Blue Creek, May 22

          Richard finished his nothing shift with nothing paperwork.  The night's highlight had been discovering that a reported drug party on Otter Creek had only been three cars worth of highschoolers skinny-dipping under the bridge.  He found no liquor, and no one appeared intoxicated, but the speed with which they took his suggestion to call it a night suggested that several cans or bottles had found their way into the bushes.  Rather than look for them, he followed the kids back to town.

           "Guess we can finally forget about Paget being in the area, Carter," said the sheriff as Richard passed his desk on the way out.  "They just made him for a double homicide down in Fayetteville."

69.

           "Catch him?"

           "Not yet, but it's just a matter of time.  The guy's careless."

           "I hope so, Shug."

          The nickname still felt odd to him, but the sheriff preferred it.  Shug, was pronounced like the first syllable of sugar.  Such odd nicknames were common in the hill country.  Shively's came as a result of a tough two yards he picked up one Friday night.  After the two hundred and fifty pound fullback blasted through an equally large nose guard as if he were wet paper, the coach had responded with, That was sweet, boys---pure sugar!  From then on, whenever a few hard yards were needed, the quarterback would say "Let's pour a little sugar on ‘em."  Shively had been "Shug" ever since, a name that proved as effective on the campaign trail as it had on the gridiron.

           "Isn't this something?" said his boss.  "I got to work while the new deputy gets a whole two days off."

          He carried his hat in his hand as they went to the door.  Shively literally couldn't put it on until he was outside, beyond the reach of the six foot eight inch doorways. 

           "This is the first weekend I haven't worked since I been here," said Richard.

           "Nonsense.  You just got three weeks off in a row."

           "Unpaid vacation is not what I call days off.  By the way, mind telling me how why Hall dropped the charges?"

           "I just pointed out that making an issue out of it could land the whole thing on the front page of the paper.  His wife knows he's been . . . keeping questionable company, but having it all hung out there in public ain't exactly something she'd appreciate."

           "Thanks.  I owe you."

           "Good.  I'm glad you know that.  Pay me back by not using excessive force anymore."

           "His head hit a rock, Sheriff.  It was a freak accident."

           "You were mad."

           "I don't much like seeing a man knock a woman around, even a prostitute."

           "Next time, restrain the guy.  If I wanted someone to suplex assault suspects, I'd have hired the Red Neck Assassin."

          The reference to the pro wrestling circus brought a chuckle from Betty, the dispatcher.  Richard hoped the incident didn't generate his own nickname.

 

May 23, Alley Spring

          They pulled into the Alley Spring parking lot at sunup, intending to get an early start down the Jack's Fork River, but the canoe rental didn't open until eight so they drove around until they found the Hill and Holler Café.  The knotty pine walls were festooned with horse and buggy era tools.

           "Nice décor," Richard said eying the steel traps above their booth.  "Duck under the table if the New Madrid fault gives way though."

70.

          "I love to see you this way," said Jill reaching for his hand.  "I'm glad you went to see the doctor.  What did he say?"

          He squeezed her hand, but his smile tightened.  "Just that I'm . . . that it's that post traumatic stress stuff," he mumbled.  "It's nothing to worry about, just memories and imagination.  As far as sleep goes, I just need to cut down on the caffeine."

          Jill knew that if she insisted on continuing, she would get nothing but single word answers until he became irritated enough to stop talking completely.  There would be no fight, but it would spoil the rest of the day.  A waitress arrived, bringing menus and a way past the strained silence.  Richard ordered the biggest breakfast on the menu, the Lil' Abner.  Jill surprised him by ordering the same two-plate meal.

           "You can eat all that?" he asked.

           "I am eating for two," she said.

          It was trite, but voicing the thought brought a smile she could feel all the way to her ears, and the thrill of it prickled the back of Richard's neck.  Her obvious joy made him feel like he could face down anything, especially something as silly and harmless as a nightmare.  If this wonderful woman was going to have his baby then there couldn't be anything terribly wrong with him.

           "Doc and I have a therapy session on Wednesday," he said.

           "Therapy?  I thought he was a GP."

           "He fancies himself an amateur shrink.  We're going to tip a few and drown some worms."

           "Okay, so you're going fishing," she said, deciphering the slang as if it were code.  "But I totally missed that first part."

          Though English was her second language, Jill spoke and wrote it better than most of the educated people he knew, but slang sometimes threw her. 

           "We might share a beer or two when we take a breather from hauling in monster bass," he explained.

           "I thought you might like him," she said.  "You have a lot in common?"

          It shouldn't have surprised him that she knew of Hoag's military background.

           "We'll swap fish stories and talk about women," he said.

           "Oh.  You will tell lies."

           "Men always lie about the one that got away."

71.

           "Are we talking about fish or women?" she asked with faux sternness.

           "Well, let's see," he said, feigning seriousness.  "I don't remember any women that got away, but then again I only hooked this one keeper."

           "I think we should terminate this extended metaphor before someone gets himself in trouble," she said as the waitresses came with two plates for each of them.

          Jill stared agape at the eggs, ham, hash browns, and waffles.  "Oh my!" she gasped.

           "Maybe you're having twins," he suggested, covering her hand and smiling broadly.

 

          The Alley Spring mill was a two story red clapboard building restored to working order.  Tourists could watch the undershot water wheel drive the grindstones, and purchase bags of authentic stone ground flour and cornmeal.  Neither the mill nor the canoe place would open for another half hour, so they walked around.  Strangely light blue water welled from the bottom of the circular millpond.

           "There's no river," said Jill in surprise.

           "It's a spring," he said.  "That water you see bubbling up down there has that blue color because of dissolved gasses."

           "What is that?" she asked pointing down at what appeared through the shimmering spring water to be untrimmed hedges growing along the rim of the spring.

           "That's watercress, I believe."

          Jill gazed into the fountain of the deep with the childlike awe that the wisest of adults retain their entire life.  "If this were in Europe, the Romans would have made a city here.  Today it would be a spa."

           "Ah the Romans' penchant for cleanliness!  They may have been blood-thirsty bastards, but at least they were clean blood-thirsty bastards."

           "You must not curse when we have a child," she said, although he could tell from her expression that she appreciated his effort at wit.

           "Bastard is a legitimate word for polite conversation."

           "A child would not be capable of making such fine distinction," she said seriously.

           "First no smoking and now no cursing.  Pretty soon I'll have no manly vices left."

           "Am I being bitchy?" she asked seriously.

72.

           "No.  You're being your Aunt Mirabelle.  That's a good thing I think.  I wish I could have met her."

 

          They rented a canoe to float down the Jack's Fork and on to Owl's Bend on the Current River where an employee would truck them back to their car.  Richard let a boisterous party of canoers to get well clear before putting in, the sound of drunken floaters not being his idea of a nature experience.  Although Jill could swim like a fish and the Jack's Fork ran around gravel bars, not over boulders, he chose a wide-bodied Grumman canoe, erring on the side of caution.

          With hardly a trace of civilization intruding they slid silently through narrow winding stretches of green water sometimes overarched by a canopy of sycamore, maple and cottonwood where pendants of possum grape vines dangled almost to the water's surface.  On open stretches willow thickets and gravel bars shimmered in the sunlight.

           "No two years are the same," he said as he pulled in his paddle to drift with the current.  "The gravel bars are always changing and shifting position."

           "Unspoiled," she almost whispered, "It's as if we are the first people to ever visit it."

           "In the spring we could be.  Sometimes, if they have an extended period of rain, the water can go up twenty feet.  That changes everything.  It's a new river."

           "Twenty feet?" she asked skeptically.

           "Look," he said, pointing up at a white barked sycamore leaning over them.

In its gnarled crotch, high above their heads a mass of flood debris was packed together like a bird nest.

          The sound of rushing water drew his attention downstream.  When they took a turn around a gravel bar, Richard saw a narrow chute that fell by what he guessed was ten to twelve feet in a short span.  He back-paddled, then turned the canoe in a wide arc toward a shallow area to the left so that he could study the situation.

          Peering past him, Jill pointed to a clump of tangled willows.

           "Over there, Richard."

          He paddled over to investigate.  Here the water flowed in a wide, but very shallow, slip of slowly moving water through which weeds with leaves almost identical to the willow trees grew.  If they went this way there was a good chance they would ground, but they could walk the canoe through to the next pool with nothing but wet shoes as a consequence.

           "Lets go down this way," he said.

           "Why not go through those little rapids," she said enthusiastically.  "That would be fun."

73.

           "If we turn crosswise the canoe will tip.  The baby---"

           "I'm less than two and half months pregnant.  The baby has plenty of padding."

           "Okay," he said reluctantly, "but keep your paddle in the boat and let me handle it.

          He slipped them into the mouth of the chute with more trepidation than the circumstances warranted.  The accelerating water did most of the work as they sped through the S shaped torrent, while he cooperated with the current.  A last forward lurch propelled them onto the calm surface of a large pool.

           "Well done," said Jill.  "See there was nothing to worry about."

          He released his breath as if he had just survived a death-defying stunt.  Looking back up the chute, he wondered what about such an innocuous stretch of water should have concerned him so.  He had cast fishing line while running such water before, but now his pulse was racing.

           "That was fun," said Jill enthusiastically. 

 

          The Current, like the Jack's Fork, was spring-fed, but considerably larger.  A willow tree ahead lay low in the water, dipping rhythmically as the river tried to pry it loose and carry it downstream.  For the moment a tenuous equilibrium sustained, but the relentless river would sooner or later have its way and pieces of it would fetch up on a gravel bar to sustain beetles and grubs, and become camp wood.  Perhaps a remnant would sprout among the detritus to be reborn.

          They were emerging from the wild.  Further down forestland alternated with privately owned property upon which moderate to expensive houses and summer cabins stood.  Stairways led from floating peers up steep slopes to decks well above the high water mark.  Owners watched an unending parade of canoeists and tubers during the summer.  This far up, however, the river was still pristine.  Crows commented on their passage, herons flew away to regain solitude, and jays warned of their approach.

          As they rounded a bend, the water burbled loudly as it ran through a narrow chute off the main channel to their left.  Richard looked ahead, and his heart kicked in sudden dread. 

           "My God!  A kid!" he gasped, frantically thrusting his paddle into the water.

          Startled by his words and the suddenly rocking, Jill grabbed the sides of the canoe with both hands to steady herself.  "In the river?" she asked, searching for what he had seen.

          A fully clothed elderly man stood waist-deep in the river, searching intently about him in the water a hundred yards ahead.

           "Oh no.  Oh no," she said as she picked up her paddle and tried to help him.  "Do you see it?"

74.

          "No," he grunted as he paddled furiously.

          Now they could see the crowd standing at the shoreline.  The man, dressed in black trousers, white shirt, and dark tie, made his way slowly back to the bank, moving deliberately as old men do.  Richard pulled his paddle in and drifted with the current as the sound of a cappella singing carried above the noise of the rushing water. 

Shall we gather at the river;

The beautiful, beautiful river;

Gather with the Saints at the river;

That flows by the throne of God.

          Richard back-paddled, steering toward the shallows where he dug his paddle into the gravel to hold the canoe steady.  Jill pulled a T-shirt on over her swimsuit.  The man handed his glasses to an elderly woman before holding out his hand for a teenager in a long pale blue dress.  He led her out to the area where Richard had thought his was searching for a drowned child.  With a folded handkerchief in his left hand, he had the girl place grip his right wrist with both hands as he said something to her.  She nodded.

          He turned to the silent congregation, raised his right hand, and intoned in a loud, clear voice, "By the authority of Shiloh Baptist Church, and upon her profession of faith, and in accordance with the ordinance commanded by our Savior, I baptize this my sister, Emily Myers, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost."

          As he finished, he placed the handkerchief over the girl's mouth and nose, put his right hand between her shoulder blades, and bent at the waist, tilting her until she was submerged briefly in the cold water.  As she rose from the symbolic watery grave, he helped her regain her footing.  Then the two walked back to the gravel bar as the congregation began a rendition of Amazing Grace.  Each came forward to shake hands with the girl and the preacher, both of whom now stood draped in towels brought for the occasion.

          When he was sure that the ceremony was over, Richard loosed the canoe and let it slide past.

           "Thank you for your consideration, young man," called out the preacher as they passed.

           "It was a nice thing to witness," said Jill.

           "Bless you, young lady," he said with a wave.

          Jill returned it with a smile.

           "That was quaint, don't you think?" asked Richard when the water had carried them around the gravel bar and beyond view of the congregation.

75.

            "Quaint is a rather condescending word, don't you think?" rejoined Jill as she took off the shirt.

           "Come on, Jill.  God doesn't require people to freeze to death.  They've been building baptisteries since the Middle Ages."

           "Yes, but it is the way I imagine New Testament baptisms."

           "It's a small congregation.  I don't guess they had anywhere else to baptize."

           "It was beautiful," she said softly as she replayed it in her mind.  "It is not a christening.  Is it their confirmation?"

           "It's a public profession of faith."

           "Were you baptized?"

           "No," he said irritably.  "Look, can we talk about something else?"

           "I didn't mean to intrude," she said, obviously hurt.

           "You aren't intruding.  I just don't like to talk about religion.  It . . . complicates things between people.  I'm sure those people were sincere, and that's all that counts."

           "People can be sincerely wrong," she said.  "Not that I think those people were.  It was beautiful and . . . it seemed holy."

 

11:30 AM, Canaan Camp

          Joshua hit the ladder-back chair with his knee, sending it clattering to the floor.  Undeterred in his frantic pacing, the old man tangled his foot in the slats and toppled headlong to the hardwood floor.  Paget had watched the old man's manic behavior with increasing amusement.  Suppressing a laugh, he went to help him up.

           "You okay, Joshua?" he asked.

           "Someone grabbed my foot, Cal.  Just reached out there and---clipping is what it---you can't do that---the old serpent and his sharp teeth---or forked tongue---Indians say that---just stuck out his foot and---where did he go?"

          The old man had been ranting in disjointed sentences for the past fifteen minutes, his phrases a mixture of fractured quotations, slurred platitudes, and garbage.  Blood snaked in a thin line from his goose egg in his eyebrow past the corner of his eye and down the side of his nose.

           "Got you a little bump there, Joshua.  Does it hurt?"

           "I'm fine---just hunky-dory---leave me alone---gotta dance some more---David danced naked before the Lord, John, uh Cal---Calvin---Kevin---er---what's-your-face," blurted the old man, unable to slow the pace of his rambling enough to organize his thoughts.

76.

           "Let's sit you down," said Paget, maintaining his grasp of the old man.

He had only slipped the old man half a street dose of PCP.  Either it hadn't been cut enough, or the old guy just had a really low tolerance.

           "Unhand me, gray beard loony," said Joshua, jerking away so quickly that he fell again.

          His head hit the floor with a resounding thunk, but the old man just rolled to his side, scrambled to his feet, and continued his manic pacing.  He whirled, almost losing his balance again, then turned a blank stare in Paget's general direction as blood ran into his eye.

          Joshua blinked, and then put his hand to his face.  He examined the blood on his fingertips intently.  "Stigmata!" he said, lurching forward again.

          Paget captured the old man, and steered him to the bathroom to wash off the blood and put a band-aid on the cut.  Joshua was less manic now, but his words still made no sense.  It wouldn't be a good idea to let anyone to see the old man for the rest of the day.

When the old man's turned unfocused eyes on him, Paget laughed aloud, unable to restrain himself as he thought of The Prophet stumbling around drunkenly and raving like a maniac.

           "Feelin' the Spirit, Father Joshua?"

           "Feeling the Spirit?  Yes---yes I am.  Tongues of fire.  Tongue on fire.  Fire the tongue and in the belly, the belly of the beast.  His mark is everywhere."

           "Well, we're going to have to make sure you don't get too worked up and try to do something miraculous.  Don't worry.  I'll take care of you."

           "Eli took care of Samuel---no, Samuel was---or was it---Saul called up Samuel---can't consort with familiar spirits---but that witch of Endor, she called him and he was really---old lady McWilliams was a witch---but which way is up?  Or down---gotta get down---gotta dance!"

          Paget almost lost his grip as the old man tried to whirl away.

           "Hold on, Joshua.  We'll dance later.  Can't let people see you like this.  You had too much wine, but don't worry.  I won't let anyone know."

           "Too much wine?" mumbled Joshua.  "Spirits!  Familiar spirits!  The witch is dead---dead wrong---a dead ender.  The Witch of Endor!"  Joshua whirled his head around anxiously, his bony fingers digging into Paget's forearm.  "Is this Fire Lake?"

           "No.  You're just tripping, you party animal."

77.

                   "Animal?  NO!  Beast!  The spirit of a beast---the spirit is a beast---is---but the spirit is weak."

           "Makes about as much sense as anything else you say," murmured Paget under his breath. 

          He had to shut the old fool up before he drove him crazy.  A roofie and some more wine finally got the old man calmed.  Fifteen minutes later Joshua lay across the bed with his shoes off, his eyes and (more importantly) his mouth closed.

          Thank goodness the old faggot's finally asleep, thought Paget in relief.

           "David was a friend of the Lord," said Joshua in a clear strong voice without opening his eyes.  "Are you my friend, Cal?"

          Startled, Paget didn't answer for a moment.

           "Cal?"

           "Yeah, Joshua I'm your friend.  I told you I'd take care of you.  That's what I want to do."

           "There is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother," said Joshua weakly.

          A moment later he was snoring.

 

Shannon County, 7:15 PM

          Winding Highway 19 slithered over and through thirsty hill land, most of which had been set aside and designated Mark Twain National Forest.  The slithering finally became too much for Jill.

           "Richard, I have to stop for awhile," she said.  "I'm not feeling so well."

           "Is it the baby?" he asked fearfully as he looked for a place to pull off the shoulderless road.

           "I'm just a little nauseous."

          He saw a dilapidated mailbox and turned into the weed-infested drive.

           "Are you sure you're okay?" he asked once he stopped.

           "Yes," she said weakly as she opened the window.  "This is the price one pays to changing hormones."

          To get away from the road and find some shade, he pulled further down the drive and parked under a profusely leafed rock maple, the only thing flourishing in the abandoned homestead.  Jill examined the building, trying to distract herself.  The broken back house bespoke the humble life once centered there.

           "I hope the old woman never saw her house in this condition," she said.

78.

            He smiled.  "I say, Holmes, how did you deduce that this was the home of an old woman?"

           "Elementary," she replied, falling in with the game.  "That an old person lived here is obvious from the modest size of the house.  No one born after the last World War would content themselves with such a humble abode."

           "But you also divined that it was a lady who lived here."

           "A widow," she said.  "The mail box says Mrs. E. A. Brown, and the Mrs. is painted in darker letters than the rest because it was added only after her husband died."

          He was glad she could tease. 

           "Oh.  I just remembered.  There's Dramamine in the glove box."

           "Let's not take any unnecessary medication.  Let me sit here a moment.  Could you get me some water from the cooler?"

          Richard brought water and a Coke for himself from the trunk.  Returning to the driver's seat, he handed the plastic bottle to her.  She took a long, slow drink, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply.  "Do something for me," she said.

           "Sure, Babe, anything."

           "I hate to ask, but . . . one of my students left school unexpectedly.  His name is Shane Sanders.  Do you think you can find out where he is?"

          The name didn't mean anything to him.

           "He seemed to be doing well, and then he stopped attending class."

          He thought that only a rookie professor would worry about a no-show student.

           "Kids drop out all the time, Jill."

           "Yes, but I was helping him with his writing, and he was making excellent progress.  I wonder if maybe I did something that caused him to quit."

           "Lots of kids are first semester wonders.  They party, neglect their work until they screw up their GPA, and then just chuck it.  I'm sure you're not responsible."

           "I may have been.  Perhaps he misinterpreted the attention I gave him.  I was totally professional, Richard."

           "Oh.  You think you broke his heart and he ran off with the carnival, huh?" he asked with a smile.

           "It is not funny.  Maybe when I am more experienced, things like this will not bother me.  I just need to know that he is okay.  Please do this for me."

          If she hadn't been pregnant, Richard would have been tempted to dismiss her suggestion as silly.  "I'll ask around," he said.  "What's his name again?"

79.

           "Shane Sanders.  He's a really nice young man."

           "I'll take care of it tomorrow," he said as he started the car.  "You feel like heading on home now?"

           "Yes, but go slower please."

           "Of course.  Keeping your eyes on the road helps, Babe."

           "Thank you for the suggestion," she said.  "And for humoring your naïve wife."

 

May 24, Singletree.

           "Shane don't live here no more," said the bleary-eyed woman defensively.  "Whatever he done, I don't know nothing about it."

          According to DMV, the pinched-face woman peeking through the half-opened door was only thirty-seven.  She looked fifty-seven.

           "As far as I know, he didn't do anything, ma'am.  I'm just doing a favor for a friend.  He left college a couple of weeks ago, and one of his teachers was concerned."

           "Well I don't know where he is," she said distractedly as she kneed back the toddler peeking around her.

          The curly headed girl gave Richard a wrinkle-nosed smile, revealing two teeth stained the same shade as her jelly smeared cheeks.

           "Bo!" shouted the woman over her shoulder,  "Come get Melanie."

           "Check that place he works over to Blue Creek, or with his friends if he's got any," she suggested, obviously wanting to end the conversation.

           "Is there anyone else that might know where he is?  A girlfriend perhaps?"

           "Not that I know of.  Check with that Clifford boy again.  He's probably hanging around with him again."

           "Clifford?"

           "Vance, that boy what tried to burn down the school."

          Richard nodded.  He only knew the sketchiest details of Shane Sanders juvenile record, which, he reflected, was as it should be.  From Doc Hoag he had learned that the school arson had landed Shane in the Sears Center in Butler County, and that he had been on juvenile probation at the time of that incident.  This was the first time Richard had heard of the "Clifford boy."

80.

           "Does the Clifford family live near here?"

           "Not no more.  They went back to St. Louis or wherever they come from.  Run off from that boy, not that I blame them."

          A red-face man appeared behind the woman, breathing audibly as he came forward to take care of the situation.

           "Look, we don't know where he is," he said sourly, "And if it's all the same to you, we really got a lot of work to do around here."

          The litter-strewn yard with its ankle-high weeds made Richard appreciate the remark.  The couple probably did have a lot of work they were going to get around to some time.

           "Are you Shane's father?" he asked.

           "Tried, but it didn't take," he said dismissively.

          Apparently he was no longer interested in assuming the role.

           "Maybe you did a better job than you think," suggested Richard.  "I understand he's pretty well kept his nose clean since Sears.  He's got a steady job.  He's back in school."

           "I hope so.  He done caused the family enough shame.  At least he's still carrying his real Daddy's name instead of ours," inserted the woman.

          Richard thought he understood how the young man had become a troubled teenager.

           "If you ain't got no more questions," began the man, seeking to end the unwanted interruption of his Saturday morning.

           "No," interrupted Richard, also eager to end the meeting.  "Thanks for talking to me."

          What a dismal atmosphere to grow up in, he thought as he made his away around a rusty bicycle with finger thick weeds growing through the spokes of its one remaining wheel.  As he slid into the seat of the cruiser and keyed the ignition, someone pecked on the glass.  An overweight teenager with eyes like the man he had just spoken to waited for him to roll down the window.

           "Are you Shane's brother?"

           "Step-brother," he corrected.  "Shane went out to that church camp."

           "The one they call Canaan Camp?"

           "That's what I hear.  He in trouble again?"

           "No, I'm just doing a favor for one of the teachers at the college who's worried about him leaving school."

81.

           "Well, he's out there with those freaks."

           "Freaks?"

           "Bunch of weirdoes.  He'll fit right in," said the boy with a crooked-toothed smile.

Richard backed the car out of the drive, thinking that, considering his family relationship, it was a wonder Shane Sanders hadn't gotten in worse trouble than he had.  If a church was supposed to help lost souls maybe the boy was headed in the right direction.  Jill would be both relieved and disappointed with the news.

          Directing words to the boy he had never met, he thought, Well, kid, you can't get in much trouble at church camp.