Lightning lit up the blackening sky in a one-two flash. The sheriff’s deputies appeared and cleared the beach of stragglers, including Caroline, forcing them to seek shelter.
Eddie ran his hand down his face. “Lots of new renters this summer,” he said, and returned his gaze to the recovery boat, the visibility fading in the waning light.
“Why doesn’t anyone warn them? Why don’t they tell them about the dangers of swimming here?” she asked, thinking about the diver, wondering whether he could feel the temperature drop through the dry suit as he dove closer and closer to the bottom. He would start at the farthest point from the boat and systematically work his way back, sweeping the area with his hands into a center line and then outward, double searching each section at a time, kicking up silt, making it that much harder to navigate, searching blind.
“The signs are posted,” Eddie said. “And advertising three drownings in the last sixteen years wouldn’t be good for business.”
“Posting signs on the beach and in the Pavilion isn’t enough.”
“No matter what you do, it’s never enough.”
She supposed that could be true, but she would never accept that it was fair. Then again, what in life was ever fair?
After a long pause he added, “They found something. It’s the only reason they’d still be out there.”
She agreed.
The diver emerged and handed something to the three men on the boat. It was much too small for a body, even a child’s body.
The sheriff, Dave Borg, appeared on the beach. He stopped and talked to Heil. Heil nodded continually to whatever the sheriff was saying, rubbing his chin and appearing troubled about something.
Thunder continued to rumble. The men on the boat moved quickly. They looked to be securing their equipment, no doubt eager to get off the water. The wind picked up, bending the branches of trees and scattering leaves. The sheriff and Heil made their way onto the dock, waiting for the recovery team to come in.
“I’m going to find out what’s going on,” Eddie said. “Watch the bar.”
“Yeah, okay.” She turned around, but there was no one in the bar to watch.
She stood alone on the balcony. Thunder clapped. The recovery team reached the dock where the sheriff and Heil waited. From where she stood, she couldn’t tell what was passed to the sheriff, but it was definitely a bag, and she believed it contained whatever they had found on the lake bottom. One of the deputies charged onto the dock, taking orders and then dashing away, passing Eddie on the beach.
The recovery team finished securing their watercraft and rushed for cover from the storm that was quickly making its way over the mountain. Eddie met with the sheriff and Heil when they stepped off the dock. Heil was shaking his head, hiking his shorts over his expansive waistline. Thunder roared across the sky. The wind whirled, whipping Jo’s hair across her face.
The men were talking, arguing. Heil was waving his stumpy arms around. Eddie stood between them. He was hunched over, looking more and more uncomfortable as time passed, covering his stomach as though he’d been sucker-punched. Heil pointed at him and motioned toward the Pavilion and bar. A few more words were exchanged, the men shouting as the storm moved overhead. They hurried into the Pavilion. After another minute or two Eddie returned to the balcony.
“You’re never going to believe it.” He gripped the rail. The wind continued to howl. The first few drops of rain sprinkled her cheeks.
“Is it something from the little girl?” She had to holler over the wind.
“No.” He shook his head. “It’s got nothing to do with the girl.”
“Then what?” A bolt of lightning split the sky.
Eddie took ahold of her arm and pulled her off the balcony and into the bar just in time. The rain came pouring down, blowing sideways in the wind, hammering against the building. Thunder cracked. Something in Eddie’s eyes frightened her. “What is it? What did they find?”
“Bones,” he shouted. “They think they found Billy’s bones.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The air was thick with humidity, fermenting what was rotten in the lake. At times it smelled like dead fish, dank and feral. Other times it smelled like a thousand decaying lily pads and plant life, sodden and moldy. Tonight it smelled a little bit like both.
Caroline breathed into the palm of her hand to keep from getting sick. She was standing under the overhang on the top step of the Pavilion. The sheriff’s deputy had chased her off the beach, forcing her inside and out of the storm. She had backed up slowly at first, breathing into her cupped hand, unable to move her eyes away from the water. A loud crack of thunder had felt as though it shook the ground beneath her feet. When she had turned, she caught sight of her mother on the bar balcony. Even in the dark she could see the haunted look on her mother’s face, the one that thrashed her insides and kept her hidden inside herself. It could be days until her mother surfaced.
Lightning flashed. Thunder stomped and bumped across the sky. One of the deputies escorted Sara’s mother to his vehicle. She was in for a long night. The underwater recovery team had packed their gear and gone home. They weren’t expected to return until morning.
“There you are.” Gram pulled Caroline into her arms. “You didn’t come home for supper. You know you’re supposed to check in and let me know your plans.”
“Didn’t you hear?” She stepped back and searched Gram’s wrinkled and worn face, her thinning white hair, and her eyes, where the youthful spirit sparkled even in dark times. It was the sparkle Caroline relied on and looked for, a sign to tell her everything was going to be all right.
“Yes, I heard,” Gram said. Rain poured onto the roof of the Pavilion, battering the old building with its onslaught. She yelled over the storm, “Let’s go home. You must be starving.”
Gram had told her once that she had seen enough death in her lifetime, and she didn’t like to talk about it. She had said, “It is what it is, and there’s nothing anybody can do to stop it.” She told Caroline it was something everyone had to live with, and Caroline often wondered if Gram had been referring to something more personal, someone in her past other than Pop.
She followed Gram through the Pavilion. The pool table and pinball machines stood empty. The jukebox remained quiet. A few people milled around the snack stand, but the loud rain halted any conversation they may have otherwise had. They hurried through the wind and rain to Gram’s big Oldsmobile parked on the other side of the Pavilion, far away from the beach. They were soaked by the time they reached the car. Caroline was wet and cold. Goose bumps prickled her skin.
Back at the cabin, Caroline ate two helpings of Gram’s infamous homemade macaroni and cheese, a favorite comfort food, before curling up in her new hand-stitched quilt in her bedroom. She tucked her hands under her chin. The storm had been fierce but quick, lasting thirty minutes or less. A welcomed breeze blew through the open window. The cool air swept over her sun-kissed skin, sending shivers up and down her arms and legs.
“I’m scared,” she said to Willow, the name she had given the big weeping willow tree outside her bedroom window. In response it brushed its branches against the side of the cabin and scratched at the screen.
Ever since she was little, she had talked to Willow, her imaginary friend who just happened to be a tree. It was silly really to think of a tree in this way, but Willow was one of the constants during her summers at the lake. He listened when she couldn’t find the words to talk with her mother or Gram. He never rolled his eyes or sulked the way Megan sometimes did when they’d disagree over something stupid. He didn’t pick on her or make fun of her like Johnny did. Willow was there when she closed her eyes at night, every night. She imagined him standing guard while she slept. He wouldn’t let anything bad happen to her. He would protect her. And he was always there the moment she opened her eyes the next morning.
Although she hadn’t talked to Willow much over the last few summers, tonight she fell into past habits, needing to
feel secure. As always he was there, towering high above the cabin, watching. His branches reached toward anyone who paused long enough to gaze at his splendor. Sometimes she’d climb into the crook of his arms and listen to his leaves in the summer breeze. Other times she’d read to him from one of her mystery novels. She imagined he liked mysteries as much as she did.
“Her name was Sara,” she whispered to Willow. A knot clogged her throat, and she swallowed hard. “She’s still missing.”
She had overheard one of the men from underwater recovery talking about a typical scenario, how they’d normally pull a body from the lake within the first six to eight hours. But they still hadn’t found Sara.
Only one other time did she recall hearing a story about someone named Billy, a boy who hadn’t been found right away. It had happened years before Caroline was born. She had overheard Gram talking to Pop one night when they had thought she had been asleep. Her mother had taken off and hadn’t returned, and they had been worried. Caroline remembered feeling scared and angry, although she didn’t understand why.
She had crept out of her bed and entered the hall that separated her room from the bath and kitchen. She pressed her back against the yellow painted wall and hid in the shadow of the door. It was then she had learned that the boy named Billy had been missing for five days, how every waking hour had been spent dragging the lake for his body.
“It’s always been Billy,” Gram said. “And somehow she blames herself.”
Pop shook his head and smoothed his gray beard. “Well, something went wrong.” He covered his neck as if he were choking. “They shouldn’t have let it go on for five days.”
Caroline wasn’t exactly sure what they had meant, but it had been as if her mother had somehow played a part in it—the lake and the drowning. She had asked Gram only one time about the boy named Billy. Gram pinched her lips and told her never to mention his name again.
Caroline never did.
Now, as she whispered to Willow, she wondered what Sara had in common with Billy. Why hadn’t she been found? What did it mean?
CHAPTER SIX
Dee Dee pulled to the side of the cabin and stopped, the headlights resting on a large tree limb blocking the only parking space. Tired after another long shift at the hospital, she sat staring at the limb, the car idling. The storm earlier that night had been a bad one. Twice the lights on her floor had flickered but never went out, although they had a backup generator if they did. Chris, her son, had been able to get a text through—the service was always sketchy at the lake—letting her know the cabin’s power had gone out but was quickly restored and that a little girl had drowned.
She threw the car in park and got out, leaving the headlights glaring on the massive limb. She was late getting home. At the last minute Mrs. Hopper in Room 303 had needed help to get to the … well … hopper. She recently had her second knee replaced, both joints giving out under her considerable weight. The charge nurse, one of the RNs on the floor, had asked Dee Dee to help Mrs. Hopper, who had asked for her specifically.
“Come on,” she said, taking the big woman under the arm and helping her stand. “Try to put your weight on the walker,” she instructed. “I got you. You won’t fall.”
Slowly, the woman rose, grasping the walker in front of her. “Oh, I won’t fall,” she said. “But if I did, you’re the only one I trust to catch me. Those other nurses are too skinny. They should take a lesson from you and lift some weights, put some muscle on their bones. How much can you lift anyway? My grandson used to be a body builder. Did I ever tell you that?”
“No, I don’t think I heard about him before,” she said, having heard about everyone else in Mrs. Hopper’s family. She might as well hear about the grandson, too. “Try to lift your feet.” It was better for her to bend the new knee to get used to it, rather than shuffle along.
Mrs. Hopper went on and on about her grandson’s muscles and only stopped when Dee Dee stepped out of the bathroom to give her privacy. She checked the clock. Her shift had ended twenty minutes ago—not that it mattered. There wasn’t anyone at home waiting for her, which was just as well. She helped Mrs. Hopper back to bed and explained she didn’t lift weights. She credited or cursed, depending on how you looked at it, genetics.
“Chris,” she called after stepping through the cabin door, letting it slam behind her. No answer. “Chris,” she called again. It was close to midnight, but she really didn’t expect he’d be home. Living at the lake year round, Chris had waited all winter to see his summertime friends. And at sixteen years old, what boy his age wouldn’t still be out with them, out with Johnny and whatever girls had latched onto them for the night?
She dropped her purse onto the kitchen counter and slipped off her white sneakers. She was an LPN, a licensed practical nurse. It didn’t pay much, not as much as a RN, but a little more than an orderly. She liked her job and the patients, like Mrs. Hopper, helping her to and from the bathroom, and helping the weak with her strong arms. Besides, patients, especially the really sick ones, could be trusted to tell you the truth. They had nothing to lose. It was everybody else Dee Dee had a problem with.
“Chris.” She poked her head into his room, double-checking. His bed was empty.
She changed clothes, shoved her feet into work boots, and went back outside to the shed in search of a handsaw. It was too late at night for the chainsaw, which was too bad because it would’ve made the work that much easier. The door to the shed stuck, and she had to yank hard to get it open. She heard a small animal scurry to the corner when she stepped inside. She pulled the string to the bare light bulb and looked around. She found the handsaw hanging on a nail above the workbench. Underneath the saw was an old, deflated inner tube, the one Chris used to ride on behind their boat, the same inner tube her father had used to pull her and her brother, Billy.
She lifted the tube, and the unmistaken smell of rotting rubber wafted through the air, the scent unpleasant to most but not to her. It was the scent of happier times. She remembered not only the times when Chris was a young boy riding the tube, but also, more sharply, the times with her brother. When Billy was young, well before puberty, he’d sit between her legs and grip the handles. “Hold on!” she would yell as they sailed across the water. It had felt like flying.
And one time when their father had made a particularly sharp turn, the tube had flipped, sending both her and Billy jetting across the lake, their bodies slapping the water, their laughter filling the air. On the pier not far from where they were thrown, a group of girls around fourteen years of age, Dee Dee’s age at the time, jeered and poked fun at her. Even then her strong body and large frame evoked ridicule.
“Come on,” an eleven-year-old Billy had said, tugging on Dee Dee’s arm, pulling her away from the sneering girls. “I’ll race you to the boat.”
The endless summer days on the lake with her brother had been some of the best days of her life. He had been her best friend.
* * *
She grabbed the handsaw and slammed the door to the shed and the memories. She walked around the tree limb, careful not to trip over the smaller branches. It was thicker than she had originally thought. It split from the old oak tree next to the cabin. They were lucky it didn’t hit the roof. On the bright side, it would make good firewood. She tried lifting the end, grunting at the heft of it. “Well, shit.” Nothing was ever easy.
She set to work, sawing off the smaller branches and tossing them aside. She worked for another thirty minutes, her back and arms tiring from the labor. When she sawed off most of the smaller pieces, she began the arduous work of sawing the limb in quarters, her thoughts on the drowned little girl. She hoped she was found before the storm hit. The lake bottom was treacherous, formed by a glacier thousands of years ago, leaving behind shelves and caverns and ravines. It would be anyone’s guess where the strong current in a storm would take a little girl—anyone’s guess where she would be hidden.
After another thirty minutes or more she d
ragged the last piece of the limb to the side. She pulled the car into the opened space, cut the lights, and sat down on the porch step in the dark to wipe her brow and catch her breath.
She heard footsteps, recognizing at once who it was by the shape of the hat on his head. “Just like a blister,” she had said to Sheriff Borg when he had been within earshot. “Showing up when the work is done.”
He walked over to where she was sitting and placed his foot on the step, resting his forearm on top of his thigh. “We need to talk.”
Her first thought was Chris. “Is it my boy?” she asked, and pulled herself up, her muscles exhausted. It wouldn’t be the first time the sheriff had paid her a visit: minor stuff Chris had been involved in, graffiti, peeling out in the Pavilion parking lot, pissing in public. The sheriff always had brought Chris home rather than slapping a fine on him—or worse, locking him up in jail for the night. He was willing to help her out, knowing she was raising Chris on her own.
“No,” he said. “It’s not about Chris.”
“Well, then come on in.” She was thirsty, and whatever it was he came to tell her, it could wait until she had a drink. She went over to the door and held it open. He stepped inside and removed his sheriff’s hat. His gray hair was clipped close to his scalp. His brow was furrowed. He followed her to the small kitchen where she offered him a glass of lake water. He declined.
When she finished drinking and set the glass down, she noticed the blister the size of a quarter on her hand. It was almost funny given her earlier comment. She poked at it, the fluid inside squishing around. Man hands. The thought reminded her of an episode on an old sitcom about a guy breaking up with a woman for having man hands.
The Secrets of Lake Road: A Novel Page 4