6) The only known distinct landmark at any of the boundary areas of the zone remains a simple roadside memorial erected to honor two Cottonwood residents who died in an automobile accident at that location. There is no scientific explanation relating this memorial to the actual boundary of the Dead Zone, and its location on the boundary could be coincidental or it could be through some other, as of yet, unknown phenomenon.
7) The Dead Zone does not seem to have changed size or center since its initial formation.
8) Based on the perfect circular shape of the zone, it is my personal opinion that it was guided and formed under the direction of some conscious intelligence, through some, as of yet, unknown technology or application.
These are the current facts and findings of the cause of the Cottonwood Dead Zone. While it is difficult for me to admit, I have come to the conclusion that its exact cause is beyond my scientific and technical knowledge to ascertain. It is my personal belief that its cause remains outside the paradigm of all current scientific knowledge, though this could be a bit of egoistic thinking on my part, as perhaps there could be a researcher with more skills than I have, who might as yet unravel this mystery. Related to the Dead Zone, I have come to the ultimate conclusion that there might very well be some mysteries simply outside the grasp of science. For an engineer such as myself to hold this viewpoint is tantamount to a kind of heresy, but as one of my favorite authors, H.G. Wells, said:
“Heresies are experiments in man’s unsatisfied search for truth.”
Thus, I am suspending my Dead Zone investigation at this point and will be sending an invoice to the State of Colorado for my services and expenses. I don’t expect to be paid, however, as I was also responsible for the accidental destruction of several pieces of state-owned equipment, which were destroyed during the course of my investigation. The value of this equipment is far in excess of my invoice, and I will gladly compensate the state, as requested, for replacement of this equipment, less the amount of my invoice.
Incident at Abyss Falls: As to my involvement with the events at Abyss Falls, let me first of all say that I was asked to assist Agent David Westmore of the Washington State Bureau of Investigation in his pursuit of an escapee in the Cottonwood area. I happened to have had one of the few electric cars in the area and so was asked to lend my assistance. We tracked the escapee (a local resident named Matthew Duncan) to Abyss Falls. By coincidence, (and I am less sure of that now), at the time I also happened to have been interested in speaking with Mr. Duncan related to my investigation of the Dead Zone. As it turned out, it was his parents who had died at the site of the roadside-memorial marker I mentioned earlier in this report.
We tracked Mr. Duncan to Abyss Falls where we found him struggling over a knife with another local resident by the name of Eddie Flynn. After repeated warnings by the sheriff, I heard shots ring out, and Mr. Duncan and Mr. Flynn fell over a high cliff into the rocks and water below. This entire episode happened very quickly, and all I can clearly remember are the shots and then the two men falling out of sight. During that time and afterwards, I had given some comfort and assistance to a woman by the name of Rebecca D’Arcy, who was also at the falls at that time. She was quite upset and crying as the two men went over, and I did my best to console her and keep her away from the cliff.
Conclusion: This comprises my full and final official findings on the Cottonwood Dead Zone as well as the incident at Abyss Falls. While I would welcome any questions related to clarification on anything I’ve written here, I must insist that I cannot and will not speculate on any scientific explanation or theories as to the cause of the anomaly. As the State of Colorado finds it necessary to continue its search for a cause of the Dead Zone, it would be my advice to seek out other experts in the field for such investigations, and I would gladly supply a list of well-qualified researchers.
I do remain, however, available and quite interested in being considered for other future research and investigative projects with the State of Colorado, as they arise.
Respectfully Submitted,
Akash Mudali
After writing and filing their reports, each man went on with his life over the next several weeks in ordinary or extraordinary fashion—depending on their circumstances.
For David Westmore, in leaving his long-term employment with the Washington State Bureau of Investigation, he appeared to have the largest change ahead of him. Another job, however, was soon to come his way.
For Akash Mudali, he too was adapting to change, though it was more of a personal and internal one. His stellar credentials were not harmed by his apparent inability to find the cause or solution to the Cottonwood Dead Zone, and he remained in high demand for his technical expertise. Gwendolyn did not charge him for the destroyed equipment and paid him fully for his time and expenses in Cottonwood. In Akash’s mind, he had found the cause of the Dead Zone, though he knew it would never be acceptable to most others. He continued to enjoy chocolate shakes on a regular basis and kept in contact with his new friend, David Westmore.
Sheriff O’Neil had undergone the least amount of disruption in his life, and his report was read and generally accepted by the mayor. The two men moved on to the weightier issue of running a town where the anomaly of the Dead Zone appeared to be a permanent part of the environment. Somewhere inside, however, the sheriff’s cop sense told him that some other change was still coming his way. He frequently sat in his office, for some reason finding a strange preoccupation with turning Old Blind Carl’s cane over and over in his hands. He would then put the cane away and drowned the truth that only his unconscious mind had perceived—with a hot, fresh, juicy, super-jumbo Tasty Burger.
One Hundred Four
A Memorable Memorial
Nearly two months had passed since the day Matthew had disappeared over Abyss Falls. Rebecca had been back to work for nearly a month, once again enjoying being with the residents and trying especially hard not to let her sorrow show. Blue Clair insisted on seeing the ring every day, and each time, the old woman would never fail to check Rebecca’s eyes and pronounce the inevitable decree that Rebecca knew was all too true. “Sad,” the old resident would say, nodding her head with certainty.
Though the small candle in the cobalt blue holder remained miraculously burning on the table by her bedside, Rebecca was beginning to believe the comforting light from its flame was the only and final comfort she was ever to receive from Matthew. Though she still spent many hours next to Little Bear River thinking of him, she had long since given up searching and no longer told herself stories of how he was lost and wandering in the wilderness, living off of roots and berries. He was gone, and in order for her to fully let the complete healing begin, Rebecca came to the conclusion that the appropriate time had come to give her husband the memorial service he was due. In her mind, it was not to be a final farewell to Matthew, for she would never extinguish the candle, but rather a tribute to his life. She was also tired of hearing the various rumors related to her husband, circulating around Cottonwood. The most vicious one—that he had killed Old Blind Carl—was the one that hurt the most, for she knew beyond any doubt, Matthew had done no such thing. The difficulty in extinguishing the rumor rested on the fact that both men were now permanently missing.
One additional factor had moved Rebecca to decide on a memorial service. She now was eight weeks pregnant and would soon begin to show. She was carrying Matthew Duncan’s child, and for her sake, as well as that of their child’s, she had to move on with her life. She planned to announce her pregnancy at the memorial service and to make it quite clear who the father was. She hoped to dull the beaks of the Cottonwood gossip coop before they ever had a chance to spin, chew, or peck at the issue.
Rebecca invited everybody who had ever known Matthew to come to the service. She posted notice of it in the Grand Junction and Durango newspapers. She arranged for one of the several companies now offering tourist visits to the Dead Zone to pick up out-of-town attendees at the b
oundary of the zone with their small electric buses. The company offered to shuttle memorial attendees for free, and Rebecca gratefully accepted.
The service was scheduled for an early autumn Sunday evening at the First Methodist Church in Cottonwood. The day was warm and bright, and Rebecca and her mother arrived early to arrange photographs of Matthew, flowers, and other decorations around the sanctuary. Shortly after they arrived, Gayle Reynolds also arrived to help.
“He looked quite handsome in his uniform,” Gayle said, looking at a large picture of Matthew in his forest ranger uniform, which Rebecca had just placed on an easel at the front of the sanctuary.
“I thought so,” replied Rebecca, also admiring the photo. “But then, I think he’s handsome no matter what he’s wearing.”
Gayle smiled and nodded, ignoring Rebecca’s use of the present tense for Matthew, as Diane stepped up to join the other two ladies.
“Except for your father,” said Diane as she looked at the photograph, “I think he may have been the best-looking man I’ve ever seen. He sure kept himself in great shape.”
“Amida Yamamoto worked him hard all those years,” replied Rebecca. “I can remember date nights in high school, after he’d worked in the greenhouses or fields all day, he’d fall asleep way too early in the evening, and I’d have to wake him up because his heavy head had caused my arm to fall asleep. Then I’d send him home, because he had to get up early the next day and go back to work.” Rebecca grew quiet as she stared at the picture. “I’d gladly let my arm stay asleep and watch him all night now….”
Diane and Gayle each put an arm around one of Rebecca’s shoulders, and the three shared the tears of the moment in silence.
An hour later, Rebecca sat between the same two women in the front row of a completely full sanctuary. It seemed the entire town of Cottonwood had turned out. Ernie Martinelli had even temporarily shut down the diner to allow for his staff to attend. Many of those same staff had been working much of the day to prepare food for Matthew’s wake, which Ernie had offered to cater—at no charge to Rebecca, of course.
Rebecca turned and scanned the large crowd behind her. She noticed Fire Chief Redmond glancing around nervously at the overflowing assembly. The sanctuary was filled far in excess of the maximum seating capacity, and all available folding chairs from other parts of the church were now lining the ends of each row of pews. Those chairs were filled, and people now stood along the walls in the back. Though the chief remained concerned, he said nothing, except to whisper to the usher to make certain that people didn’t block the exits.
In addition to citizens from Cottonwood, Rebecca noticed a few strangers in attendance as well as special visitors, including most of her co-workers and even a few of the Home’s residents and their families. One of the special guests was Blue Clair, who was sitting between her brother and sister in the pew immediately behind Rebecca.
A few pews behind Blue Clair, Rebecca spotted the man whom she most remembered for the comfort he had given her immediately after Matthew had disappeared over the edge of Flat Rock—Akash Mudali. It was a testimony to both Matthew and Akash that the engineer would come all the way from Denver to attend the service. Seated to the right of Akash was the man Rebecca had instantly grown to respect when he’d confessed whom he had shot at Abyss Falls. Ex-agent David Westmore smiled at Rebecca when she noticed him, and she immediately tapped her mother’s shoulder, causing Diane to glance back in David’s direction. The two exchanged brief smiles.
Curiously, to Rebecca at least, sitting to the other side of Akash was not the sheriff, but Deputy Sparks. The entire town leadership of Cottonwood was present, including Mayor Gilmore, though noticeably absent to Rebecca was Sheriff John O’Neil.
The organist, Bethany Crawford, finally stopped playing the prelude, and Pastor Harrison stepped to the pulpit. He cleared his throat. It was the largest gathering he’d ever spoken to before—larger than the most packed of Christmas or Easter services and larger still than the crowd he’d enjoyed on the Sunday after the Dead Zone had first begun.
“It is most heartening to see so many in attendance here today,” began the pastor. “This is a wonderful testimony to one of our citizens and to the strong bonds that keep our community together and unified.
“We are here today to pay tribute to one of Cottonwood’s own, a fine young man who, though he had left our community to follow his passion for forestry, had only recently returned to us to begin a new chapter in his life.
“Matthew William Duncan touched many with his life, and later we’ll give anyone who cares to a chance to say a few words about him, but first, on this glorious, sunny autumn evening here in Cottonwood, as part of this tribute to him, we are going to hear from some of those whose lives he touched—his friends and family. Yes, as many of you know, Matthew’s parents died years ago, but he had married Rebecca D’Arcy just a few days before he disappeared. I understand that Matthew and Rebecca had dreamed of starting a new family here in Cottonwood, at a time when new young families are exactly what this town needs.
“Matthew’s other adopted family, of course, was the Yamamotos, who cared for him and took him into their household after his parents’ deaths. With the encouragement and support of his parents’ extended families, living with the Yamamotos allowed Matthew to stay in Cottonwood throughout his teen years, until he left their home for college.
“In a moment, we will hear from all these people whose lives were all made richer for knowing Matthew Duncan. They will share with us their fondest memories of him. Will you all please join me now in singing hymn four-ninety-two….”
The hymn was sung with great energy and enthusiasm. When it was finished, Pastor Harrison introduced Amida Yamamoto, who stood and walked to the pulpit.
“Forgive me,” began Amida, his voice breaking a bit. “I am not used to public speaking. Most of you know that I am a very shy person. This is a particularly difficult time for me to learn to improve this skill.
“During the five years that Matthew lived with us, I could not help but begin to think of him as a true member of our family—as another son. Already, even before that, he had worked at our farm, and though he was young, I learned what an outstanding young man he was—a very hard worker who sometimes, out of his enthusiasm, bit off more than he could chew. That got him into trouble sometimes, but I know he learned from it. After his parents’ deaths, it was more than a privilege for our family to welcome Matthew into our home. He added laughter and was a big help to us in our business.
“And let me now tell you something of the kind of man that Matthew was by way of a story. As you know, he loved to play baseball and was quite accomplished at it. Along with playing baseball, he spent many hours working with us in the greenhouses. He didn’t have to work as hard as he did, but he wanted to earn his own way to college.
“On many nights, after a baseball game or practice, he would ride his bike from town out to our farm, and then put in several more hours working in the greenhouse. Then he would go on to do his homework—most of the time. Homework was sometimes…okay, frequently, the very last on his list of priorities….” Amida paused as the audience laughed and then added, “I should say though, in his defense, that his grades were good enough to get him into college, and the fact that he was an outstanding baseball player didn’t hurt either.” Again, there was laughter from the audience.
Amida continued: “And there was something else that Matthew would do, no matter how late he’d been up getting all his tasks accomplished. He would often get up early the next day and ride his bike out to place flowers on his parents’ roadside memorials. He also refused to let me give him those flowers from the greenhouse, which I gladly would have done. He made sure I would deduct the fair price for them from his pay.
“This, I think, tells you a lot about Matthew Duncan. It tells you about the kind of man he was and what his heart was made of—it was made of something very rare. He was always thinking of others. I hope everyone
in this room understands the truth about Matthew and the thoughtful and unselfish man he was.
“And now in closing, I would like to say one more thing about him. I hope what I will say next does not upset some of you, because it could, and maybe it can even teach some of you something about farming and gardening. You see, farming and gardening are about watching the weather and many other things—about seeing how things interrelate with each other. When I see the wind is blowing from a certain direction and a certain type of cloud is forming over the western hills, then I know rain is coming—these are signs. When a certain color appears on leaves or around the base of plants, I know they are in need of fertilizer, or have too much or too little water, or are being attacked by some hungry but pesky insects. These things are all interrelated, and each one of them is a sign pointing to something else—something bigger than themselves. They point to a whole that is greater than the sum of its parts, yet each part reflects some nature of that whole.
“Upon hearing of Matthew’s disappearance and then of this memorial service, I want to tell you my perception as an old farmer—I have not yet seen the signs of Matthew’s passing from this world, though I have looked for it daily. I may just be a foolish old Buddhist, hoping until the end that a friend and joyous soul has not been taken from us, but I tell you truly, I have not seen the signs of his final passage from us. It is wonderful that we would all spend this time to remember him, and this ceremony for him is a truly worthy tribute, but the signs of his final departure have not been seen by these aging Buddhist eyes of mine nor felt in this aging Buddhist heart.
“And though I am Buddhist and many of you are Christian, I want to let you know that our beliefs are not so different underneath, really. We both believe in something that survives after death and also comes before birth. You may call it the soul or spirit. I like to think of it as our original face—the one each of us had before our parents were even born. There is a mystery to this face, and it is a wonderful mystery. It is an eternal, timeless, fathomless, and impenetrable mystery.
Touching Cottonwood Page 81