Bumstead's Well

by R E Swirsky

  "You think you know who that is in there?" Jet asked. Jet was new to town. He transferred from the vice squad on the east end of downtown Vancouver only three months ago due to an ongoing internal investigation for alleged misconduct.

  Bobby's eyes caught Dean's. "He does have that big winch on the front, doesn't he? I've seen it around town."

  "Ayuh," Dean replied. The three men turned towards the two partially-charred bodies inside the vehicle. Dean ran the plates on the vehicle and confirmed whom he suspected to be the registered owner and one of the victims.

  CHAPTER 9 Day One - Friday 10:42 PM

  Vincent Pattison tried to sleep, but it was nearly impossible on the short, uneven stool with a wall of odd shaped rocks protruding into his back. He couldn’t rest his head comfortably against the rough stones and there was barely even enough space to fully stretch out his legs.

  Why he had even agreed to Aaron's dare now agitated him more than he wanted to admit. He knew it was more than just the liquor talking that night. He yearned to be bold like Aaron from the first time they met, but now he questioned his own judgement.

  Aaron was the smoothest of talkers. He was the kind of talker who could always find his way out of trouble, and too many times, he found a way to get others into trouble. Aaron had a strange need to always be one-up on anything anyone else did, and he could spin forth an unbelievable tale on the spot that would have those around him laughing and amazed and believing it was all true. Accepting Aaron's dare was Vincent’s way of trying to keep up with him.

  Vincent heaved a heavy sigh and wondered again why he agreed to such a stupid dare. It was cramped and dark at the bottom of the well, and it didn't smell very nice. There was certainly nothing to be gained by spending a night down here. Even being able to boast about it later seemed silly now.

  He stared at the dark walls that surrounded him. The musty smell that lingered about and snuck in with each breath reminded him of something very old and rotten. He suspected there was a similar rotten part somewhere deep inside Aaron that was the unspoken fetidness directing Aaron's edgy attitude. Vincent had wanted to find that same edginess in himself. He wanted to see it, and he wanted to feel it. Even just once. He was feeling something tonight, but he wasn't sure what it was or whether or not he even liked it.

  Their friendship sprouted instantly one afternoon when Aaron arrived at the Greenhouse to pick up another load of sod with his landscaping company's truck. It wasn't much: Aaron called out to one of Vincent's co-workers at the Greenhouse, "Move your ass and get the product out to the dock so Vinnie can load it!"

  Vincent always had difficulty trying to get this particular co-worker to move with any sense of urgency. It frustrated him at times. He just wasn't very good at being assertive.

  The two laughed hard once the co-worker disappeared to get the product, and the bond between them was immediate.

  Aaron soon confessed many things to Vincent about his life, including the many details of his troubles before moving to Bluffington only two months prior with his mother. He said his father was a "dip shit" he could not stand to be around; Aaron had a drug possession charge pending back in Grande Prairie, and his mother said Aaron’s new girlfriend was "a little slut," and "nothing but trouble."

  Skipping town was a topic of conversation Aaron fell back on nearly every other day, especially after a few beers. Aaron hated that his mother took him away from his girlfriend. He boasted that she was pregnant, and he wanted to "man-up" and be there. He confided the daily fights he had with his mother to Vincent; he told Vincent how he promised her she would come home one day and he would be gone. Vincent simply brushed off Aaron's rants about leaving as nonsense spewed by a drunk, and he sometimes questioned if Aaron really even had a girlfriend back in Grande Prairie.

  The sky darkened to near blackness above. Vincent tugged at the zipper on Aaron's coat to keep out the chill, but it was already as high as it could go. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets and forced his eyes closed in an effort to sleep. He trembled and hoped it was just from the chill in the air.

  CHAPTER 10 Day Two - Saturday 12:14 AM

  It was shortly after midnight when Chris Pattison opened his front door to Detective Dean Daly and another officer he didn't recognize.

  He knew immediately by the look on Detective Daly's face that there was a problem. His first thought went to his wife Anita. Dean whispered something to the other officer who nodded and quickly turned away leaving Chris alone with Dean. Chris ignored Dean for the moment and watched as the officer walked by the squad car parked in his drive and continued out across the road to where Roger, his grandson Vincent’s best friend, lived with his mother and grandparents. His grandson was sleeping over there tonight.

  "Anita's asleep," Chris said.

  The detective glanced down at his watch and apologized. It was well after midnight. "I know it's late, but this can't wait until morning, Chris.”

  Everyone in the valley knew Chris and Anita. Chris was born and raised in the very house he stood in now. The house remained one of the largest landmark homes in Bluffington; it spread over three lightly forested acres that backed onto the river on the north side and the grounds of Bluffington University to the west. For many decades, the house grounds were kept and maintained in a park-like manner, but over the past few years, Chris let the grounds grow old and tired.

  Chris motioned Dean inside. "I'm not waking her. She's not well." He looked across the street to see the other officer ringing the doorbell at the neighbours’ across the road as he closed the door.

  Chris was 83, retired, a heavy smoker, and he was still deeply in love with his wife. Anita was 77, and unlike Chris, she had never smoked even one cigarette in her entire life. After nearly sixty years, she still harped on Chris daily to quit the nasty habit. Anita suffered from early onset dementia, and it took all of Chris' energy each day to watch over and take care of her. Monitoring her daily pills for her high blood pressure took its toll on him. He'd even taken to recording when she took her pills each day in a log book. Tonight Chris was up late with Anita who woke up two hours ago with complaints of pains in her chest. She had been complaining about severe chest pains every other day for weeks now, but after multiple trips to the hospital, sometimes twice in the same day, the doctors found nothing wrong with her. She was completely healthy and at no risk of a heart attack. These symptoms are simply a part of her progressing dementia and the accompanying stress she was under, they said. Chris was not taking any chances with his wife, and tonight he would stay up to watch her sleep until she settled, even if he had to stay up all night.

  The detective stepped only as far inside the home as was necessary and got right to it. “I really am sorry about this, Chris. It's about Vincent."

  "What's the little bugger done?" Chris asked. A small smirk cut into the corners of his wrinkled mouth.

  Chris was very proud of his grandson. He and Anita raised the boy since his mother abandoned him on their doorstep nine years ago. As furious as he and Anita were at their daughter, they couldn't be angry at the boy. They took him in as their own and raised him with all the love and care they could muster. Truth be told, having to give up an easy retirement to raise one more child was a blessing. Chris would often say that if it were not for Vincent, he and Anita may not still be alive; they would have just withered away into a premature death. The boy reignited a spark and purpose inside both of them.

  Detective Dean Daly did not return the smile. He shuffled his feet, and his face drew closed and uncompromising. He was there for a serious purpose.

  "I am so sorry, Chris. I really am. I wish I didn't have to be here tonight."

  Chris' grin slipped away as he realized this was much more than a trivial brush with the law that brought detective Daly to his doorstep at this time of night. He swayed unbalanced to the side and reached out with one hand to stabilize himself against the staircase railing.

  "Vincent was killed tonight. Out on the highway just pa
st the Bumstead farm."

  "My God, no," Chris replied softly.

  "His friend Roger was with him. He died as well."

  Chris staggered, and Dean quickly stepped forward and helped lower Chris to the stairs to sit.

  Chris was speechless, but his face screamed in agony for answers.

  "It wasn't Vincent's fault. A semi overturned near the Bumstead farm. The boys came down around the corner, and there was nothing they could do."

  "Anita..." Chris tried to whisper softly, but his voice was jagged and broken. He looked up the stairs in the direction of where she lay sleeping.

  CHAPTER 11 Day Two - Saturday 6:37 AM

  "Caw!"

  A large, black crow rested itself on the stone well cap to let Vincent know the sun was about to rise. Vincent covered his ears with his hands, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep some more, but the crow insisted that Vincent wake up.

  "Caw! Caw!"

  "Go away!" he shouted, but the incessant crowing wouldn't stop. Vincent finally scrounged through the muddy bottom for any rock he could find. He found one and threw the rock up towards the opening, but it only made it half way up before hitting the side and falling back down.

  "Shut up!" he screamed out and rummaged for another rock.

  The crow continued to caw away. After a number of feeble attempts, Vincent was finally able to throw one rock close enough to the top to scare the crow away.

  "Good riddance!" he shouted.

  Only a few moments passed before the crow returned to start all over again.

  "C'mon already! Get out of here!" he shouted. “Just go away! Please!" But the crow remained.

  Vincent covered his ears and buried his head between his legs. The crow finally left just as the sun touched and lit the edge of the well head with a soft orange glow.

  "Finally! Stupid bird!"

  Vincent stretched one leg out as best he could. He didn’t realize sleep could make a body so damned stiff and sore. He went to relieve himself on the opposite wall from where he sat but stopped before his bladder let loose. He thought about how confined the space really was. He didn't want to sit with the smell of urine all day. He grabbed one of the two empty water bottles he finished and urinated inside the bottle. He recapped the bottle and set it aside along the wall.

  After pacing around for a few minutes to stretch his legs and get his blood circulating, he stopped. The space was much too small to pace; all he accomplished was making himself dizzy. He sat back down and opened up a fresh bottle of water and the second bag of chips.

  "I guess this is breakfast."

  Vincent nibbled slowly on the chips. He was pleased with himself for surviving the night in the well. The sunrise was a huge relief. He woke repeatedly throughout the night and was terrified for all kinds of unreasonable reasons that seem silly and foolish in daylight. There was no boogey man ready to jump in the well from above and no any huge spiders or snakes ready to crawl out from the mud or from between the stones in the middle of the night to attack him. He woke once in the darkness and screamed when he felt what could only be the tiny hand of an infant corpse brushing across his neck, but it was just the tag inside the back of Aaron's coat.

  "See, Aaron," he said and chuckled. "Staying down here overnight wasn't so hard." He was proud that he had succeeded and looked forward to his friends’ return.

  “There ain’t no boogey man.”

  Many thoughts crossed his mind as he recessed deep down inside the well. In only a few weeks, he would be returning back to University on the coast. He missed his new friends from the University and one very special girl, Anna, in particular. Even though he boasted to both Roger and Aaron about her, she wasn't officially his girlfriend. He hoped that when he returned to University in a few weeks he could finally change that. They hung out together in their free time, and they relied heavily on each other for support when feeling lonesome or homesick. Vincent was determined to express his feelings for her before he jumped on the bus for home at the end of the term, but his nerves got the best of him. He merely said goodbye to her with a simple handshake that left him feeling stupid and disappointed in himself as he boarded the bus home.

  He thought about his Grams and Gramps and still wondered why they insisted he enroll at a University across the mountains in Vancouver rather than right here in town. The Pattison house backed right onto the Bluffington University property, but his Grams insisted he would obtain the best education by moving to another. And his Gramps agreed.

  Vincent never argued with his Gramps. Vincent never really argued with anyone. He was submissive by nature and folded under pressure whenever confronted by any of his peers. It bothered him greatly at times, but he would conceal his shame and embarrassment as best he could. He tried to make himself invisible. If his Gramps was disappointed in his meekness, he never showed it or mentioned it.

  "You will be fine out here, Vincent," his Gramps said when he dropped him off at his dorm on his first day. “Just remember one thing when things start to get tough out here: It only takes going one more step past where others often stop. I’m not talking about being stronger, smarter, or better than those around you. God knows you’ll be up to your neck surrounded by those characters, but that’s not what I’m talking about. It’s one step, Vincent. That's it. Keep your eyes open, and watch what others are doing. You’ll know what I mean when you see it. Go one step further, and you will find success in whatever you decide to do.”

  Gramps was wise, and Vincent trusted his words more than anything. Gramps was his rock.

  Vincent sat back, stared up at the blue sky, and waited.

  CHAPTER 12 Day Two - Saturday 10:22 AM

  "It just can't be our Vincent. He can't really be gone," Anita cried.

  Chris held her tight. Anita was as sharp as ever today. Today she was the woman he married so long ago. Even in her current pain and loss from the death of their grandson, he liked her better this way. A part of him wished she wasn't so sharp so she wouldn't remember this moment, but he realized it really didn't matter. As soon as she relapsed, he would have to repeat this scene all over again. She would undoubtedly ask where Vincent is, set a plate at the table for him, or wonder why he didn’t sleep in his bed the night before, and Chris would have to set her straight each time. He dreaded the thought of having to relive this day for the months and years to come.

  "Hush darling. We've been over this already. Detective Dean confirmed it was Vincent's truck."

  Anita howled again and dug her frail and wrinkled fingers deep into Chris' arms. He winced and tried not to cry, but the tears came anyway.

  Early in the afternoon, Detective Dean Daly called the house and asked Chris to come to the police station in order to identify Vincent's body. Chris arrived at the morgue alone, and Dean took him inside. It was clear to Chris that Dean was not at all impressed Chris drove himself down to the morgue.

  "I have to warn you before we go inside… the accident was very bad."

  Chris knew it was going to be bad. "Deaths by car accidents always are," he said frankly. He nodded to Dean indicating he was prepared to go inside.

  "No, Chris. This is worse than any normal car accident. There was a huge fireball. Your grandson was badly burnt."

  "I've probably seen worse," Chris stated. He tilted his head towards the door and ushered Dean with one hand to lead the way.

  Chris may have very well seen worse. He was on the front lines in Korea when he was only slightly older than Vincent; he saw many of his young friends die an early death as they tried to defend a numbered hill from attack by the North Koreans. The defence of the hill was supposed to be sure and simple with the labyrinth of deep trenches dug into the hilltop that allowed them free passage to and from everywhere across their defensive line; but their defence fell apart quickly when the enemy unsuspectedly attacked with heavy air and ground forces. Hell rained down on the troops, and the ensuing terror and panic had many of the young men fleeing down the trenches in all directions
and cut down to a bloody mess by ground forces.

  To this day, Chris believes that much of the artillery that fell on them that day was friendly, but the official report said otherwise. When the battle was finally over, they neither gained nor lost ground, but many of his close friends were dead and many more were missing. Those that were lucky enough to survive were badly injured. Many were missing arms and legs. Some were blinded and horribly disfigured. Chris was fortunate enough to escape completely unscathed. When he returned home, many people called him a hero. "Hero" was a word he soon despised, and he escaped to the dark side of the world to hide himself away and distance himself as far as he could from his family and their title for him. For two long years, he worked over at Bumstead's lumber mill on the outskirts of town before he eventually resurfaced to join his father in the construction business. Many say there are secrets still buried in the dark corners of the Pattison mansion regarding the historic tragedy that occurred at the Bumstead farm, decades ago, just weeks after he quit. They also say Chris’ name is buried at the root of many of those secrets. But as each year passes, there are fewer and fewer left alive who can still make such accusations.

  Dean led Chris into the brightly lit room where the medical examiner waited. The room smelled of sterility and was lined with polished steel trays, carts, and cabinets waiting tranquilly surrounded by white walls and polished grey floors. In the centre of the room rested two trolleys standing parallel to each other. A single body covered by a freshly bleached sheet lay atop each of the trolleys.

  "It's bad, Chris,” Dean reiterated. "I'm told the toxicology samples have been taken…"

  The medical examiner nodded. “We’ve taken blood tests,” he said.

  “But other than that, he's in pretty much the same condition as when he was brought in last night."