Town in a Wild Moose Chase chm-3

by B. B. Haywood

  All were silent. Finally Candy spoke again. “Okay. I’m to follow the light. Was there something else?”

  “Yes.” Elizabeth’s eyes were growing hazy. “A number.” She paused, then with some effort said, “It’s the number twenty-three.”

  Candy scrunched up her face in puzzlement. “Do you know what it refers to?”

  Elizabeth closed her eyes and put the back of a hand to her forehead. “That’s all I can tell you for now.” She opened her eyes and looked back at the fire. “I’m sorry. All of this has made me a little… tired. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll lie down for a while.”

  While Isabel helped her sister to the bedroom, Annabel rose and turned to Candy. “These things always exhaust her,” she said by way of explanation. She held out her hand. “Thank you so much for coming today. Before you go, let me make you a small package of those lemon squares to take back to your friends.”

  Quicker than she knew what was happening, Candy was whisked out of the house—not impolitely, for that was not the way of the Foxwell sisters. But it was clear the audience was over. The messages had been delivered. Her purpose for being here had been fulfilled. That was all there was to it.

  Back out in the Jeep, she started the engine but sat with both hands on the steering wheel for a few moments, shivering in the cold cab as she stared out at the sea.

  What the heck does it all mean?

  Again, more riddles without answers. In this particular case, esoteric pronouncements from a questionable woman’s dreams.

  How should she take these new bits of information? As clues in a larger puzzle? Or the mad ramblings of a delusional woman?

  Maybe all three of them were delusional.

  But maybe not.

  Deep in thought, she turned the Jeep around and headed back to Blueberry Acres. Despite the lemon squares, she was hungry. She decided to stop off at the house and make something to eat, and then head over to Maggie’s place and see if they could find her a dress for tonight.

  Ten minutes later, her mind occupied by mysterious matters, she steered the Jeep into the snowplowed lane that led to the farmhouse at Blueberry Acres. Right after the turnoff, the lane dipped a little as it came in from the main road, resulting in a low spot where a layer of ice sat all winter long. She negotiated this section carefully, for it could be treacherous. As she drove over the icy patch, she looked down at it through the driver’s-side window.

  When she looked up again and out through the front windshield, she saw the white moose standing directly in her path.

  Twenty-Three

  Candy slammed on the brakes, causing the tires to lose their grip on the road and sending the Jeep into a skid. Had the original owner of the vehicle added the optional antilock braking system, she probably wouldn’t have had much of a problem. As it was, the vehicle’s tail end swung around to the right, she cranked the wheel to the left, and the back end of Jeep slid deep into a four-foot-high bank of snow piled up by the side of the road.

  In a rush of light and sound, the vehicle came to a stop with a solid whulmpf as the back right tire wedged deeply in the tightly packed snow.

  Candy had her seat belt on, so she was fine. Calmly she put the shifter into park, switched off the engine, and sat for several moments with her hands on the steering wheel and her foot still on the brake. She was more upset at herself than shaken. She’d skidded off the road before. Just about everyone who drove in New England during the winter had at one time or another. It went with the territory. One day on the way home from work you just hit a patch of black ice and the road went out from underneath you. That’s the way it happened. But this time, it had been her own fault, because she’d known she was traveling over a dangerous icy patch.

  Still…

  She turned her head as she lifted it, and looked out the right-hand side of the windshield.

  The white moose stood stoically, unmoving, its head raised. It was staring off into the distance, its thickly furred ears perked, as if it had heard a sound far off.

  Candy shook her head, let out a breath, unbuckled her seat belt, and climbed out of the cab.

  The moose turned its head toward her.

  “What are you doing here?” Candy asked, not sure whether to be angry or thrilled.

  It looked at her forlornly.

  “Oh boy.” She suddenly remembered what Maggie and Ben had told her.

  The last thing she needed right now was a lovesick moose standing between her and lunch. She tried her best not to look too attractive, which wasn’t that hard today.

  “Um, listen,” she said gently. “I wish I didn’t have to be the one to point this out, but you’re blocking my path. I can’t get home. And I would sure like to get inside where it’s warm. So I don’t suppose you could move aside?”

  The moose dropped its head, searching the snow-covered ground for something to munch on. Spotting an item of interest, it took a few steps toward her, snorting as it came closer, stopping no more than a dozen feet away. It sniffed at the ground but found nothing. Giving up, it raised its head again to its full, majestic height.

  Even at that distance, it seemed to tower over her. She couldn’t help but take a step back as she looked up at it. “Wow, you really are a big fellow,” she said, marveling at the size of the creature this close. And, to be honest, she felt a little intimidated by it. She was out here all alone, facing down a moose in the open, with no one else around to help if the animal should suddenly turn wild.

  She considered climbing back into the Jeep, but hesitated.

  Rather than look aggressive, the moose seemed, well, interested. Maybe even curious. It turned its head so its left eye could get a better look at her, and blinked several times.

  Candy didn’t know what to think.

  It turned to look toward the woods, then back at her.

  Candy followed its gaze, puzzled. An odd thought struck her.

  It wants something, she realized. It keeps looking toward the woods. Does that mean…?

  The next moment, Elizabeth’s words came to her: Follow the light.

  Candy’s head tiled. The white moose? Was that what she meant?

  She barked out a quick laugh, which caused the moose to look at her warily. “That’s crazy,” she said to herself.

  Moose didn’t come out of the woods and beckon you to follow them. Those sorts of things just didn’t happen. After all, this wasn’t Lassie. The moose wasn’t here to save the day. This was the real world.

  Of course, this was Cape Willington, where strange things were known to happen—like a playboy falling off a cliff, or someone committing murder for a lobster stew recipe.

  Or an old hermit stumbling across a body in the woods…

  Abruptly the moose snorted softly, swung its head around, and lumbered away toward the back field, moving gracefully.

  It headed straight toward the spot where Solomon had emerged from the woods, two days earlier.

  That struck Candy as oddly coincidental.

  Or maybe it wasn’t a coincidence.

  She watched the moose amble away, and could practically feel the pull it had on her.

  On an impulse, she hurried back to the Jeep and grabbed her tote bag. She fished out a notepad and pen, scribbled a quick note, and along with the keys, left it sitting on the driver’s seat, in plain view, so Doc could see it if he looked in the window.

  From the backseat, she took an extra scarf, her spare knit cap, and an extra pair of fleece gloves, all of which she shoved into her coat pockets. Just in case.

  She looked up. The sky was still clear, though starting to become overcast in the west. Another cold front would move through later in the day, bringing flurries again, but she knew she had at least a few hours before the inclement weather arrived.

  She’d be fine as long as it didn’t snow, since anyone who came behind her would be able to follow her footprints, and she’d be able to follow her own tracks back out. Snow, of course, would cover them, making it mor
e difficult for someone to come after her, or for her to retrace her steps.

  Another thought came to her then. She looked down at her torso. She was wearing the same jacket she’d had on yesterday, when she’d gone into the woods with Ben.

  She unzipped it about halfway and stuck her hand inside, feeling at an interior coat pocket. The compass Ben had given her was safely tucked away, zipped into its own compartment.

  That made her feel more secure. No matter what happens, she thought, I should be able to find my way out if I get turned around.

  As she zipped up again, she turned and looked out across the snowy field, toward the woods. The moose was already heading up the distant ridge toward the upper tree line, moving at a steady clip.

  Candy snugged her jacket tighter around her and started after it at a brisk pace.

  Twenty-Four

  Once again, the woods closed in around her, though this time it felt different.

  Perhaps it was the presence of the moose, which, in some way, calmed her. She felt she could trust the animal, no matter what it was up to or where it was leading her. And she felt certain it wasn’t leading her into danger.

  Or perhaps she felt the way she did because she knew this was exactly what she should be doing, at exactly this time. She’d asked all the questions. The answers, she’d known instinctively for a while, were here, hidden in these woods. If she wanted to know what was going on, she would have to unravel its secrets.

  And who better to lead her into the secret heart of the woods than a white moose?

  There was something almost mythical—and mystical—about it, she decided as she followed the creature, her boots crunching in the hard snow. She stayed a safe distance behind it, though she rarely let it out of her sight. It reminded her of a quest, perhaps one in which a misunderstood princess chased a sacred unicorn into the forbidden woods, beginning an adventure that would change her life.

  That sounded strangely pleasant, a little girl’s fantasies. But some fairy tales, Candy knew, had a darker side.

  She wondered how this one would turn out.

  Several times the moose stopped, turning its head first one way, then another, before proceeding on at its casual yet steady gait. It led her first northwest and then angled almost due west, she noted as she checked the compass. It was heading off toward the far back end of the farm’s acreage and onto adjoining land, some of it belonging to neighboring farms and some set aside for conservation.

  As many times as she’d been back here, it always seemed new and unexplored to her. On previous walks through these woods, she’d routinely picked out landmarks to help her determine her whereabouts, but the landmarks always seemed to change each time she passed through.

  A great, low-slung pine tree with layers of thick needled branches curving upward, like overturned umbrellas, would grab her eye one time, but try as hard as she might she’d never be able to find that tree again, as if it had moved on her or changed itself to become unrecognizable. Or a ridge would appear to face a different direction than she’d remembered, or a fallen tree trunk, rotted with age, would show up in a place completely unexpected, and she would gaze at it, wondering if it had been there and looked like that the last time she’d come through here.

  The icy layers of winter made it worse. Everything seemed to have changed. Everything looked different than before. Every once in a while she would see something she’d vaguely recognize, but she could never be quite sure.

  At several points she stopped to look back, wondering whether she’d be able to follow her footprints back out of the woods. For the most part, she thought she could. She knew the general direction of Blueberry Acres, at least during the early part of her journey, but once deep in the woods it was easy to become turned around.

  The moose skirted an open, boggy area where tall, dry reeds poked out of the fluffy covering of snow, and angled off along a frozen stream that wound through the trees.

  She followed, her body warming as she walked.

  On occasion the moose would stop and linger at a particularly leafy bush or a cluster of underbrush sticking out through the snow. At these times Candy waited patiently, doing her best to stay warm, until the moose was ready to move on.

  She’d lost track of time, but when she looked at her watch she realized she’d been in the woods fewer than thirty minutes. It seemed like hours, and her legs were beginning to tire.

  She squinted up ahead toward the moose. “How much longer?” she asked. But if it heard her, it gave no indication.

  She shoved her hands deeper into her pockets and pressed on, following the moose deeper into the woods.

  They were passing through an area unfamiliar to her now. It was rockier, with high outcroppings of granite, some encrusted in ice. She felt as if the land was older here, as if it had existed longer, or maybe it was so rarely frequented by humans that it seemed ancient and timeless.

  The moose stopped, but Candy continued on a few more paces, watching it and looking into the woods beyond.

  “Is something up there?” she asked quietly, gazing ahead through the trees.

  As if waiting for a signal, the moose continued on, though more slowly now, following a scent in the air.

  A short distance later, Candy smelled it too—the smoke of a fire.

  Later, she realized he’d done that on purpose, as a way to guide her—and perhaps the moose as well—to his location. For if she’d been looking for him, she had a strange suspicion she’d never find him, even if she passed him by only a few paces.

  The moose climbed a rise, nudged through a thick stand of low trees and around an outcropping of rock, and came to a stop before a high, weathered wall of stone, dark gray and black, except for the places where it was spotted thickly with red, gold, and salmon-colored lichen.

  Candy’s gaze instinctively rose to the top of the granite wall, forty or fifty feet high, and then down along its face, her gaze following a ragged black crack. Near the base of the rock wall the crack opened into a cleft wide enough for a man to crawl through.

  That’s where the smoke is coming from, she thought. The smoke of a wood fire.

  Not inside the cleft, she realized as she got closer, but just outside. In a cleared space framed by rock and woods, someone was tending a fire.

  He wore a brown woolen Russian-style winter cap with earflaps fully extended, and had tossed a green military blanket over his shoulders.

  The moment he turned to face her, she knew who it was.

  Solomon Hatch.

  Twenty-Five

  Her first reaction was one of relief. “Solomon! Here you are! I was so worried about you.”

  But her attitude quickly shifted to one of concern, edged with a touch of indignant anger. “What’s going on? Why aren’t you at your cabin?”

  His face was thin, craggy, and windburned, showing off all the years he’d lived alone in the woods. His salt-and-pepper beard was more wild than she remembered, and the angled light coming down along the granite wall heightened the sharpness of his high, weathered cheeks, which practically cast their own shadows. He wore dark brown pants tucked into calf-high boots, and a flannel shirt so faded she couldn’t be sure of its color. It might have been green once or a deep shade of gray, or perhaps even violet or blue. There was no way to tell for sure.

  He scrutinized her with eyes that resembled the granite cliff behind him in both color and flintiness. “Can’t go there,” he announced, turning back toward the fire. He poked at it with a stick that was heavily charred at one end. A few low flames sputtered. “Too many people around there.”

  She let out a breath and put her hands to her sides. “Do you know they’re looking for you?”

  He turned halfway back toward her, lowering his eyebrows. “I figured as much.”

  “Solomon.” Her voice softened, and she stepped around so she could get a better look at him. He had his hat on today, so she couldn’t see his forehead, but she knew he had been injured. “Do you need medica
l care? A doctor? How’s your head?”

  “Oh, it’s just fine. I fixed it up.” He reached up and slipped off his hat so he could show her where he had put a dressing over the gash in his head.

  She studied it for a few moments. “Are you injured anywhere else?”

  “Nope.” He lowered his hat and shrugged the blanket back over his shoulders.

  “Then what’s this all about?”

  He gave her an odd look. “To tell you the truth, I wish I knew.”

  “What are you doing out here in the woods?”

  “I told you, ’cause I wanted to get some peace and quiet.” He jerked a thumb behind him. “But it’s all because of that durned creature.”

  Candy looked in the direction he indicated. Half hidden among the trees, the moose lingered in the woods nearby, nosing around lazily for any greenery it could find.

  Thoughtfully she turned back to the old hermit. “What happened?”

  He cocked an eyebrow, made a face, and motioned toward the other side of the fire. “I’ll tell you, but you might as well take a load off your feet. You can sit down over there. I fixed you a place.”

  “You—?” She tilted her head as her gaze shifted.

  On the opposite side of the fire sat a rustic chair made from stripped tree branches of various sizes, patched together with twine and vines and probably a few old nails he had scavenged somewhere. It looked a dozen years old, and probably had been sitting out here in the weather since he’d made it from whatever he could find around the camp, she surmised. He’d dressed it up with a multicolored cushion and had laid a blanket on the seat.

  It looked as if he’d been waiting for her.

  “You knew I was coming?”

  “I suspected you’d get here eventually,” he confirmed. He pointed to a black iron kettle sitting on flat rocks at one side of the fire, steam drifting from its curved spout. “Tea?”

  “Tea?” Candy’s gaze shifted again. She noticed two tin mugs sitting on a larger flat rock beside the fire, and a few tea bags inside a pocket of crinkled tinfoil.