Chevy Stevens - Always Watching

“Unfortunately, she’s the same.” I set my keys down beside me.

“My son, he came out of it all right. Maybe just give her some time.”

“Lisa’s had a couple of close calls.” I flashed to the image of her pale in bed after her overdose. How many more could she survive? What if something went wrong at the center? “What time should I come up in the morning?”

I had to do something.

That night, I woke abruptly with every nerve alert, sure that I’d heard a noise. I lay quiet in the dark, my heart thudding as I strained my ears. What was it? Something outside? The truck slowing down again? There was nothing but silence, then the feeling that I wasn’t alone. Someone was standing nearby.

I reached up and slapped the light switch beside my bed, grabbing for the phone and my mace at the same time. I rolled off the side of the bed, crouched in a defensive position as I faced my room, ready to attack. There was no one there, just the faintest whiff of lavender floating in the air, like a memory.

The morning was dismal and wet. I was glad that I’d dressed in jeans, hiking boots, and my warm goose-down coat when I got out at the driveway of the old commune, the rain sneaking in under my skin, turning my hands red with cold. Steve’s truck was already parked on the road, and behind it, a black SUV, with tinted windows. Inside, a dog barked. Steve and another man, also lean and tall, but with a hard-lined face and snow-white hair and mustache, were standing near the SUV, stainless-steel coffee cups in hand, steam billowing up into the cold air. As I walked over to them, the dog barked short, deep warnings.

Steve introduced me, and I shook his friend’s hand as he said, “Ken.”

As soon as Ken got his German shepherd, named Wyatt, out of the back of the truck, the dog was working, sniffing the ground in a back-and-forth pattern, anxious on the end of the long rope. Ken explained that they would do a preliminary search first, to see if the dog picked up on anything, then a finer grid search in some likely areas. He warned me that if there was a body, it had been buried for so long the dog would have to be within a couple of feet to pick it up.

I followed behind as we headed down the trail, feeling safer this time with the men and the dog. Ken called out commands, his voice seeming loud in the quiet forest, while the dog worked the ground as they moved closer to the barn.

The river roared in the background, and the surroundings drifted away as the scent of wet forest, leaves, and dirt enveloped me, bringing with them a new memory.

I’m down at the river. Aaron orders me to stand naked against a tree, the bark wet and rough against my skin, while he stares at my body, slapping my hands with a switch if I try to cover any part of myself.

He says, “Separate yourself from your physical body. Feel the sensations, but don’t attach to the discomfort, just observe. Control your shivering.”

At first, the pain of the cold and the humiliation is excruciating. I think I’m going to scream from it, but then I focus on the sound of the river, a bead of rain dripping off a leaf, chanting my mantra in my mind, until I’m able to separate from the pain, aware of it, but distantly. Then it doesn’t matter what he does.

The sound of Ken calling his dog broke me out of the memory. Still shaking off the lingering shame and anger the memory had roused, I skirted the edge of the old barn. The rain made the wood slick and wet, the scent of old barn and rot even stronger. Ahead of me, Steve was waving his arms, trying to catch my attention. I walked toward him. He was standing at the side of the barn, pointing to the ground. “This the spot?”

“That’s it.”

The dog was pacing back and forth in tighter and tighter circles, then started pawing at the dirt. He took another couple of sniffs and sat, his eyes focused on Ken’s face. A shiver spider-walked up the base of my neck.

Steve and Ken began to dig, while the dog and I watched. The rain was coming down harder now, and I pulled my hood up over my head, moving a little in place to keep warm. Neither man showed any sign of stopping, grunting in exertion, their breath billowing out. My body was stiff, my hands tucked into the crooks of my arms, everything in me waiting, waiting. My mind filled with images of bones, stark and white in the wet earth. Steve stopped, stood straight, still staring down. I held my breath, my legs carrying me closer.

He glanced at me and said, “Just stretching,” then rubbed his back. I stopped, embarrassed. They dug a little while longer, and the tension began to ease in my body. It would take them a while to get down deep. The earth was heavy and wet, and they had to work around roots and rocks. I started to wander around again, keeping them in sight. They struggled to break up one root, then paused, looking down at something. Their voices low, I couldn’t hear them over the river. My blood whooshing in my ears, I started back toward them.

Steve turned in my direction. “Looks like the body of an animal, maybe a goat or something.”

The air came out of my chest. “Oh, thank God.”

Ken said, “We’ll just do a general search over the area, and see if Wyatt shows some interest anywhere else.”

I nodded. While Ken and Wyatt worked, Steve followed behind, and I had a better look at the commune. More memories came back when I got closer to one of the cabins, noticing the groove below where I used to hide. I dropped to my knees, peered into the dark, then turned and looked out at what my vision would’ve shown—mostly the campfire. I walked behind one of the cabins and stared out into a clearing, remembering when we’d chant as a group, our breaths exhaling as one. I skirted around the edges of the field, hearing Aaron in my mind.

I can end all your suffering.

I stopped at some plants on the side, an image coming to mind: a sea of red poppies in bloom. Aaron had told us their color symbolized resurrection after death, and we’d harvested the seedpods, probably for opium. I reached out and touched one of the leaves. My body flooded with another new memory.

I’m down on the ground. Aaron’s hand is wrapped tight in my hair, his breath panting in my ear as he starts undoing my shorts. My hands reach for help, finding only poppies, their sick, sweet scent filling my nostrils. The air’s so hot that I can hear the bark crackling on the arbutus trees as it peels back in the sun. Fragments break off and drift down, spiraling closer like brown butterflies.

Steve’s voice snapped me out of the memory. “Nadine.”

I was disorientated, a leaf crumpled in my hand, still caught somewhere between the past and the present. When was I in the field with Aaron? What else had happened?

Steve spoke again, louder now. “Nadine?”

I dropped the leaf, brushing its juices from my palms as I turned. “Yes?”

“Wyatt did a preliminary search, but he’s not alerting anything. We’ll spot-check a few areas, but he’s starting to lose interest.” He noticed my arms tight around my body. “If you want to get going, I can—”

“I’ll stay.”

I followed Steve back to the center of the commune, then kept close as Wyatt worked the field in a grid, and along the riverbank, anywhere it might be easy to bury a body. The dog was moving slower now, his tail drooping.

Finally Ken said, “He’s done for.”

I walked with them to our vehicles. As Ken put Wyatt back in the truck, I said, “He’s a beautiful animal. My brother has a shepherd, too.”

“Yeah, they’re good dogs.” Ken reached in and gave Wyatt a scratch.

Steve gave me a look. “How is Robbie?”