Tempest Rising

by Nicole Peeler

Page 4

 

  The real whirlpool, whose little, eddying piglet had just about drowned me a minute ago. Shit.

  I swam a wide circuit of the Old Sow, trying to figure out how the hell I was going to get out there. But it was impossible, there was absolutely no way to get any closer. Nevertheless, the body was doing an obscene dance, caught as it was in the whirlpool’s currents. I couldn’t leave it like that. It had been a person up until quite recently and probably a person I knew. Panic rose, and I told myself not to go there.

  I backed away, treading water. Think, Jane.

  But nothing was coming to me. There was no way I could get any closer than I was, and watching as the body was sucked under the waves and then forced back up to the surface made my anxiety and fear all the more acute.

  My emotions were roiling inside of me. I tried to suppress the memories but seeing the body caught up in the whirlpool was like watching a video recording of that other horrible night. But I closed off my mind to those memories. I wasn’t going there; nothing could make me go there. As I struggled to get my fear under control another emotion rose to the fore—anger. I was totally pissed off. What the hell was another body doing in my whirlpool? How many times did I have to find a body? Shouldn’t bodies be like lightning and avoid striking the same person twice?

  I gritted my teeth and willed myself to focus on the here and now, on the tiny bobbing speck at the mercy of the Old Sow. The body was caught in the strong currents circling the whirlpool’s epicenter, but she must have been losing power for it seemed as if the body’s circles had gotten larger and looser. Of course it is, I thought, honing in on my anger to help keep my fear at bay. I am Jane True: corpse whisperer.

  The body was definitely coming free of the Sow. She didn’t appear to be quieting, but her internal coil must be loosening imperceptibly, sending outward what she once drew near.

  Come on, I thought impatiently, ignoring my fear and purposely stoking my bad temper. I preferred anger to memories, any day. Come to Jane…

  The bobbing figure was getting closer, but one of the piglets had it now. In my frustration I nearly screamed. I could now see the body was that of a man, and I didn’t think I recognized him as one of Rockabill’s residents. Who are you? I thought, before turning my attention to the hungry piglet. “You let go!” I shouted, even though my voice didn’t make a dent in the cacophony created by the storm and the roiling ocean.

  But as if it had heard me, the piglet spat out its gruesome plaything. The man was finally free of the Sow, and a helpful current was carrying it straight toward me. I shuddered, not only because of the approaching corpse but also because of the uncanny resemblance of this night to that other night. You will not think about that! I thought, shutting that door in my mind before it could fully open.

  Besides, here in the present, the unknown body was nearly at arm’s length—

  Gotcha!

  I now had hold of the corpse, and I started towing it to shore. The sea was rough and it was a long swim to get me and my heavy burden back to land. But I was nowhere near as exhausted as I’d been that other night, so the swim went quickly and soon I was close enough to the shore that I’d have to stop swimming and get my legs under me to walk without letting go of the body. Whoever he was, he was fully clothed and getting more and more awkward to handle. And I still hadn’t gotten a good enough look at his face; the sea was too rough for me to stop and turn him so I could see.

  I managed to haul myself up to a standing position and drag my burden onto the public beach. I collapsed next to it, trying to get my breath back. The swimming hadn’t been so bad, but lugging him that short walk had nearly killed me.

  I was also getting a bad case of the heebie-jeebies. As the adrenaline faded, and with the struggle to get the body onshore over, I was now contemplating the fact that I had been clutching a corpse.

  I had to touch him again, too, if I was going to see who the hell it was.

  The body was facedown in the sand. When I went to turn him, I got a good look at the back of his head and my gorge rose.

  There was a big flap of scalp hanging off the back of his head, showing an expanse of very white skull that was obviously smashed. The sea water had washed away the blood, but that made it worse. It was not often we got such a stark reminder that underneath our own fleshy little faces was one of those leering white skeletons that symbolized death and decay in every culture. I thought I saw a little bit of brain peeping out from a particularly bad crack, which really made me want to puke.

  I sat down heavily, my back to the body, trying to breathe as I fought the waves of nausea battering my stomach. Whoever this was, he hadn’t died by drowning. There weren’t any rocky outcroppings around the Old Sow on which he could have bashed his head like that. I felt a flash of relief: Whoever had died here tonight, it wasn’t my fault. That didn’t make the guy any less dead, but I couldn’t help but feel relief.

  Then the penny dropped: Bodies with bashed-in heads didn’t walk themselves down to the beach.

  He’d been murdered.

  And to find out who he was, I was going to have to touch him again to turn him over.

  So I did what any brave warrior would do when confronted with an awful task: I squeezed my eyes shut and squealed, “Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, ewwwww,” as I groped for where I knew the cadaver’s arm should be and hauled with all my strength to propel him sunny-side up as quickly as possible.

  Then I sat back down, shuddering and murmuring “ew” until the vomit receded back down my throat.

  I steeled myself to look at him, but couldn’t work up the nerve.

  C’mon Jane, I told myself. It might not even be anybody from Rockabill. He’s probably a stranger.

  I actually had to use my fingers to peel my eyelids up. My body was saying, “Oh, hell no,” even as my mind was scolding it for being a complete pansy.

  When I finally peered down at the dead man’s face, I nearly sobbed with a combination of relief and guilt. I was relieved because although I knew who the body was, it wasn’t someone I knew well or had any connection to. It was Peter, who was renting one of the Allens’ rental cottages for the winter. I didn’t even know his last name. He said he was writing a book and had come during the off-season for the quiet. He shopped at the bookstore often, and always seemed interested in speaking with me, but his interest didn’t seem creepy. Peter was just a rather average, middle-aged man who was friendly to everyone and a little lonely in his tiny cabin all by himself. He did ask some rather intrusive questions sometimes, but when he realized he’d crossed the line he’d back off, apologizing that he forgot that real people weren’t characters in books waiting to reveal their secrets.

  Which is why I felt really guilty about feeling relieved. Peter had been a nice man, and he’d stayed nice even after he’d been in Rockabill long enough to learn my “real” story. He certainly didn’t deserve to be murdered and dumped like some sack of garbage.

  And on that note…

  What the hell am I going to do with this body?

  There was no way I could call the police. How was I going to explain my presence? Or the murder victim? You’re “crazy,” remember, my brain very helpfully reminded me. They’ll probably think you killed him.

  My calling the police was entirely out of the question. I’d never live it down. Things were finally okay for me in Rockabill. Not exactly pleasant, but no one, with the notable exceptions of Linda and Stuart, was actively trying to drive me away anymore. If I did anything weird—and finding a murdered body was definitely weird—it would all start back up again.

  An anonymous phone call was also out of the question. There are a few hundred people tops in the Rockabill area during low season. Anonymity was never an option where I was concerned, not least because the sheriff who the phone call would go to was George Varga, one of my dad’s best friends and my “godsfather” for the pseudopagan naming ceremony Nick an
d Nan had given me when I was born.

  But if I left Peter on this stretch of beach, anybody could find him. I didn’t want some nice L. L. Bean family to come strolling along with their obligatory blond-haired twins and Labrador retriever, only to stumble across a man whose scalp resembled a cat flap.

  Or worse yet, nobody could find him and he could lie here for days. Even L. L. Bean catalog people didn’t go out strolling through storms. Leaving Peter dead on the beach to be pecked at by seagulls and gnawed on by crabs was out of the question.

  Then I remembered old Mr. Flutie and his arthritic dachshund, Russ. Mr. Flutie was a retired fireman from Eastport, so he could handle seeing a dead body. And he used the same little path every day to “walk” his dog. I say “walk” because he actually carried Russ for most of the way in one of those fancy baby slings that trendy Trustafarian mothers in big cities use. He only set Russ down to do his little doggie business and then back the dog went into the sling.

  I liked Mr. Flutie a lot, but even I had to admit that the baby sling did interfere with his dignity.

  Anyway, Mr. Flutie was the perfect body-finder. Come rain or shine, he got up at the butt crack and walked the otherwise seldom used path that was right off the main beach. And finding Peter’s corpse wouldn’t scar him for life.