Town in a Wild Moose Chase

flour, and propane.

But what was he doing here at Blueberry Acres? And what had he been doing in the woods? “Solomon, what’s wrong?” Candy asked again, uncertain of what do to. “Do you need help? Should I call the police… or an ambulance?”

He looked at her wildly, like a cornered animal. His mouth worked, as if he was trying to speak, but no words came out. He looked terrified as he glanced again at the woods. It was almost as if he expected to see someone— or something—come crashing out from the trees, chasing him.

Candy looked toward the woods too, and when she looked back, she saw Solomon reaching out to her with a shaky arm, but she didn’t back away. His fingers grasped desperately at a fold in her fleece jacket near her right shoulder. Latching on, he pulled her close, raising his head toward her as he spoke.

“Body… in the woods,” he breathed, the words rattling in his chest. He fell back then, groaning as his eyes closed.

“What? There’s a body? Where?” Candy turned again toward the dark line of trees at the top of the slope.

Body. In the woods.

Candy was torn. She’d been in those woods dozens of times and knew them well. Should she investigate? Should she go look for a body?

Should she stay with Solomon?

Or should she go get help?

She looked back at the old hermit. He seemed to have fallen into unconsciousness, his thin body sprawled on the cold snowpack.

Her first task, she realized, was to get him to a warm, safe place.

“Solomon, can you move?” She took him by the shoulder and tried to lift him, but he was too heavy for her.

She needed help.

She turned and looked back at the house. That was her best bet, she realized.

Moving as quickly as she could, her breathing loud in her ears now, she ran back down the way she’d come. She moved swiftly but cautiously, her boots crunching into the loosening snow. She nearly slipped several times as she raced over the blueberry bushes and rough ground, but she managed to keep her balance.

As she reached the house, she turned to check on Solomon before she went inside to call the police. But what she saw made her stop dead in her tracks.

Solomon was gone.

She blinked several times and refocused her gaze. But she wasn’t mistaken.

The unconscious hermit she’d left lying in the snow had disappeared.

Two

Mystified, Candy raced back into the fields, up the rising slope. “Solomon!” she called as she ran, an uneasiness in her voice. “Solomon, where are you? What’s going on?”

She scanned the field ahead before shifting her gaze to the woods on her right as she searched desperately for the old hermit. But she saw no sign of him. In fact, she didn’t see much of anything, except for the strewn-about rocks and frozen vegetation buried beneath the cover of winter. The trees at the ridgeline stood in sharp contrast to the surrounding white landscape, like tall dark toothpicks, their bare, twisted branches tangling with one another in a dark brush of muted colors. She looked for movement among the trees but, again, saw nothing.

She hurried ahead, breathing in light huffs now.

As she approached the spot where Solomon Hatch had fallen, she slowed and stopped. She could see his tracks in the snow, the spot where he’d dropped to his knees before slumping to the ground. She also saw a new set of footprints, angling off in a different direction, away from her, before circling around to the right. She studied them with something bordering on disbelief. He must have climbed to his feet as she’d run for help and staggered up the slope, toward the trees at the edge of the barrens.

He’d gone back into the woods.

She was dumbfounded. Why would he do something like that, especially if he’d been injured? Or in danger? He’d seemed frightened, as if something in the woods was coming after him. So why go back in there? Why not follow her to the farmhouse, where he’d be safe?

She chided herself for leaving him but knew she’d had no choice. Besides, he couldn’t be that far away. At most he had a few minutes on her. She might be able to catch up to him.

Moving cautiously, she started up the slope toward the tree line. At the top of the ridge she stood for several moments, staring into the woods. She heard all the typical sounds—the birds, the creak of branches, the brush of the wind. But no footsteps, no sound of someone moving or breathing. She saw no evidence of another person nearby.

Except for the footprints.

She thrust her hands deeper into the pockets of her fleece jacket and started into the woods, following Solomon’s tracks. She studied them as she walked. The left foot appeared to be dragging across the snow a little, perhaps due to an injury. Or did Solomon have a limp? She couldn’t remember. She didn’t know him that well. She had no idea what to expect if she found him. Should she take him back to the farm? Would he be difficult to deal with? Her mind spun out a dozen different scenarios as she contemplated the wisdom of her actions. But no matter what happened, she couldn’t abandon the old hermit. She had to find out what had happened to him.

After a few dozen yards the woods closed behind her, obscuring the farm and fields. The land rose to a crest before dropping to a hammocklike spot, where she spotted deer droppings among the low brush. The animals tended to linger near the fields whenever possible, hoping for a few nips of exposed vegetation. But she saw no deer today. She walked on, periodically calling out Solomon’s name. The woods hushed, and her ears seemed to ring with the blanketing silence.

Abruptly she lost track of the footprints. Solomon had wandered into a shadowed area between a tight group of trees, and there the footprints had been brushed away, disappearing in midstride. She walked around the trees on either side and studied the area around her, expecting to see the continuation of the footprints farther on. But Solomon had swept his tracks clean.

Again, she was mystified. It was as if he had purposely prevented anyone from following him.

What was he up to?

She turned three-hundred-sixty degrees, searching the woods again. But the old hermit was gone.

For several tense moments she debated what to do. She was hesitant to go any farther. Solomon’s footprints, and hers, provided her with a trail back home. If she moved ahead, out of view of the footprints, she might get lost and become a problem to herself and others. She knew these woods fairly well, but everything looked different when encased in snow and ice. She quickly decided to do the smart thing. She turned around, walked back to the farmhouse, and called the police.

They arrived in less than fifteen minutes. Two squad cars rushed up the plowed driveway, followed by Candy’s father in his old pickup truck. “What’s going on?” Doc asked worriedly as he climbed out of the well-heated cab, slamming the door shut behind him. “Anyone hurt?”

“I don’t know, Dad,” Candy said, walking up to him. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

She turned toward the police cars. She didn’t recognize the young, tall police officer who climbed out of the first car, but she certainly knew the middle-aged man who stepped out of the second one. It was Darryl Durr, Cape Willington’s chief of police.

He nodded his head at her as he came around the front of the car. He was a rugged-looking man, with a weathered face, pale blue eyes, and salt-and-pepper hair that curled at the neck. “Good to see you again, Ms. Holliday,” he said in a professional manner, with a slight nod of his head. “How’s everything been going today?”

“Well, to be honest, Chief, it started out fine but then took a strange turn.”