He knew there were back roads through the hills, thought maybe Sarah could draw him a map. If there was a way to get home, keeping to high pasture and avoiding the floodplains, she would know it for sure.
He headed back down the highway and turned off onto the county road, and just past the cemetery he saw the approaching fog. It floated eerily across a field of maize, passed effortlessly through barbed wire and fence posts, crept up to him and wrapped itself around him, carrying him along in its silent grasp. He had to slow down to a crawl and feel his way back along the gravel road. From time to time, emerging abruptly into a pocket of black night, he would catch a glimpse of the land and sky. A thin sliver of cold moon hung distant and high in the heavens while fine wisps of cloud sprinted below, whipped along by the wind. The treeless hills were caught in a shifting bed of pale dappled light. Just as suddenly he would plunge back into thick fog, and land and sky would disappear.
At times it seemed as if he were not advancing at all, as if this forward motion were but illusion and it was the land that was in motion, and the land had returned to its watery origins, the flint-colored sea. Once he yawed too near the edge, careened off into a rain-swollen ditch. He sat with his heart thumping and his tires spinning in the mud and fear sounding alarm in his head, until finally he was able to coax the car forward, up the shoulder and back onto the road. He had lost all notion of time and distance, and he wondered if it was possible to get lost in such a place.
He knew he had taken a wrong turn somewhere, because the gravel road to Billy's place stair-stepped down range and township lines at right angles in a gridded, orderly fashion. But the road he was now wending along resembled the old Indian trails, had a natural serpentine flow to it that fit the contours of the land: at times it was no more than uneven ruts of flinty limestone.
He thought he must have come down off the plateau, was somewhere near the river. When he cranked down his window he could hear a swollen creek rushing by in the distance. He was hoping to find a section of road wide enough to allow him to turn around, but the mist hung over him like a shroud, and he could see no more than a foot beyond the hood of the car.
There was a sudden break in the fog, and he was briefly able to see ahead. The road had faded to a rutted cattle trail, gradually losing itself in a sea of swaying prairie grass. But there, just to the right of where he had stopped, stood an opening in a dense thicket of thorned honey locust. It was an entrance onto the land, with nothing more to discourage passersby than a rusted barbed-wire fence coiled around a pole near the road and a buckshot-riddled sign warning trespassers will be prosecuted. John backed up, then swung around into the opening. A patch of fog drifted by, and when it cleared he saw in his headlights a truck parked far ahead in a clearing. He recognized the truck instantly. It was an unusual color, a faded apple-green—Sarah had bought it used years ago from a rancher who had been particularly fond of it, wanted to sell it to someone who had a liking for things that stay the same.
He turned off his engine and sat a moment with the truck in his headlights. In the back, Will began to stir. John reached back, tucked the blanket around him, then opened the car door and got out.
Sarah's truck was unlocked and he opened it, checked inside. There was nothing to suggest vandalism, only clutter, a bit of trash, an odd Coke can and coffee cup on the passenger seat, and maps refolded and stuffed into the pocket on the door. There was even a sketchbook.
He stepped around to the front of the truck and tried to get his bearings, but he could see no farther than a few feet ahead. The fog crept around him in slow, sinuous swirls, and there was the dull roar of the creek somewhere off to the left, and a faint rushing sound, as of leaves high overhead, but he could see no trees.
Will had begun to cry; the sudden absence of motion had woken him. As John turned back toward the car, he stumbled and sent a rock clattering into the thicket. There was a sudden rustle of branches and a soughing of wings, and then the distant yipping of coyotes. Suddenly, with dramatic abruptness, the fog rolled back and he found himself standing on a great yawning stage of bare limestone. All around, massive blocks quarried in years past rose in colossal mounds like ancient ruins. In the darkness with wisps of earth-bound clouds floating through it, the old quarry resembled an ancient Greek theater.
Sarah used to come here, not only to sketch but to connect herself in a visceral way to the land, to dream her way into it.
"Sarah?"
He did not recognize his own voice.
"Sarah?" he tried again, with more force.
It was absurd, she was not out here, she was safe with Billy.
Yet, ignoring Will's wail, drawn by curiosity, he moved a little deeper into the enclosure. The wind passed through again, a strong wind that rattled the leaves on the cottonwoods and set them chattering. Far in the distance where an arm of the ledge curved around, beyond a labyrinth of blocks stacked in giant columns, a white-haired figure stood erect, Christlike, at the top.
He advanced along the ledge toward the figure, and the mist seemed to follow him, twisting and turning through the narrow lanes. The figure seemed to move, and then it disappeared in the mist, and the fog crept up and closed around him. John halted, alarmed, his breath caught in his lungs. He reached out but his hand met with nothing but air, yet only seconds before there had been rock at his fingertips. He blindly groped around in the mist, stepped forward, hands still outstretched, took another step. Finally, his fingers found solid rock. He breathed relief and advanced another step. For a split second he felt the shock of empty air below his foot, and then he flew forward, propelled into the darkness.
CHAPTER 35
John lay unconscious for a long time, and all the while the creek was rising. The waters found the shallow quarry easily, spilled freely over the ledge, cascading down the rock face to fill up the basin where he lay facedown on the stone floor. He looked quite unlike himself without that brittle energy that had always animated his face, and in this state he bore a chilling resemblance to the lifeless form that had lured him here—a sun-bleached coyote skull nailed to the exposed root of an upended cottonwood, an old tree weakened and toppled by the wind. From time to time the airborne root swayed and creaked and groaned, and the skull bobbed in the darkness.
But the wind was silent now, and the fog had lifted. A baby cried in the distance. Finally
He grew conscious gradually, as he felt the water move up his face, felt it rising around his head, over his fingertips, climbing up his legs. He panicked and choked.
Finally, he was able to lift himself on one shoulder, draw his leg up and brace himself with a hand, but his head began to spin and he collapsed into the water. He took a deep breath and rose again, crawling through the water on hands and knees. When he tried to stand, nausea broke over him and his head filled with awful pain. He sank to his knees in dry heaves, his stomach gripped with convulsions. For a moment all he could feel was his sickness; he waited until it passed, then cleaned his face with the muddy water.
He made it to his feet and staggered through the water, but whenever he tried to look up and get his bearings, he grew dizzy. He wasn't even sure which way he was heading, didn't know how far he had come. The floodwaters were spilling quickly into the quarry, dislodging branches and loose stone from the rock above and sweeping them over the ledge in a steady cascade. Stumbling through the swift current, he found a place where the limestone ridge had faulted and began to pull himself up the side of a rubble-strewn bluff, fighting against the force of the rushing waters. Time and again he would slip, and he would curse the river and then curse himself. At last he dragged himself to the top, only to find the current so powerful he could barely stand.
The road and the fields had disappeared underwater and the quarry had been transformed into a wide and treacherous crossflow of rapids and eddies. He slogged forward, through twisting, narrow lanes between columns of stone blocks, wishing with all his heart Will would cry that loud, racking cry of his so he coul
d find his way back. He scanned the darkness for his car and tried in vain to orient himself. At last he caught a glimpse of a bulky shadow low in the water, and he stumbled forward, pressing against the force of the flow. He could see it was the car, gliding slowly with the current. The headlights still glowed, but only faintly, like two dim, watery moons. It struck him he must have been unconscious long enough for the headlights to drain the battery.
Plowing through the current, he reached the car, caught hold of the bumper, and pulled himself alongside the back. Will was only barely visible through the window. The child had managed to squirm out of his car seat and had slipped to the floor, snagging his yellow raincoat on the latch, and now it was wound around his body. The water was rising around him, and he huddled there, exhausted and terrified. John tried to open the door as the BMW bobbed along, but it would not budge. He shoved away from the car and plunged underwater, fishing blindly on the bottom of the quarry floor until his fingers found a loose stone. Stone in hand, he shot back to the surface and dragged his way around to the side of the car again. He slung his head back, shaking the water from his face, and when he peered inside again Will was no longer visible. In that brief moment the waters had risen over the edge of the seat and he had sunk beneath them.
John fell upon the car with a fury, pounding until the glass shattered. Bashing away the shards from the frame he plunged inside and grabbed his son's hand. At that moment the car was caught by an eddy, and with John hanging through the window it began a slow spin. It hit a block of stone and tilted, and water spilled through the window. John could feel the jagged glass cutting into his stomach as he worked frantically with both hands underwater to free his child. Finally, Will's raincoat gave way, and John lifted him out the window.
There was no time to do anything because the water was up to his thighs and he could barely hold himself upright. Unless he found a high place quickly, out of the reach of the flood, they would both surely be swept away. Holding Will over his head, he staggered through the water toward the columns of quarried blocks silhouetted against the sky.
The water was hip level now, and the current swept him along with an alarming force. He plowed forward, holding steady against the flux, struggling to keep his balance with the child still held aloft. The dizziness returned intermittently, and he knew he was losing blood and was afraid he might lose consciousness, but he made it finally to the base of a cluster of quarried blocks.
Stretching to the full length of his height, he lifted Will onto one of the tall columns, dragged himself up after him, and collapsed facedown on the stone block. Then he raised himself on his elbows, put his mouth to the child's face, and breathed what little breath he had left into him. He kept it up as long as he could, even when he grew faint. The child felt so different now, all the energy released, the muscles relaxed, not tense and fighting, and John wished with all his heart for even a whimper, just one small sign of life. He struggled to remain conscious, trying to revive the child, but then everything around him seemed to recede. The water sounded distant and he couldn't feel himself any longer, couldn't feel the pain in his stomach or the pounding of his skull. It seemed there was just this tiny child, so small, and still.
The wind chattered in the cottonwoods nearby, and the stars blinked overhead. The quarry filled and the river moved on, and John was not alert to a great energy moving toward him.
CHAPTER 36
There were other deaths that night, and others gone missing, and the county was in turmoil, hadn't lost any lives in a flood since 'fifty-one. The pilot who found them just after dawn wasn't sure what he was seeing at first, the body curled around a bundle of some sort atop a strange formation of cut stone in the old abandoned quarry. He had to swing back around to take another look, and as he hovered just overhead with the chopper's blades whipping the floodwater into spray and laying the cottonwoods low, there was no movement, no sign of life, and he prayed he wasn't too late. They'd had reports out, and he was pretty sure he could identify the man, knew that bundle under his arm must be a baby.
Sarah had spent the night on the sofa downstairs, stretched out on her back in her jeans with Billy's oversized waders on her feet and his cell phone clutched to her stomach. Susan had called the house around ten and spoken to Billy. She was worried sick about John, said he wasn't home yet and she hadn't heard from him. Then Sarah got on the phone to Joy, and Clay promised they'd begin a search at dawn.
Around midnight the muddy water crept into the house, covered the floor and brought with it a damp chill like the outdoors. Billy kept checking on her, urging her to come upstairs to bed, but Angie had reclaimed her room and the other bedroom was crammed so full there wasn't space for a rodent to bed down there. Sarah wasn't about to share Billy's bed and he knew it. He only annoyed Sarah and she grew impatient with him, told him to stop fussing over her. Angie heard them arguing and came and stood in her bathrobe at the top of the stairs glaring down at Sarah, then scuttled back to her room and slammed the door.
"Sarah?" Joy said.
"Yeah."
"God, it didn't even ring."
Sarah hitched herself up into a sitting position. "Yeah, so? Where is he?"
"He's safe, honey. They found him."
There was a long silence on the line while Sarah fought back a sudden rush of tears.
"Thank God," she muttered.
"He wasn't very far from you. Just down at Thut's."
"What was he doing there?"
"Don't know. Maybe got lost in the fog."
"Is he okay?"
There was a slight hesitation. "He's in a coma."
Sarah dropped her feet over the side of the sofa, and they splashed softly in the water. "In a coma?"
"I don't know all the details."
"Where's Will?"
In the silence that followed Sarah seemed to freeze. She was aware only of the sound of her heart pounding in her chest.
Joy softened her voice. "He didn't make it, honey."
"What do you mean? What happened?"
"He drowned."
"Will drowned?" Sarah asked in a small voice that made Joy's stomach twist in knots.
Joy took a deep breath. "All I know is they found the both of 'em stranded up on top of one of those columns in the quarry, and John was unconscious and almost dead." Joy couldn't finish. "Oh, baby, I'm so sorry...."
Time slipped away from her, and Sarah sat there with her feet in the water and pale morning light filtering through the drawn drapes, Billy's cell phone to her ear and her hand over her eyes. She sat there listening to the silence, conscious of her own breathing and Joy's patient presence on the other end of the line. She heard Joy light a cigarette, heard her cough a time or two. Joy didn't hang up on her, though, was ready to wait as long as it took, didn't try to rush her. Finally, Sarah's voice cracked across the line.
"I need to get out of here," she said.
"Where's your truck?"
There was no reply.
"Honey, where's your truck?"
The hand slid down the face, over the mouth, and her eyes stared blankly into the shadows of the house.
"I can't stay here," and her voice grated against the silence.
"Sarah, where'd you leave your truck?"
"Up at Thut's."
"The quarry?"
"It died on me a couple of days ago. I just left it. Didn't have time to mess with it."
"Well, it's a goner now. Clay said the quarry's flooded."
"Come get me."
"I can't get in there."
"I'll walk out. I can cut up across high pasture over to the highway. You can pick me up out on 50."
"Honey, practically the whole damn highway is washed out! All the way to Florence! This county's one big lake right now!"
Sarah stood and waded over to the large picture window and drew aside the drapes and looked out at the overcast sky.
"If I can get to Florence, will you come get me?"
"Sarah, you be careful."<
br />
"Just come get me," she answered, and she sloshed toward the kitchen with the telephone crimped to her shoulder while she zipped up her jeans. "Okay?"
"What are you gonna do?"
"Don't worry about me."
"Well, I do!"
"Do something for me, please. Call Clay and see if he can find out where they've taken him."
There was a heavy silence. "Which one?"
"Both of them."
Despite her tenacity and stubbornness, and her intimate knowledge of that place, Sarah could not best the river. She stood on a bluff that morning and surveyed a land strange and foreign to her. She had seen the hills transformed and molded by the seasons, painted in the muted browns of fall and the vivid greens of spring, blanketed in white snow and baking in the scorching light of an August day. But she had never seen them like this. The lowlands were now a continuous ribbon of water wending through the valley, and of human settlements there remained only the top story of a house or two or the roof of a barn. Out of this sea the low hills rose like islands, like something cut loose and set adrift.
It took her until nightfall to get back to Billy's house, and all she could do was pace, sloshing from room to room while she tried to reach Joy on the cell phone. Billy was concerned about the battery running low since they werewithout electricity now and he couldn't recharge it, and they got into another argument. Sarah left the house with a sleeping bag under her arm, waded to the barn, and climbed up to the loft and spent the night there.
It took nearly a week for the floodwater to leave the house, and all the while they were kept busy sweeping, had to keep the muddy water in constant motion so it wouldn't settle and dry to a hard sediment on the floor. During that time Sarah learned they had buried little Will up in Emporia, some cemetery nobody'd heard of. Joy thought it wasn't proper, thought they should have given Clarice a say-so in the matter, or at least buried him in Lawrence, where the Wildes lived. But Sarah said there wasn't any point in that, said none of them would ever visit the grave.
Sarah's Window Page 17
