by Jeff Dosser
Matt pursed his lips and nodded. “Yeah, I gotta admit they kinda are. I always wondered what they did in their sixteen years off.”
Just then, the quiet buzz of conversations drifted away and a painfully thin man in his sixties strode into the room. His gangly legs carried him to the podium in four long strides and he turned and examined the class with crisp blue eyes.
“Good morning,” he said excitedly, exposing two rows of crooked teeth in an open and friendly smile. “I am Doctor Edward Jones of the University of Oklahoma biology department. Today I’ve been invited to update you on an exciting occurrence which takes place but three or four times in a human lifespan.”
He removed a remote control from his pocket and clicked towards a laptop and projector propped on the floor. A three-foot high image sprang onto the whiteboard. It was the picture of a bubble eyed cicada. The creature’s eyes were orange-red with filamented black wings fanned over the creature’s ebony body.
“Say hello to the M. tredeculus. Or as the ancient Osage Indians called them, ‘Hobbomock’s Messengers.’” He turned to lean heavily on the podium, his blue eyes asparkle. “Which roughly translates to ‘the Devil’s messengers.’ This fascinating little member of the Cicadidae family is, in my opinion, the most curious member of the Hemiptera order.”
Matt couldn’t fault the professor in his presentation. The guy definitely had stage presence. He imagined if he were still in school, Doctor Jones’ class would be one he would have signed up for. Hell, even Andy didn’t fall asleep.
For the next three hours, the fine doctor elucidated on every aspect of the Brood XXI, or as he referred to it, ‘The Devil’s Brood.’ Although not an official name, he called them that due to their fiery eyes and distinctive reddish underbelly. The tiny insects hatched out of their shells every seventeen years spending the following five to seven weeks searching for mates. During that time, they would saturate the summer air with their high-pitched calls, a sound which could reach as loud as 100 decibels.
When the doctor displayed the years of the cicadas’ breeding cycles, Matt felt a sudden kindred spirit with the tiny creatures. They had come out in 1982, the summer he had been born. He studied the chart and smiled. They had also come out in 1965. The year his mother was born. They had come out again in 1999. The year his mother died, drowned in Lake Thunderbird Falls. Her death was another reason for his choice to apply to the park service. He wanted to ensure no other children or parents had to deal with the tragedy of a drowned loved one.
Matt’s eyes drifted towards the window as his mind revisited that tragic day. He had been away at football camp when he’d gotten the call that his mother was missing. Matt never thought of his mother as being attractive but she was hotly pursued by both single and married men. That summer afternoon, she had been running jet skis with a prominent and married dentist. According to witnesses, there had been a lot of drinking that afternoon. Apparently, she lost control of the vehicle and crashed. Was thrown into the water and never surfaced. It took almost a week before her body was discovered by Highway Patrol divers.
“Are there any questions?” Professor Jones asked loudly, snapping Matt out of his reflections.
Several of the attendees had questions for the kind doctor, but by eleven fifteen Matt was out the door.
“So where are we headed for lunch?” Andy asked, stepping up beside him.
“I don’t know. How about burgers at Shane’s?”
“Not for one of you,” their supervisor, Rachael, said stepping up behind them. “Who’s assigned to work the grounds this week?”
Andy rolled his eyes and turned to face her. “That’d be me.”
“I need you to run up to Calypso Cove,” she said. “We had a camper drop in and say they heard a woman’s scream.” She waved a hand to dismiss the arguments she knew were coming. “I know, I know, it was probably a crane or a coyote, but we’ve got responsibilities. Go up and give the area a once over and then you two can have your lunch.”
She continued her trek down the hall disappearing into her office.
“Looks like burgers will have to wait,” Matt said slapping Andy on the back. “Give me a call when you’re free.”
Chapter Three
Leaving Andy to check out the reported scream, Matt made the short drive to the docks where a chill breeze white-capped the lake’s gray surface. Hopping aboard the Jezebel, the unofficial name given to the old eighteen-foot patrol boat, he fired up the three-liter MerCruiser engines and let them idle before casting off the lines. Of course, government boats weren’t named, years ago someone had sharpied ‘Jezebel’ on the back of the cantankerous boat’s white leather seats. Since then, the inked moniker had been cleaned off but now and then the name would mysteriously reappear, scrawled somewhere on the old girl’s surface. Hell, Matt had done it a time or two himself. It was an ongoing joke that aggravated the hell out of every supervisor since the boat had been purchased in 2002.
The motor purred in its deep gurgling monotone as he zipped up his jacket, doubting there would be a single boat on the lake, cast off the lines and pulled away from the dock. Overhead, gray-white clouds skittered across the sky and a fine mist wisped across the deck.
The radio hissed with static as Andy’s voice broke over the air waves. “Matt! Matt, you there?”
Andy’s voice sounded unusually tight and high pitched edged with panic. Matt yanked the throttle back and the Jezebel rocked to a halt.
“Yeah, Andy, I’m here,” he answered. “And remember, use call signs or Rachael’s gonna be ticked.”
“Matt, I mean William twelve,” Andy spoke so fast his words ran in a string. “Youbetter getoverherequick. There’s abody…a girl…I thinkit’smurder.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down.” Matt noticed that the gas gauge only read a quarter. He tapped at the dial and it bounced to full. “What’s your twenty?”
“My twenty?”
“Yeah, where are you?”
“Oh yeah, my twenty. I’m over at Calypso Cove. I was checking the trails and found her. Matt, you gotta get over here.”
Matt’s eyes scanned the lake before he picked out the jutting shoreline of Calypso Cove two miles away. It would save twenty minutes to boat over instead of returning to the dock and taking the truck.
“William fourteen, I copy. I’ll be there in five minutes. I’m boating over, Andy. Can I get to you from the lake?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just come ashore where the cranes hang out. Close to the cattail beds. You can see me from there.”
“Okay, buddy. I’m on my way.” Matt reached to put the mic back in the stand and then remembered one more item. “And William fourteen. Don’t touch anything.”
“Roger that. Don’t touch anything.”
The wind picked up as Matt raced across the center of the lake, the whitecaps smacking against the boat’s hull. A heavier craft would have cushioned the ride, but the Jezebel wasn’t a large boat. Matt felt the blow of every wave right to his core.
As he closed on the cove, he spotted Andy standing next to the tree line. He had both hands over his head waving furiously. Matt slowed, easing the Jezebel into the shallows until the light rasp beneath him indicated the fiberglass keel was running across the sandy bottom of the lake. He was still three feet from shore but grabbed the anchor line and jumped in.
His boots filled with ice cold water as he slogged ashore. He dropped the anchor into the grass and stomped the spikes into the earth before jogging up to where Andy waited.
“Where’s the body?”
Andy turned and pointed to a brown patch of grass. “She’s over there,” he croaked.
Matt met Andy’s eyes and the younger man simply nodded and dropped his gaze. “It’s pretty bad.”
“Have you called Rachael?”
“Yeah, she’s calling the Highway Patrol. She said I needed to wait for them to get here.”
“Good advice,” Matt said.
Overhead, the clouds had begun to darken, the wind
whistling morosely through the leafless branches of the oaks.
“Do you have a tarp in the truck?” Matt asked.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Better go get it,” Matt said. “I know I told you not to touch anything, but we’re gonna need to cover the body if it starts raining.”
“Yeah, yeah, good idea.” Andy glanced expectantly at the trail head. “You gonna be all right by yourself?”
Matt snorted and shook his head. “Yeah, I think I’ll be all right. We’re not talkin’ about the boogie man here.”
Andy nodded and marched off. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he called over his shoulder.
Matt watched his friend disappear among the trees and turned his attention to the waving grasses. In five steps he was standing over the body. The woman was thin, maybe five-five or five-six. She wore blue jeans and a light gray jacket. The coat was unzipped revealing a yellow cotton sweater and the pale white skin of her stomach.
Her hands and arms were mottled with swollen red circles, her face covered in blood. It was difficult to tell her age.
And her eyes.
Matt’s breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding in his ears. Her eyes…they’re just like…just like. His eyesight darkened, a collapsing tunnel centered on the dead woman’s face. As consciousness faded, Matt felt himself falling and darkness overtook him.
Chapter Four
“Hey, Matt, nice tackle during the scrimmage,” Matt’s best friend, Lane, called as they sauntered out of the Thunderbird Falls High locker room. “For a pussy that is.”
Matt laughed shaking his head. “Well, if anyone knows about being a pussy it would be you.” He dragged out a fistful of keys and jingled through the ring until he found the one to his new car. “So where we goin’ to eat?”
Lane opened the passenger door of Matt’s ’89 Thunderbird and tossed in his workout bag. Matt purchased the ten-year-old muscle car at the start of senior year after scrimping every bit of his summer work money. He kept the old gal’s chipped paint waxed to an ivory sheen. “Someplace cheap,” Lane said. “I only got five bucks.”
Matt leaned across the top of the Ford, his lips twisted into a wry expression of consideration. “How ’bout Poncho’s Mexican? Thursday is all you can eat taco night.” He dropped into the driver’s seat and keyed the ignition. The 3.8-liter engine surged to life with a throaty roar. “My mom gave me a twenty for food, I’ll spot you.”
“Now you’re talkin’.” Lane thumped the roof and hopped in.
In less than half an hour, Matt was up to his elbows in cheap tacos, watery salsa, and debate about the bodily merits of the cheer squad girls.
“Hey, I gotta check in with my mom,” he said after a quick check of his watch. He pushed away from the table and brushed a wrist across his mouth. “She went to the lake but wanted me home by six.”
“Sure thing,” Lane mumbled over a mouthful of tortillas.
Matt legged his way to the front counter and plunked a quarter into the pay phone. He dialed the number for home, the phone buzzing on the other end.
“Hello?”
Matt pulled the phone away and squinted at the receiver as if he could see the person on the other end. “Grandma Mags?”
“Oh, Matthew. I’ve been waiting for you to get home.” Her voice cracked with emotion. “Bubbie, you need to come home right away.” Only his mom or Grandma Mags ever called him Bubbie. A childhood nickname they only used when bad news was on the horizon.
“What’s going on, Gran?”
“Just come home. We’ll talk when you get here.”
Matt’s ears began to burn, his chest growing suddenly tight. “No! Grandma, I’m not a kid anymore. Tell me what’s going on.”
There was a long pause.
“Gran…you still there?”
“Yes, baby. I’m still here. And you’re right. You’re not my little Bubbie anymore. You’ve growing into a handsome, young man.”
There was another long pause. Matt thought he heard sniffling on the other end. Then, in a broken voice, his grandmother said, “Your mother’s had an accident at the lake.”
“Whad’ya mean an accident?”
“Matt, baby. Your mother was racing Andrew across the lake on her jet ski when she fell off. Andrew said she was wearing a life vest but she went right under. The lake patrol’s been searching for hours. Now I need you to come home.”
Matt hardly remembered the next few days. They drifted past in a surreal haze of well-meaning relatives and casserole-bearing friends. It was five days before a knock came at their screen door. Matt peered down the trailer’s hall and spotted two men standing on their porch. One he recognized as Father Johnston from the Congregation of the Holy Mother church.
Matt’s mom had never been a religious woman and looked upon Sundays as another opportunity to party, not a day to be wasted on something as pointless as church.
The other man was wearing a police uniform. He was older than the priest with a gray crewcut and stern dark eyes. In his hands, he held a Highway Patrol trooper hat that he spun slowly through his fingers.
Matt’s knees were rubber beneath him as he stepped to the door and swung it open. The hinges groaned in protest and the two men stepped inside.
“Matthew.” Father King nodded. “This is Sergeant Burns with the highway patrol.” The older man stuck out his hand and clasped Matt’s in an iron grip. His grandmother had stepped into the hallway clinging to the doorway for support.
The good Father cleared his throat, glancing briefly at the trooper. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Wheat, Matthew,” he dipped his head, “but I’m the bearer of sad news. The police divers have located a body. They believe it to be Joanna’s.”
The old patrolman’s eyes flew wide a moment before he dashed past Matt. Behind him, there was a thud as his grandmother fainted to the floor. The world descended into a slow-motion ballet. Sounds and movement, the voices of conversation hollow and vague in his ears.
He stared dispassionately as Father King and the trooper helped his grandmother to the red and white couch in the living room. Their trailer wasn’t large, but it was neat with hand stitched curtains and freshly painted walls. The Father disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a glass of water. Gran seemed disoriented but he encouraged her to drink.
“I hate to ask this of you,” the trooper apologized. “But we have one more unpleasant request.” His gaze drifted from Gran, locked with Matt. The man’s eyes were as dark and steely as flint. “We need a relative ta come down to the morgue, ID the body.”
The glass almost tumbled from his grandmother’s limp fingers as she sank back onto the couch.
“Oh, bless me. I can’t do it. I can’t,” she moaned.
Without breaking the trooper’s stare, Matt croaked, “I’ll do it.”
The trooper nodded and stepped over to lay a hand on Matt’s shoulder. “Are you sure, son?”
“I’m eighteen years old,” Matt said. It was a lie but a small one. In four months he would be eighteen.
“Mrs.Wheat? Is that okay with you?” the trooper asked.
His grandmother only managed a wave of her hand and a weak moan.
“Okay, son. Grab whatever you need. I’ll take you down to the morgue and bring you home when we’re done.”
On the trip to the hospital, Sergeant Burns didn’t try to engage Matt in idle conversation. Didn’t try to cheer him up with mundane platitudes. His only statement when they crawled into the car was, “You like rock or country?” Matt told him rock and soon the mellow refrains of Fleetwood Mac were mixing with the staticky traffic from the car’s police radio.
Burns pulled the cruiser into the hospital lot and parked in a spot reserved for cops. Matt followed him up to the sliding doors of the ER and almost ran into his back when the big man came to a halt. Burns turned, his lips twisting like fat worms as he maneuvered a toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other. He pinched the toothpick between two of his stubby fing
ers and eyed Matt solemnly. “Son. I ain’t quite sure you’re actually eighteen years old but in my book that don’t keep ya from bein’ a man. You understand what I’m sayin’?”
Matt nodded.
“Okay then. What you’re about to see ain’t gonna be pretty. It ain’t gonna be easy neither. Your momma been in that water for a few days. If you want to go back out, ain’t no one gonna think worse of ya.”
Matt’s eyes dropped to the floor. With a sigh, he squared his shoulders and looked up defiantly. He was a man. The only man left in his family. This was not something he could leave to Grandma Mags. “No, sir.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I’m ready.”
A worn smile creased the sergeant’s lips as he put a meaty hand on Matt’s shoulder. “All right, son. Follow me.”
He led Matt through the sliding doors and down the sterile halls. The place smelled of bleach and antiseptic, and the flat, hollow scent of death. They turned down a long, empty hall where the cold fluorescents glimmered in their own austere brilliance. The door at the end of the hall was marked in inch-high letters: MORGUE.
Matt followed Burns inside. The room was lit with the same unforgiving glow as the halls with a doorway to the left and three desks shoved against the right wall. A green cabinet stood next to the doorway and two gurneys occupied the center of the room. What caught Matt’s attention was the wall across the room. He remembered the rows of cabinets from the morgue scene in ‘Men In Black’ and was stunned at the uncanny resemblance.
From the doorway, a short black-haired woman wearing blue medical scrubs stepped out. She scurried across the room and jabbed out her hand. “Sergeant Burns? Pleasure to meet you.”
“You must be Dr. Hill,” Burns said gruffly. He shook her hand and hiked a thumb behind him. “This here is Matt Holmes, Joanna Holmes’ son. He’ll be the one ta do the official identification.”
The woman glanced at Matt, the smile melting from her face. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said. She waved a hand indicating one of the desks. “Please, there’s some paperwork that must be signed first. Then we’ll…we’ll do the ID.”