Ike Hamill - The Hunting Tree Trilogy

Mike turned around in his chair to continue his plea—“If you just give me more information, I’m sure I can help you figure this out. For instance, it can’t be a wight, because they’re always small, like dwarves.”

The door clicked shut behind Pat and Red.

AFTER A FEW MINUTES, two uniformed officers offered Mike a phone call before moving him to a cell. He left a message for his lawyer with his location and his circumstances.

ELEVEN THAT EVENING, two new officers came to Mike’s jail cell and brought him to meet Bob Farrell, the lead investigator. They were back in the same interview room, and Mike sat in the same hard seat. Bob didn’t have a partner or any papers. He sat across the table for several minutes just staring at Mike. Uncomfortable under the man’s gaze, Mike looked at the table and the ceiling, only touching his eyes to Bob’s occasionally.

Bob unbuttoned his cuffs and pushed his shirt and suit jacket up to his elbows before propping them up on the table.

“What’s with all the fairy tales?” he asked, finally.

“I’m sorry?” asked Mike.

Bob narrowed his eyes and flared his nostrils as he inhaled. He spoke low, forcing Mike to lean forward to hear the question—“Why have you been ranting like a lunatic every time someone asks you about these murders?”

“I haven’t been,” Mike said slowly with his voice low. He wasn’t trying to mock the lead investigator, but understood immediately that he sounded like he was.

“What’s your game here, Mike?”

“I really don’t have a game. I explained why I was looking…”

Bob cut him off, “You have admitted to knowing details of the murders that have not been released.” Bob’s voice rose with each syllable, until the last sounded like a threat.

“I have experience in this field,” said Mike. “I keep explaining that.”

“You’re a geneticist. Murder is not part of that field.”

“I am also a paranormal investigator,” Mike said slowly, enunciating each word.

“Great,” said Bob. “Chasing ghosts also doesn’t get you access to unreleased information about an ongoing investigation. Who told you about the missing organs?”

“It was a guess based on the type of entity that would…”

Bob cut him off again, “Or did you take the organs? That would certainly explain a lot: how you just happened to show up at the first house; how you knew about the organs; how you knew the victims were sick.”

“I didn’t know those things, they were educated guesses…”

This time Mike was cut off by the door swinging inward and plain-clothes Pat peeking in the crack.

“Bob?” said Pat. “Got a sec?”

Bob locked his eyes onto Mike’s before rising from his chair. He thrust out his rear as he stood, sending his chair skittering back to the wall.

Mike sat alone for several more minutes. He chewed at his fingernails, three of them already bleeding from the stress of the day. Finding no purchase, he turned his teeth to his cuticles and glanced up at the camera in the corner of the room. He regretted almost everything he had done that day. All the mistakes jumped out as he considered the events. Seeking the crime scene, impersonating an investigator, talking about paranormal things, guessing at the details, all the bad decisions looped over and over as he nibbled on his skin. Even with his hindsight firing on all cylinders, Mike hadn’t the slightest idea how to proceed without doing more damage to his credibility and freedom.

The lead investigator, Bob Farrell, ended Mike’s rumination when he burst back through the door. He slapped his hands down on the table and hunched over without sitting.

“Assuming you think you’re telling the truth, what next?”

“Pardon?" Mike was genuinely confused.

“In your crazy world,” explained Bob, “where murders are being committed by a paranormal entity, what’s our next move?” asked Bob.

“Oh,” said Mike. He felt like his brain was mired in quicksand. There was some important information concealed in Bob’s about-face, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. With another flash of inspiration, Mike figured it out—“You found another victim didn’t you?” he asked. “Another person was killed while I was in here?”

“Get back to your theory,” said Bob. “If you’re right about this paranormal thing, how do I use it to stop the killer?”

Mike relaxed a little, feeling the accusations lift from his shoulders. “Well,” he began, “you can’t approach this like you would a human killer. There’s very little you can do to stop a paranormal being most of the time. You have to go after its motivation.”

“And what would the motive be to kill these people who had nothing in common?”

“But they did have a few things in common,” said Mike. “They were in a straight line, so they were on his way. You said they were sick. I only suggested that they might be weak. Maybe their sickness had something to do with it. He’s traveling towards something, but when he comes across a sick person he feels the need to stop and kill. Or maybe he just wanted those organs that he stole, and it was easiest to go after weak people.”

Bob let Mike ramble and sat on the edge of a chair, hoping to hear some information he could make use of.

“He doesn’t seem like he needs to go after the sick though. Moving quickly through the night like that, I think he’s strong; really strong. He’s got his clear mission, but he keeps being distracted.” Mike leaned his chair back and laced his fingers behind his head, feeling almost comfortable as he turned over the details of the mystery. “This seems really familiar somehow.”

When his third and final flash of intuition of the day hit him, Mike was so surprised that he tumbled back, crashing his chair to the floor.

“Sorry, sorry,” he scurried to get back upright. He hoped that the fall had masked his realization. When he looked up to Bob, he thought his secret might be safe.

Bob was punching buttons on his phone and had apparently tuned out during the end of Mike’s analysis.

“You were saying?” Bob asked as he looked up.

“Oh, nothing,” said Mike. “I just think your killer’s victims are incidental to his overall mission.”

“Great, thanks,” said Bob. “Mr. Markey…”

“Doctor,” Mike corrected.

“I don’t want you leaving the area, but you’re free to go,” he informed Mike. “You can pick up your things at the front desk, and your car is parked outside.”

“Thanks,” said Mike.

THAT NIGHT HE MADE good progress, running through the woods, tuned to the sights and smells of this time. He leapt small streams and creeks, with his target calling him east. Most of the time, the boy presented such a strong signal that Crooked Tree felt he could track him down with his eyes closed.

Just before dawn, the signal became clouded. Crooked Tree realized he would need to remove another local distraction before he could continue. He veered out of the woods with just enough time before dawn to snuff the offending person and find a place to sleep through the day.

Crooked Tree maneuvered down a steep hill and slowed as he emerged from the trees. He found himself on a narrow neighborhood road. Houses dotted the length of the street and behind them another line of houses sat on the next block. He felt momentarily overwhelmed with the sights, sounds, and smells from this high concentration of homes.

A startled dog barked in a frenzy to the west. Crooked Tree wound through the streets to the east, circling his distraction and finding his way to the man’s door. He knelt and smelled the porch of the small house. A couple lived in this house, he discerned, but only the sick one and a cat were at home that night. He opened the screen door and pressed the handle of the front door until it buckled and snapped inward.