by Peter Idone
The driver, a man in his fifties and wearing a one-piece insulated snow-suit and heavy boots, fumbled determinedly with a section of wire harness. “It’s the wiring that’s all fucked up. I think it’s a short,” he muttered.
“Is it a blown fuse?”
“A short, I said. It’s more than a blown fuse. The lamps on the plow won’t switch on. And the truck lights won’t come on unless the plow is raised, covering the beams. I can’t figure what’s causing it. Everything was fine up until a few minutes ago.”
“It could be some fuses and a short,” Logan suggested, but he could tell by the driver’s demeanor he didn’t want to hear it. “Did you radio for a mechanic?”
“And what fella? Wait until sunrise before he makes it out here? I’m an independent hired by the county. I bid on this contract. If worse comes to worst, I’ll have to drive back to the yard and have it fixed. The state patrol will turn me back if I get on the interstate and fined. I’ll be lucky if I can get this thing on the road within the next couple of hours. I am so totally fucked,” he said and dove back under the hood.
“Well, good luck. I gotta go.” Logan climbed back into the Toyota.
“What’s the holdup? We have to get moving, Joe. Creech will be waiting.”
“It’s his wiring, poor guy. I don’t think he’s leaving anytime soon. He’ll probably rig something up on his own.”
“This is no time to play concerned motorist. Fuck him. Let’s go.”
Yeah right, fuck him, Logan thought. Fuck everybody. That’s the code we all live by. He gunned the engine to make up for lost time. The taillights of the convoy were nothing more than vague dots of red. After several miles Natalie informed him of the signpost for the highway turnoff. He decelerated, looking for the milepost marker at the side of the road. He pulled over to the shoulder and stopped, turned off the headlights, but kept the emergency lights flashing. The windshield wipers flopped noisily. Visibility was practically nil. There was no way Creech was going to spot them unless he was very close by.
“I can’t see shit,” Natalie complained.
“I can flash my headlights every couple of minutes if you want.”
“That wasn’t the signal agreed upon. Creech will get suspicious.” She moved for the door.
“Stay put. Creech will be along soon. He’ll find us.”
But Natalie didn’t listen. She got out of the truck and walked a number of yards down the road, attempting to peer through the white haze of snow. After a couple of minutes, she walked back to the truck and climbed in, her black hair sugared with flakes that were swiftly beginning to melt. Logan opened the window and looked out. From the edge of the road on the far side, he thought he could detect a field, now a span of diffuse white, and the white speckled mound of the tree line in the distance. He wondered if his eyes were playing a trick on him, seeing only what his mind remembered to be here. At least there was no traffic in either direction, not at this hour and in this weather. He didn’t feel comfortable waiting too much longer with the emergency lights flashing, in case a state patrol car had a mind to pass by. He would certainly stop and ask what the problem was. He started to mull over in his mind what he would say if one did happen by. Suddenly, Natalie bounced in her seat. “Is that him?”
About fifty yards ahead, a ghostly figure could barely be seen slogging hurriedly across the snowy field. Logan opened his window to get a better look. If it was Creech, and Logan had no reason to think otherwise, he was making a direct line for the road. He watched the disjointed figure, like a marionette, take unnaturally high footsteps through the accumulating snow and then reach the more negotiable surface of the service road. Then there was the thunderous sound of a powerful engine. The dump truck drove past at speed, its headlights blocked by the raised plow, the beams illuminating the rear side of the enormous yellow steel blade. When the truck passed, its pathetic little taillights blinking irregularly, Logan sensed something really terrible was about to happen. And it did. There was no blasting of the horn, or squealing of compressed airbrakes. No swerving. The dump truck drove past at thirty-five miles an hour, maybe more, a gigantic scythe rampaging through the snow-driven landscape. The driver with the unresponsive wiring system didn’t know he had hit anything. Obviously he couldn’t see in these conditions and was certainly pissed off enough to be reckless. He probably didn’t notice anything other than a mere jolt or bump, which could be considered as nothing more than the unevenness of the road.
“Wait here, Natalie, and don’t get out of the truck.”
“What is it? What’s wrong!”
“Just wait in the truck,” he bellowed. She knew something happened, Logan thought. How could she not? They saw Creech for a moment, then the truck, and now there was nothing. The taillights of the dump truck were fading rapidly from view.
Logan didn’t have to walk far before he saw it. The half of the body below the waist lay in the center of the road. The torso, with head still attached, lay on the far shoulder. A hideous black stain on the whitening pavement was all that connected the two halves. Logan didn’t know how to react. The sight was grisly beyond belief; he had never witnessed anything this horrible in his life. It wasn’t like Tara. He felt detached, emotionally uninvolved.
Suddenly his attention was gripped by an almost animal-like wail. Natalie had run up beside him, and the meaning of the ghastly remains filled her with horror and revulsion. “No, please God, no…”
Logan took hold of her, not in an attempt to console—she was shaking violently—but rather to keep her from going near the body, or what was left of it. “There’s nothing we can do for him, Natalie. It’s over. Do you hear? We have to get out of here, or there’s bound to be trouble.” Some big, serious trouble for us both.
She buried her face in his shoulder, no longer able to look at the mutilation. The anatomical reality, in this condition, was overwhelming. “He can’t be left lying here in the middle of the road like this. All this…snow and blood. It’s cruel.”
“Let the cops deal with it. We can’t touch him. We were never here. It never happened because we didn’t see it happen.”
Logan led her to the truck. She was too limp from shock and exhaustion to resist. He sat her in the cab and even buckled the seatbelt before getting in behind the wheel. Backing up the truck for several yards, he carefully maneuvered around and drove in the opposite direction, toward the entrance to the highway. He wanted to get as far away from the scene as fast as possible. It might take days before the body was discovered, given the amount of snow that was expected to fall. But it would be found, and there would be questions. Logan had no doubt some of those questions would be hurled in his direction. Although his mind raced, wondering about the depth of trouble he was in and what Turner would do if he found out Logan had attempted to spirit the glow boy away, for the moment all he could do now was impress upon Natalie the need to keep silent on the subject.
“No matter what happens, you can’t mention a word of this. Not even to Glass. If Turner gets wind, he’ll bury all of us, Natalie. Can you do that? Can you remain quiet about this? I gotta know now or else I’ll have to make a run for it myself. Natalie?”
If Natalie heard what he said, she didn’t respond. Staring blankly out the windshield, she had become disconnected, vacant.
Throat parched, Logan fumbled for the thermos, slid the sip port open, and drank, nearly scalding his lips on the hot coffee. “I’m going to take you home now. To Glass. All right, Natalie?”
She turned to him. “What?”
“I’m taking you home. There’s nothing more we can do now.”
“What’s going to happen to Creech?”
“The authorities will have to deal with it from here on. You must never speak of it. If anyone asks anything, the cops or Turner’s people, you don’t know anything.” He glanced over and saw her shoulders heave and settle. She was crying.
“Why does it have to be like this?” she muttered between sobs.
Logan placed his hand gently on her shoulder. He didn’t have an answer for that question, at least nothing that would be a consolation. “It just is. There’s no reason or meaning for any of it. It just is and always will be.” Then, on a more selfish note, he added, “I don’t mean to think only of myself. I’m sorry about your friend, but there’s a lot more at stake here for your own well-being, as well as mine. You had no contact with Creech this whole time you’ve been missing. You have to make up something suitable for Turner when he comes around to question you, which he definitely will. He intends to debrief you, and you’ve got to avoid truth therapy at all costs.”
“Yes, it’s all very clear to me.”
They remained silent for the remainder of the ride to the Hills. Just as they were approaching the house, Natalie suggested that they not speak to one another. “Wait and see how the situation pans out.” She rummaged around her coat pocket and handed over Logan’s phone. “You won’t have to worry about anything, Joe. Everything will work out. Glass still has connections. Besides, if what you said about Turner and Glass is true, then I suspect if anything is put to me, it will be under very informal circumstances. I’m not concerned and neither should you be. There’s one thing I want you to understand, Joe. I have always been sincere with you.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“What doesn’t matter? Us?”
Logan shook his head. “I can’t help but think everything was so calculated right down to the letter. You needed help. Maybe that was sincere, or you were simply doing Glass’s bidding. Maybe he wanted me to go along to make sure you were safe. I didn’t do such a good job of it.”
“You did fine, Joe. It wasn’t your fault. None of it was. Glass should have been straight with us about everything. I’m so through with him now. Taking all the risks. Always the one out there on a limb. Easy prey. All those interviews, planning. I’m so sick of changing his diapers.”
“He’s pretty crushed about you sleeping around with those guys down at the Hotel X. He didn’t say as much, even defended you to a degree, but I can tell he’s wounded.”
“So this is what it’s about in the end? Bruised male egos?”
“Not me. What you do is none of my business.”
“And what we do is our business. I meant what I said, Joe. When this is all over we…”
“Don’t, Natalie. You and I have…nothing. We never did. You needed something from me, and I guess I needed something from you. A network. Isn’t that what you said when we first met? I was without a network and I still am.”
Natalie said nothing. Logan turned onto the drive, and lowering the plow, made a path for them to the front of the house. Natalie reached around, gathered the daypack and camera off the backseat, and got out. Logan didn’t actually hear her words, but he sensed she said goodbye. He watched as she stood in the recessed doorway, buzzing until the hulking brass door opened and Glass greeted her with nothing less than joyful relief.
Logan was out of it now, finished with the two of them for good. Now Glass and Natalie would have to carve out some new boundaries for themselves. Well, they can do it without him, Logan thought as he drove off. He was headed back to Gleason’s to have a few pints with a whiskey chaser. Or was it the other way around? He couldn’t remember. At least if anyone should ask, he could offer up a half-assed alibi about what he had done tonight. I was just getting drunk and waiting for the snow to end.
24
Life was relatively quiet during the weeks leading up to the Christmas holidays. Logan went about securing as much snowplowing work as he could find: mostly small parking lots and driveways throughout Essex and the Hills. There seemed to be no shortage of accumulation, and if the weather kept up like it had so far, he could squeak through the winter financially. It wouldn’t be much, but at least he had the three-thousand-dollar cushion to fall back on.
After playing phone tag and exchanging a number of short e-mails with his sister, they finally spoke. Bridgett accused him, playfully, of purposefully trying to avoid her. “That isn’t the case at all,” he said, defensively. “A lot has been going on. Tara’s dead.”
“Oh no. Poor sweet thing. What happened?”
“Old age, I guess,” he lied and kept the details vague and to a minimum.
“Maybe it’s for the best. She was getting on in years. She had a good life with you, Mom, and Dad.”
Yeah, thought Logan, up until that night when everything changed horribly for her and drastically for me. He was so tempted to tell Bridgett everything; she had a right to know the position he had put himself in and how it could impact her half of the estate.
“You’re all alone now, aren’t you, Joe?”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” Logan hadn’t thought much about it, but now that he heard it voiced aloud, he knew his sister was right.
“You really should try to make it out for Christmas. Todd would love to see you. You guys always had fun together. Besides, I miss my older brother. Have you made any plans?”
“Nothing specific. Besides, there’s always the possibility of work, and I have got to keep myself available. I’ve been doing some plowing. The weather has been great for that. Maybe sometime after the new year, when things settle down.”
“What do you mean? When what settles down?”
He could hear tension in her voice. He flubbed an answer. “You know. Work, the weather. All that mundane stuff.”
“Don’t isolate yourself, Joe, you know, like Dad would do. It makes a person depressed, and he would drink. I can see a lot of Dad in you.”
“He was the best. I miss him. And Mom, too.”
“I miss them terribly. But you’re still here and so am I, and I miss you. If you can’t make it for the holidays, then make a plan to come after. You can stay for as long as you like. It’s not so bad here, you know. There’s lots of interesting things to do…” A veiled indication to sell the house and move, Logan thought, but her sentiment was sincere, of that he was sure. Could he imagine himself ever living in Wisconsin? Friday night fish fry’s at the local Elks Club? 4-H fairs and possible Bigfoot sightings in the woods? He’d heard the lake districts of Wisconsin had numerous sightings over the last few years. He promised to let her know soon, and then rang off.
***
Logan finally met up with Henry Bock down at Gleason’s Pub. He hadn’t been back since the night of the big snowstorm and the incident with Creech. It was late afternoon, and Henry was waiting expectantly to hear of Logan’s situation and details of the Pine Haven adventure. He wasn’t alone. He brought along a guest, a man as old as, if not older than, Henry. It was Martin Ziegler, publisher of the Essex Reporter. Ziegler appeared well attired and manicured, definitely an elderly gentleman who took pains to keep a neat, trim appearance, as opposed to the slovenly Henry. In fact, Ziegler looked a little out of place surrounded by the seediness of Gleason’s, and a certain discomfort was evident.
Henry made introductions and ordered a beer for Logan. The pint Ziegler cautiously sipped from seemed to intimidate the old man; he winced after every swallow. “Henry has informed me that you snuck into the exclusion zone and got caught. How has your life been progressing in lieu of all that?”
“Eerily quiet. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
Ziegler smiled. “I suppose you are, especially with the likes of Turner in the equation.”
Henry interrupted. “I brought Martin along as he had uncovered some interesting things about Chris Glass which I thought you should know. When we spoke last, you mentioned not trusting anything he said.”
“Of course in your case, young man, I’m afraid it’s a little too late,” Ziegler said with a tight smile.
“He played into some very gullible people,” Henry said ruefully. “I for one. I make this admission with tremendous embarrassment.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Henry,” Logan said. “I more than anybody got too carried away.”
“Some of the things I told
you, which emanated from Glass, motivated you and pushed you in the wrong direction. For that I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m ultimately responsible for the decisions I make. In retrospect, there were some I wish I hadn’t.” He turned to Ziegler, “So what has the Essex Reporter uncovered? Are we getting a preview of the next big editorial?”
“Not from me. I’m officially retired. Besides, I was told in no uncertain terms to cease and desist any editorials about Pine Haven and Response Team Management and Control. Besides, the paper will no longer be available in print form. It will be solely Web-based from now on. I have a couple of interns running things. The site will consist of classifieds mostly. A community bulletin board. That sort of thing. If someone should care to purchase the Reporter, I’m willing to sell at the right price.” Ziegler smiled contentedly.
“Martin has an acquaintance that works for a large daily and was good enough to do a little research about Glass on his behalf. Tell him, Martin.”
At Henry’s urging, Ziegler explained what he had been told by this freelance journalist, who, he hinted without saying outright, was published frequently in the Times and a number of other large news outlets. The journalist learned that Glass had been an analyst for Army Intelligence during his stint in the service. It was unclear as to how high a clearance he possessed, but by all accounts, it was rote work. To hear Glass tell it, he was involved in psyops and information warfare, which wasn’t the case at all. The only psychological operations Glass was involved in were of his own devising. He suffered from bouts of extreme anxiety, paranoia, and depression, and was eventually discharged on a medical. Mental illness ran in the family. His mother suffered from psychological issues and had committed suicide when Glass was in college. Apparently it ran deep on that side of the family: the maternal grandfather had done the same when the mother was a little girl.
