"Carter Swart - Uncle John" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swart Carter)

I shall never forget the bleak face my mother turned to me. There was a disquieting intensity behind her pale gray eyes, as though she'd come to some irreversible decision. After I'd eaten my cereal she ordered me outside.

It rained heavily the next day. The tension in the house was unbearable. My uncle sat alone in the parlor, alternately sipping corn and snoring like a pig. No one spoke. A grave is not so quiet as that house was.

Early the next morning the rain slackened, and I was surprised to hear my uncle's Dodge crank over, for lately he'd been sleeping in until noon. It was pitch black. I rolled out of bed, dressed, and went downstairs. No one was about so I toasted some bread in the oven. Claire came down and I made her coffee. Her face was tight with tension, and she didn't speak, just sat at the table studying the smudges on the polished wood. Every sound from outside made her jump. Her anxious glance reflected the subornation of her personality, of her innocence, of her security.

Mom and Trudy came in from the barn about 8:00 a.m. We sat at the table, our collective fear and loathing for my uncle unspoken. The women conversed as if by rote, while Claire and I said nothing for some time.

Curious, I asked, "Where's Uncle John?"

They both jumped as though they'd been stuck with a cattle prod.

"He's gone," said my mother. Her glance was flat and rigid -- yet edgy.

"He's run out on us, Bruce," added my aunt. "Packed his stuff and drove off. Just like he threatened. You remember when he did that?"

"Yeah."

"Good boy."

"He -- he won't be back, will he?" my sister asked, her voice shaking.

Mom and Trudy shared a brief glance, then said "no," in unison.

Mom got up and began preparing dough for biscuits. I noticed how very strong her arms were. Treating the dough as if it were a mortal enemy she savagely kneaded it, slapping and smashing at it with an inhuman vigor.

"Will those -- men still come around," I asked.

"Not on your life," snapped Trudy. From her tone I knew she meant it.

Satisfied I ate breakfast, then prowled the parlor, noting with some surprise that my near-sighted uncle's glasses and gold watch were still lying on the sidebar, and his prized Remington pistol still hung in its holster. He never left home without his watch and glasses. It made me curious so I went outside and found faint tire tracks in the muddy earth -- but they weren't headed for town; they disappeared into the forest behind the house.

Mom and Trudy had lied to me.

This was disquieting so I loped into the barn and took up a silent vigil. My patience was rewarded when my aunt slipped out the back door, looked around carefully, then moved into the trees at flank speed, heading in the direction of the lake. There was a stealthiness to her step that prompted me to follow. She led me along a seldom-used track. I saw that the Dodge had recently driven along here, judging by the bent grass lying on both sides of the trail. I stayed far back, keeping her in sight as she walked on purposefully. This was a familiar place. I'd been here before with Uncle John. The path eventually ended in a sheer cliff which fronted the deepest part of the lake, ninety feet down according to my uncle. He'd cautioned me never to go there as it was a treacherous place of swirling currents, black stagnant water, dark spirits, and tragedy. A boy had drowned there in '34 and another in '37. It was mostly fenced now and well-posted.

Trudy reached the cliff, peered down, then commenced to pace back and forth along the top of bank. She seemed agitated. Turning abruptly she started my way. I ducked behind a tree as she went by, crying and wringing her hands.

What on earth was down there? I waited until she'd gone, then trotted to the cliff and looked over the edge. What I saw chilled my blood. Hung up on a hidden stump was my uncle's four-door Dodge sedan. It was upright and halfway submerged. Located not five feet from shore it had evidently been driven off the cliff at a slow speed. The door handles were wired shut with baling wire. My uncle was half-floating on his back in the rear seat, bound and gagged and desperately kicking at the half-closed side windows. He wasn't having much luck.

He twisted around and spotted me, screaming desperately through his gag; it sounded like the cry of a mortally wounded deer. He'd been beaten pretty badly, too -- one eye was closed shut and there was blood all over his face and head. Though he couldn't speak I got the message loud and clear: For God's sakes Bruce, come help me!

Powerful emotions of pity and fright crowded my mind. Then came disbelief. Clearly, my aunt was trying to murder Uncle John. Murder! My mom was surely in on it too. The horror of it paralyzed me, and I had a tremendous urge to dive in the water, unhook the wire, and save him. I knew I could do it. There was still time. With all his faults he was still a human being -- or was he?

I shrank at the thought. It gave me pause to remember Trudy's words in the barn: Be like killin' a sick animal. I likewise considered my uncle's perversity and cruelty to my mother, of how he had wanted to harm my sister.

He was sick.

I gazed at the sinking car, knowing I was my uncle's only hope. The Dodge creaked, gave a lurch, and dropped another three feet -- the executioner's switch half-pulled. John was frantic now, imploring me with his good eye. I was torn, whipsawed between saving him or letting him die in that dreadful black water.