The Canal (21 page)

There was a driver's license inside. The
photo showed a man -- cornered looking, as if stalked by the camera
-- in his 40's with a black mustache. There was barely enough
daylight left to see by, but Alan could just make out the name: Ray
Clifford with an outskirt address. In the money pouch were
twenty-two much handled dollars, counted and recounted till they'd
turned brown, along with several business cards bearing the baroque
crest of Lawnhill Cemetery.

"Ray Clifford," said Alan. "Ray Clifford
is...was in the living room, takes out his briefcase. Gets stabbed
with that fork. Gets brought out here. Clothes taken off. And
then..." His eyes shifted toward the darkening yard.

Vincent was looking too, queasily. "...Then
dinnertime."

"Disgusting," said the cop again.

"Something's missing," said Alan, thinking.
"That's just one murder. Who killed the old man and smeared him all
over the lawn? And why wasn't he killed first, if this is his
house? Where was he when Ray got ate?"

"M-maybe whoever it was...they came and was
using his place," said Vincent. The fear in Vincent, it was
emerging. It was a slow degeneration: purple bags were forming
under his eyes, he started shedding layers of sweat, his necktie
began messily uncoiling itself. "What if they k-kept him hostage.
T-t-till they ran out of things to eat. Oh hell, and I was here. I
spoke to him. What if...what if he was trying to tell me he needed
help? What if--" Vincent started hugging himself.

Alan laid a firm hand on Vincent's shoulder.
"Don't get ahead of yourself, Vince. Don't let your emotions guide
you. We must always be in control, Vincent, always." He spoke
gently, evenly. He had a hands on both Vincent's shoulders now. Was
this how God felt when he addressed those dim, foolish children of
his? Who would never have their shit together like he did?

"But you're good police, Vince. And maybe
even a good friend. And when all this is done -- and it will be,
soon. And when Joe is gone -- and he will be, soon. I want you to
be my new partner. Because in spite of everything, I know you'll
get the job done."

In Vincent's face there was a growing peace.
Or at least, that's what Alan wanted to see, and so he saw it. That
was the best part of being in control. You could tell reality to go
screw itself. What mattered was your reality.

The air was filling with the sound of
rallying sirens, the troops arriving in force. "Now get out front,"
he said, "and make sure those fucks don't ruin my crime scene."
Vincent thanked him. To Alan it sounded very exuberant and
praising, half sung, like to the heroes of old.

When he was alone, Alan lit a cigarette. It
would be his last, a victory puff. It was incredible to think how
he'd been -- he'd given up, hadn't he? He'd actually tossed it in.
And now, all of a sudden: switch. He was on top. He was in command.
His legs were just plain legs again, average accessories. And his
problems were in massive, yellow retreat, burning crops and blowing
bridges the whole way. They knew what was coming, saw it writ large
across the horizon. Yes: THE SOLUTION. The solution was here at Mr.
Zarella's. Links would be found. Clues would be unraveled. Like a
bloodhound, Alan sniffed the truth.

He took a virgin's drag -- no inhaling.
Cheers. Dirty habit anyway. He threw the cigarette into the empty
lot next door.

It was peculiar though, how, with the last of
twilight, the night seemed to surge with unexpected strength. How a
strange breeze, canal smelling, sticky and foul, suddenly floated
in from the yard.

What little light came through the doorway
had begun to falter. Oddly, he could no longer see beyond the stake
in the lawn...and then he couldn't even see that far. The darkness
was coming closer, almost to the porch, where it seemed to
hesitate.

Was...was there was something there? In the
murk? That breeze. Alan couldn't seem to get his gun out of its
holster. He held his breath. Something was there...it was--

"Anyone home?"

Alan blinked. The yard was back, the stake,
the fence. Although the fence was swaying somewhat, those parts
that were still standing. No breeze. No smell.

"Hello?" From indoors. Womack.

Tricks, pointless tricks of the mind. Fatigue
could do that. It was the exhaustion, that was all, and the
stress.

Alan hastily ducked back inside. Womack was
wearing a plastic poncho, looking himself like a bag of Susan's
leftovers, as he contemplated the couch, appearing impressed.

"If you like that," said Alan, "there's more
in the yard."

"You'd never know a body could hold so much
stuff," said Womack, who then added seriously, "Bleecker is on the
way. And brother, he's really got it out for you. Tell me you got
some sorta plan because--"

"Don't worry about it," breezed Alan.
Breezing was something you could do when you'd stumbled across the
motherload. You could also whizz, bop, or croon, that's how good
you were feeling. Alan explained all the details. He felt himself
grow stronger as he did so. He felt power returning to him.

"Ahoy that," Womack finally grinned. "I never
doubted you for a heartbeat."

Vincent emerged from the hallway leading a
train of officers. They all stopped to have a good, fair look at
the blood-funked walls. Even Alan took time to appreciate its art.
The atmosphere was festive. They had a real breakthrough on their
hands.

Too bad about the screaming, though. Really
killed the mood.

Fortunately, Alan was no longer beholden to
such actualities. It wasn't screaming he was hearing, it was
laughter. Jocular, good-natured. Laughed by guys in sweater vests,
at the Polo Lounge. Amicable. Then less amicable. Then disturbing.
Then desperate.

Everyone seemed to be looking for a place to
hide, trying to avoid some incoming missile. Alan didn't want to
acknowledge this. Or the fact that it was Susan who was screaming.
And it was getting louder, she was coming into the house. But hey,
maybe it was nothing. Maybe she had good news to share, delivered
in one long syllable, at maximum pitch and volume.

She appeared, brandishing her bag of
leftovers.

"It's fucking chicken, Alan!"

Yes. Yes it was.

"Where's Eugene!" Susan wanted to know.

Alan didn't understand. "He's at home,
right?" Then he began to realize how absurd that sounded. Eugene
was at home? By himself? What, he was hanging out on the couch?
Watching the news, reading magazines?

"Hold on a minute," said Alan.

Then came Susan's explanation. Eugene was
where? In the backyard? Dropped there by accident? Alan felt like
he had suddenly appeared mid-movie, completely confused by what was
happening.

Susan latched onto his coat. So unreserved.
So emotive. Alan, he didn't want this mess. "We have to find him!"
Susan screamed again, her face turning peppermint colors, her
breath a bit mature.

"It's okay," he announced to the room. "It's
just...a private matter. My son. In all the commotion, he got left
behind. Accidentally. As I understand it. So I'm just, I'm just
going to go take a look."

Sure, it was that easy. This kind of thing,
it happened all the time. No big deal. Who couldn't relate?

"It'll be fine," he told Susan. It'll be
fine, Ma'am.

Vincent stepped in to take his wife from
him.

"Just-- I need a moment," Alan explained
again, to everyone watching. Then he went outside, skirting the
mess on the lawn, with Womack in pursuit. The transition to night
was now complete.

Alan was rather stunned. His son was out
here? In this place of horror and blood? He didn't see Eugene
anywhere. And if Eugene was in the yard, then why wasn't he crying?
Alan should have heard him by now, someone should have heard
something. Because if there were no signs, no trace... Alan refused
to complete the thought. His son was here and he was fine. He had
to be. Maybe he had even crawled behind the yard, through the
fence...

Alan swept his flashlight beam back and forth
at the weeds along the canal. Finally, he did hear something. Not
his son, no. It was the churning of water, a hollow, cauldron boil.
He remembered what Vincent had said, about the killer or killers
using this house, sort of like a base of operations. And if they
had a boat, well, from the canal they could enter Zarella's through
the backyard, they could also go upriver to the bridge, and they
could paddle out to the bay if they wanted without so much as a
trace. And what Alan was hearing, it sounded like it could be a
paddle maybe, or a just-silenced motor.

Alan sprinted past the crumbling fence. But
the short stretch of ground between the yard and the canal was
fraught with brambles and divots. Alan slipped, he almost dropped
his flashlight, he was crawling. He fought his way to the canal's
shore, hands scraped, gulping for breath. His fingers touched on
something soft. On closer inspection, it was a kind of leash, or
harness. It was shredded to silk.

Wait. Could they have just been here, just
minutes ago, these murderers? Did they come to use the house, but
then see the lights and commotion? They could have watched from
this very spot, hidden low in the brush... Oh no. Was that why Alan
couldn't find Eugene? Maybe Eugene was no longer here. Maybe Eugene
was with them. Oh no. Did they find him? Did they take his son?

Below, the canal sloshed in its channel, the
waves slapping against the bulkhead walls. Splotches of caustic
foam bobbled on the water's surface. Not far upriver lay the
bridge, frosted in streetlight. And there... He saw something...
Something in the river, heading fast towards the bridge. It was too
dark to see clearly, all he could make out was something tallowy,
rounded like a hump. It didn't look like a boat. And that...that
breeze...

Something landed on him. Something hit his
head, touching his neck and shoulders. Alan panicked, swiping at
his hair. It was coming faster now, and harder, swarming him. And
then he felt the wet. The wet squirmed down to touch his scalp; it
struck the left side of his face, splashed on his lips. He heard
the noise -- popping leaves, the canal erupting into maraca song,
the sound of an infinite hand drumming the earth. He smelled the
damp, the urine tang.

It was raining.

The clouds had acquired their target. The
hatches had opened. Bombs away.

Alan shouted his son's name, tossing it into
the empty. He willed the child to respond. He willed his vision to
penetrate the dark; he demanded to see, to have control over the
world, over fate. That was all he wanted really. Control. And to
know everything. The why especially. Why? Why this? And he felt
that in the contracted hum of his muscles, in the clench of his
fists, that it was going to work.

And for a second, it did. Lightning cracked
the sky in two, capturing the world in photograph. The canal shone
ultra-white, alive with the spawning frenzy of raindrops,
reflecting in a silverware flash. He could see everything, every
possible detail. He saw...what possibly?

He didn't know what he saw. It was emerging
from the canal, by the bridge, wriggling into a sewer outlet. Where
were his squatters? Where was his googly-eyed maniac? What the hell
was this? This thing with leprous skin, inflamed and boiling,
luminous in the x-ray light. This pestilent turtle or, perhaps,
pickle. It was blasphemous. Demonic. Deformed. Spouting canal water
through chapped gills. Two heads. Nine tails. Grinning from fifty
mouths. And clutched in its scythe-like, black-freckled claws,
hefted above its head, or fin, or distended hernia, or outsize
polyp, was his wailing child, Eugene.

Just as quickly, it disappeared. The canal,
the lightning, his son. That...thing. Night popped back into place
while the rain resumed its monotonous chorus, plastering Alan's
face with its cold slobber.

Demolition sounded in the heavens. Thunder,
the chronic laggard with its too-loud excuses. Or maybe it was the
bulkhead walls breaking, the channel widening huge and overrunning
both shores, taking Alan, the house, the street, his life -- a
massive, sliding, splintered wreckage -- and swallowing it down
this toilet, this canal.

Control? Alan decided then that there was no
such thing. We are all prey to the whims of nature, chance,
violence, and anyone or anything who'd care to have a go or take a
whack -- the black-jacketed teenager, the brute psychopath, the
precariously balanced boulder; it was open season on us, the
collective, and Alan, the specific.

Womack finally caught up. "Jesus, Alan."

"They went in the canal," Alan said
blandly.

"Y-your kid?"

"My kid. And...and someone else."

What to call the thing he'd seen, that
scarecrow of organ meats, with pustules, long and skinny like
antlers? Abomination? Devil?

"The killer," said Alan, his voice turning
shrill. "That monster has my son!"

"In a raft or something? We'll get the harbor
guys, they can't get far--"

"In the water. In it!"

Womack's flashlight showed the canal gleaming
like a bronzed turd. The sewer ducts were gagging on stink and
runoff. There was no sign of Eugene or anyone else.

"In the canal? Jesus." A vicious wind blew
the skirt of Womack's poncho above his head. "Did you get a look at
this guy? ...Alan? Do you hear me?"

Alan was...he was...feeling a bit ragged.
What to do? He'd been confronted with the uncategorizable.
Something escaped from hell, or seeped from a long ago world. For
all Alan thought he knew, he suddenly seemed to know nothing at
all.

Alan was already fumbling back toward the
house. A posse of cops -- the bobbing caps, the rain slicks, the
flushed, serious faces -- was streaming toward him. And soaring at
the forefront, somehow elevated, somehow more visible, was
Lieutenant Bleecker.