Dave Zeltserman - The Caretaker of Lorne Field

“So now you’re telling me that a weed grabbed a spade out of your hands?”

“No, I said an Aukowie, not a weed.”

“My mistake. An Aukowie. And let me guess, it threw the spade at your son.”

“Yep.”

Wolcott showed a tired smile. “And it hit Lester in the thumb, right? Chopped it right off?”

Durkin shook his head, scowling. “Nope, that’s not what I said. The spade missed Lester. He had his thumb chewed off when he put it too close to an Aukowie. I kept warning him all afternoon not to do that.”

Wolcott looked at Durkin and tried to make up his mind whether or not to keep humoring him. “Why don’t you show me what you videotaped,” he said finally.

Durkin pulled the view screen out from the camcorder and tried to play back the video. His scowl deepened as he stared at it. “I can’t remember how to use this damn thing,” he muttered.

“Give it to me.”

Durkin handed Wolcott the camcorder. The sheriff tried to turn it on and frowned at it also. “I think it’s broken,” he said.

“Lester did drop it,” Durkin said. He remembered with some shame dropping it also when he fainted. He remembered the ground around where he fell had been hard and that there were rocks there too, but he didn’t mention any of that.

Wolcott examined the camcorder more carefully. “There’s no tape inside.”

“What?”

“There’s no tape inside. See for yourself.”

Wolcott pointed a finger at the empty slot where a tape should’ve been. Durkin squinted at it, shaking his head.

“That don’t make any sense,” he said. “There should be a tape there.”

“Jack,” Wolcott said, his expression turning grim, “why don’t you quit wasting both our time and tell me what really happened at Lorne Field today.”

“I’m telling you, there should be a tape in there. I don’t understand why there ain’t. There was one in it last night.”

“It’s empty now. Why is that?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll tell you why. Because you took it out and got rid of it. I wouldn’t be surprised if you buried it.”

“Why would I do that?”

Wolcott looked at Durkin with a mix of exasperation and pity. He swallowed back what he wanted to say, which was that he did it because he was nuts. Instead he kept his voice as calm as he could and said, “Because somehow you’ve convinced yourself you could make a videotape proving that those weeds are monsters. But when the videotape showed they’re nothing but weeds, you had to try something else. Is that why you cut off Lester’s thumb? So you could claim they bit it off and prove they’re monsters that way? Come on, Jack, just admit this and let’s make this easy for everyone. Especially your family.”

“One of the Aukowies chewed off Lester’s thumb,” Durkin argued stubbornly.

“That’s the story you’re going to stick with?”

“It’s the truth.”

“I should arrest you right now,” Wolcott said. “But if I did I’d have to drag you over a mile in handcuffs. No, with this I’m going to make sure to dot my i’s and cross my t’s. I’ll wait until I talk to Lester. Besides, I know where to find you. You’ll be back at Lorne Field tomorrow saving the world, won’t you, Jack?”

“Make fun of me all you want.”

“I’m simply asking you a question, Jack, that’s all.”

Durkin’s eyes darkened. “Talk to Lester,” he said. “He’ll tell you what happened.”

“I’m sure he will. I’ll be seeing you, Jack.”

Sheriff Wolcott handed the camcorder back to Durkin and nodded as he headed down an intersecting path leading to Hillside Drive where he had parked his car. Durkin stared dumbly at the camcorder in his large thick hands, wondering what had happened to the tape that had been inside it.

Sheriff Wolcott waited five minutes and then backtracked to the path to Lorne Field. He knew if Durkin saw him heading to the field he’d go ballistic, and Wolcott had had just about enough of that man’s craziness for one night.

If it had been anyone other than Durkin cutting off his son’s thumb, he would’ve brought the person immediately to court to ask for a seventy-two-hour competency evaluation at the state mental hospital, but with Durkin involved it was more than simply worrying about whether all his i’s were dotted and his t’s crossed-he had to make sure his case against him was both thorough and air-tight. There were still some nuts around town who believed this bullshit story of monsters growing out of a field, not many, but enough that Wolcott had to make sure his case left no doubt about Durkin’s actions. Before he could arrest Durkin he needed a statement from Lester and he needed to investigate the crime scene.

The sun was starting to set and in the early evening dusk he saw a brown bat flying erratically above him. The damn thing flew close enough a couple of times that he had to duck. He watched it cautiously for a minute, hoping it was busy eating its body weight in mosquitoes. After the bat flew out of sight, Wolcott headed down the path to Lorne Field.

After three-quarters of a mile, the path disappointingly narrowed to where it would be impossible to drive an off-road vehicle. It meant after he talked to Lester the following morning he’d have to park over a mile and a half from the field, hike that distance with a couple of deputies, handcuff Durkin and drag him back to the vehicle. Either that or let Durkin get one last day of weeding in before arresting him, which meant he’d have to miss dinner with his family two nights in a row. Thinking about that made him wish he could just arrest the crazy old coot and get it over with.

When he got within a half mile of the field he started jogging, more to outrun the mosquitoes than for any other reason, and was surprised at what he saw when he reached it. The field was large-maybe two football fields in width, one and a half in length, and it was completely barren. Absolutely nothing growing in it. No grass, no weeds, nothing. It was still light enough to see, but he turned his flashlight on and waved it over the field. If it weren’t for the little holes and loose dirt everywhere, he’d have a hard time believing anything ever grew in it. As he thought about the effort required to walk up and down that field and pull out every little weed and blade of grass, he couldn’t help but begrudgingly respect Durkin. The guy might be as crazy as a loon but he was sure as hell dedicated. Wolcott crouched on his heels so he could touch the ground. He picked up some dirt, rolled it between his thumb and fingers, then sniffed and tasted it. Nothing but ordinary dirt, just like any other field. He felt stupid and couldn’t help self-consciously looking around to make sure no one was in eyeshot.

He walked over to a small dilapidated wooden structure that served as a shed. Inside were gardening tools, a wheelbarrow, shovel, spade and a canvas sack. He flashed the light on the edges of the tools. If there had been blood on any of them it had been wiped clean. He picked up the canvas sack and started to look inside but had to turn away. The stench was unbelievable. Like sulfur and ammonia and decay all mixed together. Keeping his head craned as far away as possible, he opened it and flashed his light inside and saw the sack was empty.

He left the shed and walked over to a stone pit about fifty yards to the left. Near the pit a large mound of lime had been dumped into a pile, probably a good hundred or so wheelbarrow loads worth. He wondered how Durkin brought all that lime to the field, but then he saw a pile of dirt that could easily have been a freshly dug grave and his thoughts gravitated elsewhere. He went back to the shed, retrieved the shovel and dug up the loose dirt. The original hole went no more than two feet deep, and after a while he realized that the only thing buried in it were ashes mixed with lime. He walked over to the stone pit and quickly turned away. The stench there was far worse than what had lingered in the canvas sack. He took a deep breath and held it before going back to the stone pit. Crouching again so he sat on his heels, he flashed a light inside the pit, then wiped his finger along it. More ash. Whatever weeds Durkin burned, he burned inside the pit. He could’ve just as easily burned the thumb there also or, for that matter, buried it anywhere within the field or along the woods. Wolcott thought about bringing dogs to the field, but decided it would be a waste of time. Anyway, if Lester told him what he was expecting, he wouldn’t need the severed thumb to arrest Durkin.