Harbinger
It was after five in the afternoon, and the newsroom had quieted. The rows of square fluorescent lights in the drop ceiling frosted the blue walls and the banks of desks and privacy screens in icy white light. Some computers remained on, a variety of screen-savers flashing bright colors.
Debbie sat on the desktop, one denim-covered leg drawn up, her right elbow resting on the point of her knee. She was grinning at Scott as she waved the paper she clutched in her left hand.
Scott shook his head and cursed under his breath. He sat rotating aimlessly left and right in his swivel chair. He tugged at his ponytail and tried to avoid looking into her eyes.
“Henry says you have to come with me,” she said.
Scott glared at her and tried to stand, but sat back down again in frustration. “Why did you wait until now? Everyone else is gone. I want to go home. I don’t want to go with you, anyway. You’ve been bugging me every afternoon and you’re freaking the hell out of me. We dated once, it’s over. Move on. Oh wait, a bipolar Borderline doesn’t ‘move on.’ ”
“Do I threaten you that much, Scottie?” she asked sweetly. “You’re a photographer, I’m a reporter, this is a newspaper, and our features editor has given us the assignment.”
“Let me see that,” he said, lunging for the typed page she fluttered in front of him.
She evaded him, jumped off the desk, brought over another rolling chair, sat beside him as she began punching something into his computer. “Here, look at this. It’s a fascinating story.” She folded the assignment memo and stuffed it into her jeans pocket as the computer monitor glowed. Something that looked like a research article came into view, replete with pictures. “You remember that body they found east of Elkview, in 2005? The little girl’s body? On that old piece of property past 3 Mile Road?”
“They arrested the mother. She was convicted. She’ll be in a federal prison for the rest of her life.”
Debbie caught Scott’s eyes and gazed deeply into them as she smiled. He suddenly felt cold and shivery. He jerked his head away and pretended to intently study the computer screen.
“Well, the story is more interesting than one would think,” she said after a pause.
“Godamnit, what do you want with me?” He threw out his arms and this time he stood.
“You need to bring your cameras and photograph this assignment. I’m trying to explain it to you. Now sit down and be quiet until I’m done.” She waited until he reluctantly lowered himself into the seat once more.
“The family of this woman — Emily Hanson — was interviewed at the time the child’s remains were discovered. Her brother, Jimmy Hanson, said he and his sister used to live next to the estate where the body was found. He said, they used to play in the woods there, trying to stay away from home as long as possible. He said, during the year when his sister was five years old, and he was eight, when they were hiding and seeking in this forest, his sister came running to him, claiming there was a ‘little girl’ who lived in the woods, who was her new friend. She called this friend ‘Lucy Goosey.’ The brother didn’t think anything of it at the time.”
Scott once again spun in his office chair. “What is your point?” he asked tiredly.
“Jimmy Hanson described the day his sister was removed from their home after she was beaten so badly that Child Protective Services could no longer ignore her. He said that earlier in the morning, the two of them had been playing as usual among the trees of the neighboring land, afraid to go back home as they knew their father was drunk. His sister disappeared for several minutes around a huge chestnut tree, Jimmy told the interviewer, and when she returned, she said: ‘Lucy Goosey says I gotta be good. She says not to hurt her. She says to remember her and not hurt her no more.’ Jimmy Hanson remembered that his little sister started sobbing then, protesting, ‘I don’t hurt Lucy. She’s my friend.’ ”
“And so…?”
“Look at this … ” Debbie pointed at the computer screen. “The little girl who was found in 2005 was named Lucy. She was the daughter of this guy’s sister, Emily Hanson.”
“So, Emily grew up in foster care, and never forgot her little friend Lucy Goosey, and named her daughter after her.”
“And then killed her. The day that CPS came for Emily Hanson was June 30, 1985. The day that Lucy Hanson disappeared was June 30, 2005. The murdered child was five years old when she disappeared..”
“Oh come on, Debbie. This is not newsworthy.”
“So who was little Emily Hanson talking to, in the summer of 1985? Who was begging her to ‘not hurt me’ twenty years to the day before Emily killed her?”
Scott leaned over to his left and hefted his camera bag, set it on the desk. He unzipped it and removed a Canon EOS 5D Mark II, and his prize Nikon D3. Debbie observed him patiently, sitting pertly, her slender arms crossed loosely in front of her.
“What else…? ” he finally said.
“The chestnut tree,” she replied immediately. “There aren’t any chestnut trees, at least not American ones. American chestnut trees were the backbone of Appalachian culture and economics, and a blight killed them all, starting in the early 1900s until the late 1940s. There were a few survivors found recently in Georgia, on Pine Mountain, but here in West Virginia, there are no survivors known. Emily’s brother said there was a chestnut one hundred feet tall, with a trunk twenty feet in diameter, on that piece of land. And what land is it? It belonged to a family whose colonial charter was issued by King Charles the II himself; they were among the only families left in this area to keep their original holdings. The Thorpes, descendents of some duke or lord and a commoner, perhaps? Left isolated in those woods for centuries, what was left? A poor old woman, a cabin, ruins of older more opulent homes?”
“This isn’t newsworthy.”
“And then there is the developer,” Debbie said as she brushed aside a curl of her wild brown hair. She leaned in and grasped the mouse and scrolled down through the article. “But look, I forgot the story of the hunters….” She took a breath, waited a moment but didn’t hear any objections. She continued, “A couple of hunters. It was during buck season several years ago. They apparently entered these woods illegally. It was in 2002. Only one of them returned. He claims that they found a grove of chestnuts, ancient chestnuts, one of which was extremely tall and gnarly and towered over them, its ovate leaves so thick above that they turned the air green as sunlight filtered through. He described the ground as carpeted with chestnut burrs.”
Scott hummed, brought one fist to his lightly-bearded chin. “But … buck season is in November….”
“Why, yes it is!”
“So, the guy was trespassing, he didn’t have a license. Something happened to his buddy, and he came up with this crazy-ass story.”
“Oh, that’s what the authorities claimed. The guy — says here his name was Simon Matheny, aged forty-four years — he reported that he and his friend found this grove and got scared and tried to leave but became lost, wandering in circles. They split up, hoping one of them would find a way out, and he did, Simon Matheny did, but his buddy disappeared. The police charged him with murder, but — let’s see — the case was dismissed by the grand jury, as no body was found. Still a missing persons’ case, though.”
“And the developers?”
“Okay, well, that’s the best part. In 2007, Thelma Thorpe passed away. Or rather, her body was found in the fall of 2007. Hard to tell exactly when she died. Her leathery and withered corpse was discovered in her cabin. But she had no heirs that could be located. Her property with those mysterious chestnut trees extended almost five-hundred-twenty acres. The county seized it, and the sheriff sold it to a developer. Only, when this guy — uh, Howard Polley of Kanawha Estates — brought in his track-loaders, his back-hoes, his excavators and his bulldozers and began clearing the land, there were problems. His plan was to harvest the trees, and he had made a deal with a lumber company. He had gotten some of the brush scraped away, created a pile of stumps and slash. But when he got to this section of supposed chestnut trees about a mile from the old cabin, his track-loader caught fire and died. Then both bulldozers — in different parts of the property some miles away — had accidents that disabled each of them. His excavator, that was working on demolishing the old cabin, ‘blew up.’ And his back-hoe stopped cold, they don’t know why.”
“Nah, nah, this is too much.”
“No, see, here, look. The guy testified to it.”
“Yeah, sure. He found out that the government was going to stop him from developing because of the chestnut trees. Or, he went bankrupt. Or, he never had the capital to begin with. Coming up with a story like that, sabotaging his own heavy equipment, come on, that’s what happened.”
Debbie tilted her head slightly, her pale skin glowing. “Maybe. But why make up a story like that?”
“Long tradition. West Virginians have been making up ghost and monster stories to keep strangers from their stills for centuries.”
“Uh huh. Do you still think this is not newsworthy?”
Scott chewed on his lower lip for a minute, rapidly tapped the fingers of one hand on the desk. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go. But it’s late, not enough daylight.”
“It’s summer, remember. It doesn’t get dark until nine p.m. We have time for a few pictures. It’s off of 3 Mile Road which isn’t too far away.” She jumped up, jogged to a locker at the far end of the room, and retrieved her purse and lap top.
Scott rose slowly. He packed up his camera bag, checked his iPhone, glanced at the calendar pad behind the computer. He winced, called to Debbie, “Uh, Deb, it’s June 30th.”
“I know, I know,” she said with a lilt as she rejoined him, her carryall briefcase slung over one shoulder, her purse draped across the other. “Why do you think I want to go now! It’s twilight time, the best time for mysteries.”
Scott looked at the logo on his camera bag, Charleston Daily Gazette, and felt a stab of anxiety. “I don’t know. I’m mostly a sports photographer. Can’t this wait until morning? I’m hungry.”
Debbie was already heading for the swinging door that led to the hallway, and the elevator. “We can pick up some food on the way,” she said, checking her own cell phone for messages. “Come on, my sweet, my treat. I can’t wait for you to see the chestnut trees.”
