This was too much! Chief Rudolph was in no mood for a philosophical tête-à-tête with an Ivy League professor.
“Listen, Andersen,” he said. “People didn’t make this turtle into a killer. Nobody’s ever done anything to him. He was born evil and he’s going to die evil – and the sooner the better!”
“I don’t know, Chief,” said August. He had an academic’s habit of turning everything over and looking at it from another side. And an odd little detail – one that he had never thought about – had suddenly just occurred to him.
“What about Ted Tanner?” said August. “And what the players on the football team do to those snappers?”
For a brief moment, Chief Rudolph was speechless. Nobody ever talked about what went on with the freshman football players. It wasn’t done – it was taboo. Frankly, he was surprised Andersen even knew about it.
“What the hell are you suggesting?” said Chief Rudolph, now practically shouting. “That this snapper’s attacks are some kind of revenge? Or that they’re somehow justified?”
“No, Chief, I’m not saying that,” said August in a voice that only made Chief Rudolph angrier. “I guess I was just thinking aloud. What I do believe, however, is this creature should be caught – not killed. It could turn out to be the largest snapper ever in captivity. It might be a mutant or a leftover from the prehistoric past – like the coelacanth.”
“The what?” said Chief Rudolph.
“The coelacanth,” repeated August. “It was a fish thought to be extinct for millions of years – until one was caught in the Indian Ocean back in the nineteen thirties.”
“Forget all that BS,” said Rudolph. “You’re putting science ahead of people’s lives.”
“No, I’m not,” said August. “If the snapper’s in captivity, it’s as good as killing it. It’ll be out of the lake and people will be safe.”
“That’s going to be a hard sell to the people of this town,” said Chief Rudolph.
“Then why tell them?” said August.
* * * *
There were signs posted at every access point along the lakeshore: No Swimming or Boating Until Further Notice By Order of The Turtleback Lake Police Department.
And, in at least one sense, nature was helping out.
The long hot summer that seemed to have stretched all the way into October had finally come to an end. Evening temperatures were dropping into the low 40s and upper 30s. In the morning, mists rose off the lake and hung like a ghostly fog until the sun came over the mountains and burned it away. In a week, the temperature of the water in the lake dropped almost twenty degrees. Nobody was going to be tempted to defy Chief Rudolph’s ban on swimming – the water was just too cold.
Boaters were another story. Some argued that Jack Sully’s death was due largely to his inebriation. The whole incident could’ve been avoided if he’d been sober.
“Drunk or sober, nobody’s going out on that lake till this thing’s resolved,” said Chief Rudolph. And for the time being, nobody pushed the issue. A few boat owners grumbled, but they all complied.
And then, just as Chief Rudolph feared, August Andersen was gone.
Chief Rudolph was ticked off. For whatever reason, he had secretly viewed August as Turtleback Lake’s white knight. Despite their differing viewpoints, Chief Rudolph had ceded some authority to Andersen because of his scientific expertise. He was confident August was working on some kind of plan to catch the snapper. And if he could catch it before anyone else could kill it, well then, good riddance. The beast would be out of the lake and everyone would be safe.
And then – poof! – August was gone.
For three straight mornings Chief Rudolph had called Andersen, but got no answer. You’d have thought the guy would have voice mail or at least an answering machine, but no – all he had was a vintage rotary phone that did nothing but ring and ring and ring.
“Goddammit!” cursed Rudolph, slamming down his phone. Then he had a thought that gave him a glimmer of hope: maybe Andersen simply had turned off the ringer.
Rudolph hopped in his car and drove out to Andersen’s cabin. First he pounded on the door with his fist. Then he peered through the windows. There was nothing: nada Andersen, nada car, nada nothing. The guy was gone – again.
“Why am I even surprised?” said the Chief when he got back to the station. “Why did I even think Andersen was going to help us? The guy’s been a phantom for years! Why should we expect anything from him now?”
“I don’t know, Chief,” said deputy Rhodes. “Because of his special expertise?”
“Exactly, Rhodes,” said the Chief, shocked to hear his deputy say exactly what he himself was thinking. “The town needs his special expertise. His departure isn’t a disappearance – it’s a…it’s a….”
“A desertion?” offered deputy Rhodes.
“Exactly,” said the Chief. “It’s a desertion. A dereliction of duty.”
*
But August was gone – and nobody knew where.
While he was away, Deena closed on the Burt bungalow. It happened quickly – in a matter of days. Then, in every free moment she had, Deena began readying the cabin for moving in. After school and on weekends, she scrubbed, swept, scoured and scraped.
Then, one Friday, Deena spent her first night in her new home – in a sleeping bag rolled out on the floor. Her plan was to get an early start on Saturday morning. She had rollers, brushes, drop cloths, step ladders, pans and a couple cans of Sherwin Williams dove white. She was going to give the walls a clean fresh coat.
In the morning, Deena was up with the sun. She was eating a bagel and drinking a cup of coffee when she heard the crunch of gravel in the drive outside. She went to the window and pulled aside the curtain.
A Volvo was driving by – August’s Volvo! Back in the summer, Deena had noticed that he drove the exact same model and year as she did. It was a coincidence that Deena felt meant something – like maybe they were made for each other.
Behind the Volvo was a trailer. August was towing something, but she couldn’t see what. Whatever it was, it was under a tarp.
Deena waved and called through the screened window, but the car rolled past without stopping. Apparently, August hadn’t heard her.
Deena couldn’t repress her immediate desire to see him. She put the lid back on the gallon of primer she’d just opened and stirred. She was glad she hadn’t dipped her brush in yet. She went to the bathroom, gave herself a quick glance in the mirror then walked the short distance between her bungalow and August’s cabin.
August had just started untying the tarp that covered the trailer.
“Hi, stranger,” Deena called.
August spun around, dropping the corner of the tarp that he’d just lifted.
“Hey, hi!” he said, surprised to see Deena in painter’s pants and hat. “What are you doing here on a Saturday morning?”
“Oh, I just came by to see if I could borrow a cup of sugar.”
August looked perplexed.
“A cup of sugar?” he repeated.
“Isn’t that what neighbors do?” said Deena. “Borrow cups of sugar.”
Andersen raised an eyebrow.
“Neighbors?” he repeated.
“I just closed on the Burt bungalow,” she told him. “It happened while you were away.”
“Well, that’s news.” said August. “Congratulations. Were you serious about a cup of sugar?”
“No, I was just kidding. But I wouldn’t say no to a cup of coffee.”
“Sure,” said August. “Come on in. I’ll make some.”
While August set up the coffee maker, Deena went to the window where she had spent countless hours writing. It was funny. She had come to Turtleback Lake to get away from men and she had failed miserably. Yet she couldn’t have been happier.
Then she looked out at the lake – first at the white rock out in the middle and then at the wooden dock that floated forty or fifty yards from shore. She thought b
ack on the many times she had swum out to it. She’d been lucky. She could’ve been one of the snapper’s victims.
But now she felt certain that nothing was going to get her. Somebody was going to get the beast out of the lake and she had a feeling that it was going to be August – her August. He didn’t know it yet, but he was going to be hers. Just as he was going to catch that snapper, she was going to catch him.
“How do you like it?” said August.
Deena was still looking out the window with her back to him.
“It’s beautiful,” answered Deena.
“I meant your coffee,” said August. “How do you take it?”
“A little milk, no sugar. Thanks.”
She was waiting for August to say, “Sugar? You’re sweet enough without it.”
But August wasn’t a dispenser of clichés. He simply opened the refrigerator and took out a carton of milk. He put his nose to it.
“P-U!” he said. “I’m sorry, but the milk’s gone bad. Would black be okay?”
“As long as it’s hot and strong,” she said.
August handed the coffee to Deena. She wrapped her fingers around the mug and inhaled the steam rising off it.
“So – what are you towing?” she asked, nodding through the window at the trailer outside. “It looks so long and tubular. It’s not a submarine, is it?”
“Actually, I was hoping to keep it secret,” said August.
Deena waited, hoping August would share his secret with her.
“It’s an SV,” he said finally.
“Excuse me?” said Deena.
“Sorry,” said August. “It’s an SV – a submersible vessel. It’s really just a small two-man sub.”
“You’re not thinking about taking it out on the lake?”
“Of course I am,” said August.
“What if this giant snapper attacks you?”
“That’s what I’m counting on,” said August. “I’m hoping I can lure him close enough to capture.”
“Anyone else in on this plan? It sounds dangerous.”
“Nope,” said August. “This is a solo mission.”
“Don’t you think Chief Rudolph should know?” said Deena. “ So he can provide some kind of backup?”
August shook his head.
“Chief Rudolph and I see things differently,” said August. “He wants the turtle dead. I want it captured – so it can be studied.”
“Well, I can see the advantage of your position,” said Deena. “But I don’t know about the rest of the town. There’s a real blood lust in the air.”
“Well, you know what the Chinese say,” said August. “When you set out for revenge, dig two graves.”
“I don’t think I understand,” said Deena.
“One grave for the person you’re seeking revenge against,” explained August. “And another one for yourself.”
“Well, I just think you should be careful,” said Deena. “And anyway, don’t you think Chief Rudolph will eventually find out what you’re up to?”
“I don’t think so,” said August. “Where I’m going, no one – including Chief Rudolph – will see me.”
* * * *
It was late October. Halloween was drawing near.
For years, snapping turtle costumes had been a big hit in Turtleback Lake. Tons of kids wore them. But this year – in light of the recent tragic events – many people thought they’d be in poor taste.
Parents especially were opposed to them. But kids wanted to wear them as much as ever. This year they’d really be scary! And for younger children whose older siblings had worn them in the past, it seemed unfair. This year was their turn.
On Halloween night, more than a few parents gave in.
“Okay, you can be a snapping turtle,” many said. “But whatever you do, don’t go trick-or-treating at The Copelands’ house wearing that costume.”
Nobody had to worry about trick-or-treating at The Sully house.
After Jack Sully’s death, little Joanne had been picked up and whisked away to live with an aunt from somewhere down in South Jersey. The Sully house stood vacant – dark and deserted. On Halloween night, it looked like the closest thing to a real haunted house that Turtleback Lake had ever seen. Loose shutters banged in the wind, dead leaves skittered across the front porch, branches scratched against blackened windows. Kids crossed to the other side of the street just to avoid it.
Up in the Skytop section, trick-or-treaters were scarce. Because of multi-acre zoning, homes were few and far between. Unless you lived in the neighborhood, it wasn’t worth the trek. The Claytons’ doorbell had hardly rung all evening.
Still, JJ sat in a chair in the front hall, just in case anyone did show up. The plastic pumpkin head on the little table next to him was still brimming with Butterfingers and fun-size bags of peanut M&Ms. JJ and his dad would be eating them for weeks to come.
JJ looked at his watch. It was 9:30. He closed the book he was reading. Maybe it was time to close shop.
Then, as he reached for the switch to turn off the front door light, a loud hard knock startled him. JJ jumped. He looked through one of the two windows that flanked the door. Someone was out there: a tall kid dressed as a pirate. The kid had a patch over one eye, a black bandanna patterned with skulls and crossbones, and a stuffed parrot perched on his shoulder. JJ swung open the door.
“Aaargh, matey!” hailed the pirate in a deep throaty voice. “Any booty for a buccaneer with a peg leg?”
JJ almost knocked the pirate over with a bear hug.
“Ian! It’s so good to see you! Come on in!”
Ian Copeland stumped into the entry hall. It was the first time JJ had seen Ian in weeks. He tried not to look down at the prosthetic device that was Ian’s new right foot.
“So how’s it going?” asked Ian. “And how’s the team?”
Ian had been away for more than three weeks at a physical rehabilitation center.
“Forget about me and the team,” said JJ. “How are you?”
“Believe it or not, I’m fine,” said Ian. “I saw stuff while I was away that kind of put things in perspective.”
“What do you mean?” asked JJ.
“This place I was at,” said Ian. “There were people there – old people, young people, even little kids. And the things they’d been through you wouldn’t want to know. Some had no legs, let alone one foot. And yet none of them complained. So how could I?”
Then Ian walked back and forth across the entry hall.
“What do you think about my new gait?” asked Ian.
“You can hardly tell you’re limping,” said JJ.
“Well, that’s not true,” said Ian. “But enough about me. Tell me about the team!”
“Well, we’re still undefeated,” said JJ. “But we’ve had a couple of real squeakers. We’ve missed you, Ian.”
“Who’s been doing the kicking?” asked Ian.
JJ knew the question was going to come. The answer to it had been eating away at him for weeks.
“Well,” said JJ. “For the last two games, I have.”
Ian didn’t even flinch.
“That’s great!” he said. “I didn’t know you could.”
“Neither did I,” said JJ. “But one day, as I was running out onto the practice field, a soccer ball rolled in front of me. I kicked it. I was surprised at how far it went. Lupo saw me and made me kick it again. Then he made me try a few place kicks. I wasn’t bad. It’s probably from watching you do it so many times.”
“It’s probably from all those bike races we had coming home from practice,” said Ian. “You’ve got legs of steel.”
Ian reached down and tapped the ankle of his new prosthetic foot. It clinked.
“Then again,” he laughed, “so do I!”
* * * *
Dr. Goode had been wrong about who had defaced Turtleback Rock. It wasn’t a student – or students – at Turtleback High.
It was an alumnus, class of ’80.
&
nbsp; There were no eyewitnesses, but the circumstantial evidence was as damning as any testimony could possibly be. First there were the dried splatters and drippings of paint found on the side of Jack Sully’s canoe: yellow, black, red and white – the same four colors used to paint the cartoon snapper on Turtleback Rock.
Then there were the empty paint cans found in Jack’s garage. The empty cans included the same four colors. But the nails in Jack’s coffin had been the crude sketches Chief Rudolph found on a table inside Jack’s house: sketches of a stick figure person holding a paintbrush while standing on the dome of a turtle’s back.
“I didn’t know Jack had so much talent,” Chief Rudolph said to deputy Rhodes flipping through the sketches. “Some of these aren’t half-bad.”
Of course there would be no day in court for Jack. He was already incarcerated in a custom-made half-size pinewood coffin buried six-feet deep in Turtleback Rock Cemetery. The grave marker was cheap and simple: a large boulder that had been painted white.
Deena knew she had been wrong in accusing her students of a crime that none of them had committed. The November issue of The Mosaic, the high school’s monthly newspaper, gave her a chance to make amends.
The person responsible for the defacement of Turtleback Rock has been found. The perpetrator was a local house painter, the same unfortunate man who died in the most recent snapping turtle attack. While his crime was offensive, his passing is a tragedy as it has made an orphan of his innocent daughter. The silver lining in this dark cloud is that all suspicions leveled against the students of this school – including my own – have been proved baseless.
Marc Bozian seized on the same topic for a short piece on the opinion page of The Turtleback Gazette. Marc wrote:
Though the perpetrator is dead, his crime lives on. Daily we are faced with the garish spectacle of Mr. Sully’s last paint job, a sight that is all the more offensive given that it is such a vivid reminder of the even greater menace that still lurks in the waters beneath. Perhaps if our community could find a way to expunge this surface blight, we might be inspired to eliminate its objective correlative.
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