Shya Scanlon: The Guild of Saint Cooper

“What?” he asked.

“Shit, Mitch. Of course you wouldn’t have heard this part, but everything happened so quickly I didn’t make the connection until now.”

“What connection? You don’t think it’s him up there? Maybe, maybe not, but I’m not going to give up just because—”

“No, no, it was Russell. It was Russell and his…whatever it is, cult? It was those people who’ve been killing rhodies and putting Cooper’s initials on the stumps. They did the newsletter, the Guild letters, not him. They were actually trying to recruit me to their cause when you swooped in.”

I tried to look away but couldn’t, could only watch Mitch’s face. But instead of the destruction I’d expected, a small twitch and glance to the left was all that passed. It was a subtle reset, a quick adjustment, and before I knew it he’d regained what little composure he’d lost and moved forward.

“But they’re doing it in his name. They’re building a movement that’s going to need a center, that’s going to need him. And he’ll see that. He’ll understand.”

I was about to argue the point when a collective gasp shot through the diner. Mitch blanched. I followed his gaze over my shoulder to a small television hung above the cash register.

“What you’re about to see,” said the host, “could be difficult for certain viewers.”

They cut to a reporter in what appeared to be a helicopter. They were somewhere out at sea, and presently the camera panned out the open doors and down to the ocean below. It was difficult to tell what was happening at first, but once my eyes adjusted to the blue-gray expanse of water I could plainly make out the precipitous rise of a colossal tsunami moving across the screen. The copter spun slowly to the right until the coastline could be seen, and at the bottom of screen appeared the words WASHINGTON STATE.

“Remaining inhabitants of coastal towns were alerted throughout the night,” the reporter voiced over, “but it is unknown how many received the message to evacuate.”

The camera cut again to footage from above Seattle: I-5, bumper to bumper with traffic. Traffic didn’t appear to be moving.

“Experts are especially concerned with Seattle and other points within Puget Sound, since the water levels will rise even farther there, thanks to the narrower passage afforded by surrounding land masses.”

When it cut to an animation of this principle I got up from my seat.

“Let’s go,” I said.

We walked outside in silence. It was getting warm already, but not too warm. At higher elevation it was cooler than I was used to, than it had been in Seattle for months. It felt rejuvenating, and since I was still new to being outside without protection I felt as though I could stand there all day. Mitch’s impractical faith in Cooper notwithstanding, his story had stirred something in me, and though I couldn’t quite say what it was just yet, I felt compelled to know how it would end. To be there for it.

“You know,” I said, “it’s interesting that if it weren’t for being Lit, you might not have come to this epiphany. You might not have found this calling.”

“I’ve thought that over and over, Blake,” he said at last. “I get Illuminated, as they say, and actually find that I am called to serve. Even if it’s not the way the Lights might have wanted.”

Mitch paused. I could tell he still wasn’t sure how to take what we’d seen. How I’d taken it.

“Blake, if anyone could make it out of there, it would be—”

I held up my hand.

I wanted to take what he’d said further, perhaps to reassure him that the irony of his service did not in the least sabotage the value or potential of his mission, of our mission. But this was something he already knew. What could I add? What could I say? What I didn’t say was, what if, at any moment, he could be called to serve by the Lights themselves? Their reach was unknown, their intentions vague. However pertinent, it seemed too cynical a speculation for the sweet, cool heat of the morning mountain air.

We walked to Mitch’s car, and before getting in he took an orange cloth from his jacket pocket and rubbed away a little smudge on the hood. The small gesture was mindless, but it occurred to me that if we were to find Dale Cooper at all, it would be in this way: through an automatic respect for the very real world around us. Standing on the passenger side of the humble gray Honda, I watched Mitch, waited for him to unlock the door. Improbably, this man had infected me with his optimism. I felt as though I’d long been underwater, deep down beyond the reach of sunlight, imperiled by my own stubbornness and running out of air, and that I was now freed by some great inner strength and guided by a friendly force, swiftly rising upward toward the surface, to a place both wonderful and strange.

Thanks first to the early readers who helped me figure this thing out: Erin Flaherty, Nicholas Bredie, Matthew Simmons, Jonathan Redhorse, and, a little later, my mother Kathie Huus. You are all part of this book. Also part of this book are my awesome agent Stacia Decker and the good folks at Dzanc, especially Guy Intoci, who is one of the hardest workers I know. Thank you. Thank you.

And thanks for reading.