Coming Undone: A Novel

by JD Salyers

  Jakey snuggles in deeper, probably trying to get away from the heat on his little arms. Landon whispers, "James."

  James looks up.

  Landon nods at his lap. "I think your little guy is ready for bed," he says with a grin.

  James smiles, too, and then comes to scoop Jakey off to bed. Landon's arms are cold where his little body had been.

  The world is quiet and Landon goes back to staring at the fire, until he hears a faint yell, coming from off down the mountain somewhere.

  12

  The sound is so out of place, and so human amidst the normal frog and insect night sounds, that it startles Landon. He looks toward the darkness of the ledge, then at the boys, to see if they'd heard it, too.

  James is still tucking Jakey into his sleeping bag in the tent, but Peter is standing straight now, staring at him.

  "What was that?" Peter asks, his voice hushed.

  Landon shakes his head, his gaze traveling back toward the ledge and the river below. "Do you think it was Michael?"

  To be honest, the sound was too faint to tell for sure. It was definitely a human, though.

  Peter said, "We can't be the only people on this mountain tonight. Maybe some kids playing around on the trails?"

  Landon doesn't think so. They would have seen tracks other than their own, back in the clearing. They would have seen evidence of other people walking - footprints, broken branches, crushed grass underfoot. Landon isn't any sort of expert tracker, but a man can tell when he's really alone in a place. There's a sort of vacuum, even with the boys around, that lets him know he's far from civilization.

  He stands up, suddenly, pushed by nerves. What if someone needs help? What if Michael is in trouble? The smell of the rotting forest is very clear, very sharp. "I think I'm going to look around," he says to Peter.

  Peter looks concerned. Nods. "Want me to come along?"

  Landon shakes his head, hitches up his jeans. "No. It's probably nothing. Kids, like you said."

  Peter tosses a flashlight and Landon grabs it out of the air. Then, almost reluctantly, he turns away from the comfortable fire and heads for the trail in the woods. Then, on second thought, he comes back and goes into the tent he's supposed to share with Michael. He grabs the .38, and slips the holster on. You can't be too careful in the woods, especially at night. And it's not even the animals - it's the pot field or the meth lab or the other human varmints who use the cover of darkness and vacancy to do whatever ugly things they do. This place was always safe, but they haven’t been here in a long time. Things change.

  Peter's eyebrows come up when he leaves the tent. "All-righty, then," he says, a half-smile on his face. "You looking to put Michael out of his misery?"

  Landon looks at him, and for a moment forgets how to answer. Who's Michael? Why is he in misery?

  It's another glitch, and then his thoughts snap back into place. "No, unless he wants me to," Landon says, joking to cover his momentary lapse. Leaving Peter, he turns and heads into the woods.

  The sound had to have come from below, because the woods were too dense in the other direction. He and Jakey, earlier, had gone about as far as possible in that direction when they were gathering wood. The only other passable trails are back toward the trucks or around the knob, which slopes upward and then down toward the river. Michael went this way. Landon might own this little piece of the mountain, but he'd never felt driven to enforce others' using it, and now it looks like there might still be a ghost of the old trail, if he looks carefully. Hell, he'd even invited their friends to go there a few times, when he knew the place was empty.

  The trees are thick here, too, but not impassible. It's so dark that without the light it would feel a lot like being in one of those, whatchamacallits, a deprivation tank. As it is, he feels like he is in a tomb of some sort - a wall of darkness beyond his flashlight. It's claustrophobic, and he speeds up to get out of it. Trees brush the top of his bare head, and he wishes he'd remembered to grab a cap.

  He leans into the short upward climb until he gets the top of the knob. At the top, on the small protruding mound of earth, he can see a little better. Not the river - that's still too far below, a black hole out in front of him. But the vague light of their camp is visible, and so is the sky above. The clouds are moving faster, and he hopes for a moment that it doesn't rain on them. Then he turns his attention back to the trail.

  Or, actually, the lack of one. When the boys were small, they kept it pretty worn down. Now, in the decades since, there almost was no trail to speak of - just a six-inch wide break in the brush, barely discernible. A deer trail, more or less. He stops and takes his bearings, feeling his mind glitch for a moment, then right itself.

  He wishes Melody was here. She would know.

  Know what? What is it that he needs to know? He isn't sure, and he isn't sure how Melody would be able to help him. He looks around one more time, then takes a few steps along the not-really-a-trail, fighting briars and hanging limbs. They snag at his clothes and scratch his face. He stops and rubs a sharp pain on his chin. His hand comes away wet, and when he looks with the flashlight, there is blood. A little, not a lot.

  The night sounds fall in around him. He can hear buzzing, and the calls of hunting birds. Big ones, the ones with the huge eyes. What are they called? He can picture them, but the name escapes him. It's not important, and he needs to hurry up. He needs to get down to the river, while he can still hear it.

  He rounds the back end of the knob and the slope deepens, to the point that he has to be careful and not slip in the wet grass. Every time he moves his foot, he tests it, just in case. If he turns an ankle here, it might throw him the rest of the way down the mountain. That would mean almost certain death on the rocky banks, if he's lucky and doesn't get swept away in the current and die by drowning.

  So he takes his time and tries to hurry, all at once, grabbing onto any tree branch or trunk that's within reach to steady himself. A sense of pure urgency pushes him faster than he'd like, but he doesn't dare slow down.

  His heart is beating fast now, and his legs feel wobbly. Careless, like they'll throw him down the mountain at the first chance. Like his own legs are wanting him dead.

  Stupid, stupid thoughts.

  The water is getting louder, so he knows he's getting close, even though he still can't see beyond the skeleton elbows of the trees. Something small and quick swoops down from above, too quick for him to see more than a pale blur. It's close enough to his face that he bats at it with the flashlight and almost loses his balance in the process. As it is, his feet slip forward and his weight tips to the side. He smacks a shoulder on a tree trunk and bounces off, grabbing it at the last second to stay upright. The action spins him around and causes him to drop the light. It flashes across dripping leaves and rocks to a stop five feet away.

  Adrenaline shoots through him. A sound rips from his throat - something between a curse and a whine. It sounds alien and wrong here in the dark woods, like some animal caught in a trap.

  At least the light is still on. Landon stops and gets a breath, then falls to a knee to reach for it. His fingers clasp the cold metal, now gritty with dirt. He shines the beam around and wonders how he came to be here.

  He knows he's not lost. At least he doesn't feel lost. He feels like he was just doing something and lost his train of thought. Which is probably what happened.

  But what was he doing? Why is he alone? Wasn't he with others, just a little while ago? He tries to remember but can't recall names or faces. But there had been somebody - maybe several somebodies, and he thinks they must be people that he likes. Otherwise, why would he be out here in the woods with them?

  And what were they doing out here, anyway? He knows it was something important. Maybe even something he enjoyed. Hunting, maybe. He must have somehow gotten separated from the group. He'd look around for the others and make his way back.

  But looking around doesn't seem to do any good. He turns in every direction. Three are
the same - trees, trees, darkness, trees. No indication of which way he needs to go. The fourth way is black and more open, straight downhill. Steep. He can hear the water below, grumbling at him like an old man. It sounds dangerous. He backs away from that direction, toward the trees.

  But that doesn't feel like the right way. The river feels like the right way, no matter how much he doesn't want to go there.

  But why? Why is he supposed to go to the river? What’s down there? Are the people accompanying him waiting down there for him? He wishes he could remember.

  He stands very still, holding onto the tree, trying to think. His thoughts feel jumbled, pinging through his mind and then slipping away into the ether, out of his reach. There is a boy, a child. And Melody. And trucks. The cold presses against his cheeks and the backs of his hands.

  Somewhere, a sound comes. It might be an animal, but to him it sounds a lot like a child crying.

  Suddenly, without warning, the memories come. He's going to the river because one of the boys is in danger. He remembers Melody crying, asking him to go save the boy...Peter? Melody, pointing and screaming that he must have fallen into the water. Her slim figure curled in fear and pain, hysteria in her voice.

  Is it his son Peter? This child sounds younger. Peter is eleven.

  But maybe not. Maybe Peter is just scared. With some relief, he starts moving down the mountain. He still can't go very fast, but at least he knows where and why he's going. There is a purpose.

  The leaves on the skinny trail are slick, making him lose his balance over and over again. He barely stays upright, and then only with the help of the trees. Where the leaves aren't covering the ground, there is bare earth, muddy and just as slick. But he keeps going. Melody is worried and Peter might be in trouble. If anything happened to their child, she might never recover. He wasn't sure he would, either. His boys mean everything to him.

  It seems like forever until the ground slope starts to level a bit, meaning that he can speed up. The river is roaring now, so much that he wouldn't be able to hear his own voice if he yells out. Even before he gets to the bottom, he starts scanning the area with his flashlight.

  There is nobody here. Nothing but trees and mud and one abandoned, destroyed boat. It’s tipped on its side, leaning against a tree downriver. It looks like floodwater swept it away from someone's driveway years ago and deposited it here in the middle of nowhere. Mold and rust war for territory on its surface. He decides to check it first, in case Peter is scared and hiding behind it.

  Getting to the boat is trickier than he thought. More briars, more errant tree limbs to snag and shove at him. More than once he feels his body tipping toward the water before grabbing onto something and digging a spot for his foot on the muddy, rocky bank. Everything is soaking wet, including the legs of his jeans.

  About halfway there, he stops to listen, then yells Peter's name, but his voice is swept away with the sound of the river's current. He keeps going. A cold, driving rain starts to fall.

  The boat has been abandoned long before, he thought. A small wooden vessel, it's busted through near the bottom and the wood is rotten and soft. There are oar locks, but they’re rusted to the point of crumbling. No oars in sight. Probably downriver a few miles. There's no sign of Peter or anyone else.

  He turns away from the boat, his mind keeping a running tally of everything in the light of the flashlight's beam. Looking, looking, for any sign of humanity - in the water, on the bank, in the trees behind him when he turns in a circle to take stock. Trees, water, mud. The boy has to be here somewhere. Maybe hiding. Maybe stuck, because Peter never met a tree he couldn't climb. He tries to remember what the boy was wearing and can't. Can't even draw up a mental picture of his youngest son. Terrible, but to be expected. This time of year, work is long hours and tired nights. He falls into bed without so much as a kiss from Melody, but she understands. He is, after all, working for her. For them.

  Still, he thinks he should remember what the boy was wearing. After all, he just saw him...what? An hour ago? A couple of hours? Peter couldn't have gotten lost that fast.

  Well, OK, that was wrong. These ragged mountains could swallow up a person pretty quick. Snakes, mountain lions, boars - there were plenty of creatures that would make a meal of a child. Not to mention sinkholes, falling rocks, and a few cliffs here and there. He's told the boys a million times to respect the wilderness, for this exact reason.

  He scans the woods behind him again, and this time his eyes catch sight of something. Red, hidden among the trees, about twenty feet up the bank on the trail. "Hey," he shouts, but of course the words are lost.

  He moves toward whatever it is, keeping his light on it. He shouts again when he's halfway there, putting his hand on the revolver at his waist. He unsnaps the holster, draws the weapon, and cocks it, all in one fluid motion. Years of practice - he doesn't even have to think.

  James steps out from behind a large pine tree. Both his hands are up, chest level. "It's just me, Dad."

  Landon’s mind grows heavy, all of a sudden. He hesitated, feeling the urge to do something...he’d been doing something. Something important. "What are you doing down here?" Landon asks.

  He realizes that he's still holding the gun. James eyes it as Landon snaps it back into the holster.

  "I just came to check on you. You've been gone a little while. Michael's back at the camp. What are you doing?" The concern in his voice angers Landon, but he's not sure why. It's a logical question.

  "I was looking..." he starts, but then stops. What was he doing down here? What had he been looking for? He can't remember. Finally he says, "Around. Just looking around."

  "Well, let's get back to the fire. The temperature is dropping." James holds out a hand, then pulls back.

  Landon follows him up the trail, moving slow and grabbing trees so that he doesn't dump headfirst into the water below. But his mind is racing. What had he been looking for? Why did he feel like he should stay put, keep looking? Why does his mind keep blanking like this? None of it makes any sense, and it's pissing him off.

  13

  Melody opens her mouth and flies the small plastic red spoon into baby Pansy's waiting mouth like an airplane. She grins when the baby clamps down and swallows the ice cream, wanting to kiss those pudgy cheeks for the rest of her days. The baby giggles and kicks both feet in the high chair.

  "I bet you and Pop were good parents," Janice says idly, watching grandma and grandbaby enjoying themselves.

  Hah!" Melody says, glancing over with a smile. "Poor Landon was working so hard that he was never around." She pauses. "Turns out, that was a good thing."

  "Oh, yeah?"

  Melody nods. "Landon didn't have the patience for kids. He was not the best when the boys were little." She rushes to add, "He tried hard, and he got better as they grew, of course. When they got older, he was able to communicate better with them, I think."

  "So he never did this?" Janice waves a hand. "Played with them like you do?"

  "Oh, he did, but he couldn't do it for long, and he wasn't good at one-on-one time with either of them. They made him nervous, he said." Melody puts the spoon down and reaches to unbuckle the baby from her high chair. "We did all right, though. He was working so many hours that he needed the rest when he got the chance. I was happy to keep the kids out of his hair."

  "Oh, I'm sure." Janice scoops up the little red bowl with its few drops of ice cream in the bottom and carries it to the sink. "I was just surprised, is all. He's so good with the kids now."

  "He is," Melody agrees. Thinking back, she says, "He wasn't always the man you know, though. He wasn't always a nice person, even."

  Janice turns, wiping her hands with a towel, intrigue brightening her freckled features. "He wasn't mean, was he?" she asks.

  "No.... Not mean, exactly. He was just a lot rougher around the edges when I met him." Her smile softens. "What they'd call a bad boy, now, I suppose."

  "Is that why you fell for him?" Janice teases.


  "Maybe a little." Melody feels her cheeks heat up a little.

  "Huh. Imagine that." Janice picks up the baby and tickles her. "You've got a little bit of Bonnie and Clyde blood in your veins."

  Melody laughs. "Well, we weren't that bad." She hesitates. "Well, I wasn't, anyway."

  "Pops was?"

  Melody thinks about that before she answers. She knows Landon wouldn't appreciate her telling all his sordid details, a lot of which he'd be ashamed of now. At the same time, their stories are a part of who they are, even if he'd changed. Besides, it would be nice to have someone - another woman - to talk to about...things.

  Does she dare tell Janice what is going on?

  "Let's just say he wouldn't win any Citizen of the Year awards."

  The truth is, when she and Landon first met - at a carnival being held two counties over - her father had immediately forbade her to see the young man who was running the duck shoot game near the boardwalk. In fact, when her Pa caught her talking to the young man with the happy blue eyes, he'd sent her straight home, telling her to get out of harm's way. Her mother, a severe woman, stood by and watched the entire argument, never disagreeing with her father, but Melody even then suspected that there was a hint of sympathy in her expression as she watched their little drama play out.

  Melody, emboldened by her age and the attention of the handsome boy, had, for the first time in her life, sneaked out after dark and returned to the carnival, like a moth to a flame.

  Her parents had discovered the deception, almost immediately, but for some reason they hadn't come to drag her back home. Somehow, she and the young man with the toy guns had hit it off. He'd bought her cotton candy, then won her a stuffed elephant that she still had packed away in her trunks forty years later. He had given her treats and stolen her heart, her mother had mused later.