Canals

by Everett Powers

  “Lawless,” he said, still looking at the monitor, lost in thought.

  “It’s Gabriel Brackston,” a voice boomed into his ear. He moved the phone away.

  It took several seconds for the name to register, and when it did his heart began pounding. Insanely, he wondered if the man was calling to ask why he’d left all those nasty snakes in his office yesterday.

  “Yes, Mr. Brackston?”

  “It’s the damnedest thing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “What is?”

  “I don’t know how all these grilles got these damn holes in them. Just about every one we checked had a hole in it.”

  Lawless stopped looking at the monitor and set his sandwich down. “Did you see the holes yourself?”

  “Damn right I did. I had a crew out first thing this morning.”

  The grilles were under water, so Lawless wondered how Brackston could have seen them. “How did you see them? Your guys have a video feed?”

  “What are you talking about?” Brackston boomed.

  “All the holes we found were below the surface. I was just wondering how you saw them.”

  “We pull the grilles up with the truck, son,” Brackston said, in the same condescending tone he’d used in his office. “They’re secured at the top by three bolts. We unscrew those and lift up the grille with the winch.”

  “I see. How many have you looked at?”

  “Five. We looked at that one you told me about, on Lateral Number Three, the one by where that feller got killed. Then we checked a couple on Lateral Number Seven, and a couple in town.”

  In town? Lawless’s blood turned to ice. All three killings had taken place in rural country. He hadn’t even thought about the creature coming into town.

  “Where in town?”

  “Two on Lateral Number Four.”

  “And those grilles had holes, too?”

  “That’s what I said. You figured out who’s doing this yet?”

  “No,” Lawless lied. “Is MID going to repair the holes?”

  “Probably not. It’d cost too much to find and fix them all.”

  “What about debris blocking the canals? Aren’t you worried about that?”

  “Most of the stuff that can block up a canal floats. These holes are at the bottom, so we’re not too worried about debris.”

  Lawless thought for a moment. There was something else he wanted to ask Brackston, an idea that’d been simmering in the back of his mind all morning.

  “It’s the damnedest thing, though,” Brackston was saying, “how those holes looked. If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone cut through the bars. They weren’t punched through, they would be bent some but they’re not. You can see grooves in the steel, from the blade or whatever was used. I just can’t figure out how anyone could do that, especially under water.”

  Grooves, like in the dead men’s bones.

  He remembered what he wanted to ask. “Let me ask you something. What would it take to drain the canals?”

  “Drain the canals? What for?”

  “Hypothetically speaking. No particular reason.”

  Brackston muttered, “Is that all you got to do, sit around thinking up stupid questions? Go catch a thief or give someone a ticket why don’t you?”

  “Humor me. What would it take?”

  “It’s the middle of irrigation season and the farmers would yell bloody murder. It’d take an act of Congress to drain the canals now.”

  Brackston hung up. It was ten after eleven.

  Lawless set the phone down and leaned back in his chair, thinking. His mind was full of more ifs. If the creature could cut through steel, as he now thought it most certainly could, trapping it in some kind of cage was out of the question. That’d been his and Jensen’s main plan for stopping it. If they couldn’t trap it, they would have to think of some way to find and kill it. If they couldn’t figure out a way to find it — he recalled there were more than two hundred and fifty miles of canals — they would have to drain the canals to expose it. If what Brackston said was true, about it taking an “act of Congress” to drain the canals, he would need to convince some people in high places it had to be done.

  And that led him back to the evidence, or lack thereof.

  His cell phone chirped.

  “Lawless,” he said, after digging it out of a jacket pocket.

  “Yeah, Detective, this is Jimmy Busmur. We’re done looking through the canal and we’ve looked at both grilles. Both have holes. Anything else you want us to do?” Busmur sounded tired.

  Lawless couldn’t think of anything, so said, “No. Thanks for your work.”

  Lawless clicked off, then remembered Busmur didn’t say if they found any of the victim. He thought about calling him back, but didn’t, supposing he already knew the answer.

  He went back to studying the pictures of Sanchez, while he tried to think of a way to locate the creature. An hour later, after coming up with some ideas, he started in on Hank Weston’s gruesome images.

  Then he fell off his chair onto the floor.

  Everything came to a stop, and everything changed; the air caught in his lungs, an elephant sat on his chest. His office began to turn, the walls spinning faster with each second, the ceiling a dark, churning vortex. He felt himself being pulled off the floor into the black whirling space that had, a few seconds ago, been fluorescent tubes and stained acoustic ceiling tiles.

  His office disappeared, replaced by darkness, then wetness. Something light and filmy brushed against his face. His body moved back and forth, undulating, pushing forward, streaming through wet darkness. He was hungry, an impossible hunger, a need unlike any he’d ever known. He opened his mouth and tore at the darkness with powerful jaws.

  He pushed faster, sensing nourishment ahead, something he couldn’t see but knew was there.

  Faster now, gliding at tremendous speed, his hunger threatening to destroy him. Closer...

  He pushed up out of the wet darkness into...

  ... bright, blinding light and searing heat, as if he had dived into the center of the sun. He saw the thing he had sensed, bending over a thin gray rail, presenting itself to him. He spread his powerful jaws and lunged with lightening speed, his hunger shrieking to be fed. He bit down with tremendous power, feeling little resistance to his razor-sharp teeth.

  He fell back into the dark, cool wetness. Powerful muscles pushed the flesh deep, where strong acids waited to break it down into fuel. He moved through the darkness, his hunger allayed, but not quenched.

  Somewhere, in the darkness but not, he heard ringing. Soft and far away, growing louder, more persistent. He turned his head, thinking he might pick up the direction of the ringing; above, in front, somewhere ahead.

  He opened his eyes and searing light blinded him. The ringing continued, louder. Adjusting to the light: ceiling tiles, light fixtures.

  Why am I laying on the floor?

  Telephone. He sat up, woozy.

  The ringing, he reached and fumbled around for the phone, grabbed it, jammed it to his ear.

  “Hello?” he croaked.

  “Detective Lawless?”

  He thought so, but wasn’t sure. “Who is this?”

  “This is Sheriff Wisehart. Got a minute, son?”

  His head cleared when he recognized the sheriff’s voice.

  “Sheriff Wisehart.” He climbed onto his seat. “How are you today?”

  What just happened?

  “Couldn’t be better, thanks for asking. I’ve got an interesting assignment for you. I hate to do it because your skills are so valuable to us, but I’ve been persuaded by the Modesto Police Department to loan them some of your time. For a while, at least.”

  “What is it, Sheriff?” The back of his head hurt. He reached back to rub it, felt a knot and something wet. Looking: blood on his finger. What?

  The sheriff’s voice got serious. “I understand you’re in charge of those canal cases, the ones where those men were kil
led.”

  “That’s right. We had another one this morning, out near Paradise.”

  “Damn, that makes three, doesn’t it?”

  “Right. Three.” The sheriff surely knew this already.

  “Well, it looks like it’s going to be four.”

  “What?” Lawless forgot about the knot on his head.

  “I just got off the phone with Captain Bozeman. He said they just got a case like yours. Some poor woman got killed in town, by a canal. Guess it’s just awful. Got her head cut off.”

  Then Lawless remembered everything; the dark canal, the water, the woman, the killing, the terrible hunger.

  I killed the woman.

  His stomach felt like a washing machine, agitating the roast beef sandwich he’d almost finished. Bile rose in his throat. He couldn’t get the woman’s image out of his head.

  “I told them you’d get right over there, help ’em out.”

  “Right over?”

  I killed the woman.

  “The scene, Detective. They want you to go to the scene. You sure you’re alright? You sound like something’s stuck in your craw, boy.”

  Lawless saw the woman again, felt his jaws close down over her head, his teeth slice through her bone and muscle; his stomach went from agitate to spin dry; he dropped the phone, vomited into the trash can next to his desk, and passed out.

  The next thing he saw was the sheriff’s face peering down at him, his familiar cowboy hat pushed further back than normal, bushy eyebrows raised to within an inch of his scalp.

  “Sheriff,” Lawless said, blowing vomit-tainted breath into the man’s face.

  The sheriff recoiled, winced, and waved his hand in front of him. “Whew, boy! You been eatin’ possum guts?”

  What am I doing on the floor again? He sat up too fast and a wave of nausea ran through him. An awful smell came wafting out of the trash can, and he faintly recalled that it had come out of his mouth. He swallowed, tasted bile, reached for the Dr. Pepper and sipped, swishing the flat soft drink in his mouth, hoping to rinse out the bile taste.

  The sheriff backed away from Lawless and the foul-smelling trash can, and stood by the open door, fanning his face with his hat, looking like he was either going to flee or toss his own lunch onto the floor.

  “You sick, boy?” the sheriff asked, fanning.

  Lawless didn’t know. “Must have gotten a bad sandwich,” he heard himself say. He sipped from the cup again and got off the floor, intending on standing; halfway up his legs told him that was a bad idea, so he dropped into his chair.

  The sheriff took another step back and flapped his hat, trying to drawn in fresh air. “Light a match, boy.”

  Lawless pulled a book of matches out of his desk and lit one. After it burned a few seconds, he waved it around until the flame went out and threw it in the trash; the room now smelled like smoky vomit.

  The sheriff ventured a step back into the room and took a few tentative sniffs. “You want me to send someone else out there, Detective? You don’t look like you’re up to it.”

  Lawless had regained enough of his senses to know he didn’t want the sheriff sending someone else to do his job. Promotions were lost because someone else was sent to do your job.

  “I’m fine, Sheriff. I’m sure it was just a bad sandwich. I’ll be ready to go in a minute.” He hoped he sounded convincing to the sheriff because hearing himself talk, he didn’t sound ready to go anywhere.

  But the sheriff had had enough of the stink and was eager to move on. “You know where Elk Park is, don’t you?”

  Lawless didn’t, but thought he could find it on a map. “Yeah, I know where it is. I’ll get right over there.”

  “Give me a heads up on it, would you?” the sheriff said, over his shoulder as he hurried out the door, pulling it shut behind him.

  Lawless wanted the door open so the room could air out, but thought someone might take it as an invitation to wander in and talk. He didn’t want to talk to or see anyone right now. He wanted to go home and lie down, or get some electric shock treatments, whichever would make his brain work like it used to.

  The stench from the trash can had overpowered the smoke from the match, making him feel nauseous again. He grabbed his jacket and headed for his car, thinking he would sit in the parking lot and blow cold air on his face until he could think straight, if that was possible. He avoided making eye contact with anyone as he weaved his way through the building, thankful no one tried to stop him. Five minutes later the air conditioner was pumping out cold air and his head was starting to clear.

  “Get a hold of yourself, Lawless,” he said aloud.

  He needed to get to Elk Park, but wasn’t in any shape to drive. Someone tapped on his window and he jumped. He turned and saw Sandra Jensen looking at him.

  He rolled the window down and said, “Why don’t you just yell ‘boo’ next time.”

  She flinched, catching a bit of the breath that had paled the sheriff. “Whoa. What happened to you?” she said, backing away.

  “You got anything to do right now?”

  “Just paperwork. Why, you got something better?”

  “Can you drive?”

  “I can drive a patrol car, but since this is a detective’s car, I’m not sure. Are they the same?”

  He ignored her. “Get in and drive.” He slid across the seat.

  “You need a ride to the doctor?” she said, climbing in and buckling up.

  He scowled.

  She shivered. “Damn. It’s a meat locker in here.”

  “I needed the cold to wake up.”

  Up close now, she said, “You look worse than usual, and you stink. Mind telling me what this is all about?”

  He fumbled for breath mints, found an old roll of mint Lifesavers in the glove box and popped three into his mouth. “I’m supposed to link up with Modesto PD at Elk Park, in town. The creature killed a woman and the sheriff wants me to work the case with them.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “The sheriff said that?”

  “Of course not. I said that. They just think someone cut off her head, or something. Who knows what they think?”

  She looked concerned. “What are you going to tell them?”

  “I don’t know. Just drive, slowly. Take the long way. I’ve got to think this through.”

  “We’ve got to think this through. I’m here, too, remember?”

  “Right. Sorry. We.”

  She put the car in reverse. “Where is Elk Park, anyway?”

  They found it on a map, drove in the general direction of the park but had to stop twice because Lawless felt he was going to be sick; nothing came up, but it didn’t stop his body from trying. They stopped one other time while he told her about his trip inside the creature’s head, how he killed the woman bending over the railing, the very woman whose remains he knew they were on their way to see.

  The radio squawked. Someone wanted to know where the hell he was and what the hell was taking him so long. He made up an excuse, something lame, and clicked off.

  Jensen glanced at him; he looked like a man who’d seen an airplane go down and was now wading through charred metal and body parts looking for survivors, knowing there could be none. It scared her.

  “We’re almost there. What’s our story?” she asked.

  “We stall. All we really need to say now is, ‘Yes, that looks just like our killings.’ Then we tell them we’ll get together later, share files, whatever. That’ll buy us more time to come up with a plan. They’ll have their hands full, anyway, managing the crowd. Our killings took place out in the country, I can’t imagine what a nightmare they would’ve been if they’d been in the middle of town. We had thirty plus this morning. These guys will have a couple hundred to deal with.”

  His estimate was low.

  The closest they could park was two blocks away. The small park itself was half full, but the street was packed solid. Everyone might’ve been able to crowd into the park had the cops not strung yellow
crime scene tape through the middle of it, marking the line everyone knew not to cross. Three officers guarded the tape, scowling at the gawkers.

  The crowd was active, buzzing with gossip. Those who’d actually seen the body before the police covered it were busy telling their stories, again and again. Newcomers pushed up to the yellow tape and tried to see the gore themselves. When that failed, they circulated to hear the eyewitnesses tell their tales again. Everyone was moving and talking.

  Lawless and Jensen weaved through the throng and ducked under the yellow tape. Jensen was wearing her uniform, but Lawless could have been anyone; he flashed his badge and was waved by.

  They approached a cluster of four plainclothes cops standing by the footbridge. Lawless could see a smaller crowd being held at bay on the other side of the canal, where a street ended. There were also swarms of people east and west of the footbridge, along the canal itself. You wouldn’t be standing so close to the canal if you knew what was swimming around in there. The coroner and his people were waiting on the other side of the canal. A CSI team was nosing around, but no one looked upbeat.

  An orange tarp covered the woman’s body, which still hung on the rail. Lawless supposed they were waiting until the detective with the most experience in these matters, him, had had a look at her. He wished he was too late, wished they had already taken her away. Why couldn’t he just look at photographs this time?

  The little circle of cops opened up to allow them in, Lawless introduced himself and Jensen. They nodded at Lawless, eyed his rumpled appearance, and gave their names. He thought he had worked with two of them before but couldn’t recall how long ago or on what case. Three looked at Jensen with suspicion, as if to say why is she here. The fourth, an athlete gone soft, short and stubby, beer belly, gave her a thorough look-over and tried to catch her eye. She ignored him.

  The cop who said his name was Dave Baskel, a tall, thin, black man with a scruffy moustache, said to Lawless, “I hear Captain Bozeman asked you to work with us on this, says you’re the one working a similar case in the county.” Baskel looked at Lawless with sleepy eyes.