Salvage (14 page)

"
Would you forget about the stupid man?
" he yelled.

Both of them looked at the open door. Downstairs, their mother had the TV on, and was washing dishes during the commercial breaks. She obviously hadn't heard him.

Owen seized on an idea, something to get her mind off the ghost. "You never did find what I hid," he said.

Lori scowled, seemingly not knowing what he meant. Then she clued in. "Where was it?"

"In the cactus pot," Owen said.

"A painful place," she said, nodding.

He brought the shiny thing out of his pocket and dangled it in front of her eyes.

"Wowee!" Lori cried. "Is that for me?"

"No, it's for your imaginary friend."

She took it from him, at first holding it by the delicate chain, then grasping the unicorn pendant between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand and twisting it in the light. Owen saw the rainbow prisms it threw on the wall and ceiling.

"This is the best!" she said, unsnapping it and looping it around her neck. "Can you do the clasp?"

Owen made a show of grudgingly sliding over to where she sat. She lifted her hair, and with a little finagling, he snapped it closed. She got up off the bed and rushed over to the mirror, marveling at the shiny unicorn resting above the neckline of her busy sweater. Prisms flickered over the walls from the pendant itself, and from its reflection. "It's so
pretty
. What's it for?"

"For Christmas, dumb-wit. Zip it, though. If Mom asks, tell her it's a late birthday present."

Lori nodded, dazzled by the gift. She turned to him with a serious look. "I promise I won't talk about the man anymore, if that's what you want. But can I just ask you one more thing first?"

Owen shook his head, but he said, "Fine."

"What if the man's not a ghost?" She approached the bed, holding the pendant in a closed fist. "What if he's an
angel
?"

But Owen, who'd never in his memory had a thought that wasn't poisoned with pessimism, wondered,
What if he's the Devil?

FATHER

1

OWEN STOOD
on the swaying dock, looking out at the bay. The wetsuit felt snug on his hips and bulged at the waist, giving him a gut.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?"

He started at the voice, and turned to see a man with a white streak of sunscreen on his nose, his bald pate already sunburnt. The man sat cross-legged in the back of a cedar canoe, a paddle on his knees. Below a pair of safari shorts, he'd hiked the white socks he wore over his sandals up to his knobby knees. His fishing vest sparkled with dangling lures.

"Sure is," Owen agreed. "Nice canoe."

The man shrugged humbly. "Thank you kindly. Built it myself. I'm Dink Deakins."

"Dink…?"

"Deakins. You must be Owen Saddler. I've heard a lot about you."

"Word travels fast."

"Actually, I spoke with your sister. Damn shame what happened to her, Owen. Can I call you Owen?"

Owen shrugged. "It's my name."

Dink dipped the paddle lazily. The canoe drifted toward the dock on the weak current, and Dink Deakins grabbed at it to steady the canoe.

"You spoke to her?"

Dink squinted up at him, the sun in his eyes. "Oh, you bet."

"Do you mind telling me what you talked about?"

"Do I mind? I didn't paddle all this way to sell you life insurance!"

Owen nodded. The man looked at him a moment longer before continuing. "Hmm, let's see… Oh. We talked about your mother, though I have to say, I never really knew her. Didn't run in the same circles." He flashed an apologetic smile. "What else, what else? Oh, right. The church. She asked a fair bit about the church, about the Schism, mostly. Wanted to know about the preacher who ran it, but like I told her, I didn't know a lot about the man. Was never big on religion, personally. The only kind of assurance I need pays a steady sum to my beneficiaries, am I right?"

Owen faked a smile and nodded. The man's patter had a false quality to it, the feel of something rehearsed. He couldn't be sure if the man was outright lying, but he suspected he wasn't being entirely truthful. "So she didn't ask you anything about me, is that right?"

"About you? Ha! Well, someone's got an ego, huh? I'm kidding, of course. You know, I don't remember her asking anything about you. Come to think of it, she didn't mention she had a brother at all."

"Well, I appreciate you coming by, but if you don't mind, I was about to—"

"Do some diving," Dink said. "I've got to confess, Owen. I did have an ulterior motive for paddling by."

Here it comes
, Owen thought.

"Are you covered? Do you have a plan?"

"A plan?"

"Life insurance!" Dink exclaimed, as if Owen were being obtuse. "The wife told me it'd probably be a little gauche to ask you, after what happened to your sister, but I couldn't help but wonder what would happen to your poor mother if, God forbid…" He gulped dramatically. "You know…"

Owen stepped on the canoe's gunwale. "You might want to consider listening to your wife next time," he said, and pushed Dink away from the dock.

"Roger that," Dink said, dipping the paddle to steady himself. "Ten-four, good buddy, I hear you loud and clear. But if you change your mind…"

"I'll be sure and call you," Owen said. "…An asshole," he added under his breath, waving cheerily.

"You be careful out there on the lake," Dink said, throwing a hand in the air as he paddled away.

"What a prick."

A loud rumble shook the ground, rattling the windows. "What now?" Owen wondered. He stepped off the dock and padded back to the house. When he reached the driveway, a garbage truck had pulled up in front of the house. The buzz of flies and the fetid stink of rotting food struck him immediately. He'd assumed it was the garbage truck, until he noticed that the trash cans had been tipped, their contents torn and strewn across a carpet of pine needles. Flies zigzagged from one piece of trash to another. The pudgy trash man jumped down from the driver's seat to get a better look.

"Cwapcakes!" the trash man said, looking down at the mess with gloved hands on his hips, shaking his head. His pudgy, hairy belly stuck out from a stained black T-shirt. Sandy brown hair fell shaggily from a trucker hat declaring HAP CRAPPENS—which appeared to be a statement, not the name of his business, since the truck itself had HOWIE HAUL-IT stenciled on the side. The trash man's eyes goggled at the sight of Owen from behind transition sunglasses, currently midway between light and dark. He laughed uproariously. "Nice muffin top, buddy!" he said with the same lisp Owen had noticed earlier, pointing to the bulge in his wetsuit.

"Thanks."

"Cwazy mess you left here for me," the trash man, likely the Howie of Howie Haul-It, said. Along with a wispy beard, Howie had some of the facial features characteristic of Down syndrome: puffy, slightly downturned eyes, pudgy cheeks and a small chin.

"That's not mine."

The trash man's eyes clouded with suspicion. "Oh, I guess it musta been the ghosts then, huh? Ghosts that eat—" He kicked a can with the toe of his boot, and examined it. "—SpaghettiOs and waw vegan oatmeal?"

"I meant, the raccoons must have done it," Owen said. "And really, it's not my trash. I just got here last night. I don't know who—" He left the thought unspoken. Of course he knew whose garbage it was: the rental's last occupant, Lori.

The trash man blinked. "S'matter? Cat gotcha tongue?"

"I don't know whose trash that is," Owen finished. "How often do you pick up the garbage around here?"

"Oh, so, this is
my
fault?"

"No. I'm not suggesting… I'm just wondering if trash collection—"

"Wefuse," Howie interjected, hands on hips again.

"What?"

"It's wefuse.
Wefuse
collection."

"Fine. I'm wondering if
refuse
collection is once a week, or two."

"Biweekly. Biweekly wefuse collection."

"Is that once every two weeks, or twice a week?"

"
Twice a week?
" the refuse man said, uproariously. "Who do you think pays the taxes around here? Donald Twump?"

Owen laughed. "It's Howie, right?"

"That's what it says on the twuck."

"Okay, Howie, I'm sorry about the mess, even though it belongs to someone else—"

"Ghosts," Howie said without a trace of superstition.

"
Whosever's
it is, I'll help you get it into the truck, if you need me to, all right?"

Howie's face clouded. "I can take care of it myself. You think this is bad, you should wide along with me some day."

"I bet," Owen said, already itching to go. He felt rude just leaving, but he was losing the day. "So you're good with this?"

Howie grimaced at the trash. "I'm not gonna like it, but I got it covered."

"Well, okay. Good luck. And thanks. I'll be down in the water if you change your mind." He hoped it wouldn't come to that, but better to fake civility than skip off like an asshole.

"Going diving, huh?" Howie said.

"Yup."

"I wouldn't get in that water if you paid me." Howie shook his head, his eyes pinched shut. "Not on my
life
."

"Oh, yeah? Why's that?"

"Township dump's over on the other side of the lake," Howie said, pointing a gloved finger toward the bay. "Mighta been a pwetty good location when it was still a valley, but not anymore. My dad says the lake went all the way up to the dump 'cause the power company never did a pwoper survey before they flooded, and he should know, 'cause he's on the town council." Howie let this hang, as if it were important. Owen offered an impressed nod, which seemed to please him. "So what do you think happens when it wains?"

"When it rains?"

"What'd I just say? Yeesh!" Howie waggled his eyebrows, the gesture reminding Owen of a marionette. "All that garbage juice seeps wight into the gwound water, and I bet you know where that gwound water ends up, don't ya?" He jabbed his grimy gloved finger toward the bay again. "Wight back in the lake!"

"That is gross."

"You're damn tooting!" Howie said. "That's why you'll never catch me in Chapel Lake. Not even a stinkin'
toe
."

"I don't blame you."

"Yeah. I'd wather swim in a heap of dirty diapers. And heck, I'm in up to my elbows in wefuse every single day, so put that in your snorkel and smoke it, buddy." Howie laughed at this, a squeaky giggle that shook his whole body.

Owen grinned back. "I will."

"Well, all wight then," Howie said, satisfied he'd made his point. He grabbed the closest garbage can and tipped it beside the spill, grunting as he got down on his haunches to scoop raw garbage into it with his gloved hands, his hairy ass crack clearly visible where his T-shirt hitched up above his jeans.

"You sure you don't need a hand?"

Howie didn't even look up from his work. "Who's paying who here, huh?
Yeesh!
"

"If I find any treasure out there," Owen said, "I'll give you a share."

"If I find any tweasure
in here
, don't expect
me
to share!" Howie said, rolling his eyes. "Tweasure… Good luck with
that
, buddy." Howie chuckled again, shoving handfuls of wet garbage into the can. "Only thing you'll find in that lake is loon shit, and I should know."

"I thought you didn't go in the water?"

"I
don't
. But my dad pays top dollar for salvage. Let's just say he hasn't had to open his wallet a whole bunch the last few years. He says the lake's all used up. Nothin' out there but loon shit."

With a whole town under the lake, Owen found it difficult to believe it had been entirely picked clean. But Howie had a point. If no one had brought his father any salvage, chances were pretty good there was nothing to find, unless the divers were keeping it all to themselves.

"Does your dad dive at all?"

Howie shook his head and looked up at Owen shrewdly. "Are you cwazy? My dad's afwaid to swim!"

2

Owen steadied himself as the dock rocked from the waves of a speedboat out in the main bay, hinges clattering and boards creaking, the old tin boat battering against it and tearing at its hooks.

Birds called out
yooooo-hoo
to each other from the brush along the shoreline. Owen recognized the song but not the birds, until they voiced their distinct
chicka-dee-dee-dee-dee
, reminding him vaguely of those lost early years spent with his mother and father in a home that was now beneath the lake.

The clattering stopped, and the dock became stable. He'd lugged all his diving equipment down there, meaning to dive right in… but the thought of getting in the water after everything he'd been through the past week, after the dream last night, after what had happened to Lori… now that he stood there ready to go, he hesitated.

"Stop being a wimp," he told himself, looking down at the impenetrable surface, still as tinted glass. "You heard Howie. Nothing out there but loon shit."

No ghosts, anyway
.

He kneeled at the end of the dock and prepared the equipment: spitting in his mask and rinsing it out, inflating the buoyancy jacket thingy (he couldn't remember what the store owner had called it), testing each of the deflation valves before strapping it over his chest, snapping on the weight belt, and making sure the release snaps weren't covered by the jacket, lugging on his tank and pony and checking the pressure with the gauge.

Lori had taught him to swim when they were children, which in turn had helped him overcome his fear of the water. When they were older, she'd managed to convince him to take a scuba course with her at the local community center. The teacher had called him a "natural," but without anything to see underwater, having taken place in a swimming pool, the lessons had been a tad boring. Lori had continued with diving, taking further lessons with her smug friend, Hanson. Owen had let the skill wither, though he hoped it would be like climbing back on a bike.