“Yes?” I let it hang. I wasn’t going to help him, plus, I was genuinely busy. It was 8:40 in the morning, and the diner was jumping.
“Sorry. I put the cart before the introduction. Major Pickford. I’m told that we’re neighbors,” he said while holding out a hand.
I shook it, then realized what he’d said. “You’re a major, or your name is Major?” I asked. He didn’t have that military vibe. He was squared away, but sort of loose, too. I liked it.
“No, not really. But yes, my name is Major. My mom was a music teacher.” He grinned, clearly having told the story before.
“You got off easy. She could have named you Bassoon or Clef.” I laughed, then snapped my fingers. “Tammy, right?” I asked, wondering how he’d survived the onslaught of the patented Cincotti charm. Looking him over, apparently fairly well. He didn’t seem bruised, and his smile revealed even, white teeth, all of which seemed to be in place.
“The very same.” He grimaced slightly, adding, “She’s rather a lot to take during one delivery.” If I’d been drinking, I would have done a spit take for the ages. As it was, I snorted in the least ladylike way possible. He knew Tammy, all right.
“Glad to see you weathered the storm. Carlie McEwan. I live two houses down, nice to have you on the street, but . . . I’ve got to get in the kitchen. Stop by sometime and I’ll walk you across the village to show you the rough parts. A new guy doesn’t want to end up on the wrong side of the tracks,” I said ominously.
“Accepted. I would hate to see a ‘hood in the Adirondacks. Bears going strapped? Perish the thought.” He toasted me with his cup, and I walked back to my lair, thinking that Tammy had excellent taste in men. At least this time.
***
Major was good as his word, without coming off like a stalker. He achieved this state of approachability by lingering outside the diner for the end of my shift. He wore a charming smile, held flowers in one hand, and was busily eating a peanut butter sandwich. I know this because the odor clung to him like a memory-go-round, and I found myself smiling back at him warmly.
“Hello, Carlie McEwan. Hope this doesn’t come off as desperate. It’s why I decided to eat while I waited, that way you don’t think I’m chatting you up just to get closer to the diner’s bakery case,” he said, extending the flowers.
I took them and realized that they were actually newly-sprouted trees with tiny leaves. His grin was between impudent and charming.
I regarded him with theatrical curiosity, then nodded as if he passed muster. “I accept your reason for eating a peanut butter sandwich. It’s certainly the most original approach I’ve seen.” I smiled then adopted a grave tone, adding, “I also accept these tiny sprouts, but with a caveat that I don’t really understand where you’re going with this.”
He wiped his mouth thoughtfully. “That’s a bit more complicated than just wanting to meet a beautiful woman. Can we sit?”
I waved at a strip of grass between two buildings. It looked out over the lake and was more park than property divider. When we’d assumed matching positions of comfort, legs extended toward the water, he pointed toward the northwest.
“You know the name Tyler Venture?”
Did I ever. “Of course,” I said with some disgust. “It took us a year to get rid of his so-called groupies and fans, if that’s what you want to call them.”
Tyler Venture was an internet sensation who parlayed his fame into the single most damaging event in our county’s history. Born Todd Smulowitz to an upper-class family in Long Island, he created an online persona who went on so-called “urban safaris,” inexplicably gaining him about a billion hits on YouTube. Todd was many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. While the iron was hot, he convinced a cable network to sponsor actual safaris to places of wild danger, none of which he was qualified for. He had a minimal understanding of the land, little or no common sense, and the finest gear that money could buy. Fortunately, someone at his network thought a dry run for the show was a good idea; they arranged for him to “discover” an old cabin in the heart of the Adirondacks. I could feel my blood beginning to heat at the arrogance of that decision. The Adirondacks are 5.5 million acres, much of it in the state it was in when Europeans first arrived here three centuries ago. You can take a wrong turn and walk for two weeks without hitting a major road; that assumes you don’t die from exposure first. Todd, excuse me, Tyler, had a hand-held camera, two days’ worth of food, and a vague idea of which way the sun rose. His entry point, to my disgust, was less than half a mile from my home, on a trail that was well-used and presumed safe. Or at least relatively safe.
In less than four hours, he was lost. We know this because the fool documented his stupidity for all the world to see, and it uploaded upon his discovery by some of the 2000 volunteers who pummeled the woods looking for him. You’d have thought that Amelia Earhart was in Halfway with the crush of press and young women swelling our population. I cooked more egg-white omelets in that week than I ever have in my entire life; to this day, I hear the words “gluten free” and want to punch the nearest city girl taking a selfie in front of my grill. Todd was located, feted, and then ridiculed. He eventually vanished from the media conscience, down the memory hole where every stupid mistake goes to die.
“I do. What does that clown have to do with your presence here?” I asked archly. Major’s status just dropped to that of a buck private by simple association.
He held up both hands in a defensive posture. “I think he’s a tool, don’t shoot the messenger.”
“Hmph. Alright. No guns, for now,” I allowed. I said nothing of spells.
Major scrolled through his phone and found a picture. It was one of the seemingly limitless selfies that Tyler the Wonderdork had uploaded to his website during the week following what he described as his heroic victory over nature. Never mind that it was a glorified walk in the woods with some minor discomfort, he milked the entire event for all it was worth. Until people turned on him, then he vanished again into a sea of nobodies, his status as a permanent joke cemented by his own vanity.
I looked at the picture. There was Tyler’s goofy face with some serious scruff going on. He couldn’t even really grow a proper beard. Tyler, a sort-of handsome guy, looked like he had a mild case of mange, and there were deep circles under his eyes that bespoke some hard nights. I felt a twinge of regret at my disdain for him, then pushed that back down. He deserved it, the dumbass, and after all, he had survived. The picture seemed unremarkable. He stood in the shadow of a modest stone hillside that opened to one of thousands of ravines that carved the park. It was lush and green. Overhead, giant trees towered upward and cast dappled shadows across his face. It must have been late afternoon when he took the snap. The undergrowth covered something that might have been a collapsed rock pile; the boulders receded into the brush until they were lost.
“I give up. It looks like Tyler in the woods. I’ve seen hundreds of these, he’s in love with his own face.” My disgust was apparent, because Major adjusted the screen to focus on the trees behind Tyler, leaving the top of his head visible in the lower left corner.
“Take a look at these trees here,” he instructed, pointing at a row of massive, straight trunks that rose up out of the camera’s field of vision. There were several of them growing together, but distinctly apart. They were different than everything else in the picture, and their bark seemed like it was incredibly old. Even from the limits of Tyler’s cell phone camera, I got the impression of majesty.
Something tickled at the limits of my imagination, and I turned to regard Major with a critical eye, realizing I didn’t know anything about this man who was asking me some rather unusual questions. I stared hard for a second, then asked, “What do you do for a living?” I folded my hands and sat back to wait. Being quiet is often far better than asking questions. As a witch, I know that the silence is filled with secrets.
He ran one hand over his short blonde hair, but it was nerves rather than a deci
sion to lie. “I’m an investigator, of sorts.”
That got my attention. There was no crime associated with Tyler’s stupidity in the woods, so that meant something different. Despite living in the open, I like my privacy. I watched him warily, and wondered if he knew about my talents. I raised my shoulders in a small shrug, indicating that he should continue. So far, I didn’t trust Major, even if the sun made his eyes seem like friendly little jewels made just for me. I looked over his expensive, unworn boots, and his general tidiness. I like a well-groomed man, but he seemed a little too much of a city boy for my tastes. During my ruminations, he watched me for a moment.
He took the hint. “How about if I start by telling you what I’m looking for?”
I thought it over, then shook my head. I already knew it had something to do with that picture; a simple divination could tell me much more than he realized. “Nope. What exactly is your job?”
He looked at the set of my lips and gave up. “Okay, I actually am an investigator, just not someone who looks for criminals. I look for lost things. Things that haven’t been found, when they need to be found.”
So, he was a diviner, too. He just used non-magical means. “Okay, so far, I’m not freaked out. Now, tell me who you work for.”
“Ahh. That’s the least interesting part of my story. I work for a soul-sucking gigantic corporation who makes lots of different things, but they have a particular interest in food technology, among other things,” he said.
I broke in, holding one chipped nail—I really needed a fresh coat of polish—up dramatically, or at least with as much drama as I could muster while sitting down. To really create a scene, you need to be standing, so you can point skyward and shout eureka or something. I was too comfortable to do that, so I went with a modest display and a mild, “Hah! Stop right there. What other things does this mysterious corporation have interests in?” To me, the devil is always in the details. What’s unsaid would no doubt be more interesting than what Major told me upfront, and I didn’t want this going any farther without the whole story.
“Fair enough, but, well . . . ” He dragged his feet, so to speak, until I quirked a brow at him. “They make the following things: decorative wares, furniture, high-end food gifts, some sort of nautical stuff, I’m not really sure what, and a huge variety of kid’s toys. I work exclusively for the food divisions, so I’m not entirely sure about all of the other details. Like I said, it’s a big company, and I’m usually out in the field. Or in a city, somewhere.”
That was quite a variety. The list didn’t exactly ring of evil, so I thought it over for a minute, tapping my teeth with the aforementioned chipped nail. “So are you a real investigator, or do you always enlist locals to help you solve your problems?” I grinned at him, wondering if he would see me as mean or just feisty. I hoped it was the latter. I’m a white witch through-and-through, I don’t do vicious.
He smiled, telling me that he took my comment in stride. “It seems arrogant to assume I know more about a place than a local would.”
Point one for you, young man, I thought. “All right, so far, I’m listening. Tell me about this picture. What should I be squeeing over?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Back here, this ring of giant trees?” He indicated the huge trunks beyond Tyler’s hapless face. “They’re worth a dump truck full of money.”
“Stop right there.” I held up a hand as anger flushed my face. The last thing I was going to do was help someone log illegally in the pristine forest behind my own home. “You’re well past ballsy if you think I’m going to help you— ”
“I don’t want them to cut down,” he interrupted.
“You don’t?” I was quelled for a moment. After chewing that over, I said, “Okay, then what?” I admit, I was stumped. C’mon, that’s hilarious. Fine, whatever.
“Not at all. I want to find those beautiful trees in perfect health, and I want to leave them in perfect health. My company wants that so much, they sent me with instructions that if I harm anything in the forest, I shouldn’t bother coming back.” At my incredulous expression, he nodded quickly to confirm his statement. “Seriously. I really need to do this, since the company owner has plans that are . . . well, they go beyond simple profit.”
“Now you’ve really got my interest. What’s more important to your company than money?” I asked.
He waved around us in a sort of recognition at the mountains. “These trees. They’re sort of holdouts, like a lone soldier on the ramparts, that kind of thing.”
“What kind of trees? I asked, taking the phone and looking closely at the screen. There were only massive trunks visible; the leaves were clearly high above the canopy.
“Chestnuts. American chestnuts, or Castanea dentate if you want to be really specific.” He grinned at how underwhelmed I was by this revelation.
As a witch, I know plant life, but my interests are primarily focused on smaller herbs, roots, and berries. I use the occasional common tree, but nothing truly exotic. Gran hadn’t mentioned a chestnut in any spells, and it seemed like the species was just unused in our own familial magic. “I hate to seem unimpressed, but excuse me if I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. Is there something special about your company that it should care about these trees?”
“It isn’t the company that cares so much as the CEO, and you’re right, there’s nothing special about Pickford Holdings. Not really, anyway,” he allowed, then looked slightly abashed at revealing the company name.
I twitched a little, saying, “I don’t really do the whole coy-mystery-guy thing. Is it your company? And if so, why are you sitting here in Halfway, trying to talk a stranger into tromping through the woods to find some magic trees?” I was a little curious, though.
He cleared his throat. “Well, ah. It isn’t my project. The CEO is sort of a, I guess you would say tree hugger, and she wants to find the American Chestnut to do some good in the world. Kind of a plant-based karma thing.”
“So she sent her . . . son?” I asked.
“Grandson,” he corrected, “and yes. Because of this idiot Tyler Venture, we have a picture of the last living stand of American Chestnuts. A blight killed off about four billion of them last century, and with it went a huge part of rural living.”
“You grandmother grew up poor?”It seemed logical to ask.
He smiled at my insight. “She can tell me, in detail, how rats taste, and how long it takes to boil grass and a handful of flour. Three of her siblings died in a rough house next to a quarry in rural Pennsylvania. She knows poor like I’ll never see, and she’s getting on in years. When she saw this picture—don’t ask me how, but she did—she recognized the trees immediately. Over dinner she told me of having nothing but chestnut flour and milk from a goat, mind you. The whole family of eleven lived off that for an entire fall. It’s part crusade, part her chasing some dream of her youth, maybe.” He smiled ruefully, adding, “I think she knows that her years are short, and she wants to restore something beautiful. These trees, which she assures me are magnificent, are her way of reaching back into the past and keeping something good from a starved time.”
I felt myself liking this unseen lady. “So, are we to believe that four, uh, billion trees died, except for a handful that this dope Tyler Venture stumbled upon out on the backyard of Halfway?”
He laughed at the improbability. “In a word, yeah. They’re some kind of anomaly, a genetic twist of fate. If they can be seeded across their former range, it will change the composition of the forest to what it once was. They were the king of the woods, and now they’re gone. I think they might be worth finding.”
He spoke with more conviction than a simple employee, and I could feel the passion underneath his enthusiasm. He wasn’t a zealot, but he was more than a drone. I found my curiosity growing.
“So, you propose that I take a stranger, who might have a closet full of human heads, into the deep Adirondacks in order to find a lost variety of tree? In order to fulfill a sense of
altruism, based on his Grandmother’s really crappy childhood? Does that about sum it up?” I asked.
“You left out the part where I have a fetish for women’s hair or something like that. Maybe I drive a van with Free Candy painted on the side.” His grin verged into an open laugh.
“Two questions come to mind, may I ask them before this craziness goes any further?” I needed a bit more information before I could tell him he was nuts.
“Go ahead, please.”
He seemed to earnestly listen. And another point for the handsome feller.
“Why me? There are about a billion guides in the park, many of whom have legs that can cover more than my own limited natural range.” I wiggled my feet to draw attention to my lack of height. I’m comfortable admitting that I’ll never be able to reach things in upper cabinets.
“Fair enough,” he agreed. “I don’t want a guide. I want a local. I saw you at the diner and talked to a few people in town. Your reputation as a naturalist is excellent. What was your second question?”
“Hmph. Okay, you are aware that I work, so you must have a plan for this search to be a rather precise journey, I take it?” I asked. This was the kicker; I wasn’t going anywhere for a week that didn’t have room service and a beach.
Major raised a finger as if I’d scored a point. “Excellent question. The answer is, I’ve gotten some expert advice based on the series of pictures. I have a pretty good idea where to go, but I need some assistance. To be clear, this is strictly a confirmation trip, nothing more. I want to take pictures, nip a leaf or two, and ping the location with my GPS. That’s it. You have my solemn word, for whatever it’s worth, that I will not harm any tree in any way. Period.”
He seemed truthful, but I have a lively sense of distrust. “And what about the people who come after us? Will they be doing any harm to the woods?”
“Absolutely not. Anyone who follows us will value those trees like they’re made of platinum. I wasn’t kidding around when I said they’re valuable. The effects of restoring the American forests to a former state of glory present an almost incalculable opportunity for wealth. That’s on top of the serious appeal that doing something so noble might have with the general public, let alone our customers. I don’t think I’m even capable of understanding all of the repercussions that might result. The death of these forest giants wasn’t a natural event, it was brought about by man. This is a chance to undo a great wrong.” He folded his arms in conclusion, and I noticed his muscles ripple under the skin. He was no cubicle wonk. That much was certain.
Halfway Dead (Halfway Witchy Book 1) Page 4