CUTTER'S GROVE

by Patrick Dakin

  When I pull up to Deborah’s house at the appointed hour I’m surprised to see two Sheriff’s Department patrol cars parked in front. As I approach the front door I hear Deborah’s voice. She’s definitely upset about something. My knock is answered by Deputy Chapin.

  “Mr. Tunney,” he says, “I’m afraid this isn’t the best time for a social call.”

  “What’s going on?” I demand.

  Before he can answer, Deborah hears my voice and rushes to my side. “Oh, Lucas, thank heaven you’re here.”

  “What is it, Deborah? What’s wrong?”

  “They think Harold had something to do with Rhonda’s disappearance. They think he---”

  “Hold on.” I find Yates in the kitchen. He’s standing over Harold’s slumped form at the kitchen table. Harold is sobbing, blubbering like a baby. “Sergeant Yates, what’s this about?”

  “This is a police investigation, Mr. Tunney. I’ll have to ask you to leave.” He looks at Chapin as if to say ‘get him outa here.’

  Chapin puts his hand on my upper arm to steer me out. I shake loose of his grip. “Just a minute, goddamn it. I want to know what’s happening here.”

  Yates makes no effort to hide the fact that my intrusion is pissing him off. “We have a witness who swears to seeing Harold with Rhonda Getty minutes before she went missing. We’re trying to get some clarification as to his movements. So far we haven’t met with much success in that regard.”

  “Maybe if you stopped scaring the shit out of him it would help.”

  “Look,” Yates snarls at me, “advice from you is the one thing we don’t need.”

  “You obviously need advice from somebody,” I respond, knowing I’m pushing my luck but, at the moment, unconcerned about it. “You’ve got him so scared he can’t talk.”

  This time Yates doesn’t bother with any polite motions to Chapin. “Get him out of here,” he orders the deputy.

  Chapin takes hold of my arm this time like it’s a dumb bell and he’s going for a world record in the deadlift. He doesn’t let go till I’m delivered out the front door onto the porch. Deborah screams something at Chapin very much out of character for her as he re-enters the house, then joins me outside. “What am going to do?” she wails.

  “Has Harold said anything to you about where he was this morning?”

  My question has the effect of immediately subduing Deborah’s emotions and she becomes contemplative. “No, but … he was acting strange when I came home from work,” she admits. “He couldn’t have had anything to do with Rhonda’s disappearance though, Lucas. He’s not violent. He’s never done anything to hurt anybody.”

  I’m thinking back to when I saw Harold this morning. His pants were dirty, like he’d been kneeling on the ground. “Did you notice his pants?” I ask.

  A frightened look comes over her. “Well, yes,” she says, suddenly fighting back tears, “but he could have been doing anything. He’s like a little boy, always playing in the dirt.” She looks at me like she’s pleading for my support.

  “You’re right, Deborah, of course,” I say. But, in truth, I’m not so sure. Harold looked troubled when I saw him. It’s possible …

  “Lucas, you have to do what we were planning. You have to go out in the desert. It’s more important now than ever that you get some answers, that we solve this.

  Oh, great. A nice little all-night visit to the desert alone. Just what I need. “Alright, Deborah, I’ll go. Try to be calm. You’ve got to be there for Harold.”

  “I know,” she says miserably. “I’m trying.”

  I give her a chaste kiss on the forehead. “I’ll be in touch,” I say.

  I return home to stock up on the blankets and food for the night that Deborah won’t be providing.

  The thought crosses my mind that I would dearly love Beth to be accompanying me on this excursion. Somehow, though, I can’t quite imagine it as the reconciliation party she might be hoping for.

  This is a solo run, pal. Live with it.

  28

  It’s dark by the time I set out for my rendezvous with the unknown. The night is moonless, the murky gloom penetrated only superficially by the dual beams of my headlights.

  As I speed along the highway my mind is beleaguered by memories of what transpired the last time I was out here alone. I still find it difficult to accept. I keep thinking there must be a more rational explanation for what I saw, or for what I think I saw.

  I try to remember the details of the face that appeared to me. Was it really Anne Marie’s face or did I fabricate the resemblance to her in my tormented brain? After all, if not for that particular incongruity, I would be able to write the whole incident off to my imagination. It’s only the fact that the vision I saw is the likeness of Anne Marie that prevents me from accepting it as something manufactured in my mind.

  As I descend from the hills where Sonny rescued me I slow to a crawl and peer off into the darkness, imagining the spot where I huddled beside the boulder. It was the last place I had contact with the phantom spirit, where I felt what seemed like clothing brushing against my face.

  Suddenly the road becomes rougher, forcing me to reduce my speed still further. The potholes are almost impossible to avoid here, even driving at a snail’s pace.

  Before long I reach the site where I believe the Jeep conked out on me, where the visions actually occurred. I do a u-turn and pull the Jeep off the road, coming to a stop as close as possible to the exact scene of the crime as it were.

  When I cut the engine, the silence is deafening.

  The illuminated dial on my watch tells me it’s ten thirty-eight.

  I sit here, alone, with nothing but my thoughts.

  Within an hour I’ve eaten everything I brought with me for sustenance. Three slices of cold pizza, the Cheezies, and the Coffee Crisp are all gone. All that remains of my store of provisions is the thermos of day-old coffee I pilfered from Sonny’s office, and it tastes like I imagine reheated dish water might taste after someone has rinsed their socks in it.

  Nature calls and I step out of the Jeep into the warm night to relieve myself. The sound of my pee hitting the rocky soil is like bacon frying on a skillet. Then, while I’m standing here waiting to finish up, the darkness so thick and black it’s almost claustrophobic, an icy breath of air washes over me. It’s like I’ve just passed by the open door of a meat locker. My imagination? Maybe. But maybe not. I’m suddenly very anxious to be done. I rush the process, dribbling a little in my boxers as I zip up.

  Back in the Jeep, behind locked doors, I evaluate my feelings. I’m lonely for sure. Anxious? Yeah, that too. And … I admit, fearful.

  Will Anne Marie really make another appearance? If so, what will happen? I find it hard to imagine a confrontation that ends affably. After all, she’s a ghost for Christ’s sake. I’m parked out here all alone, in a great black void, waiting to confront a freaking ghost! I must be screwy.

  The later it gets the more dire my thoughts become.

  Midnight comes and goes. Then one o’clock.

  I begin to question the necessity of sitting out here in the middle of nowhere. I wonder to what end I am suffering through this miserable mission. I start belittling the merits of the venture.

  Only the thought of having to explain my unwillingness to see this through to Deborah keeps me from packing it in.

  Time drags with incredible lethargy. I snuggle under my blanket.

  Eventually, my trepidation begins to wane and my eyelids grow heavy.

  At some point during the night I come to a state of partial wakefulness. Whether I’ve heard something that disturbed me or not is unclear to me. I’m too cozy under my blanket to check the time.

  I’m dreaming of being stalked. I’m not sure what it is that’s after me but I have a sense of it being animal-like. A rabid wolf. Wild dogs. Something like that.

  I’m running through a dark, mist enshrouded forest. It is cold and there is no path. Twigs and stumps, wet branches, and twisti
ng vines impair my way. My breath comes in ragged, painful gasps. I know that whatever it is that’s pursuing me is gaining ground. When I look back I see nothing, but I can hear my pursuer’s deep-throated growl and the alternating squishy and crackling sounds of it’s onward progression. I envision my flesh being torn from me by the vicious jaws of a snarling, red-eyed beast.

  Even more mind-numbing is the sudden realization that whatever it is that is chasing me down is also screaming my name!

  When my eyes pop open there’s a pre-dawn glow in the sky, providing just enough light that I can make out the dim image of a face at my window. It’s so close that, if the window were open, I would feel it’s breath on me. The distorted features, though unidentifiable, are more fear-provoking that anything I can imagine.

  The shriek that escapes my throat dies before it can be fully realized. I’m too absorbed with putting distance between myself and---

  “Lucas! Lucas, it’s me! Beth. It’s Beth.” She’s tapping on the window, trying to bring me to my senses. Slowly, I begin to understand. It’s Beth.

  My beautiful, wonderful Beth.

  29

  It takes a minute for the pounding of my heart to subside enough that I can move. Once mobile, I throw open my door and practically fall out in my haste to get to Beth. She’s in my arms immediately, holding on to me with everything she’s got. I cling to her like a drowning man to a life preserver.

  “I was so afraid,” she cries into my chest.

  “Afraid? Wh ...why?” I stammer.

  “I thought you were dead. You didn’t respond when I called your name. You weren’t moving.” She’s breathless, trying hard to speak without gasping.

  “I was dreaming,” I murmur to her. “Just dreaming. I’m fine.”

  “I thought you were dead,” she says again, angrily now.

  “Beth, I’m okay. Settle down.”

  She sniffles and rummages in her pocket for a Kleenex, wipes tears from her eyes. She stands back and looks at me. “Damn you,” she says, then pounds me on the chest with her closed fist.

  “Hey,” I complain, “take it easy.” Her fists may be small but they’re also bony and she packs a painful punch. “How did you know I was here anyway?”

  “Yates was asking for volunteers to form search parties to look for Rhonda in the morning. I wanted to be with you but when I phoned and you weren’t home I went over to Deborah’s to see if she knew where you were. She told me what was happening with Harold but she said she had no idea where you might be. Then this morning at four o’clock she phoned me, all worried like, and admitted what you were doing. I jumped in my car right away and came out here.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did,” I say. “... Does this mean we’re friends again?”

  She looks at me with pleading eyes. “Tell me the truth, Lucas,” she says. “Is there anything between you and Deborah? Just be honest. I can accept it if there is. I just need to know.”

  “I swear to you, honey, there’s nothing between us.”

  “Honest?”

  “Honest.”

  “I couldn’t really blame you if there was,” she says. “Deborah is beautiful now that she’s decided to start looking after herself.”

  “Beautiful or not, there’s nothing between us but friendship.”

  “She obviously wishes there was something more to it than just friendship.”

  “But that doesn’t mean there is.”

  Beth looks deeply into my eyes, searching, I guess, for the truth. Whatever she sees satisfies her. “Okay then ... we’re friends again,” she says, giving me another hug.

  She feels good in my arms. I’m bowled over by how much I’ve missed her. I tip her head back with a finger under her chin, and when I kiss her the taste of her tears is salty on my lips. “Let’s go home,” I say.

  “Okay.” She holds on to my arm as I start to turn away. “Lucas?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I love you you know.”

  She says this with such feeling I’m profoundly affected. It wasn’t like she said, ‘I’ll see ya later. Love ya.’ It was deep and meaningful. I take her in my arms again. “I love you, too,” I tell her.

  I don't think she expected that. I know I didn't. The words just seemed to erupt from me, but so naturally that they required no thought. There's absolutely no doubt in my mind that I meant them, though.

  “Are you sure about that?” she asks, smiling.

  “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

  Her smile fades and she looks deep into my eyes again. “Promise me something?”

  “Anything.”

  “Promise me you’ll always be honest with me. No matter what. Okay?”

  “I promise.”

  Her smile is back. “Okay. Let’s go home.”

  She follows me in her old station wagon. The sun is just cresting the horizon as we begin the trip back to town.

  I’m delighted to have Beth back in my life. I make a mental note never to take her for granted again. The simple fact is that she’s far and away the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I need to hold on to that truth and remember it more often.

  I try phoning Deborah as soon as we get back to the garage but there’s no answer. “Did Deborah say if Harold had admitted anything to Yates when you were at the house last night?” I ask Beth.

  “She didn’t say. She was pretty upset though.”

  “There’s no answer at her place. I wonder if Yates took Harold into custody.”

  “My guess would be he did. I didn’t see Harold anywhere around.”

  “Have you heard who it was that spotted Harold with Rhonda that morning?”

  “Yeah,” Beth says, “It was Dory Butterfield. “She’s a pretty reliable witness. I don’t think she’d make a mistake about something like that, Lucas.”

  My eighty-four year old lady admirer. “I know Dory. I’d have to agree with you.”

  Our discussion is interrupted by Sonny, who comes sauntering into the office much earlier than usual. “Mornin’,” he says, sipping coffee from a heavily stained mug.

  “Sonny. What’s happening with the Getty girl?” I ask.

  “Everybody who can is meeting at the hotel. Yates is gonna get us organized and do a complete search a the town.”

  “Has there been any word on Harold?”

  “Haven’t heard,” he says. “You guys gonna help out with the search?”

  “Yes,” Beth and I say in unison.

  “Let’s head on up there then,” Sonny says.

  Yates and Chapin are addressing a crowd of about thirty people when the three of us arrive at the hotel. We’re quickly given an area of town to concentrate on and some brief instructions on what to be on the lookout for. Basically, we’re looking for anything out of the ordinary, anything that might indicate signs of a struggle. A torn piece of clothing, blood, anything at all.

  We start by searching through a house on the edge of town that has been vacant for several months. On the surface, it appears to be locked up tight, although with some effort we discover a way inside. But we find nothing that indicates there’s been any kind of altercation. No blood or clothing. There’s some evidence that kids have done some partying here but it doesn’t look all that recent.

  We scour vacant lots and back yards, and trudge up and down the few streets that are part of our search area. Within two hours we’ve pretty well covered everything we’ve been asked to do and with nothing meaningful to show for it.

  Sonny is looking all done in from the unaccustomed amount of exercise. “That’s it for me,” he says. He takes off his Dodgers cap, wipes his forehead with a handkerchief, and shakes his head sadly. “I’ll see y’all later.”

  “Okay, Sonny,” I say.

  As we watch him head off in the direction of home, Beth says, “What next?”

  “Let’s check back in with Yates. See if anybody’s come up with anything.”

  Back at the hotel there’s no sign of Ya
tes, but a small group of people are gathered to talk about what, if anything, they’ve uncovered in their searches. Listening to their chatter it’s clear there’s been no progress of substance.

  “Guess I might as well go to work,” Beth says. “It doesn’t look like there’s much more I can do here.”

  “Okay, babe.” I give her hand a squeeze and she leaves. “Does anybody know where Sergeant Yates is,” I ask the group.

  An old fellow I’ve never met tells me Yates said he’d check back with them any minute now. No sooner have the words left his mouth than we see Yates’ patrol car approaching us.

  When he gets out of his car it’s clear he is not the bearer of any good news. The sullen look on his face is as enlightening as any words he might speak. “I’m afraid we’ve been unable to come up with anything tangible from our search,” he says to the crowd. “Has anyone here got anything at all they’d like to report?”

  He’s answered by an assortment of ‘Afraid nots.’

  “All right then, folks. I want to thank you all for your time.”

  The crowd disperses and I approach Yates. “Excuse me, Sergeant.”

  He gives me a look of barely concealed annoyance. “Yes, Mr. Tunney. What is it?”

  “I was wondering about the outcome of your questioning of Harold.”

  “We arrested Harold Miller last night. He’s being held in Tehachapi at the moment. His sister is there with him.”

  “Did he confess?” I ask.

  “Not in so many words, Mr. Tunney, but we have good reason to believe he was involved in Rhonda Getty’s disappearance.”

  “What---”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss the details with you. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lot to do.” He gets back in his patrol car and is talking on his radio when I walk away.

  30

  That night, after discussing it with Beth, I call Thelma Paige in Indio. “Mrs. Paige, it’s Lucas Tunney.”