Disclaimer: This is a work of derivative fiction based on the characters and world of JRR Tolkien. I merely borrow them for a time, for my own enjoyment and, I hope, that of my readers. I am making no money from this endeavor. Beta reader for this story is IgnobleBard.  Rated PG-13 for strong language.

As the Kia's cooling engine slowly ticked to a stop, Jane checked her appearance one last time in her rearview mirror. Not that it would do her much good. 'Plain Jane' she had been since elementary school, and 'Plain Jane' she would no doubt be when she finally tottered into the Old Ladies Home -- no, Managed Senior Communities was what they were called nowadays. She felt pretty certain they'd find some new euphemism by the time she got there, assuming she made it that far.

Having long ago given up the hope to be P.R.E.T.T.Y. she took great pride in being S.M.A.R.T. And, taking a final swipe of the comb through frizzy dark-blonde hair, at least today she would be T.I.D.Y. The importance of looking professional could not be overstated. There was no dirt on her nose either, so she deemed herself ready to go.

She gathered together her shoulder bag and notebook. One of these days, she knew she would have to give in and switch to a palm pilot, but for now a plain old ring binder and a Bic pen seemed so much more comfortable and simple to use. She stepped out of the car and found herself blocked by a fieldstone wall tall enough to hide the broken glass she felt sure must be imbedded in the top, and a wide iron gate.

Interesting. Most of the estates in the area went for ersatz medieval or the frou-frou French provincial look in their security gates, but this one was all straight lines. 'Frank Lloyd Wright, unless I miss my guess,' she told herself, and the gatehouse bore it out. A connoisseur of the fine architecture to be found in northern Illinois, Jane had been a fan of the Prairie Style ever since college, and she felt a frisson of anticipation, wondering which of the master architect's designs she would have the pleasure of seeing today.

She saw a buzzer on the side wall of the gatehouse, stepped up and rang. Jane looked up to see a pale face fill a discreetly placed security monitor. "May I help you, Miss?" said a voice, almost drowned out by the sound of roaring auto engines and the excited tones of an ESPN announcer in the background. "Rudy, Orville -- turn that down, would you?" he yelled, over his shoulder, turning back to her.

No sooner done than he made a quick staying motion with his hand and his face disappeared from the monitor screen. Within seconds, a door opened and he stepped out, all six feet plus of him, dressed in a green and brown uniform with the name Hal embroidered on the breast pocket. "Sorry about that," he said, smiling apologetically. "My brothers and their NASCAR! What can I do for you?"

Looking at him, Jane understood her boss's remarks about hippie cultists. This man -- Hal, was his name? -- had fine platinum hair that fell to his shoulder blades, covering his ears. In her experience, most security guards were ex-military types who favored crew cuts and far too many doughnuts. From the looks of things, Hal had enjoyed a doughnut or two, but in spite of that, his exotic good looks almost distracted Jane from the very large pistol at his hip. Almost.

"Miss?" he prompted.

Jane kicked herself back to reality. "My name is Jane Jankowski, from Cook County Child Protective Services. I'd like to pay a call on Mr. Rivers, if he's available."

Hal raised an eyebrow. A very nice eyebrow, Jane thought, with a little mental sigh. "Child Protective Services?"

Jane's mental sigh turned from wistful to nervous. This was always the tricky part. She had no warrant, although one could be obtained under the proper circumstances. It was always easier if they invited you in, and this was where the tact Doug had spoken of became crucial. "It's come to our attention that your employer has a young child in the household, Galen Ernilson, who is being home schooled. We like to do a home visit in these cases, just to make sure everything is in order. It's purely routine." She favored Hal with her brightest smile.

"Purely routine, eh?" Jane could swear the big security guard fought to hide a grin. "In that case, bring your car around, and I'll open the gate for you."

"Oh, no, that won't be necessary. I'd rather walk." One simply never knew with these visits. A car parked visibly on the public road served as extra insurance.

"Are you sure, Miss Jankowski? It's half a mile to the main house."

Aloud, she said, "I'm sure. It's lovely weather, and I can use the exercise." That part, at least, was the truth. Bright sun shone on one of those crisp fall days that made you glad to be alive, and for some reason Jane felt all too aware that her behind, spread by hours of desk work, could use some tightening.

"Suit yourself, then." Hal went to the gate and typed a code into the keypad, seeming to bend to whisper something as well. A narrow, person sized gate panel within the larger one swung open. "Take care, Miss Jankowski," he said as he let her through, "and keep to the path."

As Jane made her way down the gravel driveway, she had the eerie feeling that eyes were upon her. 'He's checking out my butt,' she told herself in amazement.

"Just doing my job, Miss," she heard him call after her. "Making sure you're safely out of sight."

She turned at the top of a small rise to see Hal standing back at the gatehouse, smiling. "That's Ms. Jankowski, if you don't mind," she retorted. Jane continued on her way, shaking her head to clear it. She had just had the strangest vision of Hal tying a blindfold around her head and leading her through a forest of giant golden-blossomed trees.

"It's been way too long since my last date," she sighed.

Jane walked on, between the rows of beech trees that lined the drive. The gravel roadway rose and fell. Occasionally a leaf fluttered to the ground, or she heard a rustling from deep within the woods on either side. Her legs began to ache from the exertion and she had started to think that Hal was right about driving when she heard silvery laughter coming from the forest to her left. One voice was a light tenor, while the other was as high as a tinkling bell -- a child.

Forgetting Hal's warning, Jane turned from the path and made her way through the trees, seeking the source of the voices.

"Good, Galen. Now, try it again. Draw the bow, sight down the arrow, make adjustment for the wind. That's excellent. Now hold your breath and let -- no, Galen, hold!"

Too late. Jane heard a hissing noise and an arrow buried itself in the trunk of a tree not a foot in front of her nose. She stopped short, willing her startled heartbeat back to normal.

"Oh no! Are you all right, Miss?" Jane turned to see a young man hurrying toward her, with a small child in tow. He seemed to be another of the Rivers cultists; a further example of the pale-haired Nordic type, even taller than the security guard. Rather than a uniform, this one wore khaki chinos, moccasins, a green plaid shirt and a very worried expression.

"I think so," she said shakily. The arrow still quivered in the bark of the massive oak to her right.

"Did I do something wrong, Daddy?" the little boy asked timidly.

"No, Galen; my fault. I shouldn't have let you nock an arrow before making certain the way was clear." As the father spoke, Jane noticed he quickly smoothed his son's light blond hair down over his ears with a slender forefinger, too late to prevent Jane from seeing what he had obviously hoped to hide.

"But I missed the target and hit a tree," the child continued, looking embarrassed.

"That's all right, son. Perfectly understandable. My shout startled you." The young man turned his attention to Jane. "You moved very quietly. I almost didn't hear you coming. We weren't expecting visitors, Miss . . . ?"

"Jankowski. Jane Jankowski," she said, holding out a hand to shake. "I'm from Cook County Child Protective Services."

"Leif Aransen." The young man's smile did not falter and his grip remained firm, but Jane noticed the pale blue eyes turn icy and his free hand grip his son's shoulder protectively. "Who let you in, Miss Jankowski?"

"Your security guard at the gate -- Hal. In his defense, he warned me not to leave the driveway," she said quickly. "But, Mr. Aransen, don't you think rubber tipped arrows might have been more appropriate for a child this age?"

Looking down at Galen, Jane did a quick double-take. She surreptitiously flipped open her portfolio with the case file to check the date of birth. January 13 -- yes, she had remembered the year correctly. Seven years and a number of months, but the boy looked no more than four, definitely small for his age. Which seemed strange given the height of the father. Jane red-flagged another mental note. Failure to thrive?

"Call me Leif, please." Aransen's rather attractive dark eyebrows crinkled in genuine perplexity. "Rubber tipped arrows? You can't get any decent range or accuracy with those."

Jane pursed her lips. This was the sort of poor parenting that comes of teenagers reproducing, because young Mr. Aransen could not be a day over twenty-five, if that. 'Right, Mr. L.L. Bean,' she thought dismissively. She had these Yuppie types pegged. 'You think you're a mighty woodsman because you drove your SUV the size of an aircraft carrier through a National Forest once with the air-conditioning and the DVD player turned off. Probably never camped out a day in your life!'

Leif smiled as if Jane had just said something very funny. "What brings you here today, Miss Jankowski?"

"Our records show that Galen hasn't been enrolled in school yet."

"His mother and I tutor him. Is that a problem? If it was good enough for me . . . ?"

That accounted for a lot, Jane thought. "Oh, no, not a problem at all," she said brightly. "We just like to do a home visit under those circumstances. Perfectly routine."

"I see. Of course." Leif nodded pleasantly. "Galen, would you take Miss Jankowski up the to house while I put away the bows and quivers? I'll be right along."

"Yes, Daddy." Galen took Jane's hand trustingly. "This way."

"It's Ms. Jankowski, if you don't mind," Jane said back over her shoulder as the boy led her away.

"Forgive me, Ms. Jankowski," Leif said, with what almost looked like a bow. "Keep to the path, you two."

"How far is it to the house, Galen?" Despite her sensible shoes, Jane suspected she might be getting a blister.

"I don't know. Not far."

Jane thought she might take the opportunity to do a quick mental assessment during whatever time the walk took. Was the boy's intellectual growth as delayed as his physical? "Can you tell me how old you are, Galen?"

"Yes. I can tell you how old I am."

Jane sighed. The youngster had one of those literal minds, obviously. "How old are you, Galen?"

"I'll be eight in January. I have the same birthday as my Daddy!" The boy said this last with evident pride.

Jane smiled. Rounding up to the next birthday. That at least was normal. She met few children who did not, and she thought wistfully back to the days when she had been so eager to give herself one extra year. "Do you know how to write your name?"

He gave her a smug look. "Of course I can. Want to see?"

Jane nodded, and Galen let go of her hand. He ran to the edge of the driveway, picked up a fallen stick and made a series of long, straight marks in the dust. He beamed back at her proudly.

He regarded her with what she could swear was a look of pity, sighed, and proceeded to write out 'Galen Ernilsen' in surprisingly neat penmanship in the dust beside the first marks. "I like the other way better," he said. "Grandpa taught me to write it in the snow when I was two. When Grandma found out, she frowned, but Mama laughed."

Jane bit her lip. She supposed this was as good a time as any to ask. "Galen, do you know it's wrong to be touched in bad places?"

"Bad places?" The boy's eyebrows crinkled in perplexity. "Bad places -- like down in the basement behind the boiler with all the spider webs? Or out past the kitchen door where Uncle Glenn puts the garbage cans and it gets all stinky?"

Jane stared, at a loss for words, and Galen continued, "Tevildo likes to sleep down behind the boiler, and, once, Auntie Posey gave me a pat on the shoulder when we went to look for him. I don't like going in the basement by myself. Is that what you mean?"

"No, Galen, what I mean is . . . ." Jane never finished her sentence, for as they talked, they had walked and a last turn of the driveway brought them into the front yard. "Oh my!" she exclaimed.

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