by John Saul
Silently, responding to the voices, Eric and Kent joined him.
Tad ran his hands over the top of the box. It seemed to vibrate, as if pulsing from some energy hidden within.
He reached down to lift the lid, but something—something unseen and unheard—stopped him just before he touched the cardboard. As his fingers hovered a fraction of an inch above the box, Kent laid his own hand on top of Tad’s.
“Not yet,” he said.
Then Eric’s hand covered Kent’s as he breathed three words: “It isn’t time.”
Tad closed his eyes and listened to what the voices were telling him. They were right.
Whatever was in the box, its time had not yet come.
ERIC COULD HEAR the music long before the pavilion came into view, but as soon as the path turned and they stepped out of the woods and into the park, they saw it, lighted up like something out of Disneyland. It stood perched out over the lake, the sunset forming a perfect backdrop for its ornate white latticework. Tiny white lights covered not only the roof, but every post as well, and from beneath the floor, brilliant lights made the water itself take on a mystic glow. The band was playing an old Beach Boys song, and though it wasn’t quite dark yet, there were already at least a dozen couples on the dance floor.
And lounging against one of the railings, passing a bottle concealed in a brown paper bag back and forth, were Adam Mosler and Chris McIvens. As soon as Mosler caught sight of Eric, he whispered something to McIvens, and both of them fixed a surly stare on him. Eric sensed Tad stiffen on one side of him, and could almost feel Kent’s fist clenching on the other.
“Uh-oh,” Tad said quietly. “I told you guys we shouldn’t have come.”
“If we didn’t show up, people would think we had something to do with whatever happened to Ellis Langstrom,” Kent said. “Besides,” he added, nudging Eric, “we know Cherie is going to be here, and if Cherie’s here, Kayla will be, too.” He leered at Tad, and unable to pass up the opportunity to taunt him, he added, “Which means at least two of us will be getting lucky.” Then he looked around with an exaggerated air of bafflement. “Gee, I wonder which two it will be?”
Tad felt himself flushing in the gathering darkness. “Up yours, Newell,” he growled, which only elicited a snicker from Kent.
“Ooh, tough guy! If Mosler comes after us, will you defend me? Please?”
“If he comes after us, we’ll just ignore him,” Eric declared. “We’re here to dance, remember?”
“Can’t we fight, too?” Kent demanded, then relented. “So here’s what let’s do. Before you and I close in on Cherie and Kayla, let’s find a girl for Tad.”
Tad rolled his eyes. “Fat chance.”
“It’s all about attitude,” Kent said, and led the way up the ramp to the pavilion dance floor. “You’ve got to act like you own the place.” He found a vacant spot along the pavilion railing, leaned against it, and scanned the crowd, deciding that if he didn’t see Kayla, he might actually try to find a girl for Tad. Assuming, of course, that Tad liked girls at all, which Kent suspected he didn’t. Maybe, he thought, he should look around for a guy for Tad. But what if Tad hadn’t figured out he was gay yet? Better stick with girls, at least until Tad figured himself out. “Plenty to chose from tonight,” he whispered into Tad’s ear. “You know these locals can’t be satisfying the demand.”
As Tad pointedly ignored Kent’s goading, Eric saw Cherie and Kayla walking up the ramp. He was about to move toward them when Adam Mosler and Chris McIvens stepped in front of the girls, intercepting them before they’d reached the main floor. Eric’s jaw tightened as Mosler talked to them, not letting them pass. Then Cherie said something that made Adam step back as if he’d been slapped and brushed past him.
Kayla followed, jerking away from Chris McIvens when he reached out to stop her.
Cherie scanned the crowd, spotted Eric, waved, and started toward them.
“Uh-oh,” Tad said quietly, reading the expressions on the two local boys’ faces as they watched what was happening. “Now there’s going to be trouble.”
“Not for me,” Eric said, grinning, and a moment later Cherie leaned against the railing next to him and he turned away from Tad and Kent to focus his entire attention on her. “Hey, I was hoping you were going to be here tonight.”
“It was me who asked you to come, remember?” She let her hand brush against his as the band started a slow song. “Want to dance?” Her hand slid down his arm to his hand, and Eric let himself be led onto the dance floor.
“PRICKS!”
Adam Mosler spat the single word as if it were as foul as the wad of tobacco jammed in the corner of his mouth, then gritted his teeth as he watched Cherie lead Eric Brewster onto the dance floor. “Who do those bastards think they are?” He grabbed the bottle from Chris and sucked down a gulp, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. The vodka burned through his throat to feed the fire already raging in his belly, and he could feel the strength of his fury building. His eyes shifted unsteadily to Brewster’s friends, and he elbowed his companion as he saw Kayla rubbing up against the big dumb football player. What was his name? Newhall? Newell—that was it. Kent Newell. In his mind, Adam switched the e in Newell’s first name to a u, then snickered drunkenly at his own joke. “Moving in on your territory, too,” he said as he passed the bottle back to Chris.
McIvens drank a couple of swallows without taking his own furious eyes off Kayla. “I should kill the bitch.”
“Not her, asshole,” Adam said, his voice slurring. “It’s all their fault.”
“Yeah,” Chris agreed. “You’re right.”
“Who the hell do they think they are, waltzing in here and tryin’ to take over everything? They really think we’re jus’ gonna let ’em get away with it?”
“No way,” Chris agreed. He took another swig from the bottle, then passed it back to Adam.
As the band played and Eric and Cherie danced, Mosler and McIvens kept pouring more fuel onto their already blazing rage.
CHERIE PUT HER hands behind Eric’s neck as he circled her narrow waist with his arms and drew her close. They moved together to the gentle rhythm of the music, and the faintest wisp of a breeze came off the lake.
The evening was starting to feel perfect—exactly the kind of evening Eric had imagined hundreds of times when he’d been stuck in Evanston while Kent and Tad had been up here. But now, finally, he was here, too, and with Cherie Stevens in his arms, and the music playing, and the lights—even the lake itself—glowing, and the sweet summer breeze wafting over him, he wondered if it could get any better. Then, as he swept Cherie into a turn and drew her still closer, he saw Adam Mosler glaring at him, fists clenched. His whole body tensed, and he moved his lips close to Cherie’s ear. “You think Adam’s going to make trouble?”
She shrugged and snuggled closer against his chest. “Who knows? He and Chris have a bottle, and sometimes Adam gets mean when he drinks.”
“Think maybe we better chill for a while?” Eric asked, hoping she’d say no even if it meant winding up in a fight with Adam.
“I think we should just ignore him.”
Eric did as he was told, closing his eyes and letting the warmth of Cherie’s body spread through him.
“OKAY, THAT’S IT!” Adam Mosler growled, draining most of what was left of the vodka into his mouth. “Son of a bitch’s got his filthy hands on my girl.”
Chris McIvens reached for the bottle. “So what are you gonna do?”
Adam surrendered the almost empty bottle. “I’m gonna kill him,” he said, and started unsteadily across the dance floor.
McIvens finished the vodka and threw the empty bottle into the lake, then followed Adam as he pushed his way between the dancing couples, going directly toward Cherie Stevens and Eric Brewster. But when he got there, instead of spinning Brewster around and smashing his fist into his face, Adam merely tapped Eric on the shoulder.
“I’m cuttin’ in, man.”
Eric turne
d to see Mosler glowering at him, his face twisted with rage, his eyes bleary from alcohol. “I don’t think so,” he said softly. Out of the corner of his eye he could see other couples stop dancing to watch, and he silently prayed that Kent and Tad were among those watching.
“Why don’t you just go away, Adam?” Cherie said.
Adam ignored her, fixing his eyes on Eric. “I want you to leave my girl alone.”
“I’m not your girl,” Cherie said, grabbing Eric’s hand. “Come on, Eric, let’s just go.”
“Not so fast,” Adam growled, putting a hand on Eric’s chest.
Eric balled his right hand into a fist and his whole body tensed as he braced himself for the first blow, but just as Mosler drew his arm back to take a swing, a sound rose above the music.
A scream.
The music faltered, then stopped.
Adam Mosler, his fist still poised to strike Eric Brewster, hesitated, and then, as another scream and then another came from the water side of the pavilion, his arm slowly dropped to his side. “What the fu—” he began, rocking unsteadily as he looked around. “Wha’s goin’ on?”
Eric ignored Mosler as he followed Cherie toward the railing at the far end of the pavilion, where people were gathered. They pushed their way into a narrow opening at the rail and looked out over the water as someone else cried out. At first he saw nothing, but as someone a few feet away pointed, he looked down.
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but then he saw what looked like a pair of tennis shoes floating almost under the pavilion.
The crowd behind Eric pressed forward, and he felt the railing give slightly.
Below him, the tennis shoes disappeared for a moment, but then they were back, and as Eric watched, they drifted away from the pavilion.
Except the shoes were not simply floating.
They were attached to legs.
Legs clad in black jeans.
With the glowing water rippling around them, the legs floated up, followed by a torso, and then a head.
The body floated facedown in the water, its right arm and hand stretched out, as if reaching for something.
There was no left arm.
As the crowd gathered at the rail stared down at it, the outstretched right arm began to sink and the body rolled over.
As screams rose around him, Eric could neither move nor look away from the terrifying specter in the water. Cherie began to sob, and he put his arm around her, drawing her close against him.
The corpse continued to roll, and finally lay faceup in the water. The body was fully clothed—even the shirt was still tucked into the jeans, and for a moment, just an instant—Eric had the feeling that it wasn’t a corpse at all.
That it was moving.
That someone was playing some kind of horrible joke.
Then he realized it wasn’t a joke at all.
The body was real.
It was dead.
And it wasn’t moving.
It only appeared to be moving, because the shirt was rippling with the hundreds of crawdads feasting on the mortifying flesh beneath it.
The face was almost eaten away. Nothing remained of the eyes but empty sockets, the nose and lips reduced to shredded scraps of flesh and skin, and even the cheeks were mostly gone.
Four of the creatures were picking the meat from where the missing arm had been torn away.
Images flashed through Eric’s mind:
The bloody knot on the heavy branch in the woods.
Tippy’s guts hanging out of her belly.
And his own hands, plunging deep into the steaming entrails of—
His supper rose in his gorge, and he struggled to keep from adding his own vomit to the carnage in the water. Cherie was clinging to him now, crying into his shoulder, and he wanted to look away, wanted to look anywhere but at the grotesquery floating in the water, but he couldn’t. As if held by some unseen force, he kept gazing down into the empty sockets that had once held Ellis Langstrom’s eyes.
And even in their absence, those eyes accused him.
MERRILL BREWSTER GAZED numbly out the window of Ellen Newell’s car as Ellen slowly pulled out of the dance pavilion parking lot, which was jammed with police cars, an ambulance, and what seemed like the entire population of Phantom Lake. Eric was next to her in the backseat, and she was clutching his hand so tightly that her fingernails were digging into his flesh. But it didn’t matter. All that mattered to her was that he was there, and he was safe, and he was holding onto her hand as tightly as she was holding his.
Merrill had known something was wrong when Ellen had called less than an hour ago and said she wanted to go with her to pick up the boys. Her refusal to talk about what was going on during the short drive to the pavilion had been enough to set off every alarm in Merrill’s head. Then, when she saw the flashing red lights of the police cars and the ambulance, her alarm had escalated into terror, and she’d grabbed Ellen’s arm. “What’s happening here?” she’d demanded.
“They found Ellis Langstrom’s body,” Ellen replied. Knowing exactly what Merrill’s next question would be, she answered before Merrill could even ask it: “Our boys are all fine.”
Merrill had leaped out of the car before Ellen could park, frantically searching the crowd for Eric, but was stopped by a line of yellow tape and more police officers than she’d thought Phantom Lake had. Then everything had taken on a dreamlike quality. The crowd was silent, and the strobing police lights, flashing red and blue, cast a surreal glow over the scene. I’m going to wake up, she thought. I’ll wake up, and I’ll be on the sofa at Pinecrest, and everything will be all right.
And then Merrill saw Carol Langstrom, and she understood that it truly was a nightmare, but that Carol wasn’t going to wake up.
Rusty Ruston was holding Carol as she sobbed, keeping her from going down to the water’s edge. He tried to walk her back up toward the parking lot, but she struggled, finally found her voice, and screamed as she jerked away from Ruston and stumbled down to the spot by the lake where Ellis’s body was being zipped into a black bag. As Carol wailed her grief into the night, two medics loaded her son’s remains onto a gurney.
Two women broke through the crowd, and got to Carol just as her legs gave out and she slumped to the ground. They sat with her on the lawn, holding her, rocking her.
Merrill stared at the spectacle of the distraught woman and felt a pang of guilt at her relief that it was someone else’s son who had died rather than her own. A moment later, though, her fear for Eric overcame everything else, and she began pushing her way through the crowd, panic tightening its grip on her with every second that passed. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Eric, along with Tad Sparks and Kent Newell, appeared at the top of the pavilion steps, and a moment later Eric was in her arms.
And she hadn’t let go of him since.
ERIC WAS BARELY aware of his mother’s grip on his hand. Rather, the image of Ellis Langstrom’s lifeless, colorless visage hung in his mind, and no matter where he turned, all he saw was that ravaged corpse. Beyond the corpse, flickering at the edge of his consciousness, were other images.
A bloody stick, thick and heavy, lying half concealed beneath a bush in the forest.
A hacksaw, its blade stained red, in a hidden room in the carriage house.
And fragments of dreams—dreams of things that couldn’t have happened.
A numbness almost as cold as death itself began to spread through him. Should he tell anybody about all the things churning through his mind, all the images that seemed to taunt him from the darkness outside the car?
But what would he say?
What could he say?
After what seemed like an endless ride, the car at last pulled up in front of Pinecrest. Ashley Sparks, who had stayed behind with a sleeping Marci, waited on the front steps, and as everyone piled out of the car, a babble of barely heard conversation began to swirl around Eric.
His mother, asking Tad’s mother to put on
a pot of coffee.
And saying she was going to start to pack.
“Pack?” he heard Ellen Newell say. “Why?”
“What do you mean, why?” his mother replied. “I’m going home, that’s why! I’m certainly not staying here after a boy’s been murdered.”
Murdered.
The word seemed to reverberate in the silence that fell over the group huddled in the foyer of Pinecrest, then Ellen Newell spoke again, her voice taking on an edge of authority that finally cut through Eric’s numbness.
“We don’t know that anybody has been murdered,” she said. “And certainly nobody’s going anywhere, at least not tonight.” She began herding everyone into the kitchen, where Ashley Sparks was filling the coffeemaker.
“Poor Carol,” Ashley sighed, shaking her head as she added ground beans to the machine and turned it on. “I’ll call her tomorrow.”
“I’m calling Dan,” Merrill said as she picked up the phone. “And if I’m not driving home tonight—which I’m perfectly capable of doing—then none of you are going anywhere. You’re all staying here with me. Understand? All of you. I will not be alone in this house with just the kids.”
Ellen and Ashley exchanged a look, then nodded, knowing that argument would be useless, at least for tonight. “So we’ll all stay,” Ellen said. “The boys can sleep in Eric’s room, and I suspect the rest of us won’t sleep at all, given how strong Ashley makes her coffee.”
Merrill managed a wan smile and dialed home. To her relief, she heard Dan’s sleepy voice after only two rings, and she took the phone out onto the terrace, where only Dan could hear her.
“Does anyone know exactly what happened to the boy?” Dan asked, when she finished telling him what had happened at the dance.
“No, not yet,” Merrill admitted. “The thing is, he was just Eric’s age and—”
“And that doesn’t mean a thing,” Dan cut in. “For God’s sake, Merrill. Don’t make the discovery of a single body into a serial killer. You don’t even know what happened to him yet.”
“I still want us to come home,” Merrill said, her voice flat. She heard Dan sigh, could actually picture the look on his face, and knew that if he were here right now she’d want to slap him. How could he be so dismissive? Then, as she glanced back into the kitchen and saw Ashley and Ellen sitting at the kitchen table chatting as if nothing at all had happened, she expanded her frustration to include them. How could all of them be so dismissive?