Night Sounds

This entry was written by Rand P.


There was no time to waste, he thought, pulling the boat from the darkness beneath the dock. The last ray of sunlight danced along a distant mountain peak and the thick summer underbrush of the bog surrounding him began to melt into shadows. He slipped into the boat, rocking it gently. Eager to begin, he lifted a pair of oars and pushed against the dock, easing the boat into a channel that led to the open lake.

Settling back, he dipped the oar blades into the water and began to row, carefully avoiding tangled vines and reeds. He felt the intimacy of the bog in every breath—every heartbeat—as it came alive in the coolness of the evening. Bullfrogs and crickets built a cocoon of music that lulled him as he rocked forward ... back ... forward ... back ...

He looked back at the dwindling dock. It sat alone among tall grasses and reeds, a squat frog disappearing in the fading light. Because it was set in the middle of the bog, he could depart at sundown and return at dawn without being seen. Once it had been beautiful and much-used, back when the town was young and the water level two feet higher. But the encroaching bog had long since claimed it, along with the ruins of the house the dock had once serviced.
 
Which was fine with him; it was his now. During the day he hid his boat beneath it, away from prying eyes. The pilings drove straight down into the muddy bottom of the bog, and though its wood was moldy and worm-eaten, he was sure his dock would last forever.

As for the surrounding bog, he knew it had a name—something Lenni-Lenape—but he'd forgotten it long ago. The locals had their own name for the place, but he'd never cared for it and chose not to use it. It was too modern, too foreign. And since he no longer had any contact with people, he'd lost any use for even his own name, and had forgotten that as well. Which bound him even tighter to the bog; two nameless friends who would never be separated.

A crow complained somewhere across the water, and he smiled. An omen. That was good, since tonight was important. He'd come back empty-handed for over a week now, and it was beginning to worry him. He had a job to do, and when the nights were quiet and people failed to leave their homes, he felt as if he wasn't needed, wasn't ... necessary.

The bog gave way to clear lake waters and now he could see the far shore, its buildings already taking on the cloak of dusk. In a short while he would see a sparkle of lights as the town defied the oncoming darkness. Until then, he would sit and wait and rest.

He loved the nights. He lived for them, dreaming of their coolness as the hot summer days wore on. Even in winter, the days were no match for nightfall. When the lake and bog froze solid during the winter months, he would secure the boat and crisscross the lake on foot, staring in awe at the brilliance of the stars overhead. The air was crisp then and sounds carried far.

The trouble with winter, though, was that the people stayed indoors. They tucked themselves close to their fires and never heard him as he peeked through their windows and begged them to come out.

He shivered at the thought. Winter was hard on him.

Summer, on the other hand, brought him fresh, cool evenings and an influx of tourists that almost made up for the shortness of the night. Even in summer, the locals were withdrawn, cautious. Tourists, however, were curious, and wandered all around the lake, at all hours of the night.

Yes, in spite of the consuming heat of the day, summer was when he did some of his best work.

The water was quiet tonight. Even though the lake was two miles across, it was surprisingly shallow, with no part more than seven feet deep. He found it hard to believe that if he stood on the bottom with both arms raised, he could still break the surface of the water. Not that he'd ever tried it, but it amazed him all the same.
It's time, he thought, taking up the oars again.

The night was quiet. It was nice to hear nothing more than the slap of water against the boat and the fading music of the bog.

A quiet night was always a good night. It made listening that much easier.
He reached his destination: the center of the lake. How he knew it was the center, he wasn't sure; it just felt right. The oars settled in the bottom of the boat, their task done. He leaned back, breathing in the damp lake air, savoring it as he would a long-awaited meal. He tasted the dark depths of the night, hoping that this one, unlike the last few, would produce results. If not, he would be forced to leave the sanctuary of the lake and travel through town, which was much too dangerous in summertime.
He listened to the breeze, sifting through it for sounds of activity from the surrounding shoreline. It made him feel good, like a watchdog out under the cool sky. It made him feel important.

It made him feel needed.

An hour passed—no more—before he heard the first interesting sound: a car stopping at a red light on the highway bordering the lake's south shore. There were voices. (How many?) The light turned, and instead of continuing along the highway, the car pulled onto a side road, following it around the ragged edge of the lake, the voices still clinging to the slight breeze blowing across the water. He traced the hum of the engine as it neared the bog, and when it suddenly died, the empty breeze let him know.
So they're in the bog, he thought. Wonderful! This night had possibilities after all.
Carefully he swung out the oars and dipped into the water, sending the boat in the direction of the now silent engine. The rhythm of the oars quickly took on the rhythm of his heartbeat, and both quickened with each stroke. The voices started again and he homed in on them, guiding the boat between the floating marshes that led to the shoreline.

Even before he could see it, he knew the car had parked near the west edge of the bog, probably as far from the road as possible, with oaks and pines shielding it from passing cars. As he moved through the reeds and whispered across the muddy surface of the bog, the voices strengthened, until he could make out the words on the breeze.

"... mmmm, Tommy. I'm glad you could see me tonight."

He quivered. A female.

"My pleasure," a second voice said. A male. "You're sure no one knows you're with me? You didn't tell any of the girls?"

"No ... no one. We're alone, Tommy. Just you and me." She giggled.

He rowed as fast as the clinging ooze would let him, eager to actually see the car and its occupants.

The voices continued.

"I'm worried, though," the girl said. "You can't just leave a police car sitting behind some bushes and expect nobody to see it."

"Who's to see?" the man said. "We're the only ones out here, and we're well away from the road. I just got off duty, so it's not like anybody's gonna be looking for me. Now, are we going to talk all night?"

He could see the car now, a dark shape against the darker woods beyond. He shipped the oars, easing them quietly into the bottom of the boat, hidden from shore by a thick growth of reeds. He watched, eyes widening as two shadows in the car became one. He sensed their beating hearts, their nervous touch.

He felt the air thicken slightly and a chill ran through him. It would happen! It would definitely happen right here, with him to watch, with him to savor every moment. And afterwards, he would be needed, as he always had been, for as far back as he could remember.

The car was quiet now, and in the silence he heard murmurs from somewhere across the lake. Instinctively he turned toward them, extracting the sounds riding the breeze. Someone was swimming around the submerged foundations along the north shore. Good! It had all the markings of a fruitful night.

But the swimmer would have to wait. He was here, ready for what would happen in the next few moments. As he settled back in his boat, the voices started again.

"Jenny?"

"Yes?"

Ah, he thought. It's coming, it's coming.

"Were you with Marge at the Bluejay last Friday night?"

"Last Friday? Sure, we went for a couple drinks, had some laughs, then went home."

"You ... Did you meet anyone there?"

Silence.

"Jen? Did you?"

"No, Tommy, I didn't. What makes you think that?"

The two shadows separated in the front seat, and the reeds parted a bit more in anticipation. The door on the driver's side opened and the dark form of the man stepped out and walked toward the water's edge. The reeds closed just a bit and the soft slap of water against the boat stopped, as if the bog were holding its breath. The figure in the boat saw the outline of the man: the crisp lines of a uniform, the high boots, the bulge of a holster at his side.

The girl was out of the car now, leaning against it. "What's wrong, Tommy?"

The man turned toward her. "I was there."

The girl seemed to sway slightly, as if to avoid the I was there as it brushed past her and melted into the darkness beyond. She lowered her head. "And what did you see?"

"You leaving with Kurt Simmons."

The girl slipped away from the car and ran to the man, throwing her arms around him and burying her head into his shoulder. Slowly, ever so slowly, he placed his hands on her back. She raised her head and brushed the hair from her face. "It's not what you think, Tommy. He means nothing to me. You're the only one who does, Tommy. You've got to believe me. He ... he was drunk, and wouldn't leave me alone—"

"Didn't look drunk to me." The words were crisp, sure.

"But he was. He kept bothering me and wouldn't let me be and—and finally I said I'd take him home before he passed out. You ask Marge—you just ask Marge. She was there. Oh, Tommy, you're the only one for me, the only one." She began to sob, and wrapped her arms tight around the man. He reached one hand up and stroked her hair.

Gently. Softly.

"Sure, babe," he said. The words were soft, but the voice was icy. Final.
The figure in the boat felt the tension. His skin tingled with warmth, and his fingers tapped restlessly on the oars. It was sooooo good. Soon—too soon—it would be over, and he would be needed to clean up.

He was always there, wherever he was needed, scouring the lake and the bog and the shores they touched, cleaning up after the others. Just last week, a car had gone over a guardrail along the highway, flipping several times before slicing into the lake. It had split open and the rescue squad took all afternoon to recover three bodies from the water. But that night, he had been drawn to the spot, and with no effort at all had found a fourth body the squad had missed. A young boy, his fingers still clutching a small red fire truck, his body torn by the crash, bloated by the lake.

But there'd been nothing since then.

Until now.

The girl separated herself from the man and walked to the water's edge to gaze out over the bog. The figure in the boat didn't try to hide; he knew she could see nothing more than the shadows of endless marsh, floating vegetation, and tall spindly reeds.
Her voice was small and weak when she finally spoke. "It's over. Is that it, Tommy?"

The man was busy with something at his hip.

The moment was near.

There was a snap and the gun came free. He cradled it in his hand for a moment, then pointed it at the back of the girl's head.

"Tommy?" she whispered, still staring at the water. Trembling ripples worked their way through the ooze and slime to the water's edge. She turned and let out a small breath when she saw the gun. "Tommy! What—what's going on?"

"You know what's going on." His voice was a whip snapping in the moist air. "You know and Marge knows and so does Kurt. All three of you, outside the Bluejay, laughing. What were you laughing at, babe? Poor little me? Poor Tommy, always the last to know? Well, I have known for quite some time, and I wasn't outside that tavern by accident last Friday. I've been watching you for two weeks now, and I know what you do when my back's turned."

"You bastard!" she cried. "How can you stand there and say that when your wife—"

The gun went off, its sharp crack quickly absorbed by the surrounding pines and reeds. The girl pitched backward, what was left of her head smacking the water and slatting slime across the nearest reeds.

The man holstered the gun and took a step forward. He was about to bend down and grab the girl's ankles, perhaps to drag her back to the car, perhaps to push her farther out into the bog, when he stopped in a half-crouch and stared out at the whispering reeds.

Don’t worry! they seemed to say.

We’ll take care of her!

Go!

The man straightened, took one last look at the girl's body, and ran back to the car. The figure in the boat reached out to touch the man’s thoughts, to make suggestions.

It was time to get Kurt Simmons off alone somewhere...

And the best place for that was, and always would be—

—the bog!

The engine started and the car moved away through the pines.

He pulled the boat into the open, closer to shore. The water had worked its way beneath the girl's blouse, which billowed like a stricken jellyfish in the mud. Her shoes left two furrows in the sandy shore as he dragged her into the boat. He knew he wouldn't have to smooth them out, because the water would soon lap up all traces.

He pushed away from the shore and a bullfrog left ringlets in the water as the boat passed by. He looked up and the stars twinkled down at him. They know everything, he thought. Even in the daylight, when you can't see them, they can see you. They know when you're born, they know when you die. And in between, they're there to guide you along.

So he watched the stars for the time it took him to row out to open water. He stopped for a moment and listened. The activity out near the submerged foundations had ceased, and he knew they would yield nothing tonight.

Well, maybe tomorrow night.

Instead of continuing to the center of the lake, where he could listen to the night sounds, he turned toward the tall stand of reeds that marked the passage to his dock. Though there were several hours left before sunrise, he knew there was no reason to stay out any longer. The stars had told him: No more Death tonight.

When he finally reached the dock, he was feeling giddy from the night's success. He had done his job, and he had done it well.

He was important.

He was needed.

He looked up. The all-knowing stars seemed to twinkle in agreement. Until tomorrow, my friends.

He tugged on his cargo until it slipped over the side and disappeared beneath the surface, large ripples spreading gently until surrounding reeds absorbed them. He ducked his head and eased the boat under the dock, tying it fast with a small scrap of rope. He slipped over the side of the boat and into the water, which swirled above him as he sank peacefully to the bottom.

He crouched next to the dead girl's body and tore strips of cloth from her blouse. She wouldn't be needing it, he thought, tying her wrists to the dock piling descending darkly from above and into the mud next to him. He smiled. Now the body wouldn't rise to the surface, as they tended to do after a few days under water.

He moved to the next piling to inspect the other, smaller body, its hands tied to the rotting wood with a belt. Below it, shifting mud had nearly covered the red fire truck he had torn from the fingers. He grinned as he poked at the tender flesh. It puffed nicely.

Another day and he'd have no trouble laying the eggs.

And then, a few days later, he'd finally be able to feed again ...

His stomach stirred and he patted it as he nestled into a small hollow in the mud.

Settle down, he thought. It won't be long now.

He looked up. How strange, he thought. He was only seven feet down, and if he stood up and reached as high as possible, he could break the surface of the water.

But why bother, he thought, drifting off to sleep.