Dave bent down to collect his rod and quickly reeled in his line so that it wouldn’t become entangled with the meandering path of the large cat- fish. He noted that his worm in its entirety sat unhappily ensnared upon his hook. Adam was having all the luck today.
They continued to watch the line, Dave gently encouraging Adam to reel a bit whenever it tracked back their direction. Adam was now feverish with excitement, shifting and hopping in his garage-sale cowboy boots that protected him from the ants and whatever else might nip at him.
As he continued to watch Adam, he recalled that the mandate to fish first meant that all of their bags were still packed and sitting inside the farmhouse’s front door, probably being drooled upon by Sampson. Dave also realized that Adam’s thirst for fishing had distracted him from most of the unease that normally crept in to his mind as they pulled up to the gate. Being here in general also removed the dread he now felt about being around Marilyn.
Dave continued to struggle to identify what amount of the negative, evil things he had experienced at the farm were potentially from his own head. It was not a happy internal debate and his constantly aching head was proof of that point. On the other hand, the idea that someone, or something, was actually doing all of the things he’d witnessed and experienced here was even more frightening.
He was starting to believe that, all his conspiracy theories aside, he had a tumor that was working in tandem with his untenable levels of stress. He wasn’t crazy, and no one, including Adam, was actually in danger, but he probably was in need of help. He needed to get that MRI as soon as possible, and then he needed to figure out what he was going to do with his marriage, and his job.
Dave then stole a glance at the scarred tree trunk where the game camera once resided. The marks on the bark had healed somewhat, but were still very obvious. It was this kind of evidence that shot his working theory right in the ass.
Dave swallowed uncomfortably and then looked up at the dwindling light from the now-setting sun. They had less than ten minutes before the light would be swallowed up by the tall oaks that lined the higher
ground. Despite his best efforts his anxiety began to grow. He leaned down to Adam and, maintaining a cool, even voice, said, “He should be tired out by now. Let’s bring him in.”
Adam needed no encouragement and immediately began cranking in the line. His small, thin body did not seem up to the task of reeling in something this big on the smallish rod, but the big fish was indeed tired and offered only a nominal fight. The reeling-in process progressed nicely, until it simply stopped. Adam tried to crank the reel, but it only slipped and even lost a little bit of line back out into the pond. Adam tried again. Nothing. The line was no longer moving, and in fact only entered the water about ten feet in front of them—though with a depth of eighteen feet there was still plenty of line in play.
“Keep reeling Adam. He’s just hunkered down on the bottom.”
Adam tried again but made no progress. He gave up reeling and instead began to violently whip the fishing rod back and forth. Dave quickly stepped in and grabbed the rod. “Don’t do that son. You’ll just break the line.”
Adam relented, but just stood with a frown on his face and the rod in his hands. The line was now slack as the tugging had pulled out additional line from the reel, and the fish was apparently no longer moving. Dave took another look at the dwindling sun and then looked down at Adam. “Can I have a try?”
Adam nodded and handed the rod over to Dave, then crowded in as he immediately regretted giving up control. Dave quickly confirmed that reeling wasn’t going to solve the problem. It felt like the fish had wound the line around an old stump or something on the bottom in its attempt to escape—much like the saltwater grouper Dave loved to catch will loop the line around a piece of coral when he attempts to pull them up out of 300 feet of water.
Dave walked through the tall grass to the left about twenty yards with Adam in tow, and again tried to gently put pressure on the line by holding the rod straight out in front of him and walking backward. There was no change in the situation, so he reversed course, went past the point where they originally stood and then about twenty yards farther to the right.
He pulled back gently on the rod and, this time, he was pleased to feel a little bit of movement. He reeled in the nominal amount of newly-freed line and continued the slow process of reeling in between gentle tugs.
“Don’t break the line Daddy! I want to eat that fish!”
Pressure was not exactly what Dave needed at this point, and it was in- deed very likely that the line would soon snap, but he took it all in stride and muttered, “Doing my best buddy. Doing my best.”
Several more minutes passed and sweat began to run down Dave’s face. It was still over 90 degrees outside and the amount of clothing needed to protect him from the ants and other unfriendlies in the area was not helping his nervous cause. The sun was fading fast, and visibility was limited to just about where the line entered the water—still about ten feet out into the pond.
Dave continued his slow slog for several more minutes. He was not happy about the increasingly dark conditions, but was equally keen on not disappointing his son. The line was now just a few feet out, but the steep drop-off of the pond revealed nothing in the now black water. He tugged and reeled a few more times and finally saw something break the surface. He peered closely. Was that a branch?
“I think it must’ve swum underneath a branch or something. It’s coming now.”
Adam took a step toward the water, his right boot now submerged nearly to the top. Dave gently pulled him back and patted him on the chest. “Don’t fall in now. That won’t help anything.”
Dave tugged and reeled a few more times, and more of what was beneath became exposed, though the tension in the line was such that, whatever it was, it would soon snap the line and fall back in. He stopped reeling and stared at the object that had snared the line. He also took a step closer and Adam now took a turn pulling him back. “What is that Daddy?”
Dave gave one last, gentle tug and realized that what he’s staring at, which was still only partially sticking out of the water, was part of the skull of the deer he had seen on the game camera pics. The branches were a portion of the muddy antlers, and the oddity of the appearance of the soggy skull was likely attributable to the work of the ever-hungry turtles in the pond—the same turtles that had once stripped a catfish that had hooked itself during the night such that all that was left was the skeleton.
“Daddy! Is that a deer? What happened to my fish?”
Dave pulled hard on the line, which immediately snapped. The decapi- tated deer head rolled back into the water and slid back down the steep slope of the pond.
Adam tugged on his arm, tears now flowing in outrage. “Where’s my fish Daddy? Where’s my fish!”
A couple of hours and a tearful macaroni dinner later, Adam slept fitfully in his room while Dave and Sampson manned their usual positions on and near the couch. Dave’s laptop sat open on his lap but had already gone into self-imposed hibernation. Dave was not feeling terribly pro- ductive at the moment. He stared vacantly out the window and invited himself to a pity party, where there was a large table set for one.
His marriage was…over? His son was currently not speaking to him be- cause of his failure as a fisherman and a father. His job was going to kill him. And, speaking of killing, he now knew where the carcass of the deer that was eviscerated on camera had ended up, but what exactly did
that change? Should he call the sheriff ’s office again and encourage them to send out a diver they don’t have to search a murky pond for whatever amount of remains the turtles had missed? Should he instead use a heav- ier rod with an equally heavy hook and drag the bottom himself ? He sure could not do that with Adam around, but even if he brought up the skull at a later date, what would he do with it? Did any of it prove anything
—other than the fact that there was a city boy out on the farm who was wound just a
wee bit too tight?
The dark night just outside the windows had no answers. The dog asleep at his feet had no questions. Dave knew that he would have plenty of time to ponder all this further as he sat awake on his couch, standing guard in the small portion of what was once his larger, happier place that had not yet turned on him.
The night passed uneventfully. After a morning of fishing in the upper pond Adam and Dave loaded everything up and returned home. Adam was still sulky, listless even though they had caught a few fish. They listened to the radio and spoke very little on the ride back, which was unusual for them.
“You look tired.”
Marilyn stood, arms-crossed, in the kitchen as Dave finished bringing in the gear from his truck to once again clog the breezeway. Adam was already upstairs in the bathtub, and Sampson had already been kicked outside, due to an onset of odor that exceeded what was allowed within their primary residence.
Dave set the cooler down in front of her and stood back up to meet her gaze. “There’s a couple of fish in there that you-know-who wants for dinner.”
“I heard. Thanks for that.”
Marilyn, like many people, was a fan of fish in their native settings, which had nothing to do with her kitchen. It’s not the act of cooking the fish that creates the issue, it’s the fact, from her point of view, that the smells produced by this event rape the olfactory senses of anyone entering the home for a week or more.
All of this was known, and understood. Dave stayed with this script and offered, “I’ll cook them on the grill after I get everything unpacked.”
“Why did you come back early?”
Dave looks around the area. “Why? Am I interrupting something?”
Marilyn’s jaw clenched, and Dave waffled between offering an immediate apology for saying something off the cuff, that he really didn’t mean in an offensive way, or just sitting back and embracing the fact that this small, shitty comment had such an impact on her. Apologizing now held no water and likely further undercut whatever position he had. That said spending the rest of the weekend fighting was not a compelling outcome.
Dave was saved from his decision by Marilyn, who saw the tired, vacant look in his eyes, as well as the turmoil it masked. She too had no interest in fighting, though she would be hard pressed at this point to articulate what it was exactly that she did want. She attempted to hold Dave’s gaze and offered, “I’ll get the rest of dinner started while you heat up the grill.”
Dave mumbled a “thanks” in appreciation of her unwillingness to take the careless bait, and returned to the small pile of gear in the breezeway. Dave had been the one that suggested that they leave early and bring the fish home to Mommy, and Adam had pounced on this idea. Part of this decision had come from an urgent appeal from a client across the state for a Monday meeting, but more importantly, Dave had decided that no one besides him would return to the farm until he got to the bottom of whatever it was that was happening. Adam would not like it, but Dave
was confident that he would disappoint his son on a grander scale at some point in the future. What mattered now was keeping Adam safe.
As he stashed various items he wondered what Adam actually under- stood about the current plight of his parents. Probably not much, but then again Adam was a smart, precocious kid. Even Sampson could probably tell that something was amiss from the body language, the com- plete lack of any physical contact and, of course, the bickering.
He opened the door to the garage, moved a few of the gear bags to the always-crowded counter and then grabbed the large duffle bag before heading upstairs to the laundry room to dump the majority of the con- tents into the washing machine. The clutter was eventually cleared, and Dave once again found himself back in the kitchen with Marilyn.
He opened the cooler, and the odor of fish immediately overwhelmed the room. Dave quickly closed the cooler. “I’ll do this outside.” Marilyn nodded her head in silent thanks. Dave began to roll the cooler out to the backyard, but then turned back to Marilyn for a moment.
“I came back early because I’m now going to have to be out in west Texas again on Monday for yet another meeting. I didn’t want to come back tomorrow night with Adam and then have to turn right back around for that drive. I’ll stay at the farm tomorrow night, and leave from there early Monday.”
Marilyn paused in her preparations, confused. “They just realized Friday night that they’re going to need you to meet with them in person on Monday?”
Without turning around, Dave continued to roll the cooler to the back- door. “Yep. It’s great isn’t it?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR:
Investigations
It was the last week of October. A nondescript man in a dated kitchen poured himself a refill of coffee while staring at the bowl of candy he had purchased for the trick-or-treaters that might show up at his door. His tan khakis, neatly ironed, were juxtaposed against his well-worn un- dershirt, commonly known as a “wife-beater” when worn by less-savory types as an outer garment.
A large tattoo, crudely done in green and black, covered his upper right arm. The tattoo depicted a machine gun standing in a pair of army boots with a helmet perched lackadaisically atop the gun. Dog tags hung from the clip, and “USMC” was spelled out in large letters at the top.
A freshly ironed blue shirt hung on a hanger from one of the upper cab- inet pulls.
He took a long slurp of coffee, but was distracted by the vibration of his phone, which sat on the counter. He put down the mug and picked up the phone, which showed the caller to be David Reynolds.
He pushed on the screen and held the phone to his ear, the tattoo flexing. “M&L Investigations.”
“Mr. Larson, this is Dave Reynolds. I’m not sure if you remember me or not but you helped me with a situation a while back.”
Larson smiled a little as he recalled his tailing of Mrs. Reynolds, which had led to several series of provocative shots of her tryst he was able to snap from a nearby telephone pole.
“Yes, Sir, I remember. How can I help you today?” “It’s going to sound a little odd.”
“Odd is what keeps me in business Mr. Reynolds.”
Silence for a second from Dave’s side, then he decided to go all in.
“I’m going to send you an email with the name of a man that was recently put to death for killing his family. I need to find out if any of his old cell mates are still around. Maybe even his lawyer.”
Larson scratched his chin with his free hand, which he then used to grab his coffee mug.
“If this guy was on death row he was probably in solitary confinement.”
“You know better than I. I just need to find people he would’ve had con- tact with while he was alive. I don’t know if he had any friends that are still around. On the outside.”
Larson swallowed another large gulp of coffee. “How far do you want me to take it?”
“I just need to find out who at this point. We don’t need to ask any questions yet.”
“Finding his lawyer, or lawyers, and maybe a cellmate if he ever had one, is quick and easy. When you start talking about finding his friends that’s something else. No one’s going to talk to me unless they know who wants to know, and why they want to know it. Even then…”
A longer silence followed. Larson could hear the sound of traffic through the phone.
What Lurks Beneath
“I’m going to drop off $2,000 this afternoon. Do the best you can with that.”
Larson set his mug down. “A lot of the basics you could probably find yourself. There’s a lot of information on the internet.”
“Do you not want the money?”
Larson is bemused at the edge in Reynolds’ voice. Reynolds had been so detached in prior conversations that it bordered on creepy. The guy who didn’t blink about details of his wife’s meandering was now worked up about a dead felon?
“I’ll get back to you shortly with what I find.” “Thank you.”
“Oh, and Mr
. Reynolds—I still have those pictures. Do you want me to continue holding on to them?”
A long silence followed before Dave eventually replied.
“I think that’s best for now. I’ll get back to you later on that front.”
203
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE:
Exterminator
“Yep. They’re here alright.”
It was the first week of November, the earliest Dave had been able to schedule an exterminator to come out to the farm. The exterminator, Danny, held out the faceplate from the outlet to Dave as he took a step back to look at the stream of dead, tiny, tan-colored ants piling up on the floor. Dave took the faceplate and stared again at the mound of crispy ants, which exceeded the height of the molding at the base of the wall.
“Jesus Christ.”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”
Dave, far from religious but embarrassed to have offended, grimaced. “My apologies.”
He stared at the mass of ants again, trying to figure out how so many came out of such a small space. “I just had no idea.”
“Are there any other outlets besides the ones on this wall that aren’t work- ing?” Danny the exterminator gestured at the outlets that were normally concealed by the couch and the end table (both of which are now pulled back into the middle of the room).
“Not as far as I can tell, and I checked all of them.”
Dave had called around trying to find an exterminator once Mark had confirmed that ants had taken down his laptop, and found that there weren’t many willing to come out to a rural property. He’d gotten Danny’s name from a company that had declined the job, and had found him to be very thorough, also very religious.
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