Survivalist ...Finale
they're the smartest, but more often simply the luckiest.
― Carrie Ryan, The Dark and Hollow Places
Lily was missing and I was with her father, Frank, trying to persuade the police to keep searching Nate Watkin's farm.
I was sure her surly neighbour was somehow involved but at the moment we lacked proof.
The sergeant was apologetic. “I don’t know what else we can do Mr. Warner—Nate says he didn’t speak to your daughter.”
I was frantic. “There’s got be some other place he’s hiding her. Think, Frank—is there some other building on the property?”
“Not that I know of—I didn’t know Old Bill that well—we just talked occasionally. He was more a retreater than a prepper like me.”
I looked confused, so he went on to explain: “The old-style survivalists like Bill were called retreaters—it’s a term not used nowadays. These people were more into conflict-avoidance and remote invisibilty. They weren’t inclined to get into a shooting war with ‘goblins’—criminal miscreants who might want to invade their shelters or raid their stockpiles.”
A thought hit me. I grabbed Frank by the arm. “But if Old Bill wanted to retreat and be invisible then he must have a concealed shelter around here somewhere.”
Lights went on in Frank’s eyes. “You’re right! We have to look for a clandestine retreat. It could be in the woods, or a cave.”
The sergeant overheard and began dividing the property into quadrants and assigning squads to search each one carefully. Frank and I elected to be rovers ranging freely over the property in search of clues.
After two hours of fruitless search, nothing turned up. The smirk was back on Nate’s face as his morose disposition gave way to a jaunty cockiness.
“You coppers are gonna look real bad when I hire a lawyer and sue you for damages to my property and reputation.”
The sergeant smiled grimly. “I doubt you have much of a reputation left to damage, Nate—and as for this property, well, I’d say it’s been neglecting itself for some time now, don’t you think?”
Nate scowled and turned away.
I was staring at the ground and my eye was drawn to a faint but familiar pattern impressed in the wet clay. It was the distinctive tread mark of Lily’s sneakers.
Again, I grabbed Frank by the arm, and pointed to the periphery of the farmyard “Look! That’s the tread mark of Lily’s sneakers.”
Frank bent down and studied the imprint and then looked furtively around the yard. He spied a garden rake leaning against a fence and ran over and grabbed it.
“Hey! What are you doing?” cried Nate.
“Looking for my daughter,” Frank spat back.
He inverted the rake and used the wooden pole as a sounding rod stabbing it into the earth.
“You-you’re out of your mind,” Nate sputtered.
“Am I?” The tip of the rake hit something solid and it echoed hollowly.
Nate began sidling toward his truck, but the sergeant ordered a nearby officer to guard and restrain him with force if necessary.
Frank used the flat part of the rake to plough the dirt away and a steel trapdoor was revealed. He slid the bolt back and using the tines of the rake, pried it open.
A wooden ladder led down into a shaft. A policeman handed Frank a flashlight and he descended into the shaft with me right behind.
There was a long passageway shored up with regularly spaced heavy wooden beams that led back in the direction of the ravine. We followed it and it led us to another iron door that was bolted, but not locked.
Frank slid the bolt and we entered a room that resembled a jail cell—it had an open window that was barred, but light from outside dimly filtered through. We must have been at the edge of the ravine and the window was cut into the ravine bank to let in light and air.
As our gaze tracked around the room we spotted Lily curled up and asleep on a straw sack in a corner.
Frank went to her and gently woke her. She sobbed in his arms.
Without recounting our whole history, it’s sufficient to say Lily and I never went to Cambridge. It’s strange how life intrudes into the best laid plans. We decided I should take the lecturing position at Victoria College and stay on lecturing in Toronto. We decided it was the right thing to do.
This past summer we married and I began lecturing at the College.
Often on weekends, we drive up to the Caledon Hills and visit Frank. His ideas still seem strange to me, but like his daughter, he’s a survivor and I’m beginning to appreciate the need to retreat occasionally to the woods and front the essentials of life in Frank’s own Walden.
It turns out Nate had much the same idea of retreating, except he thought he could kidnap Lily and force her to live with him and relieve the loneliness of his solitary existence. It’s weird, but I almost feel sorry for him.
He will be spending quite a bit of time isolated in a small jail cell. I hope he uses the time to come to terms with his existence.