"Look, your sister had suspicions somebody was putting the screws to her, and I was the officer who got the call."
Putting the screws? Owen thought. Do people actually say that outside of dime-store murder books?
The cop gave him another suspicious look over his sunglasses, then settled them back on the bridge of his nose. "Look, I just want to make sure you're careful about who you ask… certain things."
"About the church."
"You got it. For your edification, we received two calls stating you were seen snooping around the church today, and that was well before noon. I'm sure the news spread pretty quick, especially after what happened with your sister. My condolences, by the way. She seemed like a real nice girl."
"She was," Owen said. Funny how much easier it was to think of her in the past tense now that he was so much closer to her. "Somebody really called the police about me?"
"You gotta understand, Chapel Lake breeds a special kind of what I politely like to call 'people watchers,'" the cop said. "Some of these older folks, they spend their whole day smoking ciggies and peeping out the blinds through binoculars. Some of them have telescopes—and that's not to look at the stars, Mr. Saddler, no sir. It's to see what other people are up to. They may call it Neighborhood Watch—say they're performing a civic duty—but it's spying, to speak plainly, and honestly, it disgusts me. Busybodies." He sneered. "Nothing better to do than meddle in other people's business and waste the force's time and resources."
"It's a shame," Owen said, only because it seemed Selkie expected commiseration.
"You're damn right it is."
A cicada chirped in the silence that followed. Constable Selkie looked down the hill in the direction of the lake, the last of the day's sun glinting off his shades. Desperate to fill the silence, Owen said: "You wouldn't happen to know a blonde woman, a local, about my age, would you?"
Selkie turned to him, glasses darkening. "You're gonna have to narrow it down."
"She's a diver."
"Oh," Selkie said. "You must mean Jo Dunsmuir. Yeah, I hear her and your sister got pretty friendly before…" He trailed off, muttering an apology.
"My sister?" Owen repeated. The name Dunsmuir had a familiar ring to it, but what concerned him more was her relationship with his sister.
"Yup. From what I hear, Crazy Jo was the only one around here who'd give her the time of day by then. Her, and my father-in-law."
"'Crazy Jo'?"
"That's what some folks call her. I guess I shouldn't be telling tales out of class, but she's the main reason people started to distrust your sister."
"You say Howard talked to my sister?"
"Yeah-huh. Lookin' into old church business, from what I understand," Constable Selkie said with a nod. "Howard was their lawyer, at least that's what Nance tells me. She's my wife, his daughter. Anyway, it's probably not important. But listen, next time you feel like you need to dive in the good spot, you might think about parking that boat elsewhere. Everyone knows it's the Hordyke boat. Don't park at the marina, either. People will see you getting in the water there and figure out what you're doing. Pull it up in a nice covered space, lots of trees, a little ways from Peace Falls. Plenty of inlets to do that."
"I will," Owen agreed, thinking it was smart to be more careful about who knew where he was and when. Especially if Selkie was right about Lori.
"Good. Now people are going to see that I'm talking to you right now—"
"Right now?" Owen searched the street and saw no one but a man in a brown suit standing outside an accountant's office, smoking an e-cigarette. But there were several stores, and more than one of them had drawn their window blinds against the sun.
"Most likely," Constable Selkie said, squinting behind his shades. "One of Chapel Lake's finest tattlers lives right over there—see that bungalow with the unfashionable lawn jockey on the porch?" He pointed to the residential street just south of the post office, where several bungalows stood. Owen picked out the one he meant. A Canadian flag fluttered in a light breeze from the porch, only a few feet above the offending object. "That's old Thelma Birch. Complains to anyone who'll listen about starlings swooping in and stealing nests from other birds—you know, those little black birds that look like miniature crows? Well, you can be damned sure she's talking about the African-American family who moved in next door to her, because she's eyeballing their house the whole time she's saying it. I don't know why people listen. I guess because she talks so damn loud you can't help it." He shook his head in exasperation. "So do me a favor and give a good nod, like you understand what you've done is wrong and you won't do it again, Mr. Officer."
Owen made a big, sulky nod he hoped didn't look too phony, feeling like his mother had just made him apologize to a childhood bully. He shot a glance down the street and thought he saw the blinds move in this Thelma Birch's decrepit house with its single large, dirty window.
"That'll do," the cop told him. "Now, anything you need, you be sure and look for me." He thumbed his nametag toward the sunlight. "That's Constable Selkie. Mike, if you like. You're friends with Howie, you're pretty much part of the family. That kid don't take to just anyone."
"I'm honored. Thanks for the help, Mike."
"Least I could do. I kinda feel a little like I owe you, not being able to do anything for your sister, and all."
"Well, I appreciate it. I'm sure you did all you could."
"Thanks. You know, I was born here, Owen, not like most of my fellow officers, and that gives me an obligation to these people other officers might not understand. I don't treat everyone like a suspect without provocation, and I take what happens here to heart." He left a pause, in which Owen wondered if he was meant to express his gratitude again. "Well, okay," Selkie said with finality. "You take care now."
"You too, Constable. Thanks again."
Selkie gave him one last look over his sunglasses, as if he thought it might be the last time he'd see Owen alive, then strode to his cruiser, peered around himself in a very cop-like way, as if looking for danger, before climbing in to the driver's seat.
Owen thrust his right hand reflexively into his pocket to finger Lori's necklace. It was only then that he realized Howard hadn't given him back the watch.
CHAPTER 8
The Mystery
1
NOBODY IN THE BAR had seen the pocket watch in all the commotion, though it was difficult to tell if the regulars were saying so because one of them had taken it for themselves, and the others were too loyal to turn him in—or her, Tina being just as likely a culprit.
"Maybe the old man palmed it in the hubbub," the trucker in blue suggested, and shrugged as if it didn't make much of a difference to him either way. "Shucky darn," his friend said, and the two of them guffawed.
Owen dropped the subject. They were right. It was just as likely Howard had accidentally taken it as it was that someone else had stolen it. He thanked them and left, giving Howie's truck a quick once-over as he walked by. The cab was filthy, which didn't surprise Owen much, considering the man's job. There were cassette cases scattered on the passenger seat—'80s stuff: Dire Straits and Wham! and Michael Jackson's Thriller.
Back at Hordyke House, Owen loafed around for the rest of the day, too tired to dive again or even take the boat out on the lake. He brought a Muskoka chair from the back porch down to the dock and sat looking out at the lake, enjoying the sunshine.
The day was spectacular: the lake sparkled in the sun; the cicadas and birds chirped their content. Out on the water, kids went by on water skis and bobbed on Jet Skis across the bay. He'd found an old pair of binoculars in the house, and brought them up to his eyes every once in a while to get a better look, feeling a little like one of the busybodies Selkie had sneered about earlier, but his interest was just curiosity, not gossip.
A gray stork-like creature flew very close to the dock. Owen snatched up the binoculars, getting a good look at its hindquarters before it swooped out of view. A hummingbir
d buzzed over the dock, paused near Owen's chair, then zipped off, searching for a sugar fix. Two teenaged girls in a canoe paddled past on their way along the shore, their brightly colored bikinis a sharp contrast to their deep summer tans. The girl in front threw Owen a cautious wave, perhaps charmed by his unwavering smile, and he returned it. They giggled, dipping their paddles, and vanished behind the trees.
While he sat there enjoying everything the day gave him, he mulled over what he'd learned since his arrival in town. Lori's journal had provided him with a goal—to find his possibly insane father—but, so far, not much had pointed to anyone in particular.
He supposed he had to at least consider the idea that the senior Howard was his father, particularly in light of the chummy way the old man had called him "son." He decided to visit Howard in the hospital tomorrow, and while he was there, he'd ask him about his business with Lori, and if she'd mentioned anything about her troubles with other locals, and at the house.
But first, he would dive. Out there, an entire town waited to be plundered, if not for treasure, then for its secrets, a place where people had lived and worked and played. Some of those houses, workplaces, and schoolyards, were still intact, their remains a testament to those who had lived there. Someone—a Hordyke, Owen recalled, an ancestor of the fisherman who'd built the Wharf—had discovered a nice little plot of land in Southern Ontario, though it might have been called Upper Canada then, and had founded the town of Peace Falls there, had built a community there, had lived and grown old there. Had been buried there.
Now the entire town was buried, submerged under fifty, maybe a hundred feet of water. Down there with the fishes, an entire town festered, rotted, grew scales. A ghost town. Peace Falls was a ghost town in the classical sense, and at least a few of the residents of Chapel Lake were still haunted by what the dam had done to their community—to their lives.
Eminent domain, or "expropriation," was a strange and frustrating law that, when broken down, meant no individual ever truly owned a property. Families would be forced into "selling" to the government; they had no choice, really. Take the offer, or live with the low-ball offer later. He'd seen old photos on the internet of a parade of houses rolling up a hill on trailers to the cheers of bystanders. Owen wondered if graves had been moved with them. He'd seen the cemetery down there behind the chapel, and its graves would have been disinterred, by law. But he was willing to bet there were dozens of dog and cat skeletons slowly decaying under the earth in what had once been backyards, but was now the bottom of a lake. Maybe even a few stray human corpses had been left in that cemetery, if they'd stacked graves.
As he thought this, a lumpy brown thing rose from the water a few feet off the end of the dock. Owen brought the binoculars up, racked the focus, and saw the turtle's grumpy face—a snapper, by the look, with its hooked beak. The ugly thing blinked, not looking anywhere in particular, just bobbing on the light waves while Owen peered at it. Then it dipped back out of sight, leaving small ripples in its wake.
The barometer hanging by the backdoor called for dry weather. He rapped it with his knuckles, sure he must have seen the gesture in his youth, and the needle moved from Dry toward Very Dry. The undulating whine of cicadas in the early evening assured him tomorrow would be hot: a perfect day to spend in the cool water.
2
Owen woke from a claustrophobic dream that drifted away upon awakening, and sat bolt upright for a few moments, looking at the clock.
"Two again," he said, his voice in the dim light making him edgy. At least the lights didn't come on this time. Forgot to check for the timer last night, though. Bulb broke and then Lori's diary—you forgot to check the switch.
He wasn't about to get out of bed and check now, and he didn't need to use the washroom. Nothing left to do but lie back down and get some rest. He'd need it for his big dive tomorrow.
Maybe I'll see her again, he thought, not Lori but the woman from the lake, and the prospect made him anxious. He wasn't sure whether it was a good anxious or bad, both repelled and drawn to her. She was attractive, there was no doubting that. But she was also rude. She'd saved his life, but she'd turned him away before and after.
Picturing her pouting scowl, her curves as she'd twisted to squeeze the water from her hair, Owen began to feel as if he were no longer alone in the room. Somebody stood over him, a dim shadow only gradually coming into sight as his eyes adjusted to the dark.
He sucked in a quick breath, but didn't dare move.
Even before he could see the man's face clearly, he knew him: it was Shepherd, the man who'd tried to drown him twice. He stood sopping wet before Owen, dripping filth from his white dress shirt and loose-fitting black pants on the carpet: pat-pat-pat-pat. His gaunt face was white as soap, his eyes as black as the mud at the bottom of the lake. Looking at this face was like peering into a mirror between the living world and the land of the dead.
Jesus Christ—I really am losing my mind.
The dead man's tendons creaked as he opened his mouth. A gurgling arose from the Shepherd's throat, and a viscous black fluid like gritty oil spilled from his lips, pattering on the carpet. Instead of words, a fat, dark beetle crawled out onto the Shepherd's desiccated tongue, spread its chitinous wings, and fell heavily onto the bedspread. Owen drew back and flicked at the bed in revulsion but the beetle merely crawled away, its hairy claws clinging to the fabric, oblivious to his efforts, and plunked heavily to the floor.
Distracted, Owen didn't see the Shepherd shamble out of the room, just the wet footprints the dead man had left on the carpet and the bare floorboards in the hall. Nerves still tight with anger, certain he was still dreaming, Owen leaped out of bed, mindful of the scurrying beetle, and rushed after him. The Shepherd's wet prints on the rug squelched under the soles of his feet, cold and slimy, as he stepped out into the hall and gazed out over the railing. The moon cast its dim glow over the bookshelf, the furniture. The room stank of sweet rot and muck—
Have I dreamed smells before? I can't remember if I have or not…
Headlights swept through the curtains, brightening the house as he descended the stairs. Caught in the jaundiced light of a truck or car out on the cottage road, he saw the dead man, as solid as his surroundings, and when the headlights passed, returning the house to its post-midnight gloom, the Shepherd seemed somehow more real than the rest of it, like a man standing in the midst of a hologram.
Then he was gone, leaving only wet footprints behind.
Owen scurried and stumbled down the stairs. The back door stood wide open, the Shepherd's silhouette slipping out into the distant night. Owen ran to the door, but by the time he got there, the dead man had disappeared. He pressed on into the darkness, following in the Shepherd's footsteps, which glistened under the moon. It wasn't until he reached the stairs leading to that lake that Owen finally caught sight of the dead man again, hobbling down the stone walkway toward the water. Fear clutched at Owen's throat with sudden urgency. Dream or not, the Shepherd was luring him toward the lake, was leading him toward a violent, thrashing death.
Will I wake before it happens? he wondered, but another idea occurred to him, much more sickening: It this what happened to Lori?
Owen stood under the cloudless sky, bright pinpricks of stars peeking through night-black fronds of pines and cedars. At the end of the path, where water lapped against the cement steps, the Shepherd turned his lamplight-white face up to his follower.
Come on in, Owen, those dead eyes seemed to say. Join the congregation.
"No." Owen shook his head fiercely—not a dream. Everything he'd seen, everything he'd felt and smelled, was real, or real enough. He'd die down there if he went any further. "I won't do it," he said, trying to convince himself. "I'm not going down there. I don't care who you are, you can't make me. You can't."
The dead man swept out a damp arm, still dripping, toward the black water. Owen had a vague idea the man was always wet, that he would remain so for eternity. The dead man held
his hand palm up, not pointing, not ordering Owen toward his death, only indicating the lake itself, as if to show him something of grave importance.
It's a trick, he thought, but still, he followed.
A moment later he stood at the preacher's side, skin crawling, following the dead man's gaze to the moonlit lake. Pale figures rose from the water then, breaking the surface in the glittery path of the moon. Owen saw them clearly: men, women, and the blonde-haired cherub, dressed in clothes belonging to the 1970s or early-'80s, all wide collars and muted colors. They were the same people he'd seen the day before in the lake, the exact same, and only then did he connect them with the people who'd watched him drown in his tub. The young mother, whose face had wrinkled in the water to the texture and color of a prune, held her baby's sagging corpse in her arms like a rotted pumpkin, and the hollow-eyed father kept his gristly arm around them both.
Owen thought, The realm of the dead. Abaddon uncovered.
The congregation of the dead opened their mouths together. At first, Owen thought they meant to speak to him, as Lori had in his dream. Instead, their decayed windpipes began to chant in a toneless croak:
My soul is sick, my heart is sore
Now I'm coming home
My strength renew, my home restore,
Lord, I'm coming home.
The dead stopped singing abruptly, the wet, oozing messes that remained of their eyes and mouths widening as if in dread, their left hands rising to point in unison toward the shore. Toward him.
The hair on the back of Owen's neck bristled in nerve-twisting dread as he turned to the man at his side—but the Shepherd no longer stood with him. It was Brother Woodrow.
"The Devil wears many faces," the man of God said, smiling darkly. He was as dead as the others, his red beard straggly and sparse, his eyes sunken in yellow-brown pits, his smile lipless. He drew the brass watch from the Bible pocket of his filthy, tattered robe, and flicked open the lid to give its smooth, undamaged face a brief look. In that moment, Owen saw the time was 2:06.
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