The archway of trees stretched on for nearly 150 yards, at times so narrow that they had to walk in single file while branches plucked at their coat sleeves, and sometimes wider, so they could stand side by side to leech confidence from the visible presence of the other. As they reached the end of the archway, they stopped again. Crow was still sweating profusely and he was breathing as heavily as he had during the long climb down the hill. Newton noticed, as he had before, that Crow’s hands automatically and unthinkingly touched the butt of the pistol and the handle of the machete over and over again, like a pilgrim touching his talismans while in the land of the pagans.
Crow blotted his face with his sleeve and then froze, staring at the ground. He took two short steps and then squatted down. “Look at this.” When Newton came over Crow pointed at a part of the dirt pathway visible through the fallen debris.
“Is that a footprint?”
“Yeah. Not too old, either. See, there’s more of them. Someone’s been down here, since it rained last.” He brushed away some of the debris. “Couple of people. See? That set is all over the place. Looks like work shoes. But over here, smoother soles. Dress shoes.”
“Could have been the cops. They were supposed to have come down to the Hollow, weren’t they?” Newton asked.
“Maybe. Don’t know if they came this far in, though.” Crow shook his head as he rose. “Let’s go.”
They moved on for another ten minutes and once again Crow stopped. “That’s it,” he said, nodding toward the place beyond the archway, his voice low and as deflated as a flat tire. “I think we’re here.” He pointed to a spot just ahead where the path widened but was littered with grubby, stunted trees. Some of the trees were middle-aged, twenty-four years old or more, but not one of them looked healthy. Thick, hairy vines were wrapped like tentacles around nearly every trunk and sloped from one tree to its neighbor, and everywhere there were smaller vines with mottled gray-green leaves. Between the trees were fierce tangles of rough-looking shrubs and bushes, which combined with the vines to form wall after unfriendly wall between them and their destination. Along the ground moss ran like a poorly laid carpet, the dark green broken frequently by the bone-white caps of toadstools. Drifting sluggishly through the air was a sickroom smell of rotting vegetation and mold.
“Oh, man,” said Newton, wiping his mouth. “What’s wrong with this place?”
Crow’s mouth was a tight line. “Everything,” he said.
Pointing to the vines and bushes, Newton said, “How are we going to get through that? Can you see a path?”
Crow drew the machete with a rasp. “I’ll cut a path. Stand clear and give me room to swing. I don’t want to take your face off with this thing.”
“Sounds fair,” Newton said, fading back a few paces.
Crow moved forward, frowning at the imposing foliage, his eyes darting around, and then he slashed down with the machete. The blade sheared easily through the closest vine, severing it so that both ends fell away. Sap welled from the severed ends, like blood from a bisected snake, dottling the moss with black drops thick as syrup. Crow and Newton winced at the swinging, dripping ends of the vine. There was a smell like sulfur in the air. “Damn,” muttered Crow. He looked at his blade, half-expecting to see the edge corroded as if by acid, but the flat blade was only stained with smelly sap. “Let’s keep going. Stand back.”
They cut their way into the forest that had grown up on Ubel Griswold’s field, and it was brutal work. Within a dozen yards Crow was feeling tired, and he looked ready to drop. He moved his arm like it weighed about a thousand pounds and someone had poured concrete over both his shoes. Both he and Newton were splattered with dripping goo of a half-dozen shades and viscosities. All of the gunk from the unnameable plants stank like sulfur mixed with spoiled milk. Several times Crow had to stop to control his gag reflex, gulping down huge mouthfuls of air filtered by breathing against the folds of a sleeve he wrapped around his face.
“This is going to take forever,” said Newton, exhausted from watching and beginning to get seriously worried for them both.
He looked at his wristwatch. “It’s two o’clock already.”
Crow wheeled around. “What?” he demanded. “It can’t be that late!”
Newton showed him his watch, and Crow compared it to his own. 2:03 P.M. They stared at each other.
“It can’t be that late already,” Crow repeated.
Newton shook his head. “I know. I don’t get it either. At this rate, we won’t get back to town until past sunset, and let me tell you how much I don’t want to be caught down here at night.”
Crow cursed and drove the machete into the ground and drank some water from his canteen.
Newton pursed his lips judiciously and avoided eye contact with Crow. “So…you want to just bag it?”
“I can’t,” Crow snarled and then hacked the next vine, and the next.
(4)
“If you don’t stop that goddamned crying, Connie, so help me God, I’ll…”
