“Yeah. Well. So here’s how it is,” he said finally. “I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to you, champ. I just wanted to tell you where I’m going. So you’d know.” He snorted and smiled, gently mocking himself and the scene’s slow unfolding. “I just really wanted to talk to you. That’s what it boils down to. I just really wanted to talk.
“I … I brought you somethin’.”
Joseph held the pints aloft, watched them glisten in the sun. He leaned one shoulder against the tombstone, rubbing briefly against it as he might have with his friend in a rare, tipsy moment of intimacy. Then he grinned and clinked the bottles together.
“To us, man. Forever. To The Defender and his faithful teenage sidekick, Butch S-S-Sampson …”
He was starting to cry a little, and that was just fine. The last few months had seen his emotions move closer and closer to the surface. He no longer felt caged inside himself, and the weight on his shoulders was gone. It was easier to laugh, easier to cry, and both were somehow sweeter than they’d ever been before. Slowly but surely, he was making his peace with the world.
With a jittering right hand, he poured about three ounces of Guinness on Ian’s grave, then set the bottle down at the foot of the tombstone and swigged deeply on the pint in his left. He fought to speak clearly, without tears.
“Allan’s got a cousin who owns a print shop down in Lancaster, Pennsylvania.” Joseph cleared his throat. “Says he can give me a job. Delivery, print-shop assistant, that kind of thing. Doesn’t pay as much, but it’s cheaper out there, and I’ve got a couple thousand from Mama’s insurance to hold me over ’til I’m on my feet. Should be okay …”
The wind blew, a faint chill rustling through the grass. Joseph paused, to light another smoke, cupping the flame in his hands. He looked at Ian’s mute grave, smiled, and shook his head.
“You know, ol’ Stevie might be a man yet.” He laughed. “He split town right after the hunt, went back to stay with his parents. I thought that was the last I’d see of him; but the little fucker called me two weeks ago, said he was in New York to pick up the rest of his stuff, wanted to take me to dinner.
“It was all right. He looked a couple of thousand years older for the wear, but he’s not such a geek anymore.” He snorted, took a swig.
“Just wanted to thank me. Turns out he’s up in Stamford now, studying computer programming. Figures, huh? Christ …”
The sun was starting its majestic descent into the horizon, tinting the underside of the clouds with broad sweeps of purple and gold, beaming heavenly spotlights down into the valley. The sound of the car was very close now, though he’d forgotten completely about it; and he looked up to see a long-faced family drive slowly past on the narrow cemetery road. He waved to them, and they nodded in return; theirs was a passing communion, not an intrusion.
Wonder who they’re mourning, he thought, and the echo of the words washed through him in waves of longing and loss and love. He paused, steeling himself. The car rolled off into the sunset.
“Josalyn and Allan are very tight these days.” This was going to be the hardest part, he knew. “Allan’s in a neck brace, but he’s okay. Makes him look like a giant ring pacifier.” He laughed, took a short swig, and paused. “Josalyn saved his life, you know. You would have been proud.” He leaned forward, grinning fiercely. “She kicked Rudy’s ass, Ian. She really cleaned that pinhead’s clock.”
He finished his Guinness, reached for Ian’s, thought better of it. His smile faded.
“She and Allan are …” Say it. Get it out. “They’re getting really close, buddy.” He lowered his voice. “They still see too much of you in each other’s eyes to be more than just close. But they will. That’s my guess.”
The sun’s last rays were playing across the sky, a magnificent spectacle that went largely unnoticed by the solitary figure on the hill. The air bit ever so slightly as Joseph stood and flipped the collar of his jacket up. Tonight would be chilly, no doubt about it.
He choked a little, back in his throat.
“Time heals, my man,” he said. “The pain fades, if you let it. They won’t ever forget you … hell, it’s half love for you that brought ’em together in the first place …” He let it trail off.
From Ian’s grave, silence.
“You understand, don’t you?” Expecting no answer. Gauging his own feelings for a sense of right-or-wrongness.
He felt fine. He felt … clean.
“They’ll never forget you, boss.” A tear rolled down Joseph’s cheek. He let it. “And neither will I. You’re a fucking hero, and don’t you forget it. I …
“I love you, Ian. Wherever you are, you’ll always be right here.”
He thumped his denim-covered chest. “Rest in peace, man. And if you’re still kickin’ around somewhere … be happy.”
Joseph Hunter took one last look at the trees, the hill, the silent grave. He would not need to come back. It was done. He smiled, acknowledging it at last.
Then he turned. Fished the keys from his pocket.
And walked away.
LAKE MONSTERS
By Joseph A. Citro
To the memory of my friend,
Dr. Loren Connelly Bronson.
Prologue
Friar’s Island, Vermont
April 12, 1917
A scream echoed in the granite hallway. Abrupt, sharp, tense with pain.
The tall man flinched, turned his head away, pressed his back tightly against the cold stone wall. He listened, motionless but for the glistening beads of sweat sliding down his face. In his black suit he was almost invisible among the shadows in the passageway. His long, pure white hair was like a mist in the half-light.
The screaming stopped.
He listened, inching closer to the open door. Across from him, candlelight flickered on the wall, projected from inside the room. Now he could hear something else. A painful sobbing came from within, a melancholic contrast to the pizzicato dance of the flames.
The man’s face wrinkled, as if his thoughts pained him. He was undecided. Should he enter the room? Would his own pain fuel the relentless crying that came from beyond the open door?
On the previous evening he had stood on this same spot, contemplating these same questions, experiencing the same indecision.
But tonight he would not run away.
With an effort of will he flattened his features into an emotionless mask, and, before he could change his mind, stepped quickly into the room.
The perspiring girl looked up at him from the bed. Her pale face brightened as a faint smile stretched her quivering lips. She was so young, he thought, so very young. No more than a child.
“Mr. Dare,” she said weakly, as if the simple words emptied the last breath from her lungs. He saw her round belly straining tight against the heavy comforter.
“And how is our princess tonight?” His voice was deep, steady. He hoped it would bring her confidence and strength.
Mrs. Putnam, the midwife, cradled the girl’s frightened face against her breast. Using a folded cloth, she bathed the girl’s forehead with water.
“She’s feelin’ the life,” Mrs. Putnam said to Cortney Dare.
“The pain is awful,” whispered the child. “It don’t go away.” She lifted red-rimmed eyes and looked at him plaintively.
“It’ll go away soon,” said the man. “All the pain will be gone soon.”
The child smiled weakly, proffering her scarred and trembling hand. Cortney Dare stepped near enough to take it, but not near enough to hear what she whispered.
“She said she hopes it’ll be a boy,” Mrs. Putnam told him.
“I think it will be,” said the man. He seemed about to say something more, then stopped. He left hurriedly, as if the child’s agony were his own.
The girl gasped as a strong fist of pain clenched her insides. Mrs. Putnam held her tighter, stroking her matted hair.
“There, there,” said the midwife. “There, there.”
The child
seemed to relax a bit as the discomfort passed. She breathed easier; there was more strength in her voice. “Will you tell me a story, missus?”
“My goodness, child, I think you’ve heard all my stories.”
“I know. But maybe you could tell me one again…”
“I could do that, if there’s a special one you’d like to hear. Or” — the midwife smiled as if an idea had come to her — “I could tell you a new story, a story that an Indian boy told me a long, long time ago, back when I was a girl like you. It’s the story of a big eel, a giant, that lives out in the lake.”
“Is it a scary story?”
“Oh, no, my darlin’, it’s not a scary story at all…. “
VERMONT
The Present
Chapter 1 - The Monster Hunter
Bored and aching from the long drive, Harrison Allen passed the big green sign that announced:
Burlington 62 miles
100 kilometers
He fidgeted in the seat, tapped his fingers on the top of the steering wheel. He’d been on the road heading north from Boston for the last three hours; it would be at least another hour before he arrived at Mark’s house.
Harrison had never enjoyed driving. It was usually his practice to speed, to get where he wanted to go as fast as possible. Today, however, he had broken his habit by holding to a conservative — and legal — sixty-five miles per hour. The way his luck had been going lately, he knew better than to tempt a speeding ticket.
After three hours in the car, with no diversion but the mindless music on the radio and the uncomfortable chaos of his own thoughts —which, lately, had been running all too frequently toward self-pity — he became irritated at the prospect of another hour of driving.
Another hour!
A bit of additional pressure on the accelerator and the speedometer needle climbed to seventy. That makes it under an hour, he thought. Then — what the hell — he accelerated to seventy-five.
Angry at himself for his restlessness, and in an effort to avoid yet another bout with self-pity, he concentrated, working hard to take pleasure from the scenery while contemplating once again the real purpose of his trip.
He felt funny, in a way, returning to Burlington, Vermont, after all these years. It was as if he were trying to return to the past, to rediscover the point at which things started to go wrong. How foolish. Did he really expect he could make a fresh start?
It wasn’t as if he had outgrown Burlington; no doubt there were still lessons to be learned there. He realized that during his four years as an undergraduate at the University of Vermont, he must have overlooked many things.
The monster was a case in point.
It was odd, he thought, four years living right on the shores of Lake Champlain and never once hearing about the monster. Of course he had been younger then, his mind had been on loftier matters: girls and beer and parties. And occasionally, when he was too tired for anything else, his studies.
Harrison’s mind reviewed the years since graduation, the images like slides flicking rapidly on a screen: travel in Europe, an attempt at writing a novel, an impulsive, quickly broken engagement, an English teaching job in Rhode Island, and the last five years in marketing for a computer manufacturer in Boston. Rather an unremarkable biographical sketch, he had to admit.
And now what?
When MeisterData went belly-up not three months after Leading Edge, the job was gone. The company was gone, and what were the prospects for a marketing executive whose product had failed in the marketplace?
Suddenly all Harrison had to look forward to were a few months of unemployment checks. And then?
Then what?
Then it was back to square one with his life.
Again Harrison forced himself to be optimistic. Six months of unemployment checks would certainly buy enough time to do what had to be done. He could slow down, stretch out. Relax. Take some kind of psychic inventory, get to know himself and maybe simplify his life to the point that he could start all over again. Do things right this time.
And better yet, he’d be living rent-free in Vermont! It would be like a long vacation. An opportunity to see what it was like to be independently wealthy.
Smiling with a momentary satisfaction, Harrison turned his attention to the Vermont landscape. Assuming a deep, well-modulated voice, he pretended to be a tour guide, “Interstate 89, bisecting Vermont as it connects White River Junction with Burlington, is one of the most scenic stretches of highway in the country. Designed to complement the beautiful land that it crosses, 1-89 offers the traveler a delightful excursion through the magnificent Green Mountains: quaint white villages, ponds like silver mirrors, rivers and streams that decorate the hillsides like tinsel on a Christmas tree …”
He chuckled softly, embarrassed by the sound of his voice in the empty car.
Near Waterbury, with Camel’s Hump on his left and Mount Mansfield — Vermont’s highest peak — on his right, Harrison easily remembered why he had once vowed never to leave the Green Mountain State.
Fifteen years. He had been away for a long time. The mountains looked good to him, like the welcoming faces of old friends.
How easy it was for good friends to lose touch. He and Mark had been like brothers during their college years. And now? Sure, they continued to write — one, maybe two letters a year. But they’d seen each other only once since the ’81 wedding. That visit had been almost five years ago, when Mark and Judy had come to Boston for a long weekend. How quiet Mark had seemed then, how docile in the presence of his vivacious wife.
But Mark and Judy were still together after nine years. And Harrison Allen was still very much alone.
He could not have felt more unattached at that moment, his belongings in storage, his apartment in Brookline sublet to a stranger. No job and no reliable prospects for the future. The only things he felt belonged to him were the car he drove, the portable typewriter — there was no electricity where’d he’d be living — the camera equipment in the back seat, and the two bulging suitcases in the trunk.
No fixed address, he thought, as he shifted into fifth, crossing Bolton Flats toward Richmond. He felt as if he were riding a time machine into the past, toward his old college town, toward his old friend.
And what was drawing him back into the past? Just an idea, really. An idea worthy of an eighteen-year-old. But it was an idea that gave him the only direction in his life. He was going to become a monster hunter.
Absently, Harrison pushed the cassette into the player.
“Now let me see if I can get this just right. It was in late August, early September. It was after work, early evenin’. Me and my boy, Cliff — I guess he was about fifteen at the time — we was out in my boat, little aluminum twelve-footer from Sears. We was in the bay—
“What’s that? Oh, it was St. Albans Bay, just east of Friar’s Island. The lake was real calm an’ dark, just like a big sheet of black ice. Anyways, it was startin’ to get dark out, and I could see red in the sky. They was thick black clouds overhead, an’ they was somethin’ about that calm, like any second them big clouds was gonna pucker up and let loose one helluva rainstorm. There wasn’t no wind to speak of. The clouds weren’t movin’, neither was the water. Everythin’ was real calm. Somethin’ about that kind of an evenin’ makes you want to talk in whispers, makes you feel real close to whoever you was with.
“Course that’s the best time for fishin’. All around us, and off in the distance, there was little boats with fellas settin’ in ’em, just like me an’ Cliff. Some had just one fisherman, some had more. Nobody was payin’ no attention to nobody else. Fishin’s kind of a private thing that way, you know?
“Well sir, everybody was just watchin’ their lines, lookin’ at the little spot where it disappears under the water, waitin’ for it to move, waitin’ for some fish to take it.
“Now, it’s this next part I want to get just right for you. I want you to see it just the way I done.
“I
already told you how quiet it was. And Cliff, well, he’s a quiet boy. Oh, he’s got his share of the devil in him, same as any boy. But Cliff’s devil’s a quiet one. Anyways, he says to me, ‘Dad, I got somebody!’
“Well, sir, I figger he’s kiddin’, havin’ a little joke, that is until that fishpole of his bends jest about in half, bends nearly to breakin’!
“I can see he’s hooked into somethin’ pretty big, walleye, most likely, or maybe a big-ass bass or somethin’.
“‘Let up on yer drag!’ I hollers at him. You could hear that drag screechin’ as the thing pulls out line. No point tryin’ to reel in, too much fish headin’ for deep water.
“The tip of the boy’s pole is vibratin’ like the tail of a rattler, and ol’ Cliff, he’s gettin’ scared.
“‘What is it, Dad?’ he says. There’s a look on his face like he’s tryin’ to cover up how scared he is. I see him sweatin’ and shakin’, an’ I know how he feels.
“‘Let her take line,’ I tells him. ‘Let her have all she wants!’
“Right now I’m thinkin’ maybe he’s hooked into one of them salmon. Or maybe a big laker.
“Cliff’s pullin’ real hard and the thing’s still takin’ line, an’ that ol’ pole of his, why it’s bent around like one of them divinin’ rods over a spring.
“We’re both anxious to see what he’s got there, and Cliff, he keeps lookin’ at me, then at the water. He’s sweatin’ more and more, and lookin’ more and more scared.
“Finally he says, ‘Here, Dad, you bring him in.’ And he starts to hand me his pole. Well, I figure it’s his fish, so I says, ‘No, sir. You play it out,’ but before we can argue about it, the fightin’ stops.
“If you ain’t a fisherman, you don’t know that feelin’ of terrible calm tight after your line goes limp and your fish gets away. It’s a lonely feelin’, a feelin’ of failure.
“Well, Cliff, he’s lookin’ broken-hearted as can be as he’s windin’ in line. I don’t know how many feet of it.
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