Gateways. Part 9

17.

Fortunately Anya had left her gate pa.s.scard in Jack's car. He used it to breeze through the resident's arch. The old lady's lights were out by the time Jack reached the house. Her lawn ornaments clinked and clanked and whirred in the dark.

Once inside, he went straight to his father's room and took out the metal lockbox.

"Sorry, Dad," he muttered as he carried it to the kitchen.

He hated invading his father's privacy, but this box might hold an explanation as to why he'd been out in the swamps after midnight instead of home in bed.

First, a beer. He grabbed another Havana Red from the fridge, then searched the bathroom for a pair of tweezers. He found one, and twenty seconds later the lid popped open. Jack hesitated. Maybe there were things in here his father didn't want anyone to know about. And maybe Jack wouldn't want to know about them once he saw them. Maybe parents should be able to keep their secrets.

All fine and good when they weren't the comatose victim of a hit and run.

Jack lifted the lid.

Not much there. A handful of black-and-white photos, now sepiaed with age, and something that looked like a small jewelry case. He checked the photos first. Mostly soldiers. He recognized his dad in a few of them-he didn't recall him ever having that much hair-but most were of other uniformed guys in their late teens or early twenties posing awkwardly for the camera against unfamiliar landscapes. Jack spotted a paG.o.da-like building in the background of one.

Korea. Had to be. He knew his dad had been in the war, in the Army, but he'd never wanted to talk about it. Jack remembered pressing him for war stories but getting nowhere. "It's not something I care to remember," he'd always say.

The last photo was a posed shot of eight men in fatigues, four kneeling in front, four standing behind, grinning at the camera. His father was second from the left, standing. It looked like a plaque had been set up in the right foreground but that corner of the photo was missing. It appeared to have been torn off.

Jack studied the other seven men, looking for a connection to his father. Who were they? They all looked so young. Like a high school varsity basketball team. It looked like a graduation photo. But from what?

Maybe he'd never know.

He put down the photos and picked up the jewelry case. Something rattled within. He snapped it open and found two medals. He didn't know much about military decorations but one he immediately recognized.

A Purple Heart.

His father's? That meant he'd been wounded. But where? The only scar he'd ever seen on his father was from his appendectomy. Maybe this belonged to someone else...a dead war buddy that his father wanted to remember?

Nah. Purple Hearts tended to be kept by the loved one's family.

Which meant this was probably his father's.

He checked the other medal: a gold star hanging on a red-white-and-blue ribbon; a smaller silver star was set at its center. This could be a Silver Star. Wasn't that for extraordinary bravery in battle?

Trust me, kiddo, there's more to your father than you ever dreamed.

I guess you got that right, lady. Maybe I should have stayed in touch more.

Funny...just a few months ago he wouldn't have felt this way. But after reconnecting with Kate...

With frustration wriggling under his skin like an itch he couldn't scratch, Jack replaced the contents to the box in roughly the same order that he'd found them. He'd wanted answers, but all this d.a.m.n box had provided was more questions.

He returned it to the closet shelf, then headed back to the kitchen for another beer. Along the way he spotted his father's watch on the table. He hadn't noticed the cracked crystal when he'd brought it home from the hospital. He checked it out. An old Timex. No, not old-ancient. The wind-up type. Typical of him: If the old one still works, why get a new one? This Timex had taken a licking but hadn't kept on ticking. It had stopped at 12:08.

Wait a sec...

Jack pulled the accident report out of his pocket and unfolded it. He'd scanned through Officer Hernandez's report. He'd mentioned a call coming in to the station at...where was it? Here.

11:49 P.M.

But that would mean the accident had been reported before it happened. No way. His father's watch must have been set ahead. Some people did that. Or maybe he'd forgotten to wind it.

But not his father. He'd always been a stickler for the correct time, down to the minute. And he'd always wound his watch at breakfast. Jack had seen him do it a million times.

Hernandez was mistaken about the time of the call. Had to be. But for all his brawn the cop had seemed like a pretty tight, spit-s.h.i.+ne type. And hadn't he said that even though it took him twenty minutes to reach the accident, it looked like it had just happened?

Shaking his head, Jack went to the fridge. He decided against another beer. Right now he needed a gimlet.

Wednesday

1.

Jack awoke with a buzzing in his ears. At first he thought it was a mosquito, but this was lower pitched. Then he thought it might be gimlet-related, but he'd had only two. Finally he realized it was coming from outside the window. He lifted his head and looked around, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar room.

Oh, yeah. He was at Dad's place. In the front room. Must have fallen asleep on the couch. He'd found Rio Bravo Rio Bravo playing on TNT or some such station and had watched it for about the thirtieth time-not for John Wayne or Dean Martin, and certainly not for Ricky Nelson, but for Walter Brennan. Hands down, Stumpy was his best part, best job, ever-except maybe for his Old Man Clanton in playing on TNT or some such station and had watched it for about the thirtieth time-not for John Wayne or Dean Martin, and certainly not for Ricky Nelson, but for Walter Brennan. Hands down, Stumpy was his best part, best job, ever-except maybe for his Old Man Clanton in My Darling Clementine My Darling Clementine. Old Walt made the movie for Jack.

But where was that buzzing coming from?

He rolled off the couch, padded to the kitchen, and squinted through the window.

A groundskeeper was running a weed whacker along the edge of the dead gra.s.s bordering the foundation plantings. Was that a long-sleeved flannel s.h.i.+rt he was wearing? In this weather? Where Jack came from a long-sleeved s.h.i.+rt in the summer meant one thing: junkie.

But the weed whacker...he blinked and shook his head...it looked like it was coming out of the guy's right sleeve.

The rest of Jack's clothes were still in the car so he had to go out anyway. Maybe he could get a closer look along the way.

The heat and humidity hit him like a wave as he stepped outside. Barely 8:30 and already it was cooking. As he rounded the corner, the groundsman stopped working and stared at him, then turned off his weed whacker.

"You ain't Tom. Whatta you you doin' here?" doin' here?"

"I'm his son."

And yes, that was a flannel s.h.i.+rt he had on. He wore green work pants and a tattered olive drab boonie cap. His eyes were a piercing blue, but the left angled to the outside-the kind of eye known on the street as a bent lamp. Yet even this close Jack couldn't see his right hand. The weed whacker seemed to be growing out of the sleeve. Jack thrust out his own right hand in hopes of getting a look.

"My name's Jack."

The groundsman used his left hand to give Jack's a squeeze. "Carl."

So much for that strategy.

"How come you're out here so early?" Jack said. "You can't have much to do with this drought."

"Be surprised," Carl said. "Gra.s.s won't grow, tropical plants get all curly and dried up, but the weeds...the weeds do just fine. Never able to figure that out."

"Maybe they should all cultivate weeds," Jack said.

Carl nodded. "Fine with me. Green is green." He glanced at Jack. "Miss Mundy told me about your daddy. How's the old guy doin'?"

"Still in a coma."

Jack fought the urge to sidle to his right to put himself in line with Carl's left eye.

"Yeah?" He shook his head. "Too bad, too bad. Nice guy, your daddy. He was one of the good uns."

"'Was'? Hey, he's not gone yet yet."

"Oh, yeah. Right, right. Well, let's hope he pulls through. But bein' so close to the Glades and all..."

"The Everglades? What's wrong with that?"

Carl looked away. "Nothin'. Forget I said it."

"Hey, don't leave me hanging. If you're going to start a thought, finish it."

He kept his gaze averted. "You'll think I'm loco."

You don't know loco like I know loco, Jack thought.

"Try me."

"Well, all right. Gateways here is too close to the Glades. It's been mistreated for years and years now. All the freshwater runoff it's upposed to get from upstate, you know, from Lake Okeechobee, it's mostly been channeled away to farms and funeral-parlor waitin' rooms like Gateways. Everywhere you look someone's filling in acres of lowlands and paving it over to build a bunch of houses or condos. The Glades been hurtin' for years and years, but this year's the worst because of the drought. Summer's upposed to be our rainy season but we ain't had barely a lick."

"There's still water out there, though, isn't there?"

"Yep, there's water, but it's low. Lower than it's ever been in anyone's memory. And that could be bad. Bad for all of us."

"Bad how?"

"Well, maybe things that always used to be underwater ain't under no more."

Where was this going? Was Was it going anywhere? it going anywhere?

"Carl-"

He stared toward the Everglades. "The good thing bout your daddy's and Miss Anya's places here on the pond is you never have to look into someone else's backyard..."

Jack glanced out at the endless expanse of gra.s.s. "Yeah. A panoramic view."

"Pan-o-ramic?" Carl said carefully. "What's that?"

Jack wondered how to explain it. He spread his arms. "It means wide angle...a wide view."

"Pan-o-ramic...I like that."

"Fine. The panoramic view is the good thing, but I've got a feeling you were about to tell me a down side."

"I was. The bad part is...they's real close to the Glades and the Glades ain't happy these days. You might even say it's kinda p.i.s.sed. And if it is, we'd all better watch out."

Jack stared across the mile or so of gra.s.s at the line of trees. He'd seen a bunch of weird things lately, but an angry swamp...?

You were right, Carl, he thought. I do think you're loco.

2.

Semelee stood on the lagoon bank with Luke and watched the small dredgin' barge suck wet sand out of the sinkhole and deposit it into one of the even smaller, flat-bottomed boats it had towed along behind it. Excess water ran out the gunwales and into the lagoon. The clan had moved the houseboats aside to give the barge access to the hole.

"I still can't believe you done this, Semelee," Luke said. "You of all people."

Semelee had been surprised herself. She didn't like outsiders gettin' anywheres near the clan's lagoon, and especially near the sinkhole, but these folks had offered too much money to turn down.

"You been sayin' that for two weeks now, Luke. Every time the barge shows up you say the same thing. And every time I give you the same answer: We can use the money. People're pretty tight with their spare change these days, in case you ain't noticed."

"Oh, I noticed, all right. Probably cause they ain't got all that much to spare. But I still don't like it, specially this time of year."

"Don't worry. They'll be outta here before the lights come. The deal I made with them was they had to finish up their business before this weekend. The lights'll start comin' Friday night. Told them Friday was a stone-solid deadline. Didn't care how much they offered me, by sundown on Friday, they're gone."

"Still don't like it. This is our home. This is where we was born."

"I know, Luke," she said, rubbing his back and feeling the sharp tips of the fins through the cloth. "But just think. The top of the sinkhole is above water for the first time anyone remembers. Maybe for the first time ever. When the lights come this time, they won't have to s.h.i.+ne through the water. They'll s.h.i.+ne straight out into the night. That's never happened before, at least not in anyone's memory."