“I’m thinking that the last time you were at my mother’s house for dinner, you concocted a story about your participation in orgies that included the phrase ‘five people doing it,’” I say, sneaking another glance over at her.
June is slightly flushed, the color rising in her cheeks though I’m sure it’s the hike and not me.
I hope it’s not me. I’ve thought about that moment in the microfiche room incessantly since it happened. I’ve thought about what would have happened the librarian had left and I’d kissed June anyway, if I’d told her the secret, if I’d been reckless and careless for just one moment.
I’m aware that I’m sending mixed signals. It makes me feel like shit, but I also can’t stop.
“Okay, that’s fair,” she admits.An hour later, we’re at the crime scene. It’s exactly as reported: three trees downed, creating a small clearing. Close by is Hellbender Creek, fast and cold. Not far is Burgess Falls, which isn’t big or impressive enough to justify a trail to it, but which is lovely all the same.
“That is a big tree,” June says. She’s standing slightly in front of me, surveying the scene. I’m surveying her, in a tank top and running shorts, because it’s nearly impossible not to.
“How old is it?” she asks.
“I’d have to count the rings to know exactly, but I’m guessing at least a hundred and fifty,” I say, coming around her to stand at the stump. “Maybe closer to two hundred. They used the chainsaw again.”
June sheds her backpack, rolls her shoulders, looks around. Carefully, she walks through the site, staring at the ground.
“No tire tracks,” she says. “Just in case we weren’t sure they hiked in.”
I glance behind myself, toward the steep hill we just came down. It’ll be interesting to get back up it.
“I don’t see too many people getting a vehicle in here,” I say.
“There are footprints,” she says, crouching. “They look like they were made by hiking boots, so that’s not helpful.”
“Tree’s been dead a few days,” I say, touching the stump with my fingertips. “The leaves on the branches are still mostly green.”
“And nobody heard a chainsaw going?” June asks, still examining the ground.
“Forest absorbs noise pretty well,” I say, shrugging. “If anyone did hear it, they might not remember to report it, or they might assume it’s rangers clearing brush, or who knows.”
We’re quiet for a few minutes. I crouch next to the stump. It’s slightly sticky, the sap still beading up from the roots.
A hundred and ninety-two rings. I sit on the fallen trunk and look at the stump, thinking.
This isn’t a great tragedy. I’m aware that a tree isn’t a person or even an animal. They’re not conscious, they don’t feel pain, they don’t have emotions.
But all the same, this tree was alive for nearly two hundred years and someone came and killed it for no reason, then just left it here to rot.
“How old?” June asks, sitting down next to me.
“One ninety-two,” I say, and she whistles.
“It’s not even an oak,” I say. “It’s a poplar.”
June gasps, horrified. I glance at her to see if she’s making fun of me, but she’s not.
“It’s not even the right kind of tree?” she says.
“Not if they’re on a wild goose chase for the outlaw gold,” I say. “If they’re just cutting down old trees because they’re monstrous people, then it’s the right kind of tree.”
“I just don’t get it,” she says. “Why not just climb the tree to see if the treasure is up there, or why not dig below it? That can’t possibly be harder than carrying a heavy-ass chainsaw through the woods.”
“If that’s what they’re after,” I say. “It could be anything. They could think that aliens are telling them to cut down old trees. They could be trying out new chainsaw blades. Maybe they just hate trees.”
“Why would someone hate trees?” June says, offended by the thought. “Trees are nice.”
“I agree.”
We sit there for a few minutes, in silence. There’s a breeze, mottled sunlight that shifts as the trees sway. It’s a beautiful day, sunny and cloudless. June’s here. I sit on the trunk, soak it all in because I don’t know when this will happen again, if it will happen again.
“Lunch?” I finally ask, reaching for my backpack.
“Sounds lovely,” June answers.“A hundred and thirty million dollars?” I say, repeating it because I can hardly believe my ears. “Million? With an M?”
“Give or take some inflation,” she answers.
We’re walking along Hellbender Creek toward the waterfall, scanning the ground for… well, for anything. So far, this hiking trip has been a bust on the solve tree murders front, even though I’ve enjoyed every moment of it.
“That’s all?” I ask. “I’m not an expert on buying a state, but that sounds low.”
“It was a very good deal,” June says, shrugging. “Especially since there turned out to be gold and oil up there.”