by Rio Youers
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” I insisted.
“No one is saying you have,” the chief said. “No missing-persons report has been filed. No dead body has been discovered. As of right now, there isn’t a crime. And buying a shovel isn’t against the law.”
“Right,” I said.
“But something doesn’t fit. I know it.” He tapped the side of his head and winked. “Cop intuition.”
My head drooped. The sick feeling inside bubbled through my pores and from my eyes. I wanted to run away.
“I like you, Harvey,” Chief Newirth said. “I’ve known you all your life. You sat on my knee every Christmas and you never asked for much. I know what kind of person you are.”
I wasn’t sure if he was trying to reassure or coax me, but his tone was kind and I gravitated to it—came close to reaching across the table and clasping his hands.
“I want to help you,” he said. “But you have to help me, too. If you hear from Sally, let me know. If you remember why you bought the shovel, you need to tell me. Because right now there’s a question mark over your head, and I want to be able to erase it.”
* * *
Walking home took longer than it should have. I ambled distractedly, took a few wrong turns. My mind was a scrambled, aching bird’s nest of thought.
Again, I told myself that I’d done nothing wrong, but how could I be sure of that? I knew Sally wasn’t dead; she had to be alive to steal my memories. But I’d done something with a shovel on the night she disappeared—something she saw fit to delete—and that troubled me.
I walked with my shoulders drawn tight and my hands jammed into my pockets. I scoped the streets for hunt dogs, but really, it felt as if the whole world were watching me.
* * *
I didn’t sleep that night; I tossed and turned my way into the small hours with one question—What did you do, Harvey?—banging through my mind. Eventually, the sun nudged over the horizon and colored a new day. I longed for it to be average. Quinoa flakes for breakfast. Busking in Green River Park. Feeding the birds.
Life wasn’t average anymore.
I tried, though. I managed three mouthfuls of cereal before my appetite shriveled. I pushed the bowl aside, then spun from my apartment and crossed the road to Cramp Hardware. According to Chief Newirth, I’d purchased a Razor-Back digging shovel with a forty-nine-inch fiberglass handle. They had three in stock. I took one off the rack, expecting the memory of some heinous crime to recur the moment I touched it.
I got nothing.
What did you do, Harvey?
I tested the shovel’s weight and feel, then made a few manly digging motions.
Still nothing.
The store clerk eyed me curiously. I wondered if it was the same dude who’d reported my purchase to Chief Newirth.
“Help you?” he called across the store.
I shook my head, returned the shovel to the rack, and left.
* * *
Two hunt-dog sightings that afternoon. I think. The black car in Juke Johnny’s parking lot looked suspicious, with its tinted windows and Alabama plates (the hunt dogs had no discernible accent, but the spider definitely carried a hint of the South), and I thought I saw Brickhead hovering in the doorway of the Sushi Stop, although it was difficult to be sure because of the amount of people scooting in and out. By the time I got a clear view, he was gone.
I wandered the streets for hours, everything bubbling in my mind: Sally, the spider, the hunt dogs, the shovel. I tried to find some order, some sense. My head ached. My eyes thumped.
One thing was certain: It was time to make a move. I was done with being scared and alone. No more swimming in circles like a goldfish in a bowl.
Back at my apartment, I threw some shit in a backpack, slung it on my shoulder. A cursory—pointless—look out the window. The black car with Alabama plates had gone. If the hunt dogs were out there, they had blended in perfectly.
They couldn’t stop me anyway.
I knew what I had to do.
Eight
Fear convolutes truths and cripples reason. It turns a maybe into an absolutely. Most emotions are like waves, they crash and recede. Fear is like a hand grenade; once the pin is pulled, who can say how much damage it will cause?
I sat at the back of the bus and noticed the tailing car: a silver Chevy Impala with New York plates. It stopped when we did, pulling to the side of the road, then rejoining the traffic as we rumbled away. A coincidence, perhaps—could have been someone stopping to program a GPS or send a text message—but my paranoia painted the man behind the wheel: bland face, square shoulders, heavy hands. The passenger and rear seats were similarly occupied.
They had seen me leave my apartment building with a backpack on one shoulder. They were staying close.
I took the red feather from my wallet, bringing the spider’s words to mind: The pain. The threat. The humiliation. The violation. I’m sure you’ll do anything to avoid a repeat of what has happened here. Or something worse.
The Impala was five car lengths behind. The setting sun rippled off its windshield like a burning flag. I couldn’t see the driver—couldn’t even see if there was a passenger.
You’re on my radar now. If you try to run away, or even consider keeping information from me … I want you to look at this feather.
I looked at it: a deep, bloody red within the gloom of the bus.
“This is how you’ll remember me,” I whispered.
We made a left turn onto Ramapo Avenue and the Impala, after a moment, followed. My eye tracked to the backpack on the seat beside me. Nothing much in there. A pair of jeans. Two clean T-shirts. A travel bag loaded with toiletries. Not exactly my worldly possessions. But was I trying to run away? Was that what this was, or how the hunt dogs might see it? Would they intercept me before I reached my destination?
The pit of my stomach turned cold.
“Don’t let them stop you,” I murmured, trying not to lose my resolve. “It might not even be them.”
But then Jackhammer spoke up in my mind, and his voice was very convincing: We will fuck you up, Harvey. I shrank into my seat—could almost smell his breath. We’ll crush everything you know and love.
That was when the fear kicked in, crippling reason, turning a maybe into an absolutely. The hunt dogs were in the Impala. Four—no, five of them, armed with stun guns, brass knuckles, slip-joint pliers for extracting my teeth. They were going to fuck me up. Make me bleed from every hole in my body.
The coldness in my stomach turned to nausea. I screwed my eyes shut, shook my head. The red feather fluttered between my trembling fingers. I clung desperately to that other thing it represented: the fight in me; the determination not to let the bad guys win.
You’re not a coward. Don’t let them stop you.
A right turn. The Impala followed.
You’ve got this, Harvey.
We clipped an amber light that turned red before the Impala reached it, forcing it to stop. Within moments, there was some distance and a good deal of traffic between us. No time to breathe easy, though; they’d catch up as soon as we made our next stop.
My chest boomed. I popped the narrow top window and gulped air that tasted like exhaust and steel. Not pleasant, but it cleared my head enough to know that I had to get off the bus. I sat down again, looking down the narrow aisle and through the bus’s expansive front windshield. We were approaching Spruce Plaza—a crummy strip mall at the edge of town. I could get off here, then catch another bus home. No harm done. My life of doubt and suppression would resume. At least until I was ready to try again.
Or …
I looked at the red feather.
Or I could get off, then run. If I did it before the hunt dogs caught up, they’d think I was still on the bus—would follow it to the end of the line.
A huge risk, but it just might work.
Ahead, the strip mall glimmered in the evening gloom. I pulled the cord. The bell sounded and the bus immediately slo
wed. I grabbed my backpack and stumbled down the aisle. The doors opened with a pneumatic hiss. I disembarked and looked toward town. No sign of the Impala.
Indecision halted me. Grab a bus home, or run?
Two choices, Harvey: coward or hero.
“I’m not a coward,” I insisted.
In the distance, a silver Impala with New York plates edged into view.
I made my decision.
I ran.
* * *
My long legs scissored across the parking lot and I slipped behind a jacked-up Silverado, taller than me. I peered through the cab windows but couldn’t see the road, then dashed for the Applebee’s at the end of the strip. The hostess noted my discomposure and took a step back rather than greet me. “Just grabbing a beer,” I mumbled, sliding around her as I looked over my shoulder, trying to see through the windows, but the light was fading and I saw nothing but reflections.
I skirted the bar and walked across the restaurant. The dinner rush was on and I figured I could slip through the kitchen and hit the backdoor before anybody noticed me. It almost played out this way, but some dude with dreadlocks like mine—bundled beneath his hairnet like a couple of caught octopuses—saw me and offered a fraternal, “Right on,” before realizing that I shouldn’t be there. His jaw dropped and he held up one hand, which I couldn’t help but high-five, then he said, “Bro,” in an inquisitive voice, and I replied, “Bro,” in a more assured one, before sidestepping a caddy of dirty dishes and pushing through the backdoor. It opened on a service alley littered with crushed cigarette butts, empty crates, and—against the far wall—dumpsters lined end to end like train carriages.
I heard a car’s tires squealing and my imagination conjured a shot of a silver Impala careening toward the alley. Had they seen me striding across the parking lot, or entering the glaring, neon-lit restaurant? They would send two men in the front, then the car would race—tires screeching—around back to cut me off. I stood paralyzed for a moment, waiting for them to advance on me. Then I jerked into action. I ran at the nearest dumpster—sprung off it catlike and over the wall. It was a deeper drop on the other side and I landed awkwardly. Twisted my ankle. Wobbled and fell on my ass. I picked myself up and limped across gray scrubland, then ducked into the gap between two buildings. A raccoon woke and blinked bright eyes at me, then hissed and found a gap of its own. I pushed on, pinballing off the walls, emerging into another lot where several cars were parked. I slunk from one to the next, edged onto the sidewalk. The road wasn’t busy. I stumbled across, cut through someone’s yard, scaled their back fence. Here was more scrub, sloping to a play area and basketball court. There were a few kids shooting hoops and teenage girls on bleachers smoking, lost in their cell phones. I exited the play area and headed north, keeping to the shadows where possible.
My legs were loose, coated in sweat. My heart was a gun. I scanned like a periscope the entire time. I flinched at every passing car.
I limped half a mile before resting behind a derelict diner off Route 94.
Almost full dark.
* * *
Even hidden from the road, with the sky dark but for a burn mark in the west, I couldn’t shake the feeling I was being watched. I massaged my swollen ankle and rested for as long as I dared, then moved on.
The road was both the safest and most dangerous place to be. Easy to follow, but also easy to be followed. I had left Green Ridge behind and ventured into its scenic backdrop: a rugged tract of Kittatinny Valley, marked with freshwater wetlands, ravines, and forests, dominated by a broad limestone ridge that gave the town below its name. I took Buckhorn Road off Route 94. Traffic was infrequent but fast-moving and I ducked out of sight whenever possible. It made for slow going. After two miles and close to an hour, I arrived at a small gas station about to close for the night. I bought aspirin for my ankle and a flashlight the size of my thumb. The attendant was old and slow-ass. I shifted nervously as he rang up my change. The fluorescents made me feel as exposed as a specimen on a microscope slide.
Outside again, I merged with the darkness and shoveled three aspirin into my mouth. I continued another mile or so down Buckhorn Road before scaling a moderate outcrop and—flashlight in hand—cutting through a thicket of ragged trees and shrubs. I paused for a moment. The silence was eerie and sweet. I believed—perhaps prematurely—that I’d broken away from the hunt dogs. For the first time since this ordeal began, I didn’t feel like I was being watched or followed.
I took a rigorous breath, cupped the drum of my chest, managed a weak smile. Pushing through the thicket, I joined the Silver Rock Trail, zigzagging northwest toward Spirit Lake. In the bright of day, I would be afforded a stunning view of the valley and the Kittatinnies beyond. Now I saw stars and whatever fell within the cone of my flashlight.
Ten minutes on the trail. The uneven ground was tough on my ankle. I rested atop a boulder, sprawled like a lynx, then mopped the sweat from my face and dry-crunched another aspirin. Somewhat enlivened, I rejoined the trail for another half mile—jumped a foot in the air when several deer broke from the forest line to my right and bounced beyond the flashlight’s glow. I swore at them under my breath and pushed on.
* * *
I had walked this trail dozens of times during daylight hours, but never at night. I was jarred by how unfamiliar it felt, only seeing a tiny portion at a time, as if it were being stitched together ahead of me—and unstitched behind—as I limped along. The sounds were foreign, too. Hoots and creaks. Something tapping. A distant, cold yowling. Even the silences were different. They were purer … longer. During the day, this shard of Appalachian wilderness was as natural to me as the walk to Green River Park. At night, it felt like I didn’t belong.
I recognized, thankfully, where the trail veered from my destination. I clambered up a steep incline, grabbing roots and tough grasses to hoist myself up. A brief respite at the top, plucking burs from my clothes and hair, catching my breath. I used another moment to get my bearings, then moved on. The stars dissolved as the forest folded around me. I inhaled scents of hemlock and beech. The ground crunched beneath my feet, then became stonier. I came to Fellow Creek, twenty feet wide at this point. It trickled musically, feeding Spirit Lake a mile northwest, which in turn drained into the Delaware. I crossed without pausing, but carefully. The water flowed around my knees but no higher. The ground was wetter on the other side and my flashlight picked out the glimmering shells of what had to be a hundred bog turtles. I tiptoed among them, holding my breath, like a man in a minefield.
The ground elevated steeply, then leveled out. I ducked beneath branches, pushed through spiny shrubs and ferns, and eventually heard the traffic on Ribbon Road. This is where the bus would have stopped had I stayed on it. I was getting close—ten minutes away, at most. I fetched a relieved sigh and continued through the dense forest.
That was when I heard something behind me.
* * *
I whirled with a gasp, flashlight sweeping, and saw—thirty feet away—an indistinct shape flicker between the trees. It was gone in a blink. Too nimble to be a bear, and too big—too upright—to be a deer. A trick of light and shadow, perhaps. Or a hallucination brought on by fatigue. The fear, though—still with its claws in me, and always apt to cripple reason—screamed that it was the hunt dogs. They had followed me after all.
I broke into a painful, hobbling run, directing my flashlight in vaguely the right direction and following it as if tugged by a rope. Branches whipped my face and snagged my hair. I stumbled over a rock, fell into a shallow ditch, scrambled to my feet. I managed half a dozen awkward steps before bouncing off a tree and falling again.
A confusion of noise: critters breaking, startled, through the understory; the canopy rattling; the blood pounding in my skull. Still on my ass, I turned three-sixty with the flashlight. Branches swayed. Shadows pounced. I popped to my feet and staggered through the foliage.
The ground dipped suddenly and I would have fallen again, but grabbed a l
ow-hanging branch and stayed on my feet. The forest settled around me and I dared a glance over my shoulder—saw nothing out of the ordinary.
Didn’t stop.
I emerged from the trees moments later, into high grass that ticked in the breeze. Walking backward, I studied the forest line, expecting the hunt dogs—or a black bear, frothing at the mouth—to appear. Nothing did. I counted fifty ragged breaths. Still nothing.
Just your mind playing tricks with you, I thought. Jesus, Harvey … paranoid much?
I turned dizzily, trying to get my bearings, to figure out if I was in the right place. My flashlight picked out tall weeds, a knotted fencepost, the bole of a familiar oak. I passed beneath its sprawling branches with the light angled upward. An untroubled owl regarded me with huge eyes.
I edged from beneath the oak, then heard the ominous snick of my right foot triggering the trap.
Fuck.
I tried to move—wasn’t quick enough.
There was a whipping sound, followed by something closing around my swollen ankle. Suddenly I was hoisted upward, turned upside down, hanging by one leg from a rope tied to a branch.
I twirled helplessly, pathetically, like a broken yo-yo. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
A flashlight—more ostentatious than mine—bloomed in the distance. It cut a broad triangle of daylight into the darkness, narrowing as it approached. I twirled slowly, shielding my eyes, until the light was lowered and I saw a hunched man shape behind it. He stepped closer, breathing heavily. I twirled again and watched the scarred balloon of his face float into the light.
“Harvey,” he growled.
Yeah, I was in the right place.
“Hi, Dad,” I said.
Moment: Human Nature
“What does eccentric mean, anyway?” she asks, plucking a maple leaf from an overhanging branch. “Different? Odd? Should a person be labeled because they dare to live outside the box? And if so, wouldn’t individual be a nicer label?”
