Crescent Lake

by David Sakmyster

  Nick tried to look impressed.

  "Hey–" Stan leaned forward, holding his head. "Speaking of springs – I wonder..."

  "What?" Nick was tired and just wished they'd quickly find the house. He accelerated gradually.

  "Once there might have been some springs near your place."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah. Now that I think of it – you're on a system of well water. You're probably tapping those old springs."

  Nick frowned, imagining endless mornings deprived of a decent shower.

  "Damn, Josh! I just might have a story to tell the guys during my next poker night – which, by the way you're invited to. Every Friday night. This Friday's at my house." He whistled. "Yep. I could build this idea into a great yarn. No one's ever come up with a story about how the town got its name."

  Nick smiled and almost laughed out loud. For all his misgivings, he was actually starting to like this place.

  "Ah, but hell. Who am I kidding?" Stan slapped Nick's arm again. "You're the writer. You'd be the one to do it best." He laughed. "But seriously, if you want to know about this town's roots, go to Grant Wilson, the resident librarian. If anyone would have useless trivia like that, it's old Grant. He's been librarian longer than I've had chest hair." He chuckled at his own joke. "And that's a damn long time, I can tell you.

  "Turn right here," he shouted suddenly, causing Nick to almost slide off the road. "Sorry about that. Remember when you're coming back into town. Turn left at the fork. Other way's a dead end."

  Nick took a slower pace now. The pavement had become more rugged, and grass sprouted from cracks in the road. The high beams lanced across branches and tree trunks, stabbing a good distance into the woods. A pair of eyes glittered at him from a spot just off the left side of the road.

  "Possum!" Stan shouted, pointing over the steering wheel. "Yessir, a regular zoo out here. No bears, though, so don't worry. I have seen a coyote once. Wolves occasionally. You a hunting man, Josh?"

  "Hunting? No," Nick replied quietly, his thoughts jumping across the continent. Hunted, yes.

  "Too bad. But go up to Sauk where the fishing's good, and – whoa!" Stan grabbed Nick's shoulder. "There she is..."

  Nick blinked and peered through the long, arching shadows at his new home.

  Except for the out-of-control ivy, the cracked stone walk and the rampant weeds, the house could actually resemble one of those fairy tale cottages, outwardly quaint and charming, but hiding a fearsome secret inside.

  "Front wall and foundation made of stone," the sheriff pointed out while they were still seated in the car, the headlights illuminating the house as if it were on a stage, auditioning before a director. "Roof and those logs on the side walls are all made of oak. There's a glass door leading out onto the back porch. You got a fence back there and a path of stones leading down the ravine to the lake, and… ah, but you'll have all day tomorrow to figure all this yourself. I'm sorry, Josh."

  Nick waved the apology aside. "Let's go in."

  Stan fished out the key and a pen-sized flashlight from his back pocket. The front door was a dull shade of red, Nick decided in the dim beam from Stan's flashlight. As Stan fiddled with the lock, Nick turned and regarded his property. Dank and foreboding. A rickety fence on the left side, serving more to hold back encroaching bushes than to perform as a boundary marker. He noticed for the first time the variety of animal sounds in the air. A virtual symphony was underway, complete with chirping, croaking and squeaking, rustling and fluttering. It was going to take some getting used to.

  "We're in!" Stan announced and pushed open the door. As he fumbled on the inside wall for a light switch, Nick heard a scuttling sound from above. A dark shape was outlined at the roof's apex.

  Stan backed up. "Owl," he noted, and Nick wondered how he could see so well in the dark. "Yep. There, Josh, you got yourself a friend already." He held up the flashlight to his face. "I forgot – you're getting all your power from a generator in the basement. I gotta go strike it up. Be back in a sec, with ee-lectricity."

  Nick was left alone, under the scrutiny of the owl.

  "What are you staring at?" he whispered, eyeing the bird. "Get off my house..."

  Something skittered through the grass behind him. The bushes rattled and the fence shook. In the darkness, Nick hugged his arms and felt a chill glide up and around his spine. Hurry up, Stan my man. Gettin' scared out here.

  An animal scuttled through the leaves just a few yards away. Nick swore and stepped into the house – and at that moment the overhead lamp flickered into life and the house welcomed its new tenant.

  "Looks like your publisher set you up pretty good," Stan said, surveying the kitchen. "Yeah, Dorothy Gillis and a few of the girls got a check from somewhere in Seattle, picked up some extra things on their Friday shopping adventure and stopped by Saturday to stock your cabinets." He shook his head as he opened the refrigerator. "Morons forgot the generator was off, though. Milk's spoiled. Eggs might be all right, though. Beer's fine, but warm."

  He held up a six-pack of Bud. "They thought of everything."

  Nick sighed. "Help yourself, Stan. They don't know me well enough."

  "What do you mean?"

  Nick walked over to the cabinets, inspecting the selection of canned goods, breads and crackers. "Don't drink," he said, apparently to a box of spaghetti.

  "No shit?" Stan adjusted his hat. He regarded the beer with a new appreciation. "Then..."

  Nick turned. "Go ahead. All yours."

  Stan grinned, pulled one free and cracked it open. "This will keep me company on the walk home." He took a long gulp. "Hey, you not drinkin' and all – you'd fit right in with Reverend Zachary's latest preachings. He's been pushing all of us to stay away from 'the Devil's brew', as he calls it. But I'm gettin' old, and much as I try to follow the Reverend's advice..." Stan sighed and contemplated the can. "It's a temptation I believe I'll never overcome. And I have to live with that."

  Nick clapped his hands twice. "Good for you, Stan. But no, my reasons for abstinence are hardly out of fear for my soul." He left the explanation at that.

  "Well," Stan said. "You got television." He pointed into the den, its wood floor partially covered with a white Berber rug. A stone fireplace was set in the nearest wall. "Forty-two inches, LCD screen. Remote control, stereo, DVD/VCR. You name it. Hooked up to DishTV out on the roof."

  "Great," Nick admitted. He hadn't expected such a luxury.

  "Yeah. I gotta fess up, though. Me and the boys and a few of the wives came over a couple weeks ago to watch the Mariners game. Beautiful reception. Sorry, it was just the once and–"

  Nick raised a hand. "No problem, really Stan." He thought for a moment. "How long's this place been vacant?"

  Stan scratched his chin and looked up at the lamp. "About... nine, ten years. Yeah. Used to be a family livin' here. Mother and... four kids. Kids – hell, they were all over twenty-five. Still livin' with mom." He scoffed and looked about the kitchen. "They all just up and left town one day. No one even saw them go. Couple weeks pass, and someone, John Frakes, I think… John came over with the grocery store tab. Found the place empty. Everything gone."

  Stan shook his head. "Only the Lord knows for sure, I suppose."

  "I suppose so," agreed Nick, and tacked on a convincing yawn at the end.

  "Ah... right." Stan glanced at his watch. "The wife's stabbin' at the meatloaf now, cranking up the oven." He shook the pack of beer. "Thanks for the ale. Want me to help you with your bags?"

  "No, no." Nick walked Stan to the front door. "I'll get them in the morning. Now I'm just going to settle down on one of those nice leather couches and pass out. This Washington air saps my energy."

  "That it does, Joshua Stone. That it does. You'll get used to it." He stepped out onto the walk. "Oh by the way, you don't have a phone." He scratched his chin again with the hand that held the open can. "You might want to look into getting one of those cellular jobs..."

  "Right," Nick
agreed and made another attempt at civility. "As long as I don't need police services tonight, I'm safe."

  Stan Michaels bowed.

  As Nick shut the door, he heard the sheriff's voice calling out. "Remember, poker Friday night. And Church – Sunday at eight!"

  Nick strolled over to the sink, turned on the faucet and let the cool liquid stream onto his hands and wrists. He made a cup out of his palms and brought the water to his lips, drinking deeply.

  An odd quality about the water... Kind of tangy as it rolled on his tongue and down his throat. But after that ride, it was still refreshing and cool.

  Nick shut off the water and leaned against the counter, rummaging through the drawers for a towel. Finally, he settled for passing his hands through his hair and drying his face on his sleeves.

  He walked into the den and sat on the leather sofa. On the wall next to the television, under a painting of a beach scene, stood an oak desk and a computer sheathed in a dust cover. A printer lay on the floor, and a ceiling-high bookcase rested on the opposite wall, the shelves stocked with encyclopedias and glossaries.

  So far he had seen two rooms. That was enough for tonight. He let gravity pull his head down to the comfortable arm rest. His legs swung onto the cushions.

  The lights on, the front door unlocked, Nicholas Murphy slipped into a deep, satisfying sleep, and the dreams that welcomed him were not quite dreams – more like snapshots, still-life images of underwater tranquility, of an intermittent radiance, sparkling and intense, sweet and inviting. It was as if he saw these things through someone else's eyes, down in those depths, someone desperately trying, but unable to rise.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tuesday

  John Frakes was a tall man, over six-seven. He wore a Seattle Mariners baseball cap, torn Levis and a grease-stained tank top. He appeared to be more suited to a mechanic's garage than a grocery store. John's eyes were large and blue, but held a vacant sort of expression that Nick couldn't quite place.

  A large overhead fan swung in slow, lazy rotations, effectively circulating the hot air. Two other customers, both middle-aged women wearing matching sun hats, strolled through the three-aisle store.

  Nick placed a gallon of milk on the counter, along with a can of Folger's Mountain Blend and a six-pack of Pepsi. He picked up the last copy of USA Today.

  "Welcome stranger," said the grocer in a distantly friendly voice. He tipped his hat and extended a dirty hand. "You must be..."

  One of the ladies glided up behind Nick and answered before he had the chance. "Joshua Stone!" she exclaimed. "Why, you're even handsomer than we'd hoped!"

  Nick blushed and rolled his eyes. "Really, I don't think–"

  "Rita! Come here and meet Silver Springs' newest citizen!"

  Nick sighed, turned and leaned against the counter. He'd have to get used to this, he supposed, but a tiny part of him began to resent the FBI for not taking a little more risk. Why didn't they choose a big city and let him blend in, one of the nameless tenants of a teeming metropolis?

  Here in Silver Springs he would be forced to meet everyone. And they would pry and dawdle, and invite him over for cards and dinner, and would notice his absence at church, and...

  "My," said the second woman, "you don't look like a writer."

  Nick blinked.

  "Not at all," added the first woman. "Looks more like an actor."

  "Or a politician."

  Both ladies looked at each other and nodded.

  "All right," John interrupted. "The man wants to get his groceries and get settled in." He started ringing up the items.

  Nick turned away from the women and inadvertently glanced at the headline on the bottom of the front page as John tucked the newspaper into a paper bag.

  Senator Linked to DEA Chief Murder

  He swallowed hard. It was starting, gaining momentum like a snowball lumbering down a hill.

  "My name's Lilith Treitler," said the first woman. Her lips had been immersed in a garish amount of lipstick.

  "And that's Rita Morris," the grocer interjected. "And I'm John Frakes. Now we're all introduced." He put the coffee in the bag, glowered at the two ladies, then punched up the total on the antiquated register. "Six-fifty."

  John wiped his mouth on his wrist. "You're free to run up a tab, due at the end of two weeks." He directed a venomous look to Rita and Lilith. "Just be sure you pay it then."

  "I'll pay cash now," Nick stated, hoping the action wouldn't ignite a wave of controversy or uproot any local traditions.

  John regarded Nick in a new light. He offered a thin smile. "Thank you, sir. Mind you the store hours. Monday through Friday six til four-thirty. Saturday five til noon, on account of I gotta take my kid out to Little League practice in Darrington. Sunday's the Lord's Day and this store's closed."

  "Whole town's closed on that day," Rita said under her breath.

  Lilith gasped and took a step away from her friend.

  "I was only statin' a truth," said Rita. "Didn't mean nothin' by it. And don't you frown at me, Mr. Frakes. I don't care much for your attitude lately."

  John glared at the woman and made a fist, hidden from her under the counter.

  Lilith stepped between them. "People, people! What kind of impression are we giving to our new neighbor?" She turned to Nick. "My, what you must think!"

  "Honestly," Nick said in a calm voice. "There's no harm. I'm still a little disoriented from traveling." And from getting shot at and betraying my relatives and changing my identity and leaving my entire life behind. "And besides, I'm writing a novel about... people." He rubbed his hands together. "Yes, people – in all facets of life, including... daily squabbles and misunderstandings." Oh god, I've got to get out of here. I sound like an idiot.

  Lilith seemed to go weak at the knees, as if Elvis had just blown her a kiss. "Still, you must come to services on Sunday. You'll see the true face of Silver Springs there."

  Even John Frakes nodded at that.

  "True face," Nick echoed. Why does that scare the hell out of me? "Well, actually I'm going to be tremendously busy this weekend. Unpacking, settling in, getting everything in order."

  "You'll make it," John said, his voice carrying a chilling note of conviction. "You'll be there. Everyone goes."

  Rita scowled. "Everyone 'cept that librarian."

  Lilith poked her friend in the ribs. "Rita! Heavens, what's gotten into you?"

  Head bowed, Rita shrugged and rolled her eyes. "I don't know. I just don't understand why he gets to skip every week and..." she let the rest trail off.

  John Frakes leaned over the counter and raised his eyebrows. "Maybe it ain't that he don't want the Lord. Maybe the Lord don't want him."

  Nick took a step back, feeling like a fish out of water. But nonetheless, he hated being out of control in any situation, and felt he had to say something. "Words of wisdom from the Reverend Zachary, I presume?"

  John smiled. And Lilith beamed. "You've heard of him already!" She tugged at Rita's sleeve. "You see? Not even one day here and the good news has spread."

  Nick gave them a false smile. Deciding to leave as quickly as possible, he reached for his groceries and hefted the bag onto his arm. Before he could turn, he heard the bell announcing the entrance of another customer.

  A little girl with sandy hair and dancing pigtails came trotting up to the counter, trailed by a haggard woman in a dismal gray dress. The girl couldn't quite reach over the top of the counter, but she strained anyway, standing on the tips of her toes and pointing to a jar of Tootsie Rolls.

  The scene was strange, Nick thought: the animated girl reaching for something, her mother sluggishly moving along the aisle. Rita and Lilith had turned deathly white, and John was backing away from the counter as if fearing a hold-up.

  "Theresa," the girl's mother called in a cracked voice. "Don't touch anything."

  The girl had managed to reach the base of the candy jar and was pulling it towards the end of the counter. Nick reacted insti
nctively, lunged, and with his free hand caught the jar just as it slipped off the counter. He balanced it in his palm while he knelt in front of Theresa and tilted the jar so she could reach inside.

  The girl was probably four or five years old, Nick thought. Beautiful age, a time when they were the cutest they'd ever be, and the purest, still oblivious to the sad truths of the world.

  Four to five years...

  Something tugged at his heart and his eyes felt as if they were balloons, expanding, preparing to burst. He tried to blink away the memories. But seeing this girl, with that look in her eyes – and the anniversary of that fateful night less than a week away. His imagination went wild with scenarios of what might have been...

  The jar started to shake, rattling the Tootsie Rolls around inside. Nick put down the bag of groceries and held the jar with both hands.

  But Theresa backed away a step, biting her lip. Over the girl's shoulder, Nick focused on Lilith, who seemed to be trying to warn him, her eyes wide, her head shaking back and forth.

  Someone moving outside the store caught his attention. On the other side of the glass door an old man stood, his hands deep in the pockets of his windbreaker. He had been watching the scene with interest. Immediately after Nick took notice, the old man darted out of sight, moving with an unsettling quickness.

  Nick returned his attention to the girl. She blinked at him, turned and ran to her mother's legs and hugged them fiercely, peering past her bangs at Nick.

  "Theresa?" Nick stood and fished through the jar for a Tootsie Roll. He took a couple steps toward the mother and daughter, aware that many pairs of eyes were watching his every move. Let them stare, he thought. He extended his hand.

  Theresa swallowed hard, let go of her mother, and started to reach for the candy. But her mother quickly snatched it from Nick's hand and gave it to Theresa.