Ike Hamill - The Hunting Tree Trilogy

“What is it?” asked Mike. “He can’t possibly be there yet. It should take him at least a half-hour to cover that much ground.”

“I’ve got to go,” said Melanie. “I don’t know what you’ve been telling my son, but now he’s gone. Are you happy now? I’ve got to call the police.”

“Wait!” yelled Mike. “Don’t hang up!” When he heard no response he looked down at Ken’s phone and saw that the call had ended. He tried to connect again, but received first a busy signal and then a set of rings that went to voicemail.

Mike gunned the engine and picked up speed in Ken’s powerful truck. The headlights in his rearview mirror kept a constant vigil, tracking his pace. The realization dawned on him slowly—those same headlights had been behind him almost since the moment he left Ken’s house. At first he thought it must be the police. They had somehow spotted Ken’s license plate and thought that he was the killer. The timing didn’t make sense.

And why wouldn’t they just pull me over? Mike asked himself.

Unable to think of a reasonable explanation, Mike maintained his speed and covered the distance to Davey’s house in less than ten minutes. He pulled to the curb in front of her mailbox and slammed the SUV into park. He jumped out and rounded the vehicle without taking the keys or closing the door. Melanie sat on her front stoop—the front door stood open behind her and she held a telephone in her hand.

“Ms. Hunter?” asked Mike as he crossed her yard.

She stood and backed towards her door at the sight of the stranger.

“Wait, hold on,” Mike stopped, still ten paces away. “Just hear me out.” Mike was so focused on trying to persuade Melanie from flight that he didn’t notice the truck that had pulled in behind him.

“The police will be here any second,” said Melanie. “If you’ve done anything to hurt my son, I’ll make you pay.”

“You’ve got me all wrong,” said Mike.

Before he could begin a full defense, their conversation was interrupted by a tall man, crossing the yard quickly.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” said the man. “My name is Morris, I’m a tracker.”

Melanie opened her mouth to protest the interruption, but Morris cut her off—“I know this all must be very confusing.” He spoke low—Melanie and Mike both had to strain to hear his words—but his sonorous voice reverberated with authority. “You’ll have to take my word that you’re in grave danger. We need to find your son and get moving. There’s a powerful, murderous man headed this way.”

“The police…” Melanie began.

Morris cut her off—“If we wait for them to be convinced, you’ll be dead before dawn.”

Melanie wiped away a tear with the side of her thumb as she stood. She opened the door to her house and called for Susan.

Mike turned to Morris, ready to ask a thousand questions about how and why he had shown up at Melanie’s house. Morris shook his head, demanding silence. Glancing at the street, Mike realized that Morris owned the headlights that had followed him from Ken’s house.

Susan appeared in the doorway with her shoulders squared for a face-off. She shrunk a little when she noticed the two men standing in the lawn.

“Get your stuff, we have to go,” said Melanie.

“I can’t,” said Susan. “I have stuff to do.”

“Suze, no,” said Melanie. “Hand me my bag and get your butt in gear. No arguments.”

Melanie pawed through her bag and then yelled back to her daughter. “Have you seen my keys?" She turned to Morris. “My keys and wallet are gone. I couldn’t leave if I wanted to.” She buried her face back in her bag. “Where’s my cellphone?” she asked to nobody in particular.

“We’re all riding with him,” Morris pointed at Mike.

“Great.” Melanie rolled her eyes.

Susan appeared in the doorway, holding her backpack.

“Do you have your keys?” Melanie asked her.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Then please lock up,” Melanie said, pointing her daughter to the door. “Okay,” Melanie said to Mike, “we’ll ride with you. But give me Dr. Stuart’s phone.”

“Done,” said Mike. He held out the cellphone.

“Call me,” Morris said to Melanie when she had the phone. He gave her his number and waited for her to dial.

“Why? Where are you going?” she asked.

“I’m going to track your son,” he replied. He strode confidently around the house and out of sight, leaving Melanie, Mike, and Susan standing in the yard.

Over the phone, Morris asked a question—“What’s your son’s name?”

“Davey,” she said.

“He called someone and then headed off north. Who does he know in that direction?” Morris asked.

Melanie looked up at the stars as she pictured the town. The answer was obvious once she had her bearings. “Oh! Paul, his best friend,” she said.

“Get in the car and go north on Walnut Court,” Morris instructed.

Melanie waved Mike and her daughter to the doctor’s SUV while she listened to Morris breathe through the phone. She pictured him jogging up the street.

“Where does Paul live?” he asked.

“Two blocks in that direction. Um, north. And then two and a half east on Center. But Davey might not go that way. He’d probably take the…” she said.

Morris cut her off—“Alley. Yeah, he did.”

Melanie showed Susan to the back seat of the SUV and then climbed in after her. They sat in the back while Mike drove. She waved at him to turn the truck around so she could follow the directions from Morris.

“Where are we going, anyway?” asked Susan.

Melanie’s hand flew up, gesturing for Susan to be quiet. Morris hadn’t spoken in a while, but she didn’t want to miss any instructions.

“Right on Hewey,” said Morris.

“Back up,” Melanie demanded. Mike slammed on the brakes. “You just passed Hewey,” she said, “go back and take a right.” Mike obeyed and Melanie reached back to grab her seatbelt.

“Slow down,” Morris instructed over the phone.

“Slow,” she said. She yipped into the phone as a dark shape emerged from the space between two houses and jumped out at the car.

Morris pulled open the passenger-side door and pointed. “Right there.”

Mike squinted into the dark. Melanie hit a button on the doctor’s phone, ending the call, and handed it back between the seats up to Mike.

“Just turn off the lights and drive,” said Morris, climbing into the vehicle.

Mike flipped off the switch for the automatic headlights, but the running lights stayed illuminated. Morris reached between them and pulled up slightly on the emergency brake. The sensor on the brake doused the running lights and they rolled down the street in stealth.

Melanie strained against her seatbelt so she could look between the seats in the direction Morris pointed.

“Pull just past him and I’ll jump out,” said Morris.

“Wait,” said Mike. “Don’t touch his skin. Not if he’s frightened.”

“What?” asked Melanie. “What do you think is wrong with my son?”

“Nothing,” said Mike. “It’s hard to explain. Can you get him in the car without frightening him?”

“Of course,” she said.

At that moment, when Mike had driven three quarters of the way down the block, Mike finally saw what Morris’s eyes had picked out of the darkness: at the unlit corner, with bushes between him and nearest house, Davey was frantically trying to kick-start the stolen dirt bike.

Mike slowed as they approached the runaway. Melanie unbuckled and jumped out. Preoccupied with trying to start the motorcycle, Davey didn’t hear her until the door of the SUV fell shut.

The boy stole a quick glance over his shoulder and abandoned the bike and started to run.