The Caretaker of Lorne Field

by Dave Zeltserman

  “Thank you, honey,” he told her.

  She nodded, her smile growing sadder. “I used to see Bert riding his bike around town, always carrying his fishing pole. He was such a nice boy.”

  The muscles along Durkin’s jaw hardened. He turned and looked out the window. After he felt her leave, he wiped the back of his hand across his eyes.

  She brought the coffee pot first and he emptied it quickly, drinking six cups from it. She brought another pot with her when she brought the food. He had no appetite and barely tasted any of what he ate, but he knew he was going to need his strength. He knew he was going to have a hard night in front of him. He methodically finished what was on his plate, then sat back and drank more coffee. When the second pot was empty, Nancy came over and asked if he’d like more coffee or anything else.

  “Nothing more, thanks,” he said, trying hard to smile at her. “Just the bill.”

  “There’s no bill, Mr. Durkin. This is on me.”

  “That ain’t right—”

  “No, please.”

  Jack Durkin took the six dollars and change that he had left and placed it on the table. “I can still leave a tip,” he said, winking. Before she could argue with him, he pushed himself out of the booth and hobbled out of the diner.

  Shayes Pond could’ve made a nice Monet oil painting, with the lily pads floating on the surface and willow trees scattered along the banks. Jack Durkin knew Bert liked to go fishing there, and more times than not would bring home fresh water bass that he caught from the pond. Like Bert, Durkin went fishing a lot when he was younger, usually at a spot he’d discovered at Crystal Pond, but he could see why Bert liked this place. Once Durkin took over as Caretaker, that part of his life was gone. He saved his fishing pole and gave it to Lester when he turned ten, but Lester never really had any interest in it, and eventually his prized fishing pole ended up in Bert’s hands.

  Probably because it was a school day, he had the place to himself. No other boys like Bert out there fishing. In a way he was disappointed. He found a grassy spot in the sun and sat down. For weeks he had heard nothing but his own moaning and sighing, but here he could hear bullfrogs in the weeds and squirrels and birds chattering noisily in the trees. The racket they made was soothing. It made him want to close his eyes, but he fought the urge. He had too much to think about. It was only three o’clock and he had hours to wait before it would be safe to head back to Lorne Field and deal with the Aukowies. There was still one-third of the field that he had never gotten to, and given all day to grow unabated that part would be covered by one-foot high Aukowies. He knew the Aukowies on the rest of the field would reach at least six inches high. Even at his strongest, he doubted whether he’d be able to handle the field like that. In his present shape, the only chance he had was using the machete.

  He found himself staring at the pond and trying to picture Bert sitting on the bank with his fishing pole. After a while he gave in and let his eyelids close, then lay down on his back and felt the sun warming his face. Every time he’d start to drift off he’d think of Bert being hit by a truck and he’d be jolted awake. It got to where all he could see in his mind’s eye was Bert’s lifeless body.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them hard with the palms of his hands and tried to blot out that image.

  What haven’t I done for you? he thought. What more do you need to take from me? I’m beggin’ you, just tell me which one you’re doing, punishing me or testing me? Which one is it?

  He cried then. Tears lined his heavily-weathered face, his chest aching with each sob. After a while his exhaustion caught up to him and he passed into something between sleep and unconsciousness.

  It was dark when Durkin woke. Disoriented, he pushed himself into a sitting position. Slowly it came back to him and he remembered everything that happened that day. He remembered what happened at the field. He remembered about his son. He squinted hard at his watch and saw it was nine thirty-five. After chewing on some aspirin, he found the machete next to him, pushed himself to his feet and got on Lester’s bike.

  He rode first to the Caretaker’s cabin, then onto what used to be the dirt path to Lorne Field. They had turned it into a dirt road wide enough for two cars. At the start of the path the town had posted a sign warning against trespassers and announcing that construction would be starting soon for a new subdivision of luxury homes. When he reached the field there was enough moonlight for him to see that the shed was gone. He searched further back in the woods from where the shed had been and found remnants of it there. Picking through the pile of broken boards, he found his flashlight, tested it to make sure it still worked, and walked back to the edge of the field and flashed the light over it.

  It was as he expected it. At the end closest to him the Aukowies were a foot-high and swayed towards the light. It was a cool, crisp night, with the air dead still, but he could see them swaying. He could see their faces waiting in anticipation. His jaw muscles set, he took the machete and went to work.

  An hour later he had made only a small dent in the field. He stopped to wipe the sweat from his face, then rested with his hands on his knees and waited for the pounding in his chest and temples to slow down. Off in the distance he could see headlights coming down the new dirt road. As Wolcott’s jeep came closer, the headlights framed him. The jeep came to a stop with the engine still running and the headlights left on. Wolcott stepped out of it. The lights were bright enough that Durkin had put a hand to his eyes as he squinted towards Wolcott. Wolcott’s face was left mostly in shadows.

  “Is that a machete you’re holding?”

  Durkin was still winded from his exertion. He tried answering, but couldn’t manage the breath necessary. Even buried in shadows, he could see the harshness on Wolcott’s face.

  “Damn it, Jack, put the machete down.”

  “Dan, I’m only doing what I have to. Why don’t you go home and leave me alone.”

  “Put the machete down now! This is the last time I’m telling you!”

  Wolcott’s hand dropped to his service revolver. Durkin looked from him to the field of Aukowies.

  “They dug up this field today, didn’t they?” Durkin said. “At least enough for their road. How come if these are just weeds, they’re growin’ here as strong as ever?”

  “I don’t know, Jack, and to tell you the truth, I don’t care. They’re only weeds. That’s all they are.”

  “If that’s true, how about you stepping out among them? You do that and I’ll drop the machete. Not only that, I’ll never come back here. I promise on my son’s grave.”

  “Damn it, Jack, if those were really monsters growing out there, don’t you think the army would’ve been brought in, or something like that? You really think they would’ve left it to one man to protect the world?”

  Durkin kept his gaze fixed on the Aukowies. “It’s been done this way for a reason. Once Aukowies are given a chance to mature, bullets and bombs won’t make much of a difference to them,” he said. He could hear Wolcott swearing to himself. He kept his gaze focused where it was. He didn’t want to look at Wolcott.

  “Is that what it’s going to take to satisfy you? Fine, Jack, I’ll take a little stroll among your weeds.”

  Wolcott walked past him. Jack Durkin closed his eyes and covered both his ears with his hands. He didn’t want to see what was going to happen next, and he certainly didn’t want to hear it.

  Chapter 12

  It was forty minutes after Sheriff Wolcott was gone when Jack Durkin walked over to the Sheriff’s jeep and shut off the engine. He knew he had no chance of cutting down the Aukowies with the machete, especially after they had tasted human blood. How much blood did a man’s body hold? He remembered reading the answer to that when he was in school. What was it, something like six quarts? However much it was, the Aukowies had had all of it. No, the machete wasn’t going to work anymore. Something else had to be done to kill them.

  He flashed his light in the front seat, then the
back and finally the trunk compartment before finding a water bottle he could use, but he couldn’t find anything to siphon gas with. A Molotov cocktail would be easier, but there was another way he could do it. He looked around outside the jeep and found a rock that would be big enough, then dropped it on the passenger seat and drove the jeep to about twenty yards from the edge of the field.

  The headlights of the jeep caught the Aukowies swaying in the night’s air, still drunken from their feast. Durkin wished Dan Wolcott could’ve seen it. That sight would’ve changed his mind. But it was too late for that now. He went back to where the remains of the shed had been scattered, searched through the rubble and found one of his blankets. He brought it back to the jeep and used the machete to cut a strip widthwise from the material. After popping the trunk open, he used the dipstick to spread oil over the strip and then pushed it into the jeep’s fuel tank. He got back into the jeep, started it, and waited until the cigarette lighter turned hot enough. He took the lighter and held it against the oil-coated fabric until it caught on fire. It burned slower than he expected—the blanket must’ve been treated with flame retardant chemicals—but because of the oil spread on it, it did burn. When it had burned three-quarters of the way up, Jack Durkin placed the rock on the gas pedal. The rock wasn’t heavy enough to push it down much, but enough to where he could get the engine to rev up a bit. Reaching in, he put the jeep in drive. The jeep lurched forward, knocking the wind out of him and dragging him almost into the field before he was able to push himself out of it. Holding his ribs, he sat on the ground and watched as the jeep drove into the field and exploded. The blast knocked him over. He could feel the heat of it over his body. Then he could hear them screaming. Thousands of Aukowies burning to death, their cries piercing the night’s air. He cupped his hands hard over his ears and tried to block out the sound. Rolling up, he could see the flames spreading over the field and shooting up into the sky.

  The ashes were still smoldering when the police car showed up. He looked over his shoulder and saw Bob Smith getting out of the car. He turned back to watch the dying embers blinking red across the field. A light flashed on the side of his face. He heard Smith call out, asking if that was him. He didn’t bother to respond. A minute later he could hear Smith breathing heavily out of his mouth. He looked out of the corner of his eyes to see Smith holding his nose.

  “Gawd, it reeks here,” Smith said. “I don’t think I ever smelled anything worse. What did you do out here tonight?”

  “Only what I had to.”

  “Did you see Dan Wolcott?” Smith asked. “I got a call from his wife. He was supposed to be heading out here a while ago, but he hasn’t come home yet. She’s worried.”

  “He was here,” Jack Durkin said. “He’s gone now.”

  The police officer was flashing a light across the field and it hit the burned out shell of Wolcott’s jeep. The light froze on it.

  “Oh my God,” Smith said. “What did you do tonight?”

  Durkin didn’t bother to answer him. He just stood up and put his hands out in front so Officer Smith could cuff him.

  Jack Durkin was taken to the State Police Station in Eastham and put in an interrogation room and told to wait. It was many hours later when police detective Dave Stone came in and introduced himself. He was about Durkin’s age, large-boned, with bloodshot eyes and a rumpled look about him. Along with a manila file stuffed under one arm, he carried a box of donuts and a tray holding two coffees into the room. He took a few sips from one of the coffees and slid the other over to Durkin and offered him a donut. Durkin looked blankly at both before shaking his head. He stared bleary-eyed at his watch until he could focus on it.

  “It’s nine-ten in the morning,” Durkin complained. “I’ve been left alone here almost eight hours.”

  “I apologize for that,” Stone said. He took another sip of his coffee and then a bite of his glazed donut. Brushing the crumbs from his lips, he added, “As you can probably guess, we’ve been busy. Now, Mr. Durkin, why don’t you tell me what happened last night.”

  “I already told Bob everything.”

  Stone nodded agreeably. “I know you did,” he said. “And we appreciate your cooperation, but why don’t you tell me again so that I can hear it in your words.”

  Durkin stared hard at Stone’s artificially friendly smile. He was sure the detective was struggling not to react to how badly he smelled. He knew full well he reeked with both the stench of burnt Aukowies and all those weeks outside by himself. Fine with me, he thought. Let him suffer if he’s going to keep me here all night like that. He shrugged and took the coffee that had been offered to him. “You got cream and sugar for this?”

  Stone took some sugar and cream packets from the cardboard tray and slid them over to Durkin, along with a plastic coffee stirrer.

  “I ain’t got nothin’ different to tell you than what I told Bob Smith.”

  “Why don’t you tell me anyway.”

  “I killed Dan Wolcott, just like I told Bob.”

  “That’s the part I’m confused about when I read your statement. How’d you do it again?”

  “Wolcott didn’t believe me about the Aukowies. I challenged him to walk into the field. When he did they tore him apart.”

  “And that’s how you killed him?”

  “Yep.” Durkin stared coldly at Stone as he drank his coffee. “I knew what they were going to do to him. He wouldn’t have walked out there if it weren’t for me.”

  Stone opened the manila folder and searched through the papers in it. He found the one he was looking for and skimmed his finger over it as he read it. Like Durkin, he had thick stubby fingers.

  “And what about the machete?” he asked.

  “What about it?”

  “You didn’t use the machete to kill Sheriff Wolcott and cut his body up?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Mr. Durkin, we know you bought a machete yesterday from Hallwell’s Army Surplus store. We found it at the field.”

  “I told you what happened.”

  Stone flipped through the manila folder and pulled out a photograph. He placed it on the table in front of Durkin. The photograph showed the lower part of a boot that had been cut off at the ankle. A severed foot was plainly visible inside the boot.

  “We brought dogs to the field,” Stone said. “They found this foot in the woods. It’s Sheriff Wolcott’s, isn’t it?”

  Durkin nodded softly as he stared at the photograph. “They must’ve flung it out there in their frenzy.” He jerked his head up to meet Stone’s red eyes. “You took dogs out there? I bet they wouldn’t step foot in that field!”

  “Why wouldn’t they?”

  “’Cause of the Aukowies growing there, that’s why!”

  Stone let out a heavy sigh. “There’s nothing growing in that field.”

  “That can’t be true.”

  “Mr. Durkin, I left there only a half hour ago. There’s nothing there but ashes and a burnt out jeep. Your setting fire to the field did the trick. I doubt anything’s going to be growing there for a long time.”

  Durkin sat back in his chair, a confused look spreading over his face. “That don’t make sense,” he said.

  “Mr. Durkin, where’s the rest of Sheriff Wolcott’s body?”

  “What?”

  “I know you cut up Sheriff Wolcott’s body and left his foot in the woods. I also know you did this because you wanted to be caught, the same reason you hung around waiting for Officer Smith to come by and arrest you. Mr. Durkin, for the sake of Dan’s family, what did you do with the rest of his body?”

  Durkin closed his mouth, his eyes vacant as he stared at the detective. “From this point on, I ain’t talking to you without a lawyer,” he said.

  Jack Durkin was taken to the County Jail for processing. When the warden saw him, he immediately had one of his guards get Durkin a clean set of clothing. “You change into this,” the warden told Durkin, putting the new clothes and a bag outside h
is cell. “Leave what you got on in this bag. We’re going to have to throw your clothes away. No use trying to save them.”

  The warden came back a half hour later and saw Durkin frowning dourly as he sat on his cot wearing his new shirt but still wearing the same soiled and filth encrusted dungarees as before.

  “How come you haven’t changed your pants?” the warden asked.

  “I can’t get my work boots off.”

  “What do you mean you can’t get them off?”

  Durkin shrugged, his frown turning more dour. “I hurt my ankle a few weeks back and I can’t get the boot off my foot.”

  The warden had one of the guards enter the cell to pull off the boots. When Durkin passed out from the pain, the warden decided he’d better have him taken to the hospital.

  The emergency room doctor who cut off Jack Durkin’s boot blanched when he rolled off the wool sock and saw the severely blackened foot underneath it.

  “Your ankle’s broken,” he said in a voice that sounded too calm to Durkin. “When did you hurt yourself?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe four weeks ago.”

  The doctor told him he’d be back and then left to consult with the warden who had accompanied Durkin to the hospital. “This is a very sick man,” he told the warden. “It’s a miracle he’s still alive. Along with being dehydrated, malnourished and carrying a high fever, he has one of the worst cases of gangrene I’ve ever seen. He needs to be admitted for surgery right away. How long has he been in police custody?”

  “Since last night.”

  “He should’ve been brought here immediately. There’s no excuse for this.”

  The warden made a face. “I agree. Jesus, the guy’s nothing but skin and bones, and with the story he was telling them they should’ve realized he wasn’t right. So what do you need to do to him?”