by Laura Crum
Another lovely autumn day. Just right for a hike in the woods.
Mac was instantly enthusiastic at my plan; Blue not so much.
“Can we go see where you found the body?” my son asked.
I was prepared for this; I’d known Mac would need to investigate this turn of events in his own way.
Ignoring Blue’s look, I said, “Yes, we can go sort of near there. I don’t think the cops will want us to go too close. But I can explain to you how it was.”
“Good,” Mac said, and I saw that though he hadn’t mentioned it, the body in the woods had been on his mind. Best we face it directly.
“And I want to find the mystery light,” I added.
“Can you see it now?” Blue asked.
I went to my spot by the hall window and peered. In full daylight it was hard to see but if you knew where to look it was still there.
“Yep,” I said. “Come see.”
Blue and Mac observed and concurred. We all agreed that it looked like it was on the ridge trail and yet there was nothing on that trail to cause it.
“We’ll find out, Mama.” Mac was obviously ready for this new adventure.
In an hour, after breakfast, we strolled down our driveway, Freckles on her leash. The autumn sunlight cast crisp, cool shadows and the air smelled sweet. Despite yesterday’s events, I felt my spirits rising at the thought of a walk in the woods.
We crossed the busy road at the foot of our driveway, taking our time. Then we were plunging into the tangled woods, pushing through scattered strands of poison oak that reached out to grab us, seeing the openness and light of the first small meadow glowing through the oak tree trunks and rambling vines. Mac led the way; I followed; Blue and the dog brought up the rear.
The earth was damp and soft; Sunny’s hoofprints were fresh and unmistakable—this was the way I’d ridden home yesterday evening. Now that I was so much nearer the ground, I could also see the prints of deer and what looked like a coyote, judging by both prints and scat.
Sure enough, as we entered the small meadow, motion at the far side of the clearing drew my eye. Mac had already halted. “Look, Mama,” he said softly.
A slender young coyote glanced back at us as he melted into the forest. Just a moment of grayish-brown dog shape, long pointed muzzle, pricked ears, turning and leaving. By the time Blue reached us, the creature had vanished. Freckles, grown increasingly deaf and short-sighted with age, did not seem to be aware that the coyote was nearby. I wondered if it was the pup I’d seen last summer, and silently wished him luck. Life could be very hard on yearling coyotes.
We trudged on up the hill, into the oak trees, shadows barring and dappling the trail. My mind wandered, thinking of the coyote, how he had simply appeared in the clearing. That was the thing about wild animals. These hills were full of them—deer, coyotes, bobcats, even cougars. And yet one went along and saw nothing. And then, in a moment, sitting on the porch, walking down the drive, hiking across a meadow, a shape appeared, and suddenly one was face to face with the wild. It was endlessly magical, constantly engrossing. And despite how often it happened, always unexpected.
The hill was getting steeper, and I paused to catch my breath. Mac charged ahead, eager to get to the top of the slope, where we might see the ridgeline and perhaps spot the mystery light. I could see his silhouette above me, striding along through the shadows. Mac could easily outhike me these days, and again my mind whispered nostalgically of the many times we had hiked in these woods when he was younger. Times when he was a very little boy.
An image leaped into my mind—not so many years ago, coming down the logging road one sunny winter afternoon. In my mind I see a young boy hiking down a green hill in brilliant sunshine. The boy is skipping and running more than hiking; he follows the old roadbed, leading west toward the bright light of the afternoon sun, which illuminates the new grass around us in a blaze of golden green. Papa and dog follow the boy; I am last, trudging down the hill, out of breath from the climb to the Lookout. The figures ahead of me are dark silhouettes against the thrilling sharpness of the winter light.
For that one moment I take it all in. The happy prancing boy, the complete family unit, the lovely shining California winter afternoon. My eyes lift and I can see the distant, tiny, triangular shape of our porch roof gable, far away on the opposite ridge. We are hiking the hills of home.
In that moment I am aware of how happy I am. I hope I can hold the image forever, though I know, as time passes, I may forget. But for now, I do hold the picture bright in my mind, crystal clear, a moment of pure and perfect joy.
“Come on, Mama.” Mac’s voice breaks into my reverie; he is looking down at me from further up the slope. “Come on.”
I smile back at him and am aware that despite the yellow tape ahead, cordoning off the spot where Jane Kelly was shot, I am happy now, hiking with Blue and Mac. Nothing holds still, everything passes. For now, we remain.
Taking a deep breath, I plod on up the slope. Mac is waiting for me at the top and together we gaze through the screen of tangled scrub at the ridge across the valley, where we both know the ridge trail, and the mysterious light, are located. But we can see nothing unusual. Eucalyptus tree crowns rise in the morning sky, their tall, slender, pale trunks outlined against the shadows beneath them. No artificial light sparkles anywhere.
My eyes drop to the valley beneath us. Here, through the tangle of vines and bushes that screen us, I can see the paved suburban drive called Storybook Road. Along the road are perhaps a dozen large houses, all newish, all landscaped, all to my mind similarly ugly. Blue and I call them McMansions. This is the subdivision that was built in what was once a lovely meadow, not all that many years ago.
Mac follows my eyes and I raise a finger to my lips. He nods. We both know the rule. We don’t speak to each other unnecessarily as we ride or hike near the subdivision. I had never forgotten the time that I had followed the old, much used trail along the pristinely paved road and been run off with many threats of invoking the sheriff’s department by one of the new residents.
I could still remember the middle-aged man’s face, contorted with rage, as he bellowed, “I told you damn horse people to stay away. You can’t ride here anymore. I’ll have the sheriffs on you!”
Fortunately, Mac had not been with me. But since then, I had used the little sidehill trail we were now hiking to avoid the subdivision and its hostile residents, and I had taught Mac to be quiet as we skirted the big houses. No doubt the inmates were all inside viewing some sort of electronic device, and we would not be visible to any but a skilled eye as we slipped through the brush, but still, there was no use making trouble we did not need to have. And some of the pet dogs had sharper eyes and ears than the owners.
We tromped on through the speckled shadows and flecks of dappled sunlight, moving silently through the woods, glancing from time to time at the opposite ridge, trying to spot the mystery light. No dice. Nothing there but trees.
Eventually we topped the ridge we were hiking and dropped over onto the other side. We were past the houses of the subdivision now, and rapidly approaching the spot we called the warm meadow. Mac moved steadily along ahead of me with a swinging stride and I had to trot to catch up with him. I tapped his shoulder and said softly, “Wait a minute.”
Obediently, Mac halted, and in another moment Blue and Freckles were beside us. We stood in a little group, staring down across the sloping golden meadow, dotted with wild asters and baby’s breath, warm in the sunny autumn morning. We could all see the strip of bright yellow at the bottom of the hill. We all knew what it was.
“Can we go down there?” Mac asked.
“It’s got crime scene tape around it,” I said unnecessarily. I was thinking of Jane’s sightless eyes and the red hole in her chest.
“I doubt anyone’s there,” Blue said calmly. “The cops don’t have enough resources these days to post guards on a crime scene like this. If we don’t touch anything, we should be fin
e.”
“Let’s go.” Mac was already striding down the slope.
I followed him, reassuring myself that the body was gone. At the most all we would see was some trampled ground.
This proved to be the case. We passed the spot where the four single-track trails met, and as we approached the pine tree that I’d tethered Dolly to, I could see that the crime scene tape encircled a small area of ground that looked as though many feet had trodden there recently. That was all there was to see.
“Her body was there.” I pointed, in answer to Mac’s inquiring glance.
“Somebody shot her,” he said quietly, staring at the spot. “While she was riding her horse. I wonder why.”
Silence greeted this remark. I imagined we were all wondering why. Was it some issue from her personal life, come back to haunt her with a vengeance? I thought of Sheryl Silverman, riding through the woods with black anger in her face and shivered. People did kill each other over stolen boyfriends or spouses. It happened all the time. Hard as it was to believe, it was a fairly common motive for murder. I decided not to discuss this with Mac.
“Can we go?” I asked plaintively.
Blue and Mac both glanced my way and then looked at each other.
“Let’s go find the mystery light, Mama,” Mac said.
Walking on past the yellow tape, we hiked across the warm meadow, not talking. We all knew that only perhaps a hundred yards away on our right lay the massive houses of the subdivision, screened as they were by trees. No use alerting any dogs or people to our presence.
Slowly the warm meadow narrowed, became choked by willows and scrub, as it approached a steep north slope ahead. The trail passed a dry hollow where a pond of peepers would shrill in the spring, and skirted a stony streambed which would then be filled with running water. We moved into the shadow of the ridge and the temperature seemed to drop at least ten degrees. I could feel the chill against my face. The willows closed in overhead and we marched through a tunnel of greenery.
“We’re in the cold valley now,” Mac said softly. He’d been hiking and riding these trails for many years. Like me, he knew every inch of them.
The trail started up the hill, entering a grove of redwoods. I stopped to rest, out of breath, and spotted a bright yellow banana slug, creeping through the dark brown redwood duff. I bent to peer at it. Banana slugs were not unusual, but all of the wild creatures were interesting, large and small. That was the thing about hiking as opposed to riding. One noticed so many more little things.
I looked up. Mac had halted and was waiting for me. Blue and the dog were just behind me, also waiting.
“I found a banana slug,” I said.
“You’re not fooling us, Mama, “ Mac said. “We know you just need to catch your breath.”
“True,” I agreed. “There is a banana slug, though. Don’t step on it,” I added to Blue.
On we went, ever upward through the red-brown pillars of the redwoods, hiking in deep shade. I began puffing in earnest as I trudged. This hill was much more fun on horseback.
We emerged from the redwood grove into a leafy green tangle of wild currant and berry vines, rambling between the curving shapes of live oak trees. I followed Mac’s form as he hiked relentlessly on. Up, up, up.
More light ahead of us indicated we had almost reached the three-way trail crossing, which marked the top of the slope. I pushed hard, eager to get there, hoping that we’d rest at that point, as we often did.
Sure enough, when I reached the flat at the top of the climb, which was dominated by a huge, multi-trunked, widely branching oak, Mac had halted and was waiting. I stopped beside him, and in another moment Blue and Freckles were beside me.
“Can we rest?” I asked, aware that I was panting.
“Sure,” Blue answered. “Anyone want a drink of water? I’ve got some in my pack.” Blue always hiked with a small daypack.
We all took a drink, including Freckles. I gazed around, remembering the last time I’d been here. Sunny and I had loped up that hill I’d just sweated my way up, and I’d paused here to try to call on my cell phone. And down the ridge trail had come a man with a yellow Lab and a machete.
I stared at the spot where I’d seen him. Halfway down that little hill. He’d met my eyes. I had no sense of what he was thinking. The machete had looked vaguely ominous, but realistically, he was probably using it to clear berry vines and poison oak from the trail, and away from his shorts-clad legs. The yellow Lab had wagged his tail in a friendly fashion, as is the way of yellow Labs. I had not a clue if he had any connection to Jane’s murder.
“What about the light, Mama?” Mac’s voice interrupted my train of thought.
“We need to go down the ridge trail a way,” I said, “until we’re at the place it seems to be coming from. Down in the eucalyptus.”
“Let’s go,” Blue said.
On we went. Up the hill where I’d seen the hiker yesterday. I found what I thought were his bootprints in the dust, neatly superimposed on many horse hoofprints. I wasn’t sure what good this was. As I hiked along, I would spot his track, then lose it, then spot it again. The man had clearly been coming down the ridge trail.
We entered a grove of big Monterey pines, some of them tipped over to make big stumps. Off to our right I could see a faint trail that led down to the landmark tree. I kept hiking, following Mac. From time to time I looked down at the dusty trail, but I no longer spotted the hiker’s footprints. Lots of horse hoofprints, the occasional deer. Mac’s very fresh footprints. That was it.
We were in the eucalyptus forest now. When Mac was a very small child he’d christened this the “Five Thousand Eucalyptus Tree Forest,” in honor, I always supposed, of the Hundred Acre Wood in Winnie-the-Pooh. Anyway, like many of our names, it had stuck, and we always referred to this section in this way.
The eucalyptus trees were light and airy, compared to redwoods or oaks. They were slender, towering high, moving in the slightest breeze. Light slanted between them; the ground was carpeted with long shreds of their pinkish, peeling bark, dried lance-like yellow leaves, and their small hard blue cones. We tramped along, going mostly downhill now, following the spine of the ridge.
And there, not too many feet ahead, was the wide spot in the trail where I’d stopped and visited with Jane Kelly, not twenty-four hours ago. I stared at the ground as we walked by, not willing to bring this up to Mac or Blue.
A few minutes later we passed a trail that led off to the left, downhill, through the eucalyptus. Mac glanced that way, but kept on down the ridge. He knew the spot we were aiming for. And he, like me, knew where that trail to the left went. We’d ridden and hiked it many times. It was the way I’d come up yesterday on Sunny.
Up one more hill, and now we were coming down the steep part of the ridge trail. There was much more exposure, and big views opened up to the west. Down below us on the left was a group of houses—to the right, and east, was tangled shrubbery. We slithered on down the steep trail until suddenly Mac stopped.
“Look,” he pointed.
I looked past him to see a tree across the trail up ahead. Not a huge tree. A smallish eucalyptus, lying across the trail about chest high to a horse. A very effective barrier to a mounted horseman. Too high and brushy to step or jump over, especially on this steep bit of trail.
I walked up beside Mac and looked at the tree. It had not fallen in this position, that was easy to see. It had been placed here.
Mac looked at me. “Somebody trying to block the trail?” he said questioningly. Like me, he’d seen this before.
“It looks like it,” I said.
“Why do they do this?” he asked.
“Some people don’t like horses,” I said briefly. “Fortunately, since we’re on foot we’ll have no trouble getting around it.”
Blue was beside us now, and he shrugged one shoulder. “Why don’t we just clear it?”
“Can we?” I asked.
“Sure. Someone put it there. We can move
it.”
Freckles lay down on the trail, happy to rest, as Blue and Mac moved towards the tree. Between them, tugging and dragging, the eucalyptus was shifted and summarily pushed off the side of the bank.
“Good job,” I said. Inwardly my mind was racing. I had wondered why Jane had apparently backtracked and now I thought I knew. She had come down the ridge trail, met this tree, and turned around and headed back. At a guess, she had retraced her way to the three-way trail crossing, headed down to the warm meadow, with the probable intention of riding up through the pampas grass meadow to the swingset trail and back to Moon Valley. But she hadn’t made it. Her life had ended in the warm meadow…where someone had shot her.
Mac interrupted my thoughts. “Mama, shouldn’t that light be somewhere around here?”
We’d descended a ways down the ridge trail. The houses on our left were now fairly nearby and just below us. “Yeah,” I said slowly, staring that way. Blue was looking at the houses, too.
“Those houses,” I said. Mac was staring at them, too.
The houses were actually below the trail, hidden behind the ridge from our house. We could not see them from our porch. We had never previously seen their lights.
“Look,” Mac said, and pointed.
The nearest house, a tall three-story A-frame, had signs of fresh carpentry near the peak of its roof, as if someone had put in a loft or an attic. There was a small window that looked new. And in that window sparkled a bright little light. A brighter than normal light.
“I think that’s a grow light,” Blue said mildly.
Mac said, “I think there’s a line of sight between that light and our house.”
Standing on the trail, Mac sighted back in the direction of our house on the opposite ridge. Sure enough, we could all make out the shape of our porch gable through a screen of trees. Pointing at our house with one arm, he stretched his other arm to point at the light in the A-frame window. Definitely a line of sight.
“You’re right,” I said. “I think we’ve found the mystery light. And because of the trees we can only see it from certain places—like that window in the hall.”