Chevy Stevens - Always Watching

He shook his head, took a gulp of beer. “Don’t think so. Most of them are from the city—they run away up here for the weekend.”

That reminded me of another runaway. “I also told the police about Willow. They’re going to check if she was ever reported missing.”

“Why would they think she was missing?” He looked surprised.

“I don’t know that they do. I just think it’s odd how she left so suddenly, so they said they’d see if they could find her.” I didn’t know how much of my suspicions I should share, still wondering if I was jumping to conclusions, and crazy ones at that, so I just said, “I’d like to talk to her, see what she remembers.”

Now there was an edge of concern to his voice. “I don’t think you should go talking to a bunch of people about Aaron. They were into some weird shit, and they’re probably still into weird shit. If I was you, I’d just stay out if it.” Brew whined. Robbie ruffled his head, trying to soothe. But his face was stressed.

Sounding calmer than I felt, I said, “The reason predators like him get away with things like this is because most people are too scared to say anything, they’re afraid of the public humiliation and being doubted. I feel the same way, but I also believe he’s destructive—and there are probably more victims.”

“If they’re this big organization now like you say, people aren’t going to like you going around making accusations.”

I was starting to get angry. He was my brother. I wanted his support, not warnings. “I appreciate your concern, but I understand the possible repercussions, and I’ve made my choice. I just wanted to know if you remembered anything.”

“No, and I’m not talking to the cops about anything—and don’t tell them fuck-all about me.”

That threw me. I’d never even suggested it as a possibility.

“I’m late,” he said. “I’ve gotta get to a job site.” At the words, Brew’s ears twitched, and he loped to my brother’s black Silverado, JAEGER EXCAVATING painted on the side in red. Brew circled at the passenger door, barking.

Robbie walked toward his truck. At the door, he turned and looked at me, his face serious. “Those guys are screwed up—you should just stay away from them. It’s shitty what he did, but you gotta move on with your life.”

Move on? I sucked in my breath, his words hitting hard and deep.

“I could say the same of you. What’s keeping you here? Mom and Dad have been gone for years.” I don’t know where my question came from. No, that’s not true. It came from hurt, but it hurt more when I saw the angry flush cross my brother’s face, and the look in his eyes. He opened the passenger door, and Brew leaped in. Then Robbie got in the driver’s side and, without looking at me, gunned the engine, spun his tires, kicking up gravel, and roared out the driveway. Brew hung his head out the side window, glaring balefully back at me, barking into the wind.

Frustrated about our visit and regretting some things I’d said, I’d planned to head straight back down to Victoria, but I drove around the east side of the lake, back through the village, so I could fill up on gas. While I waited in the car for the attendant, I caught sight of the corner store, a cream-colored wood building, with blue trim, where my mother had first met those commune members. Dread ran over my body as I remembered how anxious I’d been that day, watching her talk to them and sensing danger in the air. The store had changed over the years. Now a small outdoor café was attached to the side, where some teenagers sat on the tables, braving the cold for a cigarette, laughing, and texting on their phones.

I flashed to waiting in our old pickup truck, while Robbie and Levi approached a pair of teenage girls as they rested on the front steps of the store with their backpacks, drinking Dr Peppers in the sun. Their lives had probably changed forever when they decided to climb into the back of our truck and come out to the commune for a swim. I tried to think of their names, but they just blended with the other young women at the commune, all tanned with long hair, blissed out on pot and freedom. The only one who ever stood out was Willow. I wondered how she came to be at the commune, tried to think back, but nothing came to mind. Then I remembered that the community museum was just around the corner. After I paid for my gas, I parked my car in front of the small yellow building, thinking that I’d just pop in and see if they had any photos from the sixties.

The door jangled as I pushed it open. A woman, maybe early thirties, with blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, was sitting behind a glass counter covered with calendars and postcards. Below in the display case, logging tools, a railway spike, and books rested on red velvet. Behind her on the wall there was a framed artist-drawn map of Shawnigan Lake. There were also some photos of the Kinsol trestle, one with the old train crossing, steam billowing out from behind.

The woman set down the book she’d been reading and smiled. “Welcome to the Shawnigan Lake Museum.”

I smiled back. “Hello.” As I browsed around, I focused on some black-and-white photos hanging on the wall, rich people summering at the lake. Lost in thought, I heard her say something but didn’t catch the words.

I turned. “Pardon me?”

She said, “Are you visiting Shawnigan for the first time?”

“No, I grew up here.”

“Oh, yeah?” She studied my face. “Where did you live?”

“Out toward the trestle—but it was a long time ago. I live in Victoria now.”

“It’s being rebuilt.” I’d already noticed all the photos of the Kinsol trestle, happy to see they were fixing it up. It had been one of my favorite places when I was growing up, somewhere I went for comfort. It was the largest wooden trestle in the Commonwealth and one of the highest in the world. Years ago it had been burned in the middle by some students, and it came with its own tragic past. A young man had committed suicide by hanging himself from a beam.

I said, “Actually, maybe you can help me. There used to be some hippies living out by the river….”

“You mean the commune?” She cocked her head, waiting for the rest of my question.

Fear crawled down my legs, the sense of opening doors that should be left closed. “Do you know anyone in town who might remember them?” Other than me, who wasn’t sure she wanted to remember.

“Hmm. Don’t know….” She wrinkled her nose.

I glanced down at the book in her hand—it was a book on the history of the Malahat and Shawnigan Lake.

Noticing the direction of my gaze, she said, “I’m obsessed with history.” She smiled guiltily and shrugged.

“Well, there are certainly plenty of stories and legends about Shawnigan.”

She leaned over the counter, her eyes wide. “You mean like all the drownings?”

Growing up, I’d heard that the First Nations refused to come anywhere near the lake, saying it was cursed. Legend had it that there’d been a war between two tribes that took place in the center of the lake. The boats had capsized, drowning everyone, but their bodies had never been recovered. When we were young, and our parents took us to Mason’s Beach to swim, I’d been terrified, thinking the weeds touching my legs were ghostly arms reaching up from below. I assumed that was what she was referring to now, but I said, “The First Nations drownings?”

She nodded. “Those, and two others as well. One couple was killed in a speedboat accident. And there was a logger who drowned waterskiing. They couldn’t find the bodies, so they had to dynamite the lake… then they floated up.”

We looked at each other. I imagined bloated white bodies drifting up from the deep, felt the skin tingle at the back of my neck.