Water ©Jake Eveler/shutterstock.com
There is something in the water in Swanson, Minnesota.
Small towns will band together over the smallest issue—a levy they don’t like, a high school football game, a social media post gone viral—but, for some reason, Swanson has no answer for what lives in its river. But this story isn’t about a monster; it’s about a family and a quest for answers. And, in some ways, it’s about the deals we make to get by.
But that’s the thing about bargains—someone always comes to collect.
The year was 1997, and Jane Donald was ready to party.
It was a beautiful June day, and Jane was a recent high school graduate with her own car. It was the recipe for a perfect summer night. With “Barbie Girl” blasting on KFAI 90.3, Jane pushed her junker of a car up to forty miles an hour. Sure, the speed limit on Thomson Road was twenty-five, but everyone went at least fifteen over on that back road.
That was why, when Jane saw it, she almost didn’t brake in time.
Jane (Janey, as her mother called her—a nickname she hated) had one summer left in Swanson, Minnesota, a small town with maybe five-thousand residents at best. Jane didn’t know where she was headed come September, but she knew she was going somewhere.
Jane had always been a wild child, so college wasn’t really in her plans. Her parents hated that for her, but hey—you only live once, as they say.
She pushed her speed up to forty-five, wind whipping through the open windows.
But, Jane Donald had a secret. The faster she went, the further she got from it.
No, I’m not going to think about that, she told herself as she drove down Thomson. Nothing is following me. This wasn’t one of those slashers she saw for $5 with her friends at the drive-in every Friday. There was nothing there. She had a whole life ahead of her, after all. I am alone in this car, and it feels wonderful.
And then, nothing made its appearance.
Don’t look in the backseat, she said, even though she knew time was up. She turned up the volume on Aqua’s hit, her eardrums pounding from the sonic pressure. Don’t look at it, Janey, just don’t look.
I am alone in this car. But that’s not how this worked, and she knew that.
I feel wonderful. Fifty miles an hour, fifty-two, fifty-five. And then…
Anyone watching Jane’s car at that point would’ve seen her sedan, cruising at fifty-five miles an hour, slam on its brakes, red lights blaring in the dusky evening light. By some miracle (or was it?), the car’s airbags didn’t release.
Jane got out of her car, leaving the driver’s side door wide open, and walked into the woods.
The radio kept playing, blasting pop music into the still summer night until, an hour later, another car stopped to see what was going on.
The driver of the car, a man in a pickup truck, stood nonplussed as he stared at Jane’s vehicle. It was empty, the door open, song blasting on the radio. He thought that perhaps the driver had seen something – an animal maybe.
She’d gotten out and tried to help it, that was the theory his brain tried to tell his body.
But, of course, his gut knew better. He quickly got in his truck and drove to the local police station, hands gripping the wheel so tightly, his knuckles turned white.
Jane Donald ran away in an act of youthful, yet of-legal-age rebellion.
That was the official story, one that I never bought. And you would’ve thought that my word would carry a lot of weight, considering that I was the deputy in charge of working the Donald case back in ‘97.
I had been a deputy with Chuck County for ten years, in Swanson for seven, when Jane took her walk into the forest.
The Chuck County Sheriff’s Department was small but mighty, steeped in bureaucracy the way most small-town PDs were. I’d generally liked my job working there, and I tended to keep my head down as much as possible.
I don’t know why I was given the Donald case. I have my theories, but…
It’s too late for theories now, isn’t it?
It’s 2017 now, and I’m standing at the banks of the Swanson River. It’s a sludge-filled, muddy mess, but I can’t look away. I don’t think I was ever allowed to look away. Once it sees you, you just can’t seem to—
Get a grip, I tell myself. Keep it together. I wait and I watch. I sink down onto the muddy bank and put my feet in the cool water. I breathe in the summer night air, tasting a damp honeysuckle scent so strong it’s cloying.
Hours pass, but, eventually, I am not alone. I realize that I never really was.
We’re not there yet, though. Sorry folks, this train has a few stops first.
Back in 1997, there were only three things I was sure about. First of all, Jane did not run away, though that seemed to be the narrative we all were forced to accept. Secondly, this case was a lot of trouble, and I was staring down the barrel of a firing if I didn’t play my cards right (read: if I didn’t shut up).
Thirdly, the entire Donald family were liars.
On the morning of June 12, 1997, I drove up to the Donald house. Janey had been a runaway for two days, and I was still somewhat on board with the narrative that the Donald girl had taken off into the night of her own volition.
And yet…
Look, I wasn’t the best cop around, but why would she leave her car door open, radio playing, and engine running? Why were her tracks so wet, as though she’d been walking in water when the river was twenty yards away from the road and she’d gotten out of a dry car? None of it added up.
Now, I was a young deputy, perhaps a bit too sure of himself, but I wasn’t stupid. The overconfidence actually helped in a lot of ways, as I wasn’t scared of Ted Donald. I wasn’t scared of much back then, though that would change.
I was there to investigate the facts and not back down. Old Teddy Bear didn’t control me. I’d handcuff him then and there if I had to.
I was in charge.
The Donald house was a large, Colonial-type mansion, something my now-ex-wife would’ve loved. It was painted white and looked like it came straight out of a New England home and gardens magazine (odd, considering we were firmly planted in the Midwest).
I walked up to the white door and knocked. I had my notebook out, and I’d pressed my uniform for that day. I’d even combed my mustache.
Ted Donald was a man you wanted to impress, or else he wouldn’t give you the time of day.
The Ted Donald I knew was a leading businessman in Swanson. He was the owner of the town’s biggest grocery store, while his wife, Marianne, was a little shadow who almost never spoke. I don’t think she’d left the house in years. The stress of raising kids would do that to you, I assumed. There was also a son, Danny Donald.
I’ll get to him later.
Though I knew Ted to be a put-together man, the one that answered the door looked tired, sick, and sad. “What?” he said to me by way of greeting.
