Ike Hamill - The Hunting Tree Trilogy

Davey steeled himself for the dash to the door. He poked his head around the side of the desk, to ensure the paperback-woman was still engaged with Curtis’s story, but what he saw forced him back behind the desk: the paperback-woman had seen through the lie and was already back in the classroom, the door swinging shut behind her. Curtis had his face pressed against the glass of the other door, but Davey wasn’t sure if his new friend had spotted his predicament. Davey tucked under the metal desk—where the woman’s legs would go if she didn’t always prop them up to support her book—and listened to the click of her approaching shoes.

She slowed as she rounded the desk and picked up her book from the surface. Davey heard her sigh interrupted by the outside door crashing open again.

“Hey!” an unfamiliar voice called out. “That guy just cut himself on something.”

“For Christ’s sake,” the woman said as she flopped her book back down.

Davey heard her shoes clicking away and mentally thanked Curtis for giving him more time. He didn’t bother to look, he figured it was his last chance. Davey scurried towards the door and slipped into the hallway, turning the handle before pulling it shut to avoid the click of the latch. Instead of heading towards the bathroom or his assigned locker, Davey took a right towards the glowing red exit sign.

The end of the hallway was dark, with only minimal lighting. Around the corner he found two heavy doors marked as an exit. He paused and listened. Davey didn’t know if he was using his ears or some other sense, but he thought of it as listening. He reached out with his senses to determine if this way was safe. Unable to perceive any danger, he pushed through the door, reminded of when he and Paul had snuck out of school. Only a couple short months before, Davey already pined for those carefree days of school.

Behind the building he found a loading dock and a short stretch of asphalt to the fence that bordered the woods. A dumpster near the fence looked to provide decent cover, so Davey slipped through the door and sprinted for the narrow shadow next to the dumpster. He stayed low during his run, but once he reached the safety of the shadow, Davey poked his head out to see if he had been spotted.

Convinced he hadn’t been seen, he plotted his next move. He stood, grabbed the top of the dumpster and pulled himself up. With the fence now at waist-height he threw himself over and tumbled to the ground on the other side. Two steps later, Davey was safe in the woods, shrouded by the thick blanket of foliage.

He crawled farther away, until he couldn’t even make out the bricks of the Center, and then stood. A thin path wound down the hill and then followed a dirty creek. Davey followed the path, and plotted the rest of his day. He jolted to a stop and gasped. He thrust his hand deep in his pocket, sure that he had left his running-money in his bag in the locker. Davey smiled and exhaled when his fingers touched the wad of bills.

The sun came out from behind the blanket of clouds and brightened the woods just as Davey’s mood lightened. He ambled carelessly, figuring he had plenty of time to get to the road and hitch a ride before anyone would miss him. His plan took him across the creek, down the summer version of a snowmobile trail, and across the river on the railroad bridge so he could get to the big patch of woods south of his hometown.

Once he hit the big woods, he knew what to expect. He had hiked here with friends and knew a lot of the trails. At least one trail went for miles in either direction, hooking up to the cross-country snowmobile trails in the wintertime, but he didn’t plan to walk all afternoon. For one thing, he knew that the trails would eventually bog him down in swamps—the snowmobilers didn’t have to worry about bogs and small bodies of water, they just skated right over that mess—but more importantly, he wanted to catch a ride before nightfall. Davey suspected that the monster could easily outrun him on foot, but might have trouble keeping up with a car.

He took a right on the next branch and continued on the rutted trail until he saw the road through a thin margin of trees. He couldn’t recall the road number. It had two lanes and a double yellow line—he figured that was enough to ensure a certain amount of traffic. Davey cut through the woods and walked through the gully until a car going the wrong direction passed. When the road cleared, he trotted across and continued down the shoulder of the southbound side.

Davey shuffled down the gravel shoulder for fifteen minutes before the next car passed. He turned around and stuck his thumb out. A white minivan gave him some extra space and kept going. Right on its heels, just after the minivan had cleared the corner, a blue sedan slowed down as it pulled alongside Davey.

The window lowered and a middle-aged man with a thin mustache looked out.

“Where you headed?” the man asked.

“Portland?” Davey asked.

“Jump in,” said the man.

Davey walked back a step and reached for the handle to the backseat, but the man called out to him—“Get it front, would ya?”

“Okay,” said Davey. He was unaccustomed to riding in front, but didn’t want to scare away his ride. Davey climbed into the sedan and pulled the door shut, but it didn’t latch. The man began to pull away from the shoulder. “It’s not closed, I don’t think,” Davey told him.

“Try again,” the man instructed.

Davey pushed open the heavy door and saw the road streaking by below them. He jerked the door with both hands and it sealed shut. The closing seemed to trigger a burst of stale cigarette smoke to puff up from the seat. Turning away from the man, Davey fumbled with the seat belt and pulled it across his body.

“All set?” asked the man.

“Yeah, I guess,” said Davey. He looked up at the man. Deep lines were carved into his tanned face, and a forest of stubble covered his chin. Most of the wrinkles started around his eyes and curved up and away. The man squinted constantly, but his eyes were so light-blue, almost white, that Davey could make out their color just from the small amount he could see. At the man’s temples white hair feathered back, but the rest of his short hair was charcoal gray, salted lightly.

“Name’s Horace,” the man said, sticking out his weathered hand.

Davey took the thick-skinned hand and gripped it briefly before pulling away. Despite the heat of the afternoon, Horace’s hand was cold.

“I’m John,” Davey lied. He had an elaborate backstory to tell, if he should be pressed. Horace didn’t ask.

“It can be a royal bitch to get a ride. How long were ya walkin’?” asked Horace. Davey noticed that the car moved at a steady pace, not too fast at all, perhaps even too slow.

“Only a little while,” said Davey.

“Anybody else pass you?” asked Horace.

“Just a van,” said Davey. “I was going to…” he began to lead in to his cover story.

Horace cut him off, hissing under his breath. “Shit,” he said, “get down." He reached out and pressed on Davey’s shoulder with his right hand. Davey spotted the white van on the right side of the road, with its front end pulled out to cross the lanes in a wide U-turn. As he ducked he spotted the back of the woman’s head—she looked towards the north-bound lane to gauge if she could continue pulling out.

“I figure you’re on the run and don’t necessarily want that lady to spot you headed south,” said Horace.

“Oh,” said Davey, still processing the situation. He inched back up as Horace brought the car back up to speed. Davey looked around out the back window and saw the retreating shape of the minivan, now headed north. “You think she was looking for me?” asked Davey.