Lester nodded, indicating it was alright for him to go ahead and ask.
Doc dropped into dialect because it was so much easier to communicate subtle matters via the local patois. The sing-song tones permitted a range of nuance that was not possible in standard English.
“There’s a feller who’s not from around here tryin to cause some problems for a lady visitin over at Jill’s place.”
Lester nodded.
“He’s a professor from over at the university. Mid-fifties. A big feller.”
“That orta make him easy to spot,” said Fate.
“I’d consider it a kindness if you’d keep an eye out for him and be sure he doesn’t get up to anything in White Oak and especially make sure he don’t get anywhere near Hamilton’s Store. Just for a day or two.”
“That won’t be no trouble at all,” said Lester. “Happy to help out, Doc. You’ve always been a good friend.”
Everybody loved Doc. It was widely known that he never turned away any patient for any reason. And these men knew that although it was required by law, he’d never gotten around to reporting any of the gunshot or stab wounds he’d treated over the years.
“The man’s likely to be in a desperate state of mind, so he might be wantin to have his own way pretty bad,” Doc warned.
“That’d be a turrible mistake for him to make,” Lester said. “Don’t give it another thought, Doc. We’ll keep him outta mischief.”
“Let me git ye a refill,” said Fate, reaching for Doc’s glass.
“No thanks,” said Doc, “I need to git goin, but you’re right, tell Blake that’s the best moonshine I’ve ever tasted. Even better than his Daddy’s. It’s mighty smooth.”
Fate winked.
***
In the late afternoon, the weather began to turn.
The first sign was when the normally playful breeze petered out. There was an ominous stillness to the air that dampened the sounds that normally carried for miles, echoing off the valley walls so everybody in a hollow could hear what everybody else was doing. In the stagnant humidity, hair frizzed and moods fell flat.
Tall dark grey clouds moved in from the northwest. And warm air, moist from the Atlantic Ocean, butted up against the tallest obstacle it had run into so far, the Appalachian Mountains. It rose to go over the ridges in a phenomenon called orographic lift, but as it did, the warm air cooled and the moisture it carried as humidity began to condense.
Visibility grew increasingly poor as the fog thickened. When the air got high enough and cooled, it would begin to drop the moisture first as a fine mist, then gentle rain, building toward lashing torrents that would cause flash floods.
People who noticed the darkening sky and cloying atmosphere drifted toward home to get their outdoor chores done, bring the animals into shelter, and batten down the hatches.
A couple of hours later the wind was whipping up clouds of dust and flinging it about in a stinging fury. The weather prediction was that by nightfall it could easily reach hurricane force at the higher elevations of the park, with ferocious, forest toppling gusts lower down.
Phoebe stood next to Jill and looked out the window.
“You reckon it’s gonna storm?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Jill said. “And I think it’s gonna be a bad one.”
“When it gets like this, I always try to remind myself that , even though I can’t see it right now, the sun is still shining just as bright as ever and the sky’s the same pretty blue, right on the other side of the clouds.”
Jill remained silent.
“Yeah, it don’t always work to cheer me up either.”
Chapter 37
The girl had been missing for three days now. If she was still alive, if she was lost, injured, or hiding somewhere in the park, Henry knew the odds for her survival went down precipitously with each additional day. And now there was a storm brewing.
If Ivy was at high elevation, she could well die from hypothermia tonight. Time had run out. He had to find her. But to do that he needed to have another chat with the Professor. And this time he had to get the truth out of him, one way or another.
It had been a very long day by the time he topped the ridge, drove past the split rail fence, and came into view of the house. He arrived at sunset as he had the day before. The place was awash in the ethereal golden glow of late afternoon autumn sun. What a beautiful place this was. It was a genuine paradise. But just like the original Paradise, this one had a pesky snake in it, too. Henry didn’t like snakes, but he wasn’t afraid of them. He steeled himself to have a down and dirty talk with this one.
He pulled into the gravel parking area next to the house. And just like yesterday, there was only a single car in the lot, Professor Whittington’s absurd black Geländewagen. He punched in the access code, shoved the door open, and stepped into the living room. There sat the Professor, in the middle of one of long low couches that were positioned to take advantage of the splendid view.
Whittington sat with his knees wide apart, one arm flung out along the back of the couch. He glanced toward Henry, but didn’t seem surprised to see him.
Henry didn’t bother to disguise his mood. He took off his Smokey Bear hat and ran his hands through his hair while he gave the Professor an assessing look. He could understand how the man fooled people. He just didn’t look like a crook. Or a killer.
Henry could hardly get it through his head what Whittington had done. He gave himself a mental warning to remember what kind of person he was dealing with. He knew that a sociopath could fool anybody, even the best forensic psychologists and the most hardened and street-wise law enforcement professionals.
He took a seat on the other couch and sat quietly, facing the Professor, waiting.
“Hello, Henry,” Whittington said, breaking the silence.
Henry nodded. “I need to ask you some questions, Professor.”
“About ferns?” Whittington said.
“No,” said Henry, “This time I need you to tell me about myxomycetes.”
“Ah,” Whittington said, but then he fell silent again.
“What can you tell me about them?” Henry prompted.
“You came a long way for a boring lecture on an obscure topic.”
“Humor me.”
“Alright,” Whittington said, taking a deep breath and organizing his thoughts like the pedant he was. “The species that people often see most in their yards is Fuligo septica. It’s commonly known as dog vomit slime and that’s exactly what it looks like and is often mistaken for. Its plasmodium is a mass of glistening vein-like material that creeps over or around leaves, wood, or anything else in its way.
“The public, if it thinks about myxos at all, generally pictures them in connection with low budget horror movies where blobs come to earth from outer space and we’re overtaken by green Jello, that sort of thing.
“Actually, most species grow on the bark of trees or on the forest floor in tree litter. They are quite small and usually go undetected. They are not mushrooms. They’re not even fungi but some of them do wind up on mushroomer’s radar screens.
“Several types are nutritious and easily cultivated. They could be used to combat world hunger if people were actually interested in doing that sort of thing, but of course they aren’t.”
Henry sat motionless, like a hunter.
“Myxomycetes are extraordinarily beautiful, but hard to appreciate without a magnifying glass. Some of them require a compound microscope with a thousand power magnification and an oil immersion lens to see properly.
“They’re not well understood by science. In fact, we can’t even agree about what they are! They occupy an utterly unique position on the Tree of Life.
“They’ve been classified in the Kingdom Plantae, Kingdom Fungi, Kingdom Anamalia, and Kingdom Protista.
“They contradict typical ideas about growth in that their species diversity is minimized in a tropical rainforest. Insects, birds, mammals, and flowering plants have
increased species richness in the tropics. But not so for Myxomycetes.
“They love temperate regions, and especially the mixed conifer-hardwood deciduous forests in the US, particularly the Great Smoky Mountains. They dislike the tropical jungles because they have too much rainfall and poor air circulation when the tree canopy is too closed. They prefer the deep leaf litter on the forest floors here in the Smokies.
“They exhibit something like intelligence. They’ve been proven to be able to find the shortest pathway through a maze. That’s quite a bizarre talent in a plant.
At that point, Whittington stopped talking.
“Is that all?” Henry asked.
“Hardly, but it’s an enormous topic.”
“I think you might’ve left out some key points.”
“Oh really?”
“Want me to tell you what I think you left out?” said Henry.
“Are you offering to lecture me, about biology?”
Henry nodded.
“How novel. Please, proceed.”
“I understand that some kinds of Myxomycetes produce antibiotics.”
“That’s true,” Whittington said.
“And some of the ones that produce antibiotics make special antibiotics that can be used to treat diseases of the eye or the brain.”
The Professor pursed his lips as if considering this idea, then nodded, “That’s also true.”
“I’ve been told that the kind of antibiotic that can get to special places in the body is an extra-valuable critter.”
“Yes, indeed,” Whittington agreed. “They’re quite rare, and usually require tedious chemical procedures to synthesize the compound of interest, but yes, it’s possible.”
“I think maybe Ivy Iverson found one of these real valuable kinds of slime,” said Henry.
“Are you joking?”
“No, I think she found it when she was climbin a tree.”
The Professor smiled at Henry, but said nothing.
“And I think she told you what she found.”
Whittington shifted his gaze to stare out the window at the extravagant view. His eyes narrowed to slits under the strain of looking directly into the lowering sun.
“You were her teacher,” Henry said. “She trusted you.”
Henry sat patiently waiting for a response, but Whittington remained silent.
Henry’s phone had chirped a couple times during their conversation as messages came in now that he was back in range of a tower. At this point, his phone rang, but he ignored it.
“Go ahead, take the call,” said Whittington.
Henry opened his phone and listened as Phoebe talked excitedly, telling him she’d been trying to reach him and that Ivy had been found, was alive, and was being taken care of at Hamilton’s Store.
“What happened?” Henry asked.
“She hasn’t been able to say much yet, but apparently someone shot her with her own crossbow while she was climbin a tree,” Phoebe said. “Jill and Leon and Doc are takin care of her. She’s gonna be alright.”
“Did she say who shot her?” Henry asked.
“No, she didn’t get a good look at the attacker, but I’d say Professor Whittington’s a safe bet.”
“I’m visiting with him right now,” said Henry.
“Then you be real careful, honey,” Phoebe said. “Real careful.”
“I’ll do that. You too.” Then he closed his phone and sat staring at Whittington.
After a long silence, Whittington took a deep breath and let it out. He said, “Do you know what the difference is between being an expert on ferns and the discoverer of a new antibiotic?”
“Everything?” suggested Henry.
“Exactly,” the Professor sighed. “Thirty years of stupefyingly boring academic slogging eclipsed by a kid playing hooky. One of my own students, and not a very good one at that, poised to become a rock star in the world of science. Rich beyond dreams of avarice. Famous. And the source of a great boon to humanity. A Prometheus.”
Henry’s lip curled.
“Do you dare to judge me?”
“Yep,” said Henry. He stared at Whittington then quoted, “I give you Scorn and defiance, slight regard, contempt … .”
“Shakespeare?” Whittington blurted, startled.
“Yeah, I went to college, too,” Henry said. “But I didn’t stay there. After graduation I went out and got a job. Whereas you … you just hung around the schoolhouse forever.”
The professor stared at him, obviously shocked to be spoken to this way.
“Never could make it out in the real world, could you? It’s because you’re sort of mediocre, aren’t you? A mediocre scientist, a mediocre teacher, a mediocre husband, and as it turns out, a mediocre thief, liar, and killer.”
“An assessment coming from a man like you,” sneered Whittington, “means nothing.”
At the same instant he finished speaking, Whittington reached back to grasp the end of a hickory hiking staff that was propped against a console table behind the couch. He swung the six foot pole in a savage arc against the side of Henry’s head.
The blow ripped a gash in Henry’s scalp and stunned him. It also knocked him sideways. Whittington stood up with the wooden staff and gripped it with both hands like a baseball bat. He took a step toward Henry to deliver the coup de grace, but Henry had enormous experience dealing with large animals. His survival instincts were highly developed.
He launched himself at the Professor and took hold of the hiking staff. The Professor was a big man and he wouldn’t release his grip on the staff. Henry swept one of his heavily booted feet against Whittington’s ankle and knocked him off balance. He went down pulling Henry with him.
Henry landed on top. He could’ve crushed the heavy staff across Whittington’s throat and been done with it, but he didn’t want to kill the man. Henry didn’t believe in killing animals for trying to protect themselves, so he’d give a human being at least an equal amount of forbearance.
The tricky part was that most animals would stop fighting once they’d made their point, or saw that you’d made yours, but he knew better than to expect any mercy or rationality from Whittington.
The Professor wasn’t in nearly as good a shape as Henry, but he was crazed and fought like a wild man. Henry was able to stay on top because neither of them could roll over while holding the long staff sideways between them. So Henry concentrated on keeping his grip on the pole and keeping it at chest level between them. That way he was able to keep Whittington pinned, hoping to wear him down.
When the Professor realized Henry wasn’t trying to kill him, he let go of the staff and gouged at Henry’s eyes. Henry had to let go of the staff to protect himself.
It was hand to hand after that. Henry punched, but Whittington pulled hair and clawed. It was like fighting a huge, monstrously strong woman. Henry expected to be bitten at any moment, but of course he was used to that, too.
In their struggle, Whittington rolled atop Henry’s beautiful straw Stetson and crushed it. It was an expensive hat and its senseless destruction made Henry really angry.
The next casualty was an overturned a side table with a heavy lamp on it. The lamp toppled and hit Henry in the back of the head, making an awful crack. He momentarily lost his grip on the Professor. The Professor shoved him hard and Henry rolled down the steps into the conversation pit, hitting his head against the corner of the stone hearth. The blow knocked him unconscious.
The Professor, exhausted, lay where he was until he was able to catch his breath. Even then, he had to use the arm of the couch to pull himself upright. Once he was standing, he gingerly made his way down the three steps to the fireplace. He gave Henry a savage kick in the ribs and watched the blood pool beneath the ranger’s head.
Whittington dabbed at his face with his handkerchief and considered what to do next. He bent to retrieve Henry’s phone. He looked at the most recent incoming calls and saw the local numbers. He listened to the messages from Phoebe abo
ut Ivy, then pocketed the phone.
He’d seen that ramshackle Hamilton place. It was a decrepit diner for the enclave of Beverly Hillbillies who lived north of the park. He’d be able to use the Mercedes GPS to find it.
He went outside and opened the drivers door of Henry’s SUV. He removed the keys and pocketed them. Then he used the large flashlight laying in the console to bash the radio to pieces. He went around and jerked the back hatch open. He rummaged through the gear, taking bolt cutters and the case containing the hunting rifle and ammunition. He tossed the gun case into the passenger seat of his Mercedes.
He took the bolt cutters around to the side of the house where the utility lines ran in. He used them to cut the phone lines and smash the box to smithereens. Then he headed for White Oak with the intention of concluding his collaboration with Ivy Iverson.
As it turned out, it was lucky for him that she’d survived. Now he’d have a chance to fill in those frustrating gaps in his knowledge. Then he’d kill her and anybody else she might’ve talked to. From this point on, he would gleefully kill anyone who got in his way. He was sick to death of sparring with these hicks.
Chapter 38
Phoebe stood on the front porch of Hamilton’s. A million shades of grey were roiling overhead. The sky looked like a film clip on The Weather Channel. Clouds of different shapes and sizes were churning and racing toward the mountains where they were clustering, colliding, and drastically changing the light from one moment to the next.
The wind was gusting, but not in any consistent direction, wringing tree branches in chaotic circles, like pompom girls trying to learn a new routine. The air was filled with dust and bits of leaves.
Phoebe could smell the rain coming. It was the sharp smell of earth and plants being power-washed a mile or more away. She loved storms. In anticipation of this one, she sat in the old naugahyde recliner and waited for it.
She could hear the sound of rain moving through the woods. It pattered against the leaves, getting closer and closer until she could feel a fine mist on her face, then suddenly it was raining so hard she could see the huge drops fall, hit the road, and bounce back up like they were made of rubber.
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