The Dead Celebrities Club

by Susan Swan

  All right. I accept that. Do you know who attacked me in the sauna?

  Bailey stands on his bunk and peers cautiously over the cubicle divider. When he sits back down, he picks up the Virgin Mary’s Book of Quotations and holds it to his chest. She knows I saw Aldo comin’ … comin’ out of the sauna, and she askin’ me to tell you. I’ve been meanin’ … meanin’ to. I just a bit scairt, nah mean?

  I rush out of our cubicle, my bad, old heart beating double time against my ribs.

  17

  I TALK A guard into letting me call Nugent on the prison phone. I am uncharacteristically short and sweet.

  Nugent, you have to help me escape from this place.

  What are you talking about, Dale Paul?

  Mr. Jack wants to kill me.

  That doesn’t sound very likely.

  I’ll explain it all later. I’m serious. Help me get out of here. I’ll cut you in on the dead celebrities pool. You need money, don’t you, Pilot?

  I can’t get involved in that scheme of yours. And don’t call me Pilot.

  All right, good sir. But surely you don’t want to see your old friend murdered in cold blood?

  Spare me the drama. I’ll have to think about it.

  Nugent, I need you to do it now. Or there will be no book. Do you understand?

  Let me get back to you on this, he says and hangs up.

  18

  Tim Nugent

  TIM ISN’T FRIGHTENED by Dale Paul’s threat to cancel the book. If Dale Paul manages to escape, a memoir with a jailbreak will mean bigger sales, and Dale Paul won’t turn down an opportunity to make money.

  His worry is that Dale Paul is telling the truth. His old friend has a habit of getting under people’s skin, and there’s no reason to think the convicts are any different. Why do we help other people? Tim wonders. He remembers the answer the masters gave them at Munson Hall — by helping others we help ourselves. Maybe those garrulous old men had been right. Maybe the urge to help is tied to a primitive anxiety about your tribe’s survival. And yet a case could be made that someone like his friend who has done so little to help others deserves no help at all.

  Finally, after a day of soul-searching, Tim comes up with a plan. Dale Paul will swim to the other side of the small lake near the prison and Tim will pick him up in a car and drive him to Tim’s grandparents’ abandoned farmhouse, near the Ontario border. But where will Tim pick him up? He needs to research it, think it through.

  Without telling Meredith, Tim heads north in a rental truck, taking the I-87 to Strawberry Lake, where he buys a canoe from an outfitter’s shop off the main street. He uses a fake name and pays with cash.

  He chooses a small dark green canoe with a round hull, shaped like a rowboat. He explains that he isn’t experienced with canoes, and the outfitter assures Tim this style of canoe has been designed for flat-water lakes like the ones in the Adirondacks. It rides high in the water and is easy to steer. The broad beavertail paddle will be easy to use too. The outfitter throws in a thick plastic cushion as a bonus.

  Tim arranges for the outfitter to drop the canoe by the mouth of the Oswego River, a fast-running creek that spills into the far shore of the lake behind the prison. The outfitter looks at him quizzically when Tim explains that a friend is coming up to the mountains for a holiday and the friend wants the canoe placed there for his convenience.

  You know it’s near the prison? the outfitter asks.

  Tim says he is only following his friend’s instructions.

  19

  Dale Paul

  THE SEPTEMBER MORNING is unseasonably warm. I am standing near the tennis courts watching Derek’s dancers perform drills for their show at Thanksgiving, and Martino is letting me watch.

  I have filled Derek in on Nugent’s plan: the canoe and the hand-drawn map, with its terrifying details. I will swim to the other side, where Tim has left the canoe in some bushes by the mouth of the Oswego River. The river will take me to the first swamp, where Nugent will be waiting by a duck blind to drive me north to Canada. This way, I can avoid the higher peaks that stretch for miles beyond the far side of the lake.

  I take out the map and go over it again. Possibly, Nugent is overestimating my paddling skills. He is a child of the north. He grew up there, endured its winters; all I know of the wilderness is the hideous two weeks I wasted as a teenager at summer camp in Algonquin Park. When I complained, Pater brought me home faster than you can say water polo.

  20

  THE SCREECHING SOUNDS of “Thriller” by Michael Jackson assault my ears. On the tennis court, the dancers are forming their lines while I concentrate on Nugent’s map of the Five Swamps Wilderness Preserve. It’s two thousand and twenty acres, bound to the south by Strawberry Lake and a portion of the Oswego River, the fast-flowing river that Meredith, Caroline, and I drove across on our way to the prison. In the east, the swampy region is bound by the town line, and a road leading to a lake called St. Regis. Nugent has listed the dangers: deadheads in the swamp, ticks, leeches, and possibly quicksand.

  And now, suddenly, a brouhaha. The dancers are screaming at one another, and the C.O.s rush in, waving their clubs like maniacal soccer fans with phosphorescent batons. I check the time on the clock by the tennis court: 9:55 a.m. The fracas Derek has arranged is right on cue.

  Using a clump of cedars as a screen, I take off my prison sneakers, thread the laces in a knot, and hang the sneakers around my neck. Next, I put the map and my Rythmol pills inside a cellophane wrapper. Someone has stolen my cellphone or I would have brought it too. When I am certain no one is watching, I slip into the lake dressed in my prison browns.

  The water stings my skin like ice-cold acid. Derek tested the temperature of the lake this morning: it was sixty-nine degrees Fahrenheit. Icy, but swimmable. Did he lie about the temperature? Don’t be demented. He has no reason to make things difficult for me.

  I start with the breaststroke face down in the water, swimming quickly to keep myself warm. I’ve been advised to follow the thickly treed shoreline to the other side, although swimming straight across the lake is the faster route. When I am far enough away, my head will look like the head of an animal — perhaps a bear or a beaver. I pray the C.O.s are too busy to notice.

  21

  I’M ALMOST THERE. Luckily, the lake is longer than it is wide, and I can see the narrow beach on the other shore fairly well. It’s lined with cedars and birches. The canoe will be somewhere nearby.

  I relax and let myself float for a few minutes, scanning the trees. Lord knows what I am looking for. Wild animals? I drift into shore, and gingerly haul myself out of the lake, hoping the guards in the maximum-security prison can’t see me from their towers. Possibly, Nugent forgot that detail.

  But, thank god, the guard towers appear to be hidden by the curve in the shoreline. I walk south a few yards, feeling pleased with myself for making it this far. I take the map from its cellophane wrapper. The paper is a little damp, so some instructions have blurred, but I seem to be in the right place. I stop and listen. Fine. All right. I hear the faint sound of running water. I hurry down the beach toward the noise. Ah. There’s the mouth of the river, and there’s the canoe, just as Nugent said it would be, a shiny green shape half-hidden in some underbrush. As I push my way through, I trip over the branches of an indigenous shrub that Sofia Rigby used to grow in her back garden. Its branches are rooted in the sand, the plant’s trap for catching unwary creatures.

  In the canoe, I find a large zip-lock bag with equipment for my day trip. Inside: a change of clothes, wool socks, a rain jacket, an emergency blanket, matches and a lighter, and a roll of toilet paper. There are also ham sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, and bottled water. I drink some and leave the sandwiches for later. According to Nugent’s instructions, it is one and a half miles from the lake to the first swamp, which is one of the places where the river widens. The swamp wate
r is filled with leeches and sunken logs, and I will need to be careful.

  I bury my prison browns in the sandy soil near the viburnum bush and put on the pair of extra-large jeans and the lumberjack shirt with dark blue checks. The clothes don’t fit properly, but never mind. Feeling foolish, I climb unsteadily into the stern. The canoe rocks back and forth when I kneel to paddle. To my surprise, I remember the words of my old dunderheaded counsellor: At the end of your stroke, drag the blade tip through the water for a few inches to keep the canoe on course. Fortunately, the river is calmer than I expected so the canoe surges forward easily.

  22

  PADDLING IS TAXING. The relentless tug of the current against the canoe pushing it downstream instead of up; the hysterical blackflies that dive-bomb my head; the still suffocating heat of the forest — all of it adds up to loathsome work. And now I have come to a waterfall that Nugent has left off his map. Of course, he wouldn’t know it was there. He just wrote down what the man at the outfitter’s store told him. Alas, the falls are high, a considerable climb for a novice such as myself, and fairly steep, the river tumbling down a series of glistening rock ledges, descending stepping stones, spilling water into the frothy pool before me.

  I consult the map again, and for the first time I notice two small, puzzling vertical lines beside the word portage. Nugent has noted the falls, after all. Good old Pilot. But I have no idea how to portage.

  It seems I am to carry it up the cliff, although it’s evident nobody has portaged here for a while. The bushes are overgrown, but there remain vestiges of steps carved into the rocky bluff. Is that what the vertical lines mean? I settle the canoe on my shoulders and test the first step with my foot. Point being, I have a fear of heights. Halfway up, and Lord knows how I get that far, I lose my balance, and the unwieldy canoe slides off my shoulders.

  There is a boom of wood hitting wood, followed by whispery schussing sounds. I force myself to turn around and look. The canoe has come to rest at the end of what appears to be a wooden waterslide. I didn’t notice it before because the slide was hidden by cedar bushes. It must have been constructed to lift a small boat past the falls because ancient rope pulleys run up and down the sides of the half-rotten contraption. This, then, is Nugent’s portage. Relieved, I make my way down the rock stairs and over to the boat lift to see if I can make its pulleys work.

  23

  I HAVE BEEN paddling for what feels like hours, passing through more clouds of blackflies. My new clothes are soaked through with water and sweat and my paddling stroke is becoming erratic. Goddamn Nugent for putting me through this! He must have known how difficult it would be!

  After several minutes, I round a bend in the river and, lo, a sea of bulrushes appears before me. To my amazement, the canoe floats forward easily. The water here is sluggish; there’s no current to fight. Air like furnace-hot steam hits my face, and when I glance down at the dark brown water, I notice the aforementioned leeches swimming like bloated lumps of flesh.

  Ugh. What do I do now? Paddle along the path cut through the rushes? On the shore, I spot something resembling a duck blind; it’s a small wooden wall near a place large enough to land a boat. It must be where Nugent and I agreed to meet, but I see no sign of him.

  Feeling anxious, I paddle to shore and pull the canoe up onto the muddy ground. Immediately, a swarm of mosquitoes bears down on me.

  Their absurd humming is disorienting. As I slap them away, a motorbike’s roar shatters the quiet and an ill-kempt yobbo drives out of the trees. He hops off his bike and takes an axe from some luggage tied to the back. He walks my way, staring ahead with a look of concentration. Before I can react, he disappears behind a wall of bulrushes and I hear the hopeless crashing sound of wood collapsing inward. What on earth is he doing? More loud and crashing sounds follow. Is my canoe next? Maybe John sent him to destroy me. And now he is biding his time, wearing me down, like a cat toying with a mouse.

  I head for the canoe, fighting down panic. I’ll go deep into the swamp where he can’t reach me. Too late. Somebody is splashing through the bulrushes.

  I spin around and a man yells: Hey you. Wait up!

  I stand crouched in anticipation of his blow. He looks at me curiously.

  Sorry, mister, he says. Didn’t mean to scare you. I guess you heard the report too.

  What report?

  About the escaped convict, the man replies. They say he’s armed and dangerous.

  It takes a second to realize he is talking about me. No, I manage to croak. I haven’t been listening to the radio.

  I get it. He nods. Need to get away from it all. I know the feeling. Well, the guy escaped this morning. All the roads are blocked with patrol cars. I have a pass because I’m helping the ranger destroy the duck blinds. They’re illegal in this part of the park, see?

  Is that so?

  Yeah, but that don’t stop hunters from trying to build them. He looks concerned suddenly. Hey mister, he says, pointing. You’ve cut yourself.

  I recoil at the sight of the deep gash on my wrist. I have no memory of how that happened.

  Better put some alcohol on it, eh? He winks and claps my shoulder. If I had some, I’d give it to you. But the cut ain’t too bad. Wash it out tonight with soap and you’ll be in good nick again. Well, gotta get back to work. Just be careful, okay?

  Yes, I reply. I will. And thank you, good sir.

  He grins. Sure. Anytime.

  24

  I PUSH THE canoe back into the water and paddle toward the other side of the swamp, far away from the duck blind where the man has started chopping again. Armed and dangerous. The phrase buzzes unpleasantly in my head. I have never set out to harm anyone. Nor do I intend what I do to be taken personally. The pain I have caused others is just something unfortunate that happened along the way.

  Trying to ignore the frenzied noise of the man’s axe, I sit in the canoe and eat my sandwiches. If he is right and there are police blockades, Nugent won’t be able to get through. What should I do now?

  Nugent’s map doesn’t cover the territory beyond the first swamp so I have no idea where following the river will lead me, other than back to its source. What’s more, I lack the requisite camping skills to wander the woods, and if I take the road out, I will run into the road block.

  Across the swamp, the noise the man is making sounds wild and sorrowful.

  Then at last, the chopping stops and I hear his motorbike fade away as he disappears into the forest.

  A heavy sadness settles over me. Taking a wide aim, I toss Nugent’s zip-lock bag into the swamp. I leave the canoe by the duck blind and head off into the woods.

  25

  Tim Nugent

  TIM CHECKS HIS watch. It’s 2:30 p.m. He’s driving a rental again, and he’s lost his way. He wrote down the instructions from the outfitter, but the man must have left off several forks in the road or Tim has made some wrong turns. He decides to drive back to the main highway and start again.

  It’s 4:00 p.m. by the time he finds the right logging road, but he can’t get through because three police cars are blocking his way. One of the cops tells him they are hunting an escaped convict so nobody is allowed in the park. He feels uneasy, apprehensive. What will Dale Paul do when he discovers that Tim isn’t waiting at the duck blind? Will he give himself up? He won’t have much choice, but that has never stopped his old friend before. Has he sent his school chum on a suicidal mission?

  He tries to put himself inside Dale Paul’s mind and draws a blank. It’s odd how you can spend hours with a person, listening to their thoughts and feelings, and yet in the end all you get is an aspect of personality with a few attitudes and habits tossed in — a shorthand sketch of the layered human being who lies behind the barrage of words.

  When he’s out of sight of the police cars, he climbs out of his rental and shouts Dale Paul’s name over and over. Nothing happens. There�
��s not a sound except for a blue jay calling somewhere in the forest.

  It’s a hot, still afternoon, but the air is alive with mosquitoes and blackflies. He looks closely at the pines and birch trees by the road. All forests on the East Coast of North America are the same, he thinks, a mammoth compost heap, ushering in new life. Rotting logs in the underbrush; deadheads in the swamps; lichen-covered rock outcroppings; feeble mosquitoes flying out of the cedars when you jostle the branches; the soft forest floor squishing like muck under your feet.

  There’s no use waiting. The man at the outfitter’s told him the woods are impenetrable unless you’re a seasoned hiker. He’ll have to think of something else.

  26

  Dale Paul

  I AM BACK where I started — at the mouth of the Oswego River. I have no watch, so I have no way of knowing the time, although it is late in the day because the sun is starting to set behind the hills near the prison. A chainsaw roars in the distance. The reassuring sound of human activity.

  For hours, I have followed the river, staggering through the underbrush, holding my wounded hand, wading in the water when I come to impas-sable parts of the forest. Several times I have broken down in tears. If Davie appeared before me and said I should drown myself, I would do as he asked.

  Oh my dear boy, if only I could make you love me again.

  I find the viburnum bush and dig up my browns. I put them on, and in the same spot I bury the clothes Nugent purchased for me at the outfitter’s. Then I walk down to the beach and wait. It doesn’t take long. Several helicopters hover above the far shore of the lake while a C.O. sits in the stern of a prison outboard scanning the forest with a pair of binoculars. Trembling with relief, I shout and wave.