Where had this alleged sap thief taken the buckets of maple sap once he or she had stolen them?
How would the thief have transported the sap away from this site? Where had it gone?
It was an intriguing thought.
The sap couldn’t have been airlifted away, so it must have been taken out on the ground. Possibly by a tractor and cart, like Hutch used, although that meant there would be signs of a second tractor out here. If, for instance, Neil Crawford had driven his tractor over here from his farm, there would be imprints of it somewhere around here. Even though she’d seen no evidence of that, it was one possibility.
Another option was just as simple and more likely: a pickup truck parked nearby, with collection tanks in the truck bed. Hutch had said there was a service road behind his property. That would make it easy to access this part of his woods and transport the stolen sap out of here.
So she began to search again, on the far side of the ring of yellow tape, toward the back of the Milbrights’ property. She knew what she was looking for—a singular footpath, or perhaps a series of paths, leading away from the tapped trees toward the service road.
She followed several, which turned in various directions, until she spotted one that led off into the woods at a right angle, away from the Milbrights’ farm. It seemed to take almost a direct line from the tapped trees to the back of the property.
She knew right away this was the path she was seeking.
It appeared as if someone had traveled back and forth along the path a number of times, and here she recognized a third set of bootprints, with ringed circles about the heels and balls of the feet.
A third set of prints. So there had been someone else back there—Hutch, Ginny . . . and the sap thief.
FOURTEEN
Hutch had been right. This appeared to be the evidence needed to support his claim, that someone was stealing his sap.
But who? And why?
The path, she thought, might hold an answer. Those new bootprints might as well, if she could identify the owner.
She tried to remember what type of boots Neil wore, and what type of patterns they had on the bottoms. But she’d never taken the time to look that closely at them. She’d never had a reason.
She put that thought aside for now as she studied the path and the footprints in front of her.
The boots with the circles on the bottoms had made several trips through here, going back and forth. She looked behind her, back the way she’d come, and then in the other direction, following the path with her eyes until it disappeared into the woods.
Time to find out where it led.
As confident as she’d ever be out here, she started off through the woods again. She moved as silently as possible, placing her feet carefully as she went. Rather than walk directly on the path, she moved in a line that took her parallel to it. She wanted to avoid disturbing any potential evidence—and possibly incriminate herself by mixing her footprints with the sap thief’s.
Back into a denser part of the woods she went. The foliage rose up again and closed in around her, a mixture of taller bushes, thicker stands of trees, and knee-high vegetation. A few times she thought she’d lost her way, and she was beginning to become worried that she’d get turned around in these woods. But then they thinned again, the open sky returned, and the path ended. Quite suddenly, she stepped out of the woods into a cleared space—an unpaved road.
The service road. The one at the back of the Milbrights’ property. The place where Hutch had allegedly spotted the red vehicle.
The road was more mud than dirt at this time of year, she noticed right away as she looked in both directions. It was slightly wider than a single lane, edged in tightly on the sides by the encroaching woods. At both ends, a hundred feet or so on either side of her, the road curved around, to the right in both directions, with the two legs headed away from each other.
At the moment, it was empty. Nothing of interest in sight. Just trees and mud, with the sky above.
She looked down to see if she could spot any tire tracks through here, or tractor tracks, or anything that might give her some clue about the vehicles that might have passed this way recently. She saw some tire markings, but nothing stood out. Any number of vehicles could have passed through here. There were mud ruts all along the way. But at the same time, it was obvious that the road was not heavily traveled. Just a back access road, as Hutch had said.
She wanted to get a better look at the tire tracks and mud ruts on the far side, so she hopped over a muddy spot to more solid ground in the middle of the road. There she paused, looking down at the ground around her, searching for anything interesting. Her gaze was focused on the muddy road, and she wasn’t really paying attention to anything else around her. The wind picked up, and she heard it humming low in her ears. And, strangely enough, it sounded like it was getting louder—like it was coming closer, toward her.
She looked up. The wind appeared to be rushing. A tornado, perhaps? But on a clear day?
She heard other sounds then—what sounded like the revving of an engine, the spinning of wheels. A sort of whipping sound, a rush of oncoming air.
The hum grew louder, and she realized it wasn’t the wind.
She turned her head quickly back and forth, her gaze shifting first one direction, then the other. She spotted it then, and was somewhat shocked by its sudden appearance in these quiet woods. It came around the curve to her left, emerging from behind a screen of trees like a lion on the prowl. And it sounded like a lion too, its hum building into a roar, blocking out the natural sounds around her.
Going too fast for this type of road, it swerved around the curve. Its back end slid out a little in the mud, and the rear wheels spun with a high whine, until the tires finally caught on something solid and the vehicle lurched forward. It straightened and came right at her, down the center of the road, its black tires deep in the mud ruts. As it approached, it seemed to accelerate, the engine revving higher, the tires kicking up sprays of wet, dark mud in their wake.
As she stood there in the middle of the road, unbidden words echoed through her mind, words Mick Rilke had spoken to her a couple of weeks earlier, said with a laugh.
In snow, drive slow; in mud, drive as fast as you can.
She’d put that in her column in this week’s issue of the paper. The driver of the approaching vehicle must have read it, because he or she was following Mick’s advice. The vehicle was going as fast as it could on this back road, coming straight toward her.
Momentarily she froze, and her heart seemed to stop as her brain struggled with what she was seeing. Her thoughts were scattered, indecisive. She expected the vehicle to slow down or veer off, to try to avoid hitting her. But it didn’t. It just kept coming, though it was swerving back and forth in the mud ruts as it approached, almost rocking on its springs. It looked—and sounded—like it was out of control. She couldn’t get a good read on it, and was suddenly afraid that, no matter which direction she went, the vehicle would follow her.
It barreled forward with alarming speed, its engine roar filling her ears. At this point she couldn’t quite register what kind of vehicle it was, just a blunt nose and a mass of dark steel, gray glass, and faded chrome bearing down on her, looming larger and larger as it came on. There was no blast of a horn, and the face behind the windshield was obscured by glare. She thought she might have seen someone wearing sunglasses, maybe a hat or a flannel shirt. But everything was happening too fast. It was a blur.
She didn’t take any longer to look. She had to move. More on a survival instinct than anything else, she jumped forward, taking big leaps as she hopped across the muddy road toward the far edge and the shelter of the woods.
Much to her shock, however, the vehicle followed her. It accelerated and zeroed in on her as she ran, and for an instant she registered the disturbing image of the driver twisting the st
eering wheel in her direction. The wheels spun on the mud and popped out of the ruts, making the vehicle rock so violently on its springs she could hear them creaking in protest.
She lost her footing as she reached the edge of the woods and fell, holding out her hands to cushion her landing on the mushy ground. Then she continued to move, scrambling away even farther, back into the shelter of the trees, hoping the big trunks on either side would protect her from the berserker vehicle that had appeared out of nowhere.
As she moved, she jerked her head back over she shoulder. The big vehicle was still coming toward her, but it was being jostled by the uneven road. It started to whirl around, as if the driver was losing control, and she thought it might even tip over. But at the last moment it found its footing and finally veered off.
As it sped past her, only a few feet away, she yelled something incomprehensible at it, though whether in fright or anger, she didn’t know. She felt a rush of wind as it passed by, enough to tousle her hair. It skidded a little on the edge of the road as the driver turned the wheel the other direction, back toward the center of the narrow lane. Its back tires spun in the muck, again flinging up sprays of mud and dirt and gravel, and the engine sputtered as a cloud of black smoke erupted from the tailpipe. The vehicle swerved first one direction, then the other, until the tires settled back down into the mud ruts, and the vehicle accelerated again.
With a final belch of noise, it lunged down the road, swooped around the far curve, and was gone.
In its wake, it left only an echoing hum and the soft smacking sounds of disturbed mud ruts coming back together and airborne fragments splattering to the ground.
Candy was in shock as she watched the vehicle go. She realized her heart was racing, and she was breathing deeply. Her skin felt moist, and her legs felt numb. Her mind was a whirl of thoughts and emotions, but she finally registered what she’d just seen.
It was a van. An old van, probably twenty years old or more. And not red, but faded purple. It had looked like a giant withered grape.
Other images flashed through her mind of what she’d just seen. Mud-caked wheel wells, a number of nicks and dents. Rust around the grille and down along the sideboards.
And, as it drove away from her, she’d spotted an old Maine license plate attached to its rear, with six letters spelling out two words. It created a disturbing message that was instantly imprinted on her mind:
RIP DIG.
FIFTEEN
“What the heck was that?” Candy practically shouted at the settling sprays of mud, feeling the rush of the moment. Her chest was heaving, her mouth was dry, and her palms and knees were damp. She took a few moments to calm herself, then rose unsteadily. She brushed hair out of her face and dashed her hands across her clothes, trying to clean herself off. She had some mud stains around the knees and elbows, and some dead leaves and twigs snagged in her fleece jacket. Her hands were trembling and her stomach felt a little queasy. But otherwise she was fine. Just shaken up.
Her first instinct was to get off this road and out of these woods as quickly as possible. And that’s what she did.
She didn’t run. She didn’t rush. But she moved deliberately. As she crossed back over the service road and reentered the woods on the other side, she kept a sharp eye on the road, in the direction the van had gone. She wanted to make sure it wasn’t coming back. She didn’t want to face another attack today.
She still wasn’t quite sure if that’s what had happened. Maybe it had been a mistake—an accident. Maybe the driver had looked away for a few moments and hadn’t realized someone else was on the road. Maybe the driver had fallen asleep at the wheel. Maybe it had been a completely innocent act.
And maybe not. Maybe it had been deliberate.
But, she thought, it couldn’t have been premeditated. Who knew she was going to emerge from the woods at this particular time, on this particular spot? No one, not even her. It didn’t make any sense. It must have been a purely coincidental incident.
Whatever had just happened, she’d sort it out later, once she was in a safer place. Right now, it was time to retreat.
Rather than try to find a new way out of the woods, she decided to go back the way she’d come. She followed her own footprints, moving as quickly and silently as possible. As she went, she kept a constant lookout both ahead of and behind her. She wasn’t ready for any more encounters. She’d had enough excitement for one day. Time to get back to something more normal, around people she could trust.
She had no trouble finding her way out. Retracing her steps was simple enough. And the trip back seemed shorter than the one going in. She made good time, and was soon back at the Milbrights’ farm.
Here, at the edge of the woods, she paused, giving herself time to scan the area first, but she saw nothing out of the norm. The place still looked deserted. Hutch and Ginny weren’t around—nor anyone else, for that matter. At this point she wasn’t quite sure what she’d say to them, since she still felt too flustered to explain what had just happened, and she decided she wanted to think through everything first before she talked to them again. It would probably be best to just slip away for now, unnoticed.
She didn’t hurry as she made her way out of the shelter of the trees and into the open, but she didn’t dawdle either. The sugar shack, as she passed it, was closed up, with no tractor and cart in sight. The barn was empty. The house looked dark. Everything appeared the same as it had been when she’d gone into the woods.
A few minutes later she was back in the Jeep. She took a final look around as she started the engine, but seeing nothing to cause her to stay, she backed up, hit the gas, and headed out to the main road.
SIXTEEN
As she drove into town, she tried to make sense of it all.
Now that she was away from the isolated woods behind the Milbrights’ place and back among the living, she found she could focus her thoughts better. Naturally, the events of the past few hours had her feeling a little rattled, but she pushed aside her emotions and steadied her hands as she tried to unravel the myriad questions that had become entangled in her mind.
On some level, her encounter with the purple van on that isolated back road seemed surreal, almost dreamlike. She had a hard time believing it had actually taken place, since it had been so sudden, so unexpected. There was an otherworldly quality to it. Had it really happened? she wondered.
But of course it had happened. There was no doubt about it. Her imagination had not been running wild. Someone had almost run her over—that part she knew for certain. Whether it had happened on purpose or not—that’s what she had to figure out.
The randomness of the encounter was a key point, she thought. Why that time of day? Why that exact moment? And what had the van been doing on that muddy back road in the first place? Where had it come from, and where had it been going?
It had passed by her from left to right—generally, she figured, on an angle from the southwest to the northeast—before it disappeared around the curve. She didn’t know where that particular road came out, on either end. Most likely it connected to the Coastal Loop on its northeast end, if she had her bearings right, but in the other direction it could conceivably run all the way to the peninsula’s other side, to the western coastline, or it could just terminate somewhere, at someone else’s farm or property, or dwindle into a turnaround or a dead end, or even a cow path.
She decided that, at some point very soon, she’d have to go back and investigate that road, drive its length to become more familiar with it, find out where it began and where it ended. But not right now. She wasn’t ready to make that commitment at the moment. She needed time to recover, to collect herself, to try to figure out what it meant. And she wanted to make sure she proceeded cautiously from here on. She didn’t want to put herself back in a dangerous situation like that again—at least, not if she could help it.
In her mind, she could
still see the image of the van as it bore down on her. It had approached with alarming speed, like an animal charging, headed straight for her from the moment it appeared. That part, at least, made a certain amount of sense, since initially she’d been standing right in the middle of the road. She’d been in the way of traffic. There wasn’t a lot of maneuvering room on that road. It seemed plausible that the old van would appear to come at her like that.
But why hadn’t the driver simply braked when he or she spotted someone standing in the middle of the road? Why appear to increase speed, or at the very least, make no attempt to stop? And why deliberately angle the steering wheel toward her when she tried to move out of the way? Why not stop to make sure she was okay?
Because, Candy concluded, it had been a deliberate attempt to run her down.
Who had been behind the steering wheel? Why come at her like that? Did it have anything to do with her investigation of the alleged sap thief?
She didn’t have the answers right now, but she believed she’d been purposely targeted by the driver of that vehicle—which meant, she realized with a chill, that it could have been the actual murderer behind the wheel of the van.
Was she onto something? Was she getting too close to finding a few answers? Had Mick’s murderer just tried to kill her also, to keep her from discovering the truth?
Who was it? Who killed Mick Rilke?
She’d caught a glimpse of the driver through the windshield, but not enough to make a positive identification. She remembered sunglasses and a hat. Possibly a round face. Possibly bearded, possibly not. Possibly hair sticking out the sides of the cap. Wearing? A dark top, a shirt or jacket of some sort, maybe a flannel shirt, maybe a fleece or cloth coat, brown or dark blue or black, with a hood.
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