Walker Percy - The Thanatos Syndrome

I eat it all. There is a glass of water. It reminds me of something. I call Elmo.

“One little question, Elmo. I’ll explain later.”

“Sho, Doc.”

“The breakfast was delicious. Where does the water come from?”

Elmo Jenkins laughs. “You noticed. Don’t worry about it, Doc. You not drinking river water. That’s Abita Springs water, right from our back yard, the best in the world, as you know.”

“I know. What do the prisoners on the farm drink?”

“That’s river water, treated so it’s safe, but I can taste the chemicals.”

“You mean from the Ratliff intake?”

“Right, Doc. Seems like you know this country around here.”

“A little.”

“Enjoy your walk, Doc.”

I call Lucy. She picks it up on the first ring. “Yes?” she says breathlessly. She’s ready. “Is that you?”

“Yes.”

“You all right?”

“I’m fine. Is Vergil there?”

“Right here.”

“Doc?” says Vergil.

“You all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“What are we going to do, Doc?”

“We’re going to get Claude.”

“Fine. How are we going to do that? I already tried. They’re all locked up and don’t answer the phone. You think we ought to call the police again?”

“No. Here’s what we’re going to do. You know where Tunica Landing is?”

“I surely do. That’s where my daddy used to put in to cross over to Raccourci Island.”

“Good. I want you to meet me there in forty minutes.”

Pause. “Doc, you in Angola. How we going to do that?”

“Don’t worry. I have a — like a pass. Does your daddy still have his pirogue?”

“No, sir. He got a new one, a light fiberglass one, just before he got sick. He only could use it once or twice. It’s good as new.”

“Will it hold three people?”

“Three people. Well, it will hold me and my daddy and two hundred pounds of nutria.”

“Can you get it in Lucy’s truck?”

“With one hand.”

“Good. Is Uncle Hugh Bob there?”

“Yes, sir. You want to talk to him?”

“No, that’s not necessary. Just tell him to come with you. He’ll be glad to. And tell him one more thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know that old long-barrel Colt Woodsman he’s got?”

“I sure do.”

“Tell him to bring it.”

“Tell him to bring it,” Vergil repeats.

“For dogs.”

“For dogs,” Vergil repeats.

“They might have guard dogs at Belle Ame.”

“All right, Doc.” He seems relieved.

“We not going to kill them. We probably won’t even need it.”

“Right Doc.”

“I figure it will take you forty-five minutes or so to get up to Tunica Landing. I’ll probably be there by then. If not, wait.”

“We’ll be there.”

“And Vergil.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t worry about Claude. I feel sure he’s all right. But I don’t want my kids in that place and I’m sure you feel the same way.”

“I sure do. But what—”

“We’re just going to ease down the river to the old landing at Belle Ame and pick up Claude and maybe have a little talk with those folks. Later we’ll call the police. But I want Claude out first. We can’t go by car because the gate’s locked and they’d be expecting us. They’re not going to be expecting anybody from the landing. So we’ll have a look around, and a little surprise won’t hurt them. They can’t lock the landing. But there might be some dogs.”

“We’ll be there in thirty minutes, Doc.”

“Good. Let me talk to Lucy.”

Lucy’s voice is constricted and high in her throat. “What in the world—!”

I tell her the plan.

“Are you crazy? Don’t fool around with those people. Let me call the police.”

“We will. But I want to get Claude out now and there’s something I need to find out.”

“Yes, but they’ll—”

“They’ll what? Shoot me? No no. Van Dorn doesn’t know what we have on him. He’s mainly worried about the heavy-sodium connection. He’ll want to explain, talk me into something. He’s the one that’s worried. They don’t even know about your clinical findings with the children. You didn’t tell anybody, did you?”

“No, but—”

“But what?”

“Promise me that—”

“That I won’t shoot anybody? I promise I won’t shoot anybody.”

“Promise me that you’ll take care of yourself.”

“I will.”

“Good God.”

“Now listen, Lucy.”

“Yes?”

“Where is your truck?”

“Here. I’ve been here with the children, either on the phone trying to reach Gottlieb or waiting to hear from you.”

“All right. Give the keys to Vergil. When we finish our business at Belle Ame, we’ll either take my car if it’s still there, or we’ll drop on down to Pantherburn in the pirogue. I have to get back here by two. You can drive me up.”

“After you finish your business.” She’s calmed down, is breathing easier. “And what do I do if you don’t show up or I don’t hear from you?”

“If we don’t show up by midnight, call the cops.”

“Call the cops,” she repeats. “Why do you need Hugh?”

“He knows the river.”

“He knows the river.”

“See you later.”

“Sure,” she says absently.

3. THERE’S A DIRT TRACK atop the levee beyond the chain link fence. You can’t see the river through the willows of the batture. There’s another fence in the willows. The morning sun is already warm. A south wind from the gulf is already pushing up a dark, flat-headed cloud. It is like late summer. My nose has stopped running. Walking the levee in flatlands has the pleasant feel of traveling a level track between earth and sky.

There is no horse patrol in sight, only guard towers on the prison farm, but I’d as soon get off the levee and into the willows. The batture here has been cleared down to the fence. I quicken my stride. The smudge ahead under the cloud must be the loess hills. And here’s the crossing fence, crossing the levee and squaring off the two fences running on each side. Beyond the fence a shell road angles up one side of the levee and down the other. The fence is maybe eight feet high, but it is not a good idea to climb it. I’m still in clear view of the near tower. Elmo mentioned the downriver corner. I see why. There’s a washout just upriver from the corner, grown up in weeds, but a washout nonetheless, a space gullied under the fence. It is not hard to see. It can only mean that the fence is symbolic and the detainees have no reason to escape, or that the guards, both mounted and in the towers, keep them in sight. Or both.

I make my turn, look back toward Angola, see no one, widen the turn to carry over the brow of the levee to its shoulder, moseying along, hands in pockets like the bored ex-President of Guatemala, down and out of sight of the guard tower. The grass is ankle high, but the footing is good and it is easy to angle down the levee. On the steeper shoulder of the levee at the washout I roll down and under the fence the way you roll down the levee when you’re a boy, elbows held in tight, hands over your face.

The willows of the batture are thick. It is good to be in the willows and out of sight. I figure to hit the shell road, which angles away from me, by keeping parallel to the river. The going is heavy, but after a hundred yards or so I hit not shells but a dirt track, hardly wider than a path. This must be Elmo’s jeep trail. The soft dirt has three tire tracks, which puzzle me until I remember that deer hunters hereabouts use three-wheelers more than jeeps.

The trail angles toward the river. The batture is dropping away. The dirt is quiet underfoot, but presently there is a roaring. The top of a poplar moves fitfully as if it were being jerked by a human hand. It must be the river, high now and ripping through the batture.