Skinny-Dipping at Monster Lake (13 page)

“Kind of where most of the branches are?”

“Yeah.”

Foster scratched his chin.

“How about if you cut a couple of the bigger limbs off—the ones you can reach with the saw. Then cut the trunk. About where it goes underwater.” He pointed down at the enormous tree. “Most of the weight is in the trunk. You cut the top off, maybe you could move that.”

Head tilted to one side, Dad smiled. He whipped around and studied the tree for a moment.

“Kid's pretty darned sharp,” he said. “Let Pete and me go down and take another look. Maybe we have a couple of big branches, up toward the bank, that aren't holding the sub down. If we left them, it would take enough pressure off so we could cut through the trunk. Then we could either pull the top of the tree off the thing or at least roll it off.”

Dad and Pete put their masks on, stuffed their hoses in their mouths, and sloshed back into the lake. Greg already had the chain saw out of the truck before they came back to the surface. It looked a lot like our chain saw, only the thing was bigger and the blade was over three times as long.

“Leave this big one,” Dad called, when he came back to the surface.

Greg nodded.

“And these two.” Pete slapped a couple of limbs on the other side of the trunk. “They're solid enough to help support the tree and not in the way.”

“Get all the branches you can reach,” Dad said.

“Got to get some weight off this end. Pete and I will drag them out of the way for you.”

Greg pulled more times on the chain saw than he had to on the light generator. It finally kicked in, and he walked out to start cutting. As he cut off limbs, Dad or Pete would take them and swim toward the bank. After about the second limb, Mr. Aikman gave a little snort.

“This is going to take forever,” he said. “They need some help.”

With that, he strolled down the bank about twenty yards and started pulling his shoes and socks off. The other dads followed.

If we hadn't been so worried about the poor guy who was trapped in the submarine, we would have probably burst out laughing when they came back. We had on our bathing trunks. The fathers—who had just come from a fancy dinner party dressed in suits and ties—had stripped down
to their underwear. Boxers with wild colors and designs, and two pairs of jockey shorts, waded in and out of the water, helping drag the branches away.

We pitched in, too.

Greg worked on the tree until he was standing knee deep, way out on the log. Except for the very tip, most of the branches that were sticking above the water were gone. He then came back to a spot on the trunk where the top of the log met the water, and started cutting.

It took a lot longer to saw through the enormous trunk than it did to get the limbs off. As the blade spun, water sprayed in the air like a rooster tail from a Wave Runner. The water danced and sparkled in the glow of the spotlights. Dad told us that as long as the motor and the exhaust were out of the water, it shouldn't drown out.

All at once he kind of lunged forward. Almost falling over headfirst, he managed to catch himself before he went into the lake. The saw sputtered, coughed, then died.

“We're through,” he called.

Everyone on the bank cheered. Dad picked up his scuba gear. Pete looked around for his.

“All I have to do is tie the cable on, Pete. I can do that by myself.”

“Go ahead.” Pete nodded. “I'll get the EMS unit lined up, and the winch line strung out. Figure as damp as this ground is, I may have to move the truck up the hill a couple of times. We got plenty of cable, though.” He scurried off toward the truck.

“Kent,” Dad called. “Go up and tell Mrs. Baum what we're doing down here. If she looks out her window and sees that truck in her front yard, it's liable to scare her half to death.”

“She's not home, Dad,” I called back.

Dad frowned. “What do you mean she's not home? It's after nine.”

“We tried to call from her house when Jordan first heard the SOS,” Ted answered. “She's not there.”

Dad gave a little laugh. “She's probably sleeping. Rowdy, you mind going with them? See if you can get her up.”

Mr. Aikman nodded. He went to the pile of clothes on the bank and slipped his trousers on. Then he motioned Ted and me to follow.

• • •

“Told you so.” Ted smiled after we'd circled the house twice and pounded on every door and window.

Mr. Aikman shot him a look, then turned
back to stare at Mrs. Baum's front door.

“It just doesn't make sense,” he said, more to himself than to us. “She doesn't spend the night with friends. There are no kids or grandchildren for her to go visit. She's got to be in there.”

He jiggled the doorknob again. “Something is wrong.” There was a tightness in his voice. Worry. “Maybe she's fallen or had a heart attack or . . . I'm going in!”

With that, he lunged. There was a cracking sound when his shoulder and hip slammed against the wooden door. I jumped. Eyes wide, Ted and I both stepped back. When it didn't open, he threw himself at it again.

R
owdy Aikman threw his shoulder against the door three more times before it gave. He made us stay on the front porch. I guess he was afraid of what he might find. After searching through the whole house, he came back.

“Things always look easier on TV than in real life,” he said, rubbing his sore shoulder. “It just doesn't make sense.”

“The other night I was up here,” I confessed. “She was doing something in the work shed. Maybe she's there.”

Mr. Aikman glanced down the hill and, with a jerk of his head, motioned us to follow. Pete already had the truck at the far edge of Mrs. Baum's front yard. When I saw it sitting there, a little chill scampered up my back. Inside my skull I could almost hear that shrill voice: “You boys get out of my yard.” The sound never came to my ears, though.

There was no way that Mrs. Baum was around. She had a built-in sense—almost like radar or
something—that went off if anyone came in her front yard. No matter what she was doing or where she was, if she saw that truck, she'd be here, yelling.

As we stepped from the porch, I could see Pete and Greg staring down into the water. They waited for Dad to attach the cable. When he surfaced and started for the shore, Greg joined the rest of the men and moved them back. Pete trotted to the truck.

About halfway to the work shed, we stopped walking a moment and watched when we heard the winch whining. Nothing happened. It changed pitch, and still no movement came from the tree limbs. Pete appeared from the back of the truck and climbed into the cab. He inched it forward. After only a foot or so, the wheels began to spin. Grass and little bits of dirt flew up. He raced the motor. The truck slipped toward the lake, just a bit.

Pete climbed out and pulled more cable. Back in the truck, he let it roll back, to get out of the shallow ruts. Then he drove forward, slow and easy until the cable was taunt. This time when he drove forward, we saw the big limb where Dad had attached the cable rise up out of the water.

We held our breath. Watched. The limb came partly above the surface. I felt my fists clench at my
sides. Just a few more feet and the whole top part of the tree would roll and . . .

Then the spinning, whizzing sound of tires slipping on grass and mud came to our ears again. While Pete hopped out to release more cable, we got to the work shed. Mr. Aikman knocked on the door. An open lock dangled and bounced against the wood when he pounded.

“Emma? Are you in here? This is Rowdy. Emma?”

Mr. Aikman opened the door. The old hinges squeaked. Facing the lake, the work shed was downhill from the light generator. It was dark as pitch inside. I could hear his fingers patting the wall as he felt for the light switch.

When the lights came on, he started inside. But he stepped back instead—kind of straightened like a soldier snapping to attention.

“My gosh.” He breathed. “What in the world . . .”

Ted and I moved to the sides, trying to see past him. He leaned forward and peeked one way, then the other, before he finally stepped inside.

The floor was concrete. That was about all we could see at first. But when he moved farther, we saw part of the far wall. There were about five long shelves that stretched the entire length of the shed. The shelves were lined with small square boxes—
like batteries—and there were all sorts of cables running back and forth. Looking from side to side, Mr. Aikman took another step or two.

Suddenly he stopped and kind of staggered backward.

“What . . . what . . .” he stammered, looking down at the floor. “I don't believe this!”

Ted and I tried to squeeze through the door at the same time. Our shoulders wedged against the side. We glared at each other, then wiggled free and sort of popped on through.

The walls to our left and right were lined with shelves, too. There were more batteries and more wires and more cables. Then we looked down where Mr. Aikman was staring.

The work shed was about fifteen feet square. Only I could tell, from the first look inside, it
wasn't
a work shed.

Right in the center was a big, gaping dark hole. Ted and I kind of jammed on our brakes and slipped into reverse. Except for the shelves with the batteries, that's mostly what the entire room was. A cover built over this huge hole. Of the fifteen-foot square room, the hole took up about ten square feet of floor space. There was barely enough concrete around the edges to get to the shelves. The rest of it was dark and empty.

Sliding out a foot for balance, I leaned forward. The far side of the hole—the one I could see—had a concrete wall. I still couldn't see the bottom. Again I scooted forward. The walls of the hole, on my left and right, were concrete. Still no bottom to the thing.

I'd heard of “bottomless pits.” I'd never seen one. My knees trembled when I took another step.

A good twelve feet down, there was water. A line of pale green moss lined the edges—staining where the water met the concrete. Right under my feet was a steel ladder that went down, to disappear beneath the surface. The water seemed clear. Not murky and cloudy like the lake. Even with the clear water and the bright lights above us in the shed, I couldn't see the bottom—couldn't tell how deep it was.

Standing just next to me on my left, Mr. Aikman squatted down. He put his left hand on the ground for balance, then leaned so he could look at something to our right.

The concrete I had seen there only went down about a foot. Then it stopped. The hole, along with the water in the bottom of it, continued—toward the lake—and disappeared into the blackness.

“What is that, Dad?” Ted asked. “It looks like a cave or tunnel. Why is it here?”

I glanced at Mr. Aikman. His eyes were wide. He sprang to his feet.

“Move!” he barked. “Get out of the way!”

Ted and I scrambled, almost toppling over each other, as we tried to scoot out of his path. He raced through the doorway. We clambered to our feet to follow.

Waving his arms, he ran toward the truck.

“Stop!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. “Pete! Stop!”

Almost in a direct line between us and the lake, the trucks motor roared. Tires slipped and spun for an instant, then caught and moved the truck forward again. A quick glance let my eyes follow the cable toward the lake. It was tight enough to play a tune on. Then I could see the big limb rise above the surface as the entire top of the tree rolled from its resting place.

The Emergency Rescue Unit surged forward.

A muffled but loud
crack
exploded above the roar of the motor.

The front of the truck went down. The rear end went up. A high-pitched whizzing sound came when the back wheels left the ground. In the blink of an eye the whole thing disappeared—as if swallowed up by the earth—and all I could see was the rear end, the winch, and the cable.

I
never knew old guys could move so fast. Everyone raced from the lake to see what had happened. The men got there first. They even beat Ted and me. And we were closer.

Greg Ratcliff had a flashlight snapped to his belt. He dropped to one knee and shined it down the driver's side of the truck.

I could hear him yelling for Pete, but I didn't hear an answer—not until we got closer.

“I'm fine,” Pete called back. “I'm okay.”

Greg shined the light. Dad knelt down next to him.

“What happened?” Pete shouted again. “What did I drive into?”

“Some kind of trench,” Greg said.

“Tunnel,” Dad corrected. “Walls are concrete. Bridge timbers over the top, covered with dirt and grass roots. They're so old and rotten, they couldn't hold the truck. Can you open the door?”

“No.”

“Is it jammed or stuck?”

There was a long silence, then a little laugh. An almost uncomfortable chuckle.

“Okay . . . it's not stuck, but . . . well . . . I guess I'm not all right, after all. Think my left arm is broken.”

Dad climbed down into the tunnel with Pete, while Greg went for a ladder out of the back of the truck.

“It's broke, all right.” I overheard him yell. “Arm's flopping around like a wet noodle.”

Once they had Pete out, they made him sit down on the ground. Dad and Greg climbed into the back of the EMS truck to get a splint for his arm. Resting on its nose, the big doors wouldn't stay open. Jordan's dad and Chet's dad had to hold them. Finding the splints was a little tricky, too. When the truck tipped, everything must have fallen from its normal storage place and piled up near the front of the truck. I could hear Dad and Greg digging around, trying to find things.

“Why in the world is there a trench out in the middle of nowhere?” Mr. Hamilton asked, shining the light down beside the truck.