The Hunting Tree

by Ike Hamill

  “Sure,” said Davey. He shot a sideways glance over to his mother.

  Dr. Stuart nodded and turned to address Melanie. “Oh, I forgot to ask. Ms. Hunter, did you get all the insurance forms to the front desk?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I filled out all the paperwork while we waited.”

  He turned his head away from Davey, and raised his eyebrows at her.

  Melanie clued-in all at once. “Oh, no I didn’t. I forgot to give them something. Would you mind if I went and did that now?”

  “Sure, that’s no problem,” said Dr. Stuart. “We’re just wrapping up here.”

  When he turned back to Davey, the boy scrutinized him closely.

  “You know I was just trying to get rid of your mother, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” said Davey.

  “Do lots of people underestimate how much you understand?” asked Dr. Stuart.

  “I guess,” said Davey, looking down at the floor.

  “Not to worry.” Dr. Stuart sat down in the chair that Davey’s mom had vacated. “Everyone grows up at different rates. You’re a little early, some will be late. Everyone catches up in the end. Well, most everybody catches up.” Dr. Stuart smiled.

  Davey smiled back.

  “Do you know what doctor-patient privilege is, Davey?” asked Dr. Stuart.

  Davey shook his head.

  “That means that if you want to tell me something, I can never be compelled to repeat it. Well, at least in Maine,” he amended. He knew that kids this age could be like little human lie-detectors. The only way to gain their trust was to be completely honest. “They could bring me in to court and threaten me, but I would never repeat something you said in confidence because then you could sue the heck out of me. Now if I find anything medical, I’m probably going to tell your mom, but that’s mostly so she can help you get better. But I think there’s something else wrong. Am I right?”

  Davey considered the question, wrinkling his brow and trying to decide which issue, if any, he thought the doctor might be able to help with. He decided to start with a test, to see if the doctor was truly trustworthy. “Is there something wrong with me?”

  “Well,” Dr. Stuart sighed. “That’s a pretty hard one. We’re doing a lot of tests to figure that out, but it’s mostly because if we could find something early it would be a lot easier to deal with. Do you know what I mean?”

  Davey nodded.

  “Your last doctor, Chisholm, he figured that given the fact that you stumble sometimes, and your early development, maybe you had inherited a condition. So, we’re going to do some more tests on all the blood we took and see if there’s anything we can find. That’s not what you’re really worried about, is it?”

  “No,” Davey admitted. He bunched his shoulders up and lowered his head.

  Dr. Stuart suppressed the urge to prod him further, and just waited for a response.

  “Sometimes I have dreams, but I’m afraid to talk about them,” said Davey.

  “Why’s that?”

  “‘Cuz What if then they come true?”

  Dr. Stuart nodded and frowned. “That’s a perfectly reasonable thing to be afraid of, Davey. Lots of people have that exact same fear, and it’s okay to be careful about what you say. But can I tell you something else? Sometimes dreams get a lot less scary when you tell them to someone else. I had to study a lot of science to become a doctor and we learned that nobody has ever shown any causal link between telling a dream and it coming true.”

  Davey nodded.

  “My dad understood how these things work. He was telling me about everything, but then he died,” said Davey.

  “Would you like to have someone else to talk to? There are people who specialize in just that—they’re really good listeners and they make a job of helping people understand their thoughts and dreams and stuff,” said Dr. Stuart.

  “Like a shrink?”

  Dr. Stuart laughed. “Yeah. Exactly like that.”

  “I don’t know,” said Davey. “I’ve heard they’re expensive.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” said the doctor. “If I can prescribe it, most of the cost will be covered by the insurance company. If we have a problem with getting the money, then we won’t do it. Do you want me to do that?”

  “I guess,” said Davey, rubbing his neck.

  “Now, is there anything else you can tell me about physically?” asked Dr. Stuart. “Any aches, pains, balance problems, anything?”

  “My chest still hurts when I move too fast,” said Davey.

  Dr. Stuart nodded vigorously. “Yup, you can expect that for at least another couple of weeks. I think you’ll be ready to go back to school by next week though. You can play just as hard as you want, but you let me know if you have any more pain after,” he said and looked up at the calendar, “let’s say April first. If you feel any more pains after then, tell your mom and ask her to let me know.”

  “Okay,” said Davey.

  “What else?”

  “I don’t like the way I smell,” said Davey.

  “Okay, good. That’s normal for a boy your age. You might be a tiny bit ahead of the curve on that one, but everyone is different. I’m going to ask your mom to pick you up some special deodorant if you don’t mind. I just want you to make sure you stay away from antiperspirant for now, okay?”

  “Sure,” Davey said.

  “What else?” Dr. Stuart prompted again.

  Davey shrugged and held up his hands.

  “Okay, great!” The doctor slapped his knee and stood up. I’m going to talk to your mom for a couple of minutes about the blood tests and everything. I’ll also tell her that I would like you to have someone to talk to, is that okay?”

  “Sure,” said Davey.

  Dr. Stuart led Davey out to the waiting room and waved Melanie towards his office.

  “How’s he doing? Sorry I was so dense,” said Melanie.

  “Don’t worry about it,” the doctor said, smiling. “He’s good. Very smart boy, but you know that. I didn’t really get a chance to know him last time with all that hospital stuff going on.”

  “Is there something he’s not telling me?”

  “Well,” said the doctor. “I think he needs someone to talk to. Honestly, he still misses Dad, which is perfectly normal. It’s also normal for him to have some feelings about Dad that he can’t talk to Mom about. I’m going to write down a couple of names of colleagues I trust. Insurance can be tricky on this. I can write it up as necessary based on his injury, or any conditions we might find, but if you’re planning on switching carriers at any time, it might alert as a pre-existing condition. You might just want to consider on a couple hours a month out of pocket, depending on how much it costs and how much you have to spare.”

  “Okay,” said Melanie. “That’s a lot to take in, but I have seen that he needs to talk to someone.”

  “I’m also going to write down this product for you,” said Dr. Stuart.

  “A prescription?” Melanie wrinkled her brow. She was willing to accept some minor counseling, but didn’t like the idea of medicating kids who had trouble sleeping.

  “No.” Dr. Stuart laughed. “It’s a deodorant. This one is mild and natural and it smells like fresh laundry. Should help him blend in a little better.”

  “Oh.” Melanie exhaled.

  “I know,” said the doctor. “It’s hard to accept your little boy is growing up so fast. Finally, we should talk about the tests.”

  “You have results?” she asked, confused.

  “No, not yet. But I want to make sure that when we get the results we have the right set of eyes looking at them.”

  “Of course,” agreed Melanie.

  “Here’s the thing: as you may have already guessed, I’m not the biggest fan of the insurance companies.”

  “Who is?” she asked.

  “In your case, if I refer you to someone in your network to analyze these results, we’re not going to get the most detailed, informed answers,”
said Dr. Stuart.

  “No?”

  “Unfortunately not.”

  “Then what?” Melanie asked.

  “I’d like to bring in an old friend of mine. He strictly a research guy, he doesn’t have patients—more like IDs on a clipboard, but I’m thinking that if anyone can give us an answer, it will be him.”

  “Okay,” said Melanie, but she chewed on a fingernail.

  “That makes you nervous?”

  “A little?”

  “If we don’t get good answers—something we can fully test and prove out—we’ll go straight on to one of the doctors in your network and go a more conventional route.”

  “I trust you, Dr. Stuart. I feel like you’re being straight with me. Let’s give it a shot,” said Melanie.

  “Okay, great,” he said. “I’ll get his schedule and have reception get in touch.”

  “Thank you,” said Melanie.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Mike

  AFTER THE DEPOSITION, Mike rode north on I-93 into the mountains of New Hampshire. He tried to focus on his finances—he was convinced that there must be some way he could pay off his loans and the damages he owed, and still have enough money to live. His bank account painted a bleak picture. It had steadily declined since the day Gary died. In the fire, Mike had lost his van, his equipment, all the findings that supported his research, and his friend. All that he had left were debts, legal bills, and hateful phone calls from Gary’s family.

  The urge to flee had been overwhelming. Until he passed through Manchester he hadn’t realized what should have been perfectly obvious: he was headed directly towards the energy source that Gary had pinpointed. Mike took this as a sign from his subconscious and stopped at a gas station to spend most of his cash buying a map and filling up his thirsty vehicle. Before the pump clicked off, he had already found the town, the road, and the trail where Gary’s lines had intersected.

  He took the exit written on his pad, and stopped at the first intersection. A big truck with giant tires pulled up behind him and honked its throaty horn. Mike waved the driver around and pulled the map into his lap. Studying the lines, he turned the map around several times, trying to construct directions to the trailhead.

  Mike squeezed his temples and closed his eyes. The same image drifted in his imagination. Every time Mike closed his eyes or even blinked hard, he saw Gary. His dead friend wore a seasoned, experienced smile in his mind’s eye as his hair and eyes burned. Mike’s eyes flew open and he found perfectly normal New Hampshire roads. He pushed the map away and pulled up to the stop sign with his blinker on. The thought crossed his mind that eventually he might get a full night’s sleep, but it wouldn’t be any time soon.

  * * * * *

  THE PARKING LOT WAS EQUIPPED with steel poles flanking the entrance and a chain to keep out trespassers, but the chain lay on the ground. Mike pulled in and chose a spot not visible from the road. He shut off the engine and gripped the wheel before stepping out of his car.

  This would be easier if I had one of the handheld detectors that Gary built, he thought.

  Bill had taken those though. He had demanded them as part of the payout described in the contract should anything go awry with the investigation of his house. Mike remembered the arrogance with which he had signed the document. At that point he had thought there was nothing to lose. Pushing open his car door, Mike stepped out into a deep, muddy puddle. His loafer sunk, and the cold water flowed over the lip of his shoe, soaking his foot.

  “Fuck,” he whispered to himself.

  Pushing away from the car, he stepped over the mud and made his way to the trunk. Inside, a backpack of fresh clothes sat—a remnant of his former late-night investigations. Mike sat on the lip of the trunk and changed clothes.

  Katie’s betrayal hurt the most, even though he hadn’t talked to her in-person since the fire. His lawyer had briefed Mike that Katie’s statements would be read during his deposition, but he hadn’t guessed how clearly he would imagine her saying those terrible things. Mike remembered her deposition as he buttoned his flannel shirt.

  “Did you ever see any unexplainable events?” she had been asked.

  “No,” she replied, “but Mike tried to convince us that there were ghosts and spirits at all the houses we visited. In fact he had convinced Gary. That poor man totally believed everything Mike said.”

  The next question seemed to refute her statements—“What about Bruce Wallace? He wrote about an event involving a dead grandmother in his newspaper column, and repeated those claims at an earlier interview.”

  In her deposition, Katie had rebutted this evidence easily. “Bruce told us that he wanted to sell newspapers. In fact, Mike even told me that time that he didn’t see Bruce’s grandmother.”

  Mike stood next to his car in the parking lot at the start of the Moose Cross Trail and told himself that a hike would help him clear his head. He pushed his keys deep into his front pocket, closed his trunk, and set off for the overgrown path.

  * * * * *

  HIS PROGRESS WAS SLOW, and Mike’s lungs soon burned with the exertion. The path took him winding down a forested hill until he passed close to a deep creek. For early May, the afternoon was heating up and the black flies enjoyed a healthy feast of every inch of exposed flesh. Mike knelt next to the creek and splashed cold water on his neck and forehead.

  When he straightened up from his crouch, Mike found that the path branched ahead. To his left, the path wound up the hill, and to the right, it followed the creek. The tree between the two choices held a marker. His Moose Cross Trail stayed with the creek, and the other was labeled “The Ledges." Mike opted for upper route. Something about the thick smell of the cool water made him uncomfortable.

  Mike’s new path took him out of the woods and into the open, amidst loose white rocks broken from the battered cliffs. He blinked back the bright sun reflecting off the rocks and pulled his folded map from his back pocket. It lacked the detail he needed to be precise, but an inset of the area showed him his approximate position. Against this map, he tried to overlay his memory of Gary’s red lines. Judging by the trail split, he figured he was about halfway to the nexus of those intersecting arcs.

  He trudged on, following the thin line worn into the loose rocks. When his path crossed a wide expanse of smooth granite, he had to study the far side to detect where his trail picked up again. After a while he noticed that if he focused farther down the path it was easier to see the winding trail. His trail followed the contours of the cliff up and down, but he noticed that it steadily gained altitude above the creek.

  The trees encroached on the rocky plain until his path wound through a thin margin between the vertical cliffs and the scrub. Mike consulted his map one more time and decided that he had probably reached the convergence of Gary’s lines. He thought about taking a break before turning around, but decided instead to press on. The sky looked to open up a bit and he thought he might be rewarded with a view.

  Mike was quickly disappointed. After moving with hands and feet over several large rocks, he found a sign mounted on a twisted fir tree. It showed that “The Ledges” trail headed back downhill here, presumably to rejoin the creek. He hadn’t seen a good view yet, and the thinner trees up ahead promised that his reward must be near. Deliberating for less than a second, he pulled himself over the next rock and made his way along the steep ridge.

  With very little hiking experience, Mike was completely charmed by the sight that greeted him a hundred yards later. He made his way around another big boulder, pressed between sharp branches and the cliff face, and saw that the trees pulled back from the wall. Here a small clearing opened up and the trees and sky framed a nice view of the valley below. When he squinted, he thought he could even see where the small creek joined a larger river.

  He stayed high against the wall, to maximize the distance he could see over the trees, and found a large rock to lean against. The stone had been warmed by the hot sun. It instantly relaxed his t
ight back. He propped his head up on his interlaced fingers and enjoyed the serenity.

  After only a few minutes of relaxation, Mike’s problems crept back to the front of his head. He took a deep drag of the fresh air and tried to empty his mind, but the thoughts continued to intrude, banishing his solitude. Mike sighed and decided to talk through his problems.

  “Guess I have to start over,” he told the clearing. “Lost my savings, my research, and I’m probably going to lose my grandparent’s house. If I’m lucky, I’ll manage to hold on to my freedom.”

  He tilted his head back and looked at the flawless blue sky.

  “I’ve got my life. That’s more than Gary,” he said. Mike closed his eyes, knowing that he would be greeted with Gary’s terrible visage, but wanting to feel the pain and sorrow of his loss.

  His guilt was compounded, and he had just arrived at the point where he could admit why. When Gary had raised his ruined, handless arm, for a brief moment Mike had been glad—glad that the news crew would have solid evidence of activity, and glad that his research had uncovered horrific, incontrovertible manifestations. He tried to forgive himself for his own greed, but his pain was too fresh to be dismissed.

  When no more tears would come, Mike leaned back against the warm rock, propped his head in the corner of his elbow, and dozed. He awoke to a cool breeze, deep thirst, and nagging headache. There was plenty of daylight left, but the sun had moved behind the rock face and the shadows were cooling quickly.

  Mike slid across the rock and dropped down to the loose rocks below. His feet crunched down and his ankle twisted on the uneven terrain. He rotated his foot and looked down, hoping it wouldn’t swell.

  “What’s this?” he asked aloud. He knelt down, feeling a sharp stab in his tender ankle, and peered at the dark lumps between his shoes. Grabbing a twig, he rolled one of the lumps while he waited for his eyes to adjust to the shadow of the rock. The furry lump included a leathery appendage. He brushed it with his stick until the wing of the bat was stretched across the scree. Something about the shape of the dead bat didn’t make sense. He poked another until he figured it out—the bats were missing their heads.