Zack’s father turned into the entrance of the Rocky Hill Farms subdivision.
The housing tract used to be a real farm until the farmer’s family realized they could make more money selling the land than they could selling corn.
Most of the homes weren’t quite finished. Tyvek-wrapped walls waited for vinyl siding. Two-by-fours and cinder blocks were stacked in the craggy dirt that one day would become front lawns.
They rounded a final curve and approached a huge house. A grand Victorian with five bedrooms and five baths. Even though it was brand-new, it looked like an old-fashioned gingerbread house.
“It’s gorgeous,” said Judy. “And huge!”
“Wait till you see the inside!” exclaimed Zack.
“Do we have a backyard?”
“Yep.”
“I always wanted a backyard!” Judy hopped out of the car and ran off to find it. Halfway around the house, she stopped. “Guys? We have company.”
Zack and his father hurried over to where they could see what Judy saw: a police officer and two men in coveralls strolling through the wooded area bounding the edge of their backyard.
“Ben?” Zack’s father called out to the police officer, a tall, thin man in a khaki uniform and Smokey the Bear hat.
“George?” the cop hollered back.
“Friend of yours?” Judy whispered.
“Yep,” said Zack’s father. “Sheriff Ben Hargrove. He was a rookie cop back when my dad was sheriff.”
Hargrove came into the yard. The two men in coveralls followed.
“By golly, it’s good to see you, George,” Hargrove said. “I heard you might be coming home.”
“Moving in today. So, what’s up? What brings you out this way?”
“We’re checking all the trees up and down Route 13. Looking for dead limbs. This your new house?”
“Yeah.”
“Nice one. This your wife and son?”
“I’m sorry. Yes. Judy, Zack—this is Sheriff Ben Hargrove.”
“Hi!” Judy held out her hand. Hargrove shook it. Zack slid behind his father’s leg to hide.
“Shy guy, hunh?” Hargrove said.
“I think he’s just a little overwhelmed. Been a busy couple weeks. Right, Zack?”
Zack nodded.
“So, what’s up with the trees?” George asked.
“They’re killing people,” said the younger of the two men in coveralls as he ran his hand through his shaggy hair.
Zack peeked around his father’s leg. He could see that Mr. Coveralls hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. Probably hadn’t showered, either. He sort of looked like a pirate or a mechanic.
“Of course, there’s no way of knowin’ which tree’s doin’ the killing. None of ’em will confess! Like talkin’ to a stump!” He cracked himself up.
The other man in coveralls, the older one, said nothing.
“George, do you know Tony Mandica?” Sheriff Hargrove gestured toward the younger of the two men.
“No, I don’t think we’ve ever met.”
Mr. Coveralls stuck out his hand. “Well, I’m Tony. And this is my pop, Anthony.”
The old man said nothing.
“We’re Mandica and Son Tree Service. He’s Mandica. I’m the son. Give us a call and we’ll give you a quote on trimming up your trees.” Mandica pulled a dirty business card out of his top pocket. It was coated with sawdust, stained with oil, and probably smelled like gasoline.
“I see,” said Zack’s father skeptically. “And how much might that cost?”
Mandica shrugged. “Depends on what we find.”
“Should I hire lawyers? Or does the court assign each offending oak its own public defender?”
Sheriff Hargrove wasn’t laughing. “We recently had two tree-related accidents out this way, George. Hate to have any more.”
“Was there a storm?” Judy asked.
“No, Mrs. Jennings. No storm. On the Friday night before Memorial Day a tree limb broke off someplace high and tore down the blinker light out over the crossroads. Lucky for us, nobody was hurt before we got her fixed. Four days later, another branch in the same general vicinity busted through a milk-truck driver’s windshield. Killed him.”
“One of our trees?” Zack’s father asked, suddenly as serious as the sheriff.
“No way to know for certain. All we know is that it was an oak. Plenty of those on both sides of the road.”
“Okay. We’ll trim whatever you think needs trimming.”
“Give me a call,” said the younger Mandica, “and we’ll set up an inspection.”
“It won’t come down,” the old man suddenly said.
His son laughed. “What, Pop?”
“The tree. No man nor ax can pierce its bark.”
“Oh-kay, Pop. Don’t worry, folks. No matter what he says, six of my guys with chain saws can handle any tree you got. Come on, Pop. Let’s go home and have a nice nap.”
The two Mandicas disappeared into the trees edging the yard.
Zack remembered the tree near the museum in New York City. It was an oak, too. He wondered if the oak trees killing people up here were that tree’s country cousins.
“We should go inside,” Zack’s father announced.
“Good to have you back in town, George,” said Sheriff Hargrove.
“Thanks, Ben. Good to be home.”
Hargrove waved goodbye and followed the Mandicas.
Zack’s father went back to the car to grab the groceries.
Zack stared up at the canopy of tangled branches overhead.
“Woo-woo! Killer trees,” said Judy in a funny, spooky voice. “Hey, Zack—do you think they’re related to the killer bees?”
She was trying to make a joke.
Zack wasn’t laughing.