"No use sittin' out here in the chill, mister. Ain't a blessed thing you can do." The old woodcutter blinked, lifting a thick, calloused hand to shield his eyes. The morning sun was weak, but the rays shimmering off the water made it impossible to see. He turned away.
Preston Hollowell gathered the blanket around his meaty frame. "They'll find her, I'm sure of it."
Clearing his throat he spoke to the younger man huddled under a wool blanket.
The old man gently shook his head. "No, sorry. There's no chance. That lake is so deep 'n cold they just stay down there."
Preston shivered, and took a sip of brandy-laced coffee he clutched awkwardly through the folds of the blanket. He raised his head, studying the graceful slopes of the mountain looming above the lake and surrounding forest like a giant drug store confection. “They’ll try to bring her up, won’t they? I mean, they just can’t leave her down on the bottom!” Preston shook his head and brought the coffee to his lips. He hoped they never found her.
A recluse of sorts, the woodcutter had his own garden and did not use electricity. During the summer, he made a meager wage selling firewood and hand designed novelties to tourists who couldn’t wait to put them on the fireplace mantel.
The woodsman sniffed, then brought out his pipe and stuffed it into a pouch of tobacco. “Ain’t a matter of can’t, or won’t mister. It’s just the lake is too deep to drag ‘n too cold, even for divers in wet suits. This ain’t the first time it’s happened, nosiree. Once they had ta send one of them divers to the hospital cause he got the bends. That fella told his buddies later it felt like he was being pressed flatter ‘n a flapjack.” The old man struck a match, bringing it up to the pipe. He stared thoughtfully at the lake. “What’s worse, there’s fifteen, twenty feet of silt at the bottom that’s as fine as talcum, one of them rock fellas tole me that a few year back.” He slowly stood up, the smoke from his pipe sent tendrils circling his head like a ghostly wreath. He stared at Preston Howell. “I don’t want ya gettin’ your hopes up there, Mr. Hollowell, but I don’t think you got a prayer.”
Preston thought it was ironic that he and the woodcutter met. They were both in the same business of reaping from the land. Judging from the way he had stared at Preston from time to time, he knew they shared the same contempt toward the aging dot- comers who drove hundred-thousand dollar RVs and overweight weekenders wanting to “rough it”.
Preston Hollowell, at age forty-three owned the second-largest forest product company in the state of Washington. His favorite past time was standing in a forest counting board feet. He made his living processing wood and constantly in a debate with some tree hugger who probably was using a final product of his such as the poster board with an anti-logging slogan on it. Simply mentioning National and State forests shouldn’t allow clear cutting was enough to send waves of nausea and skull cracking migraines. All that wood, just standing there, rotting over the years, becoming a home for insects and tinder for the next forest fire.
He loved watching the firs and pines become logs. Thousands of them bumping and nudging against each other as they drifted toward his saw and pulp mills. When he visited the pulp mills, he inhaled the vomit-sweet smell. To Preston, it was the smell of success.
Only yesterday, they stood beside a thousand-year-old Douglas fir. The tree soared three hundred above the forest floor, its huge bulging roots sucking up moisture from the earth, giving life to the sweeping, feathery needles of the old giant.
“Oh Preston, would you look! I think it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen! It’s so huge and magnificent!” She placed a tiny, delicate hand on her sweater cap while she stared at the fir.
“Wouldn’t you like to gouge into that with your puny little saws?” She taunted.
He knew what she was doing. Pushing his buttons. He replied with a sick grunt, on the verge then of strangling her. There was actually a moment when he envisioned his hands wrapped around her scrawny throat, beating her stupid head against the lichen-splotched trunk. He turned to face his wife forcing the rage down his throat. “No, Margaret, it doesn’t. All I see is twelve thousand dollars going to waste.” He whipped away from her and stormed to the campground.
He was an idiot to think spending a vacation in some stupid forest, cooped up in a mobile tin can with Margaret. His ploy was to talk her out of more money for business ventures, and it was failing. He thought she was just another simpering fool when it came to nature related topics. The subtle hints and schmoozing only made her stand her ground with righteous indignation.
“No money Preston.” Her voice was firm. “I will not contribute to the destruction of more land. You have plenty of equipment. Take it from your profits if you want it so badly, but I will not give you another cent!” Just as quick as she was to admonish Preston she was pleading with him to seek help, his obsession with money and power worried her so. She begged him to find other interests like yachting, or golf. Knowing Margaret would not see it any other way, Preston assured her he would consider the suggestion.
“The whitish-grey substance you see scattered throughout the area is pumice.” The Forest Ranger smiled at his audience gathered around a huge campfire. He stooped down and plucked a stone the size of his fist from the ground. “During an eruption, pumice is blown out of the volcano as a white-hot, glassy-looking froth carried by the wind until it begins falling to the earth, cooling into a porous rock.”
The baby-faced ranger droned on with his canned campfire program, occasionally flashing color slides of the dormant volcano and lake area. Hollowell wasn’t the least bit interested. He sat beside his wife, resenting the fact he let her talk him into coming to this cozy get-together. His hands shoved into the pockets of his L.L. Bean vest, and hunched over so the other merry campers could not see his face. He glanced at Margaret, her mouth agape, hanging onto the speaker’s words. Then the ranger said something about the lake that caught his attention. His head snapped up.
“Incidentally folks, it’s a curious thing about our lovely lake here. Unfortunately, there have been drownings, and how horrible this may sound, their bodies are still down there. In addition to being deep, it is very cold. Gases that only develop in warmer waters are prevented from forming, bacteria needed for decomposition cannot survive, and without these ingredients, the victim will not surface. So folks, wear those lifejackets when you are out on the lake. We wouldn’t want your stay here to end in tragedy. Now, if there are any questions….”
He struck her with an iron skillet on the side of the head while she washed supper dishes. Margaret staggered against the wall, sliding to her knees, grasping the edge of the sink. He smashed her fingers, flailed her head, neck and shoulders a though she were a rug. It was over in thirty seconds.
While fellow campers slumbered in their nylon and steel cocoons, Hollowell stuffed her into the back of their Cadillac Escalade, and drove to the dock. He grunted under the dead weight of his wife, cussing the slippery, rocky footpath which lead to the boat slips. When he finally made it to their vessel, he dropped the body into the floor. Preston froze. He scanned the shadowy shoreline watching for movement in the cabins nearby. When he was satisfied nobody would come to investigate, he drifted toward the far side of the lake, where earlier he spotted a beach strewn with rock. There were no houses or campgrounds on this side. Confident he wouldn’t be seen in the thick, inky blackness, and the engine noise softened, he drove to the shore.
It took some time to fill the burlap bags he planned to use to weigh down Margaret’s body. He didn’t think it would be necessary, but better safe than sorry he thought. By the time he was finished, the eastern horizon had the soft glow of the coming sun.
Hollowell fought a rising panic as he raced the rays to the center of the lake. His fear of discovery made efforts hurried and clumsy as he wrestled with snarling ropes, weighted sacks, and Margaret’s stiffening corpse. The sacks lodged under the seats, the rope was too long, and even in death his wife wouldn’t cooperate.
When the sky started turning from indigo and purple to reds and oranges he finally slid Margaret over the side. Preston watched as she slowly dropped into the depths of the lake. Perhaps it was guilty thoughts, but suddenly his wife’s eyes popped open staring at him. He recoiled in shock, lurching to the other side of the boat. When he gained his composure, he peeked over the side only to discover she was gone.
Cruising about two hundred yards off shore he spotted a huge snag and increased his speed, aiming for it. He chided himself for letting his imagination run amok. Yet, he had the oddest feeling that she was under the boat, following him. With the snag looming, he shook off the sensation, concentrating on the next step.
He waited too long to jump. The boat hit the rotting stump at nearly fifty miles an hour, disintegrating upon impact. He leaped out of the boat and slammed the water’s surface, immediately sucking ice-cold water into his lungs. A section of fiberglass hull sheared away and struck him across the forehead, and then the world went black.
The shocking cold brought him awake; it wrapped his chest and legs in deadly python coils. Instantly he became filled with terror, to make matters worse, he saw Margaret floating quietly underneath him. Her hair fanned out in the gentle current, hands reaching, reaching for his ankles.
Preston didn’t need to worry about his acting capabilities. His panic was real. His arms flailed the water, limbs churned in fright. His feet touched bottom as he sloshed ashore, collapsing onto the ground where he passed out.
Hollowell watched the gray Forest Service Patrol boat cutting through the water toward him with a tight little smile. He knew exactly what to say. They hit something; he hit the water and what happened to his wife, he didn’t know. Simple as pie.
Absently, he picked up a golf ball sized chunk of pumice and tossed it into the water. He watched it as it began to sink, then incredibly, the rock turned. It began to rise like a bubble, slowly at first then zoomed toward the surface. His eyes grew wide. His heart froze in his chest. Had Preston listened to the speaker, he would have known pumice contained thousands of tiny air pockets, giving the rock its unique ability to float, sometimes for days before becoming waterlogged.
Slowly he lifted his head, watching the patrol boat as it stopped beside the spidery form rocking gently in the waves.
