One

Henry Jenkins leaned near the window as he shifted position on the yoke, initiating a graceful left bank. A thousand feet above the earth, he circled the sky over Gotham Creek, a Rockwell-picture-perfect town of tidy streets and well-groomed lawns with pretty houses in neat rows, but the woods to the northeast caught the pilot's eye, causing him to blink in disbelief.

"Holy cow, looks like the Redwood Forest down there," he murmured as he peered out the window. "They're not Sequoias, though. No . . . looks more like oak. The mothers of all oaks." Glancing back at the control panel, he shifted altitude to make a low sweeping pass over Gotham Creek.

Below, Route 1 cut a grey line straight by the south end of town, flanked by a string of telephone poles to the right. Main Street, narrower and lighter in hue, ran perpendicular, across Route 1, south to Addison and north to Route 9. Along the upper part of Main Street, Gotham Creek had sprung up over the years, born first around the old silver mine, then branching out to form businesses that developed from the mine's prosperity. Several side roads shot off Main Street, all at nearly right angles. Henry knew stern-hearted Yankees like himself preferred right angles to gentle curves and that most folks detested traffic circles and four-lane highways. None of the latter were found east of Augusta. Not in 1996, anyway.

He gave a toss of his shaggy grey head, his gold ball earring glinting in the sun, and flew over the forest that caught his eye

Here great bull oaks grasped for the sky in an expanse of green covering one hundred acres or more. Henry guessed the height of the forest canopy to be in excess of 200 feet. He could barely see the trunks of those giant trees through the leaves, but to be that tall, he knew their bases would have to be immense. He figured he was probably looking at trees that had sprouted at about the same time Christ was born.

Was that even possible?

He reached down, fumbled for his map and spread it open over the instrument panel. He studied it with a trained eye and again, mumbled to himself. "Why isn't this forest part of the National Park Service? The size of those trees, man! They really ought to be protected." He refolded his map, none too delicately, and turned to look out the window again but a spinning motion caught the corner of his eye and his glance turned forward to become a disquieted stare.

The instrument panel, in particular—the compass needle—was turning in 360-degree rotations, counterclockwise.

"What the—?" He flicked the compass with his finger, hoping to stop it from spinning. His tan brow creased as thoughts of the Bermuda Triangle came to mind.

"Flight 19," he muttered under his breath. "1945. Three more in 1967. Don't let me go down like them, please God, don't let me go down!"

The plane's left engine began to sputter as he maneuvered a right bank away from the forest but then it coughed and resumed its normal pace. Henry wiped the sweat from his brow and swerved eastward toward Lubec and the airstrip that awaited his arrival.

# # #

With one slender hand cupped over her brow, Kate Speers watched the plane soar overhead. The plane was a single-engine, probably a Cessna, a pretty red bird in a cloudless sky. Might be sightseers, she surmised. Or surveyors, maybe from that map company up in Old Town. The plane's too civilian to be NARC.

For one fleeting moment, she wished she were up there in that plane, gliding over town. To her the great wide open looked like the ultimate freedom. Then she heard the engine sputter. She watched the plane, wondering if it was going to come crashing down. Seemed there had been a lot of plane crashes in the news lately. But the small plane soon recovered and she breathed a sigh of relief as it soared away, becoming a speck in the sky. The close call reminded her that she really didn't like to fly after all.

Of course, the only time she'd ever been in a plane was when she was six and her family flew down to Aunt Aggie's funeral in Miami. Back then, Bangor International Airport's planes belonged to Delta Airlines, which utilized Boeing 747s and 767s. Those Jumbo jets were more like being seated in a crowded room than in an airplane. She didn't even get a window seat. Aunt Aggie's death cast such a gloom over the excitement of travel—within five minutes after take-off, the trip had all the charm of a long Greyhound Bus ride—and Kate got so sick that she threw up in her father's lap. Her mother was holding baby Eddie, who decided that he also hated flying, began to bawl and spit up soured milk.

Once in the sunny state of Florida, she learned that there wasn't time to go to Disney World or Universal Studios or Busch Gardens. There was only the funeral—a long procession of solemn grownups, most of them elderly—and Aunt Aggie lying in her satin-lined coffin. She remembered the horror, after her mother gently urged her to "say goodbye to Aunt Aggie". Upon intense scrutiny, she'd noticed her aunt's lips had been sewn shut. Two of the stitches, done in white floss, showed through the makeup. She was quick to point that fact out to her mother.

"Why'd they sew up her mouth, Mama? Were they afraid she might talk?"

Her mother whispered that funeral workers sew up the dead person's mouth to keep the jaw from sagging open during the funeral. "Nobody wants to see their loved ones actually look dead, Katie," she'd explained. "It's hard enough dealing with the grief." Kate noted the sadness in her mother's brown eyes and nodded in silence.

At ten, she'd learned that makeup hides lies.

At 19, she refused to wear it, except for a sheen of lip gloss when her mother insisted she look special, like at the festivals when she was proudly shown off as the first member in her family to go to college.

Not that the Speers weren't an intelligent lot—Kate came from a long line of thrifty hard working people. Her father was a mechanic; her mother ran a nursery in the greenhouse beside the garage. Kate knew how much they scrimped and saved to pay her tuition and she was determined to make them proud—she planned for a career of working with handicapped children. She was two years away from a degree in Physical Therapy, but her grades were high; she maintained a perfect 4.0 average.

Kate watched the speck of the plane veer to the east, probably headed to Lubec or Calais. As the low hum of its engines faded out of earshot, she lowered her hand and pushed the loose sleeves of her sweatshirt back up onto her arms.

She glanced at her wristwatch; it read Sunday, October 1, 1996, 12:04 p.m. How long had she been standing there beside the road watching the plane fly in the sky? Too long. There were things she needed to do before returning to school Monday morning—she had to buy a new notebook for Physics 202 and copy some notes into it.

She smiled as she walked to Gotham Creek Convenience, pausing to wave at the only car which passed by, a blue sedan owned by Hettie Brown, her mother's best friend. She crossed the paved parking lot and the maypole, grimacing at the faded tatters of ribbons that waved in the breeze. Why can't someone take them down? she wondered. Probably for the same reason people keep Yule wreaths hanging on their doors until they turn brown and fall apart. Too busy to bother putting away the old before bringing in the new. With that thought in mind, she pushed open the screen door and entered the dim coolness of Gotham Creek's only store, a four-aisle mom-and-pops which sported a large beer and soda cooler in the rear. She quickly realized that she was the only customer. Sundays were always slow here. Dead. It hadn't been very long ago that the store wasn't open on weekends. Just this year, they began selling beer on Sundays, despite the protests of many Gotham Creek residents. Behind the counter, Missy Sands gave her a friendly wave.

"Hey, Kate. How's it going?"

She waved back, making her way to the shelf where notebooks were on display, along with Scotch Tape, PaperMate Pens and dusty, plastic bottles of brown mucilage. Who uses mucilage these days? she wondered absently, then looked up at Missy with a smile. "I'm fine. How's things with you?"

Missy threw her hands up in disgust. "B-o-r-i-n-g. You're the second customer today. I tell you, Sundays are so dried up around here. I don't know why I can't have the day off."

Kate gave a compassionate nod and rummaged through the stack of notebooks. She preferred college to wide-lined because she could cram more notes onto college-bound pages. She selected a five-section Mead with a red plastic cover and as she pulled it from the shelf, the door opened.

Just my luck, she thought dismally as she glanced up. The third customer that day would have to be Norris Randolph Hymes. Norris was the same age as Kate—but that and the fact that they both were born and raised in Gotham Creek were the only similarities they shared. She instantly ducked, pretending to take great interest in the dusty stacks of typing paper on the bottom shelf, praying he wouldn't notice her.

Not that he was a bad person; rather, Norris was just plain repulsive. Kate recalled that he'd always been that way—even back in grammar school; their educations parted ways when he was held back in sixth grade and again in seventh, more for his social problems than academic failure.

He never attended high school, but turned to drugs and drinking, a wastrel. She shuddered at her memory of his pustule-pocked face, green teeth and long greasy hair. How his mother allowed him to run around looking like that astonished her; for Edith Hymes, although stern and humorless, was an impeccably well-groomed woman. Kate supposed that if she'd spawned something as awful as Norris, she just might be a colossal bitch, too. She listened to his Frankenstein boots clump toward the back of the store as he headed straight for the beer cooler.

Quickly, she stood up and darted for the counter with her notebook, laying it face down, turning it so Missy could read the price tag on the back. "Ring me up quick; I've got a ton of stuff to do this afternoon."

Missy bit her lower lip and nodded, her hot-pink nail polish flashing over the register buttons. "$5.96," she told Kate.

She pulled six dollars out of her purse and pushed the money into Missy's hand. "Thanks. Don't bother with the change." She grabbed her notebook and had only taken one step when Norris Hymes turned the corner of the aisle and nearly knocked her over.

"Geez, Katie. Sorry about that. How's college treating you?"

She noticed his eyes zoning in on the front of her shirt and hugged her notebook, shielding her breasts. "College is great, thanks." She glanced over at Missy and gave her a helpless look. "Bye, Missy."

Pushing past Norris, she wrinkled her nose at the way he smelled, so stale and mildewed. Downright foul. As she hurried out the door, she heard him whistle at her as he clunked his six-pack onto the counter. Outside, she broke into a power walk across the parking lot, hoping for a fast getaway.

Too late. Behind her, Norris Hymes called out, "Hey, Katie. Wait up."

Kate sighed and slowed to a stop, turning to watch him jog toward her, clutching his brown paper bag. "I'm really in a hurry, Norris."

"Want a beer? I got me a six pack. Ice-cold."

She shook her head and glanced up the road. "No thanks, I really have to get going."

He gave her an injured look. "No time for an old friend?"

"Sorry, not today." She hugged her notebook to her chest again, resisting the urge to shudder at what twisted circus acts were playing behind those close-set brown eyes of his.

"But I don't hardly see you around anymore." He managed to look crestfallen.

Kate sighed again. "Look, Norris, I don't want to offend you, but I don't want to drink with you. Not today. Not ever."

He didn't appear very shocked by this revelation. With one hand, he reached into his pocket and fished out a wrinkled pack of Luckys. As he poked a bent cigarette into his mouth, his eyes lifted from her notebook to her face. "You can't mean that, Katie."

"My name's Kate. Not Katie. I'd appreciate it if you'd remember that." She saw his stare falter, his gaze dropping to the scuffed toes of his work boots. She hated being so mean to him; but he could be stubborn.

"Maybe next time, huh, Katie—I mean, uh, Kate?"

She shrugged and turned away, hoping he wasn't going to follow her like a lost puppy. After a while, she dared to give a quick glance over her shoulder. He was walking away in the opposite direction, beer bag swinging in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

She might have chosen a gentler reproach, had she seen the look on his face.

# # #

The phone on the table was ringing, a high-pitched series of pulses. Sheridan picked up the receiver and placed it between his shoulder and head as he rifled through the papers in his briefcase.

"Hi—oh?" He had a Kermit-the-Frog voice and more than once had been told that he sounded like that friendly green Muppet. Sometimes, he answered the phone with 'hi—oh, Kermit the Frog, here', but not today. He half expected the caller to be Emily Godfrey, calling back from the D.A.'s office.

"Sheridan? This is Billy Harris from the National Forest Service." The voice on the other end was definitely not female, but very sexy, at least to Phillips.

With elation, he set down the papers and grabbed the receiver with one hand. "Billy! How are you, champ? What's up?"

"I've got a scoop for you; I think it's a hot one."

Sheridan raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"

The man on the other end cleared his throat. "Well, it's going to sound strange, but a pilot just called us. Was going on and on about a forest. I really think you should look into it. This one might be worth fighting for."

"Why do you say that? Where is it?"

The caller paused, taking an audible breath. "North of Gotham Creek, up in Washington County, Maine. According to the pilot, they're the tallest damn trees you ever saw. Oaks big as Redwoods—"

Sheridan took the phone to the bed and sat down. "What are you saying, Billy? Oaks that size? You've got to be joking."

"I'm dead serious."

"Where's Gotham Creek?"

"Are you familiar with Washington County?"

Sheridan yawned. "Vaguely."

"Well, Gotham Creek's between Columbia Falls and Jonesboro. Take a left off Route 1 onto Main Street, the Old Creek Road. You can't miss it." The voice paused again. "You'll check into this, won't you?"

"I'll see what I can do. Hey, thanks for the tip." Sheridan hung up the phone and shook his head. "Giant oaks, my ass. Why hasn't anyone said anything about it until now?"

Nevertheless, he pulled a notepad from his shirt pocket and jotted down the directions he'd been given. He chuckled to himself as he tucked the pad back into his pocket. He'd come such a long way since the mid-seventies. Now, instead of seeking out causes, causes were finding him.

His whole life had been a series of arguments.

Sheridan Phillips considered himself a self-invented eco-warrior. He'd spent over twenty years calling for a statewide ban of the clear-cutting of Maine's forests by paper companies. At the start of his career, there had been demonstrations, violence and jail time. Even now, people still called him "that tree-hugging granola" even though he no longer looked like a hippie. But he had a voice that people found easy to listen to (even if it did sound like a Muppet) and some of those people were lobbyists in Washington.

He was no longer an embarrassment to his parents. It took ten years for them to forgive him for dropping out of college and another five for them to back him financially.

Since then, he penned two books, both conservational and controversial. Death by Industry had been his first, followed by When Trees Bleed. The right people read these books and by 1991, Sheridan was manipulating legislature.

Still, calls like the one he'd just received from Billy Harris were what made his life an adventure, firing his blood. That's why agencies like the National Forest Service hated him so much; he was, after all, an infiltrator and an imposter. A rebel for the cause.

He stood up and crossed the room to the table to close his briefcase. A sticker blazed across the side facing him: HAVE YOU HUGGED A TREE TODAY?

He wondered what it might be like to embrace and protect an oak as big as a redwood. Just the thought of it made him swoon.

# # #

Norris Hymes shuffled across Main Street to the parking lot of Cuffy's Restaurant. Cuffy's was a saltbox-style establishment of weathered cedar shingles and a long row of windows facing the parking lot. At lunchtime on Sunday, this was the only place in town that seemed to have any life; in fact, the parking lot was too full to warrant him going inside. It was too crowded and he'd have to sit near people.

Cuffy never minded him coming in; but since his death the restaurant was under the management of Mike Elwin, and it was clear to Norris that he was no longer welcome. Especially when the place was full.

Mike always treated him like shit. Telling him to make friendly with soap and water. Asking him when he was going to change his duds or comb his hair. One day, he said, "Gorry, Norris, you smell just like those corpses you bury!"

That remark was just another of Elwin's little digs, Norris thought to himself, excusing the pun. Everyone knew he worked as caretaker of Gotham Creek's Eternal Rest Cemetery. And Mike Elwin knew very well that he ran a bulldozer—the days of shoveling out every grave by hand were long buried in the past.

"Damn but I'm hungry," he remarked as he plunked down on the bumper of a pickup truck, staring at the restaurant with the same measure of longing that he'd had when he'd examined the front of Kate Speer's shirt. It wasn't his fault she was built that way, no sir. He pulled another Colt 45 from the bag between his legs and popped the top. It hissed, a most pleasant sound on this Indian Summer day.

His thoughts turned to liver smothered in onions. Cuffy always gave him liver and onions . . . and over time, it became his favorite meal. Cuffy fried his onions in real butter, not that artificial yellow crap that didn't even melt on toast. Liver and onions never tasted the same since.

So Norris treated Cuffy Sample's gravesite with special care, scrubbing away the first signs of moss on his stone. How could everyone, especially Mike Elwin, expect him to keep neat and clean all the time when he had such a dirty job? Didn't see Elwin volunteering to help on the cemetery committee or any other committee where he might dirty his hands, he added, wryly.

Elwin would have fainted dead away in that fancy white polyester suit of his, had he been called to do what Norris did yesterday. Moving graves was morbid work . . . and yet, secretly fascinating. The graves he'd moved were old, too close to the eroded edge of the creek and in danger of sliding into the water. Moving them had been tricky work, sometimes requiring a shovel.

It amazed him that corpses turn to dirt—the richest, blackest soil—after so many years. Occasionally, while shoveling, he'd come across a ring, a necklace, eyeglasses or dentures. It crossed his mind as he worked that he could take these items as booty and pawn them in Machias for a good amount of money. But that would be stealing from the dead and that just wasn't proper.

Besides, Ma would have disapproved. She made sure he had a hot supper every night and while he ate, she always preached, exhorting the virtues of righteous living and cursing those who failed to follow the straight and narrow path, which included most of their neighbors. No, Ma would have a cow if he'd taken things from graves, of that he was certain.

He was on his third can of Colt when the door of the restaurant opened and out stepped a leggy blonde waitress. Norris couldn't remember her name, but he hadn't forgotten those legs. Or that cleavage. He watched her pause on the steps to rummage through her clutch purse. She pulled out a cigarette and sandwiched it between her red lips, grimacing a bit as she flicked her lighter. Repeatedly.

Ah, a damsel in distress. He stood up and felt for his lighter in his pocket as he approached the waitress. She was the only person at Cuffy's who ever bothered to smile at him or refill his coffee without being asked. He always left her a tip, even if it was just a dime.

"Hey, you need a light?" he called out.

The waitress looked up and nodded, stepping down onto the pavement. Her hair shone like new brass in the sunlight and he couldn't help but notice the dark roots near her scalp. Out of a bottle, he thought, that color came out of a bottle, sure as hell. Ma would have a heyday with that, yes sir. Any woman vain enough to dye her hair ought to be snatched bald-headed, that's what she'd say. But hair or no hair, this waitress would still be a looker.

"Yeah, I could use a light, thanks," she said, dropping her dead lighter into her purse. She leaned forward as Norris flicked his Bic. He could smell her perfume—a mixture of baby powder and roses. Sweetly heady.

He watched her chest as she inhaled, there was a mole just over her right breast and instantly, he wanted to touch her, to bend down and kiss that mole. She straightened up and stepped back, exhaling a plume of smoke through her nose. Sexy.

"What you doing out here, Norris?" she asked, holding her cigarette between two fingers.

"I'm hungry . . . but the place looks full. Thought I'd wait until the lunch crowd clears out."

Little frown lines creased the waitress's brow. "It's Mike, isn't it? He treats you like crap. No, don't answer, I know what I've seen. Tell you what, working for him is no picnic, either." Her blue eyes lit up. "Look, my shift's over and I'm headed home. I could cook you up something quick. Would you like that?"

Norris blushed. "Well yes, Ma'am, I guess I would.

# # #

Deidre glanced back at the restaurant, hoping she'd be seen leaving work with Norris Hymes. In the third booth, back by the window facing the parking lot, a salesman was seated—a traveler who should be quite unhappy by now at having passed up her none-too-subtle offer of companionship. And of course, Hap Kingsley was there, too, enjoying his third cup of coffee. Hap was Gotham Creek's constable and the most handsome guy in town. Pity, he was chained to Felicity—a snooty bitch who'd tried to run her out of town five years earlier and who made her existence in Gotham Creek a living hell.

How dare she call me a strumpet, Deidre thought as she squeezed the steering wheel. What are wives really but legalized whores?

She hoped all the men in the restaurant saw the desperation they'd driven her to . . . Norris Hymes, of all guys. The bottom of the barrel. Not that he was a bad person; he was a town employee, after all. But he wasn't very bright or clean.

She planned on changing all that.

She'd come to Gotham Creek on the arm of her third husband, a naval Petty Officer stationed in Lubec. Jerry divorced her shortly after acquiring the trailer out on Old Woods Road and got himself re-stationed in Norfolk, Virginia. She hadn't the means to leave Gotham Creek and after that first public scene with Felicity Kingsley, Mike Elwin hired her out of pity—and his undying belief that most people are genuinely good at heart. She'd worked at Cuffy's Restaurant ever since. Although Mike was first to admit she was a hard worker, he also dubbed her an incurable slut. 'A nymph-O-maniac,' he'd called her.

Norris had retrieved his paper bag from the pavement beside the pickup truck and jogged over to her car—an old red Mustang. As he slid into the passenger seat, she'd turned the key in the ignition. At that moment, the radio came on. Patsy Cline's "Crazy" sounded tinny in the dashboard speakers, but she felt it suited both her situation and her life.

She flashed him a winning smile and turned up the volume as she pulled out of the parking lot.

# # #

Mike Elwin peered out the kitchen window over the fryer and shook his head, watching his waitress leave with Norris Hymes. "What can she want with him?" he asked Hap Kingsley, who was busy pouring his fourth cup of java.

Hap shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe she's just lonely." He slid the coffeepot back into its slot in the maker and tore open a pink packet of Sweet-n-Low, stirring it into his mug with a swizzle stick.

"Hard up's more like it," Mike said in a brittle tone. "I kind of hoped she'd settle down, make an honest woman of herself."

Hap shot him a grin. "You never know. She and Norris could be a match made in Heaven."

Mike shot him a humorless stare. "Yeah. Or hell."

# # #

While Deidre Garnet drove away with Norris Hymes, Kate Speer's younger brother was home, playing Tetris on the Playstation in his room. His best friend, Jess Brown, sat on the carpet beside him, watching in silent awe. Eddie was a real pinball wizard—not deaf, dumb or blind—but boasting lightning reflexes and the uncanny ability to solve most video games within hours of first trying them.

His full concentration was on the television screen as colorful blocks tumbled downward in rapid succession. He was at level 22, but didn't dare glance away to look at his score, which had to be his best yet.

Just as he reached level 23, something squeezed inside his head. It felt like a bony fist with cold steely fingers, making his sinuses pop against the vacuum it created and his ears began to ring. Over the ringing, he heard a low familiar hum.

Jess didn't realize anything was wrong until Eddie dropped the controller and leaned forward, rocking, grabbing his head with his hands. At that moment, blood trickled from his ears, spilling down onto his neck in thin watery streams.

"Eddie!" Jess grabbed his friend's arm. "Eddie, are you okay?"

He continued to rock back and forth, holding his head. "Get a towel! And hurry. You know the routine."

Jess nodded, rising to his feet, and rushed for the bathroom. He knew the routine all right. Eddie had such attacks often and he always tried to hide them from his parents. Jess didn't know what caused them, but they never lasted very long, so he didn't think they could be all that serious. Last year, Eddie's parents took him to Bangor for an M.R.I., against the advice of old Doc Putnam. Nothing abnormal turned up on the test. No hemorrhaging, no tumors, no diseases, infections or birth defects.

Jess opened the linen closet beside the tub and pulled out a towel, which he hurried back to Eddie. Jess asked again, "You're going be okay, right?"

He nodded, taking the towel and hanging it around his neck. "Yeah, the pain's going away. I just wish the frigging humming would stop. It drives me nuts." He dabbed the towel at the sides of his neck. "Did I get it all off?"

Jess reached over and touched the towel to Eddie's right lobe. "Yeah, I think so. You'll want to clean your ears with a Q-Tip, though."

"I will." Eddie looked up at the screen and grimaced. "Just figures, this had to happen now. I think I could've beat the game."

"I know you were so close." Jess glanced at the screen, which was flashing bold-lettered words: GAME OVER.