Lake Silence

by Anne Bishop

  Hershel struck out for the beach. Nice beach, but that didn’t mean anything if all you had to offer was unfurnished cabins, and most of them didn’t have indoor plumbing! Sure, they could furnish the renovated cabins. He’d suggested buying the furniture off of Vicki DeVine—they could get it cheaper than buying new since she wouldn’t have a use for it—but Constance refused to consider the idea, said Vicki’s tastes were too pedestrian.

  He wondered if Constance was starting to think that her choice of husband made her own taste a bit too pedestrian. After all, she and Vicki had married the same man.

  Hershel paused at the beach, then continued walking until he reached the dock that stretched out into the water. Didn’t seem to be much good for a boat. Did people fish off the end of it? Did kids jump off the end of it the way kids always wanted to do?

  He walked to the end of the dock. A starry night sky and dark water. Not even a single light on in the lodge across the lake.

  Piss on this place. As soon as that access road reopened, he was backing out of this loser deal and returning to Hubbney, where he had other deals in the works.

  He grinned and put his hand in the opening in his boxers. Yeah. He’d piss on this place.

  He huffed out a pleased laugh as his urine hit the lake.

  “Monkey man.”

  No longer laughing, he finished up and tucked himself back into the boxers.

  “Moooonkey maaaannnn.”

  “Spoiling our water.”

  “Soiling our water.”

  He started to turn, started to ask who was out there. But something—someone—hit him from behind, sent him flying off the end of the dock. He hit the water hard and went under—and felt something pinch the triceps of his right arm, the calf of his left leg. He surfaced immediately, focusing on the dock, but whoever had pushed him was already gone.

  Something pinched his left forearm. He raised it above the water and stared at the wound. He’d been bitten.

  Something yanked on his leg, followed by several pinches.

  Not pinches. Bites. Something in the water was biting him.

  He took a breath, intending to yell for help. A hand rose out of the water, a hand with webbed fingers and curved, needlelike nails. The hand covered his face, the nails piercing his skin as he was shoved under the water.

  Thrashing. Spinning as the things bit and bit and bit. He flailed, managed to break free a couple of times and reach the surface. But not long enough to call for help. Barely long enough to suck in air before being pulled under again.

  Teeth sheared through one side of his neck. As he sank for the last time, he had the odd sensation of feeling his lower legs separate from the rest of him.

  CHAPTER 66

  Grimshaw

  Firesday, Sumor 7

  Grimshaw rinsed the shampoo from his hair, soaped up a cloth, and began washing himself. The Bristol CIU team had bunked at The Jumble, making do with sleeping bags rolled out in the social room. Ineke still had a full house, so Captain Hargreaves had been given Osgood’s room, and the baby cop had slept on the sofa in the parlor. Today they would figure out whom to call in Bristol or Crystalton to disassemble the flatbed trucks and the construction equipment—and figure out where to haul it.

  Thankfully, that was Hargreaves’s headache, not his. With Bristol taking the lead on the latest trouble in The Jumble, he would stick to the village today, walk the streets, check in with the businesses. When he got tired of that, he would take the desk and let Osgood patrol and soak up the gossip.

  He finished his shower and reached for a towel when he heard his bedroom door open.

  Crap. He’d locked that door. Always did. His service weapon wasn’t in plain sight but . . .

  “Grimshaw? Wayne!”

  “Captain?” He wrapped a towel around his waist and walked out of the bathroom, beads of water running down his chest. Hargreaves stood in the middle of his room. Ineke stood in the doorway. She seemed to appreciate the view he provided but not the water he dripped on her hardwood floor.

  He quickly stepped onto the area rug. Not that that was much better, but at least Ineke’s presence—and the room key she held up for him to see—explained how Hargreaves had entered the room.

  He took in his captain’s appearance—hastily dressed and unshaven. Not showing pride in the uniform.

  “Get dressed,” Hargreaves said. “I’ll wait for you in the car.”

  Ah, gods. “What happened?”

  “The CIU team found part of a body at The Jumble. On the beach.”

  “A floater?”

  Hargreaves shook his head. “They think it’s one of Yorick Dane’s business partners.” He walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  Grimshaw stared at the uniform he had hung on the hook attached to the back of the bedroom door. There were things he hadn’t put in any report, things he wouldn’t put on paper. But he should have told Hargreaves and the Bristol team about the creatures he and Julian had seen in the lake during the trail ride beach party. He couldn’t have told them much, wasn’t even sure what he’d seen. Except whatever lived in the lake probably weren’t the same creatures that had been whispering in the dark the night Constance Dane had been choked by freezing water in her own bathroom.

  Five minutes later, he was dressed and heading downstairs. Ineke met him at the front door and held out a large travel mug.

  “Coffee,” she said. “Sounds like you won’t want to eat beforehand.”

  “Thanks.” He took the coffee and walked out to Hargreaves’s car.

  * * *

  • • •

  Seeing what was left of Hershel, Grimshaw felt glad he hadn’t had breakfast and wished he hadn’t drunk the coffee.

  “The bites aren’t that much bigger than a human bite, but the teeth . . .” Samuel Kipp, Bristol’s CIU team leader, shook his head. “Not an animal. Some kind of fish? Teeth could have been sharp enough that the victim didn’t feel much more than a pinch or a tug when the creatures bit off chunks of him.”

  “Creatures?” Hargreaves asked. “More than one?”

  Kipp nodded. “At least a handful of different bite marks. And the marks on the face? Claws maybe. I’ve got a man calling police stations located on the other Finger Lakes to see if they have any record of a similar attack.” He looked at Grimshaw. “Anyone around here who would be the village historian?”

  Grimshaw stared across the lake. “The residents of Silence Lodge probably could tell you exactly what did this, but I doubt the Sanguinati will be that forthcoming.”

  “Why not?” Hargreaves asked.

  “Because they’re close-lipped about the Elders who live on this land—and in the lake.”

  All the color leached out of Kipp’s brown face. “Gods. We went swimming last night. Dane and his missus were bitching about us using that general shower area off the kitchen, so we all went down to the lake to rinse off and cool off. We could have—”

  “Not likely,” Grimshaw said. “I went swimming here too. Julian Farrow and I saw something out there—just a glimpse—but there was no indication we would be attacked.” A sudden thought made his heart give one hard bump. “Except we were out here swimming when Vicki DeVine was still in charge of The Jumble.”

  He shook his head. Vicki was an important factor but not the only factor. “There hasn’t been a lot of downtime since I got here, but I did take a quick look at the reports that were filed at the station. An attack like this would have been reported. If nothing else, there would be a missing persons report or a copy of a DLU form. But people go fishing on the lake all the time. They swim at the public beach. If this had happened before, Ineke Xavier wouldn’t have proposed bringing her guests here for beach parties.”

  Activity behind him. Angry voices.

  Marmaduke Swinn and Tony Amorella were squaring off with some of
Bristol’s CIU team, while Vaughn, Darren, and Yorick Dane were yelling and creating . . . a distraction.

  Grimshaw looked around. “Where are Reynolds and Hammorson?” They could be at the main house. The CIU team could be taking statements. Or they could be . . .

  A motor turned over, a sound coming from the other side of the dock.

  Crap!

  Grimshaw ran for the dock. “Reynolds! You can’t put a motor in this lake!”

  “The police aren’t doing anything, so we’ll handle this,” Vaughn said, stepping in front of Grimshaw, getting in the way of him stopping those fools before someone—something—noticed them. “Going to make some chum.”

  Hammorson backed away from the dock, then headed for the middle of the lake, motor roaring. Reynolds stood braced against the windscreen, a shotgun aimed at the water, ready to shoot anything that surfaced in response to the sound of the motor.

  The boat roared out of sight, heading toward the northern end of the lake, then came roaring back before Hammorson began driving in a big circle that could be seen from Silence Lodge as well as The Jumble’s beach.

  Circling. Circling, circling, circling.

  Even before Hammorson started shouting, started fighting to move the boat out of the circling water, Grimshaw knew the circles made by the boat’s motor had changed into a whirlpool. Was it his imagination, or was he seeing the shape of a steed emerging from the foaming water, racing and carrying the water with it? Carrying the boat with it?

  The boat was below the lip now. How soon before it flipped? Could Reynolds and Hammorson survive long enough to reach the surface, or would they be carried down to the bottom of the lake?

  She rose without warning from the heart of the whirlpool, a giant female shape made of water. Her hands closed on the bottom of the boat and lifted it as her straight arms rose toward the sky. Her head. Her shoulders. Her torso. As her hips rose above the surface, she arched and dove back into the lake.

  Reynolds and Hammorson screamed as they tumbled out of the boat and hit the water moments before she slammed the boat on top of them, her dive taking everything down with her.

  The water circled, circled, circled, but it was residual motion. The whirlpool, like the female, had vanished.

  The boat suddenly reappeared close to the dock, a projectile thrown by a giant hand. It struck the pickup truck still attached to the boat trailer, smashing through the cab and the windshield.

  While Yorick Dane and his friends stood frozen in shock, Grimshaw ran to the end of the dock and searched the choppy water for any sign of the men.

  “Do you see Reynolds?” Swinn shouted, pulling up at the land end of the dock. “Do you see him?”

  The bottom of the lake had been churned up, turning the usually clear water cloudy. He couldn’t see anything.

  Then Grimshaw spotted something orange moving toward the dock, something under the surface, barely visible. A life vest? Reynolds had been wearing one.

  The wooden ladder attached to the dock didn’t look new, but he went down anyway, testing each step until his ankles were in the water.

  “Check the boathouse for a gaff or fishing net,” he called to Hargreaves and Kipp. Praying the ladder would hold his weight, he held on with one hand and squatted until his ass was almost touching the water. He stretched his other arm as far as he could, his heart pounding as his hand went under the water, as his fingers scrabbled to grab hold of what he could almost reach.

  Hands with webbed fingers and needlelike nails closed over the sides of the vest and lifted it a little higher, a little closer. Close enough for his fingers to grab the strap.

  “Thanks,” he breathed.

  The hands disappeared. Feet pounded on the dock and Kipp flopped on his belly before reaching to help pull up whatever Grimshaw had found.

  Thanks, he’d said.

  Nobody felt thankful when they hauled the life vest up to the dock and found Reynolds’s severed arm and the shotgun secured to it.

  Grimshaw shot up the ladder and kept going until he stood several feet from the dock and the water and whatever lived there. He bent over and braced his hands on his knees.

  Hargreaves hurried to reach him. “Wayne, are you all right?”

  He wasn’t a coward. He’d seen plenty of grisly things during his years on the force. But remembering the bite marks on Hershel’s body and what body parts he’d been dangling too close to the water a minute ago made him queasy. He hadn’t seen the face or the mouth, but he’d seen the curved nails at the ends of those webbed fingers.

  “That vest didn’t float up by chance.” He spoke quietly enough that only Hargreaves would hear him. “They’re still out there, watching.”

  “Guess we’re not putting divers in that water,” Hargreaves said.

  “Not today.”

  If Hargreaves was smart, today would turn into never.

  Grimshaw straightened. “I have to close the public beach.”

  “Gods, yes.” Hargreaves pulled his car keys out of his trousers pocket. “Take my car. I’ll be here a while.”

  “I’ll call Osgood to help me clear the beach and keep it closed.”

  He ran from the beach to the main house, then to the bridle path and game trail until he reached the road and the cars parked on the shoulder. A couple of the Crowgard followed him to the road. He didn’t know if they were just curious or keeping tabs on him. At least he hadn’t heard any of those unnerving whispers.

  He still checked the front and back seats of the cruiser, then locked the doors as soon as he got in. He sagged in the seat for a minute. He gave himself that much time to wonder if the rest of the Finger Lakes held these kinds of secrets. Then he called Ineke Xavier and asked her to fetch his spare pair of shoes and give them to Osgood. Finally he called Osgood and gave the orders to meet him at Lake Silence’s public beach.

  Starting the cruiser, he touched the medal under his shirt and offered up a brief prayer to Mikhos before he put the vehicle in gear and drove to the beach.

  CHAPTER 67

  Vicki

  Firesday, Sumor 7

  I didn’t hear about the beach being closed until I walked over to Come and Get It to pick up lunch. Julian had put up a CLOSED FOR INVENTORY sign on Lettuce Reed’s door, which I thought was an odd thing to do on a weekday. I worried that he was turning away potential customers, and the needed income from book sales, in order to keep me out of sight. But when I offered to pick up lunch, he gave me his order without any fuss, so I guessed that meant he wasn’t sensing any danger in the village.

  The diner seemed more crowded than usual, and buzzing with people talking in low voices, as if they didn’t want to be overheard but couldn’t keep quiet.

  I gave my order to Helen. I wanted to ask what was going on, but she seemed stressed and had a booth of snooty women—including the two who had tried to cause trouble for Julian—snapping their fingers in a demand for attention. As it turned out, everyone thought I was the one who had the answers.

  “Miss Vicki.” A middle-aged man wearing overalls and a T-shirt approached, twisting a cap in his hands. “Don’t think we’ve met officially, but I’ve seen you around. I’m Fred, from the bait-and-tackle shop on the south end of the lake.”

  “Oh. Yes. Pleased to meet you.” He was the one who approached me, but he didn’t seem all that pleased about it.

  “Do you know why the chief closed the beach?” Fred asked. “Does it have anything to do with all the police being at The Jumble?”

  It took a moment to realize that “chief” meant Officer Grimshaw. It took another moment to realize that the buzz of voices had fallen to a few whispers from people in the booths farthest from the counter where I stood.

  “Officer Grimshaw closed the public beach?” I asked.

  Fred nodded. “Wouldn’t say why, just ordered everyone out of the water and tol
d them to go home. Then he put an officer at the entrance to the parking area to stop anyone else from going to the beach. There’s talk that something happened to one of the people staying at The Jumble.”

  In school, I was not the kid who enjoyed presenting a report to the class. I wasn’t the one who wanted to stand on the auditorium stage while people in the audience coughed politely or rustled their programs. But there I was, the center of attention, with my escape looking impossibly far away, not to mention the door being blocked by Gershwin Jones, who was wearing a caftan of somber earth tones instead of his usual bright colors.

  A small village. I shopped here, had a passing acquaintance with most of the people who ran or worked in the businesses. I would have been one of the people who ran a business.

  “I don’t know what’s happening at The Jumble,” I said, looking at Fred. “My ex-husband repossessed the property and evicted me a few days ago. I don’t have any information about what’s going on there.”

  Fred pursed his lips and finally nodded. “Didn’t know you’d been given the boot, but it makes sense that the trouble started when one of the Danes showed up.”

  Really? Did the police know people in the village saw a correlation? Should I tell Grimshaw? No, it sounded like he was already up to his eyeballs in dealing with this. Besides, he knew exactly when Yorick reclaimed The Jumble.

  “I’m sure Officer Grimshaw will get it sorted out very soon.” I wasn’t sure of any such thing, but Fred looked relieved to hear me say it.

  Suddenly color filled his cheeks and he wouldn’t meet my eyes. “You got someplace to stay while you sort things out?” he asked.

  I didn’t know the details of Fred’s life, just that he ran the bait-and-tackle shop with Larry. But I translated the blush as an offer of a place to stay, which was sweet—and a little confusing since this was my first conversation with the man.

  “Thanks for asking. For now, I’m staying with a friend.” Not exactly the truth, but Ilya Sanguinati was insistent that I not tell anyone exactly where I was staying and definitely not say that I was alone. It seemed silly; there were a limited number of places anyone could stay in Sproing, and if I wasn’t staying at the boardinghouse, the Mill Creek Cabins would be the next logical choice.