by Kirk Watson
“Can’t I do both?” John said, shoving a small potato in his mouth.
“Only if you want me to be sick.”
John laughed and set his fork down. “Well, Lisa, I’m afraid we don’t have much of a plan yet. I’ll start digging around for information, maybe talk to my old boss at the Post, and once we have a lead, we’ll go find her.”
“Don’t worry, Ray,” Lisa said. “I’m sure Emily’s all right. We’ll find her.”
“No, we won’t,” John said. “It’s far too dangerous. Ray and I will go alone. You girls have already been through enough.”
“But—”
“But nothing. This isn’t up for discussion.”
Violet began to tear up. “I knew it. You’re getting rid of us!”
“No, no, no,” John said, waving his paws. “Far from it, Violet. You can stay here as long as you like. Or at least with Mrs. Nubblin while Ray and I are away.”
“Your crazy next-door neighbor?” Lisa asked. “Great. That’s all I need—a deranged babysitter.”
“Will she mind?” Violet asked.
“All of her children have moved out, Violet, so I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to have you two stay with her for a while. But I need you girls to promise me you’ll be good. Don’t be giving Mrs. Nubblin any trouble while we’re gone.”
“We won’t,” Violet said. “She seems nice.”
“Oh, she is,” John said, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. As long as you’re name isn’t John Grey. “I’m sure she’ll keep you girls entertained with all sorts of arts and crafts and such.”
“Sounds like a hoot,” Lisa said, picking at her plate with her fork.
“Give her a chance, Lisa. Ray and I shouldn’t be gone too long; I’m sure we’ll find Emily in no time.”
“And what are we supposed to do while you’re gone? Knit sweaters with Mrs. Nubblin?”
“It’s funny you ask. I was thinking it’s high time you girls were back in school.”
Lisa dropped her fork on her plate. “Aw, I don’t want to go to school.”
“I don’t mind,” Violet said. “I like school.”
Lisa rolled her eyes. “You would.”
John chuckled. “It really is an excellent school. Langley Prep has the finest teachers in Woodland.”
“A prep school? I don’t know, John. It sounds kind of fancy. Violet and I never had much schooling; are you sure we can even get in?”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. The headmaster and I go way back. I’m sure he’ll be tickled to see his old pal John again. I’ll pull a few strings and see about getting you enrolled.”
“What will you tell him? You know, about us?”
John thought about what the girls had been through and their mysterious past. I don’t know what sort of trouble you girls are in, but you’re definitely running from something. I’ll do my best to protect you, but will I be able to hide you forever?
“I’ll tell him you’re my nieces—that your mother hasn’t been well, and you’ll be staying with me for a while. Remember, you’re Lisa and Violet Grey now. If anybody asks, that’s your story. I can’t stress this enough: stick to the story. No matter who asks—be it the headmaster, Mrs. Nubblin, or even the cute boy in the back row of class—stick to the story. Got it?”
“Got it,” the girls said in unison.
“And one more thing,” John said, leaning in. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “This is important, so listen closely.”
“What is it?” Lisa asked, leaning in closer.
“I need you girls to do something for me while I’m gone.”
“Anything,” Lisa whispered. “Just name it.”
John hesitated for a moment, shifting his gaze between Lisa and Violet. He took a deep breath and began to speak. “There’s something about me you girls don’t know, something of the utmost importance, but I’m not sure you’re going to like what I have to tell you…”
“You can trust us,” Lisa said. Violet nodded in agreement.
John took a deep breath. “All right, here goes. While you’re over at Mrs. Nubblin’s, if you girls do happen to knit any sweaters, you should know… blue really complements my eyes.”
Lisa groaned. “Oh, that does it!” She threw a roll and hit John in the face.
“What?” John asked, laughing. “I’m just thinking of our future. If we had some matching outfits, we could start a band, maybe put together some choreographed dance steps.” He stood from his chair and spun on one foot.
Lisa laughed. “You call that dancing?”
“I call that one righteous move, little lady. You just don’t know talent when you see it.” He began sliding side to side, clapping his paws in the air and cocking his head at each transition.
“You mean righteously stupid. This is how you do it.” Lisa stood and began dancing; Violet joined in, giggling.
“Now you’re talking,” John said. “We’ll call ourselves The John Grey Quartet.”
“Who gave you top billing?” Lisa asked.
“Well, it was my idea, Lisa. And since I’m obviously the most talented—” He attempted to do a split, but fell over backwards.
“Obviously,” Lisa said, laughing as she helped him back up. “But I don’t think Ray’s too keen on the idea.”
Ray stared at his plate and grunted. John wasn’t sure, but he thought he caught just a hint of a smile from the burly squirrel.
“Ray can be the mysterious, brooding member,” John said. “Every great band needs one.”
Ray set down his fork and narrowed his eyes.
“Or maybe not,” John said, pulling at his collar. “Who’s ready for some dessert?”
“Me!” Violet said.
John brought out the cherry pie, a bowl of banana pudding, and some assorted pastries.
“I still can’t believe you’re making us go to school,” Lisa said, scooping some pudding into her bowl.
“It will be good for you to meet some people your own age,” John said. “Don’t you want to lead a normal, healthy life?”
Lisa spooned a helping of pudding into her mouth. “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?” she mumbled.
John set his spoon down and got serious. “No, Lisa, I don’t. As long as you’re still breathing, it’s never too late. Don’t you forget that. That goes for both of you.” He picked up his spoon. “Just give school a chance; you never know, you might actually like it.”
Lisa sat back with a pouty look, but just for a moment. She twisted a finger in the fur on her head. “Do you really think there will be a cute boy in the back row of class?”
John nearly choked on his pudding.
“Welcome to my world, Mr. Grey,” Ray said with a slight grin.
“All right, all right,” John said, waving his paws frantically. “New back story! You’re a couple of nuns on sabbatical—”
“Boo!” the girls hissed, and John had to shield himself from the incoming barrage of pastries. The squirrels laughed and quibbled into the night, and when the last sliver of cherry pie was gone, Violet grew drowsy. She began to nod off at the table.
“I think it’s past someone’s bedtime,” John said. “Lisa, there’s a spare bedroom at the end of the hall upstairs.”
“I’m not sleepy,” Violet yawned. “I’m just resting.”
“Come on,” Lisa said. “Let’s get you to bed. Good night, boys.” Violet gave John and Ray a hug before Lisa led her up the stairs. John divvied up the last of the wine between his and Ray’s glasses.
“So, you really think you’re up to it, Mr. Grey?” Ray asked.
“Finding Emily? It might take some serious sleuthing, but I’m sure we’ll catch a break.”
“I meant raising two girls. It’s far more dangerous.”
John laughed and raised his glass. “I fear you may be right.”
Ray clinked John’s outstretched glass with his own. They sat quietly, enjoying their first moment of peace in days.
Whe
n the last of the wine was gone, John stood and stretched. “I believe I’ll call it a night. Will you be all right down here?”
“I’ll be fine,” Ray said. “That couch is calling my name. Good night, Mr. Grey.”
“Good night, Mr. Grimm.”
John took a couple of empty plates from the table and headed for the stairs.
Ray cleared his throat. “Mr. Grey?”
John stopped to look back. “Yes?”
The large squirrel began to speak, then paused and looked down at the floor. “I’ll pay for the door.”
John smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Grimm.”
He headed up the stairs and into the kitchen. Down the hall, he could hear the girls arguing over the beds. He shook his head and smiled as he set the dirty dishes in the sink.
The rest can wait until morning.
He walked down the hallway towards his bedroom. For some reason he did not fully understand, he stopped at his office door; it stood open, beckoning him inside. He entered, walking past his award shelf with the open space in the middle, and sat in his desk chair. His eyes turned to the typewriter. In it was a single sheet of paper:
By the time you read this, I’ll already be dead.
It seemed so long since he had written those words; it might as well have been a lifetime. He touched the wedding band on his finger, twisting it slowly. From a picture frame on his desk, Sharon smiled up at him. He picked the frame up and traced her face with a finger. After a long moment, he smiled back. He carried the frame to his award shelf and placed it in the empty spot in the middle.
You were always my greatest prize, Sharon. Someday I’ll see you again—but not today. I know you’ll understand. You always encouraged me to help others, but I was always so focused on you and, truth be told, on myself. I was selfish, even in my love for you. But now I get it, Sharon. As much as I miss you, there are people here who need me. I have too much to live for to leave this world so soon. You said you’d wait for me forever, and I promise you it won’t be nearly so long, but I’ll be back here tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that—for however long it takes, until we’re together again.
He sat back down at his desk. The page in the typewriter stared back at him.
By the time you read this, I’ll already be dead.
He ripped the page from the typewriter, wadded it into a ball, and threw it into the wastebasket. He inserted a fresh sheet of paper and made up his mind to write again for the first time in six months. But not for himself, and not even for Sharon. No, this time he would write for those that needed him most—for the downtrodden and the dejected, for the forgotten and the fallen. But would the words still elude him?
He placed his paws over the keys, and for a moment, they began to tremble. His eyes filled with panic as the vertigo washed over him, a familiar falling sensation in the pit of his stomach, threatening to drag him back to his darkest depths. He instinctively reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of acorn spirits. He removed the cork and raised the bottle to his lips, but just before imbibing, he hesitated. His eyes turned to his award shelf, where Sharon smiled back at him from the picture frame.
Just breathe.
He set the bottle down, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, remembering a promise he had once made—Live, John Grey.
John began typing with vigor:
THE WOODLANDER
by John Grey
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
If you ever have the opportunity to write a book, I hope you’re fortunate enough to receive the same level of support from friends and family that I did—support from some amazing people who not only believe you should pursue your dreams, but also are willing to sacrifice their own time to help you achieve those dreams. In that spirit, I’d like to thank all the amazing people who were instrumental in bringing The Woodlander to life:
My friend Carol Kutryb, who meticulously went through a hardcopy of the first draft with a red pen, marking all my missteps and blunders. Even today, I feel guilty for asking you to take on such a monumental task, but your comments and insights inspired me to write a better book. I’m forever grateful. And yes, in my world, squirrels do have thumbs.
My friend Thanh Huynh, whose optimism and encouragement strengthened my resolve to finish this book. Your positive spirit is a rare and precious commodity in today’s world, so don’t go a-changing! Well, lose the biting sarcasm, but other than that, don’t go a-changing!
My sister Tracy Mercer, who may have been skeptical going in, but I believe I won her over. I knew if I could impress my little sister, I just might be on to something. Thank you for all your support and encouragement. Your dumb brother appreciates it!
My friend and band mate Pete James, whose initial comment after reading the first few chapters was, “It’s a real book!” Thanks, Pete, that was my goal. But seriously, thank you for all the feedback and support. You’ve been a true friend, and a great drummer.
My editor A.L. Walton, whose grasp of the English language may only be surpassed by his encyclopedic knowledge of forest animals. Thank you for smoothing out an otherwise bumpy ride.
Lastly, I’d like to thank my parents, Milton and Ann Watson. Thank you for believing in me, not just as I wrote this book, but throughout my life. And thank you for providing me with so many books as a kid; I didn’t know it at the time, but they meant the world to me.
And sorry for all the swearing.
A sneak preview from book two of The Grey Tales:
Grimm & Grey
Prologue
OLD BONES, FRESH BLOOD
Over the course of his thirty years in office, Sheriff Logan Underhill had been called to hundreds of crime scenes, but never one as baffling as this. The grizzled gopher knelt down in the carrot field and peered into the open grave. Bones protruded from the dirt below, pale with age—a femur here, a rib there, and smack-dab in the center, a skull with two prominent front teeth smiled up at him. Sheriff Underhill shuddered; no matter how many times he experienced such a sight, he could never get used to the way the skulls seemed to smile.
Squirrel, he thought, staring back at the empty eye sockets, probably female. Been buried here for years, by the looks of it. But who dug her up, and why now?
He had a pretty good idea who was at the bottom of that grave: Liana Ballinger. Liana had vanished years ago from Land’s End, a rural community on the southern edge of Woodland, leaving behind a husband and two children. Her sudden disappearance had been the talk of the town—the rumors and gossip still persisted to this day—but Sheriff Underhill paid little attention to such idle talk. He dealt in hard truths, and until evidence proved otherwise, Liana was simply missing. Perhaps he was an optimist, but he had clung to the hope that she would turn up someday in some faraway town, alive and well. Or perhaps he just needed to believe she would; he had already faced too many hard truths over his long career.
But now, as he contemplated those bones at the bottom of the grave, the truth of Liana Ballinger’s disappearance stared him in the face. What was more, he had a strong notion of who had put her there: her husband, Stefan Ballinger. A hot-tempered squirrel with a nasty disposition, Stefan had a rap sheet as long as his tail. He was no stranger to Sheriff Underhill’s sparse jail cell, having spent many a night there for drunk and disorderly behavior, but never for anything as ghastly as this.
Sheriff Underhill had come to know Stefan quite well over the years, but they were far from friends. He only needed one look in Stefan’s eyes to know the squirrel was rotten to the core. Not only was he a drunk, but an angry drunk at that, often vowing revenge on those he perceived to have wronged him. Sitting in his jailhouse office, Sheriff Underhill would listen to Stefan’s drunken rants, which often extended into the wee hours of the morning. From the bankers who held Stefan’s mortgage to the sheriff himself, his list of sworn enemies seemed boundless, even extending to his own family, whom he was convinced were conspiring against him.
Sheriff Underhill had
feared for the safety of the Ballinger children, but there was little he could do to protect them—after all, being rotten was hardly a crime. So, he’d lock Stefan up when he could and release him in the morning after he had sobered up, praying this day would never come.
But the day had come. Sheriff Underhill picked at the loose dirt surrounding the open grave. It was sticky, clumping together. He sniffed at his fingers.
Blood.
He shouldn’t have been surprised. Upon arriving at the farm, he had found the porch covered in blood. He had sent his deputy to check the house while he followed the trail of blood to the field. He wasn’t optimistic of a positive outcome. In his experience, that amount of blood usually led to a body. And so it had. But still, it didn’t make any sense. The bones in the grave had been buried for years; there were no traces of flesh or fur remaining on them. So where did all the blood come from?
Old bones, fresh blood…
As Sheriff Underhill pondered this riddle, his deputy came running up from the farmhouse. The younger gopher bent over to catch his breath, casually peering into the grave. He nearly lost his lunch.
“Easy, Grimes,” Underhill said. “You’ll need a stronger stomach if you’re going to take over for me after I retire.”
Deputy Grimes nodded, wiping his mouth with the back of his paw. “Sorry, sheriff.”
“Anybody inside?”
Deputy Grimes shook his head. “No, sir. I knocked, but nobody answered. The door was unlocked, so I let myself in.”
“Find anything?”
“Nobody’s home, and there were no signs of a struggle.”
Sheriff Underhill gave him a skeptical look. “You mean other than all that blood on the front porch?”
Deputy Grimes blushed. “Yes, sir. Other than the blood.”
Sheriff Underhill hid his smile. He liked Deputy Grimes, despite his rather unfortunate name. Even more unfortunate in that the sheriff’s own daughter would soon share that name—the two were engaged to be married in the fall. Sheriff Underhill reckoned he could do worse for a son-in-law, but Grimes didn’t need to know that. After all, Grimes was still a greenhorn, and greenhorns had to pay their dues, no matter who your future father-in-law might be. Law enforcement required a certain fortitude that could only be gained through hard experience—he’d be doing Grimes no favors by taking it easy on him now. Plus, Sheriff Underhill enjoyed watching the young gopher squirm.