by Andre Farant
“Mary, if I go down that way I’m gonna end up like that guy. Heck, for all I know it’s how he ended up down there in the first place.”
“Don’t be silly, Alan.”
He looked from her to the trees. There were a lot of trees. He could hang on to them as he climbed down those boulders.
“Okay. Fine, I’ll try,” he said with all the enthusiasm of one announcing that he had won a free kick to the back of the head.
Mary pulled his face to hers and kissed him, long and hard. “I am so proud of you,” she said. “And kinda turned on.”
“Really?” Alan said, standing straighter.
“Mm-hm. It’s very brave. Heroic.”
Alan grinned like the proverbial idiot, pulled off his back-pack, and set out for the wooded area.
He stumbled over a few stones, tripped over a branch and found himself hugging the trunk of a poplar. He no longer felt heroic.
Alan Demers pushed off the poplar and began his descent, moving slowly, from tree to tree.
He gripped a sturdy-looking branch to steady himself as he baby-stepped over a moss-smothered boulder. He could feel the stuff slipping under his feet. Then the branch snapped, the boulder disappeared, moss and all, and he was suddenly running down the cliff face, his body nearly horizontal. Gravity carried him further, faster. He watched as trees flashed by him, branches raked his face and tore at his clothes. His fanny-pack, bouncing against his butt, came open, producing a rooster’s tail of allergy medication, breath mints, dried apricots and condoms (just in case).
A giant pine loomed ahead, its trunk like the canon on a Navy destroyer aimed at taking out the sun. That will stop me. He directed his unstoppable run at the tree. He would plow straight into it and hang on to its trunk for dear life. It would work. It would hurt like a hell, but it would work and he would live to tell Mary that this whole thing was a stupid idea and that teleportation was a much better power than being able to speak and read everything which wasn’t even a power anyway.
He hit the tree.
And he was right: It hurt like a hell.
And he was wrong: The tree did not stop him. In fact, the tree simply hitched a ride. As he hit the conifer, so strong and solid looking, Alan, now an Alan-shaped projectile, uprooted the tree and sent it tumbling ahead of him in a spray of dirt and pine needles. It came down with an ear-splitting crash, pulling smaller trees with it, sending still smaller trees flying into the air and tumbling in every direction. And in the midst of this arboreal maelstrom, Alan screamed.
Beyond the crash of trees, behind his own screams, Alan could hear a high-pitched keening. Mary had apparently seen Alan’s meeting with the big conifer, had judged that said meeting had gone poorly, and was now blowing her emergency whistle.
And so Alan Demers descended the cliff side, followed and preceded by an avalanche of forestry while, above him, standing safely behind the look-out’s wooden railing, Mary blew on her whistle and pressed the shutter on her Nikon as fast as her finger would allow, documenting her husband’s death by accidental deforestation.
After what seemed like hours but was only about forty-seven seconds, the crashing came to a halt and Alan Demers found himself lying on his back in a rather soft bed of pine needles, while dirt, leaves and twigs rained down upon him. Water sloshed just inches from his head. He sat up, cradled in the palm of one of the giant pine’s branches. The branch hung out over the water and, when he looked down through the branch’s quill-laden fingers, he saw his stunned reflection staring back at him. His face was scratched, his shirt torn to shreds and his fanny-pack was empty. But he was alive.
Someone was calling his name. He looked around, down at the tree, out at the lake, until he remembered his wife and looked up and behind him at the top of the cliff. There was a large swath of churned earth, fallen trees and shredded ferns where there had once been dense forestry. It looked as though God had tried to scratch-and-sniff the forest. Far above and to the left, Mary waved at him from atop the lookout.
“Alan,” she called. “Are you okay?”
Alan said, “Um.” He cleared his throat and clambered to his feet, his legs shaky. “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay!”
“Thank god,” Mary cried and took a picture of him.
Alan took an unsteady step and promptly fell through the mesh of branches that had been holding him aloft. He slogged through a tangle of pine branches, small uprooted trees, and foot-deep lake water. Eventually, he made it to shore.
The thing floated some forty yards away. It was definitely a person. A man. Alan could clearly see the back of the man’s head, his greyish hair wet. One arm floated limply, shirt caught on a branch. The man was face down in the water, his lower body submerged, invisible.
Alan took a few steps and stopped. He craned his neck, trying to get a better look without actually getting too close.
“Is he okay?” Mary cried from above.
“Sshhhhh!” Alan said, as though the man was just sleeping and she might wake him.
“What?” Mary called.
Alan took a few more steps and said to the man, “Hey, are you okay?”
The man simply bobbed in the water, the gentle waves nudging him rhythmically.
Oh crap, Alan thought. I’ve gone thirty years without ever seeing a dead body and now, on my honeymoon . . .
After a few moments, hoping against hope that the guy might just pop out of the water, amble over and say something like, “Woah, now that was a rough night. Lemme give ya some advice friend, never mix vodka, beer and Xanax,” Alan walked to the man’s side and crouched by his head.
The man was very dead. He looked to be at least sixty years old. Well, he had been at least sixty years old. Now he was pasty and mottled white and blue. His flesh looked like blue cheese. He smelled pretty bad, too. Up close, Alan could smell rotting meat.
“Is he dead?” Alan heard Mary ask. He looked up at her and she took another picture.
“Yeah,” he called back, marvelling at how calm he felt. My first dead body and I didn’t puke. I’m not even shaky or feeling sick or nothing.
Alan Demers decided to take his investigation a step further. He found a branch, about three feet long, and resolved—in the interest of science, both medical and forensic—to poke the dead body. He walked to the water’s edge, scrutinized the doughy-looking thing before him and poked the dead man in the ribs. The stick did not sink into the body as though it were actually made of blue cheese. Instead, the tip of the stick snagged the dead man’s shirt and, as Alan pulled the branch back, the body flipped onto its right side, exposing the gaping hole in its left side.
The man’s shirt was torn open, the edges chewed and frayed, and the area just below the man’s ribcage was a mess of brownish blood, mangled organs and what looked like a blue cheese milkshake.
Alan dropped the branch, stumbled back a step and fell ass-backwards into six inches of water. Then Alan felt sick, felt shaky and puked.
Far above him, Mary said, “Alan, check his pulse!”
CHAPTER ONE
Since moving to Deer Lake some two years ago, Tad Pike had made it a habit of taking his little skiff into town for weekly supplies on every Thursday. It was a short trip, taking him past several of his neighbours as well as the lake’s one and only public beach. He always moored his boat at the Deer Lake Marina, little more than a couple of docks and a bait shop, and always did his shopping at Franklin’s. This was not only due to the fact that Franklin’s Convenience was the only convenience/grocery store in town, but also because Pike genuinely liked Sam Franklin.
Now he stood in aisle five of five, reading the ingredients listed on a can of gravy while Sam Franklin struggled over a particularly irksome crossword clue. “Thirteen down,” she said, frowning. “It says ‘Do nothing pill.’ Seven letters.”
Without taking his eyes off his can of gravy, Pike said, “Valium.”
Sam looked up at her only customer, still frowning. “Pike, I’m pretty darn sure Vali
um does something. Plus, it’s got six letters, not seven.”
“Just add an exclamation point. Valium! Like that.”
“Will you stop being a smart ass and help me,” Sam said. “What’s those pills doctors use, the kind that don’t do anything?”
“Sam, you just reworded the clue.” Pike wandered over to aisle four.
“Fine. Here’s thirteen across: ‘For a beauty-queen smile.’ Nine letters.”
“Lobotomy,” Pike said. He was now reading a can of beats. The list of ingredients was disturbingly long.
Sam rolled her eyes behind her bifocals. “Dammit, Pike. Lobotomy has only eight letters.”
“Lobotomy!”
“You’re hopeless.”
“Mm, probably.”
Sam Franklin had been filling out crossword puzzles for as long as anyone had known her, dating back to the day she’d arrived in Deer Lake. Unlike most villagers over fifty, Sam had not been born in Deer Lake. She had come to town some thirty years prior with a dance troop. The dancers had been hired by an ambitious though deluded show promoter hell bent on mounting a production in Deer Lake. It was to be a musical and would capitalize on Deer Lake’s raison d’être. There had even been plans for a two-hundred-gallon water tank and state-of-the-art submersible puppet.
The show could not get proper financing and so the entire production left after just two weeks and relocated to Sand Lake where it proved a colossal failure. Those two weeks in Deer Lake, however, had been long enough for Samantha Barrister to meet and fall in love with Finnigan Franklin, owner of Franklin’s Convenience. They were married two months later and, two months after that, Finnigan, a life-long narcoleptic, fell asleep in Fred Burger’s wheat field and was promptly harvested by Fred Burger’s thresher. Sam resolved not only to stay in Deer Lake, but to take over her late husband’s family business.
She never regretted a day in her life, and certainly did not regret moving to and staying in Deer Lake. It was pleasant, quiet and allowed her plenty of time to ruminate over her beloved crossword puzzles.
Pike dumped his chosen items on the counter, next to Sam’s book of puzzles.
As she rang up his purchases, Sam asked, “You hear about Felix Prior, right?”
Pike nodded, “Sure did.”
“Too bad.”
“Yeah, he was a good man. I liked him.”
“Hear what some are saying?”
“Nope. ‘Bout what?”
“’Bout Felix, of course. His wounds.”
“I heard he was cut up. Along the side,” Pike said.
Sam nodded. “Right, big hole.”
“So what are they saying?”
“Well . . .” She cocked an eyebrow and nodded toward the front windows and the view of the lake.
Pike looked out at the Lake, confused. Then he got it. “What, Deery? Oh, of course they’d say that. Whoever they are,” he chuckled. They both knew exactly who the usual suspects were. “That’s just stupid.”
“Of course. But that don’t keep ‘em from saying it.”
“Boating accident. That’s all it was, trust me.”
Sam held up her hands. “Hey, you don’t have to convince me. I agree with you. I’m just saying what they’re saying. Thirty-six, Pike.”
Pike grinned and handed her two twenties. “Yeah, well, I guess they are good for a laugh, right?”
Sam returned his change along with his grin. “I sure love this little town.”
Pike nodded, said his goodbyes and headed back out to the docks.
*
Pike had moved to Deer Lake nearly two years ago with the intention of writing a screenplay and shooting the picture himself. He had grand ideas of being an independent director, darling of the festival circuit, praised for his art but loved for his eccentricities.
The problem was that he wasn’t especially artistic and, truth be told, he was only eccentric in the sense that he lived in a cottage on a lake and didn’t really work for a living. Also, his screenplay, so far, was a whopping three pages long.
So Pike had decided to combine the thousands of dollars’ worth of movie-making equipment he’d purchased with his background as a journalist and videographer, to make a documentary. He had the perfect subject: the lake. He would interview the villagers, talk with tourists and cottagers, and film the lake from every possible angle. He delved into the lake’s history, researching the village’s beginnings as a lumbering town. He discovered that each of the six islands scattered across the waters had been named after a lumberman who’d died on the job. Hap Island, for example, was named after Hap Healy. Hap died in 1913 on or around Thanksgiving Day, and, on that particular Thanksgiving Day, the boys were sent a monstrous thirty pound turkey. Compared to their usual fare of baked beans and oatmeal, the giant bird was a real treat for the ten men of the camp, and they were more than willing to wait the twenty-some hours required to cook the beast.
Except for Hap. Hap Healy drank. All lumber men drank, of course. But Hap was the Olympic champion of sport-drinking. His favourite event was the triathlon: Beer, bourbon and wine—in no particular order. That night he had already secured himself a spot on the podium before the bird had even been plucked. By the time the turkey had made its way into the camp’s coal-fired oven, he’d set a new record. All this vigorous drinking, however, had given old Hap an appetite and worried away at his patience. So, while the others continued with their revelries, he made his way to the kitchen. He found the bird, cooking slowly and, at that point, the story became hazy. For reasons that are known to history alone, Hap decided to either insert his head into the turkey, or stick the turkey over his head. Either way, the results were the same: Hap was rendered blind and confused. His mind, swimming in a brine of beer, whiskey and cheap Chardonnay, struggled to stay afloat. The darkness, combined with the absolutely abysmal stench of the bird’s insides, proved too much for Hap’s poor pickled brain to handle. Hap’s solution proved to be a panic-induced run out of the kitchen. Somehow, after a few abortive attempts, marked by turkey-juice-stained dents in the wall, Hap found the doorway and disappeared into the forest. The last anyone saw of Hap Healy alive was a strangely top-heavy figure, arms waving, as it streaked through the woods, producing a muffled wail. Hap’s body was found five days later. He had evidently run head-long into a sturdy oak and been knocked unconscious. The entire thirty-pound turkey and half his head had been eaten by forest creatures.
The lake was rife with similarly charming stories and Pike was determined to record them all, both for posterity’s and hilarity’s sake. And, of course, there was the lake legend. He could not ignore the town’s claim to fame.
Pike wondered how Felix Prior’s death would affect his project. He had been less than trustworthy, most thought he was crazy, but he had always been willing to talk and had become a prime resource. Now he was dead.
So far, Pike had over thirty hours of footage and was deep into the editing process. He spent six hours a night at his editing banks, cutting scenes together, rendering images, overlaying sound effects. He still found himself gathering further shots of the lake. It inspired him.
Now he shut off and raised the little two-stroke outboard and allowed his sloop to coast onto the beach. He pulled the boat out of the water, tied it off, gathered his groceries and headed up the steps leading from the beach to his cottage.
*
At around that time, in some God-forsaken patch of the Laurentian Mountains, Willard Smitts climbed out of the truck. He wrinkled his nose as he planted his foot inches from a monstrously large pile of dog shit. At least he hoped it was dog shit.
The shack looked as though it had been built by an especially industrious group of kindergarteners. Walls stood at odd angles to each other, boards hung from rusty nails, windows were covered with torn screening and garbage bags. The roof was patched with an old car door and what appeared to be a child’s deflated wading pool.
The man named Ben sat in a lounge chair on the cabin’s rickety front
porch. Smitts couldn’t see the one called Jerry. Smitts waved at Ben with his free hand; he held a black leather briefcase in the other.
Ben did not wave back. He sipped at a can of beer. A Styrofoam cooler sat at his feet. He was short and squat, his scalp and chin covered with a perfectly even coat of stubble, giving his head the appearance of a kiwi fruit. “What you doing here?” he asked.
Smitts did not like Ben’s tone. Challenging, suspicious. Smitts shifted the briefcase from his right hand to his left. “Mr. Benning has tasked me with placing you and your associate on . . . retainer.”
Without taking his eyes off Smitts, Ben called into the shack. “Jerry, get yer ass out here.”
While Ben was garden-variety of ugly, Jerry’s appearance was positively disturbing. Jerry was tall and gangly, thin limbed and narrow-chested. He was pale to the point of being translucent. He was bulgy-eyed and slack-mouthed. However, the strangest, most disconcerting aspect of Jerry’s appearance, was the perfectly square, four-by-four inch bald patch marring his hair-line. Smitts found it extremely difficult to keep his eyes off that smooth swath of skin. What the hell is with that?
Now Jerry stood next to his friend, eyes wide and mouth open.
“So,” Ben said, “Benning need us ‘gain?”
“That’s right,” Smitts said. “Mr. Benning was quite satisfied with the work you completed for him and could use your assistance on a more . . . continuous basis.”
“Continuous,” Ben repeated.
“Yes,” Smitts said. “Mr. Benning would like you to employ your vast knowledge of the lake and surrounding wood land to . . . create further interest. To keep the town talking and the tourists coming.”
“What d’we do?”
Smitts took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He hated having to say what Benning insisted he say. “You would be granted full discretionary powers.”
Ben squinted back at him.
Smitts cleared his throat. “You can do whatever you want. As long as it serves Mr. Benning’s purpose.”
“And what’s Benning’s purpose?”
Finally, a relatively intelligent question. “He wants interest in the lake and its special—”
“You mean Deery.”
