Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

He hastily pushed himself back from his perch on the branch and slid down the trunk of the tree, the rough bark scraping through his uniform at his knees and elbows. Landing on the ground, he grabbed the slow match from where it lay and began stamping out the fire at the roots of the tree.

“Darn, darn, darn,” he repeated incessantly.

The dried leaves quickly crumbled beneath his shoes, and the fire was extinguished. The tip of the lit slow match glowed in his hand. He stood for a moment, paralyzed by the action around him, and then looked over at the abandoned cannon, its tenders still blade-to-blade with their bandit foes.

“Might as well . . . ,” his internal voice decided.

He ran to the cannon and held the lit match to the wick. In an instant, the fuse caught, the cannon fired, and Curtis was thrown as the gun mule-kicked backward and a shower of smoke and sparks filled the air and the world around him was silenced save for a slight, distant high-pitched ring.

“Wow,” he felt himself whisper, though he couldn’t hear a thing.

Prue couldn’t remember ever being as impatient for the sun to go down as she was now. She sat at the window of her room in the Mansion and watched the big orb descend behind the distant peaks of the Cascades until the forest was dark. With the dimming of the day, the activity in the Mansion seemed to ease and calm, and the comings and goings she had witnessed all afternoon at the front doors came to a quiet end. The clatter of footfall in the hallway outside her door had ceased, and the Mansion seemed to fall into a silent nocturnal slumber. Prue figured her chance was now.

She padded quietly into the bathroom and turned the sink faucet on full blast. The rush of water spattered against the white tile of the floor. She then returned to the main room and grasped the handle of the door. Taking a deep breath, she turned the knob. Here goes nothing, she thought.

The door creaked open, revealing the long hallway. A few hanging light fixtures illuminated an ornate Persian runner that led from her room. As she’d expected, the mastiff still stood sentry at the far end of the hall. Hearing the door open, he briefly looked up. Wisps of smoke drifted from a lit cigarette in his paw.

“Excuse me!” called Prue. “Excuse me, sir?”

The dog, apparently surprised to be spoken to, looked around. Once he realized she was talking to him, he grumbled uncomfortably and stood up from his leaning position against the wall. “Yes, miss?” he asked.

“I was wondering—I just need some help,” said Prue, conjuring her best damsel-in-distress routine. “I can’t seem to get the sink in the bathroom to shut off. I think the faucet is broken. I’m afraid it’s going to overflow.”

The dog paused, evidently weighing the propriety of his helping. He shifted in his suit, which clung tightly to his large, hairy body.

“Please?” asked Prue.

The mastiff gave a little huff and stepped away from the wall. He ground the cigarette out on the wood of the floor. When he came closer to Prue, he said, “I ain’t no plumber, mind,” his voice low and gruff. “But I’ll see what I can do.” Prue got a better look at the badge on his shoulder; below the word SWORD was the grim image of a blade surrounded by what looked to be barbed wire.

Prue let the dog into the room and followed him as he walked toward the bathroom. He swung the door open and entered, approaching the sink. Prue stayed behind in the room. Reaching over, he gave the spigot a quick turn and the faucet stopped. Before he had a chance to raise any kind of surprised objection, Prue had slammed the bathroom door closed behind him.

“Hey!” the dog cried, his voice muffled behind the door.

The ornate bow of a skeleton key could be seen protruding from the keyhole in the door. With a swift flick of her wrist, Prue had thrown the lock, hearing the weighty click of the deadbolt engaging.

“HEY!” the dog cried again, now angrier. He began frantically trying the doorknob. “Let me outta here!”

“Sorry!” cried Prue, feeling genuine anguish that she’d tricked the mastiff. “I’m really super sorry. I’m sure someone will be along to help you. I put a bag of gorp by the bathtub if you get hungry. I’ve got to go. Sorry!”

She quickly exited the room, hearing the echoes of the mastiff’s angered barks fade behind her down the hallway. As she walked, she breathed a quick benediction to the patron saint of sleuthing.

“Nancy Drew,” she whispered, “be with me now.”

At the end of the hall was a door. She opened this to find herself looking down another long hallway. The corridor before her was empty. Prue cautiously stepped one foot out onto the rug, paused at the floorboards’ first complaint, and then started tiptoeing down the hallway.

The wing seemed particularly vacant, and Prue gained confidence with every step that she would not be caught; until a door suddenly flew open and a young bespectacled man walked out, carrying a briefcase with an overcoat slung over it.

“Good night, Phil,” he said to someone inside the room he had exited.

“G’night,” came the response from within.

Prue froze in place. With nowhere to conceivably hide, Prue had no choice but to stay stock-still in the middle of the hallway, praying the young man would not turn and see her. To her great relief, he didn’t. Apparently so occupied in leaving, he simply walked down the hall and disappeared around a corner. Not moving, Prue looked out of the corner of her eye into the room, the door now opened to the hallway. Another man sat at a desk, busily intent on his work. A green anglepoise lamp illuminated the papers in front of him. Occasionally he dabbed a nib pen into an inkwell.

Prue hurriedly stepped through the block of light on the floor cast from the open room, hardly daring to breathe until she had cleared the doorway. When she heard no calls for her to stop, she started walking faster.

The rug ended at a large wooden door, and Prue cracked it open and peeked through. Beyond the door was the stairway landing and below it, the foyer, now eerily absent of all the manic activity she had witnessed that afternoon. The double doors to the east wing were closed, and what appeared to be a Labrador in khakis slumbered noisily in a chair outside.

Prue pushed the door open and snuck out onto the landing. Reaching the stairs, she carefully began descending, counting each step until she made the bottom. Upon reaching it, she half walked, half ran across the checkerboard marble of the floor and was nearly to the front door when she suddenly heard a man’s voice, loud and reproachful: