The Drowned Life (5 page)

The old man broke a twig next to Samantha's left ear and instantly her eyelids fluttered. A few seconds later she opened her eyes and smiled.

“How was your visit?” asked Witzer.

“I'll never get tired of that,” she said. “It was wonderful.”

We chatted with her for a few minutes, filling her in on how the party had gone after she'd left the Blind Ghost. She didn't divulge to us what passed-on relative she'd met with, and we didn't ask. As my mentor had told me when I started, “There's a kind of etiquette to this. When in doubt, silence is your best friend.”

Samantha started walking back toward town, and we loaded the prods onto the truck again. In no time, we were on our way, searching for the next sleeper. Luck was with us, for we found four in a row, fairly close by one another: Stan Joss, Moses T. Remarque, Berta Hull, and Becca Staney. All of them had chosen easy-to-get-to perches in the lower branches of ancient oaks, and we dropped them—one, two, three, four—easy as could be. I never had to reach for anything longer than the ten, and the old man proved a genius at placing the truck just so. When each came around at the insistence of the snapping twig, they were cordial and seemed pleased with their experiences. Moses even gave us a ten-dollar tip for dropping him into the truck. Becca told us that she'd spoken to her mother, whom she'd missed terribly since the woman's death two years earlier. Even though they'd been blind drunk the night before, amazingly none of them appeared to be hungover,
and each walked away with a perceptible spring in his or her step, even Moses, though he was still slightly bent at the waist by the arthritis.

Witzer said, “Knock on wood, of course, but this is the easiest year I can remember. The year your daddy won, we had to ride around for four solid hours before we found him out by the swamp.” We found Ron White only a short piece up the road from where we'd found the cluster of four, and he was an easy job, too. I didn't get him to land on his back, however. He fell face-first—not a desirable drop—but he came to none the worse for wear. After Ron, we had to search for quite a while, ultimately heading out toward the swamp. I knew the only two left were Pete Hesiant and Henry Grass, and the thought of Henry started to make me nervous again. I was reluctant to show my fear, not wanting the old man to lose faith in me, but as we drove slowly along, I finally told Witzer about my recurring dream.

When I was done recounting what I thought was a premonition, Witzer sat in silence for a few moments and then said, “I'm glad you told me.”

“I'll bet it's really nothing,” I said.

“Henry's a big fellow,” he said. “Why should you have all the fun? I'll drop him.” And with this, the matter was settled. I realized I should have told him weeks ago when I first started having the dreams.

“Easy, boy,” said Witzer with a wheeze and waved his hand as if wiping away my cares. “You've got years of this to go. You can't manage everything on the first Harvest.”

We searched everywhere for Pete and Henry—all along the road to the swamp, on the trails that ran through the woods, out along the meadow by the shot tower and Henry's own trailer. With the dilapidated wooden structure of the tower still in sight, we finally found Henry.

“Thar she blows,” said Witzer, and he stopped the truck.

“Where?” I said, getting out of the truck, and the old man pointed straight up.

Over our heads, in a tall pine, Henry lay facedown, his arms and legs spread so that they kept him up while the rest of his body was suspended over nothing. His head hung down as if in shame or utter defeat. He looked, in a way, like he was crucified, and I didn't like the look of that at all.

“Get me the twenty,” said Witzer, “and then pull the truck up.”

I undid the prods from the roof, laid the other two on the ground by the side of the path, and ran the twenty over to the old man. By the time I got back to the truck, started it up, and turned it toward the drop spot, Witzer had the long pole in two hands and was sizing up the situation. As I pulled closer, he let the pole down and then waved me forward while eyeing, back and forth, Henry and the bed. He directed me to cut the wheel this way and that, reverse two feet, and then he gave me the thumbs-up. I turned off the truck and got out.

“Okay,” he said. “This is gonna be a tricky one.” He lifted the prod up and up and rested the soft end against Henry's chest. “You're gonna have to help me here. We're gonna push straight up on his chest so that his arms flop down and clear the branches, and then as we let him down we're gonna slide the pole, catch him at the belt buckle, and give him a good nudge there to flip him as he falls.”

I looked up at where Henry was, and then I just stared at Witzer.

“Wake up, boy!” he shouted.

I came to and grabbed the prod where his hands weren't.

“On three,” he said. He counted off and then we pushed. Henry was heavy as ten sacks of rocks. “We got him,” cried Witzer, “now slide it.” I did and only then did I look up. “Push,” the old man said. We gave it one more shove and Henry went into a swan dive, flip
ping like an Olympic athlete off the high board. When I saw him in mid-fall, my knees went weak and the air left me. He landed on his back with a loud thud directly in the middle of the mattresses, dust from the old cushions roiling up around him.

We woke Henry easily enough, sent him on his way to town, and were soon back in the truck. For the first time that morning I breathed a sigh of relief. “Easiest Harvest I've ever been part of,” said Witzer. We headed farther down the path toward the swamp, scanning the branches for Pete Hesiant. Sure enough, in the same right manner with which everything else had fallen into place we found him curled up on his side in the branches of an enormous maple tree. With the first cursory glance at him, the old man determined that Pete would require no more than a ten. After we got the prods off the truck and positioned it under our last drop, Witzer insisted that I take him down. “One more to keep your skill sharp through the rest of the year,” he said.

It was a simple job. Pete had found a nice perch with three thick branches beneath him. As I said, he was curled up on his side, and I couldn't see him all too well, so I just nudged his upper back and he rolled over like a small boulder. The drop was precise, and he hit the center of the mattresses, but the instant he was in the bed of the pickup, I knew something was wrong. He'd fallen too quickly for me to register it sooner, but as he lay there, I now noticed that there was someone else with him. Witzer literally jumped to the side of the truck bed and stared in.

“What in fuck's name,” said the old man. “Is that a kid he's got with him?”

I saw the other body, naked, in Pete's arms. It had long blond hair, that much was sure. It could have been a kid, but I thought I saw in the jumble a full-size female breast.

Witzer reached into the truck bed, grabbed Pete by the shoulder, and rolled him away from the other form. Then the two of
us stood there in stunned silence. The thing that lay there wasn't a woman or a child but both and neither. The body was twisted and deformed, the size of an eight-year-old but with all the characteristics of maturity, if you know what I mean. And that face…lumpish and distorted, brow bulging, and from the left temple to the chin there erupted a range of discolored ridges.

“Is that Lonette?” I whispered, afraid the thing would awaken.

“She's dead, ain't she?” said Witzer in as low a voice, and his Adam's apple bobbed.

We both knew she was, but there she or some twisted copy of her lay. The old man took a handkerchief from his back pocket and brought it up to his mouth. He closed his eyes and leaned against the side of the truck. A bird flew by low overhead. The sun shone and leaves fell in the woods on both sides of the path.

Needless to say, when we moved again, we weren't breaking any twigs. Witzer told me to leave the prods and get in the truck. He started it up, and we drove slowly, about fifteen miles an hour, into the center of town. We drove in complete silence. The place was quiet as a ghost town—no doubt everyone was sleeping off the celebration—but we saw that Sheriff Jolle's cruiser was in front of the bunkerlike concrete building that was the police station. The old man parked and went in. As he and the sheriff appeared at the door, I got out of the truck cab and joined them.

“What are you talking about?” Jolle said as they passed me and headed for the truck bed. I followed behind them.

“Shhh,” said Witzer. When they finally were looking down at the sleeping couple, Pete and whatever that Lonette thing was, he added, “That's what I'm fucking talking about.” He pointed his crooked old finger and his hand was obviously trembling.

Jolle's jaw dropped open after the second or two it took to sink in. “I never…,” said the sheriff, and that's all he said for a long while.

Witzer whispered, “Pete brought her back with him.”

“What kind of crazy shit is this?” asked Jolle, and he turned quickly and looked at me as if I had an answer. Then he looked back at Witzer. “What the hell happened? Did he dig her up?”

“She's alive,” said the old man. “You can see her breathing, but she got bunched up or something in the transfer from there to here.”

“Bunched up,” said Jolle. “There to here? What in Christ's name…” He shook his head and removed his shades. Then he turned to me again and said, “Boy, go get Doc Kvench.”

I ran to the doctor's house and pounded on the door. When he opened it, I didn't know what to tell him, so I just said there was an emergency over at the sheriff's office and that he was needed. I didn't stick around and wait for him, because I had to keep moving. To stop would mean I'd have to think too deeply about the return of Lonette Hesiant. By the time I got back to the truck, Henry Grass had also joined Jolle and Witzer, having walked into town to get something to eat after his dream ordeal of the night before. As I drew close to them, I heard Henry saying, “She's come from another dimension. I've read about things like this. And from what I experienced last night, talking to my dead brother, I can tell you that place seems real enough for this to happen.”

Jolle looked away from Henry to me as I approached, and then his gaze shifted over my head and he must have caught sight of the doctor. “Good job,” said the sheriff and put his hand on my shoulder as I leaned forward to catch my breath. “Hey, Doc,” he said as Kvench drew close, “you got a theory about this?”

The doctor stepped up to the truck bed and looked down at where the sheriff was pointing. Doctor Kvench had seen it all in his years in Gatchfield—birth, death, blood, body rot, but the instant he laid his eyes on the new Lonette, the color drained out of him, and he grimaced like he'd just taken a big swig of Witzer's herbal
tonic. The effect on him was dramatic, and Henry stepped up next to Kvench and held him up with one big tattooed arm across his back. Kvench brushed Henry off and turned away from the truck. I thought for a second that he was going to puke.

We waited for his diagnosis. Finally he turned back and said, “Where did it come from?”

“It fell out of the tree with Pete this morning,” said Witzer.

“I signed the death certificate for that girl five months ago,” said the doctor.

“She's come from another dimension…,” said Henry, launching into one of his Bermuda Triangle explanations, but Jolle held a hand up to silence him. Nobody spoke then and the sheriff started pacing back and forth, looking into the sky and then at the ground. It was obvious that he was having some kind of silent argument with himself, because every few seconds he'd either nod or shake his head. Finally, he put his open palms to his face for a moment, rubbed his forehead, and blinked his eyes. Then he turned to us.

“Look, here's what we're gonna do. I decided. We're going to get Pete out of that truck without waking him and put him on the cot in the station. Will he stay asleep if we move him?” he asked Witzer.

The old man nodded. “As long as you don't shout his name or break a twig near his ear, he should keep sleeping till we wake him.”

“Okay,” continued Jolle. “We get Pete out of the truck, and then we drive that thing out into the woods, we shoot it, and we bury it.”

Everybody looked around at everybody else. The doctor said, “I don't know if I can be part of that.”

“You're gonna be part of it,” said Jolle, “or right this second you're taking full responsibility for its care. And I mean
full
responsibility.”

“It's alive, though,” said Kvench.

“But it's a mistake,” said the sheriff. “Either of nature or God or whatever.”

“Doc, I agree with Jolle,” said Witzer. “I never seen anything that felt so wrong than what I'm looking at in the back of that truck.”

“You want to nurse that thing until it dies on its own?” Jolle said to the doctor. “Think of what it'll do to Pete to have to deal with it.”

Kvench looked down and shook his head. Eventually he whispered, “You're right.”

“Boys?” Jolle said to me and Henry.

My mouth was dry and my head was swimming a little. I nodded. Henry did too.

“Good,” said the sheriff. It was decided that we all would participate and share in the act of disposing of it. Henry and the sheriff gently lifted Pete out of the truck and took him into the station house. When they returned, Jolle told Witzer and me to drive out to the woods in the truck and that he and Henry and Kvench would follow in his cruiser.

For the first few minutes of the drive out, Witzer said nothing. We passed Pete Hesiant's small yellow house and upon seeing it I immediately started thinking about Lonette, and how beautiful she'd been. She and Pete had been only in their early thirties, a very handsome couple. He was thin and gangly and had been a star basketball player for Gatchfield, but never tall enough to turn his skill into a college scholarship. They'd been high school sweethearts. He finally found work as a municipal handyman, and had that good-natured youth-going-to-seed personality of the washed-up, once-lauded athlete.