by John Hart
What can I do to help my friend?
It was not a rhetorical question. Turning to the mirror, Jack studied the Windsor knot, the fine suit. He looked exactly like the lawyer he’d worked so hard to become, an academic, a researcher, a seeker of fact.
“All right, then.”
He buttoned the coat.
“That’s how we’ll work it.”
He was in his car by seven and at the offices of the local paper six minutes after that. That early, the newspaper was closed to the public, but the features editor had known Jack’s brother in high school. She wasn’t really a friend, but then again, Jack wasn’t asking for a kidney. “A few hours,” he said. “In and out.”
She led him to the archives and explained how to run the microfiche machine. “Storage cabinets are here. Issues run from newest to oldest.”
Jack took in the rowed cabinets. “How far back does this go?”
“Eighteen ninety-one.”
“Well, damn,” Jack said; but the attitude didn’t last. Research had a rhythm, and he was a master. He started with headlines, but struck gold in the obituaries. Deaths led to places, and places to larger stories. The first was about a lost trapper, found dead on the banks of a creek deep in the Hush. That was in 1897. Three years later, a prospector went missing in the same area. After that, Jack dug out the obituary of a dead logger, and stories of lost boys, finally found. He read a ninety-year-old opinion insisting the swamp be drained for the greater good, then found the deathbed confession of a priest gone mad trying to convert those lost souls who dwelled deep in its interior. The stories were small, but part of a larger tapestry: hunting accidents, suicides, a road-building project abandoned after its foreman—like the preacher—had gone stark raving insane.
In the parking lot, Jack leaned against the car, feeling sick. The problem was real.
Others had died.
Many others.
Rolling down the windows, he reread an article published in the winter of 1931: LOST BOY RETURNED TO MOTHER. Beneath the headline was a picture of a tumbledown house behind a starved-looking woman and a blank-eyed boy. Jack peered into those eyes, trying to imagine what Randolph Boyd had felt on the day he’d been found and brought back to his mother.
At home that evening, Jack went through the articles again. Four others discussed the boys, lost in the Hush. Most reporters labeled Boyd a stoic, with one saying he possessed the kind of rawboned courage certain to stand him in good stead later in life. His friends were less reticent about their ordeal, telling such outrageous stories that one reporter wrote that, “Randolph Boyd stands in stark contrast to his more fanciful friends, determined, it seems, to mine fame and glory from the unadorned tragedy of Boyd’s near death.” Other accounts were equally dismissive of Charlie and Herbert, yet Jack paid close attention when either boy was quoted, using a red pen to circle words like chased and terrified and laughter.
The final article spoke less of the boys and more of the search. It included photos of the swamp, which appeared forbidding and raw. Most interestingly, it included the names of the volunteers who’d searched it—a two-column list with print so small, it was difficult to read. The local VFW had turned out in full, as had three volunteer fire departments and sixteen members of the national guard. Other volunteers were listed by church affiliation or school. The last seven were labeled miscellaneous. For an hour, Jack plugged names into a white pages search and then into Google. Most would be dead and gone, but nineteen high school students had taken part in the search. Jack thought some might be alive, and he might yet get lucky.
He didn’t.
Not just then.
When he crawled into bed, it was two in the morning, and he was wide awake. For long hours he stared at the ceiling, then left a message on Johnny’s cell and tried, at last, to sleep. The message was brief and simple.
Call me, you bastard.
* * *
In spite of a sleepless night, Jack made it to work early. He pushed files around the desk for a few hours, but his thoughts were on darker things.
“Tell me I’m awesome.”
Jack looked up to see Leslie in the door. “You’re awesome.”
She sat and crossed her legs, looking beautiful. “I talked to Reamer.” She flashed the smile, the bright eyes. “You’re on the Tech-Stone bankruptcy trial. You’ll be carrying his briefcase, but still—”
“Wait a minute. What?”
“You can thank me later.”
Jack’s head spun at the news. Tech-Stone was the state’s largest bankruptcy in thirty years. Billions of dollars. Three thousand employees. “How did you do it?”
“Jump-start your career? Change your life? What can I say? You’re not the only lawyer who finds me irresistible.”
“Leslie, my God. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I want something in return.”
“What?”
“I’ll tell you later.” She stood. “The team is meeting at three in Reamer’s office. Four other lawyers, seven assistants. Don’t be late.”
She left with a flourish, and Jack thought about what it would mean to impress Randy Reamer. If a large firm from a major city took a bankruptcy trial in the South, they invariably partnered with Reamer. Same thing with corporate malfeasance, mergers, leveraged buyouts. He was as close to a celebrity as an attorney could get, and juries loved him. When asked once why he chose to live in a place as small as Raven County, he said it was for the golf, and because he’d met the snakes who live in big cities. In spite of that, CEOs revered him. So did other attorneys, business reporters, all the big-city players he pretended to scorn. The associates’ mantra was that law school teaches law, and Reamer, all the rest.
If you’re lucky, Jack reminded himself.
If you have a friend like Leslie Green.
There were a hundred things Jack should do before the meeting at three. To impress Reamer, he needed to research Tech-Stone. That meant its history, its public face, its financials. Jack had the time and the desire, but opened Johnny’s file instead. Last night’s internet search had found no matches for people who’d searched for Randolph Boyd on that frozen day, but a near miss involved a student named Bert Showalter. As far as Jack could tell, a single Showalter remained in Raven County. It wasn’t Bert, but how many families named Showalter could there be? Jack picked up the phone, dialing.
“Five minutes,” he told himself.
It took less than two.
* * *
Tyson Showalter lived on a shaded lane four blocks from the local college. He was a political science professor, so the location made sense. Jack’s call had found him at home between classes, and he’d agreed to meet. A cool shade filled the porch as Jack stepped onto it. Windows stood open. The paint was white and fresh. Knocking on the screen door, Jack saw antiques, a shotgun hall, and hints of a kitchen in the back. The air smelled of fried chicken and coffee and hot butter. Jack knocked a second time.
“Just a minute. I’m coming.” An older man appeared from the kitchen. He wore an apron, spectacles, and loafers with no socks. His hands were busy in a small towel. “Sorry, sorry. I was trying to get a head start on the dishes. You must be Mr. Cross.”
“Jack, please.”
“Fair enough. Call me Ty. Everyone does.” Ty pushed open the screen, and shook hands. “Do you mind if we talk in the kitchen?”
“Of course not.”
Ty led Jack down the hall and into a small, neat kitchen where chicken cooled on a tray and beans simmered in a pot. The rear yard showed through equally spotless glass, and Jack saw the nose of an old Triumph through the open door of a detached garage.
“You like antiques?”
“Absolutely. All kinds. The older, the better.” Ty used a hot pad to pull biscuits from the oven. “You were a little mysterious on the phone. You wanted to talk about my mother?”
“Um, no. I’m sorry. I was hoping to discuss Bert Showalter. I thought maybe you were related.”
/> “Not Bert, no. I’m afraid there is no Bert.” Ty laughed an easy laugh. “Bertie is my mother. Her real name is Beatrice, but she’s been ‘Bertie’ for a hundred years.”
“Bertie? No.” Jack’s head tilted. “The newspaper said Bert.”
“What newspaper?”
The article was folded into Jack’s suit coat pocket. He removed it, handed it over. Ty recognized it, and a frown appeared. “Oh,” he said. “That.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“Yes.”
Jack looked for the right response, but Ty’s mood had changed. The affable gentleman of seventy or so was gone.
“I’m not sure we should be talking.”
“Mr. Showalter. If I’ve upset you somehow…”
Jack trailed off as the older man pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “No. I’m sorry. Look, I don’t mean to appear rude, but it’s a lesson we learned young: Don’t talk about Randolph Boyd or the winter of ’31 or what happened in that godforsaken swamp.”
“Forgive me, but I’m confused.”
Ty slumped a little, and the soft smile came back. “Would you like some coffee? I seem to have misplaced my manners.” Jack watched him pour coffee, then nodded his thanks. “Come with me, Mr. Cross. I’ll show you something, then try to explain.” Ty led the way to a small bedroom, where an old woman lay in a hospital bed. An IV fed the right arm. A tracheotomy tube was centered at the throat, a machine helping her breathe. “This is my mother, Bertie. I take a long lunch every day to watch her for a few hours. It gives the nurse a break, helps with the costs. It’s good time for me, too. She was lively once. We were close.”
The machine hissed, and monitors blinked, green. Jack didn’t know what to say. “How old is she?”
“A hundred and one.”
“Can she…?”
Jack motioned with a hand, and Ty understood. “Speak? No. She’s not opened her eyes or spoken for almost three years. Come on. Let’s go outside.”
They moved to the front porch and sat on iron chairs as old as everything else in the house. Beyond a picket fence, the lane was quiet. Traffic sounds were distant. Jack gestured at the article, still in Ty’s hand. “Can we talk about that?”
“Randolph Boyd, yes.” Ty unfolded the photocopy and smiled wistfully, looking at it. “They would allow only young men to join the search. My mother told them she was a boy. With covered hair and bulky clothing, no one knew the difference or cared enough to call her out on the lie.”
“Why lie in the first place? The article says it was ten below zero that day. Why go at all?”
“My understanding is that Randolph Boyd was a gangly young man, but not entirely unattractive.”
“Your mother was involved with Boyd?”
“Not involved, no.” Ty laughed a bit. “What my mother had was a crush, though time has led me to believe it was a ferocious one. What’s your interest in all this?”
“You heard of the billionaire, found dead in the swamp.”
“You’re not implying that William and Randolph Boyd are related?”
“Actually, I’m stating it as fact.” Jack explained Boyd’s hunting lodge, his vast holdings of local real estate. “Can you tell me about the winter of ’31?”
“It’s been so long.…”
“Please.”
The older man looked at the street, but didn’t seem to see it. “She used to wake screaming, my mother. For years, it was like that. She’d scream so loud and long, we slept with the windows closed so as not to concern the neighbors. They knew, of course. Even as a boy, I could see how people looked at her on the street, how the church ladies and schoolteachers would touch her arm gently, and ask, ‘How you holding up, dear?’ The nightmares ate us all down. The screaming. The long silences. She got a little better with time. The screams died to whimpers. The nightmares came less often. By the time I was grown, most people couldn’t tell that she was haunted, still. Those of us who knew her best were denied that gift.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you believe in higher powers?”
“I believe in friendship.”
“I never knew my father, Mr. Cross. I never knew what to trust, growing up, so I put my faith in systems: the systems of government and education, those inspired by decency and faith in people. Are you an understanding person?”
“I believe so.”
“May I show you something?”
Jack nodded, and Ty led him back into the house, taking the stairs that led up. “This was my mother’s room for thirty years. She has no use for it, of course, but I’ve left it unchanged.” Opening a door, he gestured for Jack to enter, then followed behind. The room was on the front corner of the house, with views into the tree canopy and down onto the street. A large, airy space, it felt like the room of an older woman. A clock ticked from the mantel. Motes hung in beams of yellow light. “I imagine you see the reasons I brought you here.”
The walls were covered with drawings. Every inch. Every bit of surface. “May I?” Without waiting, Jack approached the nearest wall. The sketches were done in charcoal or pencil, and showed finely rendered scenes of winter forest and frozen water, of bare rock and tangled vine. “This is…?”
“Hush Arbor,” Ty said. “The winter of ’31.”
Jack moved along the wall, marveling at the delicacy of the sketches, the perfection of the tree bark and drifts, the branches and emptiness. Jack stopped when he reached the drawings of the great deer. Partially butchered, it lay on snow stained black. Its eyes were closed, the antlers enormous and smooth. Beside the dead animal, a young man clutched his knees for warmth, his features perfectly captured to show the cold and lonesomeness and fear.
“Haunting, isn’t it?”
Jack felt the old professor behind him, but couldn’t look away. A dozen drawings showed different angles of the same scene. The boy was frostbitten and gaunt, his skin and hands black with the same blood that stained the snow. Jack felt a horrible dread, looking at it. “What is this place?”
“It’s where they found him.”
Behind the boy, a frozen waterfall descended from a stone face marred by scrub and snow. Atop the knoll a stunted tree rose ten feet before splitting to form the shape of a perfect V.
“Your mother drew these?”
“They offered some comfort, I believe. These were the only ones I’d allow her to display.”
“There are others?”
Tyson nodded and spoke softly. “She was a girl when she lied her way onto that search, just a child, really. She told me once that something drove her from the others. She said it was like a hand on her back, the way she drifted left.”
“I don’t understand.”
“All I know is she was with the group and then, suddenly, quite alone.”
Jack studied the sketches of Randolph Boyd. They were the most delicate, the most personal. “She found him, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
Jack felt a chill, as if he’d been there. “May I see the other drawings?”
“Actually, Mr. Cross.” Ty opened a closet door, revealing large boxes, stacked one atop the other. “I’d consider it a kindness if you’d take them.”
* * *
The boxes filled Jack’s car. The trunk. The backseat. At the bakery, he parked and carried them up the narrow stairs. It took four trips. Rowing them beside the dining room table, he opened one box and then another, lifting the drawings out in dusty sheaves and piling them on the table. The oldest were yellow and brittle. Others seemed newer. Few were as finely rendered as the ones he’d seen, but all were more disturbing, the strokes of charcoal heavy and broad and angry. Most involved the landscapes of Hush Arbor, but were drawn in a way that made implicit the sense of malice. Dense forest. Jagged rock. Branches swept the ground to hold shadows that hinted at wicked things; fingers curled over broken stone; eyes peered from the gloom behind, but were hints of eyes, slits in the blackness.
Jack’s worst m
oment came when he reached a stack of sketches bound with twine and folded into the bottom of the last box. Spread across the bed, they showed a cavern full of mounded remains, a great sprawl of pelvis bones and skulls and long ones he thought were femurs. They filled the hollow places and spilled over stone, a world of bone and rotted cloth and tufted hair.
Disturbed, Jack left the drawings on the bed, fixed a drink, and drained it dry. Whatever happened to Bertie Showalter, it had clearly haunted her for years. There were hundreds of drawings, maybe thousands. Jack went through them again, culling out the ones that were darker, more erratic. He missed the meeting with Reamer’s team, but didn’t think about it. He was lost in sketches of eyes and falling snow and hints of movement. At the end, he returned to the dead deer and the frozen waterfall behind it. Jack’s gaze moved up the face of rock and settled on the V-shaped tree that crowned the knoll. He touched it with a finger and faced, at last, the cold place in his troubled heart.
Jack knew the tree.
He’d seen it before.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was night when Cree returned, limping, to the city. She was exhausted, afraid; and though most of a day had passed, the same question rang in her head.
What the hell did I just see?
All she knew for sure was the run from the gate: the blur of mist and ditches and sudden falls. Now she was in the city with no real sense of getting there. Even the cars in which she’d ridden seemed somehow less than real. Questions. Conversations. Forgotten faces.
A block from home, she saw her building, like a middle finger to the city that tolerated it. She’d hated it every day of her life but this one. Now she wanted its walls and doors and concrete.
Crossing the filthy courtyard, Cree leaned into the glass doors and almost fell into the elevator, breathing shallowly as it creaked up to the twenty-third floor. Pulling out her phone, she thought again about calling the cops. She had no feelings for Johnny Merrimon one way or another, but he was dead or dying.
