by Scott Carson
“I’m positive. I threw a bottle, aiming for the tree above him, but it went low. Caught him in the head and he fell into the rocks and the water got him and he was facedown in it. I could see him when I went in. I just couldn’t get to him.”
Fifteen years in prison, Gillian thought. Maybe he’s out in ten. Maybe.
“Any witnesses?” she asked. “Anyone down here who saw or heard what happened?”
“No. Mr. Brady saw me arrive, but he wasn’t there when it…” His voice trailed off, his eyes went distant, and then he said, “The photographer saw me, too. I don’t know where he went, but he saw me go into the water. When the other man came out of the woods, I thought it was going to be the photographer.”
Steve Ellsworth stared at his son. “What photographer?”
“I don’t know. Just some guy taking pictures of the dam. He was right down there.” Aaron nodded toward the water. “I didn’t see him until I waded in, but then we had a… a bit of a back-and-forth, and then I swam off and I didn’t see him again.”
“Was he with a newspaper or something, or just a guy on his own?”
Aaron shook his head. “I didn’t ask. I didn’t recognize him, and I don’t think he was local. For some reason I picked him for being from someplace else. He said his name was… Hallbright, I think? Curtis Hallbright?”
Gillian’s nerves sparked with cold fire.
“Haupring?” she said, and they both turned to her, and she wished she hadn’t spoken. She knew better than to speak of these things; she had known that and honored that for nearly twenty years now, ever since the day Steve Ellsworth had visited her house on a welfare check, following her grandmother’s instructions.
“Maybe,” Aaron said. “Haupring… yeah, maybe.”
“You know him?” Steve asked her.
“No.”
Both of them frowned. Steve was the first to voice the obvious question. “Then why are you asking?”
“Because it’s my job,” Gillian said, flustered. “When I write up the incident report, Steve, I’ll need to get the names right, you know?”
He stared at her, puzzled, and she felt a hot flush in her face.
“I wasn’t sure if I’d heard him right.” She took a notepad out of her pocket, opened it, and fumbled for a pen while the pages promptly soaked with rain. “So Hall-bright… like that?”
“Maybe,” Aaron said. “Or what you said. Haup-ring, like with a p? H-a-u-p?” He thought it over and nodded once. “I think that’s it. The one you said.”
“But you don’t know him?” Steve asked, speaking to Gillian.
“Never met anyone with that name,” she said, and she was glad she could say this honestly. “But I’ll try to find him if he was down here for the crime.”
When she said the last word, Steve winced, his interest in the photographer’s name sinking beneath his fear for his son.
She turned back to Aaron. “Looks like you need medical.”
“I can show you where they are first.” He took a step toward her, pulling away from Steve’s protective arm. “I know right where he went in. I was sure I’d make it to him. There was a moment when I thought this was all… supposed to happen. You know?” His blue eyes seemed aflame in his pale face. “I mean, it all unraveled in just a few seconds, but each step needed to happen, right? I’ve got to fail the swim. That’s first, because if I make it all the way back up, then I never step on the bottle. And then I step on the bottle just as he comes down here, and when I threw it, I couldn’t have hit him if I’d been trying. But I did hit him, because it was supposed to happen. When he fell, he landed close enough that the current caught him. The water is higher than ever, too. Any other day he falls there and he stays dry. But today the water is high and it’s pulling, and then it tugged him in like it wanted him, and he was facedown and I knew exactly what I had to do, and it all felt like—”
Steve snapped, “Aaron.”
“Something that was supposed to happen,” Aaron pressed on, ignoring his father. He took another hobbling step toward Gillian, and she almost backed up. His words and his eyes were that intense. “I came back here, I was full circle today, and I had just one job left to do, and it was him. He was there in the water, and I was the only one who could get him, right? It was all up to me, and that’s the way it was supposed to—”
“Aaron!” Steve thundered. “Enough. Don’t talk like that. Just answer her questions, show her what she needs to be shown—that’s all.”
“But it was supposed to be me,” Aaron said, wild now, almost enthusiastic. “It was exactly what I was supposed to do. Maybe I did aim the bottle at him, maybe—”
“Shut up!” Steve shouted, and Gillian lifted her hands.
“Enough,” she snapped. “Enough. Steve, you need to stop interrupting him. Let him say what he’s got to say.”
Steve Ellsworth stared at her with sadness and an impotent rage, and then in a low voice said, “It’s been a long day for my child, Gillian. Just understand that.”
A long day for my child. Yes, Steve remembered that welfare check. He remembered the letters, too. She was sure of it then.
“I get that,” Gillian said. The wind had shifted and was now blowing the rain into her face. Her dark hair was plastered to her cheek. She ducked her head and pushed her hair back, and she saw that the gauze wrap on Aaron’s foot was turning brighter red. He needed medical attention, and she needed to get him calmed down. Get both of them calmed down, actually.
“I just need to know where to send the divers,” she said.
“I’m not sure where he ended up, but the one I thought was him is pinned up against trees and an old house foundation or something. There were chains around the feet and it looked like a black hood or a bag over the head. Some kind of cloth hood.”
Time seemed to stop again. It was just like when he’d said the photographer’s name—the present was gone, and the past was reaching for Gillian with cold hands.
She was afraid that they could see her reaction but then realized they were both looking past her. Aaron’s cheeks had drained of color and his eyes had gone wide and white, his lips parting wordlessly as he stared into the woods. She turned to follow his horrified gaze and saw a man approaching through the trees.
He was of average height, slender, and not much of his face was visible except for his glasses. The rest was shadowed by the hood of his rain jacket. He was hugging a notebook and a tablet computer to his chest as if to shield them from the rain.
When Gillian said, “Who is this?” she wasn’t expecting an answer. She didn’t think either Steve or Aaron Ellsworth had any more idea than she did.
It was the sound of Aaron falling that made her turn back to him.
He seemed to melt, sliding down slowly, until his ass was planted in a puddle, and his bloody foot was stretched out in front of him. His eyes were wide and white.
“That’s the man I killed.”
13
The stranger walked on up the bank, close enough that Gillian could see his expression. He was looking at them with friendly but quizzical eyes. As was warranted—two cops and a wounded man in the rain. But he didn’t seem to understand a bit of it.
Something is very wrong here, Gillian thought.
But hadn’t she already known that? Hadn’t she known that since Aaron Ellsworth had spoken of the photographer named—
Stop it, Gillian, damn you. Stop thinking of the name. It’s not the right name, you put it into his head, and now you need it out of your own head. Fast.
“Sir?” she called out. “Can you come here for a moment?”
The stranger approached without hesitation and offered one damp palm.
“Mick Fleming,” he said. “I have authority to trespass.”
He gave a nervous smile, his eyes darting from Gillian to Steve and then to Aaron. They lingered on Aaron the longest but showed no recognition, just confusion. As Gillian shook his hand, she realized just how drenched he was. He’d been
out here a long time.
Steve Ellsworth said, “What… where have you been?”
“All over the place. It’s my job to inspect the dam. Mr. Brady can vouch for me.”
“I hit you,” Aaron said. His voice shook. He was staring up at Mick Fleming as if he couldn’t fathom the man’s existence. “I hit you with the bottle. I wasn’t trying to, but I did.”
“Excuse me?” Fleming looked Aaron’s way uneasily, a side-eyed glance. Watching him, Gillian thought of the way strange dogs would stand warily and sniff one another, that tense moment that could lead to play or aggression.
“He believes he hit someone with a bottle, and they fell into the water,” she said. “We mistakenly thought that someone was you, Mr. Fleming. But can I ask how long you’ve—”
“There’s no mistake: I hit him!” Aaron shouted. “He went into the water. The bottle broke on the side of his head, he was bleeding, and I damn near drowned trying to pull him back out!”
Mick Fleming took two steps back. His face had gone from bewildered to frightened. Steve put a hand on Aaron’s shoulder.
“Easy,” he said.
“How long have you been here?” Gillian asked Fleming.
“Most of the afternoon.” He passed his hand over his soaked clothing like a wand. “As you can see.”
“Did you see him here?” she asked, nodding at Aaron.
“Um, I didn’t… I can’t say I saw him.”
“You saw me! You saw me bleeding and you wouldn’t help!” Aaron’s shout had a tremble to it, and he seemed as scared of Fleming as Fleming was of him.
“Let me talk,” Gillian said, and when Aaron fell silent, she turned back to Fleming. “So you had no encounter with him?”
“Absolutely not.”
“He’s told us a story that someone is in the water, and—”
“It’s not a story, it’s what happened, and it was him!”
“Aaron!” Steve snapped, tightening his grip and giving his son a shake, as if he could rattle sanity back into him.
“I didn’t have any encounter with him,” Mick Fleming said. “I heard him, that was all. Or I heard someone.”
“Heard him doing what?”
“Um…” He took a step away from Aaron. “I suppose the word is raving? I heard someone sort of… shouting to himself. Or I thought it was to himself. I mean, I only heard one person. He sounded, um… I would say drunk? A little slurred. But I did not see him.”
Aaron tried to rise and Steve had to use some strength to hold him back. The bandage on Aaron’s foot darkened with fresh blood.
“You left for a first-aid kit, and I threw the bottle. Why are you lying about that? Do you think this is helping me? Show them your face. Take the damned hood off!”
Mick Fleming pulled his hood down. He seemed less frightened now, more fascinated.
His face was unblemished. No trace of an injury.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly, addressing Aaron directly. “I truly don’t want to upset you, but”—he spread his arms—“as you can see, I’m quite all right.”
“You didn’t see anyone else?” Gillian asked. “Hear anyone else?”
Fleming shook his head.
“He said there was a photographer down here,” she said.
“I guess I’ve missed a lot,” Fleming said. “But I’ve been down here for hours and I didn’t see any of this. I’m sorry.”
It went silent then, the four of them standing in the rain, staring at one another. Gillian said, “Steve, I don’t know what to do here.”
Steve’s voice was low when he said, “I’ve got it, Gillian. I’ll get him home.”
“Get him to a doctor,” she said, and then, too quickly, “For his foot, I mean.”
“Right,” Steve said, but she could see in his eyes that he knew exactly what kind of doctor she was thinking of.
“I’ll send the divers in,” she said. “We’ll check it out and—”
“I don’t think you need to send any divers in.”
“But he said there were…” She stopped before saying two bodies. She understood what he was thinking: If Aaron had hallucinated his violent encounter with Mick Fleming, why believe the other body was real?
“I’ll get him help,” Steve said. “I’m sorry. I really am.”
Aaron was watching his father. “It’s him,” he whispered. “I saw him. I hit him.” He pointed at Fleming, who regarded him with a pitying look and then spoke in a gentle tone.
“It’s good news that you didn’t really, though. Right? That’s good news. There was some confusion, but I’m fine. I’m just fine.”
It was the way you’d talk to a child who’d awoken from a nightmare, and Gillian saw Steve Ellsworth stiffen. Not from anger but shame.
“I’ll get him home and I’ll get him help,” he said. “I’m sorry. To both of you.”
Gillian didn’t answer. She looked downstream. For reasons that she didn’t want to voice, she still wanted this water searched.
A hood, Aaron had said of the body in the water. The old body, the skeleton.
“We can give it a look at least,” she said. “Just in case.”
“Don’t waste anyone else’s time,” Steve said. “I’ve done enough of that.”
He helped Aaron upright. Aaron obliged, but his attention was still on Mick Fleming. He couldn’t take his eyes off the man.
Gillian considered helping but she didn’t want to touch Aaron. The way he looked right now, wild-eyed and wounded, she thought he might lash out at anyone who came near, like an animal with its foot caught in a trap. That was, in fact, precisely what he looked like—caught, hurting, and deeply confused by it all. No, more than confused. Terrified.
“I’m sorry,” Steve said again.
“No need to apologize,” Mick Fleming said, and then he gave a high, nervous laugh. “Weather like this makes us all a little crazy.”
Wrong word, Gillian thought, and Fleming seemed to realize it, too, because he rushed out another sentence as if to distract from calling Aaron crazy.
“The good news is the dam’s plenty strong,” he said. “All this rain isn’t going to give you any trouble at the Chilewaukee. That much I can promise you.”
“Terrific,” Steve muttered. He had Aaron upright now. Gillian could see the humiliation in Steve’s eyes. He didn’t say anything, just turned and guided Aaron away, helping him toward the parking lot. Aaron was talking to him in a frantic whisper, but Steve didn’t respond.
“Do you need me to stay?” Mick Fleming asked her in a low voice. “I’m happy to, but… nothing happened.”
“No,” she said, “I don’t need you to stay. I’m glad you showed up when you did, before I arrested him and sent divers in looking for you.”
“He was quite upset.”
“Yes.” Gillian had to laugh. “I can’t imagine what it felt like to hear him insisting that he’d killed you.”
“It was a new experience, certainly. Who was that with him? The other officer seems to know the, um, excitable young man quite well.”
“He’s his father.” She hesitated, then said, “Things haven’t been trending well for Aaron, but I still can’t imagine that his father was prepared for something like this.”
Fleming made a soft sound of sympathy and looked skyward. The rain drove into his face.
“Full moon tonight,” he said. “Maybe that’s what got to him. I don’t know. I won’t pretend to understand the human mind. All I understand is dams. And that”—he pointed at the vast concrete fortification that held back the reservoir—“is one beautiful structure.” He looked back at her. “My grandfather designed it, you know.”
Gillian felt very cold, looking at him. He watched her with almost amused eyes.
“Jeremiah Fleming,” she said.
“Excellent. There aren’t many left who know the name.”
Gillian knew the name all too well. Suddenly, though, she did not want to admit that.
“It’
s on a plaque in the office,” she said. “All of the old engineers are.”
“Oh, I see. Well, he was a marvelous engineer. Things didn’t work out for him as he’d planned up here, but sometimes fate takes success out of your hands. Reshapes it.” He smiled at her. “Good luck with your work. I think it’s about time to get out of this rain.”
With that, he turned from her and walked to the gatehouse.
DOWNSTREAM
14
They blasted and hauled, hauled and blasted. Rock crumbled and dust rose. Above them, the city carried on, dependent on the workers below, but unaware of them.
This was the story of Deshawn Ryan’s days, but also the story of three, four, even five generations before him. The men who’d dug the first of the tunnels had worked with shovels and picks. Then came dynamite. Then drill-and-blast systems. And now the Mole.
The Mole was a tunnel-boring machine that looked like a giant torpedo. Its payload was made up of massive steel blades, each of them mounted on a circular head. Lasers in the Mole took rock readings; men adjusted computerized controls; the hydraulic-powered blades whirled; granite vanished. A conveyor belt carried the crushed rock from front to back. There, Deshawn and the rest of the crew loaded the rock onto muck cars. Car by car, foot by foot, inch by inch, New York City’s third water tunnel moved forward.
Up above, eight million people turned on faucets oblivious to the men below them, relying on the billion gallons a day that already surged through the existing aqueducts, running out of the dark valleys and rugged mountains.
It was a hell of a thing, really, an authentic engineering marvel, and yet a lot of the sandhogs who worked in the city never ventured to see the source. Deshawn had been in the tunnels for two years himself before he got the urge to go there, and then it had been for the silliest of reasons: someone came out to take a photograph of the crew.
Sandhogs intrigued people in the way any dirty job did. Film crews would come and go, and newspaper reporters, and people writing books. Before security tightened down after 9/11, visitors were more common.