Touching Cottonwood

by Randall Simpson

  “Yes?” asked Akash excitedly, jumping in on her sudden silence. “You were in the area then?”

  Rebecca regained her voice long enough to say, “You would have seen love’s light wings….”

  Akash shook his head. “I’m not sure I’m following you, Ms. D’Arcy. Meadowlarks and wings? What do you mean?”

  Rebecca smiled at him. “Indeed, what do they mean?”

  Akash stood staring at her with a puzzled look on his face until a moment later when the first few members of the Cottonwood street maintenance crew walked up near the barricade, carrying shovels and heavy pick axes suitable for busting apart concrete.

  “I hope you’re trying to enlist some more help here, Mr. Mudali,” said one of the members of the crew, a large and muscular young man. Rebecca recognized his face and those of the others with him. They were all locals, but she couldn’t recall any of their names. “Since our backhoe won’t start,” continued the young man, “we could use all the help we can get.”

  Rebecca smiled politely. “Sorry, not today. I think you guys will just have to manage on your own. I’ll be most interested to know if you find anything.” She turned to look at Akash. “Good luck in your investigation, Mr. Mudali.” She then turned and began to walk away down Main Street.

  Akash smiled and watched her walk away, but before she got too far down the sidewalk, he yelled, “I still wish you’d finish explaining about the meadowlarks and the wings. It was confusing—but interesting.”

  Rebecca turned and faced him, continuing to walk slowly backwards away from the barricaded area. “There’s nothing to explain,” she yelled back to him, with the sounds of pick axes striking concrete in the background. “I guess some things are beyond words, though I do think you’re heading in the wrong direction. The last I checked, meadowlarks don’t live underground but prefer the trees and sky.”

  Rebecca then turned away and headed for home, filled with a new sense of confidence in the future and an even deeper longing to be with her new husband. She had been to the center of the Dead Zone and knew, that where others might find nothing, she had found the most real of things imaginable—invisible only to the mind but not the heart. She knew there would be no doubts in her anymore—nothing would now shake her faith and conviction. She couldn’t know it then, but she would need every last drop of that newfound strength to help her through the hours and days ahead.

  Seventy-Three

  Closing Arguments

  Agent Westmore barely slept at all during his first night at the Cottonwood Inn, though his hotel bed was far more comfortable than the bed he’d had at The Slumberjack in Montrose. He tried to sleep in to make up for the restless night, but the bright morning sun found a small crack between the drapes, filling his room with golden light and forcing him from his bed. He reluctantly got up, shaved, and proceeded to take a long hot shower. As the water massaged his back and neck, the same words that had kept him awake during the night now ran over and over again in his head. They were the words he’d both read and heard the night before—it’s always the things that you don’t see in the universe that are the most interesting.

  He finished his shower, dressed, and headed outside. He was hungry but had only one location in mind—and it wasn’t Ernie’s Diner. Breakfast could come later. He was hungry now for something else.

  It was a short walk from the hotel to the sheriff’s office, and as he climbed up the stairs to the front door of the office, he turned his head and noticed a group of men working at a spot on the sidewalk further down and on the opposite side of the street. They were swinging heavy pick axes and shoveling dirt into a pile. They were too far away for him to make out exactly what they were working on, but he had a good hunch what it was, based on his and Akash’s visit to that spot the night before.

  Sheriff O’Neil came bounding out of his private office to greet the agent. “Are you ready to pick up the prisoner so soon?” he asked. “I figured you’d take at least another day to find a ride out of here. I thought we had an agreement.”

  “No, don’t worry, I’m not here to pick him up just yet,” said Agent Westmore. “I’m still just as stranded here as you are. I just want to visit with him a while—you know—ask a few more questions.”

  “Well, he’s sure a popular guy this morning,” said the sheriff. “You’ll be the second visitor he’s had today.”

  “Who was the other?” asked the agent.

  The sheriff studied Agent Westmore for a moment before he said, “I guess there’s no harm in telling you. Her name is Rebecca D’Arcy. She came to see him a little over an hour ago. They grew up together here in Cottonwood. At one time they were sort of romantically involved, but now I think she’s probably just feeling sorry for him.”

  The agent raised his eyebrows. “Interesting,” he muttered.

  “I don’t think it’s all that interesting,” replied the sheriff. “In a small town, long-term friendships are strong bonds. I would say what’s more interesting is the fact that her house was broken into last night. It’s the third big crime we’ve had since this whole Dead Zone thing started. If our friend, Mr. Duncan, weren’t securely locked up here last night, I’d have pinned Ms. D’Arcy’s break-in on him, for sure. But it looks like we have yet another bad guy running around town now. I suspect it was one of the stranded travelers in the area looking to collect a few free mementoes before leaving Cottonwood.”

  The agent made no comment but looked back toward the door leading to the hallway and holding cell. The sheriff picked up on the agent’s impatience and started walking toward the door. “I sure can’t figure out why you’d want to aggravate yourself like this,” the sheriff said. “I know it’s your job and all, but Mr. Matthew Duncan has got to be one of the most frustrating and slippery of criminals that I’ve ever had the displeasure of dealing with. I’ll be glad when you get him out of here.”

  “I guess I just like to be in agony,” said the agent with a forced smile just before they reached the door to the hallway. “And by the way, do you recall the exact time that this whole Dead Zone thing began last Friday?”

  “I can’t recall for certain,” replied the sheriff. “But I know it was close to lunch. Maybe just after 11:30 or so. Why?”

  “No reason in particular. Just curious.”

  The two men headed down the hallway to the holding cell. The sheriff unlocked the heavy locks on the door and opened it. “You’ve got another visitor this morning, Mr. Duncan,” said the sheriff as he stepped into the room.

  Matthew got up from his bed. He was still in handcuffs. “Good morning, David,” he said as he smiled, glancing down at his handcuffed hands and then back to the agent. “I’d shake your hand, but…well, I hope you understand.”

  “I’m glad to see the sheriff took my advice—never can be too careful.”

  “You two are on a first name basis?” the sheriff asked.

  “No,” the agent said, staring at Matthew, “we’re not. He just likes to be a smart-ass.”

  “I told you,” said the sheriff. “Well, the smart-ass is all yours, Agent. I’ll be right outside if you need me.” The sheriff gave Matthew a harsh stare as he left the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

  “So, you’ve got something on your mind this morning?” asked Matthew.

  “Yes…I do,” said the agent. “Do you mind if we sit down?”

  They both moved over to the table and sat facing each other.

  “You know, Mr. Duncan, I’m sorry for my outburst last time we met. It was wrong of me to act that way. I know you’ve somehow been able to check up on me and have learnt my name and so forth—and I applaud your resourcefulness, but as I told you last time, I’ve been checking up on you as well. I’ve been reading your entire case history during my journey down from Washington State. I’ve read everything written about you and said about you from the time you first had your accident at Mount Rainier. You fell off a rock, right?”

  “That’s what they told me,” said
Matthew. “I actually don’t remember falling.”

  “And this man that you supposedly killed—a Mr. Montoya, I think was his name—that was sure a strange incident, wasn’t it?”

  Matthew shrugged his shoulders. “Not all that strange. People make choices every day—we all do. For some people, those choices lead to their deaths. Pretty common, I’d say.”

  The agent smiled. “Well, I really think it was uncommonly brave for you to testify at your own trial. That took a lot of courage,” said the agent. “I’m not so sure that I could have done that.”

  Matthew looked the agent squarely in the eyes. “Why did you really come here this morning? Are you here just to make small talk, or was there something else? What is it you really want?”

  The agent hesitated for a moment and then replied, “There are just a few loose ends I’d like to try to tie up before we head back to Washington—a few unanswered questions, that’s all.”

  “Is that really all? Because you know, for every loose end you try to tie up, another will become untied somewhere. The universe is messy that way—these invisible connections between things that you can never quite pin down. It’s like trying to catch the wave on an ocean in a paper cup. You’ll find that all you have is water—the wave can’t be tied down.”

  “That’s very poetic, Mr. Duncan. I don’t know about waves or paper cups, but I do agree with what you just said about invisible connections. It’s part of my job to sort those out and make sense of them—to make them visible. I once heard someone say that it’s always the things that you can’t see in the universe that are the most interesting, but I think the things you can’t see are simply hidden and need to be revealed to be understood.” The agent studied Matthew’s reaction as he said this, but only a slight smile crossed the prisoner’s face.

  “The eyes only reveal a small piece of what’s going on. Deeper truths require deeper perception—deeper than eyes can penetrate,” said Matthew.

  “I can agree with that,” said the agent. “I had to use all my senses, all my faculties to track you down. Eyes are only one tool.”

  Matthew laughed. “Eyes are a tool now, are they? And was it really all that hard to track me down? Didn’t you get some amazing breaks?”

  Agent Westmore hesitated. He’d promised himself on the walk over from the hotel, he was going to maintain control of the conversation. But he could feel that promise now in jeopardy. “Breaks? What kind of breaks?” asked the agent.

  “Breadcrumbs,” said Matthew. “Hungry little birds always follow breadcrumbs.”

  Agent Westmore bolted up from his chair but then quickly took a deep and controlled breath. “I’m not a little bird, Mr. Duncan. I’ve tracked you down using my skills as an investigator. It’s that simple.”

  “It’s not so bad being a bird, really,” said Matthew, looking directly up at the agent. “They are far more ancient than humans, and their songs are actually some of the most complex sounds in nature. Who knows what they might be—”

  “Shut up! God damn you and your stupid philosophy shit!” screamed the agent. It was unraveling—all of it. The agent could feel his control slipping away. The center he had promised himself to maintain, could not hold. “All I want from you are some simple answers.”

  Matthew looked up at him. “Answers to what?” he asked calmly.

  “Your source of information. Last time I was here, you claimed you learned my name from…what was it, the flights of birds? If that’s so, then why not tell me my parents’ names? Or my first wife’s name? Your flights of birds must tell you all their names as well. What were their names?”

  Without missing a beat, Matthew said, “Phillip and Rosalie…and Beth.”

  Agent Westmore’s heart began to pound and race wildly, and he banged his fists hard on the table right in front of Matthew. “You can’t fucking know that!” he screamed.

  Matthew looked at him without reaction. “Why can’t I?” he asked.

  The cell door opened, and Sheriff O’Neil poked his head in. He looked at Matthew and then to the agent. “Everything all right in here?” he asked.

  “Just fine, Sheriff,” Agent Westmore said briskly. “I’m doing some interrogation here, and there might be some yelling. You know how it is sometimes. Don’t worry unless you hear gunshots. Then you can come in, okay?”

  The sheriff only frowned and went back out, once more slamming the door.

  The agent immediately spun back around and glared at Matthew. “You’re a fucking clever man, Mr. Duncan, that’s for sure. I don’t know where you get your information, as most of my friends don’t even know my parents’ names, but I aim to find your source—and plug up the leak.”

  Matthew smiled. “I certainly hope you do find the source, David, but you’ll never ‘plug it’ as you say. That would be like trying to stop the rain by holding up your hands. Truthfully, I would even like to show you the source, but that would be like handing you a wave in a paper cup or using words alone to describe a song or a sunset or the love you share with someone. Words always fail at those times and are an impossibly poor substitute for the experience. Words never fully tell you what those things mean.”

  The agent stared hard into Matthew eyes, looking for the deception but finding something else—the very last thing he expected to find, something he’d almost forgotten the look of, something he’d only seen in his mother’s eyes, long ago—compassion and love. It unwound his last threads of control. He wanted to run from the room but needed to stay even more. He found the strength to walk over to the window and stare out calmly. “I can see we’re getting nowhere, Mr. Duncan, but we’ll have a nice long trip back to Washington together to talk about these issues. I have, however, just a few more…straightforward questions for you.” The agent turned from the window and continued, “The first is this—where were you, exactly, if you can remember, when this whole Dead Zone event started? I’m told it began last Friday at—”

  “11:42 a.m.,” said Matthew finishing the sentence. “I know exactly where I was and who I was with at the time.”

  “And?” asked the agent impatiently.

  “We were standing down on Main Street here in Cottonwood, very near the corner of Main Street and Second Street. We were right in front of Rhonda’s Bridal and Floral shop.”

  The agent remained silent for a moment and then said, “I suspected you were going to say that, and damn you for it!”

  “If you ‘suspected’ it, perhaps you’re closer to the source than you think. That’s encouraging.”

  “Shut up,” hissed the agent. He leaned over the table. “Just tell me this—and this is my final question—you said ‘we were standing right in front of Rhonda’s Bridal and Floral.’ Who else was with you?”

  “Does it matter?” asked Matthew.

  “It might,” said the agent.

  “I was with my wife.”

  “I didn’t realize you were married. That wasn’t in your file.”

  “It happened only very recently—that day, in fact.”

  The agent turned and walked over to the window. “You know, none of this makes any difference to me. I don’t give a damn about this Dead Zone or you getting married during your escape or any of it—it doesn’t change a thing. I’ve got my job to do, and I’ll be taking you back to Washington State. It’s that simple.”

  “What does change a thing with you? What will make a difference? I’ve led you to the ocean with breadcrumbs, but you need to have your own paper cup ready to catch your first wave.”

  The agent turned from the window and was now completely calm. “I have a job to do first. I need to take you back with me to Washington. Everyone is expecting that—it’s the future and what must happen.”

  “Expectations are important, but if your future depends on taking an innocent man back to prison, then an unfortunate future you have. It is nonexistent. I won’t be going back with you,” said Matthew.

  The agent walked once more over to the table, leaned over
, and looking right at Matthew, said, “Suppose I suspend my disbelief and pretend you’re not full of shit. You keep saying you’re not going back to Washington State with me. That must mean you can see the future. Is that right?”

  “Only in regards to my intentions,” said Matthew, “not others. I’m not intending on going back to Washington State. That’s why I said what I did.”

  “What if I intend that you should go back?” asked the agent. “What then?”

  “Then we have a battle of wills, don’t we?”

  “My intentions versus yours?” said the agent.

  “That’s kind of the way of the universe, isn’t it? But you and I are not the only ones involved here,” said Matthew. “It’s far more complicated than that. Just as there are many waves on the ocean, there are many other people’s intentions and wills involved.”

  “It’s a battle then,” said the agent.

  “Yes,” said Matthew. “And before the battle really begins, the most important step is to decide which side of that battle you’re on.”

  Agent Westmore said very little to the sheriff as he left the office and walked down Main Street toward Second Street. He was trying to clear his head of the conversation he’d had with Matthew, when he spotted Akash standing near the work-area barricade. The agent crossed to the other side of the street and walked up to Akash.

  “Any white rabbits?” asked the agent as he joined Akash in watching the work crew.

  “White rabbits?” asked Akash, not understanding the reference.

  “You know…Alice in Wonderland…the rabbit hole…and all that.”

  “Oh, the children’s story. No…we haven’t seen any white rabbits yet, but I’m sure something more real than that is at the center of the Dead Zone.”

  Without talking, the two men watched the crew work for a few moments, until Agent Westmore asked, “So, how far do you intend to dig, and what exactly do you think you might find down there?”