"You better hurry," whispered Joe. "This place is not healthy."
*
Alan eventually, frantically, pushed the manhole cover loose. The first thing to greet him was liberated, untainted air. The downpour had ended; there was a cool breeze blowing from the canal, drying the sweat on his forehead. Alan finished climbing out, then immediately kneeled back at the opening.
"Eugene," he said. "Quickly."
A draft rose from below, carrying Joe's voice with it. He was still down there, clutching Eugene in his unmangled arm.
"Say dogs," said Joe. "You'll say it was a dog that found your son. You'll say it's the same animal that's been eating skin." A watery, bubbly cough.
Alan leaned all the way in, taking Eugene, who was now silent.
"You'll say the murders belong to a man, the old one, the last one to die," said Joe. "You'll say he was the killer, later killed by his own animal.
"You'll say Rose escaped on her own. You'll say that she ran, that she's probably far away by now and maybe I went with her."
Alan didn't know if Joe would live. But then he didn't know how Joe was alive even now, so maybe there was a chance. Absurdly, Joe had been more concerned with how Alan and the baby were feeling. Did they feel sick? Headache? Sore throat? No, no of course not. Alan felt fine. Just, stop with the questions already. Just, let's just get out of here already.
"I can tell these things will work, Alan. I can see it -- enough evidence will bear you out. And when it doesn't you'll lie. People will want to believe. Tell Kozar. Kozar will help."
"I'll pull you up," said Alan, looking into the darkness. "Come on, Joe."
Joe didn't move. He shook his head. "I'm staying."
"No. You're not..."
"This is how it has to be, Alan. I belong here. With...them." With my family.
And then Joe's face, the whole thing fell away. Dropping like a rag.
"Joe," said Alan.
There was no reply.
Alan knew that Joe was right. Everyone would want to believe. They would want this neat and clean -- all this, erased. Flushed. Disposed of. Carried away, just like the streams that were right now winding their way through gutter and gully, drawn instinctively to the low point, the hidden place, into the waiting arms of, well...
Alan sat back on his heels. Joe was right. Joe was always right. This was how it had to be. Alan set Eugene on the ground. Then he watched a pair of hands, his own hands, although it didn't seem possible to him at first, push the metal lid back into place and tamp it shut.
The world immediately became calmer, quieter. Alan gathered Eugene in his arms and stood up. In spite of himself, Alan shivered. Instinctively he placed the back of his hand against his forehead, to feel the temperature there.
At least they weren't far from the bridge. Alan could see the lights coming from Mr. Zarella's yard. Above, through a ragged breach in the clouds, the moon shone overweight and crisp. Tonight the heavens showed their true selves, the mask lowered, all their drama and mystery, at last fully bared.
Alan didn't notice. He walked towards the bridge, clutching the collar of his coat. The warmth inside something to preserve.
THE END
Visit the author's website at: http://www.DanielMorris.info
The Canal Page 19
