by Rain Oxford
“Right. Is the verdict in?”
“Yeah. Come over and I’ll show you what the problem is.” Ernie led the way into the shop through a maze of tools, boxes, and empty oil-cans scattered on the floor. He stopped at the open hood of the Plymouth, and Derek could see that the motor was partially disassembled. “You know much about cars?” Ernie asked. Most people he knew didn’t know any more about mechanics than they did about Astrophysics, and it was frustrating to try to communicate with them.
“Enough to get by when I have to.”
“Good, take a look.” Ernie leaned under the hood and pointed to the front of the motor. “The timing chain is busted all to hell. I’m going to have to replace it.”
“Have you got one in stock?”
“That’s the bad part, I don’t. Keeping specialized parts like that on hand is too expensive, and I don’t get enough call for them.” Ernie hesitated, looking apologetic. “I can order one, but it’ll take a couple of days to get here, probably.”
“Well, it doesn’t look like I’ve got much of a choice,” Derek said, sighing. “Go ahead and order it. If you need to get in touch with me, I’ll still be at the hotel, okay?”
“Sure. Wish I could get it for you sooner.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got a couple of things to do to keep me busy for a while.”
* * *
The blue Fairlane had been a present for Ann’s eighteenth birthday, even though it had taken months of hinting before her parents had hesitantly bought it for her. Most of the money she made working part time at the dress shop she spent on the car, paying for insurance, tires, and gas. “Responsibility,” her father had sternly pointed out, “is what a person must have if they are to own an automobile. We shall see, young lady.” Then he had winked and given her the keys. Since that time, driving her own car had been a source of pure enjoyment.
At the moment, her attention was divided between her driving and Derek. Unconsciously, she nibbled her lower lip; it was a nervous habit she had never been about to rid herself of. There was something about this big, quiet man that was different and unsettling, something that made her feel as if she were someone else. The Ann Commers she knew was a cautious girl, one that didn’t talk much to someone she didn’t know, much less invite them out for a drive. But here she was.
She turned off the main road, leaving the buildings of the small town behind, and drove past a few scattered dwellings. Most were small-frame houses, with wooden fences enclosing well-kept yards. A big German Sheppard shot out from one, barking, chasing the car until Ann sped up and left it in the swirling dust. She laughed.
“That was Pluto. We’ve been friends for years, and he’s been chasing my car ever since I got it. It’s a game we play. I’m the only person he does chase.” She smiled, feeling foolish. “I guess that sounds dumb, huh?”
“No,” Derek said, smiling back. “It’s nice to have friends, even if they have four paws and chase you.”
The road curved to the left, cutting through a small stand of pine trees. To the right, the ground began rising gently to form the base of the low mountains that stretched across the western horizon. Derek’s eyes wandered over the outline they formed against the blue sky, and for a moment they seemed almost familiar, as if… no, it was nothing… Déjà vu.
“That’s the Jarman place,” Ann said, pointing to their right through the windshield. “It was built by one of the prominent founding fathers of our fair city. No one knows how he came by the money, but he and his family disappeared one step ahead of the Feds back in the thirties. Gives people some pretty good ideas. This used to be whiskey country.”
The place was a mansion by most standards; a large two-story house set well back from the road. The iron fence surrounding the grounds was over seven feet in height and a heavy double gate was set in the fence across the gravel driveway, which formed a circle in front of the house. The yard was choked with weeds and knee deep dead grass, and the paint on the house was grey and peeling.
“It doesn’t look like anybody has lived there in a long time. How come?” Derek asked.
“Oh, but someone does live there.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. What kind of people would let a place like that just fall apart?”
“The Jarmans?” Ann giggled at his expression. “I guess you might call them our resident weirdoes: they moved here about ten years ago. Nobody knows much about them, and as far as I know, nobody wants to. They’re not very friendly. The only one you hardly ever see is Richard Jarman, and if you say anything to him, he’ll just stare at you for a minute and then walk away.” She made a face and shook her head. “He gives me the creeps. He and his wife have two children, but they’ve never gone to our school. Weird people.”
“Maybe they just like a lot of privacy.”
“Nobody likes that much privacy and is normal at the same time.” Ann dropped her voice into a Bella Lagosi imitation and hunched behind the wheel, looking at Derek with one eye. “Strange sounds cometh from yon dwelling at the stroke of midnight, when the moon is full and the wild dogs bay. Heed my words and beware.” She straightened, laughing. “Believe it or not, it’s true.”
They drove on, passing an occasional house, until Ann turned into the driveway of one built of brick. This one had a fence also, but it was lower and made of wrought iron. A flagstone path ran most of the way around the house.
“A friend of mine lives here, and I promised to drop some books off for him. It will just take a minute. Do you want to come with me?”
“No, I think I’ll wait here. Unannounced guests are not always welcome.” Derek felt slightly jealous, and felt silly for feeling that way. Of course she would have friends. She was too pretty not to have boyfriends crawling out of the woodwork.
“Okay. Be right back.”
Derek waited in the car. Ann crossed the tiny yard and knocked on the door, waited a minute, then knocked again. After another minute the door opened by a tall man, thin, in his late sixties. He leaned heavily on a wooden cane.
From the car, Derek could see the obvious pleasure in the man’s face as he greeted Ann and took the books she was carrying. The old man motioned towards the car and said something, but Ann shook her head and smiled, answering. After a few more words she waved goodbye and came back to the car.
“That was Dr. Wittakin,” Ann said, backing the car out of the driveway. “He’s retired now, but he was a professor of natural history. He’s written three books so far, and is working on another. He won’t tell me what it’s about though, the brat. I wish I could do that. Write a book, I mean. He’s such a nice old guy. I wish he didn’t have to spend so much time in that wheelchair of his. He has a lot of trouble with his legs, but…” Ann stopped when she saw Derek’s amused expression, and her face turned slightly red. “I’m sorry. Boy, I must have been talking your ear off.”
“No, I enjoy listening to you. It’s just that it’s been a long time since…” Derek shook his head, smiling.
“Since?”
“Nothing. As I said this morning, I’m one pretty boring fellow. And you’re too nice to bore. How long have you lived in Cider Springs?”
“You’re a subject changer, you know that?” Ann waited a moment, but Derek wasn’t going to bite. “Oh, well. I tell you now, I don’t give up easily. I’ll get it out of you sooner or later. But to answer your question, I’ve lived in this place all of my life. That makes me the expert on boring. I hate it here.”
“Why do you stay if you hate it so much? It’s a big world with a lot of room.”
“I know, and I think that’s what keeps me here. It’s too big and lonely out there.”
And I’m too scared of staying in one place. Derek watched the trees moving past. The road they were on formed a loop from the base of the mountains and back, and they were almost back where they had started. He felt vaguely sad, as if they were near the end of something other than a simple drive.
* * *
Parke
r was standing in the door of his store when Ann dropped Derek off. The old man was busily staining an old T-shirt with beer; he waved at Derek and some of it slopped onto the wooden porch. The dry wood soaked it up greedily.
“Hi, son.” Parker stretched and set on the steps, scratching one hairy forearm. “Go grab a beer and join me.” Derek did as he was told, then went back out to sit with Parker on the steps. The beer was icy cold and good. “Looks like you’re gonna be around for a while,” Parker said. “I was talking to Ernie a bit ago. Car’s busted up pretty bad, huh?”
“Not too bad, but Ernie has to order parts.”
“Shit. Time was when a man could fix his own automobile with some spit and bailing wire. They’ve got everything so specialized now that a man has to have a degree or something to put air in his tires. Know why?”
“Why?”
“It’s the communists. They’ve bought out all the big corporations so they can complicate everything. Pretty soon us Americans won’t be able to do anything for ourselves and then they’ll just walk in and take over.”
Derek grinned. “You might be right at that.”
“Damn right I’m right. It’s a communist plot.” Parker nodded sagely. “Still feel like fishing, don’t you?”
“You just try and stop me.”
It took only a few minutes to load the equipment. Derek smiled as he watched an almost childlike enthusiasm grow in the old man. It was contagious; the prospect of a little fishing sounded better the more he thought about it. By the time they were on their way, he was beginning to feel more relaxed and easy than he had in months.
Parker drove his old tan station wagon through the middle of the town, an undertaking of three minutes if the vehicle was kept to an even crawl. Once out of town, the road angled slightly, heading directly north. Parker followed it for a half mile before turning off onto a narrow dirt road. The road wound westwardly to the base of the mountains.
“If you follow the main road back there for another mile, you get to the bridge,” Parker said. “A lot of folks do their fishing there, but it ain’t much good. Water’s too fast. Now, the place I’m taking you is the best around. It’s God’s gift to fish and fishermen both.”
“Sounds good.”
The station wagon lurched over the rough road for another half a mile until they reached the river and Parker parked in a small natural clearing at the water’s edge.
Derek didn’t know about the fishing, but the spot was beautiful enough to make the trip worthwhile. Mountains crowded the banks of the river not far above them, and the trees and grass gave the area an unspoiled natural elegance, proving the superiority of nature’s ability to landscape. In the river, the water splashed over rocky shallows and lay slow and quiet in deep places.
Parker unloaded the fishing gear and piled it on the open tailgate. He opened the lid on a huge and rusty tackle box, and then dug around in the bottom before producing a clear plastic box. It contained a half dozen fishing flies, and he proudly held them out for Derek’s inspection.
“Here you go, son. Made these myself. Ain’t nothing with fins safe from you if you’re using these, guaranteed. It ain’t fair to the fish, but what the hell. Pick out whatever meets your fancy, and let’s get down to some serious fishing. We’ve already lost most of the day, with Ann dragging you off like that.”
Derek grinned. “She’s a nice girl.”
“Not when she interferes with fishing. Come on.”
Derek selected one of the flies and tied it on his line. The two of them waded out to the middle of the river, moving from rock to rock, separating as they got the feel of the water. Derek did some experimental casting for a few minutes, reeling in slowly.
He heard a shout and turned. Parker’s line was dancing and the old man was working it, reeling it in and playing it out. The trout broke through the water, twisting and Parker whistled. “You see that? Got me a good one.”
“Looks like it to me. I think I’ll try a little farther up.”
“Okay. Give a holler if you hook one bigger than this. I’ll be glad to cut your line for you.”
Derek wave and waded out of the water. He stayed close to the edge of the bank, working his way upriver fifty yards or so before finding what he was looking for; a place where the water formed a gentle pool crowding the bank. A pine tree angled slightly out over the river for shade.
He sat with his back against the trunk of the tree, casting into the slow moving water and letting his line move with the current. His eyes wandered toward the mountains, and as he studied them he had the same sensation he had had earlier with Ann. It was the sense of vague recognition, like some subconscious memory. He frowned, trying to drag whatever it was out where he could examine it, but it was too much like some dim, elusive dream; thinking about it only seemed to drive it away. He began to feel uneasy with the mountains about him, and the quiet… it was too quiet, he realized. He should be hearing the sound of birds and insects. He’d been still and quiet for long enough. The only sound was that of the river.
Damn! The peaceful mood had evaporated. He sighed, stood up, and suddenly found himself scrambling in the damp grass as the edge of the bank gave way. For a moment he thought he would be able to pull himself up, but more of the bank crumbled away and he splashed back first in the water.
Derek twisted until he could get his feet under him and stand up. The water came up to the middle of his chest; the edge of the bank was as high as his head. He sighed. He would have to wade downstream a short distance to where the bank was lower before he would be able to pull himself out. He reeled in his line and tossed the rod onto the bank so that he could get it later.
He waded about thirty feet before finding a place where the bank dipped low enough for easy climbing. It was treacherous; the constantly moving water had eroded away the soil under the bank in many places. Roots hung in the water like long, gnarled fingers. He was already in the act of pulling himself up when he noticed something under the edge of the bank, something that made a cold, black stone drop in his stomach.
That something was a body.
Derek slipped back into the water, hanging onto the roots with one hand and reaching for the small body with the other. It was pitifully light; he pushed it onto the bank easily. He pulled himself up beside the body and rolled it over. It was the boy he had seen at the store.
Oh, god! “Parker! Come here, hurry!” Derek yelled, hoping the old man could hear him over the noise of the river. The boy’s clothes were torn, but he could see no sign of a wound or blood. He put his ear to the boy’s chest hopefully. Nothing. He started working on the boy. “Parker!”
“Yeah!” Parker burst through the bushes, panting. “What the…” He saw Derek pumping on the boy’s chest and his leathery face lost its color. “My god, that’s Tony! What happened?”
“I just fished him out of the water,” Derek said grimly. “I think it’s too late, but we’d better get him to a doctor. Quick.”
* * *
Sheriff Mike Dunns leaned back in his desk chair with his feet propped on the desk’s littered top, idly thumbing through an old copy of Detective magazine. He figured it was garbage (hell, he knew it was garbage) but he read it anyway. He got a kick out of comic book super-cops. They always got whoever they were after, no matter what kind of crap got in their way, come hell or high water or continued-next-week. He grinned. So did he, in a way, even if it was just passing out a ticket now and then, or packing one or two of the local boys home when they got a little too frisky down at Sam’s place on a Saturday night.
Two years ago, just before the local election, there had been some talk of putting on a deputy to augment the police force. Nothing ever came of it, which was just as well with Mike. There wasn’t enough to keep one man busy, much less a bureaucracy of two. Not when he had managed to put on twenty-five pounds in the last year. Cider Springs was a quiet little town and he liked it that way. He’d never see either end of a promotion, but that was okay; politics
were not his thing.
Mike caught the sound of an automobile moving fast and went to the window to squint out. It was Parker’s old station wagon, and the old man had that new fellow with him. What was that name? Derek. They were carrying a small boy into Doc’s place and they weren’t wasting time.
Mike got the feeling right then that it wasn’t going to be a good day.
* * *
Dr. Hillard was in the front office when they hurried in with the boy. He lowered his head and frowned over his glasses, then pointed into the next room. An examining table stood in the center of the room, and the sterile white paper rustled when Derek laid the boy on it.
He listened to the boy’s chest and felt for his pulse, then pushed the boy’s eyelids back with his thumb. He took a penlight from his smock pocket and flicked the narrow beam across the boy’s eyes. The irises responded, but slowly.
“I saw ‘em move! He’s still alive!” Parker said.
The doctor’s face was strained, and he looked at Parker for a moment before answering. “No, it’s too late. He’s been dead at least two hours, I think.”
“But I saw---”
“What you saw is common, even after several hours. What happened?”
“I found him floating in the river. I tried C.P.R., but… We brought him here as fast as we could,” Derek said.
They heard the outer door to the office push open, and a moment later, a big man in a sheriff’s uniform appeared at the doorway of the examining room. He glanced at the boy on the table and then at the three men around it.
“It’s the Tomalo boy, Mike. Tony,” Parker said.
“I can see. Shit.” Mike fished a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket and lit one. “Anybody going to tell me about it?”
“This here’s Derek,” Parker said. Mike nodded and Derek nodded back. “We was doing some fishing, and Derek was up river from me. I heard him give a shout and I came running. He was doing what he could for the boy when I got there, giving him C.H.P. and stuff.”
