“What did you do? To get better?” I asked.
“Mostly, I talked about what happened, and what I felt about what happened. I talked with some smart people who knew a lot about that kind of stress event from their studies; I also talked with some not so smart people who knew a lot about that kind of stress event from being in them, often repeatedly. I talked, I listened, over time the way I felt about the events that had affected me changed, a bit. I tried some chemicals, some prescribed, some not so much; I didn’t like the way the drugs interacted with, and affected, my brain, but I know some guys they helped. It’s a different thing for everyone, and anyone who tells you different is either over-simplifying, or a dumbass.”
“I wouldn’t know how to start,” I said.
“You just did, Tyler,” John answered. “Everything gets better from here. You’ll find someone to talk with about your event, maybe that counselor you brought by a few years ago.” Two and a half years ago, I had introduced John to Meg, when Meg was working with a student who fantasized about working on a hippy farm. They got along better than I had anticipated, and the student had lived/worked at Helgafell for six months before moving to a similar farm in California (it turned out that she didn’t want any part of either the rat-race or Adirondack winters).
“She’s a friend, and she’s married to a cop. The stuff that I need to talk about would, at the very least, strain both relationships, and possibly worse.” John leaned back to study me again, held up two fingers to indicate that I should give him a minute, and went over to start his tricky coffee machine gurgling and whooshing and dripping and filling the room with a dark and bitter smell. Ten seconds under his two minutes, he came over with a small cup of dark and syrupy coffee for himself, and a Coke from his little fridge, which he handed me.
“So talk,” he said, and I did. I talked about what happened last year with Cynthia and George and Barry and Justin, how I’d started seeing Barry a few weeks afterwards, how that had graduated to discussions with Barry, and a short précis of my current project. He sat listening and watching and sipping that nasty coffee the whole time. It took me a few seconds under nine minutes to tell him my version of the whole thing, and then I just leaned back into the chair to wait … for what, I didn’t know. I normally feel confident looking ahead into the next few minutes of almost any conversation, because they tend to follow the paths that humans feel comfortable with, but in this case, I couldn’t see the likely next steps, or eventual outcome; it was a bit unnerving.
“I imagine that you know most of this, but I’m going to talk my way through it for you, if you don’t mind.” He looked at me, waiting for my nod before continuing. “You know that you’re different, think it means better, and you assumed that your difference, or betterness, would be sufficient to protect you from the horror of what had to be done last year. Make no mistake, Tyler, it had to be done, or you’d not be here talking with me today. If Barry and George and Justin had had their way, or just been a hair smarter or quicker, you’d be dead instead of them. I can see in your eyes that you know it, but some part of what your parents or teachers or the church taught you about human life and sins has left its mark on you, on your brain.” He paused for a second to see if I wanted to add/interrupt, and then continued.
“That’s shite, that is, Tyler, all of that stuff about humans being above the fray and above killing. For all but the last couple of hundred years, we’ve all of us been bloody up to our armpits; that’s how your ancestors survived to breed and evolve towards that great brain of yours, Tyler. The veneer of civility and civilization we sell in the first world is only a couple of missed meals thick; pick or scrape at it the least bit, and you can see through to ‘nature, red in tooth and claw,’ in which Tennyson mistakenly separated mankind from the rest of the natural world. Seeing us as different from the rest of the beasts is a common outgrowth of human ego that ignores nearly all of the facts and evidence.”
“Okay, but why do I still have Barry tagging along?” I asked.
“I have my suspicions, but what really matters is why you think Barry shows up when you’re nervous or surprised. I think that Barry is serving a couple of purposes for you, Tyler, and none of them necessarily bad, if you look at them in the right light.”
“I have trouble seeing Meg telling me that hallucinating, and talking with a man I killed is a good thing, John.”
“Hear me out, Tyler. Barry’s not telling you to burn things or have sex with horses, right? He’s appearing when you’re stressed or feel in danger, and talking things out with you. Given the givens, it could be a lot worse. I woke up screaming for months, and for years would smell burning bodies when there weren’t any. On the other hand, I had the luxury of leaving the environment of my traumatic stressor a couple of thousand miles away, which helped me greatly in my recovery. You still live in the same place, doing the same stuff you were doing just before and after you killed those guys; that makes it tougher to gain some distance, perspective. I think that some part of your subconscious, or unconscious, I don’t fucking know which, felt, and feels, that Barry appearing to you in times of stress would help, and I think it has. You managed not to get beaten up the other day in two separate instances that could have ended in violence for you. Better still, for you, you didn’t have to kill these guys; Barry’s presence helped push you to come up with a pair of non-lethal responses that may have saved those guys their lives, miserable pricks.”
“And some part of my brain finds it preferable to keep figuring out ways to get away from these guys, rather than killing them, which was easy enough last year, honestly … why?”
“Because you’re civilized, Tyler. At least partly, like me. You’ve seen beyond the veil, behind the curtain, and know that while taking a human life is easy enough, it’s not the solution you want for every problem.”
“So what do I do about Barry?” I asked.
“At the moment, nothing. He serves a few purposes, and doesn’t pose any significant drawbacks. I think that he’ll fade out of your life as time goes by.”
“That’s it? Problem solved?”
“Of course not, nothing’s that easy. You’re weird enough that you probably have other symptoms masked by your … unique lifestyle choices. I bet your sleep has changed, and that you have panic attacks, but that you’ve managed to fold them into your daily routine. Talk with me, talk with whatshername, Meg, if you can. If things get worse, go and see a doctor, and tell him about the symptoms, make up some car accident or mugging or some shit, he might try some meds. I knew guys who swore the meds helped.”
I stretched and started to climb up and out of the comfy reading chair when he added one last thought, “Oh yeah, and don’t let anyone kill you. I don’t give a shit what Barry thinks, or you think, dead is dead, and if it’s got to be you or the other guys, let it be them. The most important rule is to make it to the end of the day alive, no matter what. I don’t want you to turn up dead, or become a missing person, like your Crocker woman. Keep that in mind Tyler, and don’t overthink the rest. When you play the dangerous games, sometimes you have to get bloody; that’s why I’m a farmer in my old age.” He wasn’t a farmer and he wasn’t noticeably old (he looked the same as when I had met him eleven and a half years ago, but had dropped maybe five pounds); we never talked about the dangerous games that he had played, for/with Nick, the guy who ran Helgafell Farm.
“Thanks John! For the talk, and for the bacon … pass my thanks along to Nick and the kids as well. I’ll stop in and see you soon,” I said, leaving, and walking back to the Porsche. Barry was waiting by the Porsche when I left the building, and safety/comfort/calm of John’s presence and mood evaporated as soon as I saw Barry leaning on the hood of the 993.
“Nothing he said is wrong. Nothing he said is gonna help. Not now, anyway, maybe in a week or two, when this hiding and spraying people shit is over and done with,” he said. “Let’s go talk to super-cop, and super-cop’s wife; I think that you got something there,
Tyler.”
Frank and Meg Gibson’s House, Saranac Lake, 7/18/2013, 7:43 a.m.
I kept an eye out for people/vehicles seeming to keep an eye out for me, on the way over to Frank and Meg’s, and ended up at their place only after driving some loops through the surrounding neighborhood. Both of their cars were still in the driveway, so I pulled in, and under the partial cover provided by Frank’s boat shed (the boat lives on Lower Saranac Lake during the warm months). Walking in, I could hear morning noise from a household of three, with two dogs; everyone was breakfasting in a room at the back of the house that overlooked their fenced backyard, and they were all surprised when I walked in.
“Good morning all!” I said. “Toby and Lola, you should be embarrassed.” They looked it, and then segued past their failings as guard dogs by sniffing my newly wrapped bacon very intently … very.
Austin, Frank and Meg’s son was the first to reply/respond to my presence (Frank was still deciding whether to be angry, and Meg was checking that she was sufficiently dressed). “Tyler, ‘tsup? Is it getting cold yet in hammock-land?”
“Hey Austin. It’s been wet, but not cold, so far this summer. Give it another month, and I’ll start getting some cold nights. Have you gotten out in your hammock yet this summer?” I’d helped Frank pick out a camping hammock for Austin last Christmas, and the last I’d heard, it was still factory-fresh.
“Yup, out on Middle, last week with some guys I go to school with; they thought it was neat, lined up to try climbing in for a swing. Thanks again for helping Dad with the non-lame present, Tyler.” I didn’t fit in Austin’s worldview of kids or grownups, which apparently (according to Meg) freaked him out a bit, not knowing where/how to place me. I was obviously too old (closing in on 30) to be a kid, but equally obviously was not a functioning grownup (no real job, sleeps in the woods more nights than not, no wife or girlfriend/boyfriend). Apparently (again, this according to Meg), I was on his radar enough to warrant consideration, and bounced back and forth between cool (only very rarely), meh (most of the time), and creepy (again, rarely); it was interesting trying to figure out where on the bell curve I was whenever I saw him.
“Tyler!” Frank interrupted, “What’s up? Is everything okay?” Frank had clearly decided to be angry about the intrusion into their morning, and his question nudged Meg into worry. She seemed to be gearing up to gush some maternal instinct all over me, so I cut in just under the wire (it wouldn’t do me any good, and might result in a unwarranted downgrade in my rating with Austin).
“Everything’s fine. I had to run through town, and pick up this bacon, and my office is still barricaded, so I was hoping that I could get you folks to take it off my hands for me (I hadn’t initially planned on the bacon as a bribe/misdirection, but it would work, and meet my storage/usage/consumption needs as well)” I said.
“That’s it?” Frank seemed (rightfully) skeptical.
“Well, there are two, no three, other things that I wanted to talk with you two about … nothing major though.” I tried my #8 smile (sucking up and obsequious), and saw it fall flat with both Frank and Meg (Meg at least smiled back … Frank just shook his head). Meg waved me towards the table, which had some muffins and juice sitting on it; they didn’t even bother to offer me coffee, even though they were all drinking from serious mugs … they know how I feel about that bitter/nasty/too-hot drink.
“What?” Frank said, and left it at that, watching me while we each worked our way through a couple of muffins which tasted awfully healthy to me.
“One: Can you find out if one or two people went to one of the local hospitals or doctors in the last few days with chemical burns to the face? Eyes and nose and mouth especially.” This was addressed to Frank.
“That sounds a lot like things are less smooth than we had previously heard. If there’s something I should know about, I’d prefer to hear it now.” I was sure that he would, but equally sure that it wouldn’t go better for me just to get my two cases of assault off of my chest, so I let it slide; if they hadn’t complained to the police by now, they wouldn’t be.
“Two: Could you get in touch with your Great-Aunt Betty again, and get a look at, or take pictures of the guestbook for Kimberly’s funeral, assuming that someone can put their hands on it. I’d like a list of the names in the register,” I asked, addressing this one to Meg.
“Easy peasy. Betty’s oldest sister’s husband was Kim’s mother’s younger brother; her niece Trish has an attic literally stuffed to the rafters (probably not ‘literally’, I thought, but didn’t say, although my understanding is that Webster’s is softening the definition … this sort of stuff lets the terrorists win, in my opinion) with Stanton family papers and photos. I could zoom over sometime today, and take Trish out to lunch before looking. Do you need the book, or just a list of names?”
“Names would be fine, thanks.”
“No problem, it’ll give me an excuse to stop in and see Betty as well, can I just say it’s a historical thing?”
“Sure, you can say whatever you want about it, up to, and including, the truth.” By this point, Austin was no longer pretending to be engrossed in his coffee and the repugnant health-muffin; he was watching his parents interact with me, and it was making Frank uncomfortable.
“Lemme guess number three, Tyler. Police flashers for your car, so you can drive that stupid thing as fast as you want?” Frank asked.
“Nope, I’m good; I got a flasher after last year (I winked at Austin with this comment, knowing that he knew at least some of what had happened). What I actually need is more research into stuff that I can’t easily get (I was angry all over again at Cynthia being dead and gone; she would have loved this sort of stuff). I need to know if there are other people who have disappeared in the Tri-Lakes since 1950 without explanation, or being found later.” Frank started to object, and I cut him off, watching Austin tilt his head like a confused dog when Frank allowed it.
“Before you jump on me, I started trying to work through missing persons data available to civilians, and it’s not connected or closed. Sometimes the person is found, or found dead, downstate or in another state altogether, and the information isn’t readily accessible. My research suggests that most missing persons cases resolve in one way or another; what I’m looking for is local cases that don’t/didn’t resolve at all, like the Crocker girl … woman.” I’d started researching missing persons back in the SmartPig office (before I shut myself off from it) and been surprised to find out that most people get un-missing before too long, almost nobody disappears for 54.85 years without a sign. Then when John made the comment about me going missing, it made me wonder about whether this had happened before/after Deirdre Crocker, or if she was a unique case … either answer might steer my further investigations.
Frank nodded, looked at Austin’s grin, and said (to him), “We’ll talk later, young man, about why Mr. Cunningham gets special consideration, and also who you talk with about that.” With that, Frank grabbed another muffin, shellacking it in a thick coating of butter, which must have more than undone any benefits gained from the sawdust and sand making up most of the muffin.
“You’re sure that you’re okay, Tyler?” Meg asked, seeming not to care what Austin heard/thought about her worry.
“He’ll be fine Megan. He’s a big boy, and whatever goes on in that melon of his, it’s beyond me; he generally works it so that things work out right in the end, and nobody gets hurt. Right, Tyler?” Frank asked this last question in a way that made it sound a little like an order … I nodded, not knowing how else to respond.
“Promise!” she said, to both of us, and came over and gave me a kiss on the top of my head, before heading upstairs to get dressed.
Frank went to pour himself another cup of coffee, and Austin leaned in quickly, and through the side of his mouth, as if he/we were in a cold-war era spy movie, said, “Little Bob, Robert Reineger, Jr., missed a get-together yesterday. A bunch of us were going for our ‘Saranac 6er’ patch,
trying for all six in one day. He begged off, said he had pink-eye. Probably nothing, but hey,” he tailed off as Frank rejoined us at the table.
“Thanks, I appreciate your help, and your discretion,” I said to Frank, but also included Austin with my eyes, (and another wink, a new and seemingly useful addition to my slowly growing list of facial expressions, out of the non-Dad side). Frank looked at me funny (but then, he often does, so it was likely no big deal), but I could see Austin puff up a bit at being included. It was most likely nothing, but it never hurt to toss extra information into the hopper, and see what came out on the other side.
I yelled out to Meg on my way out, gave the dogs half a horrible muffin each (they loved them!), and headed out to Topsail, to talk with Mike and Kitty Crocker, also, to show them the pictures from my research the day before.
Camp Topsail, Upper Saranac Lake, 7/18/2013, 9:08 a.m.
I pulled through the imposing stone and ironwork gate of Camp Topsail at a few minutes before eight, having noodled and looped around Frank and Meg’s neighborhood a bit, and then taking the most unlikely route from there to the north end of Upper Saranac Lake imaginable. I passed Anthony, Kitty Crocker’s legal legwork wonk/minion, on the road; he was finishing up a jog. I also saw a small team from one of the camps a few over from Topsail working on one of the tennis courts that line the far side of Route 30 at this end of Upper Saranac Lake (numerous camps own land on both sides of the of the road, and use the space furthest from the lake for tennis courts), but otherwise, it was a quiet morning at this end of the lake.
I waited for Anthony in the parking lot, and let him catch his breath and mop some sweat from his face before I spoke.
“I know it’s early, but I need to talk with Mrs. Crocker and her son as soon as possible this morning. It won’t take long, but it’s important,” I said.
Caretakers (Tyler Cunningham) Page 17