Crescent Lake

by David Sakmyster

  "Hello, Ritchie." Unbuttoning his suitcoat, Lloyd sat cross-legged in front of Walker. "It's your wake-up call. Time to talk."

  Lloyd enjoyed this part of his work. He recalled his training in Iraq and Afghanistan. He had assisted some of the most skillful assassins in the world. He had learned their every trick; knew just how much pentothal to administer and how long to wait. And to what lengths he could take the interrogation. This method was much simpler than direct physical torture. Lloyd never cared greatly for inflicting pain. Any thug could operate that way. But not Lloyd – he was an artist. And in this profession, beauty was a thing to be appreciated. It was beautiful how he slipped into one of the most secure buildings of the world and infiltrated the most secretive of agencies. That was art. The dark hallway was art, disconnecting the phone was art. Psychological torture was far more effective than simple beating and pummeling.

  He needed to incapacitate Walker, nothing more. Under physical torture you could never be completely sure you were getting the truth. That was the problem with the old Soviet style interrogations. Sure the KGB got confessions – anyone would admit they were betraying the Party if there were electrodes attached to their testicles.

  No, drugs were far more efficient. And useful.

  "Ritchie Walker..."

  "Hmmm."

  "I need some information, Ritchie. Okay?" Lloyd moved in closer. He smoothed Walker's hair.

  "Are you in pain?" Start with the easy questions.

  Walker crumpled his eyebrows, tried to stretch his back.

  "Are you hurt, Ritchie?"

  "Yes," came the weak reply. His eyes were glazed, looking not at Lloyd, but through him.

  "I can take away the pain, Ritchie. Take it all away."

  Walker blinked.

  "Would you like that?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you trust me? That I can take the pain away?"

  Walker nodded. "Yes. I do."

  "Good." Lloyd smiled and sat back. He produced a mini tape recorder from his coat pocket. He pressed 'record' and set the device on the floor.

  "Now," he said. "I'll help you, but first I need some information. Will you tell me what I need to know?"

  Walker's lips moved: Yes.

  Lloyd gave him another sip of Coke. He took a sip himself. "Very well. Ritchie. How old are you?"

  "Sixty-eight."

  "Good. How many children?"

  "Three."

  "Names?"

  He thought for a moment. "Rick, Andy, and Lisa."

  "Nice names, Ritchie. And, your wife?"

  "Nancy."

  Lloyd smiled. "Do you love her?"

  Walker paused before answering. "Yes. Very much."

  Lloyd patted him on the cheek again. "Okay, Ritchie. That wasn't so bad. Are you still in pain."

  "Yes."

  "Do you trust me?"

  "Yes."

  "What's your wife's name?"

  "Nancy?"

  "Do you love your wife?"

  "Yes."

  "What did you eat for dinner?"

  "Fries, bacon cheeseburger."

  "Anything to drink with that?" Lloyd suppressed a chuckle.

  "Coke."

  "Where's your secretary?"

  "Went on vacation with a... a friend."

  "I hope," said Lloyd, "that his friend isn't waiting for him." The man might live, but Lloyd doubted it. The back of his skull was caved in by a marble paperweight while he had been trying to make a call.

  "What's your name?" Lloyd asked.

  "Richard Walker."

  "What's the name of your oldest son?"

  "Andy."

  "Where's Nicholas Murphy?"

  Walker opened his mouth. For a second, Lloyd thought he might have to try all over again, that somehow he'd made a mistake with the dosage.

  But then Walker spoke. "Washington."

  Lloyd stared in disbelief. "Here?"

  "No," Walker responded.

  "The state of Washington?"

  "Yes."

  "Where, in Washington?"

  Walker didn't answer.

  Lloyd was growing more tense. They had maybe another ten minutes before someone would come by. His men outside would handle ordinary visitors, but if anyone came to check on the Director there would be trouble.

  "Seattle?" he asked.

  Walker said, "No."

  "Shit." Lloyd gripped Walker's shoulders, digging into the bullet wound. "Do you feel that pain, Ritchie?"

  Walker groaned, a groggy sound. "Yes..."

  "Do you love your wife, Ritchie?"

  "Yes. Very much."

  "And your kids?"

  "Yes."

  "You had a bacon cheeseburger for dinner?"

  "And fries. Yes."

  "Where in Washington?"

  Walker's eyes swam lazily. "Small..." he said, and seemed ready to drift into sleep.

  Lloyd dug his thumb into the wound. "What?"

  "Small..." Walker said, groaning, "...town."

  Lloyd released him. "A small town in Washington?"

  "Yes."

  "Near Seattle?"

  Walker frowned, and didn't answer.

  "Damn!" Lloyd stood up sharply and slapped Walker across the face. He was losing control of his art. The colors were fading, the perspective was off. Suddenly he leaned over and pointed to the computer screen.

  "Can your computer access the Seattle branch of the FBI?"

  Walker said, "Yes." He slid gradually to one side, and his eyelids began to close.

  Lloyd sat at the chair in front of the screen and began punching keys. After a minute of searching, the proper menu finally appeared.

  Select Branch Desired

  >

  He typed in Seattle.

  << Access Denied >>

  Insert Proper Code Sequence

  >

  Lloyd cursed and rolled off the chair. He slapped Walker back into consciousness. He guessed that the system would shut off if the proper sequence was not entered – probably by the second try.

  He slapped Walker again. "The code! Ritchie, tell me the code."

  Walker started to drool. His lips trembled and his eyes rolled up.

  The timer had reached ten seconds.

  "Come on, you fool! Trust me. And give me the code."

  Six, five, four.

  Walker tried to speak. He blinked, eyes attempting to focus.

  "Think of your wife, Ritchie." Lloyd knew the first attempt was botched. He had to move for the second. Otherwise his job became more difficult – but still not impossible. He had the state, after all. And that would have to be enough.

  Two, one, zero.

  << Warning: Improper Code >>

  Twenty seconds to insert positive sequence

  >

  Lloyd growled. "You love your wife, right Ritchie? And your kids?"

  "Yes," he muttered, as if annoyed with the repetitive questions.

  "And you trust me?"

  "Yes."

  Fifteen, fourteen.

  "Tell me the code. I must reach Seattle to help you."

  Walker seemed to be struggling inside. Lloyd gripped his throat and squeezed. "The code!"

  Coughing, and trying not to gag, Walker said something.

  "What?"

  "...ver."

  Lloyd snarled and jumped up, throwing the back of his hand against Walker's face. "Again!"

  Ten, nine.

  Lloyd bent over the keypad, ready to try anything, but a moment later Walker mumbled the word once more.

  And Lloyd quickly typed in the name.

  >Hoover

  << Access Granted >>

  Seattle Branch

  1] Operations

  2] Agents

  3] Inquiries

  The list continued. But Lloyd hurriedly called up the file on Agents. At the same time, he reached down and turned on the printer. He pressed a key and sat back, hands folded behind his head as the device whirred into life, printing every line of informatio
n as it appeared on the screen. Page after page of agents, their addresses and their current status.

  After a full minute, Lloyd tore off the printout and folded the pages. He counted seven. Not too bad, he thought. Now it was down to a careful process of elimination.

  A flashlight winked on and off in the dark hallway outside.

  Lloyd stuffed the printout into his coat, cleared the computer screen, and then turned off the printer. He picked up the tape recorder and placed it inside his coat, in the pocket beside the silencer.

  With a smile, he tapped the Director on the top of the head.

  "Pleasant dreams, old boy, and thanks for the fries."

  He turned off the light on the way out.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Silver Springs

  In a mile radius around the lake, the forest was dead quiet. No wind stirred the thin branches or rustled the dry leaves. The crickets stilled their nightly serenades and the nocturnal beasts retreated to their holes, foregoing any prey this night.

  The earth shivered and the surface of the lake reacted with a sudden ripple. And then it appeared, starting with a soft glow in the deepest, darkest section of the lake. The intensity grew and soon branches were casting shadows on the leaves above. In its curved shape, the light continued to burn and give off occasional pulses of brilliance.

  In time, those pulses corresponded with the sound of soft footfalls through the forest. The sounds ceased at the foot of the lake, and there stood a little girl. Her hair disheveled, eyes glazed, she was dressed in thin pajamas. At the lake's edge, she stared blank-faced at the glow.

  Her arms, previously hanging at her sides, rose, trembling. Her fingers uncurled and stretched toward the water, as if waiting for an embrace. Within moments, the surface began to ripple as if pelted with rain in a thunderstorm. Small waves picked up and spun, creating mini whirlpools that careened off one another, merging and rolling.

  The girl's mouth worked rapidly, forming words, but issuing no sound.

  In several places something broke through the surface, and then submerged. Around the glowing area dark forms swam and converged; many-legged creatures, things that were partially luminescent, flickered with alien colors. Some of the shapes arced and turned toward the shore, and began to propel themselves in the girl's direction.

  She continued to hold her arms out and move her lips as the first things crawled and scurried out of the lake. They climbed her legs, leapt onto her hips. With thin claws they clung to her pajamas and gently roamed across her body, balancing on her arms, dancing in her hair.

  And she touched them, held them and talked to them in a dreamlike trance, until the stars began to retreat under the waking eye of dawn. Then the lake's creatures slid off her body and scuttled back under the dark water. The lake settled and the illumination receded, a fading mark on the murky lake.

  In the morning, Theresa woke up in bed with no recollection of ever having left the room. This was the third time in three months the muddy footprints led up the stairs to her bedroom. Again, the sheets were filthy and full of twigs, and again, her mother was too terrified to say a word.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Silver Springs

  Saturday

  Nick awoke with a pounding in his brain. A fierce light stabbed behind his eyes and a dull throbbing rumbled in his ears. He tried to sit up in bed but felt like he was strapped in, a patient in the violent wing of a mental asylum. Giving up the physical effort, he tried to sift through the webs that entangled his memory.

  What the hell happened last night? What did he drink? The first question that came to his mind was quickly thrown out. He remembered that much – he drank water. Lots of water. Audrey kept refilling his glass and forcing him to drink as if he had a colon exam the next morning. He remembered a long shower, remembered taking it, but didn't recall the reason.

  A smell gradually entered the room, a pleasant smell that helped to clear the haze and lift Nick back into reality. His mouth started to water, and he quickly forgot about the other aspects of the evening, the horrifying memories that tugged at his thoughts.

  "Breakfast?" Audrey called. She stood in the doorway, a tray in her hands. Her hair shimmered like golden reeds in the sunlight. She had only recently woken up, Nick could tell; but she belonged to that select percentage of the population which looked just as good, if not more beautiful, in the morning. Still dressed in her nightshirt and boxers, Audrey walked barefoot to the bed and set the tray on the small table beside the headboard.

  "Bacon and eggs," she said. "Eggs scrambled. With cheese melted inside. Pepper and lots of salt. One cup of coffee, black, with sugar. And a glass of water."

  Nick blanched at the sight of the water. "Why?" he asked in a parched, pained voice. "No juice?"

  "Sorry," Audrey answered and sat on the bed, legs on the floor. "Doctor's orders."

  Nick held his head. "What doctor?"

  Audrey hugged her shoulders. "The one we're going to see just as soon as you finish breakfast and shower." She shrugged at his confused look. "I'll tell you what I can, but I think for either of us to make any sense of last night, we'll have to hear what the librarian has to say."

  Nick stared at the strips of bacon. Audrey began her story. By the time she described kneeing old Grant between the legs, Nick had finished eating. The water was gone and he was sipping at the coffee.

  "Thank you," Nick said after she was done talking, and after he had related more of his own experiences. "For being here. God, it was horrible." He looked at her with an agonized expression. "They were so real." He shook his head. "I really wanted to die, Audrey. I did. At the beginning – if there was a knife or a gun around..."

  "No..." Audrey touched his shoulder.

  "Can a conscience truly be that strong?" he asked, gripping her hand. "Can our minds really call up such visions? They had substance, Audrey. I felt her breath. I touched her blood. I held my... daughter for a brief second.

  "They were driving me insane. Why? Why here? Why now? It wasn't even this bad right after the accident. I don't understand." He held out his hands and stared at them as if they were drenched in blood.

  Audrey took both hands and squeezed them. She maneuvered so he was looking into her eyes. "I don't understand it either, Nick. Let's just hope Grant can clear things up."

  "Do you trust him?"

  Audrey nodded after a moment's thought. "I have to. He could have killed me last night. Could have killed us both. But I really believe he was coming here to help you. Somehow he knew what you were going through. He said he was watching at the diner and... saw what happened."

  Nick frowned and looked away, remembering... the men at the counter, staring at their table. "The Reverend!"

  He remembered with vivid detail the texture of the Reverend's flesh. The spark that came with their contact. The feeling of dizziness, nausea.

  Won't attend services on Sunday?

  Nick looked up sharply. "He took something out of me."

  Audrey blinked at him, trying to follow.

  Nick clapped his hands. "The Reverend… I felt like something deep in my soul was given a jumpstart and then yanked to the surface."

  Audrey paled. "He pulled out your worst sin? Is that what you're saying?"

  "I don't know. I..." Nick covered his head. "That's the only thing that makes any sense. And, crazy as it sounds, it all fits. Why else does he wear gloves in the summertime? He touches someone – and whammo, there's your ugliest deed coming back to haunt you? And continue haunting you until…"

  "Until what?"

  Nick looked away. "Good question. For the Reverend's motives I think we need to talk to Grant." He swung over the side of the bed and slowly got to his feet. Holding his head, on the way into the bathroom he said, "I've got a few questions for the town librarian."

  As Audrey took the tray back downstairs, Nick leaned over the sink to splash water on his face.

  There, at the bottom of the sink, balancing on the edge of the d
rain, rested a dead moth, legs in the air and quite stiff.

  The library was a squat hunk of granite that reminded Nick of a mausoleum. Yellow and parched grass poked through the slender walkway and surrounded the meager parking lot. The sky was cloudless, an endless carpet of blue stretching over the forests encircling the town. A silver candy wrapper drifted across the empty parking lot, carried by a warm breeze.

  As Nick approached the building he adjusted his wayfarers. He had almost left the house without them – the forest had deceived him into thinking the sun wasn't this bright. He quickly fell a couple steps behind Audrey as the pain returned, mimicking a hangover, where every movement accentuated the heavy throbbing behind his eyes. He groaned and bent over.

  Audrey looked back, paused and reached out to help him along. After a few moments of rest, his head cleared slightly and Nick felt he could make it. "You think anybody's here?" he asked, scanning the empty parking lot. The candy wrapper had just made it to the edge of the concrete when the wind died.

  "He's here," Audrey said.

  Leaning on Audrey for support, Nick walked into the shadow of the Silver Springs Public Library; and together they went through the glass doors. Even without taking off his sunglasses the interior wasn't as dark as Nick imagined. It was your typical library, he thought, except that maybe there was a third the usual amount of books. He assumed there wasn't a tremendous demand for literature in this town. Two broad skylights sent twin beams of brilliance cutting through the dust and highlighting the chessboard floor of polished white and black squares. There were several long oak tables in the center section of the library; these were enclosed by numerous bookshelves and racks, extending to the furthest wall.

  Nick and Audrey moved across the marble floor, heading to the front desk. "Empty." Nick said in a low voice, as if mindful about disturbing the sacred silence.

  "Not quite," whispered a voice at their backs.

  Audrey was the first to spin around, hand reaching for her purse.