Never Hug a Mugger on Quadra Island Read Online Free Page B

A trail of ants three wide marching across the dirt road, many carrying tiny white eggs. They were transporting them from the heap which, as Tim looked closer, was actually a huge ant hill. “Neat. What are they doing with the eggs?”
    â€œProbably starting a colony somewhere on the other side of the road.”
    â€œShould we let them?”
    â€œCourse. They break down leaf matter.”
    â€œAnd maybe trees?”
    â€œOnly when a tree’s down. They’ll speed up new soil production.”
    One of the things Tim most admired about his father was the precision of his explanations. His father hated waste, in language as in most aspects of daily life. “So ants are good for the woodlot.”
    â€œPart of the system. Take them away, the system’s that much poorer.” Jason looked his son square in the eye. Tim and Jason stood about the same height, each half an inch under six feet. They both had high foreheads and blue eyes. Jason’s beard was going white, Tim had yet to grow more than fluff. They both wore jeans and thin long-sleeved shirts. Jason said, “How come you were hanging back?”
    â€œThinking.”
    â€œDerek?”
    â€œYep.” Tim dropped his father’s glance. “You think—he’ll come out of it?”
    Jason lay his hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Yes,” he said. “That’s what I think.”
    â€œBut you don’t know, do you.”
    â€œI can’t see the future, son. Much less control it. Except here on the lot.” He dropped his hand to his side. “This I can plan. We can plan.”
    â€œCan we go over now? I’d like to.”
    â€œLet’s take another half hour here. We’re too late for the 11:00 anyway.”
    Tim looked at his watch. If they pushed, they might still make the 11:00. But he didn’t argue. More than anything Tim wanted Derek to get better, and quickly. Right after that he wanted the mystery solved, why his brother was so god-awful beaten. If he could be the one to solve it, even better.
    They walked for ten minutes to the northwest sector, the only sound the tromp of their boots on the forest floor among the big firs. The high sun was penetrating the thick foliage canopy, raising the tangy scent of newly growing branch tips and warming duff. A squirrel chittered and a pileated woodpecker rat-a-tapped. His father, staring at the near distance, said, “Oh dear.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œOver there.” He gestured forward, then crunched through brush and downed branches. The woodpecker and squirrel went silent.
    Tim saw his father’s concern. Half a dozen big fir, each maybe twenty inches in diameter, lay aslant, uprooted, crowns of downed trees interhooked with branches of upright trees. The root masses, spreading fifteen to eighteen feet, showed how shallow the roots had grown—very little topsoil here, old volcanic rock. “Must’ve been that windstorm in April,” Jason said.
    Tim nodded. Roots intrigued him. Tim had learned the details of photosynthesis in his biology class but had been prepared for his lessons by his father’s explanations when he was small. “What’re you going to do, Dad?”
    â€œDon’t think we can get lumber out of those. Have to buck and split it for firewood.” He stared ruefully at the uprooted trees.
    They’d be worth less than what they’d get for logs that went to the mill, Tim knew. Which these days was little enough. Sure hoped Derek would be okay by then, and willing to pitch in—Tim didn’t want Randy around helping out again. Randy gave him the creeps. “Dad, you aren’t going to hire Randy again, are you?”
    â€œI’ve been thinking I might get Zeke to help out.”
    Relief. “Great. Randy’s bizarre.”
    â€œHe’s not bad. A hard worker. Knows what to do without always being told.”
    â€œAnyway, I like Zeke.” He