Cruelest Month

by Aaron Stander

  A small wooden dock was secured at the trail’s end, a launching point for canoes and kayaks. She stood on the platform and slowly surveyed the scene, looking upstream first, and then following the flow of rushing water to the south. She focused on sound—the gentle gurgle of the water dominating the wind moving through leafless trees. The air was heavy with decay. The leaves and dead plants emerging from winter’s cover were beginning to degrade under the hot sun, making way for a new season’s growth.

  She gazed at the pallet of hues of the early spring landscape, earth tones mostly, a range of browns and dull greens. The water, lit at an acute angle by the early spring sun, was stained by the decaying oak leaves to the shade of weak coffee. Scanning the trees and bushes, Mackenzie could find no birds flittering about, no chirping, no cries of alarm or passion. She thought briefly about how silly her bird watching costume would look in this location to anyone who knew about such things. So much for disguises.

  She scanned the air and water. Insect life seemed to be limited to a few water striders, their long legs floating on the smooth surface of the slow-moving eddies at the edge of the stream. In her memory the air was always filled with mosquitoes. She knew they would quickly emerge in the sudden surge of warm air. She took several more stills, and then switched to movie mode, sweeping from right to left.

  Mackenzie slowly swept the scene a final time, her eyes taking it all in, recording the images, meshing this moment with the old memory, resizing and revising her knowledge of the area. Then she retreated up the path, awash with emotions, lost in the past. She was standing next to her car, still deep in thought, keys in her hand, when she was startled by the roar of an engine. A rusty Jeep came rolling down the sandy road, slowing and turning in to park. Four boys climbed out, dressed in cutoffs and t-shirts, one in flip-flops, the others sockless in battered running shoes. Each boy held a blue and red beer can. They all seemed focused on her, not in a menacing way, just as something out of place in an environment with which they were familiar.

  “Hi, guys,” she said. “How about this weather?”

  “Amazing,” said the tallest of the group. “Should still be winter.”

  “Well, enjoy,” she laughed, sliding into her car, hitting the door lock as she engaged the starter. But she didn’t leave. She sat for a while after the boys had disappeared down the path. Then, on her way back toward Sandville, it hit her. It all came rushing back. The sound of the engine, the smell of cigarettes and beer. She pulled to the side of the road, shaken. A Jeep, rusty, with oversized tires. She and Terry had seen it cross the bridge. And a few minutes later, Sabotny and the others were upon them, surrounding her. Terry had grabbed a piece of wood and used it as a club, allowing her to break free and run.

  Yes, the Jeep explained so many things. Terry’s body didn’t get dumped. He was hauled up to where his body was found. A Jeep with big tires could have gone miles on the beach early in the season with little or no notice, especially back then. The question was, did they kill Terry, or just leave him on the beach to die of injuries and exposure?

  30

  Ray’s brain was somewhere else when his iPhone emitted a text message tone.

  Ray—need to kayak. H.

  He looked out the window at the brilliant sunlight, noting the trees swaying in the wind. He went to the NOAA website to check conditions. Record high temperature for the date, 81 degrees, winds 15 to 25, gusts to 35. Waves 4 to 7 feet. Water temp. 40 degrees.

  Conditions on big lake marginal. Suggest quiet water or a walk on beach. R.

  Want to do big lake. Can we meet at ur place in 45? H.

  Will do my best. R.

  Ray’s rough water kayak, a boat with lots of rocker built into the hull, was already strapped to the roof of Hannah’s car beside her own boat. Dressed in a fleece jumpsuit, she was leaning against her car talking on her cell. Ray thought she looked tense, perhaps even angry. He heard her finish the conversation as he approached.

  “How are you?”

  “I’ll be better when we are on the water. Get changed,” she demanded, her manner not lightening.

  A few minutes later they were rolling toward the big lake. Ray glanced over at the speedometer. “I can’t get you off if you’re pulled over.”

  She looked over at him briefly, then back at the road. Ray felt the car decelerate.

  “Worried about your boat or your reputation?” she growled.

  “The kayak,” he responded. “That was a special order. It would take months to get a replacement.”

  She smiled weakly. “You’re one of the few people I know with their priorities straight.”

  “What’s going on?” he asked, sensing the softening.

  “Paddle first,” she said. “Talk later.”

  “Are you sure you want to go out in this?” Ray asked as they stood and looked at the tempest—foam and spray blowing off the crests of the breaking waves.

  “Yes,” she yelled back, protecting her eyes with her left hand from the blast of sand being carried along the shore from the southwesterly winds.

  At the car they pulled on dry suits and spray skirts. Then they belted on towropes, and clipped and tightened their PFDs. Finally, they strapped on helmets and returned to their boats, securing back-up paddles under the bungee straps on the front decks.

  “Do you want me to help you launch?” he asked.

  “I can do it myself.”

  They stood for another few minutes and observed the wave sets, before dragging their kayaks forward. Then they waited for a lull before quickly dropping in their boats and attaching the spray skirts. Ray was looking at Hannah when a massive wave pushed up on the beach, broaching and flipping her boat. He could see that she had been knocked onto her back deck, the boat now on top of her in the water and sand. He pulled the release strap on his skirt, but before he could get out, her boat was over and she was positioning it again to launch into the surf.

  Ray reattached his spray skirt, waited for the next large wave to float his hull, and fought his way into the surf zone, positioning his bow perpendicular to the breakers. At times, he had to separate the surges crashing over his boat with his broad paddle to keep from getting hammered in the chest.

  Using almost vertical paddle strokes, he slogged forward, trying to get to the deeper water beyond the breaking waves, the boat rising up and crashing through the marching walls of water. As he neared the top of a large swell, it began to break, standing his boat vertically, then toppling it as the stern slipped violently backward, the end catching on the bottom as the full weight and force of the wave crashed into him.

  Upside down in the swirling water, he attempted to roll, only to get hit halfway up by the next breaker. Submerged again in the sudden darkness and quiet, he reached for the release strap on his spray skirt and tumbled out. Catching the bow toggle with his left hand, he allowed the waves to carry him toward shallow water. When his feet touched the bottom, he walked toward shore, keeping the lake at his back and the boat to his front. He emptied the boat—now filled with water and weighing hundreds of pounds—on shore.

  Then it was back out into the torrent, joining Hannah beyond the surf zone. Bracing on breaking waves, surfing toward shore, turning and paddling out into the safety zone for a respite, then searching for the next ride. Ray got capsized again, rolling up successfully. He saw Hannah get trashed two or three times, her finessed rolls bringing her back into paddling position within seconds.

  Eventually, as they bobbed out beyond the surf, Hannah pointed toward the beach and paddled forward to catch a wave. Ray watched her progress and successful landing, and then followed her. He scrambled out of his kayak before he was broached and dragged it out of the water, falling to the sand next to Hannah.

  “It’s starting to drop,” he said, after several minutes.

  “I know. We got the best of it. You got tumbled.”

  “Too shallow. Face in the sand. Couldn’t roll.”

  After a while, Ray stood, grasp
ed Hannah’s outstretched hand and pulled her to her feet.

  They returned to Ray’s house in silence, both physically exhausted and Hannah not ready to talk. When Hannah emerged from the bedroom, dressed in fleece pants and top, her hair still wet from the shower, Ray was standing in the kitchen, opening and laying out his stash from Zingerman’s—farmhouse cheeses, bread, olive oil for dipping, and some Italian salami. She slipped into his arms, and he pulled her tight. After a long embrace, he could feel her begin to sob, gently at first, then violently for many minutes before beginning to regain control. Reaching past Ray, she grabbed a piece of paper towel, drying her eyes and blowing her nose, then slipped back into his arms.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Everything,” said Hannah. “This morning I was seeing patients when I was paged to the ER. Gunshot victim, a young woman six or seven months pregnant. She was flat-lining. Rolled her to surgery, opened her chest.” She pulled back from Ray and held out her hands. “Look at these: small, delicate, and very skilled. How many miracles they’ve given me.” She paused and inhaled deeply. “No miracle today. Too much damage to repair. I went to find the husband. He was in the ER too, a young deputy in the room guarding him, a nurse monitoring his vitals. The guy was comatose, drugs and alcohol. The deputy gave me the scenario. They were staying with the shooter’s mother. The husband had just been released from a downstate hospital, PTSD, two tours in Iraq, one in Afghanistan. Suicidal. He had OD’d on his meds, drunk a bottle of bourbon, and was trying to kill himself with a pistol his mother kept around for self-defense. He and his wife struggled for the weapon. She caught the bullet.

  “I left the ER, walked outside. People were on lunch or breaks, celebrating the sunshine and the warm weather. Then a helicopter landed. It all came rushing back. The slap of the blades, the screaming jet engine, the blood, the carnage. I fell to my knees, people rushing to help me. Walking me back inside.

  “All I wanted to do was get a bottle of Scotch and obliterate everything. That’s what I did in Baghdad; that’s what I did here.” She paused briefly. “I called my therapist in Boston. Probably talked to her for an hour. She walked me back. But Ray, I’m like that guy in the ER. I’m damaged goods. I’ll always be an outsider. I don’t think I can find a normal life. I listen to my colleagues talk about new houses, or daycare, or vacations. Just the usual, nothing wrong with it, but it’s not my world. I wanted to yell and scream about a world I couldn’t change. Then I texted you.”

  “And now?”

  “Better, at least for the moment. I’m like an epileptic after a seizure. Exhausted. Can I have a glass of wine?”

  “You’re asking for alcohol.”

  “A glass of wine, maybe two. Nothing more. Just some wine, food, music. Being here with you. Being quiet, maybe a walk later. Can I spend the night? I don’t mean to make you my minder, but this is what I need. I trust you. I think you are a survivor, too.”

  “Let’s have some food,” said Ray. “Then a walk before it gets too dark.”

  31

  Mackenzie boiled some water and poured it over a tea bag in a large earthenware mug. She leaned against the counter, allowing the tea to steep, then added some honey, stirring, tasting, and adding more honey. Setting the mug in easy reach, she settled at her keyboard, sliding the memory card from the camera into a port on the computer. One by one, she looked at the still images on the large display, at times her fingers sliding across the track pad to manipulate and enlarge parts of an image for closer inspection. She moved to the video, turning up the volume to get the sound of the wind and water. She replayed the video several times, switching to full-screen, then returned to still images, slowly scrutinizing each one a final time, the tea growing tepid as she absorbed every detail.

  This was the place, she said in a soft voice. She sat for a while considering her next move. Putting the images into a string of e-mails with short descriptions, she sent them to Ken Lee. On the subject lines she keyed, “Where it happened.”

  “I thought you were on vacation yesterday,” were Ken Lee’s first words when he called Mackenzie a minute or two later.

  “I was, but once I got home and put the food away….” She stopped and reflected on what had happened to her planned holiday.

  “Are you still there?” he asked after an unusually long silence.

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. I’m growing used to your considered responses.”

  “What was your question again?” Mackenzie asked,

  “The vacation day, the holiday…?”

  “Yes. I did all the things I told you I was going to do. Went to yoga. Nice studio. Good instructor. All women in the class, not one guy, not even a geezer. Not like California. And the women were exceedingly helpful. If I lived up here, these are people I’d like to know. I got a massage, strong woman, good hands. I went shopping. And I found a terrific local bookstore with an espresso bar. The day was so ordinary, I was filled with joy. When I got home I thought I’d eat some good food, drink some wine. But….”

  “What?”

  “I was right back in it, trying to figure this thing out. What was I thinking when I came here with no real plan? You’re right, what you said the other day. I was totally fixated on Sabotny. He was the ringleader. It wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t been there. None of it.”

  “Slow down, slow down. You’ve lost me. You’ve just given me two things. One has to do with a plan, the other with Sabotny.”

  “There is no plan. I mean, somehow I thought I could just come out here….”

  “You did have a plan of sorts. You established that Sabotny was back in Cedar County. You found a house that would give you a view of his. You have been collecting data on his habits. You even had a chance to see him in operation, albeit accidentally. What you are trying to accomplish takes time.”

  “But what am I trying to accomplish? I started this thinking that Sabotny was Terry’s killer, but how can I prove that, and what I would do with the information if I could find some truth….”

  “Okay, let’s slow down. I’ve watched you in action professionally over several years. You are an enormously effective leader. Why? Because you think strategically. You find the right people, you tap into all the necessary resources, and you plan for every possible contingency. I won’t tell you that you are a risk taker. You’re not. You minimize your risks so you can maximize your chances for success. And it has worked out for you.

  “But this current pursuit of yours, it doesn’t fit the paradigm. There is so much unknown and mostly unknowable. You think this Sabotny character was responsible for your brother’s death, but you don’t know that for sure. Sabotny, with or without the help of the other boys, might have killed your brother. But Terry’s death might also have been an accident.”

  “Like how?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe in the course of the fight that allowed you to escape, he fell and hit his head. Another possibility—you said he had something like a branch or board that he was swinging—is that he lost control of it and it was used against him. Maybe someone hit him, not intending to kill him, but did. It happens a lot, especially with teenagers. They don’t anticipate the possible consequences of their actions. Or what if he had something like a congenital heart….”

  “So where are you going with this?” pressed Mackenzie.

  “Stay with me for a few minutes. Let’s say Terry died, either as the result of something he did or something that was done to him. They’ve got to get rid of the body. Easiest thing is to make it look like a drowning.”

  “If it was an accident, why wouldn’t you go to the police?” she protested.

  “Look, what you told me about these guys suggests they weren’t members of the honor society. They were drinking beer, smoking dope, and looking to gang rape the victim’s little sister. They’re not going to go the police. They’re going to stage a drowning, an accident, something that doesn’t involve them.”

  “But any k
ind of investigation would have disproved….”

  “Was there an investigation? Did you hear of any inquiries?”

  Mackenzie was silent, trying to remember what her mother told her. “He was gone more than a day before my mother called the sheriff. Later a deputy came around to see her, someone she knew from the tavern. He said Terry’s body had been found on a Lake Michigan beach. Terry had apparently drowned while skinny-dipping. Probably became hypothermic.”

  “And you told your mother what had happened, the fight, that you were almost gang raped?”

  “I told her everything. I was hysterical. I never knew if she was listening. She was usually stoned or drunk or both. She said that Terry was dead. Nothing would change that. So there was no use making trouble. She said if the police got too interested in us, most likely they’d come and take us away from her and put us in foster homes. I didn’t understand the police or social services. And, of course, they should have taken us away from her. But, again, what does this have to do with anything? What’s your point?”

  “Simply that you don’t know how Terry died. You don’t know who, if anyone, is responsible. And even if you could establish guilt, what could you do about it? Could you go to the law? Would there be enough information for a prosecution? Or would you simply blow him away?”

  For a long time, Mackenzie looked at an image of the Sandville Creek, winding out of sight on the screen. Ken Lee let her think. “So what do I do next?” she said finally.