The Caretaker of Lorne Field (14 page)

“I’m telling you, there should be a tape in there. I don’t understand why there ain’t. There was one in it last night.”

“It’s empty now. Why is that?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll tell you why. Because you took it out and got rid of it. I wouldn’t be surprised if you buried it.”

“Why would I do that?”

Wolcott looked at Durkin with a mix of exasperation and pity. He swallowed back what he wanted to say, which was that he did it because he was nuts. Instead he kept his voice as calm as he could and said, “Because somehow you’ve convinced yourself you could make a videotape proving that those weeds are monsters. But when the videotape showed they’re nothing but weeds, you had to try something else. Is that why you cut off Lester’s thumb? So you could claim they bit it off and prove they’re monsters that way? Come on, Jack, just admit this and let’s make this easy for everyone. Especially your family.”

“One of the Aukowies chewed off Lester’s thumb,” Durkin argued stubbornly.

“That’s the story you’re going to stick with?”

“It’s the truth.”

“I should arrest you right now,” Wolcott said. “But if I did I’d have to drag you over a mile in handcuffs. No, with this I’m going to make sure to dot my
i
’s and cross my
t
’s. I’ll wait until I talk to Lester. Besides, I know where to find you. You’ll be back at Lorne Field tomorrow saving the world, won’t you, Jack?”

“Make fun of me all you want.”

“I’m simply asking you a question, Jack, that’s all.”

Durkin’s eyes darkened. “Talk to Lester,” he said. “He’ll tell you what happened.”

“I’m sure he will. I’ll be seeing you, Jack.”

Sheriff Wolcott handed the camcorder back to Durkin and nodded as he headed down an intersecting path leading to Hillside Drive where he had parked his car. Durkin stared dumbly at the camcorder in his large thick hands, wondering what had happened to the tape that had been inside it.

Sheriff Wolcott waited five minutes and then backtracked to the path to Lorne Field. He knew if Durkin saw him heading to the field he’d go ballistic, and Wolcott had had just about enough of that man’s craziness for one night.

If it had been anyone other than Durkin cutting off his son’s thumb, he would’ve brought the person immediately to court to ask for a seventy-two-hour competency evaluation at the state mental hospital, but with Durkin involved it was more than simply worrying about whether all his
i
’s were dotted and his
t
’s crossed—he had to make sure his case against him was both thorough and air-tight. There were still some nuts around town who believed this bullshit story of monsters growing out of a field, not many, but enough that Wolcott had to make sure his case left no doubt about Durkin’s actions. Before he could arrest Durkin he needed a statement from Lester and he needed to investigate the crime scene.

The sun was starting to set and in the early evening dusk he saw a brown bat flying erratically above him. The damn thing flew close enough a couple of times that he had to duck. He watched it cautiously for a minute, hoping it was busy eating its body weight in mosquitoes. After the bat flew out of sight, Wolcott headed down the path to Lorne Field.

After three-quarters of a mile, the path disappointingly narrowed to where it would be impossible to drive an off-road vehicle. It meant after he talked to Lester the following morning he’d have to park over a mile and a half from the field, hike that distance with a couple of deputies, handcuff Durkin and drag him back to the vehicle. Either that or let Durkin get one last day of weeding in before arresting him, which meant he’d have to miss dinner with his family two nights in a row. Thinking about that made him wish he could just arrest the crazy old coot and get it over with.

When he got within a half mile of the field he started jogging, more to outrun the mosquitoes than for any other reason, and was surprised at what he saw when he reached it. The field was large—maybe two football fields in width, one and a half in length, and it was completely barren. Absolutely nothing growing in it. No grass, no weeds, nothing. It was still light enough to see, but he turned his flashlight on and waved it over the field. If it weren’t for the little holes and loose dirt everywhere, he’d have a hard time believing anything ever grew in it. As he thought about the effort required to walk up and down that field and pull out every little weed and blade of grass, he couldn’t help but begrudgingly respect Durkin. The guy might be as crazy as a loon but he was sure as hell dedicated. Wolcott crouched on his heels so he could touch the ground. He picked up some dirt, rolled it between his thumb and fingers, then sniffed and tasted it. Nothing but ordinary dirt, just like any other field. He felt stupid and couldn’t help self-consciously looking around to make sure no one was in eyeshot.

He walked over to a small dilapidated wooden structure that served as a shed. Inside were gardening tools, a wheelbarrow, shovel, spade and a canvas sack. He flashed the light on the edges of the tools. If there had been blood on any of them it had been wiped clean. He picked up the canvas sack and started to look inside but had to turn away. The stench was unbelievable. Like sulfur and ammonia and decay all mixed together. Keeping his head craned as far away as possible, he opened it and flashed his light inside and saw the sack was empty.

He left the shed and walked over to a stone pit about fifty yards to the left. Near the pit a large mound of lime had been dumped into a pile, probably a good hundred or so wheelbarrow loads worth. He wondered how Durkin brought all that lime to the field, but then he saw a pile of dirt that could easily have been a freshly dug grave and his thoughts gravitated elsewhere. He went back to the shed, retrieved the shovel and dug up the loose dirt. The original hole went no more than two feet deep, and after a while he realized that the only thing buried in it were ashes mixed with lime. He walked over to the stone pit and quickly turned away. The stench there was far worse than what had lingered in the canvas sack. He took a deep breath and held it before going back to the stone pit. Crouching again so he sat on his heels, he flashed a light inside the pit, then wiped his finger along it. More ash. Whatever weeds Durkin burned, he burned inside the pit. He could’ve just as easily burned the thumb there also or, for that matter, buried it anywhere within the field or along the woods. Wolcott thought about bringing dogs to the field, but decided it would be a waste of time. Anyway, if Lester told him what he was expecting, he wouldn’t need the severed thumb to arrest Durkin.

He got out of his crouch and moved away from the stone pit before letting go of his breath and risking breathing in again. Traces of that stench still lingered and had somehow gotten into the back of his throat, making him feel like he could taste it. Tearing the wrapper off a pack of gum, he stuck two sticks in his mouth and chewed them, anything to get rid of that taste. Later he’d gargle a case of mouthwash if he had to. After a minute or so all he could taste and smell was the peppermint flavor of the gum. Relieved, he took a deep breath and, for the hell of it, walked out into the middle of the field. Standing there, he could’ve been standing in the middle of any plowed farm plot. Nothing special about it. Just that all the weeds and grass had been pulled out.

The noises running through his head slowly quieted down.

He realized how still it seemed. How unnaturally quiet it was for a country evening. No chirping, no buzzing, no noises of any kind.

And no mosquitoes.

When Jack Durkin arrived back at the cabin Lydia told him that Lester was being kept overnight at the hospital and that Child Services had come over earlier and taken Bert away.

“When the hospital releases Lester, he ain’t going to be allowed to come home either. Not until they decide you had nothin’ to do with Lester’s accident.”

Durkin didn’t bother looking at her. He took one of the imported beers Charlie Harper had brought over and sat alone at the kitchen table. Later, when Lydia was at the stove, he told her in a tired monotone that Lester would tell them what happened and the boys would come home then.

Lydia had warmed up leftover pot roast for dinner and they ate quietly with neither of them looking at each other. Halfway through dinner Lydia asked him to just tell the truth about what happened to Lester.

“I know it must’ve been an accident,” she said. “You were probably trying to show Lester how to dig up one of those weeds and something slipped. If you just tell people the truth everything will be able to go back as it was.”

Durkin dropped his fork and knife onto his plate and looked up to meet Lydia’s eyes. As he stared at her his own eyes became liquid. He sat motionless for no more than half a minute, but to Lydia it could’ve just as easily have been an hour, at least that’s how long it seemed. He broke the silence by pounding on the table with his fist hard enough that the impact knocked a glass off the table and Lydia almost leapt out of her skin. The glass shattered into dozens of tiny shards with pieces scattering across the antique pine floor.

“If you think I’m going to clean that up, you’re crazy,” Lydia said.

Durkin’s thick eyelids lowered an eighth of an inch as he stared at her. “You took the videotape out of that camcorder,” he said.

“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“Don’t lie to me. You think I’m stupid? After you kept telling me to wait on videotaping the Aukowies.”

“I didn’t do anything,” she insisted stubbornly.

He pounded the table again. This time it had no effect on her.

“Goddamn it! I could’ve proven to the town that Aukowies are real. The videotape would’ve shown what they really are. Damn it, Lydia, why’d you have to do it?”

She had shifted her glance away from him. As she met his liquid eyes again, her own were as dry as sand.

“Why? Because I spoke with a lawyer yesterday who has a way for us to make a lot of money. More than you could imagine. But not if you start videotaping those weeds so you can prove to everyone they’re nothin’ but weeds. I’m not going to let you ruin this for us.”

“Goddamn you—”

“You shut up! I have one son in the hospital and another taken out of my home, so you have no right to curse me or blame me for nothin’. You understand me?”

Durkin didn’t say anything. A hot intensity burned on Lydia’s small wrinkled face. Her hands clenched into tiny fists and her knuckles showed bone-white.

“If I thought for one second that you hurt Lester intentionally, I’d already be out the door, but not before putting a nice heaping spoonful of arsenic in that pot roast. Tomorrow morning you’re going to admit to people what really happened. You’re going to say that it was an accident and not a weed that bit off Lester’s thumb.”

Durkin didn’t say anything. He just sat breathing hard, the moistness in his eyes quickly drying up.

“And why couldn’t you bring Lester’s thumb back with you?” Lydia demanded, thin veins streaking her neck and a large bluish one standing out in the middle of her forehead. “The doctors could’ve reattached it! Why couldn’t you bring it back?”

“There was no thumb left.”

“Shut up. Don’t you try that nonsense with me!”

“But there wasn’t,” Durkin said. “Once the Aukowie was done with it there was no thumb.”

“Shut up!” She hit the table herself with an open palm—not nearly as hard as her husband had, but hard enough to make a sharp crack. She grabbed her hand and held it as if it were broken. Tears welled up in her small eyes and started to leak down her cheeks. “Just shut up and quit talking this nonsense,” she cried softly.

“Let me get some ice for that.”

“I don’t need any ice from you.”

Durkin pushed himself away from the table, hobbled over to the cabinets making sure to avoid the broken glass littering the floor, then found a plastic bag and filled it with ice from the freezer. He brought the bag over to his wife and placed it gently against the hand she was holding.