Death Climbs a Tree (7 page)

Inside, he found a single sheet of paper. It listed Sylvia's parents, with their birth and death dates, and three daughters: Linda, Martha, and Sylvia. Martha was now Martha Rutledge, in Sydney, Australia. There was an address, but no phone or e-mail. And no family pictures.

No sign of a love life, either. No letters or pictures, old or new. And Ketcham hadn't mentioned anyone.

Fred shoved the paper over to Ketcham. “This is it,” he said. “We're not going to find anything more here. Nothing we have any business finding, anyway.” It wasn't as if she were a victim, whose whole life would be fair game.

Ketcham shut down the computer, and they locked up behind them and left. After making one more attempt to reach Linda, Fred phoned the hospital. The nurse he'd spoken to before was still on duty.

“She's hanging on by a hair, Lieutenant. Did you reach her family?”

“No. I've left my cell phone number, but you might want to call yourself.” He gave her the number and Linda's name. “One of us will get through eventually. I'll send her an e-mail, too, soon as I get back to my desk.”

“I always hate it when the family doesn't arrive in time. I'm not sure how much difference it will make to this patient, though. She's comatose.”

7

They should have been going back to the station, but Fred couldn't resist checking on Andrew. “Take us out to Yocum's Woods, would you? I want to look at the scene one more time,” he told Ketcham.

“You worried about him?” Ketcham was nobody's fool.

“Yeah.” Fatherhood had come late to Fred, when he'd married Joan. With her two children already technically adults, he seldom felt fatherly toward either of them. But he and Andrew had connected. Irked as Fred was at Andrew for doing it, this tree-sit business was eating at him more than just as a cop. The thought of Andrew lying comatose in the hospital hurt.

As if going out to see him could make any difference.

They bounced along the washboard gravel road. When they could see the clearing, it was empty. Only the ruts made by the EMTs and ambulance showed that anything had happened there at all. Fred didn't know what he'd expected to see. Maybe the kid hadn't made it back, after all.

Leaving Ketcham in the car, he walked over the rutted ground into the woods and squinted up the oak's tall, straight trunk, unbroken by branches. “Andrew? You up there?”

A dark, curly head popped up from the platform. “Fred?” It was faint, but he heard it.

Then his cell phone rang. With luck, it would be Linda Smith, answering his call. He put it to his ear.

“Fred, it's me, Andrew.” The head poked over the edge again, and Andrew waved at him.

“How did you know my number?”

“I don't know. Guess you gave it to me for something.”

“You all right?”

“Sure. You ought to try it. I've got all kinds of conveniences.”

“Anything out of place? Anything that looks wrong?”

Andrew paused. “Kind of hard to tell, since I was never here before, but it's pretty much what I expected.”

“Be my eyes. What do you see?”

“It's beautiful up here. I can see so much farther than when I'm on the ground, especially with my binoculars. Way into the woods, and across the creek over there.” He pointed, but he didn't stand up to do it.

Kid had some sense. Good. “And on the platform?”

“It smells from all the rain we've had. Her tarp didn't keep her dry, but we got a better one. And there are wooden walls about a foot high on three sides. That helps. If it blows in or if I want privacy, I can let the tarp down outside the walls. Anyhow, Sylvia's sleeping bag was really gross. I sent that and the rest of her clothes down with Skirv, the guy who was helping me.”

Skirv? Fred didn't push it, but he filed the name away in his mind. “What's up there now?”

“My bag of extra clothes is hanging by the hammock. Here on the platform I have room to take a few steps, and there are enough ropes to hang on to. But mostly I sit or lie down. Trust me, Fred, I'm the cautious type.”

“I hope so. What else?”

“There's a propane stove and one cooking pot with a lid, if I want to fix something hot, but someone's bringing me supper tonight. I've got a box of all kinds of food, trail mix and beef jerky, ramen noodles and stuff, and a knife, fork, and spoon. A plastic plate and cup. A bucket lined with a plastic garbage bag I can close with twist ties and cover with a lid, to keep the stink down. I won't need to use it as much as she did.”

“Right.” A built-in advantage to being male. It wasn't as if he needed to hide his scent from deer or other game, as he would if he were hunting.

“Toilet paper rolls on a stick. Soap and gallon jugs of water. A rope to hang up wet towels or whatever. A new basket to replace the one I buried. My books. A notebook and pens. I kept Sylvia's books, too, in case I get bored. She only had a few. Her bookmark was in
Legacy of Luna.
That's the one by Julia Butterfly Hill, about sitting in a tree for two whole years. A battery radio. And she had candles and matches.”

“You be careful with those, and the stove.” A forest fire—that's all they'd need.

“I will. I don't expect to use it or the candles. People bring food and water, and I brought my flashlight and extra batteries for it and the radio and phone. That's about it, except for a new basket and plenty of rope.”

“How smooth is the surface of the platform?”

“You mean could she have stubbed her toe on something? I don't see anything. It's pretty smooth. And all the stuff is hanging up, not on the platform.”

“Thanks, Andrew.” Fred's neck was getting tired from staring up. It was time to go.

“Fred? Tell Mom I'm okay, would you?”

“I will. Unless I have to bring you down. Then all bets are off. Why are you doing it, son?”

No answer. Finally, “Fred, will the hospital talk to you? I've been trying to find out about Sylvia, but they won't tell me anything.”

“It's not good.”

“She died?” Andrew's voice rose. Maybe it was finally hitting him that they weren't immortal.

“Not yet. She's in a coma.”

“Oh, God.” With what sounded like real feeling.

“Andrew, do you know anything about her family? We're trying to reach somebody to be there for her. Or did she keep her emergency contact information up there? Someone local would be good, even if it wasn't her family.”

“She never told me about her family, and I didn't notice anything like that. I'll ask Skirv. Don't know when I'll get through to him—he's kind of weird. A little wild-eyed, you know? But I'll try.”

“Good. I have a call in to her sister, so I'd better get off this phone.”

“Thanks, Fred.”

“Sure.” He walked back to the car, enjoying the crunchy cushion of the many layers of leaves under his feet until he hit the bare soil of the clearing. Although the trees weren't leafed out yet and even the oaks had dropped their last stubborn hangers-on, he could feel the temperature rise between the woods and the bright sun.

Ketcham was snoozing in the car, but he woke when Fred touched the passenger door. “He okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You ask him about Sylvia's family?”

“He doesn't know anything. He'll ask the man who took her clothes away, but I don't think he's likely to get much help from that direction. If you're looking for a password again, you might try
butterfly
or
luna.
But I'm thinking we found all there was to find about her family.” His cell phone rang while he was fastening his seat belt. “Lundquist.”

“I've been calling and calling! What's the matter with Sylvia?”

“Linda Smith?” He met Ketcham's eyes. Ketcham, who had reached for the ignition key, sat back.

“Yes. Who are you? What's wrong?”

“I'm Lieutenant Fred Lundquist, of the Oliver Police Department. Your sister's in the hospital, and they want you to come right away.”

“What happened? An accident?”

“Yes.”

“It's not fair! She's such a careful driver.”

“It wasn't that kind of accident. You know what she's been doing, don't you?”

“No, what?”

So he had to tell her about the tree sit as well as Sylvia's plunge to the ground. “It's not a police matter,” he ended. “But we're all worried about her. How soon can you come?”

“Can I call her?”

“I'm afraid she's still unconscious, but they hope your presence will help her.” And them, if someone needed to make life-or-death decisions for her.

“Poor Sylvie. Her heart's in the right place, but she always did get into these harebrained deals. I'll come as soon as I can. I have to arrange for someone to take care of the children and the dogs, and oh, there are a million things I have to do before I can leave.”

“Will you need a ride from the Indianapolis airport? We could help with that.” On a slow day like today.

“Do you really think I should fly? It's so expensive, and with all the delays these days, I might as well drive.”

“It's your decision, of course, but the hospital is concerned about her.”

“Yes. I'll do my best.”

Sure she'd decide to drive, he had to leave it at that. Could hardly force the woman, and who knew how much difference it would make to her sister anyway? He gave her the direct number for the Intensive Care Unit's nursing desk. “They'll tell you what they can, and they'll be glad to know you're coming. They'll also ask you about her family doctor and her medical history—any seizures or fainting spells.”

“I don't think so. She probably doesn't even have a doctor. Thank you, Lieutenant.”

*   *   *

The next morning, Joan woke early. It was still dark, but the birds had begun to twitter. Through the open window a light breeze wafted spring air, moist after a long overnight rain and already unusually warm for early April. In short, it was perfect weather for morels. She hoped Andrew's shelter hadn't leaked. It was hard to think of anything much more miserable than lying in a wet sleeping bag.

Leaving Fred gently snoring, she rolled out of bed and pulled on jeans, boots, and a long-sleeved shirt. No need to dress for work. She'd be back in plenty of time to change clothes. The best time to go 'shrooming, as Oliver natives called it, was early morning. And what better place than Andrew's woods? She wasn't fooling herself about her real reason for going out there. If she waited a couple of weeks, even in southern Indiana, she could expect to find a lot more mushrooms, though the paper had run a feature a week ago about a man who claimed his early patch always yielded the first delicious morels of the year. But even after Fred's description of Andrew's sensible behavior, she had to see for herself how he was doing.

She downed a quick breakfast and tucked a couple of mesh onion bags into her pocket, just in case she succeeded in finding any “sponge” mushrooms. The mesh would let the morel spores fall back to the ground for next year's crop.

By the time she was in the car, her watch read 6:45
A.M.
, and the sun was up. She parked her car in the clearing and took her long walking stick out of the wagon's wayback. She'd use it to explore rotting leaves and twigs for the delicacies hiding under them. Even though she didn't seriously expect to find any yet, she might get lucky.

No sign of life in Andrew's tree. But he wasn't lying broken underneath it. Let him sleep, she thought, and with a light heart she began to search the underbrush for the first subtle but unmistakable golden sponge poking up from the forest floor.

Nearby, past a couple of shagbark hickories, she was poking her stick in the leaves along the rotting trunk of a fallen walnut tree, a likely spot for morels, when she was distracted by another unmistakable bit of her childhood. But what was it doing in these woods? Morels grew all through the Midwest, she knew, but the smooth gray pebble shining up at her from the bed of wet leaf litter had no business in southern Indiana, much less in a woods. Yet here it was. Nothing else looked quite like the misshapen hexagonal, cell-like patterns on a Petoskey stone, and because this one was wet, the white lines outlining the cells showed up clearly, as did the darker spots in the centers. Sudden suspicion stopped her hand from automatically picking it up. She couldn't help thinking of the five smooth stones David took along with his slingshot to slay Goliath. They would probably have been bigger than this one, for a giant. It was not quite two inches long.

They'll probably laugh at me, she thought.

But why else would a stone made of fossilized coral be here? Besides, its size and shape matched what she remembered of that spot on Sylvia's temple.

Staring down at it, so close to Andrew's tree, she wished she could memorize its location. A real woodsman could, she thought, but if I go after Fred now, I'll never find it again.

She pulled the phone Andrew had given her out of her pocket and dialed home. Wake up, she thought, as she listened to ring after ring. Finally, Fred's groggy voice answered.

“Fred, it's me.”

From the bed's creaking, he had to be rolling over and sitting up. “Where are you?”

“In Yocum's Woods.”

“Is he all right?”

Bless you, Fred. “I think he's still asleep. But I found something near his tree. Will you come out here? I think it's important. I'm afraid to pick it up.”

“Afraid it'll hurt you?” He sounded wide awake now.

“No.” Afraid to touch it or even to broadcast what I say about it. “I think you need to see it here. It might have something to do with what happened here yesterday.”

“Sit tight. I'm on my way.”

She stabbed her stick into the ground a few feet from the stone, sat down on the wet leaves, and leaned against the trunk of a tulip poplar. Even its relatively smooth bark dug into her back. Why hadn't she thought of using the stick earlier? She could have tied her handkerchief to it, like fake flowers on a car antenna. She didn't need to guard the stone. If it had been under the leaves that long, it wasn't likely to disappear now.