The toils and dangers of the wilderness were to be encountered before the adverse hosts could meet.
—James Fenimore Cooper, The Last of the Mohicans
WHEN I RETURNED to Buy the Book, Seymour and Brainert were waiting for me. Aunt Sadie was waiting, too. After I shared the good news about Spencer’s school situation, she shared some news with me.
“Fiona called and mentioned that Peyton Pemberton’s boyfriend returned to the inn this morning.”
“Hollis West?” I said and Sadie nodded. “Does Fiona know where Hollis has been all this time?”
“No, she didn’t talk to him. He parked his fancy car and went directly to the Lighthouse. She said Mr. West and Miss Pemberton haven’t budged since.”
Sounds like Mr. Beefcake and Miss Cheesecake are getting reacquainted, Jack cracked.
“Maybe they’ll check out today,” I said. “Unless their waiting for the state police to arrest Norma.”
Sadie sighed. “I’m sure that’s exactly what they’re doing, Pen. And Fiona’s still quite upset.”
“Speaking of Norma, we’d better hit the trail,” Seymour advised me and Brainert. “I hope you both brought your hiking boots. We have a lot of ground to cover.”
“Not as much as we first thought,” I said and told them about Susan Trencher’s science project.
I pulled out the map she’d made for me. The girl had thoughtfully attached a copy of the photo that gave me a clue. Seymour studied the image and nodded.
“Yep, it’s Norma’s trailer. I recognize that crack in the side window.”
While Seymour and Brainert studied Susan’s map, I ran upstairs, changed into sturdier clothes (jeans and a thick sweatshirt), and donned my hiking boots. After giving my son a hug and a kiss—along with a heartfelt talk, which included the very good news from Mr. Burke and Principal McConnell—I went back downstairs.
I told Sadie I’d delivered homework to Spencer, and I thanked her profusely for looking after him and covering the shop today. “Call me if you need anything or Spencer gives you trouble.”
She waved her hand. “Stop worrying. You know this shop’s a joy for me to run—especially after all your hard work turning it around. As for Spencer, he’s a great kid. When he’s through with his homework, I’ll put him to work stocking shelves. You know he enjoys working in the shop, too.”
“Come on, Pen, daylight’s burning!” Seymour pressed impatiently.
“Go on now, get out of here,” Sadie commanded as I gave her a tight hug. “And find our Norma.”
“We’ll do our best,” I promised.
“Forsooth, this quest should tax us not,” Seymour announced as I grabbed my coat. “Come, knights and lady, let us be off. The Volkswagen bus awaits.”
“Huzzah, Sir Gawain!” Brainert replied. “I only hope that antiquated combustion-engine coach-and-four doesn’t conk out on us.”
Their banter continued until we hit the junction, most of it in an improvised, faux-medieval dialect.
Needless to say, Jack was not amused.
If I hear one more thee, thou, or forsooth, I’m going to find a shiv and cutteth their throats.
As we turned toward Millstone, Brainert and Seymour finally got serious.
“There’s the spot where Brainpan got sideswiped,” Seymour said, slowing down so I could get a good look. “You can see where his car scraped the oak tree.”
“That’s an ash tree, you dolt,” Brainert insisted.
“Okay, I was wrong,” Seymour said. “You don’t have to be an ash about it. Get it? An ash about it.”
The rural route ended at Millstone, and we got on the highway to go that last mile or so. According to Susan’s map, the dirt road was just outside of town proper, but within the city limits.
“Little Susie should work for the US Geological Survey,” Seymour said moments later. “There’s the service road, right where she said it would be.”
Seymour rolled his bus onto the shoulder of the lightly trafficked two-lane highway. He made a sharp right turn onto the dirt road, but we didn’t get far. Two metal poles sunk in concrete were connected by a stout metal chain, blocking any vehicle from entering.
“I guess the engineers didn’t want teens using this spot as a lovers’ lane,” Seymour said. “Looks like we’re walking from here.”
The bright promise of the morning had given way to an overcast and chilly afternoon. The dirt road was rough and as pitted as the surface of the moon—the storm had churned up the earth and transformed it into a field of mud. Though it was mostly dry now, there were still puddles of brown water to avoid, and lots of soft spots that sunk our boots.
The road seemed to narrow as trees and bushes on both sides began crowding us. Traffic sounds receded, replaced by urgent bird calls and the plaintive cooing of mourning doves huddled around the fallen trunk of a dead tree. When the strident caw of a lone crow echoed down from the cloudy sky above, Brainert declared—
“This place gives me the creeps. How far until we reach Millstone Creek?”
“Not far, according to Susie the Surveyor,” Seymour replied.
Minutes later, we heard the sound of water and sniffed the dampness in the autumn air. Purple asters blossomed all around us, but something far more ominous grabbed my attention.
Large footprints had been made in the mud, and the ground had hardened enough to preserve their imprints.
I stopped dead, my mind racing. Do you see this?
Yeah, honey, I see it.
“Someone came here ahead of us, Jack,” I said.
“Who’s Jack?” Seymour asked, puzzled.
“Er . . . I meant to say jackboots.” I pointed to the tracks. “Look at the size of those footprints. Someone was here before us.”
“Young Susan came here, certainly,” Brainert said. “When she took the photograph, I mean.”
“Sorry, Brainpan,” Seymour said. “These tracks belong to a size-thirteen human, extra wide—or maybe Bigfoot.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Brainert sniffed.
“An undiscovered primate species in North America is a very real scientific possibility,” Seymour insisted. “I wouldn’t dismiss Bigfoot tracks or Sasquatch sightings out of hand.”
“Why not Mothman?” Brainert cried. “Or the Yeti? Or maybe Godzilla? He’s King of the Monsters, isn’t he?”
“There are more things in heaven and earth,” a smirking Seymour stated.
Personally, I was far less concerned about Bigfoot than I was about a certain foreign visitor to Quindicott named Enzo Santoro. The muddy boots in the back seat of the car were surely size twelves if not larger, and so were the footprints left by the man who murdered Dottie Willard.
Is Santoro some sort of hit man, Jack?
Somebody pushed old Dottie’s button, Jack replied. But I’m not sure the killer was imported. Anyway, you don’t have to worry. Whoever made these tracks is long gone.
You’re sure?
These tracks are headed away from the creek, doll.
Oh God. If it was Santoro, he already found Norma’s trailer.
If it was Signore Santoro, he might have already found Norma, too.
“Hurry!” I cried, picking up my pace.
Jack’s suggestion got my heart racing, and I followed those tracks backward with a feeling of mounting dread. Seymour’s long strides kept pace with me. Poor Brainert lagged behind.
Seconds later I rounded a thick clump of trees and found the brown waters of Millstone Creek spread out before me. And right there, in the middle of a muddy island surrounded by water, sat Norma Stanton’s teardrop trailer.