The Forest Prime Evil

by Alan Russell

  “His Green Belt was going to promote forest fascism,” said Doc. “He didn’t care about biodiversity or old growth. He would have planted a monoculture . . . ”

  “Funny how those things mean so much to you now,” I said, “whereas they didn’t before. I’m sure you’ll get a good lawyer who will amplify on those themes and paint you as a noble defender of the earth. But spare me that speech. I was the one you tried to murder, remember?”

  I held the gun on him, and he remembered.

  “You were there when Ashe came storming into camp. You were ready to go spiking with Teller, not because you believed in ecotage but because you wanted to show off your climbing skills to your mentor. You watched Teller lead Ashe away, and, curious, you followed them. I know how those voices can carry up from the river. You would have heard about the money. Ashe probably made it sound like a million dollars. Manna from heaven, you must have thought. Teller told me how you weren’t used to working, how you’d been a professional student your entire life. He said you inherited some money, but a stockbroker put you into some bad investments. That’s another way of saying you were greedy. Stockbrokers don’t make the investment decisions. You wanted a high return on your cash. The speculation didn’t pan out, and suddenly you were looking at a life of toil like the rest of us. You got a little taste of that life, and you didn’t like it. When your doctorate didn’t immediately open the doors you thought it would, you became that much more embittered.

  “When Teller came back to camp looking desperate and dazed, you knew something had happened between him and the Green Man. You agreed to tree-sit Methuselah, but, after relieving Sasha, you didn’t stay in the tree house for very long.

  “I don’t think you went to River Grove with the idea of killing the Green Man. But when you came upon him lying prostrate in front of you, you saw your opportunity. It was windy, not a good time to be out in the woods. The widow-maker was embedded in the ground near him. The thought would have come to you that widow-makers had killed before. Everyone knew that. You pulled the branch from the ground and stood over his recumbent body. He was sleeping off Teller’s fall, and his nakedness offended you, provoked you even more. You would have thought of Jane. You might even have thought of Teller. But what you thought about most was the money. You could take that money, and no one would know. It would mean not having to suffer the indignity of handouts at camp. It would allow you to be an independent man of means once again.”

  In my mind’s eye I could see him raising his muscular arms skyward like a sacrificial priest, then driving the stake home.

  “It must have shocked you when you didn’t find the money in the goosepen. You would have kept looking, would have grown more and more frustrated at not being able to find the Green Man’s cache. Your search was certainly interrupted by the police investigation. You didn’t want to be anywhere near those woods while they were out there. Keeping a low profile would have limited your ability to rummage around. You followed me while I was doing my snooping at River Grove. At first you must have wondered what the hell I was doing going around in what would have looked like circles. But when I came across that second goosepen, when I reached inside, you suddenly thought I had found the Green Man’s treasure. You weren’t about to let anyone else have it. Even though you didn’t kill me, you drove me away from the tree. No money again. But you left convinced that the money would be in another goosepen. No more pushing over old logs, or searching under rock piles. The only problem was getting to it first. It made sense that the tree wouldn’t be too far away from the Green Man’s roost. You decided to extend the search from where I had left off. You can try to paint your motives under a noble brush, but it was money that drove you to murder. Not pure, but simple.”

  “No,” said Doc. “That’s not how it was. He was like a weed in the woods, a spreading and destructive weed. He had to be eradicated. It was in the interest of the world that I acted. I did it for the old trees. I did it for biodiversity. I did it for—”

  “Money,” I said. “The same reason you were willing to kill me.”

  Doc had justified the murder in his mind, had convinced himself that the Green Man was the Hitler of the environmental movement. He continued to make his case for what he had done, and kept talking about his altruistic murder, even after Evans read him his rights.

  I returned to San Francisco but found it hard to leave the woods behind me. I didn’t come home empty-handed. I brought back three redwood seedlings purchased at the Humboldt Redwoods State Park. One was for Miss Tuntland, and one was for me. I was going to have Miss Tuntland’s sent over to her apartment, but she told me to plant it for her.

  “My gardening is limited to the window-box variety,” she said, “so I’ll entrust that chore to you.”

  Then she laughed and said the prospect of the planting put a tingle down her spine.

  “The moment you finish,” she said, “I want you to call and tell me all about it, and don’t leave out one detail.”

  I told her where our trees were going to be planted, and she approved. John McLaren had been there before me, had even prepared the ground.

  I took the three root balls and went to McLaren’s redwood grove at Golden Gate Park. I followed the instructions that had come with the seedlings, dug my holes one and a half feet wide and three feet deep, mixed up some nutrients, then placed the root balls in their new home.

  When I finished, I wiped the sweat from my brow and took a look at the future. It’s always difficult to imagine something else, something greater. Three little seedlings, no more than five inches high, were hard to envision as monuments. I put a name on each: mine, Miss Tuntland’s, and the Green Man’s. I thought of him more kindly now, pictured him in the proper backdrop of more than 2 million trees. With only three to my name, I already felt as if I had conquered the world, or at least had done something to better my own universe.

  I saved my words for Miss Tuntland. She wanted to know all about her tree. I described its exact location and how healthy it looked. Then she asked about my tree, and where it stood in relation to hers. I remembered the digging for her, and the planting, and how it had all felt good, and proper, and right.

  “It was like Jack and the beanstalk time,” I said. “If I didn’t know any better, I would swear those redwoods grew even as I watched.”

  “Beware of giants,” she said.

  Or giant killers, I thought.

  “My tree is going to grow and grow,” Miss Tuntland predicted.

  “And so is mine.”

  “Race you to the stars.”

  “You’re on.”

  THE END

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  Please read on for a note from Alan, followed by a sneak peek at:

  Political Suicide

  A Thriller

  On sale November 5, 2019

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  After the initial success of my first published novel, No Sign of Murder, I was asked by my publisher, Walker and Company, to write a sequel. That was an exciting time for me. I had a growing family and the full-time job of managing a hotel. My lifelong dream (other than being a professional athlete) was to be a professional writer. Having a publishing company willing to pay for my words was a wonderful thing.

  My editor at the time was Janet Hutchings, currently the longtime editor of Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. I couldn’t have been luckier having such a supportive presence in my life. She encouraged me to write the book I wanted to write. These days, many editors prefer to play it safe and have their writers do the tried and true, rather than reach for the stars.

  Growing up, I loved John D. MacDonald’s Travis McGee novels. What I liked about the
character of McGee was his honesty. Fifty years ago, long before anyone was talking about global warming, MacDonald, in the form of McGee, was writing about the depredation of Florida’s ecosystem. I am sorry to say MacDonald was prescient. Most of the things he bemoaned about his beloved Florida—and the world—have only worsened in the years since.

  When I set out to write this book, I wanted to take up MacDonald’s trumpet and talk about some of the ongoing environmental calamities in my own state of California, and beyond. At the same time, I realized that no reader wants to be scolded. Readers need interesting characters and a compelling plot. As a storyteller, I know my first duty is to entertain, but that doesn’t mean I can’t edify in a captivating way. Because I decided to put a spotlight on the clear-cutting of old growth forests in Northern California, that meant taking Stuart Winter out of his beloved San Francisco and putting him among the towering redwoods.

  I started researching this novel prior to Redwood Summer and the bombing death of Judi Bari. Throughout much of the 1980s, Humboldt County was a powder keg, with logging interests and environmentalists at odds. Because I was working a full-time job, I had to use vacation time to do my writing research. In 1991, I took to the great redwood forests of Northern California. In those woods, I went about trying to envision the scenes that were to play out in the book. My working title for the novel was The Green Man, but inspiration for what I thought was a better title came to me while spending time in the midst of the forest primeval. I thought about the Garden of Eden and its Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, and that was my eureka moment for the title The Forest Prime Evil.

  When the book came out, the reviews were kind. If I am to believe those reviewers, I missed the typical sophomore slump suffered by most authors, and I was on my way to becoming an established whodunit author. However, instead of writing the third book in the series, I decided to go into a completely different literary direction. It wasn’t that I was tired of Stuart Winter and company, but more that I felt the need to set out on a road I hadn’t traveled before.

  For those who aspire to becoming a professional writer, abandoning a relatively successful series is probably not a good strategy, but it is one that I have repeated time and again over the years. I am grateful that there have always been readers willing to follow my many writing incarnations.

  And for those new to my work, I hope you enjoy this visit to the forest.

  Alan Russell

  October 1, 2019

  POLITICAL SUICIDE SNEAK PEEK

  Political Suicide

  A Thriller

  On sale November 5, 2019

  “A rocket ride of action, political intrigue, and suspense.”—San Diego Magazine

  It was five minutes until midnight and I was facing the prospect of another bar and another witching hour. I took a few deep breaths and hoped that my heavy breathing would energize me. It was time to work, time to be the human sponge.

  I was staying at the Blue Crab Inn located along Maryland’s Chesapeake Bay. The resort featured two restaurants and one bar. I was shopping the property, a euphemism for spying. My job was to offer management my impressions and suggestions. I was the anonymous guest, the fly on the wall, and sometimes the fly in the ointment.

  The Jimmy Sooks Lounge overlooks the Miles River. Male blue crabs are called jimmies and the females are referred to as sooks, thus the name. I knew the lay of the land, having audited the Blue Crab Inn three times in the past year. It was a good account, meaning they were happy with my work and they paid promptly. Five years ago, I started my company, the Last Resort. At the time, the company name might have been a personal confession as well. The work is mostly corporate undercover. The company stationery lists my Maryland private investigator’s license number, but that’s strictly for show. When pressed by strangers as to my profession, I always say, “I’m a hospitality consultant,” the same answer hookers usually give.

  Another deep breath. Of late, it was the only kind of heavy breathing going on in my life. It was showtime. I walked into the bar and registered my impressions with one look at the room.

  Jimmy Sooks Lounge less than a third full. One bartender, one cocktail waitress on duty. ESPN on television. Muzak in background. Overall, lounge appears to be clean and kept up, though some debris under the table closest to hallway is clearly visible to anyone entering the room.

  There were three seats available at the bar. In less than a second, I decided on the best place to sit, a spot that afforded me a direct view of the register and the point-of-sale printer. As I made my way to the counter, I gave the impression of being just another business sort out to finish my workday with a nightcap. I was wearing my Invisible Man outfit—a blue blazer, gray slacks, and a loosened red paisley tie.

  Condiment tray needs attention. Fruit flies hovering over limes and cherries. Some swizzle sticks on counter. Toothpicks and a bar napkin on floor. Liquor display in disarray. Bottles not arranged neatly, some labels not facing forward. One patron with an empty glass. Bartender One slouching against back counter talking with what appears to be a friend, a white male, approximately twenty-five, with short, curly black hair, and a gold earring.

  I took a seat and casually craned my neck around for a look-see. There was a mirror stretching along the bar wall that would provide me the eyes that some people swore were in the back of my head.

  Cobwebs in southeast corner of bar. Nautical memorabilia also in need of attention from housekeeping. Dust on anchor and dip net displays. Cellophane wrappers and other debris visible on crab traps hanging on wall. Eleven patrons in lounge. Four at counter: Earring Man; Empty Glass, who’s an older white male; and Lovey-Dovey Couple, both white, she blond hair, him brown. In the lounge are three businessmen at a table, all clean-shaven, two white, one black; white male in corner; a Hispanic couple in the back booth closest to hallway; a white female in booth closest to wall.

  With my peripheral vision I took in the unhurried approach of the bartender. He stood in front of me and said, “What can I get you?”

  No opening pleasantries, no smile. Management needs to coach staff on proper method of approaching a guest. Bartender One is Todd, a white male, six feet tall, two hundred pounds, wearing a uniform and name tag. He has short brown hair, a mustache, and a tattoo of a bulldog on left wrist.

  “Vodka and tonic. Light on the ice. And a water back, please.”

  “You got it.”

  Bartender One makes no attempt to upgrade drink order. House vodka is Smirnoff. Judging by call bottles, he could simply have asked, “Stolichnaya?” Or, “Skyy?” Or, better yet, “Do you have a preference of vodka?” Bartender One uses glass to get ice instead of using ice scoop. If glass breaks in ice it is a potential hazard. Recommend that all bartenders be required to use ice scoop. He free-pours the drink. Five-count pour. Recommend to management that bartenders use shot glass and splash for a consistent pour. Lime garnish placed in drink.

  The bartender returned with the two drinks, placed the napkins down on the counter, and put the glasses atop them.

  “That will be seven seventy-five.”

  No offer to run a tab. No inquiry as to whether I’m a guest in the hotel. Lost opportunity for personalization of service. Management should encourage Bartender One to start a tab as it facilitates more drink orders.

  I removed a twenty-dollar bill from my wallet. When performing an audit, you always pay cash at the bar to see if the staff is following what bean counters call cash-control procedures. One of my jobs is to bloodhound the path of the money. Since time immemorial publicans have worried about ducats safely landing in the till instead of in an employee’s pocket.

  Bartender One immediately retrieves tendered twenty-dollar bill. Money picked up without acknowledgment of appreciation. Management should stress that all servers thank guests upon payment.

  I don’t particularly care for vodka, but I always make a point of ordering a clear drink because it’s easy to look through. Raising my drink, I pret
ended to take a long sip. What I was really doing was peering through the looking glass. As the bartender approached the register, the tingle in my neck clued me to what was going to happen a moment before it did. Maybe it was the bartender’s momentary pause at the cash register, or it could have been the surreptitious tilt of his head followed by the almost imperceptible look to the right, and then to his left. I always wondered if my foreknowledge was the result of physical giveaways, or if I was sensitized to some unseen vibration. It was the kind of thing I never probed too closely for fear of losing the magic.

  At 11:58 Bartender One hits the NO SALE key on the register. He puts the twenty-dollar bill into the till, acts as if he’s depositing money for the drink, but actually removes twenty dollars in change. In his hand he palms a five-dollar bill.

  The bartender returned with my change, muttered, “Thank you,” then walked off.

  No receipt offered for obvious reasons. Management might consider having bartenders dispense receipts with all drinks. Twelve dollars and twenty-five cents in change returned to me at 11:59.

  I tracked the bartender’s movements. He stopped as if to tidy up some glasses on the back counter, but his subterfuge was obvious.

  At 11:59:45 Bartender One slips five-dollar bill into tip jar.

  There was a small sense of letdown. Part of the anticlimax was this feeling of having witnessed too many venial sins in my thirty-five years. There was also this sense that the last act had already been played out, but that my job as critic required me to watch the rest of an overly long scene. Management and ownership would feel cheated if I didn’t stay in the bar for at least an hour. They always liked the details and comments in my reports. I was living proof of the devil in the details.