The Crymost

by Dean H Wild

  No change.

  “Come on, I checked you before I left the goddamn office.”

  He crouched next to the pipe to press the indicator as close to the source as possible, prepared for the rich odor of anaerobic decomposition to rush over him, but there was none. What he saw made him disregard all other thought. The vent pipe was riddled with rusty pinholes at ground level. Spring weeds poked from the gaps. Weeds and rust, for Christ’s sake.

  He went to the truck, his short day forgotten, and brought back his cell phone. The EPA was going to have some words with the Village of Knoll, yes indeed. He bumped the stack experimentally with the heel of his hand. It waggled, not a regulation vent at all but a decoy stuck into the ground, probably attached to nothing down below. He took photos, his hands trembling. Knoll was about to be served a pretty healthy helping of whoop-ass.

  “Is there trouble?” The voice made him whirl around.

  The man who stood a few paces away watched him with an evaluative sort of patience. Pale, was Fyvie’s first thought. The second had to do with what the man wore: heavy black clothing and some type of cloak like a town official or church layman from an old movie. And there was something else peculiar about the man, but he couldn’t quite place it.

  “This stack,” he finally said, because it was all right to talk to this strange man with the politely folded hands. “It’s not...what it should be.”

  “Are you sure there is no mistake on your part?”

  The man’s long silver hair danced in the breeze. His face was wise but mostly free of lines. The face of a fifty-year-old but no older. And his eyes. Intense. More than that, they were fascinating. Green faraway pools you could dive toward but never reach, just fall forever.

  Fyvie concluded he should walk away from this place, but his arms and legs were no longer his own. “No. No mistake, and there’s going to be problems. This will bring down some big trouble after I file my . . . uh . . . ”

  The final word was gone, replaced by a sense the man somehow peered into his head.

  The man’s brow creased with worry, or perhaps effort. “How many others will come because of this discovery of yours?”

  The word was “report”. Didn’t matter now, anyway. “There will be an investigation. Knoll’s going to get really busy, really fast. This is a clear violation, after all. And if you break the rules, you bring the pain.”

  His mother used to say it while she dealt blows with the yardstick or the leather strap or sometimes her wooden kitchen spoon, a cigarette cramped in the corner of her mouth. If you break the rules you bring the pain, Petie. Don’t you know that by now? The memory was savage, nearly blotting out everything else. Nearly.

  “It concerns me,” the stranger said. “Small towns frown upon disruption. They prefer things to remain as they are, as they always have been. But I see you are a man of convictions. Your family must be very proud. You are a family man, are you not?”

  “A girl. Two boys. And Linda.” He felt a humorless smile crawl across his lips. “They can be a handful.”

  “I can well imagine. Demanding, whining, taxing you with their bad behavior. Why is it people can’t simply toe the line?”

  “Yeah, why is that?”

  “I believe it’s a lack of reverence,” the man said, his gray mane blowing. “At any rate, you need to move on now. Your day is done.”

  “Yes. Move on,” Fyvie said as his feet shuffled forward. I’m sleepwalking, he thought with distant amusement.

  He collected up his equipment and stowed it in the back of the SUV. Then he climbed behind the wheel and started the engine, his face fixed with blank purpose, his hands twisting at the wheel. “I don’t want to do this, mister.”

  The stranger ducked close to the open window, his face creased with strain, his eyes filled with shadow so they looked like holes. “Oh, but you must.”

  And Peter Fyvie was sure of it, as sure as breaking the rules brought the pain. He turned the vehicle around and tore up clots of young grass on his way through the landfill gate, then turned toward the uphill path and the barrier of shrubs. He bounced into the wheel ruts, raced past The Crymost sign, and maneuvered through a gap in the shrubbery wall.

  The view opened up. A limestone outcrop of perhaps 100 feet in depth—not a lot of ground if you’re piloting an eight-cylinder 4x4 with the pedal to the floor—overlooked a vista so grand it was startling. High. So very high. Damn.

  He punched the brakes and fishtailed, slowed, but not enough. The SUV nosed over the edge of the drop off and plummeted toward the sprawling pond of murky green below. All the while, the stranger’s smile remained caught in his brain like a crescent of cold metal. The vehicle struck the water with a jarring impact. He realized the singular electrifying agony of his own neck breaking. He was able to draw one last terrified breath before he sank, equipment and all, as if enfolded by waiting arms.

  Damn.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Mick was filling up the village truck at Copeland’s when the wind changed direction. It sailed down The Plank like a deluge in a rain gutter. A handful of grit blew in his face and yet he felt the need to look right into it.

  It was a southeast wind, a Crymost wind. He’d heard the old codgers in town refer to it in such a way, when it roared high and heavy in the late winter, and they always said it with a knowing glance at one another over their spectacles. Men such as Orlin Casper or Kippy Evert, who lived on Field Street and sold not-bad-but-not-exactly-top-notch wood carvings of deer and wild birds at local festivals and craft shows.

  With a hint of irony he noticed Kippy Evert’s rusted-out Huffy three-speed leaned up near Copeland’s front entrance. Maybe he’d mention The Crymost wind to the old geezer and see what developed. Another thought took over when he spotted Copeland’s tow truck parked around the side of the building, however. It had to do with the stranger in unfashionable dark clothing.

  Roger was stocking Pall Malls into slots above the cash register. He glanced at Mick but did not stop his work. “Sorry Mick, no boxes today.”

  “This is how a man gets greeted at the Gas ‘N Go?”

  Kippy Evert was hunched over the register counter and scrubbing at a scratch-off lottery ticket with a quarter. He glanced up, his old eyes bright beneath shaggy white brows, and made an appreciable cackling laugh.

  Roger shrugged and brought up some more cigarette packs. “Just telling you what I know.”

  Mick reached behind the counter for the town credit sheet so he could sign off on the gas. “I know you’re just holding out on the boxes to bust my balls for some reason. But I need to ask you about something else. You took the tow truck out this morning?”

  “Yup,” Roger said. He’d switched from Pall Malls to Camels. “Did a battery jump just this side of Baylor.”

  “Then you saw the man walking the side of The Plank just past Pitch Road? Somebody all dressed in black, kind of like an old-time dignitary.” He put the paperwork back in its place, another tankful on the village’s credit account squared away.

  “Nope. I didn’t see nobody.”

  Kippy passed another bright-eyed glimpse. He was between tickets. “That inspector that’s due for the landfill check-up, maybe?”

  Mick shook his head. “No, I met him just before I saw the other guy. The walker was coming into town pretty determined. On a mission.”

  Kippy gave this some thoughtful consideration, then shrugged and went back to scratching. It was his last ticket.

  “What’s the big deal anyway?” Roger said and stuck a pack of Camels in his shirt pocket.

  “No big deal, just got my curiosity up is all. Done with that box?” Mick said and pointed to the empty carton behind the counter at Roger Copeland’s feet. “Sure could use it.”

  “I can’t do that, Mick. And I can’t say why, so quit asking.”

  Kippy shot a glance between them, as meaningful and wise as any comment about Crymost wind. “Maybe Cy Vandergalien knows why.”

  Roger lean
ed on the counter with both hands. “Look, old man. If you’re done with your Tic-Tac-Dough you can get your ass out—”

  A passing siren drew all their attentions outside.

  Knoll’s fire department also supported a spartan complement of medically trained first responders. It was the responder’s vehicle that roared past Copeland’s at the corner of Garden and The Plank, shot north toward Mick’s home (a tingle of dread overcame him), and then made the hard right down Meadow.

  “A sound I don’t much care for, sirens,” Kippy said, shuffling over to join them.

  They all stared as if the incident had left some sort of contrail of calamity. On the counter, Roger’s cell phone chirped. Roger picked up, spoke briefly and then put it down again.

  “Orlin Casper,” he said. “The Janzer boy was delivering his papers and saw him through the picture window, dead as dog shit.”

  Kippy drew in a ragged breath and clutched Mick’s shirtsleeve. “Damn it to hell.”

  “Guess you just graduated to the oldest person in Knoll, old timer,” Roger said and took up his phone again. There was, after all, news to spread.

  Kippy blinked and wrung his spotted, heavily-lined hands. “Hell of a way to get a promotion. Can you do something for me, Mick?”

  “You all right?”

  “After a certain age, us old men turn into old ladies when it comes to getting bad news. I hate to ask, but I don’t trust m’ bearings right now. Could you give me a ride over to Orlin’s place?”

  “Not much you can do over there, from the sound of it.”

  “I know, I know. But I got to be sure of things. It ain’t real lest I see the fuss, you know? You don’t have to stick around, just drop me off, if it’s not out of your way.”

  Kippy’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his wattled throat. He smelled of sawdust and coffee with cream. The oldest person in Knoll.

  Mick nodded. “Let’s put your bike in the back of the truck.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Their route took them past Mick’s house and he gave it a passing glance: a narrow three-story with cement steps leading up to the front door. Nothing remarkable. Judy had already put her flower boxes under the windows. They’d be crowned with brightly colored blooms once she made a trip to the floral place in Drury.

  “Wonder who will tell his wife,” Kippy said as they neared the right angle turn where Garden Street ended and Meadow Street began. “Irma Casper’s in a home with the Alzheimer’s, you know. Damn shame. Pull over here. Don’t want Cy Vandergalien getting all bent out of shape thinking we’re penny-ante gawkers.”

  Mick complied. The Town of Knoll EMT van, its emergency lights dark and still, was backed up to the front door of Orlin’s one-bedroom house. The drapes were drawn across the front picture window. Mick got out, took Kippy’s bike from the back of the truck, and rolled it over to its owner. A moment later Cy Vandergalien and Nancy Berns came out of the house, two wide-set forms hunched over with grave discussion.

  Kippy clucked his tongue. “Damn double barrel is almost lost,” he said. “Except for me. And who am I going to pass it to?”

  A harsh clatter drew their attention. Nancy Berns, with a case full of equipment in each hand, lost her footing and tumbled into the grass near the front of the van. Before he could think about it, Mick hurried toward her.

  “Are you okay?”

  She rolled onto her back and made a light, laughing sound. “I’m good. People my size bounce before we break, you know. I hope I can say the same for the equipment.”

  Mick stuck out a hand and helped her up. The hard EMT cases were on their sides but they seemed no worse for wear. He picked one up and handed it to her. “Everything seems intact. Any fragile stuff inside?”

  “Not particularly. It’s fully stocked so there’s not a lot of jiggle room for something to break, anyway. We didn’t bother to open them up for this one. You know?”

  “I heard.”

  She brushed at grass stains on her knees and made a hopeless chuckle. “I hate it when I get all rattled. My head stays straight but my feet lose all sense of direction. Be the death of me one day.”

  He tipped a nod toward the front door. “Bad?”

  “I’ve been to much worse, actually. Orlin is in his chair, just as peaceful as you’d like. No unpleasantness, no mess. But I’ve never had one leave a note before.”

  “Note?” He handed her the other case.

  She motioned for him to move in closer. He could plainly see the smudges of makeup on her round cheeks and the intense glimmer of shared gossip in her eye. “Not a suicide note or anything, because this wasn’t a suicide. But it was strange. And he wrote it shortly before he died because the pen he used left blobby ink on the paper, and the same ink was smudged on his hand. Left the note right on the kitchen table, in plain sight. The kind of thing you want someone to find. There was just something drastic about it. That’s my gut feeling.”

  “What did he write?”

  “Well, I’d like to think it meant something to him, poor Orlin, some last wish or request. Sad if his last thoughts were some kind of nonsense. ‘Don’t forget the double barrels,’ it said.”

  Mick looked around for Kippy, but the old man was no longer next to the village truck. He was pedaling his bike south on Meadow, toward his own humble home. “Double barrels,” Mick said under his breath. “Wow.”

  Correlation. It was a word he’d taught all of his English students because literature was full of correlative instances. So was life, he thought as he climbed into the truck and drove around to the Mellar Borth house.

  The key to the village hall was in the wooden mailbox bolted to the porch railing. You ask for something, you get it. Correlation.

  For no good reason, he shivered.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The cluttered and cramped front office of the village hall was nothing new to Mick. He’d passed through it plenty of times. The flags for the street lamp poles were kept in the back storage room, the only other room aside from a closet-sized restroom. In fact, flags would be in vogue soon, with Memorial Day coming up.

  Stacks of yellowed paperwork and unlovely cartons of clerical bric-a-brac stood everywhere. The place had not seen a town function or housed an election since long before the Logans moved to town. The town clerk’s office duties were executed from Cy Vandergalien’s living room by his wife, Alice, and all voting events took place at the firehouse until yesterday’s sewer mishap changed the plan.

  As he glanced around, Mick thought there were things in here Orlin Casper handled during his tenure as village president, back when Cy was in diapers. Landfill records in some of those rotting boxes were filled out during the days Kippy Evert ran the dumping ground and saw to its maintenance. Cleaning the place out was a big job, set down by Chastity Mellar Borth herself, and he was glad to accept the challenge alone. It kept the pressure off Harley.

  Harley. As he stepped into the musty-smelling interior he wondered how things were progressing for his friend. He bumped a stack of old invoices and it toppled. Loose papers flooded the narrow walkway between dilapidated crates and piles of antiquated state and county forms and booklets.

  “Dammit,” he said, and blinked at what was exposed by the fallen stack.

  A wooden box, cube-like, twelve inches on a side. Unremarkable enough, except for leather side handles and the padlock holding its flat lid securely closed. Near the lock, hand-written letters in red paint: LINR.

  A chill found him. For a moment he might have been back in the attic at home, rummaging through the Lincoln Middle carton once again. He leaned closer and shades of Robbie Vaughn and the other boy, Justin Wick, leaned with him briefly before shuddering away. Correlation, or a slight case of the screaming meemies?

  At last he picked up the wooden box by way of its handles and set it on the room’s only piece of furniture, a desk just inside the door, where light from the single window washed over it. Definitely some hefty contents in there. Full of old town ledgers or h
andwritten tax rolls, no doubt. Of course, it would be impossible to know, he reasoned as he slipped his fingers under the padlock. Maybe he would go next door to the garage and get a bolt cutter just for laughs and—

  The lock opened with a snick sound and then hung there. It seemed to beam at him like a crooked smile.

  That’s a checkmate, Mr. Logan.

  He made a what-do-you-know-about-that laugh and slipped the lock free, then flipped the lid open. Folded yellowed sheets sat askance inside, but a black leather-bound book, thick and textbook sized, was what caught his attention. Two swatches of old fabric tape were stuck to the cover. On each swatch was a line of handwriting. Deaths, read one. On the other, Mellar’s Knoll now Knoll. For a reason he could not name, his heart thumped heavily as he slid the book out and cracked the cover. Names in nearly faded fountain ink filled a ledger-like grid. Beside each name was a date. Knoll’s dead, circa 1939.

  His cell phone rang and he made a slight jump. He shoved the book back into the LINR box before answering. Harley was on the other end.

  “What are you and Judy doing tonight?” his friend asked, his tone slow and even, not the regular Harley but a yeah-it’s-as-bad-as-we-thought Harley.

  He swallowed hard. “We’re up for whatever you need us to do.”

  “Come over after supper. You and I need to have a beer, or two. And maybe a shot to go with it.”

  The tremble in Harley’s voice was agonizing. Mick realized he’d closed the LINR box and set it aside without thought. “We’ll be there. Tonight.”

  After he hung up he allowed a distracted brand of determination to take over. He dug into the piles of loose invoices methodically, boxed them and labeled them with a black marker.

  The LINR box remained by the door, disregarded. He suddenly felt he had enough to deal with.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  By twenty after five Axel Vandergalien wanted a joint, bad. He meant to light up hours ago, on his lunch hour, but his one and only jay was in the glove compartment of his goddamn Passat and he wasn’t in the mood to walk around to the back of the feed mill to get it in the middle of the day. Besides, his uncle Cy would come down hard on his ass if he was caught toking up on the job again. There was enough ass-busting from The Uncle Cy camp on other matters. The old Jesus, you’re twenty-three frigging years old, boy, can you wear some clothes that don’t have holes in them? and when you gonna get a frigging haircut? stuff was getting pretty old, but who gave a fuck? Cy just liked to hear himself talk, mostly. Otherwise dear old Unky wouldn’t allow him to run the mill for the better part of the day, seeing to the needs of the area’s shitkickers and plow jockeys, would he?