The Weirdo

  All week she'd been thinking, at random, unexpected, stealthy moments, of Chip Clewt and the weathered house by the spillway, his odd passion for bears and birds. Several times she'd asked herself Why? Why? What was there about him that was drawing her back to Lake Nansemond? Not his looks, certainly. Was it his gentle manner? That did make him different. But it had to be something else. Staring into the bathroom mirror at her uninteresting face, she said, "Own up, Sam, you're just hoping for a boyfriend."

  She'd told Darlene and Binkie all about Chip Clewt and the routine with the blistered feet. When they visited the next day, Darlene said, "Tell me the part about your feet again. He sounds like Mary Magdelen," which started all three of them laughing.

  "God, if he was only whole," Binkie said, making big moony eyes.

  "He is whole, just scarred," Sam said, with an edge to her voice.

  The reactions of Darlene and Binkie had been a mixture of cruelty and joking and envy, leaving Sam to think she'd made a mistake even telling them about Chip. She did the breakfast dishes and straightened her room, almost deciding to call the Clewts again to say she'd leave the slippers at Dunnegan's.

  Just before nine o'clock, she leashed Baron von Buckner, who was visibly subdued while he was healing, and took him out to the one cleared field to the east of the house. Freeing him to chase rabbits, she stepped from row to row of the chopped-off stalks, thinking that Chip would probably be hurt if she canceled now. Or would he?

  Buck flushed a cottontail and raced after it.

  Okay, she'd return the slippers, thank him again, talk awhile, maybe have a Coke with him, wish him a nice Thanksgiving, though it was more than a month away, say good-bye, get back on the bike, and pedal home. All's well that ends quickly.

  Buck flushed another rabbit and a bobwhite. By that time he was panting, tongue hanging out, so she leashed him again and walked slowly back to the house.

  Ask him if he released any of the birds this week and what was happening with the bears. Tell him her father was making a steel trap and getting a permit from the warden to kill Henry or any other bear that raided the orchard. Tell him that, tell him the truth. He'll have to understand about Papa. Papa is a good man, but not a gentle one.

  Buck lapped water furiously and then sank to the ground, bushed. Best way to take care of him—tire him out. Exhaust him.

  She went on inside and upstairs, undressed, and took a quick shower, the day taking form and substance: slippers back to Chip Clewt; come home, wait for her mother; go to Dairy Queen.

  She did her hair, then pulled on a green blouse and got into jeans. A red medium-weight sweater was next. Finally, nylon sweat socks and hiking boots. Dangling red earrings to match the sweater, white scarf tied loosely around her neck, dab of perfume, a word with Buck, and she was off. She realized she'd dressed up. Why?

  ***

  SHE ARRIVED at Dunnegan's ahead of time, a quarter to ten, and went inside.

  "Hey, Samuel," Dunnegan said, "don't you work today?"

  "I'm going later."

  She walked over to the video wall. "Anything new?"

  "Driving Miss Daisy, but there's already eleven on the waiting list."

  "I've seen it." She turned around to face him. "You know Chip Clewt?"

  "Sure I do. Fine boy. I served with his Dad in 'Nam."

  Another connection.

  Dunnegan went on. "In fact, I'm kinda responsible for the Clewts being here."

  A customer came in, got a six-pack of Bud out of the cooler box, paid, and departed, door buzzer sounding off.

  Sam said, "I met him a few days ago. Chip, I mean."

  "Well, he needs a friend. He hasn't said anything, but I'm sure he gets lonely back in there. Doesn't see many people, on purpose. After you get to know him a little, you don't even notice his scars. That lopsided grin'll get you every time."

  "He seems nice enough," Sam admitted.

  "Another thing you'll find out: He's got a click-track mind. For seventeen, he's going on twenty-five. You know he's been helping on that bear study. Terrible about Telford being missing."

  She nodded. "Yes."

  Another customer arrived, wanting a microwaved hot dog, skip the relish, a Cherry Coke, and a hunting license with a deer stamp. Dunnegan chatted with him.

  Sam returned to the video racks. Dunnegan hadn't done a very good job of organizing them. Romance was mixed in with suspense, and comedy was mixed in with action-adventure. There was Sly Stallone sitting up above Meryl Streep.

  The door pushed open again, buzzer sounding a warning, and there stood Chip Clewt with that crooked smile from his half-face, baseball cap perched on his head. Same one he'd worn Tuesday.

  Dunnegan glanced up and said, "Hi, Chipper," as if they hadn't just talked about him.

  "Hi. You hear anything new about Tom?"

  Dunnegan shook his head. "How about you?"

  "Nothing. He's just disappeared."

  Dunnegan sighed. "Keep a good thought."

  Spotting Sam, Chip said, "Sorry I'm late. There's a bear feeding over near the west shore, and I got occupied with it."

  He limped across, holding out his right hand, the ungloved one.

  Sam didn't usually shake hands with anyone. But she took his hand, saying, "How ya doin'?" She suddenly realized she was a good inch or more taller than he was. The day they'd met he'd carried her around, so there had been no way to compare heights. They'd make a funny pair, the tall and short of it. She was five-eight. He likely wasn't even five-seven.

  "Okay." He looked down at her boots. "They don't hurt to walk in?"

  She shook her head. "I was off my feet two days. Your slippers are out on my bike."

  "Thanks for bringing them back."

  He became aware he was still holding her hand and dropped it.

  Sam thought, Well, now what do we talk about?

  He asked, "You have a good week?"

  "Uh-huh. I read and watched TV until I went back to school."

  "Got two of my birds off into the air again. Wood duck and a red-shouldered hawk. I'd had the duck about four months, the hawk six. Both broken wings."

  "You doctored them?"

  "Not much. Just gave them protection until they healed themselves. A bird hopping around with a broken wing is open game. So I do a little repair if necessary—a splint, feed them; keep them dry and safe...."

  Sam tried to think of anything worthwhile she'd done the last week, the last month. Baron von Buckner, maybe. But that was paid endeavor. "You said you were occupied with a bear."

  Maybe all they could talk about was birds and bears.

  "Yeah, the frequency came up. Then I went down to the shore and saw it across the lake. Used the glasses..."

  "The same bear that got into our orchard?"

  "No, a different one."

  The conversation stalled awkwardly, then he said, "I've been looking for Telford's truck the last two days."

  "Where?"

  "In the swamp. I've been using the Jeep, running the trails. You want to come with me this morning?"

  Sam frowned, caught off guard.

  "C'mon," he urged. "I need someone to talk to. My dad rode with me yesterday, but he's working today."

  Dunnegan had said he needed a friend. Sam hesitated. "I have to work this afternoon."

  "Oh?" He looked disappointed. "Some other time, then."

  "Well..." Say yes or no, she said to herself.

  "Come with me...." It wasn't really a plea. But there was such an earnest, compelling look on his face. And he had rescued her from the roof, doctored her feet.

  With a sinking feeling, she replied, "Can you get me back here by one-fifteen?" If he were "whole," she could reject him more easily.

  "I promise."

  Saying good-bye to Dunnegan, they went out, stopped by the bike to get the slippers, then walked across the highway.

  Down the bank, and seconds later Chip fired the outboard, drummed across the canal waters, and entered the Feeder Ditch.
Chip stood with the tiller between his knees.

  Sam sat in the bow, gazing at him, wondering whatever had possessed her to agree to go searching for Telford's truck. Pity again? More curiosity? Or that convincing manner Chip had? Hard to know.

  The pounding of the thirty-horse engine caused pine warblers and gray catbirds to flutter up from thickets along the banks. Ring-billed gulls flapped up from the flat, dark brown surface ahead. Above, a lone snow goose winged south to winter grounds on Pea Island, the Outer Banks.

  The morning continued chill and gray.

  For the first time in a long time, Sam felt at peace with herself, and she wished the ditch would go on forever.

  ***

  "THIS is my dad," Chip said, introducing him to Sam Sanders.

  Wearing a stained apron and old sweats, John Clewt stood at a waist-high, newspaper-covered bench. A small mound of yellow-brown feather was on it. Clewt's hands were in rubber gloves, and Sam saw sharp knives, pliers, wire, sponges. An operating table of sorts.

  A symphony cassette was playing. Lots of strings. No country and western here in the middle of the swamp. No wonder the locals raised their eyebrows when they talked about John Clewt and his weirdo son.

  "Sorry about the dogs, Samantha," Clewt said, smiling warmly.

  "My fault. I barged in unannounced."

  She couldn't help but stare at him. Like his son, he didn't belong in the Powhatan. He belonged in the city.

  "They have single-track minds, I'll admit."

  His voice was velvet-gentle, so soft that Sam barely heard it above the concert tape. He was likely the absolute opposite of her own father.

  This time she was getting a better view of the front room he'd converted into a studio. He'd combined two windows on the east side into a big plate-glass one to let morning light in. On an easel was a watercolor of a hawk in flight; a half-dozen framed paintings were leaning against the side wall, under the plate glass. She'd never been in an artist's studio, had never met an artist. Logs burned in the blackened stone fireplace, and pine woodsmoke faintly spiced the air.

  Sam felt tongue-tied, not knowing what else to say to Mr. Clewt or his son.

  Chip saved the moment. "We're going to run Number Eight again."

  Clewt nodded, reaching down for the pile of feathers. The violins didn't seem to go with a dead bird, Sam thought.

  Outside, Sam asked, "What was your father doing?"

  "Taxidermy on a yellowthroat. That's a warbler, in case you didn't know."

  "I do know." Thanks to Bo'sun Sanders.

  As they walked toward the Jeep, Chip said, "You make an incision with a scalpel on the breast from the neck down and peel out the whole body, then scrape the meat and fat off the inside of the skin, make another incision under the throat, and pull the skull out..."

  Sam made a face.

  "...then, after it cures, you stuff it, using a form and potter's clay, then do a baseball stitch to sew it up."

  "I've always wondered what they're stuffed with."

  "Nowadays, foam. You buy the mannequins. You can buy a full-sized foam deer, mountain lion, bear, and every bird imaginable. Buy the plastic eyes. Once everything is all set, it doesn't take Dad long to finish them. You'd think they were alive after they're mounted."

  "Doesn't appeal to me," Sam said.

  By that time, they'd reached the Jeep. Over the engine roar, Sam asked, "Where does he sell his paintings?" She doubted people in Albemarle County would buy many. They preferred baked birds.

  "They're first made into bookplates, then a gallery in New York sells them. Last year, the Times said he was a second Audubon. He began doing birds for therapy after he took over as spillwayman."

  Sam had seen Audubons in an art appreciation class. "That must have pleased him."

  Chip nodded, guiding the old, battered army vehicle toward Trail Eight.

  There were shorter vehicle cross trails, running east and west, that connected to the main north and south trails, over the boggy land. The Jeep, in low gear, jerked, staggered, and fishtailed along, wheels sometimes spinning on slime; then it crunched up on hard ground, sinking next to more marsh.

  Chip talked in bursts about Telford and how they snared the bears. Sam held onto the door frame. Her body bounced, plunged forward, slammed back. It wasn't what she'd had in mind for this morning.

  It took almost a half hour to reach Trail Eight, and then Chip turned south to travel along the narrow bank, just wide enough for one vehicle, along Dinwiddie Slough. There were recent tire tracks crushing down the knee-high grass. The Jeep crept forward.

  "How many people travel along here?" Sam asked, thinking about her predawn in the stump.

  "Not many. Sometimes we go for days without seeing anyone. Then we might see several government geologists in their truck taking peat samples. Just people who have some kind of work to do."

  "Don't you still have to get a permit to come in?"

  Chip nodded. "You're supposed to. Some people sneak in."

  "What kind of people?" Swamp-walkers like the one she'd seen?

  Chip laughed. "One day we ran into an old guy catching butterflies. A lot of monarchs back here."

  "I've never been in this part before. Kind of pretty." She never thought she'd admit any part of the Powhatan was pretty.

  "This area's drier than the rest of it, with sweet gum and several oaks. Some beech. They need a little moisture."

  "Where'd you learn all that?"

  "Telford."

  "He must be quite a guy."

  "He is. Good teacher."

  Ahead, a trio of wood ducks leapt off the lazy brown water and whirred side to side, dipping, zooming ahead like jets. A moment later, a red fox scooted across the trail, and there was a flash of brownish gray, fall and winter color of the white-tailed deer, off to the left. Farther on, two otter pups emerged from their den in the bank of the ditch and quickly ducked back inside.

  Sam watched silently. It wasn't that she didn't know the show went on back here hour after hour. She'd simply never had any interest in it. She felt Chip's eyes on her and glanced his way. A slight, knowing smile danced across his face.

  A few minutes later, he said, stopping the Jeep, looking around for landmarks, "I think it was about here that I last saw him. In fact, I know it was. See, there's a foot trail off to the right that I took back to the lake."

  "Which way would he have driven after you left him?"

  "South, to get out to One Fifty-nine."

  "Would he have cut off to go on another one?"

  "I don't think so. It was about four-thirty, and I think he would have gone straight on out to One Fifty-nine. He was even thinking about going on to Raleigh that night but hadn't made up his mind. He'd brought all the equipment to our house, except for the receiver we were using that day. He didn't want to leave anything in his trailer for anyone to steal."

  "The receiver?"

  "The radio receiver to track the bears. I carried that one home."

  "So he had nothing with him that anyone would want?"

  "Not to my knowledge."

  Climbing out, Chip said, "Let's walk. Maybe that's what was wrong the day before yesterday when I first came here. I just drove. I was looking to see if the truck was parked. I wasn't looking into the brush. That was pretty stupid."

  "I would have done the same thing," Sam said.

  "You take the left-hand side," Chip said.

  "Could it get across the ditch?"

  "Sure, four-wheel drive. There's not more than a foot of water in the slough. But we'll see the tracks."

  They walked slowly along the trail, feet swishing in the high grass. Swamp sounds rose and ebbed, enveloping them, somber sky a deeper lead gray than when they'd started. Sam felt tiny ticks of dread at what they might see before long. She glanced over, expecting to see Chip.

  He'd stopped about twenty feet back and was staring off into the rust-colored thickets.

  "You see something?"

  "I thoug
ht I did."

  Then he resumed limping, saying, "I've got the damnedest feeling it's here somewhere," catching up with her.

  They kept going, in silence.

  Twenty minutes later, around a bend, Sam spotted a triangle of white buried deep in the brush, four or five feet off the ground. Thinking of Alvin Howell, she stopped as Chip moved on ahead, looked hard, then called out for him. "There's something back in there," she said, pointing.

  He returned to her side and without speaking knelt to examine the sand, pushing aside the thick grass with his hands. "Tire tracks," he murmured. "Covered tire tracks."

  Rising, he began to separate brush, open it up, saying, "Help me."

  In a moment, the white truck was revealed, sitting about thirty feet off the trail, Toyota emblazoned on the tailgate.

  "That's his license plate," Chip said, face showing despair.

  "Why would he drive it off in here?" Sam asked.

  "I don't think he did. I think someone else drove it off."

  "Should we get closer?" Sam asked. The faint tick of dread grew to a drumbeat.

  Staring at the truck, Chip said, "Everything I know about this sort of thing comes out of books or over the tube. But when we get up there, don't touch anything. And don't step into footprints."

  Sam mentally crossed her fingers that when they got to the truck they wouldn't see Telford slumped over the wheel or sprawled across the seat.

  Finally, they were broadside to it, and Sam asked, "Does it look any different from when you saw it last?"

  "No. I don't think it does. Why don't you just stay put, and I'll go up closer."

  "Maybe we should just go back and call Truesdale?"

  Chip looked around. "Nothing here to be afraid of, I don't guess. But I don't want to mess up footprints. Okay?"

  Sam nodded. "Okay."

  She watched as Chip gingerly moved toward the truck, careful where he stepped, finally opening the left-hand door handle with a stick. Sam held her breath as it swung open, but there was no body slumped in the cab. She thought of Alvin Howell again.

  Chip leaned in, careful not to touch anything, then said, "Keys are still in the ignition."

  He looked down, studying the ground. Finally, he said, "I think there's dried blood here. It's on some leaves...."