Monica rolled her eyes.
“I’m raising the reward to fifty thousand dollars.”
No one spoke.
Then Luke said to Ginny, “I saw you in the woods. Sitting on the ground. Digging up a grave or something by that pond.”
“Fifty thousand American dollars?” Monica gasped.
“That’s right.” Ginny turned to Luke, curious. “A grave. You said it was near a pond? Did it have a tombstone with a cross?”
“So you were there.”
“Not for years. George called it our final resting place, but of course he’s already buried in London and I have no intention of spending eternity on this blasted lump of rock. So both of you, get busy.” She clapped her hands. “Come, come.”
She left them and went back to the kitchen.
“So there is a grave.” Monica nodded. “Maybe she was there and lied.”
“About an ax in her head?”
“She’d better not be lying about the fifty thousand dollars. I’m going to find that damn diamond and you’re going to help me. That should take your mind off things.” She leaned forward and gently kissed his lips, but he didn’t kiss her back.
“I’m not going in those woods again.”
* * *
Jules studied the campsite. One of the first things he discovered was that the fungi spread much farther than their host plants. While the growth originated on leaves, stalks, or roots, it quickly spread over the ground, rocks, and other inorganic matter, spanning several yards and then merging with neighboring fungi to form a single network.
This wasn’t unusual. Ninety percent of plants on earth form mycorrhizas, symbiotic relationships with fungi. Usually the fungi enter the plant tissue and cells at the roots and create a web of hyphae that branch out for miles, providing the plants with better absorption of water and nutrients, protection from predators and pathogens, as well as information about the environment. Jules had once visited the largest known organism in the world, a fungus called Armillaria solidipes in Oregon, that extended over eight square kilometers, or roughly fifteen hundred football fields.
He pondered the idea that the island had become a single living organism. Perhaps it was like an expansive neural network with a single consciousness that gathered information about the entire island and sent it back to the campsite as a central location to be processed.
He could be standing at the brain.
Jules winced and shook the notion from his mind. Lately he had noticed changes in his reasoning. One minute he would be excited about an idea to the point of mania, sweating and having heart palpitations, only to realize later it was ridiculous and the excitement unwarranted. He suspected that sometimes he was ignoring observations and easy explanations, even skewing results to prove his own hypothesis. It wasn’t entirely his fault. Jules was working under stressful conditions. He was still having dizzy spells, unable to fully concentrate. No doubt it was nerves; fear that he would be assaulted by those terrible memories again if he stayed in the woods. But he knew if the plants were going to communicate with him, this is where it would happen.
Jules strolled into the tent and stared at the synthesizer George had built, with its poorly fastened wires and circuits. Perhaps it wasn’t as elementary as it looked.
The green book was spread on the ground below. He brushed dirt off the page and studied the diagram, which was labeled Isochronic Tone Generator. Jules figured the device was supposed to produce sounds to alter the brain’s electrical oscillations. He wanted to try it, see if it worked.
“All right. Let’s have a go,” he said, and flipped the switch. Nothing happened.
He figured the batteries were dead, or perhaps the thing had been standing too long under the tent. He tried it again.
This time the contraption started up with a quiet pulsating sound, and Jules was delighted. Then the noise became loud and undulating, like a quivering saw, and the pitch rose higher until it was quite uncomfortable. Jules winced and swatted his ear as if shooing a fly. Then the tone changed again and the needle slowly descended as the sound faded to nothing.
Jules listened a while longer and then shrugged. He flipped off the switch, disappointed that it was so uneventful.
The sun was beginning to set. There wasn’t much he could do until morning, so he closed the notebook and stuck it in his backpack. He felt tired and sat down on a rock, shutting his eyes for a moment. When he looked up he noticed the pine trees looked more vibrant than before, vivid green like traffic lights, while the woods were bathed in golden sunlight, the sky an unnatural violet.
From the ground, a sapling peered up at him. Its newly sprung leaves seemed especially green. He thought he’d never seen something so perfect, so alive. Jules had an overwhelming urge to touch it. He reached out and gently pinched the stem, sliding his fingers along the stalk, smooth as spaghetti and spotted black. It was a pine sapling, only six inches tall.
Jules gave a small tug. The top of the tree snapped off.
At that instant, an agonizing pain hit his throat, as if it were struck with an ax. He fell hard on the ground, curling up with his hands wrapped around his neck and expecting to feel a surge of blood through his fingers. Bright explosions flashed behind his eyes and his neck hurt so bad he thought his brain might explode from the pain.
Oh God, what’s happening? Make it stop!
The pain did stop. It vanished completely. But the feeling of shock and horror stayed with him and, for a long moment, he kept very still. Jules held the broken sapling in his trembling hand and looked at the wound, where a green drop of liquid streaked his palm. He turned his head around to see that he was completely alone.
I did not just feel a plant’s pain.
Jules sat on the ground and thought for a moment. He could hardly remember the sensation at all and began to wonder if it had really happened. Rotating his neck back and forth, there was no remaining ache or strain. It was just a coincidence, he assured himself. He’d had some kind of seizure or muscle spasm at the same moment he picked the sapling.
You imagined it, Jules.
He had to be sure.
There were other saplings at his feet, one that stood much taller than the rest. It had a hardy sheath of bark already formed. Jules wrapped his fist firmly around the stem, but hesitated. His hand was trembling.
Don’t do it.
He knew it was crazy, but how else could he be sure? With a tug, he ripped the plant from the earth.
Jules felt his legs rip from his body. He hit the ground with an excruciating crack of bone and the icy burn of exposed flesh. The agony was so crippling, it made his ears ring.
Jesus. Make it stop!
In seconds, the pain ceased. Jules lay on the ground shaking, as saliva dripped from his open mouth. He stared at the naked roots beside him. He didn’t dare move his legs for fear they would fall off his torso. A wave of nausea and dizziness threatened to make him vomit, but having the pain gone was all that mattered.
God, it’s over, he thought with relief. I’ll never do it again.
But the dizziness got worse and the trees were spinning like before. He was gripped with panic, knowing what might be coming. With a whimper he slid onto his back, terrified he would pass out. He didn’t want to go there, not again, but soon he was falling down a black hole.
Jules heard the sound of splashing, and it made him sick with fear.
He opened his eyes and was sitting in a bathtub, a six-year-old covered in dirt. His mother was shampooing his hair, long dagger fingernails cutting into his scalp. His feet kicked up water and she tugged his arm so he fell sideways in pain.
Shut up! Stop whining!
Her nails scrubbed harder as shampoo ran down his face, stinging his eyes.
Lather! She dunked his head underwater. Rinse!
Violently pulled to the surface, Jules gasped for air, sputtering water from his aching lungs.
Repeat! She dunked him again and held him under until Jules could feel hi
mself start to lose consciousness. Then his body jerked upward and he gasped for air, but only coughed up more water.
Repeat! Down he went again, his spine slamming the tub. From underwater, Jules saw his small hands waving frantically, his terrified father trying to lift him out, fighting off his mother’s grip. Then there was only silence and bubbles floating upward. Jules could feel the water enter his nose and then lungs, stinging, suffocating. The world went black.
Jules opened his eyes and sucked in a loud wheezing breath. He lay in the woods, clutching his heart. In his fist was the sapling with its naked, broken roots exposed.
CHAPTER 19
ISABELLE WAS IN THE KITCHEN mincing vegetables for shepherd’s pie. Sean was at the stove poking a pot of boiling potatoes, a bandage behind his ear. He was his old playful self again and Isabelle pushed the incident from her mind.
“I’m famished,” Ginny said. She was sitting at the table, studying the map of the island that George had drawn.
“Another half hour,” Isabelle said and threw the minced vegetables in a hot skillet full of chopped meat. She added broth, tomatoes, and a bottle of Guinness to the meat and threw on some spices: parsley, paprika, rosemary, and thyme.
Sean picked up each bottle of spice and shook a few grains into his palm. He sniffed them and licked each flavor with his tongue. He picked up a magnifying glass and inspected them closer. Isabelle looked at her son with pride, unconsciously rubbing the bruise on her arm where he punched her. She smiled when Sean sprinkled the herbs into his glass of water and watched them float. He still displayed the same curiosity he’d shown as a small boy and for that she was glad.
Sean picked up the masher and pounded the meat in the pan.
“That’s for the potatoes,” Isabelle told him. “You can mash them when they’re done cooking. First we strain them.”
She showed him the strainer and he began counting the holes.
Ginny finished with the map. “By tomorrow we’ll be done searching this house. Then we need to look outdoors.” She unfolded the riddle and muttered, “I’ve divided the island into five separate areas so we won’t miss any spots or duplicate our efforts.”
“I wouldn’t even know where to look out there. But the kids are bored. You might send them around to search.”
“Your son refuses to go outside. He’s quite a nancy, that one.”
“Luke?”
“Seems he saw an apparition.”
“Finding a body would make anyone squeamish.”
“Oh posh. He thought he saw me in the woods, lying on the ground. That boy is having sexual fantasies about me to the point of delusions.”
A loud clang sounded as the lid of a pot hit the floor. Sean grunted in frustration, waving a potato masher in the air and looking at his mother with an expression of utter distress.
Isabelle went to the stove to see the potatoes had been mashed up in the water. It was the consistency of creamy soup.
“Ahhh-ah-ah,” Sean said and stuck the masher in the ooze. He looked at her sadly.
She smiled at him. “Why, that looks wonderful. I see we have a change in menu. We’re having mincemeat and potato soup. Good job, Sean.” She tried a spoonful. “A bit of salt and pepper.”
“Pity.” Ginny sighed. “I was so in the mood for shepherd’s pie.”
“Any idea where Luke is now?”
“Probably in my room, going through my undergarments.”
Isabelle looked to the dark window. “I hope they aren’t wandering around.”
“I told you that boy refuses to venture out of the house. One would think fifty thousand dollars would toughen him up. His little girlfriend was sure chomping at the bit.”
“Fifty thousand dollars for finding the diamond?”
“It simply must be found by Wednesday.”
“Why, Ginny, that’s silly. You could hire a detective for far less.”
“There’s no time to arrange it. Besides, you can’t trust strangers to find something so valuable. What’s to stop a person from saying they didn’t find the diamond when they really did?”
“I don’t know—honesty?”
“Oh, you poor girl. Living in a fairy tale. Not surprising. That’s what comes from marrying a policeman.”
Isabelle noticed a flutter of movement on the patio and flipped on the outside light. She was annoyed to see Sean standing alone in the wind. She hadn’t even noticed that he’d left the kitchen.
“Excuse me,” she said and walked quickly to the vestibule. She grabbed a sweater from a hook, threw it over her shoulders and stepped outside.
Cold air blew against her clothing. Sean was staring at the woods, humming the same monotonous tune.
“Come in the house,” she said loudly above the wind.
He seemed to be in some kind of trance.
Isabelle wanted to take him by the arm and lead him inside, but she was afraid he might get angry again.
At that moment, Jules walked up the path and Sean was instantly alert. The two eyed each other. Then the boy turned back toward the house and went into the kitchen without a word.
Jules blew hot air into his hands, looking abashed at Isabelle. “Can I speak to you?”
“Let’s go inside.”
“Alone,” he said, and led her to the door of the laboratory where they could talk in private.
As soon as they were inside, Isabelle could feel the cold on him. He looked pale and distracted and he began right away.
“Something’s happened. I don’t know how to describe it.” He walked across the floor, shaking his head and searching the cabinets.
“Try, Jules.”
“I’m convinced your father was communicating with the plants out there. I connected with them myself, Isabelle.” He stopped pacing and rubbed the side of his cheek. “It’s as though I could feel their pain, and they could feel mine. It was tapping into my memories, reading my thoughts.”
“You’re not making any sense, Jules. You’re just tired from not sleeping. Take your jacket off and have some dinner. It’s almost ready.”
“No, I’ve got to go back.” He picked up his cell phone that was charging on the desk, held it up to her. “You see, it all needs to be documented. It finally occurred to me that I can record it on my phone.”
“You’re going to make a video?”
“I’ll need some kind of proof. You can’t just make claims like this without evidence.”
“It’s completely dark—and freezing outside. You can’t walk around now.”
“I have a flashlight. This can’t wait, Isabelle. I might be on the verge of an enormous breakthrough, your father’s discovery.” He put the phone in his pocket. “This is what he raved about for so many years and I believe he finally accomplished his lifelong dream.”
“If that’s true, then why did he kill himself?”
He was silent for a moment. “Perhaps he was driven mad.”
“By drugs?”
More silence. “By his own memories.”
She looked at him, puzzled.
Jules seemed to deflate right in front of her, his mind drifting with his gaze. “They probe deep within the subconscious. When it happened I could see everything, hear everything, as if I were going through it all over again. It wasn’t pleasant.”
“You’re scaring me, Jules.”
“I’m sorry.” He studied her face and chuckled self-consciously. “It does sound crazy. That’s why I need proof.” He rubbed his chin. “It’s getting blustery out there. I’d better go.” She didn’t have time to stop him. He moved swiftly across the room and out the door.
* * *
Jules stood in front of the shed feeling a strong wind at his back. As he slid open the heavy door, a gust blew him inside and he slammed the door shut.
It was quiet and smelled damp from rain.
He turned on the flashlight and the beam hit upon the wall of old farming tools: scythes, hatchets, rakes, and hoes. For a moment he stared at each obj
ect, and then he took an ax off the wall and felt its considerable weight in his hands. The wooden handle was old, marred with deep nicks and scratches, but the blade was sharp and clean. He left the shed, pulling the door shut, and headed down the path.
The beam of the flashlight crossed the path, side to side, illuminating the fields of ryegrass rolling in golden waves with each gust of wind. The ax was clenched tightly in his grip and his body trembled, partly from the cold but mostly from exhilaration. Jules was determined to prove his theory, and at the same time was frightened of what he might find. The wind was like razors across his cheeks and the tip of his nose was turning numb as he reached the entrance to the woods.
As he stepped inside the cavern of trees, it was so unexpectedly dark he feared the narrow beam of the flashlight would be insufficient to find the campsite. Indeed, it took over an hour, several wrong turns and doubling back in frustration. When he finally reached the clearing, he pivoted the flashlight across the fungus-covered ground and then up to the hedges of trees that circled him, finally stopping the beam on his target.
It was an old maple, sixty feet high and wide in girth.
He rested the flashlight on a folding table so it shined brightly on the tree and then propped the phone against it, making sure the camera lens was focused in the right spot. He pressed the video button and began recording. Soon he would have documentation of the experience. Something—anything—to show he wasn’t crazy.
Jules approached the tree with the ax firmly in his fist. Ignoring the tremble in his arms, he touched the bark lightly and stepped two paces back. He told himself to concentrate, just do the job and get on with it. He pulled the ax over his shoulder, and swung.
Thwack!
A massive pain ripped through his abdomen. Jules shrieked and fell to his knees, letting go of the ax and clutching his gut in agony. It was that same sensation of torn muscles and cracked bones. Billions of nerve endings burned like fire. He could almost feel blood flowing out of an enormous slit under his rib cage beneath his fingers, yards of loose intestines pouring onto the ground.
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