Lovely, Dark and Deep 3

Sheriff Hunnicutt tipped his hat at the two of them as they pulled in and he pulled out. Two state cops adjusted traffic barriers and hopped into their cruisers, lights flashing. The lake and the dam belonged to John and Monica now, not that either of them wanted it.

A canoe sat moored to the boat landing. The only sound was the water slapping against its sides. The water seemed black like oil. Monica stared into it, wondering about what was beneath its dark surface. She didn't get any real evil feeling from it, just that it was dark and cold in the undercurrents and deep as the sky.

"Let's shove off," John mumbled. He had everything loaded into the canoe and was sitting in it, oar in hand. Monica climbed in and pulled the rope from the landing.

It was exercise, no doubt. She tried not to look at the water as it skimmed beneath them. Instead, she concentrated on John, who seemed happy just to be there paddling as the world floated by. A huge silvery fish jumped straight out of the water alongside them.

"Trout," John smiled. His eyes sparkled. Monica splashed him and they almost tipped over. All the goods stuffed in the boat made it ungainly and hard to balance.

It didn't take long to cross the lake. John pulled them ashore and stretched his arms. Monica tied the canoe to a tree and began unloading as her partner strutted around on the bank, breathing deeply. "You wanted the tent, you set it up," Monica said sweetly, thrusting the fabric and poles at him. As he busied himself with it, Monica went for a walk up the shore. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. Her thoughts kept wandering back to that car accident.

She felt connected to it but couldn't say how. Somehow, deep inside her, Monica could see the sun glinting off the windshield and hear the March air rushing in through the car window. Then there was darkness, like the deep water in the middle of the lake.

"Tent's up," John said, startling Monica. "You hungry?'

"John, when the hell am I not?"

Soon the sound of hot dogs sizzling filled the camp. She wasn't terribly hungry but it was nice to see John enjoying himself. Besides, he'd never cooked for her before. The two of them were heavily into take-out. Monica had only used her apartment's oven once, and that was to heat up frozen pizza when John came over to watch the Super Bowl. Cooking seemed to be a nice hobby but there never seemed to be any time or need to indulge in it. Maybe she'd make John dinner one of these days.

They sat eating and watching the water. The sky was turning golden and that reflected on the lake's surface.

"Wonder how Skinner and Scully are doing?" Monica asked, putting her empty plate on the ground.

"Fine, I guess. I haven't seen Scully for a bit but Skinner came by the office before we left. He seemed alright."

Monica caught another vibe from Skinner. He put on a good show but was weary of everything. She caught John staring at her and tried to change her expression. "Hey John, too bad you didn't bring a guitar so you could sing campfire songs," she said with a fake smirk

John got up and grabbed both plates. "Yeah. Maybe you could accompany me with whale sounds," he said.

XXXXXXX

They decided on a walk. It was pleasant to stroll through the cool, pine-scented forest. Everything seemed so insulated from the outside world, and so peaceful. Birds called overhead as they shuffled through the dried pine needles.

"Before Luke died, I was thinking of getting a cabin upstate, just to have a place to go fishing and hiking. I was going to surprise him...had a meeting with a seller scheduled for the week after he died."

John had stopped, hands shoved in pockets. He didn't seem sad, it was like he was just stating fact. Still, Monica's heart ached. She couldn't think of anything to say, so she wrapped her fingers around his wrist and tugged his hand out of the fabric. Then, she intertwined her fingers with his. John's hand felt warm against hers and while he didn't say anything, a slow smile spread across his face. They walked like that until it started getting dark.

At dusk the bats swooped through the treetops and the loons began to call. They'd retreated back to their camp chairs to watch the water again. It started to get cooler, so John raked the ashes and threw a few more wrist-sized chunks of wood on the fire.

"This is like 'On Golden Pond'," John mumbled, sort of breaking the romance of the moment.

"You old poop," Monica said, doing the best Katherine Hepburn impression she could muster. She almost said "suck face" but couldn't bring herself to do it.

"Chick flick. Never got into it. My mother liked it," said John, making himself another hot dog.

"You don't talk about your mother much."

He reached for a bun. "Not much to say. She was a housewife, loved my dad, didn't make me wear Red Hen shoes and grew up in northern Florida. She passed in 1986."

Monica didn't know who her real parents were. Her adoptive mother once mentioned that one of the family names may have been Benson, but there wasn't any evidence to back it up.

"Well, I'm turning in," John yawned, stretching. He left Monica staring into the fire, wondering if she'd ever know who she really was.

XXXXXX

CRASH!

"What the hell?"

Monica sat bolt upright as John tried to untangle himself from his sleeping bag. A storm was brewing and they were stuck in a flimsy tent. The waterproof cover was on, but the wind was blowing every which way.

He was wild-eyed. Monica gave him a withering look as lightning illuminated the tent. Their faces were pale in the bright light.

"You okay?" he asked, trying to shear the edge off the panic in his voice. She just nodded. John looked upset and she couldn't tell if it was the storm or something else.

"Be damned if I wasn't dreaming about Knightville. About the water rushing in around it...that's when the thunder woke me up. Gave me a good jolt," John said in a shaky voice.

Monica had been dreaming, too. She was sitting in Elsie Summerall's parlor when the accident happened. She saw it through the window, got up to run outside and the crushed cars weren't there. Monica was just about to go back in when the thunderclap happened.

"I dreamt about that car accident," she sighed, laying back down. "I can't get it out of my head. There's a connection somewhere that I'm not picking up on."

"I dunno," he said uncertainly.

The rain started at once. It came down in a torrent, splattering the tent. Both of them moved to the center, which was blessedly dry. She could feel John's warmth immediately but shivered at his closeness.

"You're cold," he breathed. Monica had opened the side of her sleeping bag. She felt John lean forward and fumble til he found the zippers. He connected them and zipped up the bags so they merged into one huge coccoon.

She felt John's hand on her stomach. He scooted towards her so they were spooning, with his arm wrapped around her middle. The t-shirt she had on was riding up and John's hand rested on her bare skin. He put his cheek on her cheek and Monica tried to calm her frantic breathing.

"You're not so cold anymore," John said, his fingertips caressing her stomach. She couldn't answer. This was everything she dreamed of but they were out of time and place. John's breathing evened out and his breath sounds deepened. His hand relaxed.

It took a long time for Monica to sleep again.

XXXX

John woke up early to find Monica had switched positions in the night. She was on her back, hands at her side like she was lying in a coffin. The sides of the tent were soaked and the condensation from their breath made the inside air slightly humid.

After carefully climbing out so as not to wake her, John found the outside world green and dripping. A mist settled on the lake ready to be burnt off by the sun. Birds called, a dog barked somewhere and an airplane arched overhead, leaving a streamlined contrail.

John had just tried to re-light the fire and turned to find the coffeepot when a peculiar sound stopped him. It was the sound of a screen door slamming. Problem was, there was nothing to hang a screen door on out in the woods. The sound was so unmistakeable.

He turned around slowly and dropped what he had in his hands. Knightville stood before him, a dusty little Sunday morning town. John could see the dust rising off the streets, like the mist on the river.

John walked slowly towards it, knowing this was an impossibility. But it was just so real. He could smell bacon and eggs. Someone was playing a hymn on the piano. Glasses clinked and the sound of a window screeching open made John walk faster.

Monica was dreaming of the accident again when she heard a splash...and what sounded like "Nearer My God To Thee" playing on a rickety piano faintly in the distance.