Salvage (21 page)

Will I wake before it happens?
he wondered, but another idea occurred to him, much more sickening:
It this what happened to Lori?

Owen stood under the cloudless sky, bright pinpricks of stars peeking through night-black fronds of pines and cedars. At the end of the path, where water lapped against the cement steps, the Shepherd turned his lamplight-white face up to his follower.

Come on in,
Owen, those dead eyes seemed to say.
Join the congregation.

"No." Owen shook his head fiercely—not a dream. Everything he'd seen, everything he'd felt and smelled, was real, or
real enough
. He'd die down there if he went any further. "I won't do it," he said, trying to convince himself. "I'm not going down there. I don't care who you are, you can't make me. You
can't
."

The dead man swept out a damp arm, still dripping, toward the black water. Owen had a vague idea the man was
always
wet, that he would remain so for eternity. The dead man held his hand palm up, not pointing, not ordering Owen toward his death, only indicating the lake itself, as if to show him something of grave importance.

It's a trick,
he thought, but still, he followed.

A moment later he stood at the preacher's side, skin crawling, following the dead man's gaze to the moonlit lake. Pale figures rose from the water then, breaking the surface in the glittery path of the moon. Owen saw them clearly: men, women, and the blonde-haired cherub, dressed in clothes belonging to the 1970s or early-'80s, all wide collars and muted colors. They were the same people he'd seen the day before in the lake,
the exact same
, and only then did he connect them with the people who'd watched him drown in his tub. The young mother, whose face had wrinkled in the water to the texture and color of a prune, held her baby's sagging corpse in her arms like a rotted pumpkin, and the hollow-eyed father kept his gristly arm around them both.

Owen thought,
The realm of the dead. Abaddon uncovered
.

The congregation of the dead opened their mouths together. At first, Owen thought they meant to speak to him, as Lori had in his dream. Instead, their decayed windpipes began to chant in a toneless croak:

My soul is sick, my heart is sore

Now I'm coming home

My strength renew, my home restore,

Lord, I'm coming home.

The dead stopped singing abruptly, the wet, oozing messes that remained of their eyes and mouths widening as if in dread, their left hands rising to point in unison toward the shore. Toward
him
.

The hair on the back of Owen's neck bristled in nerve-twisting dread as he turned to the man at his side—but the Shepherd no longer stood with him. It was Brother Woodrow.

"The Devil wears many faces," the man of God said, smiling darkly. He was as dead as the others, his red beard straggly and sparse, his eyes sunken in yellow-brown pits, his smile lipless. He drew the brass watch from the Bible pocket of his filthy, tattered robe, and flicked open the lid to give its smooth, undamaged face a brief look. In that moment, Owen saw the time was 2:06.

"It's time, son," Brother Woodrow croaked. "Do you see the Mystery?" His wild, bulging eyes twinkled under the dark heavens as he looked over his flock, and he drew an arm over Owen's shoulders, pulling him in to a friendly, chilling embrace. The dead man's flesh writhed against Owen, as if his robe had been stuffed full of snakes.

Owen snapped awake, twisted up in the sweat-dampened covers. It took a few tries to tear and shake himself free, long enough to think he'd awakened to yet another nightmare, to wonder if the dreams would go on happening over and over, wondering if he'd ever wake for real. Then he was free, gasping as if he'd been underwater and had just come up for air. He kicked the sheet away and sat up in bed. The morning sun had already warmed the room.

He sat in bed thinking about the frighteningly lucid dream for several minutes before deciding it was silly to waste a day made for getting out in the lake. He climbed out of bed on the window side. The sun shone through gauzy brown curtains, and when he peered out between them, the lake looked like a polished jewel. Already people were out and about, kids climbing the rocks across the bay, and a man and boy fishing from a small tin boat in the shallows.

He threw on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, trying to forget about his dream as he dressed. Heading for the door, he squelched down in a wet spot on the carpet, and a shiver stole over him. He froze where he stood, the soles of his feet damp, just as they'd been in his dream.

"Nope," he assured himself. "Probably a leaky roof. Washed-out shingles and exposed nails, remember?" He lifted his foot carefully from the cold wet stain and looked down. It had left a print. "That's
my
footprint, not—" With a hard swallow, he tried to make himself believe it. "—not
his
. It's rising damp. Wood rot in the floorboards. This place is a money pit, not a haunted house."

Feeling as though something in the room might be watching him, he added more forcefully, "
There's no such thing as ghosts.
"

Then he tromped over the vague footprints leading out into the hall, obliterating them from sight, but not from mind.

3

He ate a hurried breakfast, cereal and toast with jam, then headed for the back door. As he passed, he saw the red light on the answering machine blinking. Someone must have turned off the ringer. Either that or he'd slept through the call.

"Message one," the robotic voice announced.

"Hi, Owen, it's, uh… It's Constable Selkie. I don't know how to tell you this; I'm not even sure why I'm calling you… I just… Nance has locked herself in the bathroom, and Howard's in an MRI… I've got no one else to talk to."

Selkie's voice quavered, as if he was crying. In the background was a bustling of people, chattering, scurrying.

"
Christ
, man… He was just a
kid
. Call me when you get this, okay? Just… Please."

The phone was cradled improperly. Owen pressed STOP.

"Didn't leave a number," he said to the machine. He dialed 911. "The number you have dialed is not in service," the automated voice told him. "Please hang up, and try—"

He hung up. Dialed 0, hoping to speak to a person.

"Hello. Information."

"Hi, I need the number for the police. I tried 911 but it said it's not in service."

"Right. We don't have 911 up here. You'll have to dial the full number."

"Okay, if you could just do that for me, that'd be great. It's kind of an emergency— Actually, do you have the number for a Michael Selkie? Maybe I should call him directly."

"If this is an emergency call, I can connect you with the police—"

"No, it's not an emergency. I mean, I'm not sure what it is, exactly."

"Sir, do you want me to dial the police, or don't you?"

"Dial Michael Selkie," he said, frustrated. "
Constable
Michael Selkie. Please."

"One moment," the operator said, annoyed.

The phone rang. Selkie picked it up on the first ring.

"Constable Selkie," he said, his voice ragged.

"Mike, it's Owen. Owen Saddler."

"Owen! Oh, thank God, you called back."

"I just got your message," he said, dragging a kitchen chair over to sit by the phone. "Is everything okay? You sounded—"

"Owen…" Selkie sighed heavily. "Howie's dead."

"How—?" He wasn't sure if he'd meant to ask if he'd heard Selkie correctly, that Howie was dead, or if he'd meant how had it happened. Selkie took it for the latter.

"Drowned," he said, incredulous. "He fucking
drowned
, Owen."

"That's not possible. He told me he wouldn't be caught—" He'd almost said the d-word, and he knew, he
knew
, that it was somehow the fault of Brother Woodrow, that Woodrow and the Shepherd were somehow, invariably, one and the same. "He said he'd never set foot in that lake."

"I know," Selkie said. "I know."

"Well how did it happen, did they say…?"

"Dump owner found him at eight a.m. Figure he musta gone out there to dump some trash, maybe got a little closer to the lake than he'd thought. The garbage goes right down to the water over there—"

"He told me."

"His truck rolled right over him, pushed him right into the lake. It looked like there was a washout, a small flash flood—I dunno how that's even
possible
. His head's pretty… Oh,
Jesus
, Owen, it's just a mess. It's a
mess
—" His words cut off in a choked sob.

"I'm so sorry, Mike."
I just saw him yesterday
, Owen thought, as if it made a difference, as if having seen him made his death less real.
He waved to us from the ambulance
.

"How'm I gonna tell my wife?" Selkie was saying. "My little girl, Owen—Jesus! I just don't
get
it."

But Owen knew. He'd stood with Howie's murderer. He'd seen the Mystery. "'The dead are in deep anguish,'" he said, "'those beneath the waters and all that live in them.'"

"What?" Selkie said, angry, confused, and Owen realized that he must have said it aloud.

"It's from Job," he said, unable to cover. "The Bible."

"What does it
mean
, though?"

Owen weighed his options: he could dive down to the church under the lake, hoping to find answers among the dead, or try to wrestle information out of a grieving father, to find out what the old man knew about Brother Woodrow and his Blessed Trinity Mission.

Suddenly, the thought of getting in that lake didn't seem quite so inviting. Suddenly, it was the
absolute last
thing he wanted to do.

"Owen…?"

"I need to talk to Howard," he said.

4

The old man sat at the window in a small room with a single bed, wrapped in a rough wool blanket as gray as his mood. His hair was unkempt, bristles of stubble as white as snow on his chin and cheeks. A pleasant Filipino nurse in blue scrubs with a Mickey Mouse print had shown Owen the way and left him at the door. He knocked on the outside wall.

"I won't roll up my damned sleeves for
one more
bloody test!" Howard grumbled, squinting out at the sun. "I don't care on whose authority you've been sent. I'm in mourning, God damn you."

"It's me, Howard. Owen."

The old man turned. His foggy gaze settled on Owen and showed no recognition. Then the old man's face brightened. "Owen, my boy!" His smile turned down at the edges. "I suppose you've heard the dreadful news. All over town already, I'd imagine. They do like to natter, flapping their gums without saying much of worth."

"I'm so sorry about Howie," Owen said, sitting down on the radiator beside him.

Howard gave Owen a hopeful look, and ushered him near with a jittery hand. Owen leaned in, the old man's hot, sour breath filling his nostrils. "You didn't happen to bring any—?" He made a gesture as if swigging from a glass.
Drinky-poo
, he meant.

"Sorry, it didn't even occur to me." Of course it
had
occurred to him, having lived with an alcoholic, but now was probably the worst time to support Howard's habit.

"Probably for the best," Howard Sr. agreed. "I'd just get shit-faced and have to go through the DTs all over again. Did you know they don't even have a smoking lounge anymore?"

"That's awful," Owen said, thinking the opposite.

"Sodding prison camp, is what it is. Thank bloody hell that Gestapo nurse of mine's on a day off. At least I can have a wank with a modicum of privacy."

Owen laughed.

"You laugh, but it's true. You get a stiffy at my age, it's a point of pride to beat that wormy bastard with all you've got." Howard giggled along with him, until his cheeks went beet red and his eyes began to water. He broke into tears somewhere amid the laughter, looking off at an unfinished puzzle Owen just now noticed lay on the mattress, an enlarged photo of Chapel Lake on a partly cloudy day. He hadn't seen it from the doorway, obscured as it was by the heavy blue-green curtain.

Howard put a hand on Owen's knee. "He hated the lake, Owen.
Hated
it. I don't understand why he'd have been anywhere close enough to—" He choked on the word. "—to
drown
."

Owen put a hand on the old man's. Howard's hand quivered against Owen's knee, then slipped free and fell to his side, over the edge of his wheelchair.

"Michael said it happened near the dump. A flash flood, or some such thing."

Owen knew better, but Howard didn't need to know the truth: that his son was just another casualty of that terrible church beneath the lake.

"A flash flood, can you imagine? It doesn't seem likely to me." Squinting again, the old man brought a shaky hand up to shield his eyes. "Will you close the blinds?" He gestured toward the cord tied in a knot halfway up the window, just out of his reach. Owen yanked it and the blinds dropped. Slats of light and dark fell over the room. "Merciless thing, the sun."

Owen didn't know how to respond, and so he said nothing.

"My son never hurt anyone," Howard said. "He was a wonderful boy, a good boy. Never caused any trouble. Oh, certainly, he was a handful in his early years, but his mother took care of all that. I was always—" The old man pulled a resentful face. "—always
working
. When he was born, there were those who pitied us, Charlotte and me." He wrung his hands together, obsessively, the sound of his dry palms distracting. "There were actually people who thought we'd have been better off if he'd died in his crib, if we'd drowned him in the tub. Because of his disorder. His Down's syndrome. I heard them, you see. They were always nattering."

"That's awful."

"Yes," Howard said. A slow, repetitive nod shook loose a tear. It streaked down the deep valleys of his face and came to rest at the corner of his lips, where he licked it away absentmindedly. "I couldn't fault them for it. When the doctor informed us of Howie's condition—the cheeky prick actually had the nerve to call it
mongolism
, if you can believe that, as if we still lived in the nineteenth century!—and when I saw my boy for the first time… God help me,
I considered it myself
. A child can be a burden to his parents under the best of circumstances, and when I looked into his little eyes, I saw only trouble ahead for us, Charlotte and me."