Mercy.

  “Or one very enterprising group,” said Troy.

  “Vermonters are nothing if not resourceful,” said Ethan.

  “Boone is from Georgia,” she said with a smile.

  “Marten is one of the most expensive furs in the world,” said Troy.

  “I didn’t think anybody wore real fur anymore,” said Yolanda.

  “Maybe not here. But there are lots of places in the world where fur is as popular as ever.”

  “How do you know about the traps, Henry?” asked Ethan.

  “Dark trees.”

  “I still don’t know what that means, Henry,” said Mercy.

  “Monster slayer.”

  “Like you were talking about with Brodie.”

  Henry nodded.

  Troy looked at Henry. “Like tree monsters.”

  Henry nodded again.

  “Tree monsters?” asked Yolanda.

  “Dark trees are a kind of tree monster. The kind you find in enchanted forests, only not the good kind. The bad kind.”

  “Poachers are dark trees.” Mercy pointed to the traps on Henry’s map. “You saw them setting traps. That’s how you know where they are.”

  “Which is why they’re after him.” Ethan looked worried.

  “We can find the traps using Henry’s map,” she said. “Henry has an ability to construct maps in his mind. He reads the woods, just like we do. Only in a completely different way.”

  “Lucky you,” said Troy to Henry.

  “Well, that’s the best story ever,” said Yolanda.

  Troy drew his finger along Henry’s map. “Look at the pattern. The night hunters seem to be going north. Which would make sense. The higher elevations are where martens like to go. The deep snow areas. And the hunters seem to be going higher as time goes on, as they go deeper into the woods. Now is the best time to hunt marten. The fishers compete with them for food and prey on them. The martens are safer in deep snow, where they can survive better than the fishers. We just have to look higher up the mountain and we can catch those bastards. Oops, sorry, Henry.”

  The wind picked up again and the snow howled around the little teahouse. Henry yawned.

  “I think you should take a nap, son,” said Ethan. “You’ve had a pretty busy day.”

  “That was a long walk you took with Elvis through the woods,” said Mercy. “And it wasn’t your first. Exactly how many times have you been out in the woods by yourself?” She looked at Ethan.

  “I don’t know,” Ethan admitted. “At least twice that we know of this week.”

  Henry ignored her and his father and went back to his map, sketching trees and rocks and trails. She watched as he continued working, going back to where he’d drawn the arrow in the clearing where Alice de Clare’s body was found. Henry drew a stick figure lying next to the arrow.

  “Is that Alice?”

  Henry started flapping his hands. Elvis and Susie Bear flanked him, nudging his arms with their noses until he calmed down.

  “The night hunters must have killed her,” said Yolanda.

  “If Alice caught them trapping martens, they’d have a strong motive,” said Troy. “Have you ever seen them set traps?”

  “I’ve seen them with rifles, hunting deer and bear and whatever else they find. I haven’t seen any traps. But I wouldn’t put anything past them.”

  Henry yawned again.

  “One more thing before we put you to bed, Henry,” said Mercy. “Why did you go out in the storm to see Yolanda?”

  Henry shook his head. “Morning constitutional.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Ethan.

  Mercy smiled. “It means he took Elvis for his morning walk.”

  “Don’t ever do that again,” said his father.

  The boy curled up with the dogs as bed warmers. In minutes, he was fast asleep. Good Little Henry.

  Yolanda and Ethan joined Henry and the dogs and soon they were both dozing off.

  Darkness fell quickly during a blizzard. It got colder. Even Troy’s fire wasn’t enough.

  “I guess it’s going to be a two-dog night,” said Mercy.

  Troy laughed. “The dogs are taken. I guess we’ll just have to rely on human warmth.”

  It was very unlike Troy to say such a thing. Or maybe she didn’t know him as well as she thought she did.

  Between Henry and Yolanda and the dogs, the mats covering the floor were mostly occupied.

  Only one mat left.

  “We’ll have to share,” said Troy. To keep warm, they curled up together.

  There was no escaping it, thought Mercy. It had to be done. He wrapped his arms around her, and they spooned. She felt his heart beating against hers.

  He was careful to keep his hands around her waist. Careful to be as polite as a man could be, hanging onto a woman for human warmth in the middle of a blizzard. Mercy appreciated that he was a gentleman.

  He was a good man. Patience was right. Lillian was right. Even Amy was right. Mercy should let this man love her. If he wanted to.

  Everyone said they’d make a perfect couple. Now she was beginning to believe that they just might.

  Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was the proximity. Maybe it was just human nature. That they should be drawn to one another in a time like this. Mercy felt a longing that she hadn’t felt since Martinez died.

  She tried to put that feeling out of her mind. She needed to think of something else. Mercy could hear the dogs snuffling. Yolanda and Ethan were tucked together like two longtime lovers, and Henry was a cuddle bug in a rug of dogs. Talking in his sleep. Chanting prime numbers even as he dreamed. Mercy wondered what it would be like to have a brain like Henry’s, to see the world the way he did.

  He was a remarkable little boy. She wondered how his mother could have left him, where she was, and if she should try to find her. She thought about Alice de Clare and wondered if she would’ve made a good stepmother for Henry.

  Poor Troy. Mercy knew he didn’t get much sleep this time of year. She’d have to keep still and be quiet. In a minute.

  “Gunnar told Daniel there’s at least one bow and quiver of arrows missing from the estate’s hunting equipment. He thinks Alice took it, meaning to join the hunting party.”

  “So her murderer killed her with her own bow, and then got rid of it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s figure it out tomorrow,” he whispered in her ear. Brushing her earlobe with his lips.

  “Tomorrow,” she whispered back.

  So much for thinking about something else. Or sleeping. She longed for Troy, not just physically, but emotionally. Dangerous territory.

  Dangerous, and yet she still felt safe, as the wind howled around them and snow dumped from the sky, and a sad little boy and a grieving father and a wounded soldier and two good dogs slept nearby.

  Mercy was grateful for their presence. If the others hadn’t been there, she wouldn’t have trusted herself with Troy. It was hard to lie here beside him, feeling the warmth of his body against hers—and not hope for something more.

  It was going to be a long night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  FORECAST: CLEAR, COLD, AND SUNNY. SNOW FLURRIES LATE IN THE DAY.

  AS SLEEP-DEPRIVED AS he was, Troy didn’t sleep, at least not much, and he didn’t think Mercy did either. He lay next to her in a state of heightened awareness that he simply could not shut off. He spent long hours listening to wind howling around the teahouse, wondering what it would be like to spend every night with his arms around Mercy Carr. It was one of the most painful and pleasurable nights of his life.

  As soon as he got Henry and his father back to Nemeton and figured out who the murderer was and caught the night hunters, when this was all over, he was going to do whatever he needed to do to make this woman happy. Forever.

  Of course, he’d have ask her out on a regular date first. No kids, no cops, no dogs.

  Just t
he two of them, a good steak dinner, and a bottle of Big Barn Red.

  By around five in the morning, the storm abated. No more sheets of snow pounding the teahouse. No more wind howling around its ice-packed perimeter, or thunder booming and cracking above their heads.

  It was deathly quiet, and he could hear her breathing. It rang in his ears. A siren call.

  Susie Bear knew he was awake. She shuffled over to him, rousing Henry in the process. Elvis jumped up and joined them; they were desperate to go outside. Yolanda and Ethan slept on, wrapped in each other’s arms as if they’d been together forever. He wondered how they’d made that jump so quickly. And why he and Mercy shouldn’t make the same leap.

  Mercy turned over and looked up at Troy as he lay supported on one elbow.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  “Good morning.”

  “The dogs need to go out.”

  A tangle of red hair fell across her face, and it was all he could do not to brush it away. Henry trotted over to join them, pulling a blanket tight around his torso. “Out.”

  “Don’t move, I’ve got this.” He scrambled to his feet. “Okay, guys, come on. You, too, Henry.”

  Troy pushed the door open hard, dislodging a foot and a half of snow outside. Drifts of much deeper snow marked the clearing. The dogs ran off, playing in the snow, wrestling each other as Troy guided the little boy through the predawn gloom about a hundred yards away from the house. “Okay, do your thing.”

  Henry looked up at him.

  “There’s no bathroom,” said Troy.

  Henry stared at the ground.

  “You’ve never peed outside before?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “There’s a first time for everything, and we’re in the middle of the woods so better make do. Or you can wait until we get back to Nemeton.”

  Henry started stimming. Troy wasn’t sure if it was the thought of going back to Nemeton or the thought of peeing outside that set him off. The dogs rallied round the boy and he calmed down. Now or never, Troy thought.

  “Just do what I do.” He did his business while the boy and the dogs watched. “Your turn.”

  Henry did his business, too. Very seriously.