“This dam is what makes irrigation possible in the Valley.” He hitched up his pants and looked at Lawless to make sure he was listening. Lawless nodded.
“The water leaves Don Pedro here,” he stabbed the map again, “and gets split up between the Turlock and Modesto irrigation districts here, at the La Grange Dam.” He moved his finger down a bit and jabbed.
“I don’t think I’ve heard of that dam before. When was it built?”
“You haven’t heard of it because you’re too young,” Brackston snapped. “The La Grange Dam was built in eighteen ninety-three, as a diversion dam. It’s only a hundred thirty feet high.”
“Right,” Lawless nodded, as if he understood how the dam’s height had anything to do with anything.
“The water that goes west belongs to MID and goes into our Main Canal. The water that goes east is used by idiots who didn’t have the sense to buy land in our district. Seven laterals come off the Main Canal.” He began waving his hands over the map with great flair. “They divide and subdivide and join back together in places all over the district.”
“Where do the canals end up?”
“The Laterals and Main Canal dump into one of the three rivers in the county, Stanislaus, San Joaquin, or Tuolumne, depending on which canal you’re talking about.”
Lawless studied the map for a minute. “What are these dotted lines?” he asked, pointing.
“Those are drains. When they started irrigating a hundred years ago, the ground water rose so high parts of the valley turned into marshland. So they put in drainage canals to take the excess water back to the canals.”
“So they probably wouldn’t be full like the canals that deliver the water.”
“Hell no. Not that much water goes back.”
Lawless studied the map some more and asked, “Aren’t the canals dangerous, running through the city like they do? Wouldn’t it have been smarter to run them around the city instead of through the middle of it?”
Brackston scowled. “You sure aren’t very smart for a detective, are you? Is your daddy the sheriff, is that how you got your job?”
“I’m not following you,” Lawless said, cautious about further irritating an obviously upset Brackston, but confused about what set him off this time.
“Think man!” Brackston hollered. “The canals were there first, long before the houses!” Then, muttering, “You’d fit right in around here.”
Lawless considered punching the offensive old man in the nose and throwing him out the window, but thought better of it. Chances are he would not only survive the fall, he’d be angrier for the experience. Plus, he was right. Looking at the map again, he saw that the canals didn’t run through what was, a hundred years ago, the residential areas of Modesto.
“Do you fence the canals that run through town to keep people out?”
Brackston lectured Lawless on the history of irrigation in the Valley for ten minutes.
Thinking Brackston could go on for another hour, wasting his time, Lawless decided he’d better ask about the grilles. “Tell me about the grilles used to block debris from going under the road.”
Brackston broke out in a craggy-toothed jack-o-lantern ear-to-ear grin: a frightful sight, Lawless thought. “Those were put in at my suggestion, back in fifty-eight when I was working in maintenance. We were having a terrible time with people throwing their garbage in the canals.” His face went back to scowling, a more natural look for him and one Lawless was more comfortable with than the grinning face.
“Damn stupid people think they can just throw their crap in the canals, like it was their personal garbage disposal. Their crap would get lodged under the roads and damn up the water. Made a hell of a mess. Then I suggested we stick something across the opening of the canal.”
He nudged Lawless with a bony elbow and said, “They gave fifty dollars for that suggestion,” then nodded and winked.
“The diver that called a while ago found holes in three of the grilles,” Lawless told him. “Is that unusual?”
Brackston’s face clouded. “Impossible. Every one of ’em’s checked every spring before irrigation season starts. If anything’s wrong, they’re repaired or replaced before we fill the canals. Besides, there’s never been a hole in any of the modern stainless steel grilles. Your divers made a mistake.”
“I don’t think so,” Lawless said. “The diver said the hole was big enough for him to swim through.”
“Where?”
“Right here,” Lawless told him as he pointed at the map, “and here and here,” pointing to the other locations he’d learned about on the phone.
Brackston stared at the map and shouted, “Impossible!” again.
“Nevertheless, I think someone needs to check them out. Could be trouble.”
“I’ll get someone out there tomorrow.”
“I asked them to check three other grilles on three different canals on their way back to town. You want me to let someone know if they find any more holes?”
“You have them call me.” Brackston jabbed his chest with his bony finger. “I’ll see that something gets done. In fact, I’m gonna’ go see McFrazier right now.”
Brackston stomped to the door.
Lawless said, quickly, “Hey, do you mind if I stay and look at the map some more?”
“Be my guest. Just don’t touch anything on my desk. And don’t steal the magazines.”
Alone, Lawless tried to remember how many miles of canals Brackston had said there were. Wasn’t it close to three hundred? Looking at the map, he saw that the system of canals crisscrossed the district from a northeast-to-southwest direction, and while most of them ran through rural land, a good five or six of the Laterals traversed residential areas at some point.
As he studied the map, the anxiety he’d felt during his premonition that morning returned. At first he just felt uneasy, but his apprehension grew at an alarming rate.
The lines representing the canals on the map began to thicken, almost popping out from the map’s surface. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes, but nothing changed. A few seconds later he could only see the thick, black lines of the canals; other topographical markings had disappeared.
A line at the edge of the map moved, and his stomach flipped. The other lines on the map began moving, one by one, taking shape, coming alive. He blinked and stepped away.
He realized what was happening, the feeling was clear and unmistakable: Run Shoe Boy! They’re coming to get you!
He wanted to run, knew he should run, but couldn’t turn away from the map. The whole system of canals had become a nest of snakes, pulsating and writhing in rhythm.
A head popped up from the map; small evil eyes stared at him and a forked tongue appeared. It hissed and crawled off the map, dropping to the floor with a soft plop. Twisting and writhing, it completely shed its prior lifeless form and became a live snake. It raised its head and looked at him. He stumbled backward a few steps back and the snake hissed and started swaying back and forth, as if trying to hypnotize him. Only a foot long, it was stalking Lawless like a predator.
Plop. Another canal-snake fell to the floor, writhing and squirming until it, too, came alive. It stared at him with its black eyes and began swaying. Another plop, followed by another. The first two snakes moved back and forth and up and down as one, and Lawless found something in their ancient dance that pulled at him.
His feet were blocks of cement and there were now four snakes, bobbing and weaving their way toward him, growing longer and thicker by the second. The lead snake’s tongue now shot out four inches, and when it hissed, it bared inch-long fangs that dripped venom.
Sweat poured down his face and he knew he should turn and run, break down the door if necessary, but his feet wouldn’t move. He was afraid to take his eyes off the snakes, even for a second; he knew if he did they would be on him.
Then, as if in answer to his thought, he sensed the snakes did not want to just kill him, they wanted to consume him whol
e. Their venom would paralyze, not kill. They wanted him alive and alert but unable to cry out for help when they ate him.
He kept his eyes on the snakes closest to him, and in his periphery saw more dropping from the map, plopping onto the floor, slithering off in different directions.
Almost to the door now, each backward step a monumental effort.
There were fourteen or fifteen snakes, and still the plopping continued. Several were crawling on the wall to his right, like insects. The first was easily four inches thick.
He felt for the doorknob with his right hand, hit the light switch instead, freezing the snakes in a moment of confusion. Two were within striking distance of his leg; he had only seconds before one would strike and inject paralyzing venom into his bloodstream.
He groped for the doorknob with both hands, frantic, near panic. Found it and pulled, forgetting in his urgency to turn it first. A moan escaped his lips when he realized his error. His hands were slippery with sweat. The snakes were moving again, bobbing and swaying their deadly dance. The knob slipped twice and the lead snake hissed, seeming to understand that its prey would not escape, that it would feast on fresh meat today.
Lawless twisted and pulled again, this time hearing the latch open, feeling the door move an inch, two inches, then stop. Pulled harder but the door didn’t budge. Just as the lead snake was coiling to strike — there were fifty or sixty now — he realized the door was hitting his foot.
He stepped to his left to allow space for the door to open. The movement momentarily froze the coiling snake, long enough for Lawless to pull the door open and step through into the room beyond. He heard an angry hiss, followed by a thump as something struck the door.
He slammed the door and stared at it, not sure what to do next. He sensed the snakes movement on the other side, felt their swaying. He began moving, side to side ever so slightly as they called to him. Come, they seemed to say. Come and feed us for we are hungry. He knew he needed to run, break free of their spell, but his feet were once again encased in cement.
He saw his hand take on a life of its own, reaching for the doorknob. He willed it to stop but it ignored him. Come, they whispered to him. Bring us your flesh.
His hand touched the doorknob, but he did not feel the metal on his fingers. Yes, they hissed, come and join us, be part of us.
He watched his traitorous hand turn the doorknob...
Someone tapped him on the shoulder, a secretary who had heard the door slam and had been watching Lawless’s strange behavior. He turned, screamed into her face, and broke for the elevator. Another secretary, returning from the restroom, crossed the room as Lawless made his break; they collided and Lawless took her to the floor. Later, while nursing a knot on her forehead, the dazed secretary would say the crazy man who ran her over had said someone was after his shoes.
Lawless sprang to his feet, blew by the elevator into the adjacent stairwell, throwing open the heavy door with a bang. He threw himself down the stairs, taking three at a time, and made it to the ground floor in ten seconds. Upon exiting the stairwell, he ran down the hall to the electronic half-door and vaulted it like a hurdler. He sprinted through the lobby and out the front, slamming his shoulder on the old sliding glass door.
His appearance and speed of flight frightened the eight sleepy-eyed customers. They forgot about paying their bills, formed a new line that exited the building, and hurried to their cars before whatever was chasing the man in the suit appeared. Linda watched them go, then grabbed her purse from a desk drawer and followed them out, taking her headset with her.
Chapter 5
Lawless sat at his desk, staring at the county map pinned to the wall, praying the lines wouldn’t move. It was a quarter to six and he’d been sitting in his office with the door closed for thirty minutes. He had some idea he’d left the MID building at about one, and knew he pulled into the Sheriff Department’s parking lot at about five-thirty, but what’d happened between those two times was a blur; he couldn’t account for the rest of the afternoon.
The snakes weren’t a blur, though, he recalled with perfect clarity how they came after him with their hypnotic dance and seductive mind game. The experience had been so real, yet he knew it was impossible; they’d existed only in his mind. He was glad he hadn’t thought to pull out his gun and shoot at them, sure that even if he had hit one or two, all anyone would’ve found in the room were bullet holes in the floor. How would he have explained that?
He was ashamed for the way he ran and hoped he’d never have to see the inside of the MID building again.
He ran the scene through his mind a few times, but couldn’t come up with a happy ending. If he’d stayed in the room he would have been bitten by the snakes. Whether they were real or not, they were real to him and he was sure one bite would have dropped him. After that, maybe his mind would have convinced him he was being eaten and he would have died. Maybe the MID people would have found his corpse in Brackston’s office, maybe they wouldn’t have.
Thirty minutes of this kind of thinking left him frustrated and in a foul mood. Someone knocked on his door.
“Detective, you in there?” It was Busmur.
“What?” Lawless shouted.
The door creaked open and Busmur peeked in, scanning the room. It was unusual for anyone in the Sheriff’s Department to work behind closed doors and Busmur was nervous about interrupting something important. Or illegal.
“What is it, Busmur?”
“You busy Detective?”
“Do I look busy?”
Busmur looked around again, thinking it might be a trick question. “Can I come in?”
Lawless sighed. “Yes, come in. What do you want?”
Busmur decided he’d rather not enter Lawless’s office, the detective was obviously in a bad mood, and so tried answering him from his position halfway through the door. “We checked three of the grates, like you asked, and—”
Lawless interrupted: “I can’t hear you when you talk through the door. Either come in or get out.”
Busmur scooted through the door, wishing he’d made Vandertop do the reporting. He didn’t think the detective would be in and had written up a brief note to leave on his desk. He had the note, and something else, in his hand.
“We found a hole in each of the three grilles we checked.” Short and sweet. Get in, get out.
“What?”
Busmur thought maybe Lawless had forgotten what he’d asked them to do, so he started to remind the detective, “Remember, you asked us to check three more—”
“I remember what I said. Just tell me what canals you checked.”
Busmar hurried to Lawless’s desk and dropped a photocopy of a map in front of him. “It’s easier to show you. I made a copy of the map we used and marked the grilles we checked with a hi-lighter. See?”
Lawless looked at the map and almost passed out; it was a miniature copy of the map on Brackston’s wall, the one that spawned deadly black snakes. For a moment, a split second, the dark lines on the map pulsated.
Four or five seconds later, he remembered to breathe.
Witnessing this, Busmur said, “You feeling alright, Detective? You don’t look so hot.”
“I’m fine,” Lawless said, his voice cracking, obviously not fine. His eyes focused on the map and he saw three yellow fluorescent dots, one for each of the grilles the divers had checked. The canals marked were Lateral No. 3, the Butler Lateral, and the Goldworthy Lateral; all in farmland, fairly close together; the divers hadn’t gone too far out of their way to complete their assignment.
“All three grilles had holes in them?” he said, trying to keep his voice even.
“Yeah, all three. It’s kinda’ weird, don’t you think? I mean, you can’t say it’s a manufacturer’s defect or anything. You wouldn’t think you’d find so many damn holes in those things. It almost seems like someone’s cuttin’ through them.”
He waited for Lawless to reply. When he didn’t, Busmur spoke again
because the silence creeped him out. “Got any ideas about how the holes got there?
Lawless pulled on an earlobe. “I have ideas. I’ve also got someone at MID checking into it.”
Busmur decided he was done. He dropped the note on Lawless’s desk and backed out of the office. “If you don’t need me for anything else...”
Lawless waved him away without looking up. “Just make sure you’re both here bright and early tomorrow.”
Busmar stopped. “Tomorrow?”
“Yeah, tomorrow. The day after today? You’ll be diving again tomorrow and I want both you and Vandertop ready to go at eight.”
Busmar, seeing that Lawless was still looking at the map, rolled his eyes and said, “Alright. I’ll tell Garrett.” He left, grumbling. He was not looking forward to spending another day in canals where people were dying and holes were found where they shouldn’t. He wondered how many sick days he had left, decided to check on the way out.
Lawless used his hi-lighter to mark the map where the first two holes had been found, then used a red pen to mark ‘Xs’ where Weston and Sanchez had been killed. He realized he’d made a mistake by not sending a diver into the canal they pulled Sanchez out of. He would make sure it got checked tomorrow.
After another minute of study, he laid the map down on the desk, then flipped it face down. Looking at it reminded him too much of Brackston’s office and he was getting anxious. He didn’t think he could handle anything else today.
“What you need is some wine,” he said to himself.
He warmed to the idea, thinking he might even splurge for a forty dollar bottle tonight. What the hell? Why not a new opera CD as well?
He would try and forget that Shoe Boy had ran again today, and maybe, with the wine’s help, and the lift music always gave, he might even think of something else he could to do besides run.
Canals Page 6