by John Saul
Unconsciously gunning the engine of the Mercedes, Rita left the park behind and sped toward The Pines, not slowing down until she came to the discreet granite block that marked the entrance. The Pines encompassed two hundred acres of lakefront forest that had been subdivided into ten acre parcels half a century ago, none of which could ever be divided any further, and each of which could never hold more than a single house and “appropriate outbuildings,” as the master plan for the development read. Though that plan, of which Rita Henderson heartily disapproved, didn’t specify exactly what “appropriate outbuildings” were, it did specifically say that they could not be for “human habitation” except for a guest house that would sleep no more than four people. For the forty years she’d been involved in Phantom Lake real estate, Rita Henderson had been trying—and failing—to find a way to break the master plan for The Pines, and as she calculated the increasing value of the land every year, she also increased her efforts to find a way to cash in on it.
Making a mental note to remind Tim Graves to have his crew trim the overgrown shrubbery around the granite marker, Rita turned down the road that had once been Pinecrest’s private driveway but now gave access to all twenty of the houses scattered through the acreage. Half a mile farther she turned into the long, circular drive that led to Pinecrest itself, and made another mental note, to talk to Tim about getting the trees trimmed. Just cutting back the limbs of the maples lining the drive would brighten the whole place up a bit.
A moment later she came around the last curve in the drive, and the house itself came into view. Pinecrest had always been her favorite house in the whole area, and this morning it looked almost majestic, with its granite walls supporting the gabled slate roof, all of it looking almost as good as the day it was built. Indeed, not only the house, but the carriage house, the boathouse—even the potting shed—had been built the same way, out of carved granite blocks on foundations sunk to the bedrock below the rich topsoil. None of the roofs sagged, none of the porches were even slightly askew.
Still, seven years of emptiness showed everywhere; the detritus of the surrounding forest had blown into the angles of the vaguely Victorian house, built up on the windowsills and accumulated on the steps and the porch, giving the place an air of abandonment. But once the crew from the high school had swept that away and cleaned out the big stone fountain in front of the house, all that would change.
Rita parked by the front door, scribbled a few notes in the pad she always kept handy for just this sort of occasion, then stepped out of her car. Climbing the six steps that led to the heavy oak front door, she put the key in the lock, turned it, and swung the door open.
Even after the hundred years that the house had stood there, the hinges gave no hint of a squeal, and the door hung true.
Ahead was a marble foyer and vaulted ceilings, beyond which was the living room, its huge picture window perfectly framing a view of the lawn and the lake beyond. As Rita shut the door behind her, the silence of the big house, undisturbed all these years, closed in and she found herself moving noiselessly, as if even a single sound would disturb the tranquility of the place. By the time she got to the living room, though, her notebook was in her hand and she was ready to work.
Pulling all the sheets and dust covers off the furniture, she made a pile of them in the foyer. The furniture seemed to have held up just fine, but of course it had been good furniture to start with: most of the pieces that weren’t original had come from Carol Langstrom’s shop in town, and Carol didn’t deal in any antiques but the finest.
The kitchen had been updated ten years ago, and its granite countertops and stainless steel sinks still looked essentially brand new, as did the appliances. She ran the water and the garbage disposal, flipped every light switch she could find, and found herself pleasantly surprised: no drips, no leaks, no problems. Not even a burned-out lightbulb.
She continued on through the house, making a note to have the chimneys swept and inspected.
Ditto for the smoke detectors, which didn’t fit the decor at all, but without which the house would be unrentable.
Then she went up the big staircase to the four bedrooms and as many baths above, searching for any signs of a leaking roof, or invading raccoons and squirrels.
Nothing—another pleasant surprise.
The bathrooms were in good condition—the toilets flushed, the water pressure was good. No rust came from any of the faucets. She slipped the sheets off the furniture in the bedrooms, pulling aside the heavy draperies and opening the windows in each of them. The house didn’t smell bad, just musty, the way unoccupied houses get. A family of four would change that within a day or two.
The master bedroom looked much the same as the rest of the house; there was a slightly masculine aura about everything, with heavy, dark wood furniture, and hunting prints everywhere. Rita tried all the lights and this time found a bedside lamp missing a bulb.
She made a note.
As she slipped the sheet from the dresser, she found herself looking at a picture of Hector Darby. His eyes, even in the picture, had the same piercing quality they’d had in person, and as she gazed at the photograph, Rita found herself wondering what had really happened to the man. There’d been so many rumors over the years—rumors made up, for the most part, out of whole cloth—and now she wondered if any of them could be true. Indeed, as she looked at the picture, she felt a shiver run through her, as if even from the old photograph, Hector Darby was looking deep inside her, searching for her darkest secrets.
Ridiculous, she told herself. It’s just a picture, and all that happened was that he fell out of his boat and drowned. Yet still she found herself putting the picture away on the top shelf of the closet where none of the Brewsters would have any reason to look for anything.
Finished with the house, Rita went on to have a quick look in the large garage, easily big enough to accommodate three cars in the space where once a collection of carriages, buckboards, and wagons had stood. She decided it needed little more than a good sweeping out, and perhaps some oil on the door hinges, then made a quick tour of the rest of the carriage house. The stalls and the tack room had long ago been converted into workshops and storage spaces. She made as careful an inspection of the grooms’ quarters upstairs as she had of the house, then moved on to the boathouse and potting shed.
Less than an hour after she’d arrived, Rita Henderson was finished with her inspection.
Finished, and pleased.
Of course, the inventory would take two full days for both her and her secretary, but at least Darby’s personal effects had already been packed up and moved out of the house, even if only into one of the storerooms in the carriage house, which is what she suspected had happened.
But in a week the place would be ready for the Brewsters, and within two weeks the last feeling of mustiness, emptiness, and disuse would be long gone.
And that, Rita knew, would make all the difference later in the summer when it would be time to show the house to prospective buyers.
Empty houses—especially abandoned ones—were hard to sell.
But Pinecrest, once it was filled with fresh air, bright sunlight, and a young family, would sell quickly.
Quickly, and for the high price and commission she intended to get for the old place.
Getting back in her Mercedes, she started the engine, then hesitated, remembering the picture of Hector Darby she’d left on the top shelf of the closet in the master bedroom. Maybe she should take it with her, and give it to the attorney for the doctor’s heirs. On the other hand, what was the point, at least right now? If they’d left all the rest of his stuff in boxes in the storerooms, why would they want his picture?
Gunning the engine, Rita sped down the driveway, making one last mental note:
With a load of gravel spread over the driveway, Pinecrest would be perfect.
LATE THAT AFTERNOON Rita Henderson wasn’t feeling nearly as sanguine about Pinecrest as she had a few hours e
arlier. The three boys Nathan Humphries had sent over were lined up in front of her desk, and as she eyed them dolefully, she decided the counselor might need some counseling of his own.
In all fairness, Ellis Langstrom wasn’t a bad choice; he’d at least worked in his mother’s antiques store on and off since he was in grade school, and never complained about anything. Adam Mosler and Chris McIvens were something else, though. Neither had ever been known to work any harder than they absolutely had to, and Mosler, particularly, seemed to be in trouble more often than not. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and the work needed to be done now, so she turned on her best professional smile.
“Everything you’ll need is in the trailer,” she said, tilting her head toward the box trailer she had bought five years ago and stocked with every tool any cleanup job could demand, and which was now parked in the drive in front of Pinecrest. “Rakes, brooms, ladders, a couple of saws, leaf blower, mower. If there’s something you need that isn’t here, call me and I’ll have it brought out to you. There’s even a cooler with some bottled water so you won’t have to go in the house.” She pointed to an open area about twenty yards from the trailer. “Pile everything over there and I’ll send someone out to haul it away.” When there was no response from the boys, she dropped the smile. “Okay?”
They nodded, and Rita Henderson turned the smile back on.
“Start at the top, with the roofs of all the buildings. Clean out the gutters, make sure there aren’t any birds nesting in any of the chimneys, check the slates. And be sure to use a safety line—I don’t want to have to find replacements for any of you. Sweep the eaves, and don’t leave a single cobweb, then hose off the house.” She droned on, giving them detailed instructions on what needed to be done to every building, but knowing she’d have to repeat everything she’d said tomorrow, and the day after that, and every day until the job was done. But at least if she laid it all on them now and they didn’t quit, they couldn’t start griping later that they hadn’t known what they were getting into. “Got all that?” she asked when her recital was finally finished
All three of them nodded, though she was pretty sure only Ellis had paid attention. At any rate, she’d told them.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll leave you to it. You’ll each get paid a week from tomorrow, and I’ll be checking in on you now and then to make sure everything is getting done. Okay?”
More nods.
“Then have fun.”
As she walked to her car, she heard the rattle of tools and the first of what she was certain would be a steady stream of grumbling. Still, the boys knew as well as she did how important the summer people were to the town, and Ellis, at least, would do his best. With luck, he’d keep Adam and Chris in line. And, of course, she would show up every day, just when they were least expecting her.
ADAM MOSLER TOOK a rake from Ellis and leaned it up against a tree. Ellis, standing in the trailer, handed Chris the leaf blower then tossed a coil of electric cord to Adam. “Who wants to start on the roof?” he asked.
“Not me,” Adam promptly answered. “I got acrophobia so bad I’d fall off in a second. Besides, you’re the one who was so excited about taking this job. You do it.”
“Hey, it’s money, right?” Ellis shot back. “And I’ve got no problem going up on the roof, so just give me a hand with the ladder, okay?”
A few minutes later, as Ellis tied one end of a nylon rope to himself and the other around the chimney, Adam took a bow saw and a pair of pruners and went to work on the clutter of dead branches that had fallen from the trees over the last seven years. He knew Ellis was right; he could use the money as much as Ellis, but he was still pissed off about having to work for a bunch of rich people whose kids would arrive in their L.L.Bean clothes with their Jet Skis and speedboats and spend the summer acting like they owned the whole town.
And everybody in it.
He picked up a bunch of branches and hurled them onto the growing pile of trash, his anger at the injustice of it growing steadily. None of those Chicago kids were going to be cleaning up stuff like this—their fathers would just peel off bills from the wads in their pockets and hand over the keys to the Range Rover or the Escalade, or whatever fake sport utility vehicle the rich people were driving this year.
Adam dumped another load of brush onto the pile, and felt a stab of pain as a long sliver drove deep into the palm of his right hand. Cursing silently, he sat down on the patio and pulled his jackknife out of his pocket, pried the smaller of the two blades open, then realized it wasn’t going to work: he was right-handed and he wouldn’t be able to get the splinter out himself. “Chris!” he yelled.
A moment later Chris McIvens appeared from behind the greenhouse, pushing a wheelbarrow full of broken glass. He dumped it onto an old tarp they’d found in the trailer and spread out next to the rubbish pile, then inspected Adam’s hand. “It’s gonna hurt,” he said as he took the knife from Adam. “You sure you want me to do it?”
Adam nodded grimly. “I’m only doing this for the money, and I can’t do it with a freakin’ log in my hand, can I?”
“Okay,” Chris said. “Here goes.” He poised the blade of the knife over Adam’s palm, then carefully sliced through the skin over the sliver as Adam gritted his teeth against the pain. A moment later Chris lifted the fragment of wood out of the open wound, and Adam instantly began sucking on the cut, which, now that the operation was over, didn’t really hurt all that much.
“Lucky it wasn’t a nail,” Chris observed as he wiped the blade of the jackknife, then closed it and handed it back to Adam. “Coulda gotten lockjaw.”
Adam rolled his eyes. “They got shots for that, idiot.” Then his eyes moved out past the house and down the lawn toward the lake. Shadows from the forest were creeping quickly across the lawn, the glassy water rippling where the fish were starting their evening feed. If it wasn’t for who was going to be living here, this could be a nice place. Then he heard Chris talking to him.
“I was thinking we ought to do something out here.”
“Yeah?” Adam asked. “Like what? Mow the lawn in a goddamned diamond pattern?”
Now it was Chris who rolled his eyes. “No, idiot,” he said, giving the second word the exact enunciation Adam had used only a moment before. “I meant like we should set a booby-trap or something.”
Adam eyed Chris with new respect. “Like what?” he said again.
Chris shrugged. “I don’t know yet. There’s got to be something. And we’ve got a whole week to think about it.”
The leaf blower suddenly roared to life above them, and a moment later a shower of filth rained down on their heads.
Adam jumped up, shook the moss and dirt out of his hair, and looked up to the roof, but he couldn’t see Ellis, and knew Ellis wouldn’t hear him over the roar of the blower even if he yelled until he ruptured his larynx. His eyes met Chris’s. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s think of something. But we don’t tell Ellis, right?”
Chris nodded, knowing as well as Adam that no matter how harmless whatever they came up with was, Ellis would talk them out of it. So now he and Chris knocked their fists together in a gesture of solidarity—if not actual conspiracy—and went back to work, Chris to the greenhouse, and Adam to cleaning up the yard so it could be mowed.
But now both boys felt an energy about the work that hadn’t been there before.
They’d clean this place up, all right. But that wasn’t all they’d do.
“YA READY, BOY?”
The words came out of the old man’s mouth as little more than an indistinct whisper. Not that it mattered; the old dog’s ears had failed three years ago. There wasn’t anyone else to talk to, though, so the old man just kept on talking to the dog. Not that there was much to say, either, since the old man’s mind had become almost as indistinct as his voice. Nowadays, he only remembered the important things. His name for instance.
Logan.
He still knew his name was Logan, and he kn
ew he had a first name, too. Or at least he’d had one a long time ago, before the bad times.
Now, as the sun began to drop toward the horizon, Logan gently lifted the bony old Labrador and settled him carefully onto a pile of rags in the bottom of the boat near the bow, where the dog could rest his head on the gunwale next to the rough wooden cross Logan had mounted on the boat’s bow sometime in the past. If anybody had asked Logan why the cross was there, he wouldn’t have been able to say. “Following Jesus,” he’d probably have mumbled. “Can’t be too careful, can you?” Nobody, however, had ever asked, and even if they had, they wouldn’t have paid much attention to his answer.
Except the dog. The dog always listened, and the dog always understood. “Good boy,” Logan sighed as he transferred the weight of the animal from his arms to the floorboards of the skiff.
Sensing more than hearing the sound of his master’s voice, the dog managed a thump of his tail as Logan stepped into the boat and used an oar to push off from the shore. As the boat drifted through the cattails and marsh grasses that choked this part of the lake, the dog managed to sit up, his grizzled muzzle lifting so he could fill his nostrils with what little breeze there was.
Logan used one of the oars to pole the boat quietly from its hiding place in the tangle of growth out into the open water thirty yards away.
The dog’s head swiveled, his nose pointing directly across the lake toward the small town nestled on the opposite shore, and an eager whine bubbled up from his throat. “Not today, boy,” Logan whispered. “We’re just watching tonight. Just watching…just making sure.”
The dog turned its all but totally blind eyes toward his master’s voice, and a warm wave of affection—affection mixed with sadness—broke over Logan. The dog wasn’t going to be around much longer, and Logan was pretty sure that when the dog died, he’d die, too.