Touching Cottonwood

by Randall Simpson

  “Oh, shit! He’s really going to be pissed now,” said Akash, watching his rear-view mirror as the sheriff backed up the paved road. “I hope this is all worth it, Agent Westmore. I’m a respected engineer in this state—I don’t need a jail sentence.”

  The agent had been turned around, also watching the sheriff. He turned back forward with a big grin on his face. Ahead of them, the hounds and two lawmen were moving rapidly up the long gravel road. “Oh, it’s worth it all right,” said the agent. “And you won’t be going to jail, my friend. But, since you had some questions about Matthew Duncan—well, it looks like some lucky coincidence may be leading you directly toward some answers.”

  Ninety-One

  Chelsea

  Rumors were circulating around Cottonwood that Rebecca D’Arcy was missing and Matthew Duncan had escaped from jail. There was other gossip as well—Rebecca was engaged to someone—though no one was quite sure to whom. These rumors, combined with the general turmoil of the Dead Zone and Old Blind Carl’s disappearance, had coalesced into a storm inside of young Chelsea Reese. Despite her mother’s request to “stay close to home,” there was just no way the young woman could see herself doing so. Chelsea was itching to get out for a long bike ride—to clear her mind and try to calm the turmoil inside. She turned off the television, which she only had on for the noise, and decided she would willfully disobey her mother.

  Amanda had gone out for a hairstyling appointment and to pick up a few items for dinner. Chelsea used the opportunity to make her break. She hastily put some lunch supplies and a bottle of water into her backpack. Her cell phone was on the counter, and she glanced at it and almost put it in the backpack, but left it where it was. She reasoned that if her mother came home early and found her missing, she would call the cell phone and insist she come home. Instead, Chelsea scribbled a quick note: Gone to have lunch with Dad. Love, Chelsea. She then locked the house and got on her bike.

  The seventeen-year-old pedaled hard to McCann Park, where she turned north and took the trail along the river. It was the same trail she and her mother had taken the day they saw Matthew bathing in the river. As she approached the spot where they’d seen him, she half-expected to see him again; however, she quickly rode by the area and saw only bright water rushing across dark rocks.

  Chelsea eventually approached the fork in the trail where the path to the right, or eastward branch, would take her up the river toward Abyss Falls, and the path to the left, or westward branch, would take her toward the highway. Rather than following the river all the way to Abyss Falls, as she and her mother had done, Chelsea took the branch heading back west, toward the highway. She knew this branch of the trail would eventually parallel the highway and ultimately lead her to her father’s work. She knew her mother would be angry, but she hoped the fact that she’d ridden out to see her father would serve to temper that anger, at least a little.

  As she turned left, away from the river, she didn’t bother glancing up the trail that continued along the river. Had she done so, she might have noticed the two people walking much further up the trail. They were nearly obscured by trees and were walking in the direction of the falls. Had she gotten even closer to them, she would have realized she knew them both. She would have been surprised to see these two particular people together, and it would have likely confused her even more than she already was. It also would have put her in extreme danger, for neither of these people would have been happy to see her—for totally different reasons. But as fate would have it, she never saw these two people, and they never saw her.

  The trail down from the river to the highway was a gentle downward slope; however, it was also very rocky. That rockiness was the main reason that she and her mother would rarely come this way when they rode out to have lunch with Dr. Reese. On those days, they would nearly always opt for the highway. The rock-strewn trail down to the highway was far from a pleasant ride. A rider taking this trail needed keen eyesight to watch for rocks, a mountain bike with great suspension, and good kidneys. Chelsea had all of these, and fifteen minutes or so after leaving the river trail, she was nearing the highway. Ahead of her, lower to the left and through the trees, she could see the outline of Eddie Flynn’s house. That told her the highway was close.

  The trail passed behind the house, a few hundred feet up the mountain. She constantly scanned ahead on the trail for large rocks, and as she came to the point of her closest approach to the house, she suddenly slammed on her brakes so hard that she nearly toppled over the handlebars. Not far ahead, an arm stretched partially across the trail—and it looked bloody.

  She quickly dismounted her bike and rested it on the hillside next to the trail. She approached the bloodied arm with caution. As she stepped closer to get a better look, she could see the arm belonged to a man whose shirt was covered with a large amount of blood.

  “Oh my god,” Chelsea whispered, putting her hand to her mouth.

  She stepped up next to the man and saw that he was lying with his feet going downhill toward the house—his left arm out to the side and his right arm extending above his head and partially across the trail. The side of the man’s face was bloody and facing away from her. She stepped around the arm so that she could see the front of his face. She knelt down to get a better look, and though the face was covered with blood, she could see enough to recognize the man as Matthew Duncan.

  “Oh my god…oh my god,” she said, this time putting both hands up to the sides of her head. “What do I do?!” She looked around. “Help!” she screamed as loud as she could. “Help! Please, someone! Help!”

  She began to step down the hill toward the house, but stopped. From the direction his body was resting, it looked like Matthew might have come from the house.

  Whoever did this—could still be down there!

  Chelsea quickly pulled off her backpack and reached into the front pocket for her cell phone; it wasn’t there. Then she remembered she had intentionally left it home. The foolishness of that decision was painfully apparent. She looked up and down the empty trail. She looked down the hill past Eddie’s house to the deserted highway below. She was all alone, except for the bleeding man at her feet.

  She began to panic. What am I going to do?

  Chelsea moved toward her bike, thinking she would ride quickly down the path to her father’s work for help. She grabbed the handlebars and was picking the bike up from the ground, when a bird sang out from a tree branch very near the path. Though numerous species of birds inhabited the Cottonwood area, she had never held an interest in them at all. There was something about the quality of this particular bird’s song—perhaps in combination with the absolute silence of the forest around her—that somehow elevated the song, and it was as if she had somehow really heard a bird sing for the first time:

  Tweeta…tweet…tweet…tweetatweet sang the meadowlark.

  Chelsea stopped and looked up into the tree and quickly spotted the bird among the dark green branches, with its prominent yellow chest highlighted with a black V-shape.

  Don’t leave him! She had heard the words or felt them somehow inside—either way, the meaning of the song was clear to her.

  Don’t leave him—or he will die!

  She immediately dropped her bike back to the ground, turned around, and edged closer to Matthew, finally kneeling by his head. “Matthew?” she said softly, placing her hand gently on his left shoulder. “Matthew, can you hear me?” She put her hand on his bloodied neck. There was a pulse. It was very weak, but she definitely felt it.

  “Matthew,” she said again, getting a bit closer to his ear, “this is Chelsea Reese. Can you hear me?”

  A low moaning sound came from Matthew. Chelsea stood up, grabbed her backpack, and sat back down right next to Matthew’s head, with her feet facing downhill. She reached inside her backpack and grabbed her water bottle. She opened it and poured a small amount onto Matthew’s bloody face. It dribbled off into the grass and dirt. She quickly took off her left shoe and s
ock. She poured some of the water from the bottle into the sock until it was soaked and dabbed his face with it. With the blood somewhat washed away, she could find no cuts or damage to the left side of his face. With some effort and great care, she gently rolled Matthew over onto his back. Her stomach grew queasy. There was a large deep cut across the right side of his face. It was the deepest wound she’d ever seen. She thought she might vomit. Her hands and then her whole body started to shake, but she managed to pour a small amount of water into the horrendous wound—but she dare not touch it.

  Tears began to form in Chelsea’s eyes. “Please,” she said out loud, her body now shaking even more. “Please, don’t let this be happening! Please, don’t let him die!”

  She bent her knees and crossed her arms over them, almost in a fetal position, with her head resting on her knees. She began to cry. “Please, dear God…don’t let this man die….”

  Chelsea thought once more of getting back on her bike and was nearly ready to stand up and do so, when she heard a calm clear voice speaking to her. It came from nowhere in particular, yet everywhere at the same time. She recognized the voice—it matched her own voice in quality, but was somehow stronger and more confident. It was a voice she’d heard somewhere in her dreams or when singing certain songs or when saying the exact right words to a friend needing to hear them—without thinking about them in advance. The voice was filled with wisdom, love, and mercy—without ownership or pretense—for somehow the voice was those things—just as an ocean filled with water is water or a universe filled with life is life and is alive. The voice said:

  Do not be afraid. Pour the water with faith. Faith turns fear into joy.

  Chelsea’s hands stopped shaking, and she did not hesitate. She immediately reached for the water bottle and poured the rest of it directly into the deep open wound on Matthew’s face. Scarcely had the last few drops of water fallen from the bottle, when a strong gust of wind washed across the hillside, startling her. A moment later, there was another movement, a bit further down the hill and to her left. It was a deer, moving quickly left to right and so close to the two of them that it appeared to almost leap across Matthew’s feet.

  Chelsea followed the deer with her eyes as it ran further to her right, across the hillside, before stopping ten or fifteen feet away in a tall stand of grass, just below the trail. She stared at the deer, and it stared back at her with its large chestnut eyes. For a moment, it did not move. Then it bent down to take a few bites of grass before raising its head back up and staring at her once more.

  As the deer stood in the sunlight on the hillside, she felt the same consciousness or intelligence that was the essence of the voice she’d heard. It was as if a light had suddenly turned on inside of her—illuminating a landscape that was always part of her, but had never before been so clearly revealed. There were meanings spread across that landscape, and they were simultaneously ancient and yet forever fresh and new—like an ancient river carrying fresh water from some eternal and mysterious source. The meanings spread before her were old, yet forever being born. At the heart of the new landscape illuminated before her, she felt the certain and inevitable connectedness of all things. Chelsea had no words for what she was experiencing, nor did she want any, for words were far too narrow to contain it, but she knew it was the most real thing she’d ever known.

  A hand then touched Chelsea’s shoulder, bringing her back. Startled, she turned her head to her left, and Matthew was standing next to her, looking down and smiling.

  Standing!

  Her heart beat faster, and she knew she’d be unable to talk if she tried. Without thinking, she stood and looked at Matthew. His face was partially smeared with dried blood, and his hair contained clumps of dried blood mixed with dirt.

  “Thank you,” Matthew said to her, continuing to smile.

  Chelsea could not speak.

  “Just so you can see and understand,” he continued, taking her hand, “do not be afraid.” He turned his head to the right, placing her trembling hand directly on his face. Where the large wound had been was now only normal healthy flesh.

  He lowered their hands back down and looked at her. Chelsea’s entire body trembled.

  “Let no one take the reality of this moment from you, Chelsea,” he said to her. “Your faith has saved more than a single life, for no single life exists anywhere—you’ve seen we’re all connected. Remember this and pass along the truth of it to others in your own time and own way.”

  She knew what he meant. She knew what he meant! She smiled back at him. He reached down into his pocket and pulled out a shining and brilliant diamond ring. Chelsea’s first reaction was one of confusion.

  He held the ring out to her in between his thumb and index finger. “Someday, perhaps,” he said, “a husband will have a ring like this for you. This ring belongs to my wife. I need you to give it to her for me; she is missing it greatly, and it will comfort her. You know her and will know when the time is right to give it to her.”

  Chelsea reached up and took the ring from Matthew. She looked at it closely, studying the million tiny rainbows dancing in the facets. She looked back up to Matthew.

  “I must be leaving now,” he continued, “and so must you. I need you to go and get help. Ride as fast as you can. Tell them to send help up to the falls.”

  She wanted to speak but couldn’t, and paused only a moment, looking at Matthew’s healed face one last time. She then placed the ring into her pocket, scooped up her backpack, picked up her bike, and rode down the trail. When the trail ahead of her appeared free from immediate rocks, she glanced briefly back over her shoulder and saw that Matthew had turned around and was heading up the trail in the opposite direction.

  Chelsea rode as hard as she could, and rather than follow the trail as it paralleled the highway, she cut across the hillside down to Eddie’s driveway. At the bottom of the driveway, she turned sharply to the right, onto the highway, and headed north.

  Pumping her legs with all her might, it took her less than ten minutes to reach the Home. She rode right up to the front door, leaned her bike against the wall, and ran inside.

  Dr. Reese was in his office, sitting behind his desk. His administrative assistant was sitting in a chair nearby. They were both startled when Chelsea came rushing in, nearly out of breath.

  Before her father could say a word, Chelsea said, “Dad, we need to call the sheriff, right away! He needs to get up to Abyss Falls!”

  After the initial phone call was made and Chelsea had calmed down, Dr. Reese put her bike in the trunk of his loaner electric car and drove her back to Cottonwood. During the trip, she related as many of the details of her experience as were necessary—and safe. Like her experience with Old Blind Carl’s cane, there were some things she knew would be kept secret until the right person and right time came along. She nodded in acknowledgment when her father scolded her for leaving the house, for forgetting her cell phone, and for worrying her mother. She understood her parents’ concern for her and knew it was as it should be. Yet as her father continued his admonishments, she placed her hand on the pocket of her shorts and felt the bump from the beautiful ring inside, and she was reminded even more so—all was as it should be.

  Ninety-Two

  The Race

  Akash and Agent Westmore drove behind Officer Burnham, Sparky, and the hounds as they tracked the scent up a long gravel drive toward a farmhouse and a cluster of greenhouses. They passed a sign that read Yamamoto Farms—Natural Produce, Pure and Simple. Behind them, Sheriff O’Neil initially missed the turn onto the gravel drive, but had quickly backed up. Now, oddly, rather than following them up the drive, he had stopped on the highway, just at the entrance.

  “That’s strange,” said the agent, looking back over his shoulder. “The sheriff isn’t following us.”

  Akash glanced in his rear-view mirror. “Well, he must have a good reason. This appears to be the only way out of here. He’s got this driveway blocked.”

&nb
sp; The agent continued eyeing the sheriff. “I don’t know. Something’s not right.”

  “Well, let me ask you something,” continued Akash. “Is Matthew Duncan at this farm or not?”

  The agent looked at Akash. “I’m not sure,” he replied, then looking up the driveway at the hounds. “But Maxie and Chloe sure seem to think so.”

  As the agent and Akash were watching, Sparky stopped following the hounds and began talking on his radio. Officer Burnham also stopped and was having a hard time holding the hounds back, as the scent trail was now lit up for them like the runway lights at a major airport. Sparky then stopped talking on his radio, said something to the officer, and starting running directly toward Akash’s car. Instinctually, though not intending any specific action, the agent put his hand on his Glock 21 pistol, uncertain as to what Sparky was up to. But the deputy went running right past their car, continuing down the gravel road to the entrance and climbing into the sheriff’s car. The car then made a quick U-turn on the road, heading back the other way, toward Cottonwood.

  “Shit!” said Agent Westmore. “You’ve got to follow them!”

  “What about the hounds…and Matthew Duncan?” asked Akash as he glanced up the gravel driveway to where Officer Burnham stood staring at them, still struggling to keep the eager hounds contained.

  “Forget about it! The sheriff wants Duncan as much as I do. He wouldn’t leave if he didn’t know something we don’t. Now, turn around!”