Migrators (17 page)

“Oh god, I forgot all that,” Alan said.

“I can’t always be the one on top of everything, Alan,” Liz said. “At some point you have to take up some of the slack here.”

She stood up and crossed her arms.

“I know, Liz,” Alan said. “Jesus, cut me a little break, would you? I’ve had a long day.”

“And, unfortunately, I’m going to have a long night trying to finish all my Friday afternoon work from home—where it takes me twice as long to do anything—because my husband was out late with his bestie,” Liz said.

She had a razor-sharp sense of humor that sometimes masqueraded as anger. Alan studied her face for the signals. Her eyes were squinted slightly. The right corner of her mouth turned in a particular way.
 

“You’re lucky you’re pretty and thin,” Alan said. “Because you’d never make it very far on your personality.”

Liz walked over to him slowly. She wrapped her arms around Alan’s neck and pressed her hips into his.

“When I get done with my work, I’m going to come upstairs and you’re going to make it up to me,” Liz said.

“What? Make what up to you?” Alan asked. He put his hands on his wife’s hips. She ground into him. “I was detained by the authorities today. It wasn’t my fault.”

“So you’re saying you don’t want to make it up to me?”

She pressed even harder into him. Alan felt himself stir beneath her touch.

“I never said that,” Alan said.

“Good.” Liz said. She kissed him and then pulled away. “I’ll be up in an hour or two. You better be cleaned up by then.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Liz walked out through the dark dining room.

X • X • X • X • X

“Dad?” Joe called from his room.

Alan had just set his foot on the top step. He pulled himself up with a grunt.

“What’s up?” he asked from Joe’s doorway.

His son sat at the little desk positioned under the window. With the desk light on, the window might as well have been painted black—nothing was visible through the panes.

“Can you tell me what happened today? You found a body?”

“It’s really nothing to be worried about, Joe,” Alan said. He revised his story down to its elements and then told Joe an easier version. “It was just some animal that I couldn’t identify, so I called the game warden.”

“Oh,” Joe said. “What did it look like?”

“It’s hard to say. I think it had been dead awhile,” Alan said.

“Was it gross?”

Alan nodded and frowned.

“Oh,” Joe said. “The kids at school talk about migrators. They said that this time of year the migrators are out there.”

“You mean like geese and stuff, moving down from Canada to go to warmer climates for the winter?”

“No,” Joe said. “They’re not like that.” Joe shook his head and then picked up his pencil again. He spun it between his fingers.

Alan moved over to the bed and started to lower himself down to sit on the edge. He thought better of it when he remembered his pants. They were dry, but still dirty from the day.

“How’s your schoolwork coming? Do you enjoy your classes?”

“I guess. I’m almost done with all my homework for the weekend. Mom made me work on it as soon as I got home. Do you think I could sleep over at Pete’s house next weekend?”

“I thought we decided that sleepovers made more sense during vacation,” Alan said. “Your mom hardly gets to see you during the week. It’s not really that fair to her if you’re gone for half the weekend.”

“I know,” Joe said. He turned back to his desk. “Can I watch TV?”

“You said you’re almost finished. Why don’t you finish your homework while I take a shower and then we’ll both go watch TV?”

“Okay.”

O
CTOBER
14

T
HE
DAY
was damp, and overcast, and cool, but Alan was sweating under his thin jacket before they even plunged into the woods. He unzipped it and considered taking it off. The jacket was brown and his shirt underneath was white. He kept it on. A bright white shirt might advertise their position to anyone else in the woods.

Alan stopped and wiped the sweat from his brow. He shifted his camera bag to the opposite shoulder.

“I don’t understand,” Bob said. He showed his phone to Alan. The display was blank with the exception of two dots.

“No data,” Alan said. “You’ve got GPS signal, but the maps come from the network and your phone isn’t connecting. See? No bars.”

“Of course,” Bob said. “What is it with these woods and bad reception?”

“Geographically, we’re in a hole,” Alan said. “Look, we just have to make those two dots meet and we’ll be at the pond.”

Bob nodded. He led the way. Bob didn’t seem winded or sweaty at all. He had the same absurd 1950’s pants on—the ones with the cuffs rolled up to reveal the flannel lining—but instead of the red and black shirt, he work a t-shirt covered by a black shell. He was half vintage hunter and half modern jogger.

Their path led them down a sharp hill, even deeper into the geographic hole. They jumped over a little creek and climbed the bank on the other side. The bed of leaves made it impossible to move quietly through the woods. Bob climbed a log and tried to scout a better path.

“Let’s stay on top of this little hill. It will be easier than going down into those lowlands, I think. The bushes down there look thick.”

Alan shrugged. He was content to follow Bob’s lead.
 

After another fifteen minutes of hiking, Bob spotted the cabin. He pointed and they headed for the building.

“Score one for technology,” Alan said.

“Half. I’ll give tech half of a point. We still don’t have a map,” Bob said.

“We should circle around,” Alan said. “Make sure there’s nobody down there or anything.”

“It’s been three days,” Bob said.

“I know, but still.”

They approached the cabin slowly, walking a wide circle around the building before they closed in. Once they reached the little cabin and looked inside the windows, they crept towards the hill, looking for signs of life near the pond.
 

“There’s still a couple of trampled spots down in the grass,” Bob said, “but I don’t see any of the black shapes. Do you?”

“No,” Alan said. “Maybe we can get close enough to the edge there to look for footprints or something. I don’t know. Maybe we look for signs that someone took the bodies away?”

When they heard the voice behind them, both men dropped into a low crouch. They spun to see the source.

“You’ll be lucky if you don’t get shot,” the man said. He was old. He wore a red cap with a brim. It looked like a baseball cap on steroids. He had a deeply grooved, saggy face that had a casual acquaintance with a razor. Tufts of gray hair perched over his sad eyes. It matched the little hair they could see on the parts of his head not covered by the cap. He wore blaze-orange overalls that straightened the curves of his plump body. The old man scratched his chin with swollen fingers. His other hand held the barrel of a shotgun. The butt rested on the ground.

“I’m sorry,” Alan said. “Is this your land? We were just out for a…”

The man cut him off.

“It’s not posted. You’ve got as much right to be here as I do, but legal don’t mean safe,” the man said.

Bob approached the man.

“My name is Bob. I live over on the Location Road.”

The old man nodded.

“My name’s Clyde. Everyone calls me Buster though.”

“Nice to meet you, Buster. My friend and I were wondering who owns this lot. It says on the map that it’s owned by the town?”

“Yup,” Buster said. “It is. You fellas need to come over here. I’ll fix you up.”

“Pardon?” Alan asked.
 

Buster waved them closer.

Bob got there first as Buster produced a small bag that was slung over his shoulder. Buster leaned his shotgun against the side of the cabin and leaned over to unzip his bag. He came back up with two handkerchiefs. They were bright orange—even brighter than Buster’s overalls.
 

“Put this around your head or at least tie it around your arm. I shouldn’t have to tell you—today’s the first day of Moose season and the Massholes will shoot at anything. And you’re walking around in brown pants, and your friend here has got on a brown jacket. You two might as well be wearing a Bullwinkle costume. I have half a mind to shoot you myself,” Buster said. He chuckled. The sound was throaty and warm.

“I thought hunting season didn’t start until November,” Alan said.
 

Alan took one of the handkerchiefs and tied it around his upper arm. Bob tied his around his head, with the triangle of orange in the back.

“There—now nobody can say I didn’t give you a sporting chance,” Buster said. His stained smile was little comfort. “Deer season starts in November for firearms. You’ve got archery in October, but we don’t get a lot of that around here. This week is moose. I suggest you do your hiking on Sunday from now on and keep it that way until Christmas.”

“So whose cabin is this?” Alan asked. “Do you know?”

“I do indeed. I didn’t catch your name,” Buster said.

“Sorry—I’m Alan Harper.”

“I’ve seen you somewheres, and I’ve heard that name,” Buster said. “Over to the dump maybe? Does your wife own the Colonel’s house?”

“Yes,” Alan said. “That’s our house. The Colonel was her grandfather.”

“I liked him,” Buster said. “No matter what they all said.” He gave Alan an exaggerated wink.

“The cabin?” Bob asked, trying to get the old man back on track.

“Yes?”

“If the town owns the land, then whose cabin is it?”

“Well the town’s, I guess,” Buster said. “Quid pro quo, as they say.”

“The town built it?”

“Nope,” Buster said. “The town owns it though. Bunch of old boys who were contemporary with my father built the thing. They built it to last. Town took it over when they took the parcel. There wasn’t anyone left to pay the tax on it, so they just took it back. Nobody fought them. It’s not worth a shit anymore.”

“So nobody really owns it?” Alan asked.

“You catch on quick,” Buster said with another wink. “Back when your house was the only house on this end of the road, this whole area here was pasture. The land down there wasn’t much good for grazing. The ground’s too soft. That marsh will suck the feet right off’n a cow. So the locals harvested the marsh grass. They could dry it out and use it for hay in a pinch. Once all the dairies moved away and the woods grew up, then the old boys used this cabin as a hunting lodge. My father said he could come out at dawn for a piss and shoot three bucks from the porch. It’s no good for that now though.”

“Oh?” Bob asked.

Buster burped and nodded.
 

“You’ll want to head that way until you get to the road,” Buster said, pointing. “If you see my truck out there, you can leave the bandanas on the seat. If you hear someone else in the woods, I suggest you start yelling at the top of your lungs. A Masshole will still shoot you, but maybe the yelling will throw off his aim a bit.”

“Buster, we saw something in the marsh last week. We came back to see if we could find out anything about it,” Bob said.

“Is that right?” Buster asked. He slung his bag over his shoulder and then picked up his shotgun.

“It looked like a body. I guess it was some kind of dead animal,” Alan said.

“We had the sheriff out here, but the thing was gone. Something must have dragged it away,” Bob said.

Buster tucked the shotgun over his arm and then folded his hands low, under his belly. The barrel of his shotgun pointed lazily off into the woods.

“Have you ever seen anything out here that looks kinda like a person, but it’s like a mottled purple color?” Alan asked.

“Purple?” Buster asked. He narrowed his eyes.

“Yes,” Alan said. “It might have been bruised, or maybe it just looked purple because it was decomposing.”

“You touch the thing?” Buster asked.

“No,” Bob said.

“Poke it? Move it? Molest it in some way?” Buster asked.

“No, of course not,” Alan said.

“What makes you so sure it was dead?” Buster asked.

“It wasn’t moving,” Alan said.

“And it smelled and had flies all over it,” Bob said.

“And then you left and when you came back it was gone?” Buster asked.

“Yes,” Bob said.

“And did you see any sign that something else had carried it away?”

“No,” Bob said.

“Doesn’t sound dead to me,” Buster said.

“But have you seen anything like that?” Bob asked.

“Or heard of anything like that around here?” Alan asked.

Buster shook his head and walked between the men.

“Quid pro quo, as they say. Doesn’t sound dead at all,” Buster said. He veered to the right and left Alan and Bob standing there. Buster disappeared into the woods. They couldn’t see his orange overalls anymore, but for awhile they could still hear his shuffling feet brushing through the leaves.

X • X • X • X • X

“Nice guy,” Alan said. “He’s going to have to put some more effort in if he wants to pull off that ‘creepy-old-timer’ vibe.”

“I think he was flirting with you,” Bob said.
 

“Dudunt sound deyud ut uhl,” Alan said, imitating Buster’s accent.

Bob laughed.

“That’s pretty good. You need more phlegm in there though.”

“What’s a Masshole?” Alan asked.

“Massachusetts asshole,” Bob said. “Every couple of years someone gets shot by an out-of-state hunter. People call them Massholes.”

“Clever.”

Bob started walking towards the hill that sloped down to the pond.

“What do you think?” Bob asked. “Should we keep looking around or get out of here before we get shot by a moose hunter?”

“Let’s push our luck some more,” Alan said. He followed Bob.
 

They picked their way down the hill again. It was easier this time—they’d learned the trick of veering south where the hill was more manageable. Soon they found themselves at the edge of the wetlands, where the trees dwindled and tall grass took over. Bob pointed towards a matted down area and the men started carefully moving into the grass. It grew in clumps. If you balanced on top of the grassy stumps, you could avoid plunging a foot into the wet weeds below. Alan moved quickly, hopping between the clumps and balanced on a big one right near the matted area. He waved his hand—there were a few confused flies buzzing slowly.