—WWCR Shortwave Radio, “Unchained with Russ Starlin”
May 13, 2019
ris got out of the car and met Bill’s gaze for the first time in over twenty years. Hard lines hacked their way from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth. His blue eyes had faded to a watercolor wash. His blond hair was coarser and mostly gray. His expression was blank.
With two economical arm movements, Bill sent his chair rolling to the lip of the dock. The two of them stood face-to-face.
“Bill—” Kris said.
Bill leaned forward, eyes locked onto hers, and she remembered that long, unbroken scream in the dark that felt like it would never end.
“I’m sorry, Bill,” she said, in one great outrushing breath. “I should have come sooner, I shouldn’t have driven. I should have—”
He reached up and cradled her face in his hand.
“Blondie,” he said, “you’re gonna be here until you’re eighteen, so get used to it.”
Hearing him quote “Dead End Justice” melted something inside Kris she didn’t know was frozen. In a flurry of black wings, something enormous escaped the cage inside her chest and flew away. Scottie Rocket was dead, but at least they were all back together again, the three survivors. For the first time in six years, Kris felt like everything might turn out all right. She threw herself forward and wrapped her arms around Bill’s shoulders and the two of them held each other while Kris cried.
After a minute, Bill pulled back from the hug, and Kris used the opportunity to turn aside and wipe her eyes and nose on her sleeve. Bill brushed aside Tuck’s beefy hand and hugged him, too.
“How was your drive?” he asked, then laughed at himself. “Who cares? What do you think of this dump? I made a few changes.”
Bill made a hand signal and a young white woman with fine bones in her face and thick dreads appeared, followed by two aggressively healthy-looking attendants in white linen shirts and pants. One of them approached Kris and one went to Tuck. They offered warm hand towels. Kris caught a whiff of lemongrass as she wiped her hands.
“When did you get so rich?” she asked.
“This,” Bill said, “is Well in the Woods, a holistic wellness community where we break chains and rebuild lives.” At Kris’s blank look, he added, “We’re a luxury rehab center for rich junkies.”
“There’s a lot of them?” Kris asked.
“The supply is endless,” Bill said. “And they are really rich.”
Another attendant appeared with two beaten silver cups on a slate tray.
“Try this,” Bill said.
The cup radiated waves of cold, numbing Kris’s fingers. The water trembled like mercury and smelled dark, with a mineral edge. It cascaded down her throat, the purest water she’d ever tasted, sharp and cold, like diving into a bottomless mountain pool. Her whole body came alive.
“What is it?” she asked, her voice hushed with awe.
“I have seen thirty-year alcoholics who haven’t said a sober, loving word to another human being in their entire adult lives drink that water, fall to their knees, and burst into tears,” Bill said, as the water bearer took her cup away.
“Oh, shit,” Kris said. “The well?”
“We’re famous for it,” Bill beamed. “Not the one in the basement. That’s been dry a long time. But we found its source out back and tapped that. The government insisted on testing it, and they didn’t find a single bacterium, no sodium, zero iron, no nitrates, no sulfates. It’s the purest drinking water in the state.”
Kris remembered the well in the basement. She’d dragged the plywood cap off one night when she was looking for a place to write, and left it off after that. It was so deep you couldn’t see the bottom with a flashlight, but you could always hear it, a roaring, dark ocean buried deep underground. When she was writing Troglodyte, Kris sat by that old well for hours, listening to the secret sea rumbling underground as the story of Troglodyte, and the Blind King, and Black Iron Mountain materialized on the pages of her journal. She sometimes still heard that water in her dreams.
“I was just headed to the sweat lodge,” Bill said. “I’ll show you where you can get changed, then meet me out back and we can sweat out some toxins while you tell me what the fuck is going on.”
“What do you mean?” Tuck asked.
“Come on,” Bill said. “Terry’s tour? Scott dying? Kris showing up at your house? After twenty years, this all happens at once? I don’t believe in coincidence. The universe always has a plan. It’s our job to perceive it.”
Then he spun his chair and rolled to the glass doors leading into the Witch House. The young woman with dreads swung the door wide and stepped aside.
“Thank you, Miranda,” Bill said, and they followed him in.
The old kitchen was now a welcome center that felt like the inside of a Swedish sauna. The stink of old carpet had been replaced by sandalwood and incense. Light poured through a huge skylight and New Age music tinkled from hidden speakers.
“How’d you know to be waiting for us?” Kris asked, as they followed his chair.
“I saw you guys turn off the highway,” Bill said. “Then I got a better look at you when you stopped at the gate. Don’t let the enchanted kingdom thing fool you—I’ve got cameras everywhere. The third time an addict has his personal assistant drone a package of cocaine onto the grounds, you learn that you need to know everything that happens on every inch of your property.”
As they passed through the back hall, Kris stopped, and so did Tuck. Something was wrong, and Kris realized they were in the hall where the blue door used to be, the one door they could lock, the one that led to the basement where they stored their gear, practiced their set, recorded Troglodyte. But the wall was blank.
Kris ran her hands over its surface, but there was no dip or ripple to show where the blue door had been. Bill rolled back to her.
“I know,” he said. “It feels weird, right? But the basement kept flooding, so we had it filled in years ago. And then we walled it up for good.”
“It’s like a metaphor,” Tuck said.
“What?” Bill asked. “Oh yeah, I get it. What once was a door is now a wall. Like you can’t go home again. I think we all know that by now.”
“I don’t think Kris does,” Tuck said, and they kept moving.
Miranda led Kris to a small room lined with lockless lockers and three sinks carved out of a single piece of granite. She changed into an untreated linen wrap, grabbed a towel, and walked up a slight ramp, out a plain wooden door, and into a fairy-tale kingdom.
The deck looked over the grounds. Wooden paths curved and swooped out into the forest, circling trees, wrapping around their trunks. Glowing like a handful of scattered jewels, outbuildings dotted the woods, ranging in size from a large phone booth to a massive, glass cabin half buried underground. Everything was lit like a stage set, buried lights and hidden lanterns guiding her eye from one beautifully balanced architectural detail to another. Kris didn’t feel like bulldozers and hard hats had been at work here—more like elves and magic spells.
“Big change, right?” Bill said, rolling up next to her.
“I can’t believe it’s the same place,” Kris said.
The back deck vibrated and buckled as Tuck came out, wrapped in a long piece of white cloth.
“Don’t say a word,” he said.
The sun turned the treetops emerald green as the morning air lightened to gold. Any minute, Kris expected Lord of the Rings music to play and elves to come wandering out of the woods and start dancing on the grass.
“Let’s get hot,” Bill said, as an attendant opened the door of an adobe dome.
Bill levered himself up out of his chair and an attendant helped him inside. Kris and Tuck ducked their heads and followed. Recessed lighting cast a golden glow over a room that was cozy, not claustrophobic. They sat on t
iers of beautifully carved wooden benches joined by dovetails and wooden pegs—not a metal nail anywhere.
Another attendant ducked inside, carrying a bucket of hot stones, and piled them in a beaten bronze brazier in the center of the room. Tuck sat near the door, so enormous he had a hard time getting comfortable. Bill sat across the stone pit from Kris. The hairs inside her nose crinkled from the heat. She knew if she inhaled deeply she’d scorch her lungs.
The flurry of activity died out and the attendants withdrew, closing the door behind them, leaving the three of them alone in the gloom. Sound was soft and muffled inside the sweat lodge. Kris’s pores opened their mouths and vomited sweat down her ribcage, her collarbone, the backs of her knees. Even her elbows got sweaty.
“Hey, guys?” Bill said. “Don’t keep me in suspense. What’s up?”
The stones clicked and settled; the room got hotter.
“Kris needs to handle this one,” Tuck said.
“I was at Scottie’s house when he died,” Kris said.
She explained about Scottie Rocket, the gun, his suicide, and then hesitated before telling Bill about the note, the UPS drivers, the listening devices, and Terry. Bill listened, then let out a big lungful of air, spread a towel behind him, and lay down.
“I’m going to meditate on this,” he said. “I’d recommend you two do the same. Afterwards, let’s clean up and then we’ll break bread and talk over our options.”
He closed his eyes and the room got silent. Kris tried to make eye contact with Tuck, but his eyes were closed, his glistening chest moving up and down in a slow rhythm. She rested her eyes on the pile of rocks in the bowl in the center of the room.
Her long nightmare had started after the accident. The next morning, Terry didn’t show up at the hospital. Instead he sent Rob Anthony, along with two young lawyers, and one thick contract. They found Kris in the family room where she was waiting to hear if her friends would live or die. She told them no, she didn’t want to do this now, but they insisted on reviewing the terms of the deal.
The contract turned over ownership of Dürt Würk to Terry and forbade her from playing Dürt Würk material, or even from playing music in the style of Dürt Würk. In exchange, she got a payout of $500,000.
For the first time in her life, Kris got so angry she didn’t remember what happened. All she remembered was tearing the contract up, shouting at the lawyers, watching them scuttle into the elevator, pressing the “Door Close” button. She remembered how good it felt to have people afraid of her for once.
That feeling lasted until she got home and called Bill’s mom. His brother answered the phone and told her that Bill would never walk again. He told Kris they were going to sue. He hung up before she could say anything.
Two days later, she was in court facing a felony DUI. When she came home there was a message on her answering machine from Scottie’s dad. She knew Scottie hadn’t talked to him in five years, but now he wanted to sue Kris, too. She found Rob’s card in her pocket and called. When he showed up at her door he had a fruit basket in his arms and he didn’t mention the scene at the hospital. He didn’t have to. He’d won. She signed the contract on her coffee table, then spent the rest of her life living in its shadow.
Every cent of the payout went to Scottie’s dad, to Tuck’s mom, to Bill’s brother. By the time she found out she owed $130,000 in taxes on the money, it was almost all gone. She worked out a payment plan with the IRS and got back to work.
She started a new band. They would play bars, weddings, whatever it took to get cash coming in. But after five shows she got dragged into court by Terry and found out that not being allowed to play music in the style of Dürt Würk meant she wasn’t allowed to play music at all. She found a lawyer to sue Terry. Then another lawyer. Then another. The richer Terry got, the more lawyers were willing to give her a consultation. The first few didn’t even charge.
Whoever she talked to, they all said the same thing: why fight? Terry would win. The terms of the contract were open-ended and nebulous, every clause studded with legal land mines that would blow up in her face. Why hadn’t she had a lawyer review the contract before she signed? They warned her that they wouldn’t take her case on contingency. Legal fees would eat up her savings, her house, her life. She started to feel like every lawyer in the world actually worked for Terry.
So Kris didn’t fight, she folded. She went home, and locked up her guitar, and got a job at Best Western, and did her best to fit in, living the rest of her life in silence.
In the quiet of the sweat lodge, Bill said, “What do you guys remember about contract night?”
At first, Kris, head light and full of heat, wasn’t sure he’d said anything at all. “What?” she asked.
Tuck had his eyes open, watching to see how she’d react.
“I built this place to help people become whole,” Bill said, still flat on his back. “But let’s admit it, this slice of Kentucky is hardly a vacation destination. I think I founded Well in the Woods here because it’s where I lost a piece of myself.”
Kris kept her eyes on Tuck as she spoke. “How so, Bill?” she asked, voice calm and level.
“Well,” Bill said, “I remember most of that night very clearly, for obvious reasons, but the timing doesn’t add up. Let’s say you ditched us around six o’clock. We all imbibed various substances, passed out, and then you came back and woke us up around midnight. When I was in the ambulance, one of the paramedics asked for the time, because he thought he had to call a code. I’ll always remember the other one saying, ‘4:56 a.m.’ Where did those five hours go?”
Tuck shimmered in the heat and the walls suddenly felt very far away. Kris kept her eyes on him until he solidified, then turned to Bill. Sweat trickled through her eyebrows.
“Yes,” she said, louder than she intended. “Exactly. What the fuck happened to the time?”
Bill raised his head and looked at her through half-lidded eyes. “Sounds like you have a theory,” he said.
“No,” Kris said, and she wanted to get her thoughts organized, but it was so hot in the sweat lodge. “But I do know—”
The door opened and Miranda entered. Kris clammed up. Miranda carried a woven bamboo basket of cool, rolled towels. She closed the door behind her and her skin instantly dewed with sweat.
“You can talk in front of Miranda,” Bill said. “I trust her completely.”
He draped a cool towel over his forehead. Miranda handed one to Tuck, who wiped his face, then his chest.
“Terry did something to us,” Kris said. “He pulled something and I don’t know what it was, but it was him.”
“Here comes the conspiracy theory,” Tuck rumbled.
Miranda handed Kris a towel. Her arms and legs felt weak from the heat.
“But it doesn’t make any sense,” Bill said.
“Because it’s always been Terry,” Kris said. “Scottie said to me before he died, ‘There’s a hole in the center of the world, and inside that hole is Black Iron Mountain.’ What if it’s real? Or a metaphor for some kind of conspiracy? Something’s been wrong with our lives ever since we signed those contracts. Like something’s missing. And now this? With Scottie? He didn’t kill his family. It was Terry. I know it.”
Bill used his hands to swing his legs off the bench and sit up. Kris tried to stand, but the sweat lodge did a lazy half-turn and she plonked back down hard enough to bruise her tailbone. She swiped sweat from her face with the towel. She looked down at it and saw something stitched along the edge. A logo.
“You’re right, Kris,” Bill said. “Something has been missing from you. We’ve all been very worried.”
Kris unfolded the towel with thick, clumsy fingers and saw a flash of orange and black. The Well in the Woods logo. A butterfly, exactly like the one on Scottie Rocket’s leg.
“Tuck…” Kris said, and her lips were already n
umb.
“I’m sorry, Kris,” Tuck said from far away. “But you have to let go of the past.”
“You’ll thank us later,” Bill said.
Miranda eased Kris down onto the bench, and Kris felt ashamed that she was too weak to resist. She tried to push Miranda away, but her arms didn’t work right. Miranda leaned over Kris and filled her field of vision with her empty, plastic eyes, and Kris knew Scottie Rocket was right, but it was too late. The room was rushing away so fast, and her body felt so heavy, like she was being crushed beneath a mountain, and then it all went black.
FEMALE VOICE: I was lost and drifting through life. Everything was a struggle. I was fighting with my parents and with my boyfriend. I lost my job. Every day, I thought about suicide.
MALE VOICE: But when Rachel Small came to Well in the Woods, we were ready.
FEMALE VOICE: The caring staff helped me confront the issues that held me back. They taught me to stop fighting and to accept the world the way it was.
MALE VOICE: By the time Rachel finished her ninety-day program, the calm, happy young woman looked nothing like the frantic, angry individual who arrived.
FEMALE VOICE: Now, when things get overwhelming, I stop, and listen, and remember what they taught me at Well in the Woods.
—Well in the Woods Radio Promo Spot
May 17, 2019
ris woke up in a white room. The walls were white. The ceiling was white. A wide rubber sheet kept her body and arms pressed flat to the mattress so she couldn’t sit up. She squirmed to make the sheet looser.
“What do you think happened on contract night?” Bill asked.
His voice came from behind her, like a James Bond villain, and no matter which way she twisted, she couldn’t see him.
“Did I pass out?” she asked. Her veins felt full of mud.
“The heat made you lightheaded,” Bill said, wheeling into view on her right. He smiled down at her, his face open and honest. “How are you feeling?”
We Sold Our Souls Page 9