Red Water, Shadows of Camelot Crossing

by Lisa Courtaway

  There was no way to say his piece and hide this from her momma now. All his attempts to extinguish his fury flew out the open window. He slammed back through the house, put on his boots and his slicker, grabbed a beer, and burst out of the trailer. Bubba yelled into the storm, "Girl, just wait till I find you!"

  Thirty

  Laura came to a seizing halt, her lungs threatening to burst should she not slow everything down. She saw a twinkling light through the trees ahead so she pushed on, following its glow, and soon found herself staring at the back of her fairy tale house. She was seeing the back of the property for the first time, and even with a thick, dark sky she immediately recognized it.

  An outside lamp left on shone directly over a door that rattled in the wind, past the massive pit and the stone walkway, at the back of the house. A bolt of lightning shoved her forward, headlong into the door carelessly left ajar. A jolt of electricity abuzz nearby warned of another flash, closer, an instant before it struck. She rushed inside, never giving pause to second-guess her actions.

  She found herself in the garage and went directly to the closest door, opening it without considering that it might be locked, or what might be on the other side. She slid off her muddy boots before entering what was a large utility room. Having made it this far, she had to press on, seizing upon the chance to see the inside of the beautiful home.

  Amazed by the smell of its newness, her fingers traced over leaded glass cabinets that lined the adjoining hall. Her heart raced as she absorbed every detail of every room, becoming more at ease and brave with each step. Rooms that were bigger than her whole home and were more done up than a castle were revealed in the glare of her flashlight. Everything from massive chandeliers to the oddly shaped doorways that mirrored the shape of stained-glass window. The window and doorways were not square, not arched, but pointed at the top. The room with the stained-glass window was lined in dark, shiny wood shelves that reached halfway up its high walls. A balcony was above her, reaching out over the space, evoking an image of a lovelorn princess or star-crossed lovers.

  Her pulse quieted and fear was forgotten as she dared to explore the upstairs, shining the flashlight, as its beam was swallowed up by the massive staircase. Again she found room after room of magazine-worthy décor, more bathrooms than she could believe any family would ever need. The passing of time was lost to her as she entered a room that was beyond her imagination.

  Delicate crystals dangled from the fixture in the middle of the ceiling, throwing prisms onto the walls in the flashlight beam. She followed the edge of the room, stopping to inspect the milky colored wallpaper before placing her entire hand on the wall, sliding it across the swirls highlighted not by color, but by texture. It was fuzzy, like a well-worn blanket. At the angle where the wall covering ended, an amazing story began—a mural spanned before her. A meadow, a fawn drinking from a babbling brook, trees, flowers … every imaginable creature of the woods under the blue sky. The scene was alive, illuminated by the beam of her light. This was a room to give to a girl who was loved beyond measure, most likely by her father. A father who could bring to life such an amazing gift.

  For the first time in her life, she felt the flush of envy, just for a moment, but it passed in a flash. She could have mistaken it for a shiver since her wet clothes had stopped dripping, but clung to her body with a weighty, damp cold.

  There was one last room at the end of the long hall. She opened the door to a room that was unexpectedly bright thanks to its wall of windowed doors that looked out over the backyard. Beyond the doors was a vast balcony that stretched below to what she now believed to be a hole for a swimming pool. There it was again, that pulse-quickening shiver. As she tried to decide if she should weather the storm to walk outside onto the balcony, just to see the view, a beeping noise broke through the sounds of the storm. It was her watch—a ten o'clock alarm telling her it was lights out. How had so much time passed?

  Unsure of her route, she scanned the room and eyed a half wall, opposite the side on which she had entered. It had to be another stairway, perhaps dropping her close to the garage door. She bolted that direction and almost stepped into air, her forward foot not finding anything on which to land. She grabbed the pony wall before almost losing her grip on the flashlight and falling over the edge. The stairs had not been completed all the way up to the room she was in. Quickly changing course, she plunged down the long hallway and out of the house the way she came in. Almost fleeing through the outside door in her stocking feet, she turned back and crammed her feet into her muddy boots.

  The storm had become fiercer as she had given herself a tour of the dreamy house. Tiny rivers had popped up throughout the expanse between the house and the forest. It was like she stepped out into a different world. She spotted a makeshift walkway made of plywood, and she carefully crossed to it, realizing now that her boots were on the wrong feet, making her feel clumsy and off-kilter. There was no time to correct it; she would have to deal with the discomfort.

  The planked path lined the edge of the giant swimming pool pit. Foolishly, she took a look over the side to see feet below her a muddy sea churning as the rain pounded the already pooled water. As she turned away from the dizzying view, balancing herself and setting her focus on the forest ahead, she heard something. It sounded like someone was calling her name. She froze. Was that Bubba's voice? Had Momma discovered her missing and sent people out looking for her? She wished she had never left the trailer. How could she ever talk Bubba down from his anger at her for running away, forcing him to go after her in this weather? But was it Bubba?

  She stood transfixed, listening for the voice. The only sound she heard was the crash of thunder, and she dropped the flashlight in a flinch caused by the cracking boom. She watched as it banged off the rocky sides of the pit, its light swallowed up by the rising waters at the bottom of the hole.

  She tossed her head to fling away her soaked hair and the stream of rain that pelted her eyes as they struggled to adjust to the darkness without her flashlight. Before they could focus, the night lit up again, and she thought she caught a glimpse of something at the edge of the woods. A raspy gasp escaped her as another clap of thunder silenced her scream. She lost her footing, arms circling for a brief, hopeful second before she tumbled over the edge.

  She grasped at anything that might stop her descent, her hand seizing on a thick root, boots threatening to fall off as her feet scrambled for footing. Struggling to claw her way back to the top, she looked up to see how far she had to go. Lightning echoed off the water below her, and she saw a figure standing at the top of the pit. She could be saved, and thoughts of getting in trouble had long left her mind as she feared for her safety.

  She gathered air in her lungs, choking on rain as she lifted her voice to scream. "Help me!" The root she clung to loosened, and she fell again, hard. The blanket of red stars that flashed before her eyes wasn't caused by lightning and burned out quickly as her world went black.

  Thirty-One

  That night the thunder woke Miss B with a start. Momma had feared this. Miss B had never liked thunderstorms. She went to Miss B's side and the frail woman grabbed hold of her waist, squeezing her with a strength that was shocking.

  Over and over, Miss B repeated the same thing. "I'm so sorry, so, so sorry."

  Momma rocked Miss B, shushing her, telling her everything was all right. What neither Momma nor Miss B knew was that nothing would ever be all right again.

  Even Rex was disturbed by the storms that night, which was out of character for the amiable dog. The same thunder that woke Miss B startled Rex as he lay curled up next to Mr. Childers while he read the paper in his comfy chair. The dog was growling while he stared out the window, hair on end. Mr. Childers tried to quiet him, then dragged him to the laundry room and shut him in when the dog wouldn't heed his warnings. No one needed to wake his wife up over an armadillo caught out in the storm.

  Not until the night nurse showed up, a bit late due to the
ferocity of the rainfall, was Momma able to pull herself away from Miss B's clutches. Still Miss B wailed on, thrashing in ever mounting frenzy from an unknown cause. The night nurse gave Miss B something to help her sleep, and she finally quieted enough that Momma felt comfortable leaving. As Momma reached for her raincoat, Miss B sat up, startling them both.

  “Please don't leave so soon, Laura," she said before lying back down and closing her eyes.

  Momma buttoned up her coat and looked at the sleeping woman. She whispered, "You get some sleep, Miss B. Everything will be better in the morning."

  It wasn't unusual for Miss Betty to mix up names. Momma gave the night nurse a wink and went out into the rain through the back door of the sunroom.

  The storm was spent and had calmed to a steady rainfall with an occasional far-off rumble by the time Momma headed home. She was exhausted, as she usually was on Miss Betty's difficult nights and this one had been a doozie. She wasn't pleased at all to find Bubba passed out on the couch. When she saw that he still had his boots on and his feet propped up on the coffee table, she was angered as all get-out.

  She walked over to him and nudged his leg with a force that should have woken anyone, but Bubba went right on snoring. With a deep sigh, she bent over to take his boots off. Anger shifted to alarm and confusion when she noticed his boots were caked with mud, which meant her table and her floors were a mess too. She was going to have to find a way to lay down some rules, and he was going to clean up this mess. She wouldn't be satisfied until she could never tell it happened.

  Knowing she probably couldn't rouse him in this state and being too tired to pick a fight, she yanked his boots off and put them in the linoleum entry. Bubba barely stirred the whole time. As she passed by him again on her way to the bathroom, she gave him a rough nudge to settle him into a semi-reclined position that she hoped would quiet his heavy snores.

  She made her way to the bathroom, paused at Laura's room and considered peeking in on her, but let the thought go. The creaky door might wake her up and besides, there was no need to check on her. She would be quietly breathing the deep breaths of the sleeping. In a sleep-deprived daze, she couldn't find the toothpaste and scrounged through her makeup bag for the mini tube of toothpaste she kept there for reasons she may have learned from Seventeen or Ladies Home Journal, her favorite magazines in the motel lobby. She couldn't believe she’d let them run out of toothpaste.

  Maybe summer would be easier when the students left and took their roadside motel keggers with them. Summers were always slower in Stillwater. She brushed her teeth, got undressed and quietly slipped into her bed to catch a few hours of sleep before the alarm woke her at five-thirty in the morning.

  Thirty-Two

  Tuesday, April 10th found Stillwater, Oklahoma waking up to a muggy day that only promised to get muggier. It also found Harry Buhl way behind schedule. There hadn't been much call for new pools in town until the new neighborhood out south started being developed. The builders wanted a swimming pool on nearly every lot. He welcomed the windfall for his previously struggling business, Buhl's Pools, but now the notorious spring weather had sent Harry's backlog spiraling out of control. Throw in some poor hiring practices, like taking on his wife's cousin Trevor, who had zero skills and not an ounce of work ethic, and the poorly timed (but minor, thankfully) back injury of his right-hand man James Wheeler, and he wasn't sure how he was ever going to get caught up.

  Harry had started cutting corners he had always promised he would never cut. But the builders were calling constantly, demanding faster turnaround times. It was time for his business to sink or swim, pun intended. Now they were calling all day, leaving angry tirades which his wife scrawled out on a message pad, time-stamped and dated, and stacked neatly in a pile on the side-table by his recliner.

  With the pressure of the workload and the backlog weighing on his mind, and no inkling of the previous night's events, he and his flatbed set out, both burdened with a day and a half worth of work. He was hoping the unreliable Trevor might show up as some point to help him out.

  His first task was to correct a massive blunder made by Trevor at the third house going up in Camelot Crossing. He was miserable thinking of the time that would be lost refilling six feet of depth of what was to be a play pool, not a diving one. It was back-breaking work, just ask James Wheeler. Trevor had not found his calling in the heavy task. James Wheeler always said, "It's an art. It really is." In the pool excavating art, Trevor was painting with the wrong kind of brush.

  Harry was the only contractor on the muddy mess of a site. The conditions would make this job precarious, but it had to be done before progress could be made. He should set up a pump and drain the pit before putting dirt back in. The right thing to do was to get a truckload or two of extra soil to stabilize the area, but he took a gamble, sparing a fair amount of thought, before admitting to himself he would have to make things work even while cutting corners he wished he didn't have to cut. More of his precious time was wasted shuffling around all manner of equipment left too close to the perimeter of the dig.

  He nearly slid right into the pit, cursing the sloppy crew, Trevor, his wife, and everything else that led him to this moment. He turned his back on the mess to unload his Bobcat, and something at the bottom of the pit caught his eye—a flicker of reflected sunlight. With a guilty sigh he turned his back on the sight that, for safety's sake, should be checked out. Rolling the dice again, he ignored that voice in his head. Had Harry taken the time to investigate, the story of Laura Combs’ whereabouts would have been told much differently.

  When the job was finished, he directed his mind to the many more tasks ahead and told himself he wouldn't cut corners on the next pool, on his honor. As he crossed the bridge, heading to the next site, which he was overseeing himself this time, his untrustworthy and hopefully temporary companion, Trevor, blew right by him in his beat-up Plymouth Fury. Trevor's sun-baked arm hung out the window, and some hair band was wailing from his beefed-up speakers. Harry tapped the horn on his truck, but Trevor took no notice. The only person Harry had to help him out was two hours late and heading in the opposite direction of where he was needed. Harry almost laughed to himself, but couldn't muster the energy, saving all he had for the long day ahead.

  Thirty-Three

  THE TIME BETWEEN THEN AND NOW

  Charlotte Combs had led a lonely life. From the moment she was born until the moment she became a mother, she didn't belong to anyone. She couldn't help but feel cursed when the one thing that gave her purpose and made her feel whole had disappeared. She was driven by a maddening mix of hope, despair, grief, and remorse. If it weren't for Mr. Childers nudging her forward, always knowing the right thing to do, to learn and know more about Laura’s disappearance, she would probably still be lying in her bed wishing it all was a bad dream. He propped her up, despite all he had on his plate, until she could take her first few wobbly steps on her own.

  She set Laura's room right after Mr. Childers hired a cleaning team to erase the aftermath of the storm and the pointless mess of fingerprint dust. Once things looked just right, Charlotte took to falling asleep on the stiff, new mattress, holding one of Laura's T-shirts or county fair stuffed animals. Nothing in the room was changed.

  She did get rid of Bubba Wallace, which didn't take much. Mr. Childers put him up at the motel, so he'd be out of her hair but within reach of the law. It was much easier for most to believe that Laura had run away than it was to believe something as horrible as an abduction, or worse, could happen in the tranquil town. So it fell upon her to press for information from the impassive authorities. But all she learned was that there wasn't much to glean, due to the law never thinking the case was anything more than a runaway kid. However, when Sheriff Reed was appointed, he allowed her to review the scant documentation the previous regime had gathered regarding the disappearance of her daughter. That was when she learned there were no threads to tug on, no leads to follow that might unravel the mystery of what
happened to her only child.

  It was difficult for her to believe that Bubba could have done something to hurt Laura. But then she learned about his criminal record, and possibilities spun through her restless mind mercilessly. Every moment filled with frantic uncertainty she could not turn away from. The not knowing was blinding, and suffocating, all-consuming.

  As time moved on, she began to accept that Laura was gone forever. She had long since stopped going to town. She knew there were those who blamed her for Laura's disappearance, and she couldn't bear the judgmental glances. The sight of one of Laura's classmates as they grew up and moved beyond their place in Laura's world, when she knew her daughter could never do the same, was too much to digest, so she changed her ways and traveled an extra twenty minutes to the smaller, less familiar town of Perkins to do her shopping, get her hair done, do her banking, and tend to other errands.

  Every street in Stillwater seemed too alive with memory, but she couldn't leave. She had to stay put, so Laura could come home to the place she loved, if by some small chance she were still alive. And here she could take care of the people who had taken care of her.

  She beat herself up for her own role in the matter. A good mother wouldn't leave her child alone with a lowlife like Bubba. He always denied having laid a hand on Laura, but he'd been the one who allowed her to slip through the window either by her own device or with someone who intended to harm her.

  When she started having visions of Laura standing out in the fields on the ranch, she knew her baby was gone from this earth. She understood these weren't figments of her tormented mind; this was a visitant. Her daughter was reaching out to her. But knowing her child was gone forever, and accepting that truth, especially in the absence of proof, was an almost impossible assertion.