South Village Page 3

  Once I’m upright it’s a simple task of climbing the branches like a crooked ladder until I’m at a window of the tree house. It’s not netted, thankfully, so I don’t have to rip anything down. I climb onto the platform with Crusty Pete’s sleeping bag, which reeks of body odor and old food.

  Oh Crusty Pete and your wildly accurate nickname.

  I push the sour-smelling bag aside, climb across and onto the floor. It’s sparse and dim, this tree house not wired for electricity, so there’s nothing to turn on. The air is thick, the breeze apparently not coming through the window or the door enough to clear it out. There’s the platform, a chair, and a small table, everything roughed out from plywood by an amateur hand, unfinished and not painted. On the table there’s a paper plate, two shiny black water bugs feasting on the crumbs of whatever was left.

  Motherfucker. I will never get used to seeing these things. Not here. Seeing them crawl out of a sewer grate or disappear under the fridge is at least familiar. I didn’t expect to find them in the woods. These are worse than New York roaches, too, because they’re bigger and sometimes fly at your face.

  They pay me no attention, so I crouch down, to Pete’s worn and tattered duffel bag. It’s full of dirty clothing and a small plastic baggie of shriveled brown shrooms, which I shove into the back pocket of my jeans. On the sleeping platform, there’s a small pile of papers and books. Mostly books.

  Rules for Radicals by Saul Alinsky, 1984 by George Orwell, God and State by Mikhail Bakunin, A People’s History of the United States by Howard Zinn. All of them worn and beaten and standard reading for most of the folks around here. Also, an erotic novel called The Kiss of the Rose. Which is weird, but okay.

  Underneath the books is a stack of papers, held together with a paperclip, the pages warped where they’ve been repeatedly soaked and dried and yellowed by age. The front page is a bad clipart image of a book of matches.

  Setting Fires with Electrical Timers: An Earth Liberation Front Guide.

  I flip through and it’s pretty much exactly what it sounds like. Lots of diagrams on how to commit some gnarly arson. This sets off all kinds of internal alarms. But as the son of a firefighter, it would. Even as a kid I would lecture people about the dangers of real Christmas trees and the importance of inspecting your fire extinguishers. The idea of arson is pretty fucking repellant to me.

  There are two kinds of people who come through South Village: People looking for something—themselves, adventure, a story, whatever. And then there are the people who are in the tank for the hippie lifestyle. And that can run the spectrum from Woodstock to hard activism. Magda is the Woodstock type. Old-school happy fun times. Marx is the hard activism type. I’ve never been able to peg Crusty Pete down, because we never spoke much, but unless he’s morbidly curious, this seems to be a good indication of where he lands on the scale.

  There are no notes throughout the document, but the back is filled up with careful numbers in little groupings, offset by dashes. This is probably not a good thing to leave lying around. It’s too thick to fold so I roll it up and jam it in my pocket with the flask.

  One more quick look around. Nothing else in the open. I look back to the plate and see the two roaches, which now seem to be regarding me with some level of curiosity. Like maybe I’m edible. I kick a chair and duck in case they attack, but they scramble away and disappear.

  I get down on the floor and check under the chair and the table, to make sure there’s nothing taped under anything. Other than that, there aren’t really any places to hide contraband. Not that it would be easy to find. The shrooms are one thing. If Pete really wanted to hide harder drugs, he probably hid them well enough that they won’t be found without physically tearing this place apart.

  That finished, I step onto the platform that serves as the front porch, which doesn’t give me room to do much more than stand. Look down and there’s Crusty Pete. He’s closer to the tree house than he is the tree that held the ladder. His body is lying perpendicular to the path of the bridge so I can’t tell if he was coming or going. I consider jumping down but it’s too high, so I go back through the window and climb down the branches until I’m on the ground.

  I walk around the tree, careful to avoid looking at Pete’s body, because I don’t want to look at it. I don’t like the way it looks. It reminds me of what happened in Portland. The way Wilson arced through the air off my fist and cracked his neck against the bumper of his car. The way his body felt as I carried it through the woods. Woods that looked a little like these woods, and suddenly the wave hits, roaring in my ears, pulling me down into the dark...

  I try to focus on something else. I go to the bridge and take a knee next to the rope. Thick, brown hemp that probably would have been period-specific for Temple of Doom. It shrinks when it gets wet, which is why they soak it and dry it before using new bundles. That reduces the amount it’ll shrink when it rains. But I can’t remember the last time it rained, and I don’t even know if that would create enough tension to break it.

  The rope is frayed so I twist it back together, to look down the length of it. To see if I can glean anything about how it tore. This is going to mean checking the four other rope bridges to make sure everything is sound.

  Once I get it twisted back up to where it’s supposed to be, twice the thickness of my thumb, I run my finger across the face of the break.

  Half of it is ripped and torn and jagged.

  The other half is smooth and uniform.

  Like it’d been cut halfway with a sharp knife.

  Just enough that maybe it’d break if someone walked across the bridge.

  Tibo looks at the rope and frowns. “Man, I don’t know. I have a hard time believing someone here would do something like that.”

  I drop the rope to the ground and pull the apron off, stuff it in the belt of my shorts. The sun is slicing through the canopy and it’s so damn hot, the air thick and wet. I know the sheriff is coming and it’s probably not polite to be shirtless, but at least I’m wearing pants.

  “I think it’s at least worth mentioning to them,” I tell Tibo.

  “Disagree.”

  “Why?”

  “Foremost, you are not a rope expert,” he says, dropping into a crouch and picking it up again. “Smart money is it broke, which dovetails off my second reason, which is, do you really think anyone here is capable of murder? That’s not really the vibe.”

  “Charles Manson was a hippie,” I tell him.

  “Ha, ha.”

  “And look, Pete wasn’t beaten to death. There was no struggle. Anyone can cut a rope. It’s impersonal, so nobody had to get up close. It’s not like this took special skill or temperament.”

  “Right. But I don’t think the rope was cut.”

  “So maybe we ought to let somebody with a forensics background look at it,” I tell him.

  “I have never known you to trust authority figures,” Tibo says, genuinely surprised.

  “Yeah, well, I used to think there was shit I could handle myself, and it turns out I can’t. Maybe it’s best to leave to professionals.”

  “I’m sorry, Ash. I really believe this was an accident. I don’t mean to be unkind, but I’ve known you a long time now. You have a habit for building narratives. Getting too wrapped up in wanting to fight dragons.”

  Cheap shot, but true.

  Tibo was center-stage when Chell got killed and I tore through New York like a wrecking ball, trying to find the person who did it. By the end I was convinced it was an elaborate conspiracy, but the reality was far more benign: It was a random act of violence. A drop in an overflowing bucket. One I needed to weigh down with meaning because the only way I could process my grief was to be selfish about it, and make it all about me.

  “We can tell them your theory,” Tibo says. “But it’s going to turn into a whole thing. South Village will be crawling with investigators. Guests are going to leave. They don’t come here for that. We’re just laying down our roots and that�
��ll be a big blow. This place will get a rep. Not a good one. Are you really going to do that to me?”

  I start to say something, stop.

  “I don’t mean to be callous, but I just want you to be sure,” Tibo says. He looks up and over my shoulder. “And decide quick, because they’re here.”

  They come crunching through the underbrush, in khaki uniforms, buttoned-up and tucked-in, both of them with deep pools of sweat soaking their armpits. Sheriff Ford and Assistant Sheriff Corey.

  Ford is a tree stump of a man, in both shape and complexion. His skin is tanned and ridged, age showing through everywhere but his eyes. He’s in his 50s at least, maybe up in his 60s and he just eats well. His face is set in a perpetual frown. I’ve seen him around, but have never spoken to him.

  Corey is the kind of handsome people wish for. Like he rolls out of bed with his bit of stubble and his hair all mussed, ready to break hearts. I imagine he played football for the local high school, got used to the attention, couldn’t go pro, decided to take a job where people would continue to listen to what he told them.

  Tibo is right. I have an incredible distrust for authority, related to the numerous times in my life I’ve gotten fucked over—or at least, attempted-fucked-over—by someone wearing a badge. That said, not all cops are bad. And these two seem to fall into the ‘good’ column, until they prove otherwise. It doesn’t mean I don’t get nervous when Ford looks at me and lingers on my face. Like he’s trying to figure out if he recognizes me. A wanted poster, maybe?

  At least I don’t feel like I’m going to pee myself when I see him, which is what happened the first time he walked into camp.

  “Now what have we got here, Tee-bow,” Ford says, looking away from me, drawing out the name like they’re old pals horsing around.

  “I think that’s fairly obvious,” Tibo says, nodding toward Pete.

  Ford extends his hand to me and we shake. His hand is huge and a little sweaty. The bones in my hand shift and creak. “Don’t know if we met,” he says.

  “Never formally. I’m Ash.” Immediately cursing myself. Why did I use my real name? Should have come up with a burner. This whole scene is wearing down too heavy on my nerves. Making me foolish.

  “That short for something?”

  I’m in it now. “Ashley.”

  Corey stifles a laugh and catches himself. Right off I can see he feels bad about it. He didn’t mean for it, it just spilled out.

  Ford turns and gives Corey a harsh look. “These days kids get all kinds of names. My cousin named their boy Carroll.” Ford hooks his fingers into his belt and looks at the ground. “Though, the boy ain’t right in the head.”

  “No harm, no foul,” I tell them. “I got over that a long time ago.”

  He nods and walks around Tibo. “So, walk me through what you got.”

  Tibo leads them to the body, explaining when Pete was found—about an hour and a half ago—and that’s pretty much it. Corey pulls a heavy-duty digital camera from his hip and takes pictures. Ford crouches to the ground and traces his fingers through the dirt.

  “Lots of footprints,” he says.

  “When the body was found, pretty much everyone came out,” Tibo says.

  “Well that about fucks getting shoeprints.” He walks around to the rope, bunches it up in his hand, looks at where it split. “You got any sense this was foul? Anyone have it out for this kid?”

  “No,” Tibo says. “I believe it was an accident, sir.”

  Tibo looks at me as Ford turns the rope in his hands, twisting it like I did. I look down at the ground, thinking about narratives. About this place being flooded by cops. About whether I’m sure about any of this. And the truth is: I’m not.

  Ford drops the rope and nods. “That about tracks.”

  He probably knows more about rope than I do.

  “We’re going to send the coroner out,” Ford says. “We’ll take him, take the rope, just to have it looked at. We have to get back out on the road to get a signal. Until then, keep this area clear.” Ford points up to the tree house. “Assistant Sheriff Corey, get on up there and see if anything jumps out at you.”

  Corey stashes the camera and looks up at the thick foliage. “Literally or figuratively?” he asks.

  “Either way.”

  Corey furrows his brow and walks around the tree, seems to settle on the path I took up. Ford looks at me. “I didn’t know this fella here, but I’m damn sorry. It’s a hell of a thing.”

  Tibo nods. “What happens next?”

  “We bag him and tag him. Look into next of kin to see if someone will identify and claim him. Do you have any information or paperwork on him you could share?”

  “I don’t even know his last name,” Tibo says. “He went by Crusty Pete. He wasn’t an employee and he paid for everything in cash. I’ll look through my records but I don’t think I have anything.”

  The corner of Ford’s lip curls. “You kids and your nicknames.”

  “Got something, sheriff,” Corey yells. He hangs out the window, holding a tiny square object in his hand. “Looks like some marry-ja-wana.”

  Son of a bitch. I guess I wasn’t as thorough as I thought.

  “Toss it on down,” Ford says.

  Corey fans out his fingers and the bag floats through the air, right into Ford’s outstretched palm. He sticks it in his pocket. I think me and Tibo are both a little wide-eyed, because he laughs. “Little bit of weed never hurt anyone. Don’t think I’m an idiot, fellas. I know y’all are smoking it out here. Most of the time I can smell it. But I know you’re not selling it. At this point, if it ain’t meth, I don’t give a shit.”

  “That’s very progressive, sheriff,” I tell him. “But how do you know we’re not selling?”

  An eyebrow goes up. I was curious, but he takes it as a challenge.

  “Sounds like you’re from New York City,” he says. “Am I correct in assuming that?”

  People love to point that out down here. I don’t know why. The mysticism of the big city? The cleverness over identifying an accent?

  “Yes sir, you are,” I say.

  “Well son, I know the cops you got up there are like super-cops. I went up there with the wife a few years ago and half those fellas around Times Square look like Navy SEALS. I know you’re used to a different sort. But just because we don’t have the resources or training doesn’t mean we don’t know what we’re doing.”

  Maybe it’s just that people like putting us in our place.

  “I didn’t mean any offense by it,” I tell him.

  “Well, good,” he says. “At the end of the day, let’s say I know what my priorities are. And a bunch of kids getting high in the woods is not my priority.”

  Corey rejoins us, his face red from exertion. Ford nods to him. “Go on out to the road, give a call to the coroner. Let him know he’s got a pickup. Tell ‘em to send someone from forensics, too. I figure on this being an accident, but doesn’t hurt to have a look around.”

  Ford turns back to us as Corey runs off. He looks at Tibo and tilts his head toward me. “He okay? Can we talk about something serious?”

  “Me and Ash go way back,” says Tibo. “I trust him more than anyone here.”

  Aww.

  Ford nods. He looks down at Pete, one last long look, and turns, leading us out of view of the body. He says, “FBI agent visited me the other day. Asking a lot of questions about this place.”

  Tibo freezes. “What about?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. This guy came in—big motherfucker. Made Sonny Liston look like a featherweight. The questions were vague and I couldn’t get a good read on it. Mostly about the type of person who comes through here. He did ask if I’d ever seen stores of gasoline or fertilizer out here. Bomb making material, you know?”

  That rolled-up arson manual in my pocket suddenly feels a lot heavier.

  “Does he think we’re planning to blow something up?” Tibo asks.

  Ford shakes his head. “There�
��s precedent there, son. You want to live off the grid, it makes people wonder what you’ve got to hide.”

  “Do you think we have anything to hide?”

  “Naw. You never cause any trouble for me. I think you’re a bunch of kids want to have some fun. Nothing wrong with that. This aside,” he says, nodding toward Pete, “I’ve never had to lose any sleep over this place. So I told that FBI agent in no uncertain terms I could vouch for you.”

  “Thank you,” Tibo says.

  “Welcome.” The frown disappears off his face. “Now don’t make me a liar. I will vouch for you, but if shit goes down I will not protect you. Do you understand the difference?”

  “Yes sir.”

  The frown comes back. His version of a smile. “Good. Now I’ll get in touch if forensics turn up something worth worrying about, but as for right now, I ask that you take a long hard look at the safety issues around here, make sure something like this doesn’t happen again. I know tree houses look fun. Someone else falls and breaks their neck, then we’re going to have issues. You got me?”

  Tibo offers his hand. They shake. “Thank you.”

  Ford reaches over and shakes my hand. “Nice to meet you. Sorry if I dressed you down a bit back there.”

  “No apology necessary. I don’t know when to watch my mouth.”

  Ford nods. “I’m going to stay here, wait for the team. Why don’t y’all head back? Corey will probably have them come in down the back road. Make sure to keep everyone away from here for the time being.”

  “Sure thing,” Tibo says.

  We turn to leave and don’t say anything until we’re out of earshot.

  “He seems nice,” I say.

  “As a black man running a commune south of the Mason-Dixon, I kind of figured I’d be in for a hell of a time with the local police. He’s been good to us.”