THERE WAS A strange well in the garden. Unlike those fancy British gardens with follies and topiary, this garden wasn't well-tended. It wasn’t fruitful or designed beyond basic utility. No raised beds and chipped stone paths, filled with vegetables, surrounded by cornfields. It was not what you'd imagine.
The well wasn’t anything special either. Perhaps you imagine a circular fieldstone wall with a small roof, winch, and bucket. This wasn’t that kind of well. It was a regular country well, a thick vertical concrete culvert with a heavy circular lid that had a couple of bent rebars embedded in it. The lid was usually sealed with mortar to protect the well from dirt and weather. But this well looked dilapidated, and the lid was moved, shoved half-way off the top. It wasn’t magical. Just strange.
And I knew the kid was inside.
I had traced the boy’s father to a property just outside of Acton, Ontario, a quiet place in the Greenbelt, about an hour west of downtown Toronto. The abandoned property was far from the road and difficult to reach. I parked on the highway shoulder and walked to the lot bordering a hundred acres of soybeans.
We’d received a panicked call from the mother of the boy. The father, wanted on a Canada-wide warrant, had kidnapped his son from his estranged wife. The provincial police were looking for the boy, and an amber alert was issued. We got called in—I got called in—as a favor by Vijay, my boss. Sort of my boss … it’s a complicated relationship. After talking to the wife, I used my knowledge of the back roads to reach the area within two hours of the alert.
The house was a typical dilapidated farm property, with faded, cracked aluminum siding that had once been white. Its roof was patchy and sagging, but looked like it had a few more days on it at least, and the yard was a minefield of trash and rusty farm equipment, overgrown with grass and the usual weeds like goldenrod, ragweed, Queen Anne’s lace, thistles, and sumac.
Most of the father was inside. The self-inflicted gunshot wound to his head left some of him outside the window next to the body. I saw the grim sight and knew the kid was nearby, a likely casualty of this dark chapter.
And when I saw the well, I knew. I inched down the half-separated back stairs, trying to avoid anything which might give me tetanus. Weaving my way through the tall grass, avoiding bugs and ticks, and the possible hidden farm implements that could skewer me.
I crouched down and examined the well, peering into the inky blackness. Apart from a wet, squishy sound and an offensive odor, nothing else could be identified. The break in the mortar was clean, but dirt covered the rest of it. I pulled my cellphone out and shone the phone’s flashlight down the hole. The light revealed nothing, not even water. I put my hand on the rim and felt an icy coldness shoot up my arm to my shoulder.
I flopped onto the dirt, back against the well, and sighed. So many deaths. I called the local number for the OPP and reported the situation regarding the father. I then called Vijay and gave him the update. Told him I was sorry.
The dark clouds rumbled as I thought of those who died because of me. I closed my eyes. How many had it been?
Private Johnston, killed by an IED during the transport of Patriot missiles in Iraq. Sergeant Rodriguez and Specialist O’Connor, killed in an ambush.
Then the rest of the squad, everyone from Staff Sergeant Torres, to the language specialist, Corporal Hassan.
I know I wasn’t responsible for their deaths, but Command held me accountable. And I blamed myself all the same. We shouldn’t have been there.
There were others too. Ray, Maddy, Laura.
Mom.
Mom died of cancer. It wasn’t my fault. I know that. I could have done better while she was alive. It still bothers me, even now.
I wondered why I still did this—why I still exposed myself to all this trouble. There were so many dead clients, or dead friends of clients, or miscellaneous other dead individuals. It was overwhelming—so much loss.
I just needed a win.
A light, depressing rain started, and I could feel the mist in my hair and on my forehead as I leaned back. It was cold. It was the perfect end to a terrible October day.
I figured I’d give the well one more try, and see if I could recover the body before the police showed up. The loose concrete felt uneven, and I scratched my hand against some sharp bits. I recoiled at the sudden pain, and my elbow buckled. Before I could recover, a rain-soaked stone broke, and I nearly fell into the well. The rough edge of the culvert hit me square across my chest. I dropped my phone to keep it from slamming into the concrete.
As soon as the blinding pain subsided, I eased myself back away from the disused cistern and checked my hand. A growing crescent of blood was forming across the palm.
“You okay, mister?”
The tiny voice startled me and I turned around.
“Careful there, mister. You almost fell in.”
The boy had been hiding in amongst the soybeans. This late in the year, they were almost a meter high. You could go crawling into them and never be found again.
“Thanks, kid,” I said, picking my phone up and wiping it on my sleeve. “That was a close one.”
“It started raining, but I didn’t want to go back in the house.”
“I know. I saw what happened.”
“Is he going to be okay?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Didn’t think so.”
I walked over to him. He avoided me at first, but I didn't seem dangerous since I almost fell into a well. The boy was grubby, wet, and his thin arms were covered in bruises.
“Hey, kid, the police are on the way. We can wait for them in my car until the rain stops.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“I just need to call your mom,” I said.