Beyond This Point Are Monsters

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In Devon’s dream they were searching the reservoir again for Robert. It was almost the way it had happened the first time, with the Mexican policeman, Valenzuela, shouting orders to his men, and the young divers standing around in rubber suits with aqualungs strapped to their backs.

In the dream Devon watched, mute and helpless, from the ranch house. The real Devon had gone out to protest to Estivar, the foreman: “Why are they looking for him in there?” “They have to look every place, Mrs. Osborne.” “The water’s so dirty. Robert’s a very clean person.” “Yes, ma’am.” “He would never have gone in such dirty water.” “He might not have had much to say about it, ma’am.”

The water, used only for irrigation, was too murky for the divers to work, and in the end the police used a giant scoop and strainer. They spent hours dragging the bottom. All they found were rusting pieces of machinery and old tires and pieces of lumber and the muddy bones of a newborn baby. Finding the nameless, faceless child had upset the policeman, Valenzuela, more than finding a dozen Roberts. It was as if the Roberts of this world always did something to deserve their fate, however bloody or wet or feverish. But the child, the baby — “Goddamn,” Valenzuela said, crossing himself, and took the little pile of bones away in a shoe box.

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