Taking a break from usual blog this week. Instead, I'm reprinting CHAPTER ONE of my first book in the SHADOWWATER Series. The sequel will follow later this Fall. For updates, please go to www.shadowwater.net
SHADOWWATER - CHAPTER ONE
Everything she touches
turns to dust
The smells
struck first. She paused to take in the crisp greenness of spring foliage; windswept
earth tickling her nose with a faint, salty odor; damp pines with the familiar
aroma of her grandfather’s pipe tobacco. Then, as she drew closer to the
clearing she spotted a ring of oaks where, as a little girl with razor-straight
black hair she would run among these giants, singing with the birds, laughing
with the breeze and playing tag with her little brother. A child’s oasis, but
it was the woman who got to work.
Picking up
her surveying equipment, her custom-made boots crunching the ground as the
woman walked along the needle-strewn forest floor, she followed an inner
compass that drove her until she came to a clearing where she positioned her
tripod. Pausing seconds to take a deep breath she forged on with her work.
If she had
allowed herself, the woman would have heard the high-pitched and haunting
screech of a Red Tailed Hawk as it swooped down to investigate the stranger.
Disappointed, the raptor extended his talons, squawked mercilessly, and flew
away.
Though the
bone-chilling dampness of early spring penetrated her faux suede jacket and
clung to her skin, the young woman flicked away a slight shiver like a pesky
fly. The relentless focus of the surveyor’s ebony eyes explained her chosen
profession. She peered into the scope to take her first measurement. What she
saw startled her. She regrouped quickly and attempted another read.
“You are
betraying our people,” boomed a deep, hollow voice of an unknown origin.
The surveyor
whipped around, her dark eyes scanning the forest for an answer, fear creeping
along her skin.
“Stop!” She
gasped and rubbed her arms. What
am I doing? I’m safe here.
With one
more fateful try the young woman cleaned the scope and tried to relax as she
observed the marker. Her nostrils flared as she caught a pungent, canine scent
getting closer. Before she could step away, a chorus of growls signaled the
attack. With a thump the victim hit the ground.
The woman
scratched and screamed as an animal stripped the flesh from her leg bone. The
woman struggled weakly as she made a final attempt to fend off her attackers,
rushing blood spilling from her body and exciting the animals. She began to
lose consciousness.
A last
thought ebbed through her mind, that of a frightened little girl sitting on an
old man’s knee saying, “I see, Grandfather.”
* * *
Rusty Keenan
didn’t fit anyone’s description of what a contemporary reporter should be. He
was photogenic, streamlined machine, the type media bosses love. The only apt
adjective would be “driven.” He never gave up on a story, but wouldn’t jump
from an airplane. He wore penny loafers, khakis a size too large, and Brooks
Brothers shirts, but no one dared tease him about it. He’d hang with the gang
at the local bar, but would drink just one beer and go home, and yet that
constant drive had been stalled in traffic. Internet traffic.
The Internet
had begun to replace newspapers and magazines. Rusty, a hunt-and-pecker, could
write his stories for the paper on the computer, but didn’t have the
techno-savvy to do more. The media revolution brought too many changes. The
publishers wanted fresh blood. Writers were expected to know Quark and Facebook
and how to tweet. Rusty had resigned himself to falling into obscurity until
Marv Newman kicked his butt.
Like his
reporter, the editor became a casualty of newspaper layoffs. When he got the
job at the startup e-Zine, the protégé remembered his onetime mentor, Rusty
Keenan. Both were paid less money now, got less respect, and faced the learning
of new skills, but at least they were working, unlike so many of their former
colleagues.
Lately,
however, Rusty had been in a rut. For weeks he had scanned the Associated Press
and Reuters’ websites for moment-to-moment stories. He only needed one, a
headline that he could chase and make his own. This was one advantage of
becoming a blogger.
“You’re
going to drive yourself crazy, friend,” said Marv. “Just stick with the
paprazzi stories and do your usual spiel. Rusty, you aren’t here to win a
Pulitzer.”
“Humor me,
Marv. I’ve posted my blog today. You have better things to do than…”
The
transition was harder for Rusty. In his mind he had given into the capitalist
cause and taken a job he knew would seal his trip to purgatory. He and Marv
tried to dress it up and say it was an online version of Time magazine,
but they knew People
better described it. Rusty could hear his father and grandfather cursing Rusty
from heaven.
“Wait a
minute, Marv,” Rusty said. “I think I’ve got something.”
“Native
American surveyor killed by wild animals. Our readers will sink their teeth
into that one,” Rusty said, immediately regretting his turn-of-phrase.
Marv usually
overlooked Rusty’s occasional tactlessness, but this time his editor rolled his
eyes. “Hey. This is on your time if the story is a bust.”
Grabbing his
rain jacket from the back of his chair, Rusty told his editor he was off and
trotted through the double doors. The editor always smiled when he heard that
comment, believing the phrase “I’m off” suited the newspaperman. They had known
each other long enough. Marv wouldn’t discourage his reporter. He’d let Rusty
go, for now.
* * *
Her job was
the closest she had to being independent and not stuck in an office for endless
hours. She knew her way around from the Upper Cape to the Outer, much like a
lifetime Cape Codder. An opportunity to take in local scenery was another
advantage. Often she’d stop to watch a glider being towed into the air at a
local airstrip, or workers in the smaller cranberry bogs harvesting the
delectably tart fruit when in season. How she loved rolling down her windows to
breathe in the salt water along the marshes, or taking a side trip down a side
trip near a lavender farm where she would idle the car and inhale the rich
scent of the purple blossoms.
Lili Ribault
had another run. She was returning from delivering plans to an architect in
Hyannis. Crawling patiently in the usual pre-summer traffic on Route 28, Lili
felt her shoulders tense and her adrenaline rise. A putterer drove ahead of her
car, revealing its tourist status with its out-of-state plates.
Although it
had been cold and rainy just five miles behind her, a warming sun welcomed her
as she approached the Nausequoit Meeting House. She wondered if Cal had talked
to his grandfather about Cal’s future. Lili understood that either of the
decisions facing Cal would change his life forever, and even Lili didn’t know
what Cal had decided.
An old
pickup truck stopped suddenly and Lili returned to the present moment, as she
pressed hard on the brake in her own vehicle. Ahead of her a parade of state
and local emergency vehicles with lights flashing moved slowly as they passed
through the entrance that paralleled the graveyard. Without a second thought
Lili followed the vehicles before the last police car had a chance to stop her.
She pulled
into the public parking lot and noticed two paramedics opening the ambulance
door. The collapsible gurney was being pushed into the back, but Lili wasn’t
able to catch a glimpse of its cargo. She didn’t want to speculate who it could
be. Instead she watched the man and woman turn to talk with a tall man with
salt-and-pepper hair, who gestured with his weathered hands to let the
paramedics know there was no need to rush.
Dead? Lili asked herself. No! He can’t be! Her
hands were white as they grabbed the steering wheel as he mind tried to focus
on what was unfolding.
The police
chief, not much younger than the old man but considerably shorter, approached
the tribal leader and the other elders. The official and secular authorities
spoke briefly until the tribal chief began scraping the ground with his foot.
Lili could hear their voices growing louder as the officer threw up his hands.
The standoff piqued Lili’s curiosity until she spotted a young man with
penetrating black eyes walking toward the older men. Cal.
Lili exhaled
and her heart steadied. Thank
you, she thought. After all this time Lili still couldn’t believe
he was in her life. He stood rooted to the earth with his long, muscled limbs
and cascade of dark hair. Like many Nausequoit his lineage showed hints of
other ethnicities, but today she only saw in him the young man, his eyes wide with
wonder and his lips tightening with tension, and the adult walking proudly,
ready to fight for his loved ones if necessary.
Lili
wondered where she fit into that continuum. Shaking her head at her reverie she
tried to deduce who was hurt and noticed Cal changing direction. He was now
walking over to a car in the lot, his ebony eyes deep in thought. His hand
brushed the hood of a bright red Mercedes convertible, the only car in the lot.
Where had Lili seen it before? Her mood swung with the shifting wind. No one
Lili or Cal knew could afford such a car except… Her throat closed. Rachel.
* * *
Cal had been
called to the scene by his neighbor who had found Rachel and recognized her
torn jacket. The man had been kind. He came to Cal’s door, no cell phone, but
had already called 9-1-1. He waited for a response but Cal couldn’t move. Cal
finally offered a quick, “Thank you,” and added, “I have to find my
grandfather.”
The neighbor gone, Cal met Achak at the parking lot.“We have to
go to her,” he said.
“Unfortunately,
we can’t, my son,” replied Achak. That was how the tribe’s leader and one of
Cal’s few remaining relatives saw the young man. “So like your father,” Achak
had told Cal.
“Since Mr. Flaherty chose to call ahead, we have to let the
authorities handle everything.”
Cal knew
that wasn’t what Achak or the tribe would have wanted, but times had changed.
“What are
you going to do?” He asked. He forced himself not to think about what would
come, about her lifeless body and lost soul.
Achak put
his hand on his grandson’s shoulder. "Your sister will not be desecrated,” the elder said. “I’ll see
to that. Did Flaherty tell you any details?”
“He
stammered something about wild animals,” answered Cal. “How could that be?”
By this time
the emergency vehicles had arrived. Cal waited, standing next to Achak, both
men as rigid as stone. When the medics returned with Rachel, Achak lifted the
plastic sheet and nodded. Cal turned away.
“I can’t,
grandfather,” he said.
“You must.
You know you must.”
The younger
brother stared at the older sister, a stranger. Her face had been scratched and
was drained white. Her neck was half gone. Her eyes hadn’t yet been closed and
stared hard as a totem. Cal imagined he saw a startled look, especially with
her mouth open as if caught in the middle of a scream.
No. His mind
had become caught in the emotion of the moment. He rubbed his face with his
left hand as Achak closed Rachel’s spiritless eyes. The amateur biologist was
fascinated with the bloody corpse; the brother horrified. Her coldness became
his.
* * *
Because of
the condition of the body and the public panic that could threaten the tourism
industry, local and state officials made it clear this autopsy was a priority.
Later in the day the Boston hospital’s chief medical examiner, who’d been on
call for a week and had been enjoying a well-deserved nap when the call came,
answered the page. He grumbled, stretched his weary muscles and reminded
himself he could retire any time, and grew even more irritated.
An hour
later he shuffled into the cold dungeon, dressed in scrubs, ready to go. Though
he knew what to expect – he had been sure he’d seen it all and had been briefed
by the police that afternoon – his rumbling gut was working overtime.
He stopped
to observe the raw remains. Even with his years of experience, his shock and
disbelief at why lay before him lingered. Looking at the corpse’s extremities,
the doctor saw the clear, once elastic epidermis, the perfect bone structure,
the sculpted body. He tried to ignore the once great beauty.
Another life
gone. Sadly, so many were. The question was how she died. The suspicion was
that wild animals had mauled her. Her legs had been stripped to the muscle with
the skin still hanging.
Before
starting his work he allowed his humanity to see the real picture. The attack
had rekindled memories of mythological children’s stories his Indian-born
father enjoyed reading aloud that terrified the boy. Kacha & Devayani was one
tale, in which the hero, Kacha, is killed by demons that fed his flesh to the
dogs, which gave him nightmares for weeks.
The son,
Kumar, became the father, then grandfather, his hair receding, beard prickly
and gray. His wisdom had matured, however. Training in medicine had worked
against what others called superstition and myth, and yet truth comes in many
forms.
Kumar the
storyteller collected himself and looked at his intern, a neophyte only
recently matriculated from medical school that had just joined him. The kid
looked showered, energetic and eager, making Kumar even grumpier.
“What is
unusual about this corpse?” He gave the assistant a moment to read the remains.
The young man, swallowing repeatedly, saw the renowned medical examiner stood waiting to be impressed. The apprentice knew he couldn't answer and decided to be honest. "I don't understand the question."
“Badir!”
Kumar shouted. “Idiot! Take a shot!”
The younger doctor kicked the table and stepped away, lifting his chin only when his mentor
refocused.
“When a wild
carnivore attacks its prey, particularly a pack of… Canus latrans, coyotes, I’d say,
they become frenzied, lusting for meaty flesh, insatiable. You see how the skin
has been torn from the left soleus? Something isn’t right.”
This time
Kumar waited patiently for the assistant to respond. “There aren’t any missing
body parts, not even her fingers or toes, and the carotid artery; very
precise.” The assistant’s eyes began to widen.
“Very good…”
said Kumar.
“They, the
coyotes, could have been scared off,” the assistant replied.
“Considering
the period between time of death to when the body was discovered, and the
amount of blood lost…”
“Something
would have been eaten,” continued the assistant.
“Which
means,” the coroner paused to clear his throat. “It’ll be harder to pinpoint
the individual animals if their stomachs are empty. Let’s examine the wounds.”
The medical
examiner’s assistant reached for a sponge when he suddenly heard a whimpering
sound ringing in his ears that was followed by a rancid smell, that of burning
skin that made his nostrils flare and his eyes water.
Dr. Kumar,
who had been retrieving an instrument, noticed the assistant across the table
shaking and stammering. When the doctor returned his gaze to the corpse, it
became engulfed in an intense cobalt flame that burned toward the center, the
tissue, muscles, and sinews disappearing until only bones remained.
“Quick! Get
the fire extinguisher!” Kumar shouted. “This isn’t possible!”
The
paralyzed assistant simply stared as Dr. Kumar grabbed the extinguisher before
letting the tank drop to the floor, just missing his foot. Not that he would
have felt anything. Now it was his turn to stand thunderstruck.The doctor was
standing before a contained pyre, the blue flame leaping toward the ceiling,
only to retreat and disappear, leaving behind only a well-formed mound of ash.
“Hell!”
Kumar braced for the inevitable blare of the smoke alarm, but none came. He
continued to curse under his breath. “We’ll clean this up… I’ll think of
something… There’s got to be an explanation! You’re the Harvard grad. Say
something!”
The
terrified intern gestured toward the exam room’s double doors where a tall,
long-haired elderly gentleman walked toward them holding a simply decorated
olla with maroon swirls encircling the pot. The doctor knew it possessed value.
“I’m Rachel
Little Fire’s grandfather,” he said. “I mean Rachel Green’s. I have a court
order to bring Rachel’s body to our burial grounds.” He handed Kumar the order. Matter-of-factly
the proud man quietly walked to the table and gently scooped the ashes into the
pot, thanking the doctors as he departed.
“Dr. Kumar?
What are we going to say?”
“Curt, we’ll
never speak about what happened here,” Kumar said. “We’ll say the tribal elders
retrieved the body.” He looked at
the paperwork and saw that the release form had been signed.
“I’ll call
Dr. Bryant, the hospital administrator, and confirm this. You can wait here or
come with me.”
“Where to?”
“I’m getting
a drink,” Kumar said.
“Doctor…”
“Don’t throw
that cliché crap at me about the middle of the day,” Kumar said. “We can’t get
any work done anyway. Are you coming?”
“I’m not
really a drinker,” Curt answered.
“Never mind
then,” Kumar said.
Kumar made a
quick call, threw off his lab coat and went to his locker to get his wallet.
When he reached the threshold the intern was standing there holding open the
double door and gesturing for his mentor to walk ahead.
“I’ll buy,”
Curt said.
Copyright 2013 Wendy Shreve
No comments:
Post a Comment