Touching Cottonwood

by Randall Simpson

  He has returned to his lair—a twisted mind sitting in darkness, feeling alone in the world—disconnected from all things living or dead.

  Six

  The Homecoming

  About five miles north of Cottonwood, just about a mile further north up Colorado State Highway 550 from the Home, a man knelt on the east shoulder of the road in front of two white crosses. Around the crosses there were freshly cut flowers, and in the center of each cross was a photograph—one of a man and the other of a woman.

  The kneeling man looked at the photographs and spoke softly, “I’m sorry it’s been so many years. I’m glad to see the Yamamotos have been faithful in bringing fresh flowers. I meant to come home so many times, but things have changed for me. I hope I’ve done some good so far and hope to do some more. I don’t intend on ever leaving Cottonwood again, so wish me luck. I’m home to stay.”

  He stood up and placed his hands on each of the crosses, closing his eyes for a moment. He then opened his eyes and picked up a small, blue and green backpack from the gravel, slung it over his shoulder, and headed south toward Cottonwood. An occasional car or semi-truck passed by as he walked along the shoulder. He smiled at their passing, and in between, when large moments of deep silence filled the highway and surrounding hillsides, the sounds of birds singing here and there would fill the space.

  “Not long now, my friends,” the young man replied. “Not long now.”

  Though he had walked along the streets of Cottonwood a thousand times in his life, from before he could even ride a bike through his teen years, as he now walked the streets and passed by a few familiar faces, always smiling kindly to them, they only returned quick and weak smiles and continued on their way. Not that if people had taken the time to look at him closely now—really closely, with true interest—might they have recognized his face. He had left Cottonwood at barely over the age of nineteen and was now a man of nearly thirty-two. Twelve years had apparently brought a lot of change to his appearance, or perhaps it was Cottonwood that had changed. The passing familiar faces, with their heads down and fleeting courtesy smiles, seemed to him far more tightly jawed and grim than he remembered.

  As he walked along Main Street, he spotted some of the familiar faces inside their shops as they arranged their merchandise or talked with customers. He glanced in at them through the storefront windows as he passed by, though never stopping to stare. He did notice that there were far more boarded-up windows than when he’d left, and he took note of them as a doctor might take note of a fever.

  It was one of Cottonwood’s better-known and prominent citizens who finally recognized his face. “Matt…? Matthew Duncan? Is that Matthew Duncan?” Ernie Martinelli blurted out as he was about to step into Gravine’s Sporting Goods. He put a pudgy and friendly hand upon Matthew Duncan’s shoulder.

  “Hello, Ernie,” Matthew said calmly and simply. “I was wondering if someone was ever going to notice me.”

  “My god,” said Ernie, giving Matthew a hearty, one-armed shoulder hug. “How long has it been? Ten or fifteen years?”

  “Actually, twelve years and a few months,” said Matthew.

  Ernie Martinelli was nearly a foot shorter than Matthew and had a bright toothy smile that more than filled in the space left vacant by his height. He was the president of the Cottonwood chamber of commerce and also ran the most popular, and now nearly only, restaurant in town, which went by the seemingly unremarkable but appropriate name of Ernie’s Diner.

  “Well, it’s just so good to see you! What brings you back here? Vacation?” asked Ernie.

  “Nope,” said Matthew. “I’m moving back here. It’s time to settle in somewhere, and Cottonwood seems like a good fit—the perfect fit, actually.”

  “Is that so?” said Ernie, studying Matthew closely.

  “That’s so. So how’s the restaurant doing? Still making that same fresh apple pie, I hope.”

  “Oh, I can’t complain too much,” said Ernie. “We could always use a few more customers, that’s for sure, but the biggest problem is that I can’t seem to keep employees anymore. They keep moving away! But enough about that—tell me more about moving back here. That’s great, but what’ll you do for work?”

  “I don’t know just yet. It’s my first day back in town, and I’m just getting reacquainted. I guess I’ll be looking for a job and a place to live.”

  Ernie looked at Matthew for a moment and then said, “Well, I’m sure the Yamamoto family would gladly take you in again. Do they know you’re back? I see Amida every week and still buy most of my fruits and vegetables from him. That family sure missed you when you left. He told me many times that you were one of the hardest workers he’d ever seen. If you can’t find anything else, I’m sure Amida would have you back to work for him in a heartbeat.”

  “Thanks for the tip, Ernie,” said Matthew. “I haven’t seen them yet, but if they won’t have me back, maybe I’ll come and work in your restaurant. You said you’re having a hard time keeping employees, and I don’t plan on going anywhere, but of course, that’s so long as I can have free apple pie.” Matthew winked as he said this.

  “Deal,” said Ernie, smiling and giving Matthew a pat on the shoulder. “Hey, I hate to run, but Tom’s got a special on decoys for duck season, and then I’ve gotta get back to the restaurant. But come by sometime to see if the pie is still as good as you remember. Your first piece will be on the house.”

  “Now, that’s a deal. But just one thing…” said Matthew.

  Ernie had opened the door to the sporting goods store and now stood in the doorway. “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Ducks don’t have seasons, do they? And if they could choose a season, I’m sure it wouldn’t be the time of year we choose to kill them.”

  Ernie looked at him for a moment, paused, and then a big grin exploded on his chubby face. “You’re still a funny guy, Matt! I like that! Don’t forget to come by for that pie,” he said before turning around and entering the store.

  Matthew Duncan stood on the sidewalk in front of the store, staring at the closed door for a few moments. “No, Ernie, ducks don’t have a season,” he finally said to the closed door. “There’s winter, spring, summer, and fall. They flow into each other, and ducks like them all. Ducks don’t have a season, my friend…but maybe some towns do.” He smiled, turned, and continued walking up Main Street.

  Though seeing Ernie Martinelli was enjoyable, and it was nice to finally have a genuinely friendly face recognize him, there was one person in particular on Matthew Duncan’s mind and heart at that moment. Her face, eyes, and smile had been with him over the many miles he’d walked during the previous few weeks. He’d thought of her through rainstorms and windstorms and drenching splashes of dark, dirty highway water spraying up from the never-ending flow of passing trucks. Her image was with him as he crossed state lines and when he slept alone at night under trees, bridges, and in abandoned barns. It was his memory of her and her face that rode with him during the rare but welcome times when a passing truck driver or adventuresome motorist was kind enough and brave enough to slow down and pick him up. Even before that, in the quiet moments in his prison cell, his solitude was filled with her, and earlier still, while he was working alone in the forest, when the wind blew through the trees, it was always her voice calling him ever homeward to Cottonwood.

  Seven

  Rebecca

  She was one of the few who planned all along to live her whole life in Cottonwood. Most others from her high school class had fled very soon after graduation, and she also left for a short while, but only to go away to college. After four years, she knew she’d be returning, and she also knew she’d be one of the few able to get a job in the area using her degree.

  Rebecca D’Arcy studied nursing at Mesa State College in Grand Junction, with an emphasis in the developmentally disabled. She then returned to Cottonwood to become one the best nurses the Home had ever had. She loved what she did for a living, and she loved working w
ith the residents.

  She also returned to Cottonwood for other reasons. Her mother still lived in the town, and though Rebecca now owned a house of her own, she and her mother were still very close. Her father had died several years before, and because her mother had no plans to ever leave the town, and Rebecca could practice her profession here, she saw no reason she’d ever be leaving either.

  The final reason Rebecca had stayed in Cottonwood was because of a certain young man. They had grown up together in the town, and as a young girl, she was one of the few who wasn’t afraid of joining him to catch frogs down by the Little Bear River. Maybe that’s what first sparked their friendship so many years before. But like the inevitable passing of seasons, catching frogs gave way to holding hands in the dark of the tiny movie theater in town and later to sneaking a first kiss and feeling the pulsing, joyous song of love awakened in their young veins. In their high school years, they explored their physical beings, as all young lovers do, but they also found deep enjoyment in long walks and longer talks, late into the peaceful Cottonwood nights. Though Rebecca found her young man exceptionally handsome, he was doubly attractive to her, because they could talk about anything, and he would actually listen.

  At times, they would sit down by the river at McCann Park or hike up to Abyss Falls and talk for hours about their dreams and future together. When high school graduation came, he also said he planned to come back to Cottonwood after college, but things didn’t work out that way. He could only find a job in his career field outside of Colorado. They kept in touch by phone calls, letters, and email. She’d even gone to visit him once up in Washington State where he’d taken a job. He told her he still planned to return to Colorado some day, and she believed he meant it. But four years apart turned into six and then into nine. It was about that time that he’d suddenly stopped writing or even responding to emails. He disappeared from her life, leaving her to a life and career in Cottonwood without him.

  It had been more than three years since Rebecca last heard from her lifelong love, and now as the unstoppable clock inside her body ticked ever louder, she was beginning to suspect that her career alone would finally become her love and future. There were no other prospects in Cottonwood of interest to her and few opportunities for meeting someone from out of town. More than her age and the prospect of being alone, what bothered her most was the fact that her lifelong love, whom she had shared everything with at one time, had abruptly and even mysteriously vanished from her life without ever saying good-bye. She knew this sort of fate fell upon thousands of former lovers every day, but she was certain it would never happen to her.

  Though Rebecca’s love was living in a different state, they talked nearly every day, and there had been no hints of his departure. Though a formal or even quick good-bye would have been painful, it would have been better than the sudden silence forced upon her. Emails went unanswered, letters were returned, and phone calls to his former employer were only met with, “We’re sorry, but we are not allowed to share personal information about our current or past employees without their permission.”

  She was puzzled by that. Did that mean he was a current or past employee? Where in the world, Rebecca D’Arcy wondered on many a lonely night in Cottonwood, had Matthew Duncan gone?

  A thousand miles away, the exact same question was on the mind of someone else, for a completely different reason. This person had never met Matthew Duncan and had never even been to Cottonwood, but all that was destined to change.

  Eight

  Agent Westmore

  Like so many of his cases, this one had come down from the Washington State Department of Corrections. The case was unusual in the fact that the escapee had managed to escape from a DOC facility that historically had very few escapes. The majority of the inmates that Agent David Westmore was assigned to track down had walked away from work-release programs that had minimum supervision. This inmate had walked away from the Monroe Correctional Complex while under medium security. Also odd in this case was the fact that for most escapes, the exact manner in which the inmate escaped could be pieced together after the fact; however, in this case, the exact method and manner of escape had not yet been determined. The record indicated that the inmate was serving ten years for second-degree manslaughter and had escaped with seven years of his sentence still remaining.

  Agent Westmore knew he was always called in on cases when the trail of the escapee had grown cold. He was an expert at “warming up” that trail again, and he believed he was pretty good at it, too. His standard operating procedure was to read all the background on an escapee he could get his hands on. He found that background information often gave clues about the general direction the person might be headed. The trick was to know how to spot those clues. He prided himself on being extremely good at doing just that.

  The agent sat at his desk with a large stack of papers and folders in front of him. Somewhere in that stack, he knew, would be the clues leading him to his escapee. It usually took hours of reading to find just one clue. Before beginning to read the actual case documents in front of him, he’d spent nearly two hours sorting through the papers and putting them in chronological order. The paperwork included all the documents that the State of Washington had on this escapee. It was a snapshot of the escapee’s life prior to his crime, the investigation of his offense, and the actual court transcripts. Somewhere in all the documents was the vital key clue that would give the agent his first direction in starting his investigation.

  He took a sip of cold coffee and then rested the badly stained mug down, where it made yet one more brown coffee-stain ring to join the others on his worn desktop. The first document he picked up read:

  Supervisor’s Incident Report

  United States Forest Service

  Northwestern Region

  Supervisor: Kenneth Tatum

  General Nature of Incident: Employee Injury

  Person(s) Involved: Matthew Duncan

  Forest Service Employee? Yes x No _

  Time of Day/Weather Conditions: Approximately 11 a.m., weather was clear, dry, and mild.

  Detailed Description of Incident: During the morning shift, Ranger Matthew Duncan was assigned to work a few miles west of Longmire, near the Kernishaw Valley trailhead in Mount Rainier National Park. He was working on the task of rebuilding some trail markers that were washed away by recent heavy rains. He left the station at approximately 6 a.m. for this location, according to the sign-out log. At approximately 11:30 a.m., Ranger Trish Kenton attempted to contact Ranger Duncan by radio, without success. Following normal procedures, she attempted to contact him again at 11:40 and then at 11:45. I was monitoring the communication attempts by Ranger Kenton to Ranger Duncan. I then spoke with Ranger Kenton by radio, and we decided I was closer to the station than she was, and I immediately returned and read the log entry by Ranger Duncan, as noted above. I then radioed Ranger Kenton to meet me at the Kernishaw Valley trailhead as soon as she could get there. I then radioed Ranger Paul Vallejo to confirm that he had been monitoring the radio conversation and for him to also be prepared to meet Ranger Kenton and me, if needed. I also instructed Ranger Kenton to continue attempting to contact Ranger Duncan by radio every few minutes while en route to the trailhead, which she did.

  I then left the station and drove to the Kernishaw Valley trailhead; arriving at approximately 12:15 p.m., Ranger Kenton was already at the location, standing next to her vehicle. She had parked next to Ranger Duncan’s service vehicle. Ranger Duncan was not seen in the immediate vicinity, nor were there any other vehicles or persons noted in the area at the time. I then radioed Ranger Vallejo that Ranger Kenton and I were going to head up the trailhead to look for Ranger Duncan, and that he should stand by to assist us, if necessary. I then put the extended first aid and rescue backpack on and proceeded up the trailhead with Ranger Kenton.

  Approximately three-quarters of a mile up the trailhead and near the trail, Ranger Kenton found a single trail-marker post on t
he ground with a sledgehammer next to it and a shovel nearby, resting against a tree. We both then left the trail and begin to vocally call out for Ranger Duncan. Ranger Kenton continued to attempt radio contact as well. We made a slow circling sweep of the area where the hammer and marker were found. After approximately ten minutes of searching the area and at a location just a few hundred feet off the trail, I spotted what appeared to be Ranger Duncan sitting upright and leaning against a rocky outcropping. I was still a few hundred feet away or so when I first spotted him, but as we moved closer, I was certain it was him. He had his knees bent and his arms resting on them. He did not appear to be looking in the general direction from which Ranger Kenton and I approached. I clearly called out his first name, and he slowly turned his head in my direction, but did not respond vocally.

  Upon arrival at Ranger Duncan’s exact location, both Ranger Kenton and I continued to call out his name, saying “Matt, Ranger Duncan, Matthew Duncan,” or some variation of those. Ranger Duncan looked at us and seemed to recognize we were speaking to him, but he remained silent. I noted a small gash on his forehead, approximately 2 inches in length. There was a fair amount of blood, some dry and some still a bit wet, near the gash and trailing down from the area to his left cheek. Below his left cheek, on his shirt, there were drops of what appeared to be blood. The gash did not appear especially deep and was not actively bleeding at the time. I removed the first aid backpack and retrieved rubber gloves for both myself and Ranger Kenton, which we each put on. I also retrieved a sterile blotting cloth and handed it to Ranger Kenton. As she opened the package and began lightly wiping the injured area, I continued to attempt communication with Ranger Duncan using such expressions as, “Can you hear me?”, “How are you feeling?” and “Does anything hurt?” I also noted at the time that Ranger Duncan’s radio and radio holster were sitting on the ground a few feet from where he was seated. This radio proved to be functioning normally upon testing later on in the day.