In my early years as a reporter I covered plenty of city council meetings out in the suburbs, so I thought I knew what to expect. Taxes, garbage removal, sewers, bond issues, traffic, policing, and people not picking up after their dogs.
This was different.
The meeting had one topic—whether letting Varner Sutton plant a big resort across the lakefront was a good idea or the worst thing ever. We were in the gym of the local high school, on metal folding chairs, with at least 100 of the town’s citizens seated around us. Many were older than Rachel and me, with weathered faces and rough hands. Some were younger, tanned, relaxed, and well-dressed. A few families had brought their children, who either sat silently next to their parents or played quietly in the corner. There was coffee, decaf, and hot water at the back.
A long table sat on a platform in front, under the basketball hoop, with a large TV set up behind the chairs. Three men and a woman sat at the table. Signs identified them as the town mayor, the town comptroller, Varner Sutton executive VP Hugo Powell, and VS architect Carolyn Frye. The sheriff and one patrolman stood behind the platform, in front of the Exit sign and the door to the boys’ locker room.
The mayor stood up and called the meeting to order. He introduced the two Varner Sutton executives, and then the comptroller gave a brief overview of the town’s current financial situation: not dire, but far from robust. A dwindling tax base and a tendency for young people to move to nearby or distant cities after graduating high school was slowly bleeding the town dry.
Then executive VP Powell stood up. Middle-aged and balding, he wore a suit but no tie, his crisp white shirt sleeves rolled up, trying very hard not to look like a rich corporate bigwig. “Thanks for being here and listening to us.” A laptop sat in front of him, and he pressed a key. The TV behind him came to life with the VS logo, followed by an aerial photo of one of the company’s resorts in Maine.
Together with architect Frye, Powell went through a 10-minute presentation of Varner Sutton’s planned resort. It would have swimming pools, a golf course, tennis courts, boating, two top-tier restaurants, halls for conferences and more, giving employment to hundreds of people both during construction and after the resort was open for business.
The final image showed an AI-generated picture of the resort from overhead. It was hard to see from where Rachel and I were sitting, but I was pretty sure one of the tennis courts was located right on top of our honeymoon cabin.
Then, with a nervous smile, the mayor opened the meeting up to questions and comments.
For the most part people were civil. An older man asked about management jobs; a young woman asked about diversity in hiring. Many people wanted to talk about what the new jobs would pay.
But some people were skeptical. One guy who identified himself as a lifelong hunter asked about protecting the deer population. A woman asked about air quality. Someone asked about pollution and fishing.
The group seemed evenly divided between citizens who were in favor of the resort and people who were against it, but only about half the crowd rose to speak. Toward the end an argument threatened to erupt between two middle-aged men on opposite sides of the gym; both of them favored the project, but they disagreed about the location of the golf course. The wife of one told him to sit down, and he muttered something as he took his seat again.
Then an old woman raised her hand from a wheelchair, and the room grew quiet.
“You all know me,” the woman said. “I’ve been here my whole life, and many lives before this one. Some of you are my friends. Some—not so much.” She smiled. “But we have friends all around us.” She paused. “We don’t always see them, but they’re out there, and in here.” She touched her chest. “Just—remember them. They remember many things we’ve forgotten. They will remember us when we’re gone. Remember that.”
Few looked at the old woman, as if everyone was embarrassed by her. Or maybe ashamed.
The mayor moved to adjourn the meeting, and people starting getting up, putting their jackets on, breaking up to talk to each other or walking up to the platform to talk to the mayor and the Varner Sutton execs.
Rachel pulled my arm. “Come on.”
I followed her around a row of chairs until we reached the old woman, who was backing up in her chair. No motors—she was using her arms to push her wheels and swing herself around.
“Excuse me! Hi.” Rachel waved as friendly hand. “I’m Rachel, and this is my boyf—my husband. Tom. We’re on our honeymoon. Could we talk to you for a second?”
She looked up at us. “I’m Sophia. Sophia Broadtree.” She looked us over, peering mostly at Rachel. “Yes. Bring me a cup of coffee. Real coffee.” She pivoted her chair and wheeled off toward a corner of the gym.
I brought coffee while Rachel dragged over two chairs. We sat in a triangle, and Sophia blew on her coffee, looking out over the crowd dispersing from the floor.
“You said we have friends all around us.” Rachel leaned forward. “What did you mean?”
Sophie sipped her coffee. “I think you know.”
Rachel nodded. “We saw them last night.”
She smiled. “You can see things?”
“Some things. Ever since I was a girl.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Same with me. My mother too, and her mother. First it’s whispers and shadows. Then it’s right in your ears and in your face. You can’t get away, until you learn to handle it. Yeah, we have friends in the woods.”
She sat back in her wheelchair, looking up at the lights in the ceiling. “They’re hiding now. They used to be everywhere, but they slowly went into the darkness where they can be safe. They’re safe there, as long as the forest is safe.”
“There’s something else there,” I said. “We felt it last night. Something—angry.”
Sophia nodded. “There’s always something to balance the good. It’s out there. Waiting.”
“It killed someone last night, though. Someone from the development company.”
She closed her eyes. “They mean well.” She opened her eyes and nodded toward the Varner Sutton execs and the people standing around them. “But they don’t know what they’re dealing with. What’s out there, waiting for them.”
“What can we do?” Rachel asked.
Sophia shook her head. “Sometimes you have to let nature lead the way.”
A young man walked up to us, followed by a little girl. “You ready, Sophia?” the man asked.
She handed me the mostly empty cup. “My ride. My son-in-law and granddaughter.” The little girl climbed onto her lap, and the man smiled at us before wheeling Sophia toward the door.
Rachel and I folded up our chairs and carried them to the rack by the bleachers. “What do you think?” she asked.
I was looking toward the platform. “Just a minute.”
Hugo Powell was talking quietly with the mayor, but he looked up as I approached. His smile was wide and almost sincere. “Hello? May I answer a question?”
“Tom Jurgen.” I managed not to introduce myself as a P.I. from habit. “I’m just here with my wife, we’re on our honeymoon—”
“Oh! Congratulations!” His smile brightened as he checked Rachel out. “Hope you’re enjoying yourselves.”
“Yes, very much. I just wanted to know—I heard that one of your people was, well, killed last night out in the woods.”
The mayor immediately looked around to make sure no one was close enough to listen. Powell’s face shifted to sadness mixed with sadness. And worry. “Yes. It’s tragic. Maurice Swenson, good man. Had a wife and two kids. Sad.”
“What was he doing out in the woods at night?”
Powell blinked. “I don’t—I don’t know. He wasn’t supposed to be there. He went out to check out a location in the afternoon. Nobody noticed that he hadn’t come back until late, and we called the sheriff then.” He pointed to McIntyre.
“What location?”
“A, uh, small lake a few miles inland. More of a pond, really. We were thinking of turning into a water hazard for the golf course, but it’s sort of in the wrong place.” His eyes got narrow. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. No idea what led him astray?”
Powell shook his head. “They found his car on the road, that’s what led them to find the body. But the lake was on the other side of the road, so why he would have gone that way—I have no idea.”
I thanked him, and we walked away.
“He’s hiding something.” Rachel took my arm, which she almost never does, but she didn’t want anyone to overhear her. “He’s sort of conflicted about that guy, but relieved too. Like it solves a problem.”
I nodded. “I notice things too.”
“So what now?” She squeezed my arm.
“Tomorrow we should go look for that lake.” I kissed her quickly. “In the meantime . . .”
Rachel grinned. “If we’re going to play detective on our honeymoon, we have to keep appearances up, don’t we?”
“Absolutely.”
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