Chapter 1

  Erehwon County

  The social worker, Mrs Polauski, tried her hardest to be kind when we drove to the airport. She had made small talk and been chipper as she talked about what we had to do to get to my new home, but I hadn’t said a word. It wasn’t grief or not all grief, at any rate, I was honest enough with myself to admit that there was a certain amount of sullen childishness mixed in. It wasn’t fair, and that made me more upset than I had a right to be. I had survived against the odds, and I was here and alive. Everything was still attached, working, and healthy. Still, I didn’t want to be here, on this dirty old car ferry, with a middle-aged woman who had given up on trying to speak to me, staring out at the seas as we sailed for days toward the end of my road. Try as I might, I couldn’t see this as anything more than a prison sentence, the rest of my life without parole. Or until I was old enough to live on my own in two years. Which felt about the same to me at that moment. As we got closer to that place, the sun seemed to grow fainter and fainter, as if we were moving steadily away from reality and into some terrible dream. A bit less than four hundred miles off the east coast of America, I had learned against my will sits the most isolated county in the United States. Erehwon, even the name sounded unnatural to me. On this isolated rock where I was sentenced to go it rained more than almost anywhere else in the United States. An atmospheric anomaly, the internet had called it, some perfect storm of air currents and the water temperature had conspired to give this island, which should be warm, a climate comparable to the Pacific Northwest. And me? I was left with no choice but to pack up all my things, leave my friends, my school, my life, and move there. As if losing everything once in two weeks wasn’t enough.

  Mrs Polauski had said that the change of scenery might be good for me, the psychologist they had made me see had said the same thing. Why couldn't any of them realize I wanted to be left alone? Was it that hard to see that I didn’t want to talk? Was my body language and expression that unreadable? I had sometimes wondered before if I was somehow wired wrong if other people heard anger when I used sarcasm or laughter when I wanted to cry. Maybe those fears were accurate? My dad had always warned me that;

  Forcing my mind away from that track, I stood from the bed and walked to the door. Mrs Polauski didn’t object, but that wasn’t any condemnation of her. She had been so seasick that finally, the ship’s nurse had given her something that had knocked her out. It was starting to rain now out on the deck, or maybe it was just fog, the air was thick and grey, and I felt damp to my bones as soon as I opened the door but it was better than sitting in the room, that damned off-white room. With its stained paint and odd sounds. It put him in mind of a hospital, and I had seen far too many of those…

  I walked to the edge of the railing and stared down into the rushing water of the sea, and for a moment, there was the thought that I could jump, and it would all be over but no, they would fish me out more than likely, and it wasn’t a serious thought. Just one of those dark flashes that sometimes come when you look at traffic or a knife sitting on the counter. I’d had them a little more often since… Somehow it didn’t worry me. I knew I wouldn’t do anything too drastic, though I don’t have any idea how I knew that.

  The fog swirled and moved as the wind pushed across the bow, giving me glimpses of the sun and the blue sky. Beneath them, I saw the shape of the island, a low blur on the horizon.

  As we got closer, and I could take in the entire island, I saw it was huge, roughly twenty-five miles by twenty across, according to what I had read. Mostly low hills rising from the coast to the imposing cone of a volcano, tall enough to be capped in snow. Most startling of all to me was just how green it was; I had visited Seattle once as a child this seemed somehow even greener. Almost like a jungle or an alien planet.

  “What did I do to deserve this?” I asked aloud as I pulled my new jacket around me but God, or whatever it was I expected to respond, was silent. I physically shook myself then and took a deep breath of the salt air. I couldn’t be happy; I wasn’t sure if I even knew what that was anymore but I didn’t have to spend my time in this circle of depression. Stepping back inside, I passed four pale kids a little older than me, maybe college-aged, who sat talking in low voices; and guessed from their dull, colorless skin that they were locals. I wandered the halls for a while, lost in thought before I returned to my room, where Mrs. Polauski was sitting up in bed with a worried look on her face.

  “Benjamin, you really shouldn’t wander off like that.” She said the admirable attempt she had made at politeness, even in the face of my sullen attitude, had devolved into snappishness once the seasickness hit. I struggled to blame her, that’s the worst part about grief. You know you are being a jerk to people who just want to help, but you can’t be bothered doing anything different. You tell yourself that you deserve some slack and that they’ll forgive you, and you are probably right, but it eats at you all the same as you watch yourself become a different, worse person than you were.

  “We’re on a boat. What am I gonna do, swim away?” I made an effort to smile, to make it clear I was joking but the nervous look on her face told me I had failed. I really wanted to care, but it wasn’t easy.

  I could tell she was about to try and say something profound or comforting, and I just couldn’t stand any more of that. So I turned and walked back out of the room. The air was colder now, even in the few minutes I had been inside, I noticed as I stepped back onto the deck but the sky was clear, As time passed, I could see the whole bay laid out before me. The city of Port Erewhon seemed from this distance to mostly be a collection of small houses and trailers rising to a handful of taller buildings towards the west. On a low hill, I could make out the domed roof of a government building of some kind or another. The docks were the only part of the city that looked new or well-maintained. Three fingers of concrete pushing out into the water piled high with logs and some faded containers. Even this far out from the town, the air was tinged faintly with the smell of the evergreen. I breathed deeply of the pungent mix of that and the salt air and, for the first time since getting on this rusting old tub. I felt good, or better, at least. It was the sort of thing I had never smelled back home, and it seemed invigorating.

  When the boat was still a little ways off from the shore, it began to turn, helped along by tugboats it slowly swung around so that it was facing back away from the town. It took about half an hour for the ship to be maneuvered back against the dock. I watched for a while but grew bored before it was all done, so I walked back to the cabin. Where Mrs Polauski had already gotten everything packed and ready for me. I was grateful but didn’t have the words show it.

  Looking down at the two small bags, it seemed that all my worldly possessions were kept in them. That wasn’t quite the case there was some money in a bank back home that I would need to move to the island. I’d also sent a few boxes ahead, though whether the US postal service would get them here before I arrived was anybody's question, but from where I stood, it seemed that this was it.

  Two small suitcases, not a lot to start over on. It’ll have to be enough I told myself. I was going to live with my uncle, but I didn’t expect all that much from him, after all, I was a stranger. With him living thousands of miles away, and besides, I had never gotten the impression that he and my mother were all that close…

  I rebuttoned the coat, grabbed the bags, and tried to give Mrs. Polauski a smile. Perhaps I even succeeded, as she didn’t frown too much. I made my way to the door, but it was a little hard to navigate the narrow hallways with the suitcases.

  Passengers exited the same way that the cars did, via the ramp that lowered from the rear of the ship, and we had to wait as several cars rolled off. The last of them stood out for how odd a sight it was. A pristine Volkswagen Kombi hippy paint and all, I had heard online that Erewhon was described as a place where nothing ever changed but surely there weren’t still communes of hippies dotted around. The thought was silly, and I brushed it away, confident that it was just someone’s lovingly restored display piece.

  The dock wasn’t really made for passengers. Instead, it was a cargo dock loaded high with piles of logs, the cars and passengers unloaded by driving or walking down a narrow road roped off beside them that I suspected was usually used for equipment of some kind. The passenger terminal was a new concrete building that stood out against the quaint last-century architecture of the main street beyond it but it was warm and dry, with a propane heater humming in the corner.

  “There he is.” Mrs Polauski grabbed me by my shoulder and pointed to a taller man dressed in a police uniform standing by the doors, looking nervous. He had dark hair, somewhere between brown and black. A warming color, just the same as my mom’s had been. Suddenly, it was hard to stand, and everything seemed to be getting very distant. The next thing I knew, I was sitting in one of the hard plastic seats there in that waiting room. Mrs Polauski was fussing about me and the man. My uncle was standing over me, looking concerned, I wiped my eyes and coughed to clear my throat before forcing myself to stand. Talk about making a bad first impression, I mentally chastised myself. This guy goes out of his way to give me a room; and I have some kind of breakdown in front of him.

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  “I’m okay,” I said with a shaky voice, face going red as I realized half the people in the room were staring at me. The other half were doing something worse, visibly trying not to. I forced a probably lousy grin and tried to regain some small measure of face by saying. “Some package you’re picking up, huh?”

  He grabbed me then, and I went stiff as a board as he pulled me into a crushing hug, rocking me slightly. Or perhaps he was rocking himself? Slowly, I felt myself relax, returning the hug. Though with less passion than he was exuding, to be sure. It felt good, if strange.

  “I’m so sorry, Ben,” he said, pulling himself back. I was shocked to see tears in his eyes. He was crying; he was actually crying. I had always gotten the impression that Mom and him weren’t close. They exchanged cards at Christmas, but the only time I could think of them speaking was when my grandfather died suddenly back in nineteen-ninety-eight, and Uncle Hank had made the call to break the news. I wondered then who had made the call about mom; there wasn’t a lot of that side of the family left, and suddenly, I was crying again. It took a while to get everything worked out. Mrs Polauski had some paperwork Uncle Hank needed to sign, but eventually, everything was set, and we were able to start our drive toward Uncle Hank’s home. Apparently, it was only about ten miles as the crow flies but the roads were narrow and only paved for the first third of the drive. That shocked me, and I said so, to which Uncle Hank joked that this island was stuck about fifteen years behind the rest of the country.

  Was there anywhere in the country where major roads hadn’t been paved fifteen years ago? I wondered, but sensing that discretion was likely to be the better part of valor here didn’t say. Uncle Hank’s car was a large boxy pickup truck painted dark green with the words Whisper Bay Police painted on the side beneath a circular seal. Climbing in, it smelled of leather, oil, and a faint touch of old cigarettes. My stomach dropped at that, it would be just my luck to be stuck for the next few years in a house with a smoker.

  As we drove out of Port Erewhon on a bridge over the river, we came into another town, smaller but not by much. Mostly filled with industrial-type buildings and warehouses. The roads here were marked with masses of dirty tire tracks left by heavy vehicles. The number of logging trucks around provided the explanation; it wasn’t long until we were through this suburb, which the sign just after the bridge proclaimed to be Midway Town. It was amazing how quickly human development gave way to nature as we left the town, the woods making a wall mere feet beyond the McDonalds. They were thick and dark, with the moss and leaves turning what little light made it through a funny greenish color. It was shocking in its utter alienness to everything I’d known and not altogether pleasant, so dense was the surrounding tunnel of green that I felt a sense of claustrophobia push in on me. It was empty, and I was alone.

  Just then, Uncle Hank spoke, pulling my mind back from the darkness in the woods, “Do you need to talk about it?” His eyes were fixed on the road, and a brittle edge was in his voice, but he sounded sincere.

  “You seem more sad about this than I expected.” I said without thinking, “I mean, it’s just that I never knew you and Mom were close.” I floundered, trying to find a way to sound less rude and knowing that I was failing.

  “Don’t worry,” Uncle Hank laughed, “I know what you mean.” He paused for a moment there, a faraway look on his face “And no, I don’t suppose we were all that close. Neither of us was ever what you’d call good at staying in touch.” As he spoke, my eyes drifted back to the passing scenery. There was a sign that we rolled by that proclaimed we were entering the Rembrandt State Forest, though I couldn’t tell any difference between it and the green wall that the state government hadn’t seen fit to protect and name after a painter.

  “No, your mom and I weren’t ever all that close. It’s hard to explain ever since I heard what happened. I just wish I had tried more to be.”

  “So it’s all just a performance!” I snapped, feeling angry all of a sudden and not even sure why. The conversation fell silent after that. I could tell that my words had hurt him, and after a few minutes, I tried to make it right but “I’m sorry,” was all I could force out We kept driving, not speaking to each other, but the air was less heavy than it had been a few seconds earlier.

  The woodland, so dense that you couldn’t see more than a few feet off the road, disappeared with shocking suddenness, the dim green haze being replaced almost at once by the bright sun of afternoon. The town was laid out before us, then clinging to the rocks on the shore of a narrow inlet. Its old brick facades facing out onto the sea, as small but well-kept houses formed rows behind them as they straggled up the hillside. It was almost perfect enough to be a postcard or a scene from a Norman Rockwell painting. In other words, it was exactly what I had feared it would be.

  Uncle Hank’s house was a mid-century split level, which made it shockingly modern for the neighborhood, in the driveway sat an old green and white police car. Which I noticed almost at once had its official markings crudely painted over in large off-white splotches and random bolts and metal attachments stuck up from the roof where I could assume lights had once been attached. Opening my door, I was hit by the realization that the smell of the sea was even stronger here than it had been in Port Erewhon, without the smells of car exhaust and industry that even a town as small as Port Erewhon produced. It was nothing but salt and evergreen. So strong I was almost dizzy from it for a second.

  “Ben,” Hank said, getting my attention. “This car,” He gestured to the old police car. “It’s yours.” I was sure I had misheard him, there was no way. “The department was selling off some of its old fleet, and I figured neither of us would be too crazy about me playing chauffeur for the next few years.” I was amazed, a car. This guy I didn’t even know had bought me a car.

  “Wow” was all I could say. As I looked at the thing, I smiled. It needed a new coat of paint, and I had no clue how it would run, but it was mine. My car, my very own car. Uncle Hank held out the keys to me, and when I reached for them, he grabbed my arm and pulled me into a hug again. This time, I didn’t try to fight it, I reciprocated even. “Thanks, Uncle Hank,” I said, and again, there were tears threatening in my eyes.

  After a few more minutes, we went inside the house. It was odd, an eclectic mix of mismatched furniture, an old sofa the sort of thing you’d see in a waiting room for a tax attorney faced on a TV at least twenty years out of date. A painting of ducks on a pond somewhere in the Midwest hung on the wall, and a comfortable-looking recliner was next to the sofa. Nothing matched, and it was all just shoved in haphazardly, but somehow it worked. Every room was like that until I came to my own.

  All the furniture was new: a bed made of dark wood, with light blue covers and soft carpet on the floor, and the walls were painted the exact shade of orange as sunset over the desert. How Uncle Hank had known it was my favorite color, I couldn’t guess.

  I lay down on the bed, holding an old picture I had kept in my pocket. Finally, I was somewhere where I didn’t have to care. I wasn’t in public and could make as much of a scene as I wanted. I cried then, harder and longer than I had in years. I cried myself to sleep that night, and it felt shockingly good.

  Interlude 1

  The Foreign Girl

  Baxter Fudd had been Shariff of Erewhon County for almost as long as anybody could remember. It was his county, but on an unseasonably warm and dry day in October, all of that changed.

  The old hippie van drove off of the ferry and headed straight up Rembrandt Boulevard towards the center of local government. The imposing edifice of the old courthouse, larger than a county this size really needed, reached skyward, taller than most buildings on the island. Joining it around the small square was the county administration building, which housed the governments of both city and county. The city library and the sheriff’s office A new bland brutalist building that had replaced the older office after it burned down in nineteen-seventy-nine, which locals still reckoned as recent. The van stopped in front of its concrete entrance, and three people with paper-white skin got out. Holding umbrellas they dashed into the office as if it were raining While a fourth stayed behind the wheel reading a paperback novel. They drew odd looks from the receptionist as they placed their dry umbrellas in the receptacle provided. The smallest of the three stepped forward to the desk and spoke softly in a mildly accented voice

  “We have an appointment with the sheriff.”

  This further confused the receptionist, Pamala O’Toole a thirty-year veteran of the office, well past retirement but kept around by virtue of her brute competence. As she knew for good and certain that “There are no appointments on Shariff Baxter Fudd’s schedule today.” Her voice was sandpaper from years of cigarettes and it had been known to frighten fully grown men, sheriff’s deputies some of whom had been to war, into submission but this petite foreign girl didn’t back down

  “I’m afraid there has been some terrible mistake, I called this morning, and spoke with you. Don’t you remember?” The girl stared into her eyes, deeply and without the slightest sign of blinking. When suddenly Pamala did, yes of course she did. This woman had called early that very morning and made an appointment. Her face flushed with embarrassment and she shook her head as if trying to clear it of something.

  “I am so sorry miss?”

  “Lisette Ducharme,” She said with a smile, that seemed somehow to light up the room and at the same time suck all the warmth out of it.

  “Of course”, she fumbled with the phone on her desk for a moment before calling into the Shariff’s office. They spoke for half a minute and then the old secretary hung up. “Shariff Fudd will see you now.

  Lisette and her two companions walked into the sheriff's office and half an hour later they left taking their pointless umbrellas with them.

  Fudd seemed different for the rest of that day and when Pamala came in to say goodbye to him before clocking out, he told her he had to let her go. It destroyed her, but no amount of begging could make him change his mind. That night when the next shift came on duty he fired three good deputies on technicalities, ruining the careers of some good young men. By the next day, he had already replaced them, their replacements were a short foreign woman and three tough tough-looking men, all with paper-white skin.