by Scott Carson
Her arms were still folded across her chest and her chin was still held high, oblivious to the driving rain, but she was facing away from the corpse and up toward the dam. Only when the divers had pulled the body ashore did she turn back.
“Bring her out of the rocks and then leave her alone,” Gillian Mathers said.
Aaron could see nothing but bones and disintegrating cloth, and yet he knew that Gillian was sure of the identity of the remains, and he knew that it mattered to her. The divers seemed to recognize that as well, or perhaps they were just overwhelmed with moving the corpse, because they did not speak, and they did not rush. They carried it—not it: her—the bones once made up a woman—out of the water and out of the rocks and laid her slowly and gently onto the dead grass above the bank.
“Who was she?” Aaron asked.
“My grandmother,” Gillian Mathers told him, and then she walked toward the body before he could respond.
DOWNSTREAM
33
Deshawn woke with a hangover, but it wasn’t until nearly midmorning when the sad truth caught up to him—he was just now sobering up. What he’d believed was the hangover was in fact only the cloudburst ahead of the storm. When the foreman called his name, the sound made Deshawn’s head throb.
“Ryan. Yo, Ryan?”
Deshawn was down on his hands and knees, attaching a security cable to a muck car, and when he looked over his shoulder at Caleb Stiles, he knew it was trouble. Caleb had been his foreman for the past decade. Caleb was a big man, a quiet man, and a hardworking man. He commanded respect and he didn’t tolerate fools. All of these things made Deshawn certain that he was about to be ripped for his obviously hungover condition.
“Your daughter still working in Torrance County?” Caleb Stiles asked.
“Out of Ashokan Precinct,” Deshawn said, an automatic response that changed nothing. He simply did not like to say that Gillian was in Torrance County. It didn’t matter that she was grown now; responding to the question of whether his daughter was in Torrance County felt old and familiar and like an indictment of him as a father. Yes, she’s in Torrance and I am not, but I send checks. Twice a month, I send checks. Doesn’t that count?
“Right,” Caleb said, unfazed. “Well, I guess they’ve got some kind of mess brewing up there.”
Deshawn dropped the clamp. The steel hit the rail and echoed in the tunnel.
“What do you mean?”
“Not sure what the story is, but half the department’s headed that way tomorrow morning. I was supposed to meet with Cochran over at the valve chamber, but he canceled. Said he’s got to be up at the Chickewaukee.”
“Chilewaukee.”
Caleb shrugged. Beneath his hard hat his broad face was streaked with the gray dust of crushed stone, his beard powdered with it.
“Whatever. Some kind of spillway problem, I guess. Sounded serious, and I can’t say I’m surprised. Shit, how old are those dams? And with the way it’s been raining up there. Saw something on the news yesterday, it’s like an all-time October record up there.”
He hocked phlegm out of his throat and spat. His eyes drifted past Deshawn and toward the Mole.
“If shit’s half as bad as Cochran seemed to think, your girl might be on evacuation duty by tomorrow.”
“It’s that serious?”
“Cochran’s not a hysterical type.”
Deshawn didn’t know Cochran. He knew the name, but Cochran worked well above Deshawn’s pay grade.
“I’ll have to give Gillian a call,” Deshawn said. “See what she’s heard.”
Caleb nodded without much interest, his attention locking down on the Mole, eyes narrowing as if he saw something he didn’t like.
“ ’Scuse me, Deshawn.” He stepped past, bellowed, “Yo! Matty! The hell you doing with that?” and then he was gone and behind him stood a man in thigh-high rubber boots with a vest and suit coat. His hair was combed back in a slicked pompadour and he had a tiny, cropped mustache. He was standing in the middle of the tunnel, not ten feet away, as if the only thing blocking him from Deshawn’s vision all this time had been Caleb Stiles.
He was not real. Deshawn knew this. He was no more real than the figures he’d seen lounging on the high timber beams. Yet there he was, looking every bit as flesh-and-bone as Caleb had.
And familiar, too. Deshawn was somehow certain that he’d seen the man before. Maybe not met him, but he’d seen him.
“The whole system,” the man said, “requires nothing but gravity. Gravity and pressure. That is all. Marvelous, don’t you think?”
Deshawn didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He just stared.
“Provided for man, to be harnessed by man, for the sustenance of man,” the phantom continued. “Some look at the challenge and think it is a matter of invention. But it is not. It’s a matter of utilization, that’s all. We have what we need. The successful engineer simply understands how to utilize it.”
Behind him, Caleb and Matty Silvers were carrying on in loud conversation, and farther down the tunnel a car was clattering this way, its headlight carving through the darkness.
“When forces of nature are properly met by forces of man,” the ghost continued, “the potential is nearly limitless.”
The headlight of a railcar was brightening, making the man’s silhouette stand out against it in stark relief.
“Do you know how much I’ll be able to do with only gravity and pressure?”
The car was almost upon him now, slowing but not slowing fast enough, and though Deshawn knew the man wasn’t real, he still felt like he had to warn him, grab him, save him. He was scared to touch him, though. He stood where he was, a tremble welling up in his legs and through his core.
“I’ll quench a city’s thirst,” the man told him as the light brightened and the clatter rose. His staid bearing broke suddenly, and he gave a wan, almost rueful smile.
“Do you think they will remember me?” he asked Deshawn an instant before the car struck him.
Deshawn shouted. Couldn’t help himself. He gave a yell of shock and fright that echoed through the tunnel.
The man was gone, and the railcar carrying the crew was easing to a stop some fifty feet behind where it had seemed to be. It was as if Deshawn had blinked and the distance increased, like the click of a zoom button.
Now he was back in reality, and everyone was staring at him.
“What happened?” Caleb Stiles shouted, rushing back. “We need medical? Deshawn! What in the hell happened?”
“Nothing,” Deshawn mumbled. “I mean, sorry. I just…” He stared at Caleb, then looked over to where the rest of the crew was standing and watching him, and he tried desperately to come up with something—anything.
“I left my gear up there,” he said, waving a hand in the direction of the railcar. “Thought they were gonna crush it.”
“Gear?”
Yes, what gear? All of Deshawn’s gear was either on his tool belt or in his pockets. The only thing that wasn’t with him right now was his lunch.
“My lunch,” he said. “I’ve got a sandwich… I set it down back there. Stupid thing to do.”
Caleb’s eyes widened. “You’re screaming about your lunch? Holy shit, man, not down here you aren’t!”
When a man screamed in the tunnels—and it happened, oh, it happened—it was because of something real. Real pain, real trouble, real fear. Hands caught in winches, legs smashed by sliding granite slabs, faces torn open by whipping chains. Deshawn had seen all of that and more.
No man had ever screamed in the tunnels for fear of a smashed sandwich.
“I didn’t even think it was out loud,” he said, and tried to laugh. “Thought I was in my own head.”
“Well, you sure as shit got into my head! Damn!”
Caleb turned and stalked back down the tunnel. Deshawn didn’t look any of the others in the eye. He just knelt and found the steel hook of the security cable and got back to work.
Somewhere behind him,
he heard the soft plinking of water dripping into water. He thought idly of his sink faucet and tried to keep his mind there. Real problems, real things. Gaskets to fix, Gillian to call. The real duties of a man in the world. Stay focused on those things.
Do you know how much I’ll be able to do with only gravity and pressure?
He slammed the steel hook into the eye at the base of the muck car and moved for the ratchet. He wanted to stay busy, wanted to make noise, wanted to drown out all the sounds he didn’t wish to hear, and all the memories he didn’t wish to have.
UPSTREAM
34
Steve was unable to find a direct number for Mick Fleming, so he called the main number given for dam safety and inspections and told the receptionist who he was and who he was looking for. Her tone went wary and she asked if he’d please hold and then the call was rerouted to a man who was not Mick Fleming but seemed unsurprised by Steve’s call.
“What the hell is happening up there, Sheriff?”
Steve was sitting with the phone held between his shoulder and jaw with a notepad and pen in front of him, the laptop shoved to one side. He knew he should just use the speakerphone but had never been able to get in the habit. Better a stiff neck than a lack of privacy, he always figured.
“Mind giving your name before you start yelling?” he said mildly.
“Ed Cochran. I just got done reading Mick’s report and it sounds like he wasn’t very welcome in your county yesterday.”
“Well, I apologize,” Steve said, not liking the guy’s tone but understanding it. If Fleming had been one of his deputies, he wouldn’t have been thrilled by the report, either. “My son has had better days. We all have. But what I need to—”
“Your family issues aren’t my concern, but the citizens in the floodplain should be a concern to both of us with the threat to that dam.”
Steve straightened. He felt a pop in the base of his neck.
“What threat to the dam?”
“What threat? It’s called water! Rain. Flooding. Water!”
“I grasp the concept. But who’s calling it a threat?”
“The professional engineer whose job was interrupted and whose advice was ignored! He’s identified the situation as urgent and I’m in the middle of gathering a full inspection team to be up there tomorrow morning. I expect your cooperation. This is critical infrastructure. Old and critical infrastructure. And the rain isn’t cutting us any breaks, either.”
Steve lifted his eyes from the blank notepad and looked out the window. Rain stringed from the overtopped gutters, and the puddles in the lawn looked like wading pools.
“No, it is not,” he said. “But I’m curious about the communication gap here. I don’t recall Mr. Fleming showing any concern.”
“I’m looking at his report, Sheriff. Mick is the best structural engineer I’ve ever had. He is very concerned.” Cochran’s voice softened. “Look, I understand there was an issue with your son. I sympathize, but I’m also scared, quite frankly. I’ve never seen a report like this from Mick. I know you people have your issues with—”
“ ‘You people’?”
“Torrance County. Don’t get defensive, damn it. You’ve been there for long enough to know there’s some resistance to our people in the area.”
“Fine. I won’t deny that. But I don’t think there was any yesterday.”
“I’m told otherwise.”
“Your engineer assured your dam operator there wasn’t anything to worry about,” Steve said, heat flushing into his voice. “Arthur Brady told me—”
“Arthur Brady was uncooperative and dismissive is what I’m told.”
“That doesn’t sound like Arthur.”
“I’m looking at the report. We are going to have to be a team on this today. There can’t be any feuds or territorial bullshit. Not with something this serious. Mick is headed back down to assess for cavitation, and it is absolutely imperative that he have full support from Mr. Brady and his team today.”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“Mick? Not yet. I’ve got the report, but I haven’t had the chance to speak to him. Now, Sheriff Ellsworth, I’ve got lots of calls to make, and not much time. Can I count on your full cooperation at the Chilewaukee? That is the only question that matters to me right now.”
“Full cooperation,” Steve said. “You’ll have it, sir. Torrance County will do whatever’s needed.”
“I hope so.”
“Do you have another engineer, though?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’d like to talk to someone other than Fleming. Surely, you’ve got more inspectors.”
“Yes, we do. But I don’t appreciate the tone of that request. I can’t send a better engineer than Mick Fleming, and when he gives a report, you need to take it seriously.”
That’s him, Dad. That’s the man I killed.
“We’re taking him seriously,” Steve said. “I promise you that.”
“I hope so.”
“I’ll see to it that he’s satisfied. I’ll see to that myself.”
“Thank you.” Cochran seemed mollified if not happy.
“Would you do me a favor, though?” Steve said.
“What’s that?”
“I’d like to speak to his wife. I’d actually like my son to speak to his wife. What happened down here yesterday was chaotic, unacceptable, and embarrassing. My son’s trying to do the right thing. I want to back that play, you understand? Surely, you understand that.”
“Is it drugs?” Cochran asked in a soft voice. Steve didn’t answer, more because he was beginning to feel guilty about the lie, but Cochran pushed ahead. “I’m sorry, Sheriff Ellsworth. I’ve got a niece who… it doesn’t matter. The point is I get it. I’m sorry, too. I truly am. But I can’t just give out Lori’s number.”
“Of course,” Steve said, and he finally wrote a word down on his notepad: Lori. “I know you’ve got things to do. Keep my number handy, though, okay? I want to hear what’s happening, what you need. I want to know that as soon as you do.”
He gave Cochran his cell number and disconnected. Sat with the phone in his hand, staring at the pooling water in the yard. He thought of his grandfather on the front porch of the old house, eyeing the western sky and muttering about wind when everyone knew he was afraid of the rain.
I’m also scared, quite frankly, Mick Fleming’s boss had said.
He could join the party. There were more than a few people who were scared. The trouble was that they were scared for different reasons.
Lori Fleming’s LinkedIn page identified her as the community outreach director for the YMCA. She answered her phone on the first ring.
“This is Lori. How may I help you?”
Her voice was so warm and genuine that Steve almost hung up. Somehow his day had progressed to the point where he was frightened by warm, genuine people.
He introduced himself. Said he was the Torrance County sheriff and he needed to track Mick down and his deputy had left a sheet of possible numbers on the desk but no indication of what was what. It was a bad lie, but Steve wasn’t embarrassed by his lack of practice at the art. Lori Fleming accepted it, laughing and reciting Mick’s cell phone number.
“If he left Albany this morning, he may be at the dam already,” Steve said. “What time did he head out?”
“Oh, he’s been there. That’s why I’m laughing, Sheriff—you’re calling Albany looking for him, and he’s still in your town.”
“You’re kidding,” Steve said, hoping his voice sounded neutral. “Stayed the night after all, did he?”
The phone beeped in his ear. Someone else was calling, but Steve couldn’t be distracted by that. Not now.
“Yes, he stayed,” Lori Fleming told him. “I guess it’s pretty serious down there, isn’t it?”
For the first time, Steve was able to meet her tone honestly.
“I think it might be,” he said. “I’m sorry for bothering you. I was so distracted yester
day, I must’ve just ignored him when he said he was staying.”
“That’s when I knew it had to be serious,” she said. “Mick isn’t the sort of man who stays the night if he isn’t packed and prepared for it, you know? He’s… well, he likes his routines. He doesn’t like surprises much.”
“I can appreciate that,” Steve said. “We sheriffs usually aren’t big fans of surprises, ourselves.”
Her laugh came again, easy and warm. He thanked her once more and was moving his thumb to end the call when she caught him.
“Sheriff Ellsworth? Take care of him for me, all right?”
“I intend to,” Steve said, and then he disconnected and checked to see what call he’d missed.
It was Arthur Brady, and he’d left a voicemail. Mick Fleming had just pulled in at the dam—right after the police divers had left.
The divers, Arthur informed him, had come up with a body, too. He’d watched them load it into the ambulance and take it away.
“Getting to be an exciting day down here, Sheriff.”
* * *
Before he left, he put a note on the table for Aaron.
Home shortly, thanks for helping Mathers. Lots to discuss.
He hesitated there, wondering if he needed to put Peaceful Passages into ink or if it was understood. In the end he left it out. He needed to trust his son, who had just blown triple zeros after Steve’s accusation, who had just helped police locate a body, and whose wild claims about Mick Fleming’s nocturnal activity might not be so wild after all.
He didn’t write anything about rehab, but he wanted to close the note with something more personal than lots to discuss. He wanted to write I love you because it was true, more crucially true than Aaron could ever know, or at least ever know until he had a son of his own. They’d never really been an I love you kind of duo, though, so he thought it might weird Aaron out, make him think that Steve was already taking his cues from a rehab therapist. In the end he just wrote, Thank you, son, because at least that implied some level of trust. He didn’t mention rehab and he didn’t mention the glass in the sink that smelled of whiskey. Those topics were better saved for conversation.