Minus Tide

by Dennis Yates

  Shortly after his release from prison, a rumor had spread that he’d been killed by an old enemy. Over time even the lawmen began to accept it. In five years there hadn’t been a single confirmed sighting of the one-eyed, longhaired con that some newspapers once called the mad monk. Still, Cyclops had known better than to get too comfortable. A cop only had to suspect you were up to no good to take you in and feed you through his national computer system, a giant brain Cyclops hated the most in the world because it didn’t bleed as a man did.

  The second thing in the world Cyclops hated most was the pursuit of money-it drained him, made him feel like a dog rather than a man. For many years it stole from his proud, fiery inner core and forced it into prostitution, sent it drifting through dark alleyways until he found his way out and on top. But even having the hard work done by others didn’t matter much. You still had the worries, the heavy tax on a fertile imagination that should have been reserved for higher pursuits.

  It wasn’t necessarily the money itself that he had a problem with. Cyclops never harbored any illusions that he could live without it. He’d chosen to live frugally, as years of riding the rails had taught him. He’d learned early on that no one was immune to robbery, and he’d quietly taken his money and converted it into silver and gold, buried Coleman coolers full of it across the country in a pattern he’d once drawn on a map during one of his frequent visions. But there was more than enough now in his “constellation of hoards” that Cyclops would never have to worry for money again, and yet he could no longer stop himself from wanting to accumulate more. What was once a need to make a living had somehow transformed into an obsession and he loathed himself for it.

  Chapter 13

  Under normal circumstances his people rarely asked for his help, but the situation in Traitor Bay was bigger than they could handle and they feared the rot had spread much too deep. Word came to him while he dozed in a boxcar near Tucson by a boy with large terrified eyes. The boy leaned his head inside the darkness and his voice trembled. Children were fast and light. They made good messengers, could out run the railroad cops who came at you with their clubs. Cyclops cursed the child anyway. He’d been approaching the end of an important dream, anticipating a vital teaching. Cyclops had a lot of dreams of this nature, visions that would forewarn him with signs. He’d started having them at the age of ten, had seen his father drown in the icy river days before leaving for St. Petersburg on a business trip. It was reported as an accident after it happened, but later his mother told him it wasn’t true, that the other driver who’d caused his father’s death had been an assassin. Cyclops father, an intelligence officer in the KGB, had a lot of enemies.

  In this boxcar dream he was back at the moldy plankboard house of his childhood, watching his mother in her dusty black dress with the lace trim. She’d reminded him of a crow standing in front of the roaring fireplace, her glassy eyes lifted toward something above his head. When he’d turned to look up, he heard the boy’s voice, and when he sat up in the semidarkness, his face was struck by a square of yellow light beaming from a rusted rivet hole in the ceiling of the boxcar. His hair was kept parted above his good eye, so that it appeared to be staring out from the center of his forehead. When the boy saw him, he screamed and ran off, and when Cyclops thought he heard the boy’s father calling, he smiled and knew the boy would one day be fine. Not right away, of course, for a strong impression was like a sliver lodged into the flesh. And not unlike the body, the boy’s mind would need time to build up enough puss before it could expel it.

  He was making far better progress now walking down the highway, listening to the surf hiss against the cliffs far below, feeling its tendrils of mist. If he had the time he would have liked to have climbed down to the water and rinse his face in it. It had been years since he’d ventured this far off the edge of the railway network, his iron web. The ocean brought back memories of when he first saw America from the deck of a merchant ship, drenched in icy spray, drinking vodka to stay warm and singing with the men his mother had begged him not to leave with. What a different person he’d been back then, still more a boy than a man, wide-eyed and dream-led and utterly oblivious to what was in store for him.

  He was hit by a sudden wave of nausea that made him stumble to the side of the highway. A tide of hot bile rose up to the roof of his mouth and caused him to choke. He hadn’t felt this alive for months, with the elk he’d already eaten deep inside him and its timeless wild soul struggling against the coiling snake of his guts. This is turning out to be a better trip than I imagined, he thought, wiping the acid from his mouth.

  Having been distracted by his digestive Chernobyl, he’d failed to notice the headlights coming from behind and he knew it was too late to try and hide in the undergrowth. When the Volkswagen slowed, he saw the face of the elk-worshipping woman inside. She pulled onto a shoulder several yards ahead and waited for him to approach, but he crossed the road to give her a wide berth.

  “Are you okay mister?” she asked.

  Pretending he hadn’t heard her, Cyclops kept moving through the silver light coming from her car. He briefly turned his head so that she could get a glimpse of his face. Usually that’s all it took to get people to leave him alone and let him be on his way. He was shocked to see her standing outside of her car watching, her hands thrust into the deep pockets of her jacket.

  “I’m only asking because of that accident up the road. Thought maybe you were in it. Are you hurt?”

  Cyclops raised his hand and waved. He didn’t slow his pace. He heard the woman get into her car and turn around. Was she brave or was she soft and too trusting? He wondered. Maybe he should have helped her join her friend the elk in the afterlife. An image of her running naked through the forest made him laugh.

  Chapter 14

  A terrible feeling had come over Ann, that she’d missed something important back at the accident scene. It was true that once she’d come upon the dead elk she’d been too absorbed to think of anything else.

  She had no idea of what to do except to turn around and keep driving. If Mitch and the sheriff had gone to Buoy City, then no one had seen them. She’d stopped in at the town’s only filling station and minimart, which was doing a brisk business in spite of the storm, had in fact sold out most of its cold beer. The boy working the counter had recognized her, didn’t charge her for the cup of coffee she took to go. He was good looking she’d thought at the time, talked to her as if they’d known each other. Certain that she had never seen him before in her life, she’d played along to spare them both any embarrassment.

  The sky had started to clear again and the moon, now bone white and granular, drifted over the iron water like a discarded shell. Few people were out driving yet, probably too drunk by now to even attempt it. A couple of semi trucks she’d recognized from the 101 parking lot passed her, going fast to make up for lost time.

  The road flares were all burned out and the powder they’d left behind had been washed away by the rain. Ann missed the spot the first time and had to go several miles ahead before finding a safe place to turn around. That’s when she’d seen the strange man walking down the highway, dressed in a long overcoat and black combat boots. Something had compelled her to stop-the crazy notion that maybe he’d seen something that could help her. When she’d gotten out of her car to talk to him she’d held firmly to the.38 in her jacket pocket, a birthday gift from her grandfather.

  Living on the coast, Ann had encountered hundreds drifter types making their journeys up and down the highway. Many didn’t stay put for long out of fear. Some claimed to be in search of a truth or a place to call home while others told her they were motivated by sheer wanderlust. Ann wondered how many found what they were looking for, if the ones who had been at it for years would ever be able to live a normal existence. The man she’d seen tonight fell into the late stage category-too crazy and too filthy to ever have any success at hitch hiking although it didn’t stop them from trying. What made this one stand o
ut in Ann’s mind was his purposeful stride and erect head. He reminded her of an old story, a tale about a king in disguise, wandering to the ends of his kingdom to find an important truth. When he’d turned to her it was as if the single eye shining between the curtains of his collarbone-length hair was as large and knowing as an elk’s. Ann knew then she should have been scared-that even having a gun was no guarantee she’d be able to stop an attack. But the man had kept moving, seemingly uninterested in her or the prospect of getting a ride.

  She walked down to place where she’d imagined the crash site to be and stayed on the side opposite of where the elk lay. With her flashlight she followed the sloping hill of undergrowth that led down to a row of trees standing on the edge of the cliff as if they were night divers waiting their turn. That’s when she saw the glimmer of a taillight in the thick salal, felt her chest sting while she held on to a small pine to catch her breath. After she got off the road she came upon a set of tire tracks, obvious scars of orange clay. She ran down with them until she reached the trees lined along the top of the cornice.

  When she pulled away the undergrowth the trunk of the patrol car began to appear, a smooth polished hump of black. Sticky vines clung to her legs as she worked her way around to the front. If the trees hadn’t been here to stop it, the car would have easily gone into the sea. The right door was wedged open, its hinge twisted in the opposite direction by a violent force. But the inside of the car was empty. Ann noticed the coffee cup Mitch had bought from her earlier lying on the floor, the banana slugs moving across the windshield.

  You’re too late.

  She sat down next to the car and cried, imagining what Tammy must have gone through, wondering if she was even still alive. She had no doubts that what she’d seen in Tammy’s house was real-the signs of a struggle, the blood on the sink. She was jolted by a disturbing idea. Could the attacker have been Mitch? The pieces fell together so readily-the bruises on his face, his bandaged hand. The story about falling on the jetty could have been made up for all she knew. But would Mitch hurt Tammy? The more she thought about it the more she tried to push the idea away. It was too easy. A question worth asking, but impossible to fathom. She’d known them both for too long. And why would he have suggested that she visit Tammy at the 101 if he’d had something to hide? Tammy wasn’t the kind of person to keep her mouth shut. If she’d had problems with Mitch the whole town would have known about it.

  There wasn’t anything else to do but to head back to Traitor Bay and hope someone had shown. She climbed back up to the highway and turned around to see if she could still see the patrol car but even the blinking taillight was easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. A fog was creeping up from the cliff and pooling in the hollow depressions left by landslides.

  She didn’t pass the man again, wondered if he’d set up camp back in the woods or if he’d broken into one of the darkened cabins that remained vacant most of the winter. An escape from the rain and cold. Steaks in the freezer, electric heat and a comfortable bed. Dressers and closets with clothes that might fit. Cable tv. Yet for some reason he didn’t seem like the type to take risks unless they were absolutely essential. He traveled light and after dark and, she imagined, no matter how crazy his thoughts would make him he knew that he had to keep his head below the radar.

  Chapter 15

  The cats greeted Ann at the door, excited to see her back home. She immediately opened a can of cat food and gave them each a spoonful, listened to them purr. Careful not to wake her aunt, Ann crept up to her bedroom door and pulled it shut. The cats would want to return to their places on her aunt’s bed as soon as they were finished licking their bowls, so she knew she didn’t have much time.

  She stripped off her wet clothes and climbed into the shower. The hot water soon quieted her shivering and the steam seemed to clear her head. As she worked the soapy washcloth over dried mud, the bruises and scratches hidden beneath began to sing with pain. She closed her eyes and let the water massage the back of her neck until she felt the cords of muscle begin to unwind and the headache they’d caused to gradually recede. Ann wondered if she should wake her aunt and let her know what was happening. She’d always been good at keeping her from having to worry, especially after her mother was gone and it was just the two of them. But the fact was it would take up too much valuable time-time that Tammy might not have. And what good would it do? She didn’t know what was happening other than the fact that people were disappearing. It was best to wait, she thought. Let Kate enjoy her rest for now. No sense in waking her up and putting her through this. If I’m not back by mid-morning I’ll call her. She’ll see the empty cat can in the kitchen sink and think that I’ve left early to check out the minus tide. She won’t know that I was only home long enough to shower and change.

  The towel irritated the scratches more and caused some to bleed again. When she was finished drying, she took a moment to dab them with antibiotic ointment. She tied her hair back and brushed her teeth before tiptoeing naked back to her bedroom. The cats followed her inside and watched as she got dressed. They were no longer purring but looked concerned that she was preparing to leave. Winter, the oldest of the pride, jumped on the bed and forced Ann to look her in the eyes. Ann briefly hugged her and whispered that she’d be back. Her clock said it was 2:30 in the morning. The gutter outside her bedroom was overflowing, hissing like a slit windpipe.

  She found her cell phone on her dresser and slipped it into the front pocket of her jeans, gathered up a pair of dry socks and boots and carried them with her through the house. Her aunt was still sleeping when she looked in on her and listened to her steady breathing. Must have finally taken a sleeping pill, Ann thought. The cats brushed past her legs in a rush to claim the best place on the bed. Aunt Kate did not stir, not even when Winter tapped her on the shoulder with her paw in an attempt to wake her and let her know what was going on. Ann motioned to the cat to be quiet, but she only stared back at her defiantly. You always have to be the boss, don’t you, she thought. And I’ll probably get a dead mouse left in my bed for this, won’t I?

  She sat in the car, trying to settle her mind and think. There was little evidence of the storm except for some thin strands of white cloud still snagged on the rocky peaks looming above town. Ann noticed fresh pools of rain glittering in the yard. They always caught her off guard, made her think there was something there that wasn’t, something living, especially after the sky mostly cleared and they filled with stars and face-shaped clouds. The pools also made sounds like slow draining bathtubs-the water gurgling as it sought passage through the hard outer layer of earth that could dull a new shovel in a day.

  She wondered what she should do next. In the shower she’d thought about what Janet had said about the sheriff and the strange company he’d been seen with at the 101. What kind of business would he have with people like that? The sheriff wasn’t much for socializing except with the girls, and it was common knowledge that he usually fished alone unless his brother was down from Seattle for a visit. It was difficult to imagine him with those men unless they had some type of connection with the police. Could they have been investigating a case together?

  She recalled an article she’d read in the paper about criminal activity on America’s waterways, how smuggling and piracy were on the rise and what to do if you saw anything suspicious. In the past year a river patrol boat had been torched and some fishermen had reported being shot at after dark. Tensions were running high in certain parts of the country, but as far as she knew none of these problems had yet come to Traitor Bay. She wondered if the arm she’d found on the beach had been an omen of trouble to come.

  Her thoughts kept drifting back to the loading dock where the sheriff had been seen early in the morning by a passerby. If anything, it would be a new place for her to start looking. She checked her.38 again, laid it on the seat next to her under a towel she kept for wiping the windows when they fogged. When she drove away she hoped that her aunt was still sleeping
.

  Chapter 16

  He sensed the cats hiding below the bed, opened mouthed and drawing in sips of stale air from the old woman’s bedroom. She had not awakened and he wasn’t surprised after reading the labels on the bottles of pills that stood on a shelf above the sink, a partial set of dentures resting in the bottom of a glass of water next to them. At first glance he’d thought there was something alive, and it had startled him until he’d realized the teeth and pink gum-flesh distorted by the glass had fooled him into imagining a carnivorous worm staring out at him.

  He watched her from the side of the bed and listened deeply to her breathing. We all speak through our sleeping-breath, his mother had taught him at an early age. With enough practice it was the same as listening to someone talking to you while they were awake, and sometimes you’ll even see their dreams as if they’re reading from pages of a book. But don’t take this lightly, his mother had warned. You might be told something you aren’t prepared to hear. A person asleep cannot lie to you, they only report what they see from a place that neither exists nor not exists, where birth and death mean nothing. And although he never saw her again after the day he’d left, he’d listened to his mother’s sleep-breath in his dreams. He watched her lying alone in the same old plankboard house he’d grown up in, and every time he awoke he’d be soaked in tears.

  The woman below him wasn’t dreaming-the pills she’d taken before going to bed had killed any chance of it. Instead he listened to her sleep-breath tell him about her heart, of the pain and the bouts of dizziness. She sang of her raggedness of spirit and it reminded him of an old war song being sung by marchers sinking into the distance. Her song told him of how close she’d come to letting whatever wanted to take her to hurry up and do it and get it over with. Is this why I am here now? he asked himself. He decided to come back to her later, after he explored the rest of the house.