Page 9 of Blackwood

“I’ll be sure to be careful.”

“You do that, punkin.” He grinned again and walked past me.

I turned as he went, keeping him in front of me. “Who are you?”

“Nobody important. Nope, not important. I’ll tell you something, though.”

“What’s that?”

“I would turn around if I was you, punkin.” He disappeared behind a tree, reappeared on the other side, and continued along as if he knew exactly where he was headed. “Go back. Go back to whatever town you come from. Don’t come here ever again.”

“You can’t scare me away.” I tipped my chin up, trying to speak the lie with conviction. “I have permission from Mr. Blackwood to be on this property.”

He cackled but didn’t look back. “Mr. Blackwood, is it? He’s the one you should be afraid of the most.”

“Why?”

Another cackle, which faded as he wandered farther away. “I warned you, punkin. Don’t never say I didn’t warn you.”

I stared after him for a long while until he was completely lost from view. His cryptic warnings only strengthened my resolve to keep digging. Whatever secrets these woods held wouldn’t stay secret for long.

Keeping one eye on the direction he’d gone, I moved slowly toward my goal. There was nothing particularly different about the trees themselves, but something rested at the base of one of them just ahead. As I approached, I realized whatever it was had been covered in branches. Even so, the afternoon sun glinted off metal.

My heart sped up as I took the final steps toward the biggest clue yet. There, under the canopy of trees and covered with rotten limbs sat my father’s green El Camino.

Chapter Six

Blood poundedin myears as I ripped the barren limbs from the car. I yanked and pulled, not caring that the jagged pieces of wood stabbed through my gloves and scratched my hands.

When I finally pulled the last branch away, I stood back and took in deep gulps of air. The El Camino was the same mottled green—more Bondo than metal in some places—that I remembered from my childhood. Patches of rust had sprouted along the hood, and the tires had long since deflated. The car hunkered down like a corpse, all momentum lost.

The windows were dirty, and I could only make out the dimmest outlines of seats inside. With shaking hands, I gripped the driver’s side door and pulled. A harsh creak cut through the air, and the angry joint gave way. I bent over and scanned the interior as a musty smell overwhelmed my senses. Beneath the decay, I recognized the familiar whiff of vinyl.

The purple rabbit’s foot still hung from the rearview mirror despite dark brown stains on the beige vinyl telling me my dad’s luck had long since run out. I stepped back and took a breath. Even though I knew he was gone, seeing the evidence of it still hit me like a punch in the gut.

I leaned my head back and stared up through the skeletal branches, past the spotty moss, and into the blue above. “Dad.” Tears I thought I was done shedding burned in my eyes. “What happened to you?”

The empty air didn’t answer. It maintained its silence as I tried to piece together the few facts I’d learned about his disappearance. He’d spent his last moments on earth at Blackwood, but why, and who killed him? Taking a deep breath, I turned my gaze earthward. Someone had obviously gone to a good deal of trouble to cover up the car. Only time revealed its location, the branches withering until a glint of glass shone out to a satellite high overhead. Whoever drove or pulled his car into these woods probably felt safe, maybe had even forgotten about their dark deed. I’d find them, and when I did, I would see justice done.

The first person on my list was the stranger in the woods. I filed him away and continued searching the car.

Pulling out my flashlight, I scoured the interior of the car. Empty cigarette packs and some matchbooks littered the passenger floorboard. Memories of my father talking with a cigarette hanging from his lips, the ash precariously long, threatened to overwhelm me. I pushed the thoughts away and kept looking. The glove compartment had been cleaned out. I pulled the passenger seat forward and shone my flashlight along the floor. Something under the driver’s seat caught my eye. Was that hair? I leaned in and ran my hand along the floor and snagged a few strands. The thing came free with a pull.

A sob shook me when I recognized one of my favorite pony dolls. I remembered looking for it for days when I was nine years old. My mom gave up the first day, convinced I’d somehow accidentally thrown it away. I’d continued the search, even calling Dad to ask if he’d seen it.

“No, darlin’. But they say if you love something and you let it go, it’ll come back to you.”

I’d hung the phone up in frustration and eventually called off the search, opting for a different pony altogether. I smoothed the plastic hair out of the purple mare’s eyes. It was an artifact of sorts, a small piece of history from the life I’d had so long ago. After tucking it into my pack, I did another sweep of the car. The rest of the cab was empty, no spare keys or papers hiding in the visors.

I dug through the mass of leaves and pine cones in the bed, but found nothing of interest. When I was finished, I closed the doors, the squeaky thuds giving a finality that I felt in my bones. My father was dead. But the car gave no explanation as to who killed him or why.

Backing away, I searched the ground nearby, looking for any hint of a grave. I walked in concentric circles, tramping through the leaves and undergrowth as I moved farther and farther from the car. Nothing caught my eye, no obvious disturbances or tell-tale depressed ground. He wasn’t here, but I knew he couldn’t be far. I’d have to keep digging, just like I’d always done.

The trek to my car was an even slower slog, old grief weighing me down. Memories of my parents flitted through my mind like a movie reel, each image growing darker until finally eaten away by time and distance. My parents were shadows, both of them gone, yet still haunting me. My father with questions, my mother with warnings. I’d never known which one to listen to when they were alive, much less now.

I arrived at the same stream I’d crossed earlier and knelt down while peeling the gloves off my stinging hands. My palms were scratched and gouged. I leaned over, submerging them in the clear, cold water until the sting was replaced with a comfortable numbness. Once cleaned, I pulled them out, shook them off, and stuffed them in my warm pockets. I had bandaging materials in my pack, but my hands weren’t bad enough for me to stop and doctor them.

Once feeling returned to my fingers, I pulled my canteen from my pack and fished out a granola bar. As the sun melted into the horizon, the frogs started their lulling songs, all of the notes mixing to form a homogenous hum.

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