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| A path through woods in June. dee |
I am at the site that Julia reported having found an abandoned grey car. There is no car here. I wonder if the stress of recent days is starting to weigh on her. It’s a shame when people can’t handle what life throws at them. I offered to come check it out, but that’s as far as I go. Julia called the state police so I am sitting in my truck spinning the channel selector to a country western station. Waiting for the big guns. Give me some of that country heartache crooned with a Southern twang. I am getting impatient waiting. What's more, I bet if Carl hears anything about this supposed trespasser, her will come down here to check it out. I keep expecting to hear the crunch of his tires. Damn, Carl. He always has to but into things that are none of his business. Guaranteed that if anything goes wrong it’s going to be due to Carl poking his nose into it.
The more I think about it, the more I know I have to play his game. I climb down from my truck and pace the area, searching for clues. Julia said she had placed rocks behind the wheels, hoping to slow down whoever’s vehicle this belonged to. I find the rocks, the tire tracks and oddly, some random receipts from Wendy’s and McDonald’s. The tracks appear to head to the River.
I take the short walk from the cemetery to the River. June has brought the foliage to life. The path, normally a car’s width all the way to the River, is protected by the heavy umbrage of overgrowth. Light, that has turned green as it passes though the pines, the sumacs and the willows, is filtered, leaving the path feeling like a tunnel. I have to hold back branches and part plants on occasion. I had forgotten how eager nature is to reclaim what is hers’.
Before I reach the River, I see the water moving. The current is slow because it has been a dry June. I used to swim at this exact spot as a boy. There is a small islet about 100 yards off-shore. When we were young and daring and stupid, we would swim that distance. I shake my head to clear it of the past. My present weighs on me, though I try hard to avoid contemplating what I have done. I know I have sold my soul to the devil. Having committed numerous illegal acts, I can not expect redemption. I play a complicit role in something evil and wrong.
My eye is drawn to a glimmer, brighter than sunlight reflected on the water. As I get closer, I wonder, “What on earth?”
As I get closer, I can see through the murky water of the Connecticut water; there is a car almost completely submerged in the water. Only a tip of the hood is exposed. Sunlight is drawn to it. Immediately, I radio it in.
As I make the call, I pull my wallet, cell phone and glasses out of my pockets. Before they hit the ground, I am diving in. Someone might be in the car. Underwater, I can barely see my hand in front of my face. The passenger side doors are both locked. When I try the driver’s side is, too. I see a head resting on the driver’s side window. I have to go up, suck in air, then down again. Using my the Maglite that is clipped on to my utility belt, I swing the heavy flashlight and manage to shatter the safety glass. It stays curiously intact because of the water pressure holding it fixed. I punch through the glass with a second strike and the glass floats, rather than falls, away. I am able to unlock the driver’s side door. I pull the door open, the resistance of the water slows me down. I am beginning to feel burning in my chest, and have to surface. A quick gulp of air and I am back down. The body -- male? female? - has fallen half-out of the car. I notice the face is an unhealthy white. Never-the-less, I scoop my arms under the person’s arms with his or her face turned away from me. I use my legs to push off from the frame of the car, bearing my load to the surface. When I break through the water, Carl is there. He takes over and hauls the body to shore, dragging it across the small beach where kayaks and canoes often put in. I am exhausted. I reach shore and stay on my hands and knees for several minutes. I am hungry for air and can’t get enough. My chest feels uncomfortably tight, but I don’t want Carl to know. He is performing CPR. I file away the fact that he is proficient in this lifesaving technique. The pain in my chest is intruding on my ability to watch him. I change position by sitting on a rock, taking quick, short, shallow breaths until the emergency medical technicians arrive. They seem more concerned about me than what is, by all appearances, a corpse that I found in the car. I am the one they strap to the gurney. I am who receives an open line of Ringer’s Lactate. I am the one on the way to Cooley Dickinson with an oxygen mask securely over both my nose and mouth. This was not the way things were supposed to go. Not at all.
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