Salvage

by Duncan Ralston

  "If it's not too much to ask."

  "Mr. Wickman—"

  "Skip. Please."

  "Skip, I promise you I'm not here to cause trouble. I just need to follow in my sister's footsteps for a while. Give myself a sense of closure, for what it's worth."

  The chair squeaked as Skip leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head, making himself comfortable, now that the serious business was through. "Well, I suppose that's understandable." He nodded toward Owen's car out the big storefront windows. "I see you've brought your equipment. Have you done much diving?"

  Aside from almost drowning in my own bathtub, you mean? "Not really, no," he said.

  "I'm a bit of an enthusiast myself," Skip said, with an emphasis on the last syllable: enthusi-ast.

  "Oh?"

  "Indeed."

  "I may do a bit," Owen admitted.

  "Your sister said much the same." Skip sat forward with another squeak of the chair, and clasped his hands above the desk, leaning closer to Owen. "I suspect—and I'm not alone in thinking this, Owen—your sister may have had more on her mind than just diving."

  Owen wasn't sure how to respond. He'd suspected it himself; this was as close to proof as he'd come. He's here, she'd written. She'd been out here looking for someone: for him, whoever the hell he happened to be. Likely the man who walked on water. Lori's ghost.

  "She told me she was looking for some underwater town?" Owen said, forcing himself not to ask the many questions he had. "Thought it would make a decent photo-essay."

  Skip grinned, then leaned back in his chair. "She was hugging that camera of hers like a babe in arms when I first saw her. Didn't look like much of a thing to me. A '70s job, not one of those fancy digital things kids have these days. She asked to take my picture. Who am I to say no? With this face? C'mon." He chuckled in false modesty.

  "Yeah, she always had that thing slung around her neck, even at Christmas dinner," Owen mused, grinning at the thought of Lori carrying her ugly camera around, taking pictures of dinner, of Owen and their mother, of anything that caught her eye. Always snapping photographs. Even, apparently, of strangers like Skip Wickman. Owen thought it was a sly way of snooping, snapping photos of the town and its inhabitants. "I bet she probably took pictures of just about everyone in town, huh?"

  Skip laughed. "Just about." He checked his watch. "Darn. Owen, I could talk all day, but I've got a showing in fifteen minutes. If I sign over the key, would you be all right heading out there without me?"

  Owen assured Skip he'd manage, glad to have the conversation done and to be allowed to go to the house on his own. He wouldn't have to fake geniality any longer, though it was an easier task with a decent conversationalist like Skip.

  "Now, where is that key…?" Skip rummaged through his desk drawers, patted his jacket pockets, pushed aside legal documents on the desk, and even checked inside the I LOVE MY YORKIE mug he used as a pen holder. "Where is that damn thing?" he said, reaching into his pants pockets, patting his chest.

  Owen began to feel uncomfortable, watching Skip's search grow more frantic, unable to do anything to further its process. "Can I help?" he asked, as Skip rifled through his drawers again.

  The realtor looked up with a scowl. "No, no. I'm sure I just overlooked it."

  Owen couldn't watch anymore. It was uncomfortable, seeing such a put-together man unravel over a key. He peered down at his own feet, tapping impatiently on the gray carpeting, and found what Skip was looking for.

  Owen bent to pick up the clunky, rusted old brass thing, and held it up for Skip to see. "Is this it?" He didn't need to ask; either this was the key, or it opened the doors to Hogwarts.

  "Oh, thank God," Skip said, plopping himself down in his chair with a hefty sigh. "That's the key, all right. Where did you find it?"

  "Right there by my feet."

  Skip frowned. "How did it—?" Then he shook his head. "Well, at least it's found. That key opens most of the doors in the house, but I think you've already figured that out."

  "It's a skeleton key," Owen said.

  "A skeleton key," Skip repeated. "I realize it doesn't instill much confidence for security, but believe me, Owen, nobody would want to break into that house." He caught himself. "Not that it's not a nice rental. I just mean if anyone had wanted to, they would have a long time ago. Being as isolated as it is, out there by the lake, no neighbors, it would be quite easy to break a window and loot the entire place without causing a stir." He grinned. "There I go overselling again."

  "I'll be sure to keep a night-light on," Owen said.

  The realtor chuckled. "You be sure and do that." He stood with the look of a man who couldn't wait to be gone. "Now, if you'll excuse me." Owen stood to take the hand Skip offered. "Any problems with the house, Owen—anything at all—I'm just a phone call away."

  "Why would there be problems?" Owen half-joked, covering how spooked he'd suddenly become, a tingle running up his spine as if he were the dandy hero of some gothic horror story. An isolated house with a history, opened by a skeleton key. A ghost town under the lake where his sister had drowned. No neighbors, and no one to hear him scream. It was such a cliché that Owen nearly laughed. He stopped himself before it had a chance to escape, making a sound like a stifled sneeze. Skip Wickman probably considered him a bit nuts already, knowing he'd driven all the way out here to shadow his dead sister. No use adding fuel to the suspicion.

  The realtor offered an obligatory "Bless you." He turned the door sign to CLOSED and ushered Owen into the street. They shook hands, and Skip repeated his invitation to call no matter how small the problem (although, this time Owen doubted the sincerity of it), then rushed off to his shiny new Cadillac.

  The moment Owen closed himself in his car, he burst out laughing.

  CHAPTER 4

  Take Me to the Water

  1

  FISHERMAN'S WHARF was only a few kilometers from town. The final lap of his journey was a winding single lane dirt road. About five minutes after turning onto it, he reached a fork in the road. To the right, according to a green road sign, was the PEACE FALLS TRAILER PARK. To the left, a smaller, hand-painted wooden sign said, HORDYKE'S WHARF .5 KM. He turned left.

  The house stood a hundred or so feet from the road, obscured by trees and protected by an open gate. Owen got out. He saw the Historical Society plaque behind an overgrown bush: big, brass, and painted blue, with the words HORDYKE HOUSE (rather than the name given to it by the locals) embossed beneath the Ontario coat of arms. Below that was a description of the house, but Skip Wickman had already told him most of what had been inscribed. What Skip hadn't said, Owen had already gleaned from the photos—A milled-log house of the American style, hand-crafted on the hill above Peace Falls by James Hordyke Jr., and his son, in 1953. Contrary to what the sign indicated, milled-log houses were not handcrafted, but hewn in a mill, and assembled onsite like a jigsaw puzzle. Local historians should have been aware of this, but it was a minor mistake, given the laudable sentiment.

  Gravel crackled beneath the tires as he drove up to Fisherman's Wharf.

  James Hordyke Jr. had built a two-story log house with a stone chimney in the middle, its only interesting feature. Otherwise, the house was virtually unremarkable in every respect, except its disrepair. The logs had grayed almost to the color of the limestone. Owen got out for a closer look, noting casement windows that were likely original, insulated by untrimmed mounds of multiple caulking attempts, brown shutters that had been nailed open like insect wings tacked to a display board, and chipped paint that showed its molting colors: white, green, and orange, the color of pumpkin innards. The chimney looked as though it might have a few more years left before it toppled in a cluster of stones and mortar to the tawny carpet of pine needles surrounding the house. The front door, with its skeleton keyhole, was noticeably lopsided.

  The skeleton key felt heavy in his pocket. He took it out and approached the crooked door.

  Owen couldn't see the lake from the f
ront door—or back door, depending on your method of approach, by car or by boat—but he heard it lapping against something, along with a squeaking sound, an old dock, perhaps, with rusted hinges that lay somewhere beyond all the trees and brambles, dense spruce and broad white pines heavy with cones. Wind swished through their needles like the long sweep of a broom. Somewhere a red squirrel chittered its maniacal, high-pitched laugh. Much nearer, a cicada confirmed the heat.

  "This place really is in the middle of nowhere," Owen said to himself. "God's country." He glanced over his shoulder at the outhouse, with its carved cross, and chuckled. "If I can't relax here, I might need to check myself into a motel with padded walls."

  Owen slid the key into the lock with a scrape and clack, and twisted it. The door burst outward as if someone had kicked it from the inside, and he sidestepped out of its path, an inch from having his nose broken. It banged against the side of the house so hard it almost came back a full ninety-degrees. It swung toward the wall again, then slowed to a stop and hung loose and unbalanced, creaking gently.

  "Foundation's slanted," he told himself as his heartbeat slowed. "That's the problem."

  He wrinkled his nose at the dank smell that wafted out. There were ugly, musty old rugs curled up at the corners, covering obvious indents and bumps in the hardwood floor. Above, a ceiling fan rattled. Even having the windows open had done nothing for the mustiness. The house was open concept, though he doubted that Jim Hordyke, a fisherman by trade, had known he was repeating a design attributed to Frank Lloyd Wright.

  Through the kitchen windows, the lake shimmered in the afternoon sun. The sight unnerved him, an image plucked straight out of his dreams and dropped in front of his eyes. He hadn't been here before, as far as he knew. Even if he had and couldn't remember it, his mother surely would have mentioned it. Oh by the way, that lake your sister drowned in, we went there when the two of you were little, sorry I forgot to mention it. Probably doesn't mean anything, though. Don't bother looking into it.

  Owen crossed the house to the red-brown door. He hesitated only a moment, scanning the deck. A chipmunk had been nibbling peanut shells and scampered off when Owen stepped up to the window. An old orange charcoal barbeque, open and full of pine needles, stood beside a paint-flecked Muskoka chair. Owen unlatched and opened the door, and stepped outside.

  Beyond the deck railing, a cobbled path led down to the water. At the shore, a small tin boat, painted purple with green stripes, banged against an ugly unpainted dock, gray as old bones. A canoe lay pulled up on the shore under a tarp. Owen headed down the stone path. The day had heated up. He wanted nothing more than to take his shoes off, roll up his pants, and stand in the water. Cool off a bit. Maybe even take a dip, if he felt brave.

  He followed the path to a set of stone stairs leading directly into the lake. At the water's edge he peeled off his shoes and socks, tugged his pant legs up, and dipped the big toe of his right foot in. The water was cold, refreshing. Slicked with algae, the steps ended at the sandy lake bottom, which he could barely see. He steeled himself with a sharp inhale.

  "Just like peeling off a Band-Aid," he said, and plunged both feet in. He went down two steps quickly, up to his knees. The frigid water sent a shock straight through to his bones, and he howled in a mixture of delight and holy terror. In the distance, a loon responded with its distinctive cry. For a moment he felt like he might black out, then his bones grew accustomed to the chill, and he wiggled his toes, pallid under water the color of weak tea.

  Fat little minnows fearlessly circled his bare legs. Owen breathed deeply the smell of the lake, the trees, and fresh, clean air. Other than the faint smell of gasoline and engine oil from the boat, there appeared to be no sign of human intrusion. No Jet Skis zipped back and forth monotonously in front of the dock, causing wave after wave to pummel the shore. No fishermen trolled past, surreptitiously eyeballing the property. This cabin, in its uninhabited corner of the bay, sheltered from view from the rest of the lake, felt entirely unspoiled by civilization.

  On either side of the stairs, white foam with curls of yellow-brown algae washed up, breaking on a rock wall that extended in either direction to prevent erosion of the shore. The dock lay to his right, its hinges creaking as it swayed, the purple and green tin monster thunking against the side. A spider the size of his palm crawled out from one of the stones to his left, dark brown legs with gray stripes, and skittered beneath another.

  This was paradise. An Eden among the trees.

  It felt fine. He felt fine.

  He'd barely finished the thought when a piece of trash rose from the depths, caught in a collision between two small waves, and floated toward him. The blue sheet of paper, folded and crumpled but not yet disintegrated, plastered itself on his leg, like slime against his skin. He tore it off in disgust, made to throw it right back into the water, but its message caught his eye, bold black letters streaked across the top:

  WILL YOU BE EMBRACED BY

  THE ARMS OF THE FATHER?

  A religious pamphlet, he thought. Should've just tossed it back.

  His gaze skimmed the surface of the lake for others. A couple of gulls were squawking and fighting over a dead fish on the opposite shore, but that was all. The tract must have floated up from somewhere on the main lake.

  The warning bubbled up from his subconscious: She's with us now, Owen.

  This tract belonged to the Shepherd and his flock.

  Owen read the first paragraph aloud. "'In those days before the flood they were eating and drinking right up to the day Noah went into the Ark, and they did not understand until the flood came and destroyed them all.' Well, that's pleasant," he remarked. The quote was attributed to Matthew 24:38-39. The one below it was from Job: The dead are in deep anguish, those beneath the waters and all that live in them. The realm of the dead is naked before God; Abaddon lies uncovered.

  "What the hell is Abaddon?" Cold shivered up his spine from the water at his feet. Those beneath the waters, he thought. The realm of the dead. Christ!

  "Will I be embraced by the arms of the Father?" Owen said smugly, squishing the pamphlet into a wet blue ball and lobbing it back where it came from. "If He's as much a deadbeat as my dad, not bloody likely."

  A chorus of voices carried on the slight breeze startled him. He stepped down into the wet sand, going in above his knees, to peer around the thick boughs of a sturdy white pine. Needles swished and swayed between him and a stout man who stood hip-deep in the lake, his flowing white robe blossoming like some heavenly flower in the water around him. An unkempt sunset-orange and gray beard sprouted from his nostrils and ears, and fluttered in the breeze as he sang:

  My soul is sick, my heart is sore

  Now I'm coming home

  My strength renew, my home restore,

  Lord, I'm coming home.

  Owen saw the others then, standing together in the water closer to shore, their own pristine white robes caught in the sunlight between the dancing branches as they sang along with their minister. A mother held a baby girl dressed in a christening gown, a miniature version of the robes her parents, relatives, and friends wore. She huddled close to her husband; both wore beatific smiles. The golden curl high on the baby's crown gave her the look of a cherub.

  A high wind whipped through the trees, momentarily obscuring the backwoods baptism. When the branches settled, the minister was not the same man Owen had seen a moment ago: he had dropped fifty pounds, his bushy beard had been trimmed to a neat black mustache, and instead of robes, the man wore a white work shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. Water lapped round his loose black slacks. The crooked smile, stern dark eyes set in deep sockets, flesh the color of a dead fish belly: Owen recognized the man immediately, and fear twisted his guts.

  He's here! Owen thought. Lori's ghost…

  Stumbling backward in fright, his right heel struck a rock, and he fell butt-first into the chilly water. He was able to throw a hand back just in time, stopping himself just shy of going
under, his teeth clacking together as he sat down hard in the muck. But he was soaked to the shoulders, and chilled to his bones.

  "Having trouble over there, son?" the preacher said. The low pine bough swayed in the wind, giving Owen a clear view of the ceremony for the first time. On one side of the baby and parents stood a youngish man with tattoos on his arms and a stern-faced woman with German plaits in her hair. On the other side, a stout, apple-cheeked woman stood next to an older man, possibly the grandfather.

  The voice belonged to the plump, jovial-looking country minister with the downy orange-gray beard—not the Shepherd. Nor were these others the ghostly apparitions of the Shepherd's flock. They smiled at Owen with compassionate but confused looks. The minister, himself casting a sympathetic look through the boughs at Owen, awaited a reply.

  Not him, Owen thought. Seeing things again—still.

  "I, uh…" Stammering, he pushed himself to his feet. "I just thought you were someone else," he finished weakly, the sound of his clothes dripping into the lake reminding him of the water in his mother's tub. Even though he was soaked and chilled right through to the marrow, he was relieved to find these people weren't who he'd first thought they were.

  The minister gave him a quizzical, playful grin. "Pray tell, just who did you think I was, young man?"

  "I don't know," Owen said. "Just… someone else."

  The grin fell from the minister's face. "Well, the Devil has many faces, does he not, my brothers and sisters?" His congregation agreed with nods and mutters of Amen. The young mother squeezed her child to her bosom, and the father protected them both in his strong arms. The mother looked somehow familiar, with an older-style haircut and no makeup. The father appeared ashamed.

  "Tell me, son," the bearded minister said, "have you borne witness to the Mystery?"

  Owen shrugged. "Not that I know of."