Undercurrent (9 page)

I don’t understand. Okay, Holden Distillery does have a retail shop. But it’s a whiskey shop, naturally, run by a horrible woman named Esther, who does not take kindly to underage boys hanging around the store, even a son of the master distiller himself.

“Do my shopping?” I repeat. “Ivy, they won’t sell anything to us!”

“Thanks for pointing that out, Captain Obvious,” she says, rolling up like she owns the joint. Hiding my face, I look around in horror as Ivy does a circuit of the parking lot before drawing up behind one of the outbuildings—an abandoned bunkhouse Dad says once accommodated migrant workers.

I breathe a sigh of relief. At least no one can see us from here.

“Go do your thing,” Ivy says. “I’ll stay here and keep your seat warm.”

Okay, now she’s got to be kidding me. But her smiling face, framed by shiny hair like a pair of black curtains, says otherwise.

“Ivy, I can’t steal booze!”

“Ha-ha,” she says, shoving me playfully toward the door.

“I’m serious!”

Ivy looks at me, suddenly concerned. “Cal, are you feeling okay? You’re really acting weird.”

“I’m fine,” I tell her.

“I don’t know. Are you sure you don’t need a doctor or something? You were just in a horrible accident, remember. And you don’t seem like yourself.”

“I’m fine!” I insist.

“Okay, okay,” Ivy replies. “It’s just that you’re being a little bit of a wimp.”

The word feels like a knife in the ribs. “I am not a wimp!”

“Then go see your guy and get it over with!” she shouts back, before unexpectedly kissing me. “Just hurry—I have a math test after lunch.”

I have to stop looking at Ivy—I can’t think straight. On the one hand, I’ve never stolen anything in my whole life. But neither have I burned down country roads with a gorgeous girl—a habit I don’t want to lose just yet.

It’s ridiculous, but I can feel myself bending to the pressure of not wanting to look like a chicken.

“All right,” I say. “Wait here.”

Getting out of the car, I’m wondering what I can pull off. Maybe lifting a single bottle isn’t that hard, after all. I could go visit Dad in his office for a few minutes and, if I’m lucky, see a bottle I could slip into my sweatshirt on the way out.

But come on. I can’t steal from my father’s work. First, I could get in trouble—a world of it. And who knows, maybe Dad could even get fired over it.

The second possibility makes me surprisingly excited. But what good would that do? It’s not like we’d be magically transported back to our life before Crystal Falls, when we were one big happy family.

No, I can’t take the risk. But maybe I can make it look like I tried; that should be enough to impress Ivy. I can always tell her they installed new security cameras, and it was impossible.

I make my way across the parking lot. Then I crouch down on the curb at an empty parking spot near the building entrance. I just need to wait a few minutes. Then I can head back and tell her it was a bust.

I hear a low whistle. Looking down the length of cars, I see a figure in overalls standing on the grass. Pinching a cigarette between thumb and forefinger, he whistles again, clearly at me.

I recognize him now. It’s Ross Marshall, who works in the warehouse. I know him because he did some renovation work at our house.

I stand up, wave, and smile. Except he doesn’t smile back. In fact, he looks downright furious. And he’s impatiently motioning for me to come over.

I can’t help but cringe, remembering how things went with the park owner. At least I’m pretty sure Ross isn’t drunk, despite the thousands of gallons of liquor at his fingertips every moment of the day. But he’s still a big dude, and I don’t like the idea of being on his bad side.

Just then there’s a roar as a shiny black Mercedes comes bombing into the lot and then barreling straight into the space where I’m standing. Perfect—I’m in Blake Holden’s personal parking spot! I leap out of the way onto the grass.

The owner of Holden Distillery gets out of his car wearing a suit and tie, along with a face full of suspicion and disgust. At first I wonder if he’s mistaking me for Cole, who beat the hell out of his son. But then I remember the fact I’m still trying to swallow: that Cole was paralyzed long before that event could have unfolded.

“Hi, Mr. Holden,” I say politely. “I’m Callum, Donald Harris’s son.”

The introduction doesn’t put so much as a chip in the ice. Holden’s eyes bore into me before he speaks. “Yes,” he replies, looking down his nose at me. “And you play for the Crocodiles—running around catching the ball my son throws.”

I have no response, because I have no memory of this. Holden turns away, calling to Ross. “Mr. Marshall,” he says, looking at his watch. “You’re taking a break already?”

“I was walking back from the offices,” Ross says, suddenly looking much less frightening. “I just stopped when I saw the kid loitering around the parking lot.”

Ross sounds like the liars at school explaining why they don’t have their history projects finished. And like all liars, he’s quick to change the subject.

“How was the trip to Asia, Mr. H?”

“Long,” Holden replies. “But worthwhile. The Japanese and the Koreans both love our whiskey, so we’ve got some big orders to fill,” he says, holding up his briefcase.

“Booyah, sir. Outstanding.”

I forgot about this particular quirk: the movie-like military lingo. When Ross was working at our house, he constantly bragged about having been a marine: “I was there, you know,” he announced whenever I walked by him. “Not cooking eggs or washing sacks, but right there on the front line.” Feeling obliged to stop and listen, I would then get treated to a detailed story that invariably ended with either a charred bunch of corpses or a detached head as its centerpiece.

He’d then laugh and laugh. None of his disgusting stories seemed funny to me then. But now, watching the self-described insurgent killer squirm in front of his portly civilian boss, I’m pretty amused for once.

“So Marlene tells me you’re behind on installing the new shower room,” Mr. Holden says unhappily. Marlene is Holden’s wife—the mother of three pug-faced boys: Hunter, Gunner, and Chase. I used to wonder if the snobby couple might have a crack at making a Buck or a Moose to complete the set, but from the looks of things, they’re done making little Holdens.

And it sounds like Ross hasn’t drifted out of the weekend-renovation business. In fact, he’s moved up to the boss’s mansion. Nice work for someone who reversed the hot and the cold water taps in our kitchen.

“Yeah, sorry about that, Mr. H,” he answers. “The tiles are on special order from Italy. So I haven’t been around for a couple weeks.”

“Oh?” Mr. Holden says, surprised. “Because my housekeeper says she saw you leaving on Sunday. . . .”

“Huh?” Ross says. “W-wait, that’s right. I dropped by around thirteen-hundred hours to pick up a few tools—I’m working on another little renovation job in the meantime.”

Now I’m really enjoying this. I’ve seen better fibbers in the fifth grade.

“Well, let’s get it done, Mr. Marshall. With all these overseas orders, the warehouse is going to get very busy shortly. And I want your best work. On both jobs.”

Ross stands to attention. “Roger that, sir.”

Mr. Holden eyes the man for a moment, then heads inside without so much as a glance at me.

“Psst,”
I hear Ross hiss when Mr. Holden is finally gone.

I turn. “Hey, Ross,” I say. “What’s up?”

Instead of answering me, he glowers. His eyes dart back to the building’s entrance—I guess to make sure Mr. Holden is inside.

Only then does he finally speak, using a low, angry voice.

“What are you doing here?” he demands.

“Just stopping by to say hi.”

“I thought you were still in the hospital.”

“I got out. Good behavior,” I say, hoping to lighten things up.

“Well, you still should have called first! That was our arrangement. Hell, you can’t just change the plan!”

I don’t know what the guy is talking about. But that seems to be pretty much the norm lately. So I ask: “What arrangement?”

“What arrangement?” the guy repeats, trying to control his voice. “The arrangement, smart guy, that makes sure I don’t get seen with you, copy? Now c’mon, let’s move out. . . .”

With no idea of what’s going on, I trail behind Ross as he heads around back, to the two warehouses. We stop at the heavy metal door to the first one.

“To be honest, I thought the only way you’d make it out of the hospital was when the funeral people came for you,” he says.

“I guess I got lucky,” I reply uncomfortably.

“Yeah,” Ross mutters. “Or I got unlucky.”

It doesn’t sound like a joke. Facing yet another person who wishes me dead, I don’t know what to say. And I sure don’t know what I’ve done to offend the guy. As far as I know, he gets along well with my dad and was friendly enough to me when he was working on our house. But I do remember Mom saying he was a creep, though I didn’t know why exactly.

Ross unlocks the door and enters the building without another word. I stand outside for a second, wondering what he wants me to do. Only when I hear my name hissed from inside do I head in after him.

The fumes are unbelievable in the warehouse, like they’re keeping a swimming pool full of whiskey in here. It’s spillage, I guess, from years of broken bottles. My nose is instantly on fire, and it feels like my sinuses are filling with molten lava. Tearing up, I can’t see anything for a moment. When my eyes finally clear, Ross is nowhere in sight.

I carefully tread down the hall until I come to a break room lit by a dust-encrusted lightbulb dangling from a cord in the ceiling. There’s a table covered in coffee-cup rings, with a half-eaten sandwich sitting on some paper in the middle. But no other signs of life.

Just then a memory comes back to me—a really vivid one, set off by the reek of whiskey, I think. Apparently smell is the sense linked most closely to memory, my father once told me. And it must be true, because I am instantly right back there.

I was twelve years old at the time. Dad was bringing Cole and me on a tour of the distillery. I remember the same thing happening to me that time as we entered this building, my nose burning and eyes streaming. I begged to leave, but my father ignored me, keen to show us the stacks of final product ready to be shipped to drinkers around the world.

Before we left, we stopped off here, in this same room. Inside was an old man with a red face; he was sipping from a steaming thermos cup. Across from him a younger guy was busy leafing through a magazine. Before the younger guy slapped it closed, I caught sight of the most enormous breasts I’d ever seen in my life.

“I’d like you to meet my sons, Cole and Callum,” my father said to the two men. “Guys, this is Ross,” he said, pointing to the embarrassed-looking younger guy. “And this here is Dutch.”

Wait a second. Dutch. That’s the guy the sheriff said went over the waterfall. I did really meet him. Here, with my dad.

“All right, stop farting around and let’s go,” Ross says, startling me. Under his burly arm, he’s carrying a case of Holden’s Own.

But I don’t move. “Hey, does that old guy still work here?” I ask.

“What old guy?”

“His name is Dutch or something,” I say, as if uncertain. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure it was Dutch.”

“Dutch?” he repeats. “Is he a Latino guy?”

His name is Dutch, dumbass. What do you think?

“No,” I answer.

“Well, then he probably doesn’t work in the warehouse,” he says. “Now where’d you park? Behind the old bunkhouse? Come on.”

Ross heads for the door and opens it. Stepping outside, he stops me with a raised hand. As I lurk in the hallway, he pulls a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of a shirt pocket, then somehow lights up, all with the same hand.

Hearing a raised voice, I freeze.

“Yeah, you first!” Ross shouts back at the person, before wedging the door open with the case. Standing in a cloud of blue smoke, he continues puffing away for a minute. I’m trapped now, choking on two smells I really can’t stand.

“All right—it’s clear,” Ross finally tells me, snatching up the case again. “Gimme a sixty count and then get on my six.”

“Okay,” I answer. I’m assuming he wants me to wait for a minute and then follow him.

But Ross doesn’t go. “Wait,” he says. “When you said Dutch, did you mean Drunk Dutch?”

“Maybe.”

“The guy who went over the falls, just like you?”

“Yeah! So you know who I’m talking about. . . .”

“Sure, who wouldn’t? But I never met the guy. Because, unlike you, he drowned. It was before I started working here, while I was still overseas, doing my tour with the Marines. . . .”

Uh-oh. I can tell that Ross is tempted to start relaying some heroic anecdote about himself. But he stops. “Why are you asking about Dutch?”

I’m stumped to come up with an answer; even I’m a worse liar than a fifth grader. “No reason.”

“Hold on. I saw you looking in the break room. Did you just see the old bastard’s ghost kicking around in there?” he asks, pointing inside.

“What? No!”

“Or wait—did you see him when you fell in the drink maybe?” Ross asks, eyes alight. “Was he down there at the bottom, all bony and gooey, hoping you’d come to rescue him?”

Is he making fun of me now? I can’t tell. But I shake my head, feeling light-headed—unsure whether it’s from the smoke, the fumes, or the image of a rotting corpse reaching for me.

“Well, that’s too bad,” Ross says, disappointed. “Because that would’ve been one helluva story.” He looks around again. “All right, wait one minute,” he orders. “And don’t screw around this time—I want my share by next week.” He closes the door in my face.

Great. It’s dark in here. It’s dark, I’m terrified, and I’m about to pass out. For some reason I start counting off to myself, like we’re playing a game of hide-and-seek or something. But by twenty-two-Mississippi, I’ve had enough. I open the door and go out.

Ross is nowhere to be seen. I head off toward the old bunkhouse, hugging the edge of the parking lot and staying as far out of eyeshot of the main building as possible.