Isabelle was stunned and reflexively pushed her hands against his chest, but the feel of his warm body, the hardness of his muscles, stopped her cold. She felt small and helpless under his gaze.
Jules leaned down and kissed her on the mouth, squeezing her arms tight. At first she struggled, but the sensation of his soft lips left her weak.
He jolted back, his expression aghast. “Isabelle, please forgive me. I never—”
She wiped her mouth. “It’s all right, really.”
“No, it’s not. You’re a married woman, and here I am…” His voice trailed off.
“My marriage has been over for years.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
She was hesitant to go on. After all, Jules was acting crazy just seconds ago. But now he seemed normal again and looked at her with sympathy. She wished the kiss had happened somewhere else, another time, perhaps twenty years ago. She wanted to pour her heart out to him. “I knew it from the beginning, really. After the kids came it only got worse. I felt stuck, too dead inside to leave. Colin is awful for me, even worse for the kids.”
“I hate to pry, but why did you marry him?”
She shrugged and told him that leaving the island was difficult. She missed her father terribly, but love soon turned to anger. Her mother was a tyrant who never let her out of the house. Isabelle had hoped George would come rescue her.
“He never came to visit, never called?”
Isabelle shook her head, and explained that as she grew older, she was told of her father’s indiscretions, that Dr. George Brookes was a well-known fraud and a drug addict. It was a relief to finally get married and change her surname, leave the solitude of her mother’s house. “I rushed into marriage, thinking it was a way out of a bad situation, but I really wasn’t thinking at all.”
“I am truly sorry. You deserve better.”
She smiled at him, still feeling the kiss on her lips. “You never married?”
Jules released a long sigh. “My work has always been my life, to the point of ignoring everything else. Of course I’ve never been good with intimate relationships, terrible with commitment.” He hesitated. “I had a difficult childhood too. My mother suffered from schizophrenia. When I was six years old, she tried to kill me.”
“How awful.”
“I’ve never told anyone.”
Isabelle couldn’t think of anything to say and turned toward the window. She gasped a small breath. Sean was walking down the trail toward the woods, dragging a walking stick.
“I should call him back inside.” She took a step toward the door.
“No, don’t,” Jules said. “It’s good for a boy to explore on his own.”
“He’s not safe wandering around by himself.”
“How do you know? You don’t give him much freedom, do you?”
It was true; she was barely a child of five or six when she started running around the island, and she never got hurt. Just a few cuts and scrapes. But Sean was different, and a man had just been murdered. “What if—someone’s out there?”
He raised a brow. “I can assure you we’re quite alone.”
She bit her lip, nodding. “So you believe my father killed Hodges.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s the most logical conclusion.”
Her shoulders dropped. It was only morning and already Isabelle was exhausted. Her mind spun in so many directions. Her suicidal father might have been a murderer. She was having romantic feelings for another man. Jules’s mother tried to kill him. Sean was walking around the woods alone. She didn’t even want to think about telepathic plants.
“Excuse me. I’ve got to see about breakfast.” She turned to the window, where Sean had already disappeared into the woods, and she rubbed her hands nervously. Jules was once again absorbed in his work, peering into the microscope.
She left without another word.
* * *
Sean trudged through the woods, dragging his stick in the dirt and taking small bites from a biscuit. He vaguely remembered getting lost on the trail yesterday, and the horrible smell of the body Luke found, but he wasn’t scared. There was something comforting and familiar about the woods and he felt an urge to be surrounded by nature.
The air was cold and quiet, except for the soft crunch of dried leaves underfoot. His breath came out in little puffs of vapor that he stabbed with his finger. He sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve, stopping to look back at the trail. For some reason, he felt he wasn’t alone. The idea that his mother might be following was irritating and he scrutinized the gaps between the trees.
Sean froze. He dropped the walking stick.
There was a doll head hanging from a branch not far from where he stood, suspended by a length of frizzy blond hair. A child’s face, but old looking, and her half-closed eyes were more sinister than sleepy.
Sean was scared to move. He tried to turn away, and that’s when he saw another head, hanging from a thin, white rope. The paint on the right side of the face had peeled off in patches, exposing shapes of brown clay beneath, so it looked like a puzzle with missing pieces. On the other side, half of the doll’s skull was gone. She hung lopsided; one glass eye staring up, the other fixed on the ground.
Sean blinked hard, hoping there were no more heads, but there were several more on other trees, dangling like fruit. The painted face of a clown with his mouth open in a maniacal laugh, staring from the corners of his eyes in an expression of utter madness. Another had no eyes at all and hung like a black ball of soot, its features hardly distinguishable, as if it had been thrown into a campfire. Staring down at Sean, and close enough to touch, was a face that looked remarkably lifelike. So realistic that for a moment he thought she was breathing through her nostrils, her pink mouth caught in a sudden smile.
Then her lips seemed to part ever so slightly.
Sean fell back hard and got tangled in a bush. He struggled to recover and scanned the trees, spotting dozens of doll faces, maybe hundreds. His heart began beating like a piston.
A breeze picked up, making the heads sway. Gently at first, and then the wind gusted and some of the heads clanked together, filling the air with a soft clattering sound. Sean turned to run, but quickly stopped in terror. Thousands of doll heads hung from every tree like macabre Christmas ornaments. They swung in the wind, knocking together, staring with dead expressions, missing eyes and fissured cheeks.
Sean scrambled for the path, but it was gone. The woods became darker and there was nothing but bushes and doll-infested trees all around him. As he took off, twigs and branches caught on his jacket and he hacked his way free, then he slipped on wet leaves down an embankment, scraping his palms.
He sat in the dirt, out of breath and inspecting his stinging hands.
The clattering sound was gone and the wind had died. He looked up at the trees.
No doll heads. That was good.
Sean shifted his attention back to his hands. There were thin lines of blood that he licked with the tip of his tongue.
A voice echoed, like a child falling down a well.
Sean—
He whipped his head around, but he was alone. A chill ran down his neck as he suddenly remembered being lost in the woods the day before, and the voices in his head.
Leggo—
Sean hastily got to his feet, but wooziness pulled him back on his knees like a burst of gravity and the world around him began to spin. It felt as though weights were tied to his back and he got on all fours until the feeling passed. He sat up on his knees and noticed right in front of him a thick vine wrapped around the trunk of an old maple tree.
The vine moved. Slightly at first, and then it slowly twisted. Sean moaned in fright as it tightened around the tree’s girth and slithered across the bark, coiling like a serpent. He could hear a sound like cracking bones as it uncoiled, touched the ground, and crept straight toward him. That’s when Sean noticed that all the trees were looped with heavy vines spiraling down their trunks. He crawled b
ackward.
All at once, the ground burst like a grenade underfoot, and he turned around to see the roots of a tree blasting out of the soil. Above his ankle, a long root swayed back and forth, like a cobra ready to strike.
Sean rolled sideways and leapt to his feet, wanting to move quicker and cursing his sluggish muscles. He awkwardly sprinted in jags over roots and rolled over a clump of thorn bushes, where he landed in a clearing and faced a sea of crackling, undulating vines in every direction. Roots exploded to the surface in a spray of soil and leaves.
He headed toward the only tree not plagued with slithering creepers—a knobby old cedar, petrified to a dull gray. Without thinking, Sean heaved himself onto the lowest branch. It felt dry and brittle, but he kept climbing the thick limbs. They were mostly broken and ragged on the ends, hardened from the elements, but he found enough footing to climb ten feet.
Sean—
He looked down at the snake pit below where sidewinders clambered toward him and locked around the base of the tree, staring up at him.
Leggo—
The branch beneath his body twisted like an arm, trying to shake him loose. He heard the cracking of wood and tensed, straining to hang on.
Then there was a loud snap and the limb shattered like glass.
Sean toppled headfirst through the air and his skull hit the ground with a thud.
CHAPTER 16
THE BEACH WAS WARM, the sky pale blue.
Monica ripped off her leather jacket and impatiently tied it around her waist. She had kept up a steady pace and dour mood since she and Luke left the house. A pebble slipped into her boot and she stopped to take it out, pulling the boot off her foot and banging it furiously upside down until the stone fell out.
Luke kept a good distance, wary of her temper. He had come down to breakfast that morning, love-struck and dreamy-eyed after their evening encounter, but Monica didn’t look up from her oatmeal.
He had sat across the table sneaking glances from the corner of his eye.
Her head snapped up. “What are you staring at?”
“Nothing.”
Ginny had brought a cup of tea to the table, along with a map of the house crudely drawn in eyebrow pencil. “I’ve decided we need more order to our search. I’ve assigned rooms and we’ll take it one step at a time. You two will look upstairs, checking all the bedrooms, especially the closets that are stuffed with boxes and under any rugs. Look for loose floorboards and secret compartments. Isabelle and I will search downstairs again, beginning with the study. When we finish indoors we’ll start outside.”
That’s when Monica slid off the chair and grabbed her jacket, announced she was going for a walk.
Before Ginny could object, Luke was headed after her.
Neither had spoken on the way to the beach. Monica walked briskly down the path, kicking stones and swatting low-hanging branches. Luke couldn’t think of a conversation starter, not after their night together. He was afraid her response would ruin the magic.
It was a pitiful start to the romance Luke imagined, and now he watched Monica struggle to put her boot back on and then walk to the water, gazing mournfully at the sea as if she wanted to swim away.
He sidled up next to her.
She crinkled her nose. “Why are you following me?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I thought we could hang out.”
“I’m not in the mood, Luke.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
She didn’t answer. They both looked at the inlet and its small lapping waves.
“Hey, what’s that?” Luke pointed to a pole protruding from the surface, about ten yards from the jetty. It was bent on an angle, with a metal cap that glistened in the light.
Monica didn’t answer.
“It could be the mast of a sunken boat. It has to be something big ’cause that’s deep water. You can tell from the change in color that there’s a sudden drop.”
She squinted at the pole and started walking, following the curve of shoreline. Luke trailed behind. The beach became narrow and the path underfoot was rocky. They stepped carefully to the far end of the inlet where the stone slabs were wet and slippery. Tall waves washed over the jetty, becoming larger as the fierce tide swept them toward the cliffs, where they curled into breakers that hammered the shore.
The sunken pole seemed much larger. It vanished under a wave for a moment and then reappeared.
“That’s definitely the mast of a boat,” Luke said, and a cold breeze showered them with a mist of salty sea.
Monica raised her chin and muttered, “Guess it belonged to George.”
“Or Hodges.”
She scowled.
“We could go for a swim, check it out.”
“The water’s freezing.”
“There are two wet suits in the shed to keep us warm.”
“I don’t know. Looks kind of rough out there.”
“You can hang on to me. I was on the Y swim team for six years.”
She clicked her tongue. “I just want to go home. I can’t wait to get my old life back.”
Suddenly, Luke was enraged, his face beet red. Something in her voice, or perhaps the finality of her statement, triggered the fatal switch. He was fed up, furious, and shouted, “Why the hell do you want your old life back? Your life sucked, just like mine! You don’t have to put on this act, like you’re going to Paris with some pretend boyfriend.”
“Shut up!”
“You told me you wanted to start over. Hey, I don’t know what happened last night but I know you like me. You said so.” His fists clenched but he tried to stay calm. “What happened to Rick, and not being phony, and turning your life around?” He closed his eyes, taking a long breath and holding his palms up, like something important needed to be said.
“This isn’t how I wanted to say it.” He exhaled the words softly. “I love you.”
Monica stared at him. Then she shook her head at the sky, letting out an angry laugh. “God, Luke, you’re such a dweeb. I was kidding, okay? I told you, I’m getting a job and going to Paris, and I don’t need some baby sophomore tagging along like a lapdog. Get it?”
She walked several paces and then stopped, not turning around.
Luke felt the blood drain from his body. It burned hot and cold at the same time. Never had he wanted to be away from a place so badly and he scrambled off the jetty, slipping twice on the rocks. He gained his footing and veered off the beach, into a patch of woods. It was far off the trail, but he didn’t care as he tore through a maze of tightly packed trees. His eyes blurred as he ran and he realized he was crying.
* * *
It was almost noon and Jules was having trouble concentrating. He’d been reading the green notebook for hours, staring at microscopic images of leaves and twigs and pinecones, while a dozen ideas swirled in his head.
On a piece of scrap paper, he jotted down three questions in pencil:
How did George entangle the thought waves of plants and humans?
How are plants able to understand human thoughts?
What role does the fungus play?
For now, Jules had to grudgingly accept the idea that George had used some kind of brain entrainment to unify the thought waves of plants and humans. It had something to do with V-waves and isochronic tones. Perhaps the last two questions were connected. The fungus had something to do with the way plants synthesized human thoughts.
Jules looked at the results of the EEG, the enormous amount of electrical activity flowing from plant to fungus every time he approached them. Could a plant and fungus form a symbiotic relationship that allowed them to communicate with humans? The idea was ludicrous with not a shred of scientific plausibility.
And how was it possible that so many species were involved? The notion that all the plants on the island could be working together was also impossible. Plants didn’t cooperate with each other. It was all about advancing the genes o
f their own kind. Just like humans, a plant wouldn’t think twice about overtaking another species, even killing vegetation that got in the way of their survival. But also like humans, plants had been shown to be altruistic in nature, even sacrificing themselves for the good of their families. There had to be something vital at stake for every species of plant to work for the common good.
Jules slumped in the chair, resting his head back and shutting his eyes, thinking how this was all so impossible. Yet, how else could he explain his own experience in the woods? Something supernatural had occurred. There was no doubt in his mind. Jules had felt their cold fingers probing his brain, spider-walking over his frontal cortex and touching certain memories. He could still feel their presence now as if they never left, and it gave him a chill.
It occurred to him that if George Brookes really had made such a discovery, his name would become the most famous in modern science. Of course, Jules Beecher would be right behind him, if he were able to reproduce the results and bring the research to light. He felt a rush of adrenaline and his gaze darted over the room, stopping on a row of plant specimens.
Imagine, actually hearing the thoughts of a tree, the sound of their language. It was practically inconceivable. He wondered what kind of reception there would be; this was more than clicking tomatoes. Perhaps even too big for the Institute of Plant Neurobiology. Undoubtedly, the publishing rights of his paper would be fought over by every major scientific journal. There would be a surge of media attention and money rolling in for more research. The demand for interviews would be a nuisance, but every biologist on the planet would want to speak to him. The British Science Foundation, the International Consortium of Botanists, the prime minister of England, the president of the United States. The Ministry of Defense would probably pounce on his research.
Of course, a Nobel prize was a given.
Jules blinked and his thoughts hit a wall. What was he thinking? It sounded so absurd; there had to be a rational explanation. Besides, what proof did he have but his own personal experience, a notebook full of sketchy observations, pieces of a puzzle that didn’t quite fit?
Seeders: A Novel Page 13
