Blue Macabre

by J. W. DeBrock

  “Good idea,” agreed Jenny.

  They took Andy’s pickup and let him do the driving. It was a small double cab model, sporty and full of creature comforts. Until he’d bought the boat it had been his favorite toy. In its bed they secured ice chest, blankets, utensils, an old oven rack for the campfire, and other necessities. As they finished loading Trooper bounded into the truck bed and wedged himself between the ice chest and blankets. Andy looked at him sternly but then laughed. “Okay, I guess so.” He secured a leash to the dog and a tie down hook.

  Driving to the coast, Jenny and Karin sat in the back, Chris up front with Andy. The urn containing the ashes of Donna and the baby was secured on the floor at Jenny’s feet.

  The weather forecaster had promised a temperature of near seventy that day, and the guesswork proved to be accurate, warm sun negating the morning chill. They stopped in the coastal town of Long Beach for food and supplies; charcoal, chicken, barbecue sauce, lighter, foil, beer, ice. The grocery was near the center of the main drag and as the pain meds helped Chris’s headache he hung out with Karin and made sure she was also feeling better. They stowed the purchases in the truck and ended up doing a little window shopping. Colorful kites and streamers that swayed and snapped in an occasional gust of wind dotted the beach-oriented shops and cafes.

  Heading out to the beach from town, they cruised the paved two-lane that paralleled the beach and ocean. Finding a vehicle access, Andy eased the truck down its narrow path and sandy grade onto the beach itself. Low tide meant more running room on the sand every wary for pedestrians and loose dogs – but he was cautious of sinking spots. He headed north along the edge of the surf, darker wet sands to their right, small dunes and hills dotted with beach grass to their left. Sandpipers skittered across the sand.

  He slowed to a crawl after a couple of miles. “How about here?” His playmates agreed with his decision. They piled out of the truck and made an impromptu camp, Chris digging a hole for the campfire and arranging some driftwood to hold the oven rack. The girls unloaded the food and blankets.

  The only other living creatures near them beat the air with their wings and cried with soft bird voices.

  Chapter Eight

  Herman and Roberta Smith really enjoyed their vacation in the Cascade Range of the Pacific Northwest. They’d visited Three Sisters, Mt. Hood National Forest and Timberline Lodge, the Olympic Peninsula and National Park, and Mt. Rainier National Park. They decided to finish their tour with a foray to Mt. St. Helens. No state park had escaped unscathed by their well-intended journey; various rangers had breathed collective sighs of relief whenever they were seen to be packing up and moving on. That day, their custom pickup-trailer combo had descended upon the Visitor Information Center of the National Volcanic Monument. The Center was an easy five miles from Interstate Five at the Castle Rock exit – a convenient distance for a short day trip. However, the exceptional displays and amazing film presentation of the actual disaster whetted Herman’s appetite for pressing on and seeing the volcano herself, even if she was now safely dormant. Herman felt the Center was worth every penny of the five million taxpayers’ dollars it had cost to build. One of his favorite exhibits was a hole in the floor that had been creatively fashioned to resemble the actual core of the volcano – with clever use of mirrors and lighting it seemed to plunge deeply into the earth. Roberta suffered an attack of vertigo when she looked into it. Gratified, Herman studied the rest of the displays with a happy countenance, impervious to her incessant whining.

  A friendly guide informed them that although some of the Forest Service roads to the summit were still impassable due to snow, the Spirit Lake Memorial Highway was open as far as Johnson Ridge. They could still see parts of the blast zone and many other amazing changes to the landscape resulting from the 1980 eruption. Herman paid the guide twelve dollars for Monument passes and herded his wife through the exit door.

  Just outside was a magnificent view of Silver Lake, graced by the mountain thirty miles distant in the background and framed by lofty fir trees in the foreground. Herman snapped several pictures of the mountain and the wife, and then grudgingly released the camera to her so he could have a shot of himself in the fabulous scene. She always screwed up the pictures no matter how much or how patiently he coached; he begged her once again to get it right. He assumed the correct position and smiled. Gingerly, gratefully, he accepted the digital back from her, so pleased at her apparent success he offered her his arm as they sauntered back to their rig.

  Herman always did all of the driving. The truck did handle awkwardly when it came to towing the huge trailer, and with his investment, trusting her less-than-competent skills seemed unwise. It was a magnificent toy for him to play with. He headed east and within the half-hour ended up in front of the River Village. Roberta whined, “I’m hungry. It’s such a cute little place, local color and all that. Let’s eat lunch here.”

  He reminded her she was always hungry, and they’d just eaten three hours ago. A nasal whine from her convinced him to ease the rig off the road, and he parked right in front of the restaurant windows, blocking several normal spaces. The rest of the lot was empty.

  Despite his wife’s presence he ate with gusto, mostly due to the attentiveness of a perky waitress named Tammy. The food was tasty as well, and he made a point to personally compliment the cook. When he asked for any further helpful advice for their trip, Tammy blessed them with her standard tourist trivia.

  They headed for the mountain; Tammy smiled as she tucked away his five-dollar tip.

  Along the way, they stopped at the Buried A-Frame, a tourist attraction consisting of some unfortunate’s dream home unlucky enough to lie along the bank of the Toutle River prior to the eruption. Deeply buried in – and half dug out of – gray volcanic mud and ash, it was one of very few structures in the area to survive the scouring, gigantic mudflows. Over two hundred other homes and businesses had been obliterated by the cataclysm. Herman was captivated by an accompanying display and sign, the exhibit homemade with a Polaroid and a typewriter. It related the sad story of the little house, brand new and never occupied in May 1980, hand-built when the mountain chose to wreak havoc. “Too bad something that really deserves to be buried wasn’t around,” he remarked out loud. He regarded his rotund wife, who was squinting while reading a nearby sign. The action made her facial features even less attractive.

  He skulked back to the pickup.

  Several miles farther toward the volcano they visited the Sediment Retention Structure, or SRS. Herman really got into this – a huge concrete dam built not to hold water but instead to stand against mud and silt, in the event of a subsequent eruption. The engineering fascinated him, and he happily scrutinized the explanatory signs and diagrams at the dam overlook. Roberta languished in the truck, pouting. She preferred to frequent nice gift shops in which she could spend his money on remembrances for herself and her circle of friends back home. Herman prolonged his perusal as long as he dared – but eventually she poked her head out the window. “Herman, let’s go. I’d like to see the crater before nightfall.”

  Cruising once more, they approached the long span of the Johnson Creek Bridge. Roberta’s eyes grew wide as she saw the immense free-standing expanse. “Do you really think we should drive over that?”

  “Oh, Roberta . . . if it was built by the State of Washington then I guess they know what they’re doing.” It wasn’t often he crossed her wishes and he perked up in his seat as she craned her neck, looking out across the hundred-mile view.

  He started across the span.

  He drove slowly, prolonging her discomfort, and as he reached the approximate center he slowly braked to a stop. She whined, “What are you stopping for?” The view to the south was magnificent, a grand panorama of peaks, rivers, and forests.

  There was no approaching traffic. They had not passed another vehicle since lunch, being early in the tourist season. “I just want to get out and take a picture of that view.” Grinning, he
reached for the camera as she glared at him. She stayed humped in her seat with her flabby arms tightly crossed over her flabby belly.

  Flicking on the hazard flashers, he stepped down from the truck, satisfying himself he’d pulled over far enough to allow anything to pass easily. He walked to the edge of the barrier and gazed at the view. To this side was the south fork of the Toutle River. He observed the new channel that had been scoured by the force of volcanic mudflows, recalling from his visit to the Center the scenes of the eruption, giant forces of mud and melted snow thundering down the mountain’s slopes and devastating the pristine landscape. Snapping a few shots, he walked to the other side of the bridge to appraise the somewhat smaller vista of the partial blast zone and Johnson Creek. The construction of the massive bridge itself also fascinated him. “Half a mile long and three hundred feet high,” he said aloud. He was a little wary of heights but decided he had to get a shot of the view from the top of the bridge to the bottom of the creek, just so he could prove to his cronies back home how high up they’d really been. He peeked over the edge of the concrete barrier and shakily held up his camera. He leaned on his forearms, bracing himself against the wall to steady his hand. Sighting his objective on the screen, he clicked a picture of the creek, and another of the bottom of the nearest pylon. He held the camera for another shot, toying with the zoom feature. He looked at the screen again and froze in mid-motion. He slapped the camera to his chest and concentrated with his own eyes.

  A naked body lay perched at an awkward angle amid the greenery at the bottom of the chasm.

  Blood drained from his face. He stared a few moments, looked down at the camera, and snapped a couple of shots over the edge. Dizzy, clutching the device, he stumbled and half ran back to the truck. His wife whined, “Too high for you?”

  He growled, “Shut the hell up.” Frantic, he gunned the engine and drove the rest of the way across the bridge. At the next possible place he laboriously turned the rig around. Roberta remained silent, her eyes wide as he fought the steering wheel; she clutched the armrest of her door as the rig tilted with the sharp turns. Headed west, away from the mountain, he floored the accelerator as much as the curvy road would allow, stopping at the first place he came to. He snatched up his cell phone and dialed 911.

  The county sheriff quickly arrived with a flurry of blue lights.

  Taking a statement from an unnerved Herman Smith and looking at his photos, he suggested the couple curtail their vacation. The Smiths headed for home, relieved as they reached the Interstate and full of a story their friends back home would soon tire of hearing.

  Sheriff Adams crossed the bridge and stopped in precisely the spot Mr. Smith had indicated. He looked over the edge and there lay the corpse as described. It was so far down he couldn’t tell if it was male or female, even though it appeared unclothed. He summoned the State Police and Coroner.

  More blue lights signaled the approach of a cruiser. It stopped behind the county vehicle and Dave got out. Joining Adams, he peered over the edge. “Son of a bitch. Wonder who the hell it is?”

  “It’s too far down. Looks like we’d better wait for the Coroner and then ride with him down there in his Suburban. You ever been down to the old construction site?”

  “Yeah, once or twice. It takes a while to drive back up in there because the road’s gotten so bad. Unless I miss my guess we’ll be tied up with this one most of the day.”

  Karin watched Chris as he fine-tuned the impromptu grill he’d fashioned. He’d converted the driftwood, sandy pit, and charcoal into a useful stove. Some of the driftwood blocked the constant breeze coming off the ocean so the fire would catch easily. He began by igniting some small pieces of wood, later adding the charcoal over which to cook. The oven rack rested neatly on top, quite level. Leaving the fire to mature, she helped him prepare the food. She wrapped the ears of corn in their husks in foil, and covered the French bread. He retrieved and wrapped the chicken so it could be placed on the outer edge of the fire for slower roasting.

  Andy and Jenny had gone to comb the beach. Trooper trailed them, bounding in and out of the edge of the surf and barking at hovering seagulls. Chris and Karin became better acquainted as they tended the fire and food. They sat on a blanket near the fire, Chris nursing the sizzling chicken and adding other food to heat as necessary. They sipped a couple of beers apiece to try to discourage their stubborn headaches, and became easy with each other as they relaxed. There weren’t many vehicles on the beach – a few families scattered here and there, other hardy solitary souls walking the frigid surf’s edge barefoot. The warmth of the sun was glorious, a rare Spring day.

  A child some distance away hugged the end of a kite line, the colors in the air above painting an abstract expression of joy.

  The rugged trip into the backcountry was tiring, despite the comforts of the Coroner’s Suburban. They were not surprised to discover they’d be unable to park next to where the body lay – the rest of the distance had to be covered on foot, dragging a body bag. The terrain itself was thick with undergrowth and loose stones; the imposing bulk of the bridge and its massive pylons cast oppressive and long shadows. Dave had been introduced to many different methods of death during his career – bloody crashes, violent domestic fights, execution-style slayings. His immediate recognition of Sally and her obvious circumstances overwhelmed him. He vomited and choked in a cold sweat.

  She lay poised quite neatly in a thicket of new growth. Her neck was evidently broken for her sightless eyes regarded the whole of her back. Her arms and legs were in precarious positions, and she’d obviously been sexually violated to an unthinkable degree. The three were disgusted and outraged, each of them having seen her frequently over the past couple of years. She’d become something of a local celebrity, often the butt of jokes. They agreed she’d been killed somewhere else and merely thrown from the bridge for disposal. They scouted the surroundings for evidence but their efforts were quashed by the difficulty of the terrain. The officers helped the Coroner bag the body; they placed her in the back of the Suburban.

  Dave stopped at the restaurant as he passed back through town, their afternoon slow from the lull between lunch and dinner. Sally’s coworkers were devastated by his news; Cook sat on a stool and stared into space, while Tammy burst into tears. Dave hesitated to press them, but Cook volunteered the information of Jim Beisner and Sally arguing the previous day. A few calls created an impromptu headquarters, with Dave interviewing several locals. Nearly everyone agreed Sally had cultivated a tempestuous love life, having had numerous lovers both short - and shorter - term. She had no family. Consensus also agreed that Beisner was a worthy suspect, based on his reputation of a violent temperament and the fact he’d fought regularly with Sally in public.

  Near the end of his shift, Dave stopped in at the market and was greeted with the news Sally had been seen in the store late the night before with Christopher Rawlins. Locals naturally tended to point their fingers at a newcomer – however, Dave continued to rate Beisner as the logical choice, making a note in his book to verify Chris’s alibi should it be necessary.

  He picked Kim up at her house around seven that evening, smiling at the sight of her pretty face. Opening the car door for her, he kissed her cheek. “You look great.”

  “Thanks. You okay?”

  “Yeah.” He sighed and shut the door, bending to look at her through the open window. “Just a bad, crappy day. Not quite the ordinary garden variety.” He walked around the rear of the car and got in on the driver’s side, leaning over to give her a kiss. “What do you think about driving down to Cougar to eat? I thought it might do us good to get away a little, a change of pace. Buy you a steak.”

  They headed south on the freeway toward Woodland, the turnoff point for the state road that passed through Cougar. Dave drove a little slower than his customary speed of ‘airborne’. “Want to talk about it?” she asked.

  He paused, and shook his head. “Part of me doesn’t even want to think a
bout it. Horrible. I guess it’s gotten to me more than usual because we all knew her.” He drove in silence for a bit and then added, “I never could understand what she saw in that biker asshole. It just seemed like she was too good for that, despite what she was. Does that make sense?”

  Kim watched through her window, evening shade on the passing trees, shadows filtering the greenery with a somber cast. “Yes, it does to me. I don’t know anyone who thought he was any good for her. I know for a fact he’d go out to the restaurant and raise hell with her, then come back into town and pick up the very next pussy he could scrounge. I know ‘what goes around comes around’, but in this case I don’t think she deserved what she ended up with. Although in all fairness, nobody held a gun to her head to keep her going with the guy.”

  Dave slowed before a one-lane bridge that spanned a small, rushing waterfall; a small stoplight at each end flashed to permit passage. “Maybe it was his sense of adventure,” she continued, “that roughneck quality. Supposedly that kind of stuff appeals to some women.” She leaned over and patted his crotch. “Me, I just like the strong, silent type.”