Don't Cry Over Killed Milk Read Free Page A

But that didn’t explain why insecticides had failed to keep away the bugs for more than a few days at a time.
    As Damon was logging off, a new posting came through. Melanie Dumfries, whose name Damon didn’t recognize, had been treating her two crepe myrtles with a store-bought pesticide and had no problems with insects.
    * * *
    The following morning, Damon opted against taking a run through his neighborhood in favor of a hike at Tripping Falls State Park. He hadn’t been to the land reserve in over a year, and meeting with Jeremiah Milk the previous day reminded him of its splendor. Taking in the scenic falls would relax his brain, which had started to race with apprehension. He was meeting Bethany later in the day.
    It took Damon less than fifteen minutes in his ten-year-old Saab to reach the park. At nine o’clock on a Saturday morning, the parking lot was almost empty. Damon pulled in close to the visitor center. The two-story structure’s weather-beaten siding stood camouflaged against the woodlands. Opened doors welcomed visitors and flies alike, but Damon skirted the outer flank of the building. He strode through the brisk morning breeze to the first of three overlooks offering breathtaking views of the eighty-foot falls plunging into the Potomac River.
    Damon closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. Fumes of wet moss filled his nostrils—earthy, not fetid. Delicate autumn mist cooled his face. The massive waterfall sounded like dishes crashing onto antique floorboards. Damon peered beyond the low metal railing at the majesty of nature. A six-year-old girl screeched with delight as she held her father’s hand and approached a vantage point near Damon. Her older brother raced up a cluster of rocks and hurled pebbles into the abyss.
    Damon stepped down from the wooden platform and considered an oversized sign displaying a labyrinth of hiking paths. The diagram reminded Damon of a map at a ski slope—each trail was imprinted with a corresponding degree of difficulty. The lone double diamond route was dubbed “Zazel’s Summit.” Damon opted against taking the demanding course in favor of “Cherubim’s Run,” a hike of moderate difficulty.
    Halfway into the six mile trek, he stopped at a bend that bordered a calm spot on the river upstream from the falls. There were no rails or fences, just a warning sign directing hikers to refrain from entering the water. Downstream from the falls, the river narrowed to one tenth of its upstream width, creating a deadly gorge where bullheaded adventurists perished every year. Damon was not so bold, even upstream. But he squared his lean backside on a length of tree root peeking out of the damp riverbank and stripped off his sneakers and socks. Damon sank his feet into the edge of the cold river and wiggled his toes in silt.
    Five minutes later, he rinsed his feet and climbed to a flattened boulder fifteen feet above the riverbank. From that position, Damon could see fifty yards back up the trail. He hadn’t encountered another hiker all morning. But as he rested and allowed his bare feet to dry in the morning sun, two uniformed figures crested the rise of the trail, making their way toward him. When they passed, Damon noted patches on their sleeves with the words “Park Police.” One stared at Damon’s bare feet and soundlessly pointed to the warning sign.
    * * *
    After finishing the circular hike, Damon entered the visitor center in search of a water fountain. The interior of the cavernous building was trisected into equal-sized areas open to the public. The lobby housed vending machines, a small gift shop, and a rangers’ desk obscured by masses of pamphlets. A theater accommodated flat benches, a stage, and a projection screen. The final area featured dated science exhibits. Closed double doors bearing the words “Park Management” stood at the east end of the lobby.
    Damon located a water fountain near the gift shop. As he rose from taking a drink, Jeremiah Milk