Dead Tree Tales

By Rush Leaming

Set in Charleston, SC, and the surrounding islands, police are called to investigate the poisoning of a much-loved 100-year-old tree, only to find evidence of a more brutal crime.

From there, the story explodes into a fast-paced, multi-character thriller unlike any you've ever read.

Not for the faint of heart...

"Dead Tree Tales by Rush Leaming is about a lot more than a dead tree. It's a mystery. It's a crime story. It's a thriller. It's a powerful comment on today's society and politics… fast-paced, full of action and intrigue… It's a real page-turner and just a fantastic read." – Lorraine Cobcroft, Reader's Favorite

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rush Leaming
• Release date: Sep 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9780999745663

Rush Leaming

RUSH LEAMING has done many things including spending 15+ years in film/video production working on such projects as The Lord of the Rings films. He was also an Adjunct Professor at the University of South Carolina. His first novel, Don't Go, Ramanya, a literary thriller set in Thailand, was published in the Fall of 2016 and reached number one on Amazon. He is currently working on his next novel, to be published in Fall of 2018, entitled The Whole of the Moon, set in the Congo at the end of the Cold War. His short stories have appeared in Notations, 67 Press, The Electric Eclectic, Lightwave and 5k Fiction. He has lived in New York, Los Angeles, Atlanta, Zaire, Thailand, Spain, Greece, England and Kenya. He currently lives in South Carolina.

Book preview

PART ONE:

THE DYING TREE

CHAPTER ONE

It was known simply as The Tree; that is what the locals on Johns Island, South Carolina, called it. A Southern live oak born a thousand years ago (some even said fifteen hundred), its gargantuan limbs swirled and stretched as much as two hundred feet in all directions. The lower arms, heavy with age, sometimes sank into the earth only to reemerge. Other branches flailed recklessly in the sky, like some sort of once-screaming kraken turned to wood by an ancient curse.

Generation after generation had protected it. Rising from the center of a former indigo plantation, and now officially known as Addison’s Oak, The Tree had long been a source of pride, even fear, in the surrounding community, as well as James Island, Wadmalaw Island, and the nearby city of Charleston. 

But now, The Tree was dying. It was not from natural causes either, not from time, nor gravity, nor the weather.

Someone had killed it.

Is that a thing? Detective Charlie Harper asked as he turned his head to look at his partner, Detective Elena Vasquez.

I think so. Elena squinted her eyes toward the top of the canopy, the leafy summit shadowed and backlit by the noon sun.

Arborcide? That's a thing? Charlie asked again.

An Asian-American man in his mid-twenties wearing wraparound sunglasses stood next to the two detectives. Yep. You remember that incident a few years ago in Auburn? Toomer's Corner. Crazy Alabama fan poisoned the tree there.

Yeah, Charlie said. But I mean legally. Is it legally a crime to do this?

Cops were involved there, the man said. The guy went to jail. Has to be something. Why don’t you call them? See what they did. He pulled a pack of spearmint gum from the front pocket of his jeans and stuffed five pieces in his mouth, noticing Charlie watching him. Quitting smoking. Nicotine gum makes me dizzy.

Charlie nodded. Been there. Six feet tall, with a closely trimmed beard under bright-blue eyes, he walked around the perimeter of the field.

Salt air swirled around him—they were only a couple of miles from the beach—and Charlie realized it was the first time he had been away from the city and out on the islands in months, maybe even over a year.

Elena Vasquez, an athletic five-ten with shoulder-length black hair bobby-pinned over her ears, stood in front of the young man and opened a new page in the Notes app on her iPhone. So, you’re the one who called about this?

Yes. It took some digging to figure out who to contact. I didn’t know there weren’t any police stations out here.

That’s correct. She typed the date 5/19/2015 at the top of the page. Closest station is the Island Sheriff’s Patrol on James Island, but they don’t handle things like this. That’s why you got us from the city. And who are you again?

Daniel Lee.

She looked up from her iPhone. Daniel is a nice name. It’s my son’s name, though we call him Danny. Where are you from, Mr. Lee?

I’m originally from Maryland—Chesapeake Bay area—but now I live in Charleston. West Ashley. I’m a Ph.D. candidate at the college.

College of Charleston? Elena asked and continued typing.

Yes. Environmental science. Teach a couple of undergrad classes as well. And I’m president of the local Sierra Club chapter. Our service project for this year has been public park maintenance and cleanup. I came here a week ago and saw that broken limb—

This one? Charlie pointed at a fat twisted branch about the length of a Greyhound bus lying near the base of the tree.

Yes.

Well . . . Charlie said. How do you know it wasn’t lightning or something?

Daniel went over to Charlie and squatted next to the fallen limb. There are no burn marks. Lightning would leave those.

Maybe it’s just old age. Isn’t this thing like a thousand years old or something?

"Possibly more. It is rotting, Daniel said. But not from old age. See this discoloration? The rust-colored saturation of the stump where it broke?"

Charlie leaned in a little closer. Yes.

That’s from poison, from a lot of poison. And you can see spots like this forming and spreading all around the trunk and on other branches.

Elena stood beneath The Tree, placing her hand on a dark-orange splotch on the trunk. The gray bark surrounding the stain felt tough and firm, but inside the color spot, it was soft and crumbling. I see it.

It’s like cancer, Daniel said. The Tree is not dead yet, but it will be soon. I had the soil tested as well as samples from the broken limb. They came back positive for massive levels of DS190.

And that is? Charlie said.

A variant of tebuthiuron. A very powerful herbicide. Similar to what was used at Toomer’s Corner. Somebody has been injecting the tree as well as dumping it into the ground. Probably for a few months to reach these levels.

Injecting the tree? Elena said.

Daniel pulled them over to the base of the trunk where a ring of jagged holes stretched just above the ground. Yes. See these gashes? Somebody has been boring into the trunk, then filling it with DS190.

Charlie took out a pair of latex gloves and put them on before touching the holes in the trunk. You’re sure this is intentional?

Has to be. This stuff doesn’t just appear on its own. It’s man-made. Someone has been doing this.

But why? Charlie asked.

Daniel held out a hand, palm up. Thus, the reason the two of you are here.

Charlie shook his head. I don’t know about this. We usually work homicide.

Daniel gestured towards the gashes in the trunk. You have a murder victim. Or soon will. Right in front of you.

But it’s a tree! Charlie said.

Elena looked up from her phone. Okay, Mr. Harper. Easy.

Daniel motioned for them to follow as he walked to the backside of the trunk. There’s something else. He came to a stop in a patch of grass ringed with dandelion sprouts and pointed to dark-red streaks spread across the blades. That’s blood, isn’t it?

Charlie bent down and touched his gloved hand to one of the blades. Maybe. He took out a plastic bag and a Leatherman multitool from his jacket. He pulled apart the hinged scissors, then clipped away about a dozen pieces of grass and dropped them into the bag.

And another thing, Daniel said and led Elena to a spot about ten feet away. He pointed to a white card lying in the grass. I didn’t touch any of this, by the way. I didn’t want to disturb the crime scene . . . I watch a lot of cop shows. I know how that goes.

Doesn't everyone. Elena squatted down, taking a plastic bag from her jacket. She used tweezers to pick up the card, muddy and frayed at the edges and turned it over to reveal a yellow cat emoji, just the head, whiskers, and a faint smile, printed on the opposite side. There were no words, just the image.

A strong breeze moved through the leaves of the great tree, a sound like rain showers mixed with groaning as the heavy limbs bent in the wind.

Charlie Harper removed his glove and rubbed the edge of his dark-brown beard. Looking at the massive branches, which did seem like the arms of giants, he began to understand why The Tree was such a big deal. Have to say, it is beautiful here. Can't believe I've been in Charleston four years and never been here. I should bring Amy. She'd love it.

Daniel looked at Elena for an explanation.

His daughter, she said, then turned to Charlie. You should. My dad brought me here a few times when I was a kid.

Well, you better hurry, Daniel said.

There's nothing to stop it? Elena asked.

Probably not. I contacted a team of forestry researchers I know from Virginia Tech. They are going to send a team down to look at it, see if anything can be done. I sent a request to the Parks Department to pay for it. If they don’t, Sierra Club will hold a fundraiser.

Charlie sighed. Okay. While we decide what to do about this, I’ll call and have some signs and barriers put up to keep the tourists away.

Elena turned to Daniel. Thank you for meeting us here. Could you come to our station in the city today or tomorrow to give a formal statement?

Sure.

Bring copies of the lab work. We gonna find anything when we do a background check on you?

Daniel shook his head. No. Just some parking tickets . . . a lot of tickets actually. Parking at the college is a bitch.

That it is, Elena said. Here is my card if you think of anything else.

Thanks, Daniel said. He stopped a moment as if to say something, then continued toward a white Chevy Volt parked near the road.

Elena looked at Charlie and raised her eyebrows. So, Mr. Harper, what do you think?

Ehh . . . I mean I understand it’s old and rare and special and all that, but it’s a fucking tree. I don’t know anything about trees, do you?

No, but . . .

But what?

I don't know, Elena said and looked around the field. My Spidey-sense tells me there’s more to it than just some weird vandalism. She took a step forward and winced.

Back acting up? Charlie asked.

A bit, she said.

Lunchtime anyway. Let’s take a break. I’m starving. June and I got into it again this morning. Skipped breakfast.

Sorry to hear that. Elena swept a strand of black hair behind her ear. She pointed with her chin down a two-lane road to a crooked sign with a faded image of a pagoda: The Formosa Grill. Chinese?

Sure, Charlie said.

The two of them began to walk toward their gray Ford Explorer when Charlie saw a flash of white out of the corner of his eye. He stopped and knelt in the grass. He used his Leatherman tool to again pry away several blades.

What is it? Elena asked.

Charlie’s head bolted upright, his blue eyes narrowing. Mr. Lee! he shouted. He pulled another latex glove from his pocket.

In the parking lot, Daniel climbed out of his car and made his way back to the field. Yes?

Mr. Lee, when was the last time you were here before meeting us today?

Yesterday morning, Daniel said.

Elena knelt next to Charlie, looked into the grass, and let a low whistle escape her lips. She used her phone to take a photo.

Charlie used tweezers to pick up a severed finger. Sliced just below the knuckle, the stump crusted in blood, the flesh covered with red ants, it ended with a sharp green fingernail. He looked at Daniel. Did you happen to notice this?

Daniel swallowed hard, turning his face to the side. No. I did not.

Charlie put the finger in a plastic bag.

Elena looked at him, her wide brown eyes giving him a knowing shimmer. You interested in this case now, Mr. Harper?

Charlie didn’t flinch. He stared at The Tree.

CHAPTER TWO

Jim Rawlings sat on a bench in Washington Park, just behind Charleston City Hall, and watched a squirrel dig into an old pecan shell that had probably fallen the previous autumn. It was spring now, and surrounding a thirty-foot replica of the Washington Monument in the center of the park, rows of azalea bushes sizzled in vibrant shades of white, pink, and red.

For the past forty years, since first elected mayor in 1975, Jim had come to this bench on his lunch break, on days when his schedule allowed him. For thirty-nine of those years, his wife, Alice, had usually joined him, walking over from their home a few blocks away on the street of multicolored historic houses facing Charleston Harbor known as Rainbow Row.

But that had stopped months ago; her legs were too frail to move, ALS having ravaged her body, making her too fragile to leave the sterile environment they had created in the guest bedroom on their ground floor.

Then four months after that, her breathing stopped, the world stopped, and Alice slipped away to what Jim was sure was a much, much better place.

It had to be. It had to be . . .

So now he sat there by himself, the squirrel and a few pigeons seemingly his only lunch guests. But he was never truly alone whenever he went out into the city because, after four decades in the public eye, everyone knew Mayor Jim.

He heard the refrain at least a dozen times a day from construction workers, parking lot attendants, students, and sharp-eyed tourists. Mayor Jim! Mayor Jim! they would shout when they saw his thick mop of gray hair and his tall, somewhat gangly frame, and he always responded with a wink and a wave.

Lately, however, those shoutouts had turned a bit more somber, often followed by We’re praying for you, We’re thinking of you, or We’re sorry for your loss. Still, they were nice to hear.

A beautiful day in Charleston—clear blue sky, temperature in the mid-70s—and the city hummed along. Six more months to go. Maybe. Six months until his tenth and final term as mayor ended, and he could drift away into what he hoped would be a placid and well-deserved retirement.

It made him nervous.

The phone in the breast pocket of his jacket made a high-pitched popping sound. He took it out and saw a text from his oldest son, Thomas.

The message said: I’m here in your office. I need to show you something.

Jim wrapped up the crumbs from his chicken salad sandwich and shook them on the grass for the pigeons.

As Jim walked toward City Hall—a massive white stone building originally built in 1801 as a federal bank—a few passersby called out, Mayor Jim! and a thought kept coming to him: Am I missing something?

He had always felt what made him such an effective mayor was his ability to see what was coming, to look far down the road and troubleshoot, handling problems before they got out of control. But lately, he didn’t seem to have that same old prescient vision.

Maybe grief was clouding his mind or maybe it was just old age or complacency in a job he had done (well, he thought) for forty years, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was some unseen catastrophe waiting, an invisible hurricane roiling just offshore, ready to swoop in and tear apart this town that he loved.

Jim punched a keypad code on the back security door and took a rickety service elevator to his office on the third floor.

Thomas was leaning against Jim’s long mahogany desk, a grim expression on his face. He always seemed to have a grim expression on his face. Jim wished he would smile a bit more.

Hey, Tommy, what is it?

Thomas turned his phone around and pressed play. It was a YouTube video of a local political commentator named Jerry Frain who posted daily clips of his broadcasts.

Jim rolled his eyes. Not this guy again. Why do you care about him? He’s a clown, a right-wing nut wannabe.

Because he’s becoming a very popular clown, Thomas said. You need to see who his guest was yesterday.

Mayor Jim settled in his high-back leather chair and took the phone from Thomas. He turned the volume up just in time for the introduction.

Jerry Frain leaned into his microphone: And my guest today is a man many of us here in Charleston have watched grow up since he was a young boy. A complicated man for certain, who has had his ups and downs, but who has come through it all a better person, a person now of deep faith and deep convictions. A man who has seen the light and now talks openly about the ills of liberalism, the evils of progressive ideology. A man who knows what needs to be done to save the soul of our city as well as our country: our mayor’s second—and I think brightest—son, Len Rawlings.

Jim gasped. No. Are you serious?

Thomas nodded. Unfortunately, I am.

****

At the end of the nearly thirty-minute interview, Thomas took his phone back and put it in his pocket. He watched his father slump in his leather chair.

After several minutes of silence, Thomas finally spoke. So, what are you going to do?

Mayor Jim took a moment to respond. Do about what?

About Len.

What am I supposed to do? He’s free to say what he wants.

Didn’t you hear what he said? The things he supposedly now believes in? The things he said about you?

Jim looked out of his large office window. Crowds and traffic moved along sunny Broad Street. Horse and carriage combos packed with tourists clopped down the road. Palmetto trees swayed in a breeze.

Tommy, what do you want me to do? Ground him? Take away his allowance? He’s forty years old. Len is Len. How many phases has he gone through? How many characters has he played? He’s reaching, hoping it will get him noticed, make him some money, probably.

He called you a dinosaur, a relic of the hippie generation, stuck in the past, a purveyor of failed ideas.

Does this city look like it’s failing?

He actually said we should divide the islands here and give a couple each to the ‘Blacks, browns, and yellas.’ Keep a few good ones for the Whites. It’s ridiculous. It goes against everything you ever taught us.

"Tommy, what I have always taught you, what your mother and I always told all three of you, was that we would never tell you what to believe. You were always free to be your own men, believe what you want, pray, or not, to whomever or whatever you wanted. I won’t change that for Len, no matter how outrageous he gets. Besides, it’s all just noise, just a show. Most people don’t take that stuff seriously."

Haven’t you been watching the news, seen what has been going on around the country?

Charleston is different. Charleston is always different.

I’m not so sure. Not anymore.

Mayor Jim’s office phone beeped, and he pressed the speaker. Yes, Norah?

Mr. Mayor, I have Parks Commissioner Helene Stallings on the line requesting to speak to you.

Did she say what it was about?

Something about Johns Island. Something going on at Addison’s Oak?

Jim looked at Thomas. Thomas shrugged his shoulders.

Okay, Jim said. Tell her I’ll call her back in ten minutes.

Yes, sir. Norah hung up.

Thomas stood and buttoned his pinstripe suit jacket, adjusted his yellow tie. The deadline for filing reelection papers is in four weeks.

I know, Jim said.

Have you decided?

Jim looked at his son: tall, a fit forty-three, good husband, good father of two teenage girls. He was the child Jim never had to worry about. Thomas had always been the serious one, the scholarly lawyer.

Harland, before his too-early death, had been the artist, the dreamer. But Len, well, Len had always been the good ol’ boy, the Cheshire-grinned charming hell-raiser.

Two of Jim’s sons had always been steady, easy to grasp, but Len had always been a chameleon, somewhat reptilian, changing his skin (his personality, seemingly his entire essence) to whatever he thought would be most advantageous to him in the moment.

Dad? Thomas said, seeing his father had drifted away.

Yes?

Reelection?

Right. I don’t know. Maybe. Forty years is a nice clean number to walk away from.

Well, as your campaign manager, I would hope you’d let me know soon.

Of course, Tommy. You’ll be the first to know.

Thomas walked toward the door. I need to go. Have a deposition this afternoon.

The harbor dredging case?

Yes. We’re getting lots of versions of the truth.

You’ll get it, Tommy. You always do.

Thanks, Thomas said and opened the door.

And Tommy? Lay off Len, would you?

Thomas nodded and left the office.

Mayor Jim took out his iPhone, went to YouTube, typed in Len Rawlings. He watched another two minutes of the video, then turned it off and put his phone screen-down on his desk.

He pressed the speaker on his office phone.

Norah? Get me the Parks Commissioner. I want to find out what’s happening on Johns Island.

CHAPTER THREE

The Crime Scene Unit mobile lab, the size of an RV, pulled into the parking lot next to Addison’s Oak just past five p.m.

A half-dozen redwood picnic benches sat in rows on either side. Bald cypress trees, covered in drooping gray tufts of Spanish moss, ringed the field next to an old farmhouse turned visitors center. The sharp, muddy scent of nearby marshes filled the air.

Other police vehicles had arrived two hours prior, and the officers had set up wooden barriers strung together with crime scene tape around the perimeter of the field. A couple of tour buses and a few other cars packed with disappointed families had to be turned away. Handwritten signs were posted about a half mile in each direction declaring that Addison's Oak was Closed Until Further Notice.

Elena stood and Charlie sat on the porch of the farmhouse now set up as a makeshift command. Each of them scoured their phones, deep in reading Wikipedia and other web pages, trying to devour information about herbicides, tree reproductive cycles, cat emojis, and Toomer’s Corner in Auburn, Alabama.

Captain Jasper Wright, head of CPD Team Eight, including the Special Investigations Unit, walked across the field carrying a computer bag. He put one foot on the bottom of the stairs. So, it’s a tree?

Charlie stood up, walked to the edge of the porch. Yes, it’s a tree.

So, this is a thing? Jasper asked. Arborcide's a thing?

It’s a thing, Elena said. Up to five years if convicted.

Who’d a thunk it?

But we think there’s more to it than just that, Charlie said.

Yeah, Jasper said. Finding a finger will do that. Gotten anything from CSU yet?

No. They just got here. They’re going to process all night. We’re going to meet them back here in the a.m.

Well, you both can follow this for now, see where it takes you, but if we get a real stiff, I might have to pull you off.

Elena stood next to Charlie. Got it, Cap.

Jasper tilted his head. Come show me around.

They followed him into the field and showed him the rust-colored splotches, the holes in the trunk, the bloody grass, and the spot where they’d found the finger. They stopped beside the giant broken limb, which looked forlorn and purposeless as it lay in the grass.

What about this guy you met? Jasper asked.

Lee? Charlie said. We think he’s the real deal.

Nothing came up?

Elena shook her head. He’s clean. A literal Boy Scout. She checked her watch. Reminds me, we’re supposed to meet him back at the station to get his statement.

Jasper zipped up his bag, his large, dark brown hand throwing it over his shoulder. He looked around the field. I used to come here when I was a kid. You know I’m from the islands, right? Got Gullah deep in my blood.

Yeah?

It’s not just golf courses and gated communities out here. You two been mostly running cases in the city. You get here and get outside these country club walls, a lot of the old island ways still exist. There’s a reason they don’t want police stations out here. People doing lots of things they don’t want others to know about.

"Anything specific we should know about?" Charlie asked.

We’ve got a couple of operations ongoing. It’s need-to-know at this point . . . And also, lot of that ‘old-time religion’ is still out here as well.

You talking voodoo, Captain? Elena said. I can tell you all about Santeria if you’d like.

Call it what you will, Jasper said. Just make sure you both keep sharp and read between the lines.

I think that’s what you pay us to do?

Speaking of which, don’t work too late. I’m not authorizing any overtime.

Copy that, Charlie said.

Good. Jasper watched a news van, Channel Four, pull into the parking lot. Shit. Starting already.

Charlie and Elena looked at Jasper. He rolled his eyes.

I got it, Jasper said and walked toward the van. You two head back to town and finish up with our Good Samaritan Mr. Lee. Let CSU do their thing here.

****

Across the island marshes, around the docks of marinas crammed with white-masted boats, along Lockwood Avenue back in Charleston, along the shops of King Street and within the stalls of the City Market that sold all types of sweetgrass souvenirs; in parks and town squares, on the college campus, and upon the towering Cooper River/Arthur Ravenel Bridge that stretched its long arms into Mount Pleasant and eventually Shem Creek, blue skies faded, replaced by swirls of orange and deep red as the city and all the nearby islands got ready for night.

Houses along The Battery, their tiered porches supported by wooden columns, soon filled with residents or short-term renters as they watched the harbor water lap against stone walls.

Joggers jogged, parents pushed strollers, and in the never-ending restaurants and cafés in the food-crazed city, servers and bartenders swept and polished and stocked up, getting ready for the evening rush.

Inside the offices for CPD Team Eight, Elena and Charlie sat at their desks, facing each other. Charlie typed up the information from Daniel Lee’s statement while Elena transferred the notes from her phone onto her computer. Elena’s desk was piled high with folders and papers; Charlie’s was clean and neat as if it were in a furniture store showroom.

Each had a framed photo of their families: Elena’s was one of herself, her then-ten-year-old son, Danny, and her husband, Diego, standing in front of Lake Lure, North Carolina, six years ago. Charlie’s showed his wife, June, and their then-two-year-old daughter, Amy, last year in front of Mount Fuji, Japan.

The night shift detectives began to shuffle in. One of them, a lean, somewhat wiry light-skinned Black man named Stenny Jones, strolled past the row of desks. Vasquez and Harper! You catch that tree-killer yet?

Working on it, Charlie said. You cut another hit record yet?

Working on it! Stenny said and made a straight line to the kitchen.

Elena yawned and put down her phone. Getting late.

Yes. Charlie leaned back in his chair. He rubbed his eyes. I’ve got five text messages from June asking when I’ll be back.

Mm. I see your five and raise you two.

Diego?

Danny as well.

Charlie watched a streetlight buzz to life outside the window. How’s Danny doing?

Elena hesitated. You know, Mr. Harper, when we first started working together, we made a rule: no personal stuff.

Right . . . I think we broke that on day two.

Yeah. We did. He’s doing okay. Been good actually.

How long has he been back home?

This time? Four months now . . . he’s been good, but you know, it’s a Goddamn alphabet soup of meds. Haloperidol, chlorpromazine, olanzapine—half the shit I can’t even pronounce. We’re constantly trying different things, see which combo works best.

He’s a sweet kid. I hope you figure things out.

Elena rested her chin on her hand. Yes . . . he is. She looked at the photo on her desk. That was right before it started. Last good time we had together as a family.

You’ll get it back.

Yeah? I don’t know. I count small victories. Microscopic ones . . . You? How did you and June meet again?

I was here on vacation from New York. She was an exchange student at the College. Met her in a cafe downtown.

Love at first sight?

Charlie shrugged. I guess. Packed up everything and moved here to be with her. Was sick of those winters anyway.

And now?

Charlie sighed and flopped his arms in his lap. Jesus . . . He shook his head. I don’t know, Vasquez. She fucking sleeps on the floor every night. On a blanket on the floor in Amy’s room.

On the floor?

On the floor. Sometimes, she gets Amy out of her bed and makes her sleep on the floor with her.

"What is that? Is that a Japanese