by Blair Smith
Helen pushed her way through the group. "Oh God, is that my son?" Mrs. Larson stopped doing CPR and looked up with tears in her eyes.
"Don't stop!" said Butch. "He was just alive on the trail. Don't stop!"
Helen crowded the woman aside and took over mouth-to-mouth ventilation. Mrs. Larson continued on heart massage. Between breaths, Helen asked, "Did anyone radio the hospital?" Someone in the group said they had. After a few more breaths she blurted, "We've got to take him to the hospital. Now!"
Still performing CPR, three women and Max reached under Barry and carried him to the back of the pickup. Tater followed, prancing and whining. As Helen and Mrs. Larson crawled in, Tater jumped in the back with them. "Get out, you damn dog!" Larson yelled. Another woman tried to grab the dog's collar to pull it out, but Tater snarled and flared teeth.
"Just go! Just go!" yelled Helen between breaths.
The tailgate and back door stayed open as Max sped off down the hill, leaving the anxious parents behind with a glimpse of their own boys' fates.
Tater, perked ears and motionless, gazed longingly at her pallid companion and whined. When Helen came up for air, Tater dipped down to lick the boy's face to wake him as she had every morning. Helen pushed the dog back. "Stay, you mutt." Helen paused, "Barry, you can't die. You can't." She turned and gazed at Tater; the distressed animal had a look of confusion.
Helen shared that anxiety. Her son was her life. After her failed marriage and the illusion of true love shattered, she clung to the hope that her son would not be deprived of a happy childhood. Her ex-husband Bradley, rarely paid child support and didn't visit his son for months at a time. She struggled to make payments, cleaning rooms for the Balsams Resort after she had lost her nursing job due to Federal cutbacks. In her youth, Helen had been smart and attractive; grades came easy in school, boys crowded to be near her. All that had changed, she learned what it was like to struggle; she had discovered failure. Helen had been determined not to let her fate affect Barry's happiness. Now, the life she gave breath to was her own.
Her face streaked with tears, Mrs. Larson squeaked, "My boy was up there too." Her sizable frame quivered as she said it.
Helen wiped the tears from her cheeks and continued resuscitation.
Max opened the back window of the cab, "Holler if it's too rough back there." Uncle Max had raced stock cars in his younger days; he was a mechanic now. Today he raced for life, accelerating out of corners faster than he went into them--using his horn as a siren. Whining the Nissan to an extreme rpm, he jettisoned in front of other cars just before oncoming traffic whisked by. Trees, farms, and fields of wildflowers zipped by in an undefined mass. And the stunning red sunset they raced toward went unappreciated because of its blood-like hue.
"There's a dog trying to get into the hospital," said an orderly, entering the emergency room. "It bit a guy."
Mrs. Larson relinquished her spot on heart massage to a nurse, and found a man at the hospital to take her back to Dixville Notch.
"Somebody get the defibrillator and prep 1cc of adrenaline for injection!" Helen ordered. "And where's the damn doctor? Who's on duty?" Helen insisted on staying at her son's side, even though she no longer worked at Upper Connecticut Valley Regional Hospital.
In a two-patient room on the ground level, a nurse delivered dinner to Margaret Bouvier. Mrs. Bouvier was raising a spoon of green gelatin to her mouth just when Tater dove through her screened window and bound out the other side of the room toward the hallway. Gelatin on Margaret's spoon flew into the air; her tray landed on the floor. The nurse ran into the hall after the animal. Undaunted, Tater's paws clicked on tile as she slid around corners.
"What the hell's wrong? Where's the hypo? Where are the damn paddles to jolt him?" Helen used a mechanical ventilator now instead of mouth-to-mouth. The young doctor she was addressing stood aloof with the boy's statistics chart in hand. Deb Philbin, Helen's best friend and former coworker, was on duty and worked the heart compressor--but out of courtesy; Barry felt cool to the touch.
"Helen," said the doctor, "I'm sorry, your son has been dead for awhile."
"That's impossible. He was alive fifteen minutes ago," She snapped.
"Not according to his temperature."
Deb looked at Helen's face but kept working. Helen didn't answer. She just kept staring down at her boy and squeezing the resuscitator. Tater shoved her nose between the double swinging doors, walked over and sat below Barry's table. She had sniffed and probed and finally found her way to her friend.
The doctor exploded: "How'd that dog get in here? Deb, get it out of here! Deb?"
Deb never changed her rhythm, meanwhile pleading with the doctor silently with her eyes. She couldn't stop, not until Helen was ready.
"Helen, I sympathize with you, but you can't bring him back. Touch him. Come on, there might be other wounded coming in and we're understaffed as it is."
Helen stopped resuscitation and took Barry's mouthpiece off. She rubbed some of the dirt blotches off his face. It was as if he slept like a toddler. She flung herself over her boy and wailed.
Tater pranced and whimpered at the sight. But a whimper was all she could do; the dog couldn't bark, a hunting accident several years earlier left the animal without voice. She nudged Barry's hand with her nose and waited for a response.
Deb Philbin left the table so Helen could be alone with her boy. Though many years older than Helen, they were best friends and she felt the loss. She wondered about her grandson who was also on the mountain.
The doctor affirmed to Deb, "Look, I believe I gave you an order. Get the damn dog out and get this place ready in ten minutes."
Dr. Tim Remington was new in Colebrook. He hated being there. Transferred from a larger urban hospital by the Federal Health Board, he resented the lack of respect nurses gave him. He had graduated from an Ivy League school as a surgeon; now here he was, stuck in a backwater village to replace doctors who defected from the local health alliance.
Helen pulled her son to an upright position and hugged him--rocked him like a baby. Deb watched, motionless. She turned to Tim and spoke deliberately, "She needs a little time."
"Don't use this tragedy as an excuse to undermine me again. I'm sick and tired of it. Get the dog out and clean up the place or I'll write you up for insubordination."
"You don't understand. They killed a mother's son!" Deb shouted. Then she couldn't stop her own tears, "You get the dog!"
Tim walked past Deb, pointing his finger in her face, "I'm writing you up!"
When the doctor reached for the animal's collar, Tater snapped at him with flared teeth and bit his outstretched hand. "Ahhhhh! That damn dog bit me. The sheriff will take care of this." Tim stomped toward the door. To Deb he repeated, "And I am still writing you up."
Deb set her jaw, "Kiss my ass, Doctor!"
Helen continued to rock her son, now singing a lullaby. Her worst fear had been realized: Now, she was thoroughly alone.
Tater watched and somehow knew. She'd seen death before in the hunt, partaken of it in feast. This was different. A friend who had been a daily part of her life for seven years lay cold as the groundhog had. And the soul who laughed and tossed sticks for her to chase, had gone elsewhere. Tater collapsed below the table with chin on forepaws, feeling an emptiness she couldn't understand.
Lush green rolled from hill to hill; all was cut to carpet level. The tree lines lacked the usual scruffy weeds that customarily line a golf course. Artificial rock formations rose above the grass here and there. On the far side of a pond, President Winifred and Chief of Staff Lucas Bennett were planning their final putts on bluegrass around the sixth hole.
Security personnel, all dressed in black overcoats with receivers plugged in one ear, encircled the area. They talked to one another through transmitters clipped to their lapels.
An Army Private chauffeured Secretary of Defense Kyle Paz to the green in a cart; they stopped at the edge of the green. The ball Lucas had putted cut to the right of the hole and passed beyond it ten feet. He turned to the intruders with contempt.
Kyle reported grimly of the Dixville incident to President Winifred and Chief of Staff Bennett.
A security person above the valley watched as Lucas slammed the golf cart twice with his club and hurled the putter into the pond. The President shook his head and paused in thought. A flock of sparrows fluttered about the leaves of a nearby tree and caught the security guard's attention; the guard looked to see what stirred them so.
Chapter 3
Colebrook, New Hampshire four days after the massacre (August 16)
Seated in the first row at the funeral service, Helen caressed a photograph of Barry with the back of her hand. A flood of memories . . . his first day of school. She smiled; He was so frightened--standing there at the bus stop with his little backpack on. And that blond-haired girl in his school play who had a crush on him; he was so bashful. She scraped a tear from her cheek and pulled a tissue from her purse to wipe her nose. "I won't forget a thing," she whispered to herself.
"That's right," confirmed Max seated beside her. "We won't forget a damn thing." He referred to the Feds and his vow of revenge. The evidence he had found at the massacre site confirmed everything Butch had said: It was Army Regulars. Washington denied everything. Max concluded that if justice existed in this nation, it had to be taken.
More like brothers, Max and Barry had done a lot together: hiking, canoeing. Max helped Mr. Ronolou whenever he could. His relationship with Barry had been critical after Helen's divorce. Helen had asked him to help her by taking her son to sporting and Scouting events. Her intent had been to create a male presence for her child; a bond had formed. Max wished he had been with Barry that day at Dixville.
Medium height and stocky, Max had chocolate-brown hair and piercing dark eyes. He felt responsible for the Scout Troop attack because he had organized the smuggling ring used to bring medical supplies to the States from Quebec. He concluded the Feds automated ambush had been waiting for them. Max had grimly helped collect the scattered remains left at the Dixville Massacre. He was well beyond grieving; Max's mind whirled. He sucked his teeth and planned his next move.
Desperate measures to circumvent the Federally run health care system had come about after a decade of economic decay. Taxation due to The War on Terrorism and Federal regulations created the downturn. A year before, the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont had formed a community covenant to take care of local needs, bypassing Federal HMOs. Max's smuggling operation supplied the Northeast Kingdom as well as the newly formed Colebrook Covenant with medical supplies. The Dixville Massacre, as the media dubbed it, consolidated the hatred of rural Vermont and New Hampshire toward big government. Despite the cover-up by the White House, everyone in the region knew about the Massacre through illegal CB broadcasts near Todd Hill in Vermont.
Colebrook's First Congregational Church had the original straight-back pews installed at the building's dedication in 1802. Though refurbished many times, the structure still proclaimed the same principles elders envisioned at its inception. The same bell in the church's white steeple that rang to assemble the community for the War of 1812, the Civil War, World War I, and World War II, now rang sixty-four times--once for each child lost. The clanging echoed through the valley as people walked toward its source in silence.
At the request of aggrieved parents, local police, firefighters, friends, and neighbors blocked off all roads into the village to keep out reporters or politicians who wished to attend.
State Police came to reopen the town for government officials. On the outskirts, reporters from the major networks, with umbrellas and yellow rain slickers reminded the State Troopers of their First Amendment right to cover the event. But Colebrook citizens had drawn guns to ensure their privacy in mourning. Though the Federal government had outlawed private ownership of handguns and high-powered rifles years earlier, New Hampshire's people still lived by the Second Amendment--as envisioned by the founding fathers. State Troopers and reporters alike noticed the thickets on the surrounding hills: Grim-faced Colebrook men dressed in camouflage came into focus through the drizzle; they were scoping reporters and police with high-powered rifles. But to enforce Federal Law would have been a second bloodletting. The local residents didn't flinch.
Meanwhile inside the church, Mrs. Larson sat near the back with her three remaining children. Throughout the service, she repeatedly looked down the pew at a lone man seated near the aisle in a dark, Armani suit. Mrs. Larson was active in the PTA, a member of the Board of Trustees in the Congregational Church, and she supervised the Daisy Girl Scouts for her youngest. During the school year she worked part-time in Colebrook at the diner on Main Street. As a result, she knew everyone in town. This man did not belong here.
Near the end of the minister's eulogy, the stranger in the aisle seat got up and left the church. Mrs. Larson ordered her kids to stay put; but she raised her sizable frame and followed the man in the Armani suit outside.
"I can't believe it! I just can't believe it!" Bradley Conrad sputtered. "Damn it! I am Barry's father. You had no right telling your Colebrook cronies to keep me out. No right!"
Helen sat in the car with her ex-husband and blandly watched the road ahead. She accepted a lift home from the funeral with him, presuming she'd have to put up with his criticism. She was too numb to care. "This is some kind of cruel joke," Helen reflected aloud. "You're finally anxious to visit our son after the boy's death."
"What?" asked Bradley. "Stop ignoring me. You could at least be civil. I'm his father."
"You were his father; you stopped being his father the day you walked out and shacked up with that bimbo of yours--ah, what's-her-face."
Bradley pulled over at a convenience store. "I haven't had anything to eat since breakfast. You want anything?"
She said nothing.
He shook his head and climbed out of the car. Bradley knew there was no talking to her when she got like this. He left Helen to wallow in her bitterness as the car idled with the windshield wiper whisking.
Bradley Conrad worked as a Federal Agricultural Extension Agent for the Northeast Concern. He advised farmers and farm co-ops about crop trends and sale prices and gave talks on herbicides, pesticides, and soil composition. He still looked good: tall, dark hair and solidly built; the pudgy waist that accompanied most middle-aged men had passed over him. He was active in sports even while married: summer softball, skiing, touch football on Sunday mornings while Helen and Barry went to church.
Helen resented Bradley leaving her. She had been the darling of most men in Colebrook at one time. But she thickened up after having Barry, which changed her into a chunky, middle-aged mom. Her facial beauty was still there: high cheekbones and thick, dark hair. Her narrow, hazel eyes added an oriental enchantment. But the alluring contours that had formerly attracted men hid somewhere beneath thick thighs.
She regretted the body change; a once proud, self-assured woman changed into the ordinary. But as Barry grew up and transformed into a little person, she found her life centered around him, enjoying his happiness, preparing him for his chance at life. With Barry dead, her life reeled out of focus. Bitter thoughts dominated her mind, leaving her alone in a world of suspicion.
Bradley returned with an ice cream cone. "What was all the ruckus in town about?" He started the car and continued on.
She looked at him squarely to say it, "A Federal Agent got stabbed in the back with a kitchen knife."
He turned quickly, "For real?"
Helen closed her eyes to narrow slits, "You should be grateful I kept you from getting into town."
Bradley shook his head, "I should have had Barry living with me, the way things are in this armpit of a place."
"This 'armpit' is my home. It was Barry's home. We were born here. Stop the car, I'm getting out. I don't want any favors from you." When he continued down the road, she yelled, "Stop the damn car!"
"Now, you don't mean that, Helen."
"'I don't mean that'? You mean to say I don't know what I'm saying?"
"Stop, Helen, I don't need this. Not after today." He paused awhile, but couldn't keep from saying it: "You've made it a point to put all the blame for us breaking up on me. It wasn't just me. You had something to do with it. That, and your bullheaded brother Max, trying to take my place as a father when I'm not around. I resented the hell out of that."
Helen stared at the side of his face, enraged. Bradley was fully aware of her temper and watched her warily out the corner of his eye as he drove--still licking his ice cream cone. But he glanced at the road at just the wrong moment: Helen took a roundhouse swat and drove the ice cream in his face, rubbing it into his pores and down his shirt. Bradley jerked and shouted as the car swerved to the opposite lane. Helen jammed her left foot on top of his, on the brake, skidding the vehicle to an abrupt stop in the middle of the road.
Leaping out, she slammed the car door and kicked it, then stomped off into the woods adjacent to her home. Shortly after entering the forest, Helen followed a worn trail through an open stand of hemlocks. Gray light from clouded skies peeked through the conifers. Droplets clung desperately to needle tips--only to be yanked loose by a gust of wind that stirred through the trees. An August wind, colder than usual, whispered sounds and carried fragrances of evergreen. Helen noticed none of it.
She stumbled upon a rustic campsite just off a trail: Rocks encircled a fire pit, a brush lean-to was off to the side. Its roof was an old plastic tablecloth --her tablecloth. Helen looked around the camp and found a box. She lifted the lid and discovered her kitchen knife, some silverware, matches, and a picture of Tater and her with Barry. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she studied it. It seemed like just yesterday they had taken that hike and set the camera to automatically photograph them in front of Cascade Falls. Helen looked through all the articles and smiled; she would have scolded Barry for playing with knives and taking her kitchen utensils. Now she sat in his lean-to and recalled what a solid young man he had become. She couldn't recall when he stopped asking for a bedtime kiss; she wished that nightly routine hadn't ended.