Crescent Lake

by David Sakmyster

  –and then it pushed through. He caught sight of her beautiful blue eyes, and pointy dimples. Her mouth worked and she spoke something Nick couldn't understand, a language that seemed adeptly suited to the frigid water. The words slid and reverberated throughout the lake, and had an instant and profound effect on the hungry denizens. They froze in their latest actions. Poised, listening. The thing on Nick's back suddenly detached itself and withdrew, leaving his spine exposed under husks of flayed skin and muscle. The other swimmers trembled, bobbing in the water, until the tone of Melissa's words changed, becoming stern, demanding.

  The things all turned and fled, seeking the most remote depths in which to hide. They left Nick alone, freezing and wounded. He floated, arms above his head, mouth open, staring at the little girl's face until it withdrew through the watery curtain.

  From the other side the girl spoke a single word, one that Nick distinctly heard and clung to. He knew it was important somehow, but couldn't place it.

  "Sunscreen," she said, and then the light winked out.

  Alone in the numb, cold darkness, Nick heard a solitary sound: not quite a ring, more of a somber, single-tone echo. Again it came, and again it jarred Nick slightly closer to an awaiting reality.

  The third time Nick realized what it was: a bell.

  And he caught another sound: music, vaguely familiar. A theme for something...

  With a start, his eyes flew open. His hair was soaked and sweat stains lined the velvet cushions; he had to peel his shirt off his flesh. On the TV, Star Trek: The Next Generation was in its closing credits, and outside the darkness was all but complete.

  With a terrifying shock, Nick realized that the doorbell was ringing and someone was impatiently rapping on the door.

  Nick sat up and tried to stand. He had taken four Tylenols before dinner, washing them down with more of that "special" water, and now the headache had receded to a medium-sized pounding rather than an all-out thundering stampede. He stumbled into the kitchen and started to walk to the front door, but then recalled where he was and why he was here, and returned to get the .357 Magnum from on top of the refrigerator.

  The bell rang again, and the insistent knocking continued.

  "Mr. Stone!" a man's voice called. "Please answer."

  Nick cleared his throat. He remained in the hallway, and called out: "Who are you?"

  The knocking ceased. Something made a scampering noise behind him; Nick glanced over his shoulder, only to see Rocky dragging another pizza crust across the porch. Nick moved slightly so that he could see out the front window; he couldn't make out the walkway, but could see a Honda Accord parked beside his Grand Prix.

  "My name is Stuart Harrelson," said the man outside. "I'm Reverend Bright's Chief Aide."

  "Great," Nick mumbled. He flicked off the safety on his weapon. It felt cold and powerful in his grip. A brief image came to his mind: he saw Malcolm O'Neil lined up in the sights, grinning and extending a hand. Welcome to the party, kid. Your Aunt's said a lot of fine things about you. Don't disappoint me.

  The rapping on the door began again. "Please, Mr. Stone. I am here on the Reverend's behalf. He is deeply concerned about you."

  "I bet he is!" Nick yelled back. "Go away and tell your boss I'm fine and I'm not going to see him tomorrow morning." Hopefully not ever again, except in my nightmares.

  "But... Mr. Stone! You must go to services tomorrow. I'm sure that you have something, some weight you might like the Reverend to remove..." He let the statement hang in the air like a balloon tethered to the ground.

  Nick slipped down to the kitchen floor, leaning against the refrigerator and hugging his knees. He let out a short laugh. "Now, how would you know that, dickhead?"

  In the next tense moments, the fan on the refrigerator kicked in and broke the silence.

  "Well?" Nick asked, raising his voice.

  Again there was no answer. Angrily, Nick stood and quickly walked into the hallway, unlatched the dead bolt and jerked the door inward. He stepped through and grabbed the short, thin man by the collar of his cheap shirt.

  "Listen, you son of a bitch." He waved the gun in front of Stuart's face. "Tell your Reverend that I'm grateful for his 'good intentions'. I've met and overcome a terrifying aspect of my past, and I've found my own repentance." He sneered. "Do you understand? I don't need his second touch, nor do I care to witness the further subjugation of these decent townspeople. And if the Reverend so much as comes near me without his gloves on I'll shoot him so full of lead you'll need a magnet just to get him into a coffin."

  Stuart gasped and stuttered, waving his arms. "But– b–"

  Nick gave him a heavy shove, and Stuart tottered and went down hard on his rear. Fuming, he shook a fist at Nick. "You're an outsider," he hissed. "You don't know... don't know anything. These people are sinners, all of them. Evil, they need his touch. You need his touch."

  Nick shook his head. "I need some more aspirin, and then a good night's sleep. What I don't need is a bunch of fanatics trying to purify my soul. I don't know how deep in this shit you are. Maybe you're just a helpless pawn, but I suggest you take a good look at your Reverend – and maybe a closer look at yourself as well."

  He pointed to the Honda. "Now get back in your shoebox and drive home. Don't bother me again." Nick turned and slammed the door behind him. He shuffled back into the kitchen, his shoulders and head feeling lighter already.

  Back on the porch, Rocky gave him an admiring glance before stealing the last and largest pizza crust.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The police cruiser had been parked at the bottom of a steep hill, camped in the shadows in a No U-turn strip twenty miles out of Seattle. Officer Albert Jenks was eating his third Slim Jim and adjusting the radio when the radar gun clocked a vehicle coming over the hill at ninety-eight miles per hour.

  "Shit on a stick!" Jenks tossed the wrapper out the open window, jammed the ignition and threw the car into gear. The cruiser peeled out on the loose gravel, slid onto the pavement, swerved, then squealed in pursuit of the speeding car. Jenks had been parked in that same spot for over an hour and a half. In that time he had counted a total of thirty-one cars, four trucks, a van and one minivan. And not a damn one of them was going over sixty-two. It was nearing the end of the month, and he was still ten shy of quota; he was half-tempted to haul over anyone daring to drive over fifty-nine.

  He grinned as he reached for the CB. This one was cut and dry. The speedometer chugged up to fifty, and the roaring whine of the siren drowned in the wind screaming through the car. "Dispatch," he shouted into the mouthpiece. "This is car 754, in pursuit of... shit," he pushed his foot to the floor, closing the distance between himself and the slowing target. "Looks like a Mazda. Black, can't get the plate yet. There, bastard's finally pulling over."

  Jenks eased off the gas and coasted to the side of the road, twenty yards behind the parked speeder. In the cruiser's headlights, Jenks could see the driver's silhouette through the back windshield. Guy's probably freakin out right now. Jenks chuckled as he searched under the passenger seat for the flashlight. He knows it's time to kiss that license goodbye.

  Jenks hefted the flashlight and reached for the door release. His hand froze before touching the handle. Again he peered through the windshield at the Mazda. The driver was no longer visible. Probably checking under the seat for his registration, Jenks thought. Or maybe pukin'. The guy was most likely trashed and the sudden onslaught of reality caused quite an internal stir.

  But... something still bothered Jenks. He opened the door cautiously, put one foot out onto the pavement. The highway was dark and silent, the clouds thick, oppressive.

  In the Mazda the driver sat up. He turned and fixed the cruiser with an expression Officer Jenks could almost make out. It seemed, he thought, to be one of extreme annoyance tempered by a calculating power.

  Jenks suddenly found himself both unwilling and unable to proceed, and desperately wishing he had backup.

  The
Mazda's driver seemed to sense this as well; he might have been waiting for Jenks to step out of the car, but the waiting period was over.

  He stood up on the seat, and Jenks failed to understand how this was possible until he realized it was a sun roof. And now this driver was standing on both bucket seats, head and arms over the roof.

  And aiming – aiming something large that required two hands. A burst of blinding automatic fire roared from the mouth of the weapon. There was an explosion of glass and metal; the siren shattered and ceased its wailing.

  Punctured by at least seven bullets, Officer Jenks died with the taste of Slim Jims in his mouth.

  Lloyd Stielman dropped back into the seat, tossed the Uzi on the floor with the other weapons, and shifted into gear. Within six seconds the car was pushing sixty, just as promised.

  He lowered the volume on the XM Satellite Radio's Oldies Station, and used his cell phone to call Hartford.

  "O'Neil," he said when the private line picked up. Lloyd took great pleasure in the knowledge that he was most likely disturbing something – either of a business nature, or better yet, something a little more intimate involving the Senator.

  "Yes. Lloyd?" A rough coughing at the other end filled Lloyd's ear. "What's the word, my friend? How's the West Coast?"

  "The land of plenty, here sir. I've found our pigeon, and I'm on my way to retrieve him."

  "Excellent. No problem with his keepers?"

  "Minimal." Lloyd had been pleased with his good fortune. Of the list of agents he had secured from Washington, only one was assigned to a case that was so secret it wasn't even entered into the computer. They could have just printed her name in capital letters and drawn in a few red arrows, he would have found her just as easily. He hoped the agent was dead – she had been a little too quick for him at her apartment, but maybe the present he left upstairs could settle that score.

  Coughing erupted from the phone again. And the Senator's voice rang out in the background. "He's found Nick?"

  Lloyd didn't like the Senator's tone. It sounded squeamish, weak. He hoped O'Neil wouldn't be further goaded by that fool woman into making another catastrophic mistake.

  "Sir," Lloyd said sternly. "I'll be within reach of the pigeon in... about an hour. I may be pursued by his keepers, but I figure I'm at least thirty minutes ahead of them – more than enough time."

  "He may have been warned."

  Lloyd had considered that. "Doesn't matter. I've alerted some of our boys in Darrington and Everitt. If he runs anywhere, it'll be there – at least for the night. I wired them a picture. They'll be watching the entrances. As for Silver Springs, it's a small town; he can't hide."

  "Good work, Lloyd. Call me when it's over."

  He was about to hang up when he had another thought. "Sir? Would you like any trophies?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "Trophies," he repeated. "Back in the desert, my employers would often ask for a little token from the victim – usually a finger or an ear. Sometimes the whole head. Especially if the target had been extremely bothersome."

  The line was silent for some time, broken finally by a heavy hacking.

  "All right then," said O'Neil. "Bring me his tongue."

  John Frakes sat next to his son Timmy at the counter in the Silver Springs diner. They had just returned from Darrington, where Timmy scored the winning run against the Sharks in the first game of the tournament. Timmy, who was only eleven but worked in his dad's grocery store every day and still managed to get straight A's, was stuffing the last bites of a sloppy cheeseburger into his mouth. His face and hands were dirty from sliding into third base, but he was so hungry and excited he couldn't be bothered with hygiene.

  As Timmy went on to describe in greater detail how he stole second base, John finished his coffee and gave a hard look around the diner, not really paying much attention to his son's exalted rambling. Sheriff Michaels sat at the far end of the counter, sipping a steaming cup of coffee and reading the latest Seattle paper. Dorothy Gillis and her family sat at the six-person table in the center of the floor; they were just finishing their salads.

  Roger Morris and his wife Rita were sitting in a booth across from Lilith Treitler. John always wondered why that snoopy woman wouldn't just leave well enough alone. Everyone knew Rita was not one of the Saved, but only Lilith (and maybe Roger) clung to the hope that she could be Turned. John shook his head; some people were out of even God's reach. He knew that. If Reverend Zachary couldn't get through to her, then she was truly hopeless, and Lilith should leave it at that. As far as John was concerned, Rita had already joined the Librarian on the express cart to Hell.

  "And then," Timmy said, tugging on his father's arm, "the catcher reached for me, but I slid right under his legs!"

  John fixed his son with a stern glare. "Boy," he said just as the waitress materialized with their bill and another pot of coffee. "What did the Reverend say about Pride last Sunday?"

  Timmy's face immediately went pale; his jaw dropped and he quickly looked down at his muddy cleats. "I-I'm sorry, dad. Just... I did good. Really good. I never ran like that before, and if it wasn't for me–"

  "Enough!" John gripped his son by the shoulder.

  "Oww. Dad!" Timmy squirmed.

  "That's the Devil talkin' just now, son. He's saying: take pride. You were good, flaunt it. Brag about it. And now you're stepping right up, shaking his hand and saying, 'give it to me, I earned it.'"

  Jennifer, the waitress, narrowed her eyes at Timmy while she refilled his father's mug.

  "You see, son? How easy it is to fall into Evil? It sneaks up on you and before you know it…" he increased the pressure on Timmy's arm. "You're lost."

  Timmy began to cry. Roger and Lilith watched in modest appreciation from the booth. But Rita seemed to shrink back in her seat; her eyes flared and she looked away, almost in shame.

  "Do you want to be lost?" John demanded of his son.

  "No sir."

  "What? Louder, boy. Didn't you hear the Reverend? Were you sleeping during services again? He said you have to be LOUD in your defiance of evil. Don't you?"

  "Yes sir."

  "What?"

  Timmy tried to brush away a tear. "YES SIR!"

  "Better," John said and abruptly released Timmy. He made a mental note to talk to the Reverend, maybe to discuss the possibility of another ceremony for Timmy. It had been several years, and now the boy seemed to be slipping. John thought it was time. The matter resolved for now, he turned to his coffee and searched the counter for another pack of creamers.

  The bell rang, announcing another customer.

  "Excuse me," said an unfamiliar voice. "I'm looking for a friend."

  John swiveled on the stool and looked at the newcomer. He was a broad-shouldered, heavy man who wore a camouflage cap, a plaid hunting shirt, jeans and hiking boots. Outside on the curb sat one of those fancy new sports cars. Sleek and black.

  Immediately John was cautious. He slid off the seat, with a casual glance to the corner, where Stan was watching the new arrival with slightly less interest.

  "What's yer friend's name?" John Frakes asked.

  Lloyd hitched his fingers in the waist of his pants. "Well," he said, "that's the sticker. You see, he and I go back a long way. We grew up together in Portland, played college ball together at Oregon State, and then even worked at the same steel mill for nine years. But then... he ran into some trouble with his wife, and decided to move out here." He glanced around the diner, noting the location of patrons. The smell of hot food was enticing, and Lloyd wished he had time for a dish of really greasy food.

  "My friend said he'd use a different name and would probably make up some story 'bout himself so the old lady's lawyers wouldn't be able to track him down... That sort of thing. You know how it is." Judging from the expression on this man's face, Lloyd suddenly doubted this presumption. This simpleton was on another level altogether. Lloyd looked at the other faces: they were all regarding him with something less
than courtesy. Besides the kid and one woman in the corner of a booth, everyone else seemed to be quite antagonized by his presence.

  The father took a step forward. "Seems your friend's an adulterer, then. We've got none of those here. So I suggest you hop back in your sporty car and leave us be. If he was really your friend, he would've called and told ya how to get to his house."

  Lloyd gave him a blank stare. His smile had faded with the word adulterer. What kind of place was this? All the other people – including the smirking waitress, were backing this guy up, as if their minds were linked telepathically and they had determined Lloyd to be a threat. He had to try again.

  "Please," he said, looking at other faces. "I've come all this way." He dug into his front pocket, withdrawing a snapshot of Nick in front of the West Estate. He tried to show it to the woman at the first table, but she looked away and her husband shoved Lloyd's hand out of her face.

  "I think you better leave," said the boy's father, folding his arms. The boy was tugging at his father's shirt, trying to tell him something.

  "Hey!" said the man at the counter, sliding off the stool. He lifted a sheriff's badge off the clip at his belt and dropped his hand to his holster. He wore a long-sleeve shirt, and Lloyd noted a bulging area above his right bicep, as if it had been wrapped in a thick bandage. Lloyd cursed under his breath. Two choices – back out gracefully and search on his own (and give up the advantage to the Feds), or try something a little more drastic.

  Lloyd ripped open his shirt and pulled out the .38 before the fat sheriff had time to reach for his own weapon – which, Lloyd figured, had a layer of dust so thick around the trigger he'd have to brush it off before use. Instead of opening up on the sheriff and the thin father, Lloyd lunged for the closest woman and hauled her to her feet, the .38's muzzle digging into her temple.

  "Keep your hands in the air!" Lloyd yelled, over the screams and gasps of the people. "Or this babe's brains are going to be mixed with the salad dressing."