Crescent Lake

by David Sakmyster

  Nick forced a smile. "Well, I guess he's not so bad after all."

  She shrugged. "Seems friendly enough."

  They settled down to their meals, making casual conversation; and Nick finally got around to asking about her job.

  "Why the FBI?" Nick asked through a mouthful of turkey meat and lettuce.

  Audrey took another sip of coffee, emptying the mug. "My father was a policeman, and he, well, just inspired me in a quiet, dutiful way." She blinked, stared solemnly off into space, then gave a weak smile.

  "And you wanted to follow in his footsteps?"

  "At first I really wanted to go to the Academy right out of high school, but Dad wouldn't hear of it. He planned a better life for me. Oh, he was perfectly content with his standing, but he dreamed of more for his only daughter. He sent me to college and had saved up money for graduate school. I think he was hoping I would take up law and handle enforcement from a different and better-paying side."

  "What happened?" Nick asked, taking a gulp of water. He at once noticed the difference between this and his well water; he missed the taste, and wondered if the town shouldn't bottle it.

  Audrey lowered her eyes. "My father died – pancreatic cancer. It was devastating. Within two years, he was gone. I had to skip my final year at college to care for him. The last four months were… awful. My mother, she had left us ten years earlier, so I was all he had."

  "I'm sorry," was all Nick could think to say.

  "Well," she continued, "I eventually went back to school and got my diploma. There was enough money for law school, but I just couldn't spend another three years in a classroom. I felt that after my father's death, there was a great void in the world."

  She shrugged and tried to smile. "I guess I imagined I could fill it. I always thought of the FBI as a glamorous version of the police – with extended powers and privileges. I applied, and as the process and training moved along, I knew that this was where I belonged.

  "And so," she said, resting her chin on her hand, "here I am."

  Nick watched her carefully as she spoke. He admired her; she had turned tragedy into triumph, and had found her place in the world. Wish I could say the same.

  "Congratulations," Nick said. "And I hope, as your first assignment, I don't bore you too much. Who knows? You might not even lift your gun in my defense, and I'll walk in and out of the courtroom without incident."

  He was aware, even as he said the words, of hollow they sounded. He wondered if Audrey got the same impression.

  She laughed. "Then I've done my job, and my part to put away some very serious threats to... uh oh." She paused and looked to her left. "Here comes the Padre."

  Nick's head spun around... and he looked up into the face of Reverend Bright. The Reverend had a wide grin and dazzling eyes under bulging white eyebrows. Judging by the man's hair, Nick figured he would be old – maybe over sixty. But his features and complexion were remarkably youthful and vibrant. His shoulders were broad and strong; he had some extra weight at his midsection, but on the whole the Reverend seemed composed like a marble statue, almost like Moses, Nick thought. All that was missing was the Pillar of Fire burning in the background.

  Reverend Bright's hands were behind his back as he took a step closer to the table.

  "Hello Mr. Stone. I formally welcome you to Silver Springs." He turned and regarded Audrey. "Will your guest be staying for some time?"

  Audrey rose halfway and answered for herself. "No, sir. I'm just a friend from Seattle. I'll be visiting occasionally and assisting Mr. Stone on his novel."

  "You're an editor then?" He leaned close to her – and at that angle Nick saw with some surprise that the Reverend's hands were no longer gloved.

  "No," Audrey responded, sitting down. "When I file my income tax, my occupation is listed as consultant. I provide technical information that authors find invaluable. Mr. Stone is but one of many writers that call on my expertise."

  Nick stared at her, amazed. She had this cover perfectly planned.

  "I see," said the Reverend. "And how do you like our little town?"

  Audrey glanced out the window and scanned the street, nodding. "It's beautiful," she said when she turned again. "It's small, but it has a definite charm and personality about it that you just can't find in a big city."

  Zachary grinned and stood to his full height. "How true, my child. How true. We have little in common with such places."

  Nick cleared his throat. Au contraire. He wanted to point to the weeping boy to demonstrate that this was no Eden by any stretch of the imagination. Never been a murder in Silver Springs, Stan had said, and now Nick felt the question burning: so how many suicides have you had?

  "Mr. Stone." The Reverend placed his hands on the edge of the table. "How is your new home? It's beautiful out there too, is it not?"

  "Quite," Nick admitted. "The house is perfect. I'm amazed no one snapped it up before me."

  Something behind the Reverend's eyes flickered. His composure seemed to drop slightly. "It is surprising. But now that it's filled, every home in Silver Springs is occupied."

  Nick smiled at Audrey.

  "I hear," said the Reverend, "that you may be unable to attend my service on Sunday?"

  Nick met his steady gaze. "News travels fast."

  Zachary smiled, the silver hairs on his lip fanning out with the expression. Nick experienced a disquieting image of a forked and leathery tongue coiled behind those perfect, equal-length teeth. He shook it off and scolded himself for overreacting to his religious pessimism.

  "I hope you can find the time, Joshua Stone, to celebrate with us. Just several hours a week is all the Lord asks."

  "Well–"

  "Think on it, Mr. Stone." The Reverend stood up straight again. "And in the meantime, get settled in. Enjoy your new home. Don't be afraid of making new friends. Everyone is your neighbor here, as you'll soon find out."

  Nick offered a smile. "I have already begun to do so. The people here are wonderful."

  Zachary beamed with the compliment, as if he took credit for the character of the townspeople.

  "Good day, Reverend," Nick said, rising out of courtesy and offering his hand.

  Zachary seemed to suppress a grin of satisfaction when he saw Nick's hand. His own came around from behind his back and gripped Nick's tightly.

  Nick had a sudden flashback to the Senator's table in Connecticut when Lloyd Stielman had shaken his hand for the first time. He recalled his fear and his sense of impending dread – the certainty that there could be no secrets kept from this man. None.

  This was worse. It seemed the Reverend's eyes burrowed deep into his very soul. And the flesh on his hands… the grip, the squeezing fingers… Some kind of shock passed with that first touch, and afterwards, when the Reverend had left the diner and Nick unsteadily took his seat, he told Audrey the sensation was similar to being clocked in the head with a softball. He was dazed. Something was drained from deep inside him... something taken out and... released.

  He couldn't explain it. But he had an unshakable feeling that something unnatural had just happened, something that would have devastating effects.

  Audrey said he looked pale, and suggested he return to rest. They left twenty dollars for the meal and the tip.

  On the way out, Audrey whispered to Nick: "One of the men at the counter..."

  "Yes?" Nick strained to look. A man was watching them leave. He was staring at Nick with wide eyes. When he caught Nick's glance he turned and excitedly spoke some words to his friend.

  "What's with them?"

  Audrey frowned. As they went outside and walked away from the diner, she said, "When the Reverend took your hand that one man just gaped at you both. I tried to figure it out, but he seemed to be staring just at the Reverend's hands."

  "Weird."

  "Yes. Especially since right after the Reverend left you he fished inside his suitcoat pocket and retrieved those gloves. He had them on when he left."

 
Nick felt weak again all of a sudden. "You drive," he said to Audrey and handed her the keys. As he waited for her to open the passenger side door, he caught a glimpse of a familiar face watching from a pregnant shadow under the sign for the Cinema.

  "Who was that?" Audrey asked as they drove past the theater.

  Nick didn't answer until they had turned the corner. "That," he said, holding his head, "was the librarian."

  In the last five years, his desire for a drink had never been so strong.

  CHAPTER TEN

  For Stan Michaels the evening had been anything but lucky. It was ten-thirty and already he had lost twenty-three dollars. He realized it could be due to the fact that he was the only one of the six guys drinking. The others, including Roger Morris, had refused to drink, and consequently over two-thirds of the recently-purchased case was still in the refrigerator.

  More for me, he thought as he made his way to the bathroom. He would sit this hand out and give someone else a chance to lose. He'd had five beers on a nearly-empty stomach and just wanted to go to bed and forget this night. Helen was in Seattle for the weekend visiting her parents. So Stan was alone to cook for himself and also – as he was sternly instructed – to clean up after himself.

  Stan shut the bathroom door, flicked the light and bent over the sink. His right arm had been hurting for almost an hour now, on and off. A strange, sharp pain just above his wrist.

  He lifted his arm and scrutinized the flesh. Nothing. The pain was gone. Or it never existed, he thought, as he turned on the faucet and gathered a handful of cold water to splash on his face. As he bent down, he saw what looked like a ripple extending across his arm. The water slipped through his jerking fingers as he backed up, gaping at his forearm. Again, the flesh quivered and pulsed.

  And this time a fierce pain shot up his arm.

  He gasped and doubled over the sink, still staring at his wrist. This was no simple muscle spasm. The flesh was buckling and quivering, as if garden snake slithered around under his skin.

  Stan fell to his knees on the tiled bathroom floor, and with the next agonized lash of pain he thrust his arm into the toilet bowl. The water was cool and partially soothing, but still the hideous burrowing sensation continued, pulling and tugging inside his arm.

  A thin mist of red sifted through the water. Stan cursed and lifted the arm. Near his hand a patch of skin had cracked, and blood trickled out slowly. A sinewy black bulge twisted around the hole. Stan merely stared at it, questioning his sanity.

  And suddenly, the skin split and a cord-like thing burst its way out. Long and sinewy, it swung about his face in erratic motions, flinging scarlet droplets across the bathroom walls and spattering the mirror.

  Someone called from the other room, announcing the next game.

  Stan opened his mouth, but couldn't find the strength to scream. Instead he grabbed the base of the bloody tentacle-thing, and felt a white-hot searing pain, as if the member was a part of his body, connected to his nervous system like the roots under his teeth.

  Stan tightened his grip, clenched his jaw, and yanked the thing out of his arm.

  Then he did scream, loud and piercing. He held the writhing whip-like thing aloft. Its torn end squirted a yellowish ichor onto Stan's face and into his hair.

  Roger pounded on the door. "Stan! You all right?"

  Stan gagged and threw the thing into the toilet where it continued to thrash and twist and spray crimson water out of the bowl. He slammed the lid down so hard it cracked. And, blood gushing from the hole in his arm, he staggered forward and pushed down the knob to flush.

  "All right!" he yelled to the door. "I... aggh. Feel like shit. Stomach bug or something! Why – why don't you all go home now?"

  There was silence on the other end. Then Roger finally spoke up. "You see what the evils of alcohol are, Stan. Please let us help you. We'll all help you. Okay?"

  Stan fell to the floor, trying to stop the blood flow with his other palm. He rocked back and forth, attempting to negotiate with the agony. "Sure!" he yelled back.

  "We'll talk tomorrow, Stan."

  Stan fell forward, striking his forehead against the counter. "Goddamned! Make it stop, make it… oh shit…" The blood started to squirt though his fingers. He opened the cabinet and rummaged for the roll of industrial strength tape.

  In a minute he had managed to complete the job, tightly wrapping the tape several times around his wrist. He leaned back, eyes closed, panting like a dog left in a hot car all afternoon. He looked at the toilet bowl, but decided not to check under the lid. He'd seen too many horror movies to fall for that.

  The pain was ebbing, now that the thing... the growth, was out. Stan still couldn't face it, couldn't think about what had just happened. For a couple times each month now he'd been having strange sensations in that arm – just minor spasms, but never anything like this.

  He stared at the, blood-spattered bathroom, the streaks on the mirror, the smears on the floor and counter.

  Clean up after yourself, Helen had told him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Audrey dragged another chair onto the porch. She closed the screen door and took a seat beside Nick. While he sucked down his second glass of ice water, she sipped a Snapple cranberry juice, and together they watched the last embers of daylight sputter behind the pines.

  Nick drew a deep breath, closed his eyes and imagined a scene far away and five years ago. His guilt forced this vision upon him at least once every year: Tom and Frank and the other guys from the office surrounding him as he walked to his car in the underground garage.

  "C'mon Nick," Tom leered, an elongated shadow dancing behind him. "We're going out tonight..."

  "Forget the old ball and chain for one Saturday night," implored Frank. His shadow loomed large over the concrete wall.

  The faces swirled and merged with the shadows; neon signs danced through the shifting haze; laughing faces, unmemorable strangers and distant places, pitchers and bottles, all spinning and condensing until finally...

  a couch and a trash can and someone screaming...

  someone close, someone precious

  screaming

  "Nick..."

  "Nick!"

  He blinked and sat up straight. Audrey was tugging at his arm. The memory faded and the stillness and the tranquility of his backyard settled like a billowy sheet over his mind. He reached and touched Audrey's hand – gently at first, taking solace from the warmth of her flesh. Gradually her fingers tightened around his.

  The breath rushed from his lungs. He feared to look into her eyes, and instead gazed into the forest, following the direction of the stone path. He knew she was watching him intently. Slowly he pulled his hand away, savoring every last contact.

  "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm not doing too well..."

  "Bad memories?"

  "Yeah. You know, with all the craziness going on in the town, at least it kept my mind occupied."

  "Maybe," Audrey said through a thin smile, "we should go back to the diner, have some coffee and involve our friendly waitress in a heated discussion on morality."

  Nick laughed. "Right. Or why don't I spend the night at the good Reverend's, discussing theology?" He shook his head and finally glanced at Audrey. Her face was partially shaded, her green eyes lost in the dark. She slapped at her shin and flicked away a bug.

  "By the way," Nick said, "where is the Church? I wouldn't even know how to get there, except of course, the obvious way – by following everyone on Sunday morning."

  "Oh, I saw a large white building atop a hill just at the western edge of town. A huge cross on the steeple." She shrugged and smiled. "That'd be my guess."

  She slapped again at the side of her neck. "Any other reaction to the incident in the diner?"

  Nick shook his head. "No. But, shit… I think I felt like those people who tumble backwards after the 'healing touch' of those TV evangelists. I always thought there was psychological explanation. You know, someone who has a profo
und belief in the healing touch will actually experience a shock, and faint."

  "Or actually be healed," Audrey added.

  "Right. But maybe they really heal themselves somehow. I don't know, I imagine one day, when we learn more about ourselves, we're going to look back differently on a lot of these superstitions we thought arose from other forces."

  Audrey regarded him coolly. "You mean, like God... or the Devil?"

  Nick looked away. "I think Nietzsche said it best: Is man only a blunder of God, or is God only a blunder of man? Think about our history with religion. We sacrifice animals, build temples, give an hour or two every Sunday... all in an effort to gain back some control over our lives. And look at all the religious wars, the damn jihads, all the suffering inflicted in the name of religion."

  Audrey stood up and walked to the edge of the porch. "So you're that convinced that we're on our own down here?" Her features were bathed in the subtle glow from the kitchen lamp. "You're chucking away thousands of years of faith as a psychological need? Why? Because you've had some hard breaks?"

  Nick opened his mouth, but closed it at once; he stood and turned to the door.

  "Wait!" Audrey called. "I'm sorry. That was a terrible thing to say, I realize; but really, it's wrong to rule Him out," she pointed up the sky. "I may not be a fanatic like most people in Silver Springs, but I have to believe there is someone or something looking out for us. There has to be."

  "There doesn't have to be anything! Take a look around the world and tell me someone cares. Tell me there's some purpose behind the suffering and the senselessness."

  Audrey pulled away. "Maybe there isn't a plan. Did you ever think of that? Maybe that's the point. Maybe we are completely free, and yes, we've made a mess of things, but we're learning. And that, Nick, is beauty."

  She touched his shoulder. "Please. Don't be bitter. None of this faith stuff is supposed to make any sense. Didn't Nietzsche eventually go mad? Don't think about it too much, okay?"