So into the woods you go again,
You have to every now and then.
—Stephen Sondheim
AS I WATCHED Seymour huff and puff his way up to Emma Hudson’s apartment, I faced the wall of pines.
“Well, Jack, now what?”
You heard Chief Local-Yokel. He ordered you to go. But you should have a look around first. That birdbrain mailman should confound the copper for at least ten minutes.
“Okay, but what am I looking for?”
Remember what the lawman said. He’s treating this as a suicide, until more “evidence” presents itself.
“So we’ll have to find some, won’t we?”
Now that’s the sort of sweet talk I like to hear.
“Where shall we look first?”
Remember those feet coming down the stairs?
“I remember they never came around the corner.”
Then where did your suspect go?
“There must be a quick way out of here. Maybe a shortcut to a backstreet . . .”
Emma’s apartment was at the rear of the house. To get here, I’d followed a redbrick sidewalk, but the sidewalk ended at the base of the staircase. Beyond the steps, a wide dirt path took over where the bricks left off. The path hugged the foundation’s perimeter, disappearing around the next bend. But (and this was a big but) the path was blocked by a crumbling six-foot trellis. Many of the wooden bars had rotted and fallen to the ground.
“Anyone trying to climb over that mess would have made a lot of noise. I would have heard it. But there’s nowhere else to go . . .”
The overgrown evergreens effectively walled in the dirt path, and the trees appeared impenetrable. Drooping branches overlapped in an interlocking curtain of sharp needles with thick weeds tangled at each trunk’s base.
“Nobody could get through all that without real effort.”
And a hacksaw.
“I would have seen or heard someone struggling, and I obviously didn’t.”
It’s a cinch. Your phantom perp disappeared into thin air.
“Gee, sounds like someone I know.”
You think I’m a product of your imagination?
“I’m not crazy, Jack. I know you’re real—to me, anyway. And I know what I heard.”
Refusing to believe I’d imagined those footsteps, I continued looking for another way out. And I found it. Between two of the trees along the dirt path, just before the crumbling trellis, I noticed a patch of beaten ground covered in nettles. No weeds here. And when I quietly pushed a few low branches aside—
“Look, Jack!”
Behind the curtain of pine stretched a footpath.
Sweet and alreet, you’ve found the hidden trail! Okay, baby, let’s blaze it.
Holding back the wet branches, I stepped between the trees and onto the path. The grove was heavily shaded, the scent of pine as powerful as the earthy smells from the fresh rain on the moss and weeds. Beneath my feet, the path was soft, but not muddy.
“I don’t see any footprints. These pine needles are like wall-to-wall carpeting.”
You’re in the woods now, baby. Might as well look for bread crumbs . . .
As I walked along, the little forest grew taller and the shade deeper. Chilly breezes rustled the long branches, and the green giants moved around me, as if they were alive.
They ARE alive, doll, they’re trees.
“They’re creepy.”
Maybe you only think they’re creepy because you make a living selling their dead.
“What a thing to say!”
It’s true, isn’t it? All those blowhards whose daydreams you peddle print their petty parables on paper. Paper is pulped wood. Maybe these greenies can sense you buy and sell their stiffs.
“Don’t be ridiculous! Trees aren’t that sentient.”
And ghosts don’t exist.
“Most living people would agree with that statement.”
So did I, doll, before my lead poisoning. And when I was alive, I preferred the city. Concrete, stone, glass—you can trust a thing that’s already dead. It won’t judge you. And it won’t change on you . . .
The colors were muted in the deep shade. But a flash of shiny crimson caught my eye—hard to miss that color amid all these earth tones.
“Probably just a piece of trash, maybe a candy wrapper . . .”
Don’t assume it till you’ve seen it.
A few more steps and I was staring at a glossy piece of “dead wood” stuck to a pine branch. Jack was right. This was no candy wrapper. It was a torn section from the dust jacket of Shades of Leather—the red couch edition. The slick paper was dry, too. Not rain-soaked like everything else around us.
“Emma’s book thief must have come through here after the storm—”
Just then, I heard something moving. Not something small like a squirrel or raccoon, something much larger. I glanced around the spooky grove. “Do you think our suspect could still be lurking nearby?”
Who knows what shadows lurk in the hearts of trees. Keep your peepers peeled, honey.
Jack’s close presence always chilled the air. Now I shivered for another reason. I could sense someone in the woods with me, and moving closer. But I couldn’t tell from what direction.
“Jack, which way should I go?”
The ghost didn’t answer. I listened harder. A cold raindrop slipped from a swaying branch and slithered down my neck. High above, a black-billed raven cawed a warning. Unseen birds fluttered and flew away.
“Jack? Are you there?”
Heavy footsteps came up behind me. Before I could turn, a strong hand clamped my shoulder, and a deep voice barked in my ear—
“What are you doing here?”
I spun out of the strong grip and found myself staring at a starched blue uniform shirt with a great big badge pinned to it.
“Eddie?”
Deputy Chief Eddie Franzetti frowned down at me.
“Answer me, Pen. Are you out here alone?”
“Yes, I’m alone.”
“I heard you talking to someone.”
Yeah, copper, that would be me!
The ghost was back. Jack, where did you go?!
I never left.
Well, you better keep quiet now. Don’t distract me.
Impossible, sweetheart. The ghost’s deep voice laughed flirtatiously. You know I always distract you.
I’m not kidding, Jack. This “copper” doesn’t hear ghosts. If he thinks I do, the next time we “dialogue” will be in a hospital psych ward.