Crescent Lake

by David Sakmyster

  Stan was concerned. "What do you mean?"

  Grant adjusted his glasses. "Look what it did to Zachary. He was convinced it was a divine manifestation. I think we can safely rule God out of this one, especially the way Zachary's been carrying on."

  "You're right on that mark," Stan said, after a bite of a pancake.

  "But nonetheless," Grant said, "There is something down there. Something so mind-boggling, and very likely dangerous, that the U.S. Government, having failed to understand the thing, went through enormous lengths to hide its existence.

  "And that," he added, "scares the piss out of me."

  Nick stood up. He grabbed the face-down bill from under his coffee mug. "Let's get out of here," he proposed, and took Audrey's hand.

  "Don't trouble yourselves," Audrey said when Stan and Grant started reaching for their wallets. "Breakfast is on the Feds."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Silver Springs

  Noon

  Malcolm O'Neil drove alone into Silver Springs. At the wheel of a rented black Porsche 911 convertible, he was becoming increasingly nervous as he turned onto the town's main stretch. The few pedestrians out and about regarded him with suspicious alarm, and O'Neil wondered if Evelyn had not only beaten him here but somehow warned the people of his coming. He immediately regretted instructing his bodyguards to remain at the airstrip. In hindsight, it probably wasn't his most brilliant decision.

  He wanted to do this alone, wanted to recapture that reckless swagger he had in his youth – the mettle that had earned him this position. He was here to end this distasteful business once and for all. He wanted to personally kill the Senator, and then take care of her nephew too, if Lloyd hadn't yet finished with that detail. Make it look like Murphy killed his aunt, then shot himself.

  He hadn't heard from Lloyd since last night's phone call, and now his unease was increasing. He passed a cinema on his left as he cruised down Main Street. In front of the laundromat a small boy trudged along. He wore a baseball jersey and cut-off sweatpants. A middle-aged couple strolled into a diner.

  O'Neil decided he couldn't waste any more time. He sped forward, then slammed on the brakes and turned the wheel, slamming the Porsche to a skidding stop in front of the young boy. Lifting the .45mm automatic off the bucket seat, O'Neil vaulted over the side and scooped the up kid. He placed the silencer tip against the boy's temple.

  "Shut up!" he hissed and dragged the boy back into the car and threw him into the passenger seat. "Don't even think about jumping out, kid. I'll shoot you in the leg and then in the foot. You might make it out, but you're not going to be playing ball again. Understand?"

  The boy shrunk against the door. Instead of outright terror he only glared back at O'Neil the way a cornered cat looks at a bothersome dog.

  "My name's Timmy," the kid said bluntly as O'Neil peeled out and sped down the street.

  "Good for you," O'Neil said. The pain of his sore throat was finally easing, but the lack of rest in recent days made recovery slow. "Tell me where Nicholas Murphy is and maybe I'll let you live."

  "Who?" Timmy said, and then made a face at him. "You don't scare me."

  O'Neil grumbled and leaned across the seat. He delivered a swift backhand to Timmy's jaw, causing a shrill scream of pain.

  "Where is he?"

  "I don't know!" the boy whined.

  O'Neil coughed onto the steering wheel. He stopped at an intersection and pointed the gun at Timmy. "Okay," he said. "How about a woman? Tall. Light hair. Two guys with her–"

  "Oh," Timmy said, rubbing his skull. A thin smile crept up on his lips, giving O'Neil a sudden chill. "She's in the church with the Reverend."

  "Is she really?" O'Neil didn't trust this kid as far as he could dropkick him; and for that reason he was going to be bringing Timmy along. Both as insurance and as a source of information if the brat was lying.

  "Where's the church?" O'Neil asked, jabbing the gun into Timmy's ribs.

  "Left," Timmy said. "I'll show you. Just wait. I'm sure the Reverend wants to meet you, too."

  "I'm sure he does, kid. Maybe he can bless me before I shoot his eyes out. Now where hell is it?"

  They parked on the hill, right outside the front doors to the church.

  "Get out," O'Neil ordered, still pointing the gun at Timmy's head. They left the car and together walked up the gravel path into the shadow of the dizzying steeple.

  O'Neil glanced around, checking the sky, half-concerned he might see helicopters there, chasing after him. But no, he was convinced he had eluded the FBI and left Hartford without notice. He had enough practice, and he knew their blind spots. And the last place they'd expect him to be was right here.

  Timmy pointed to the opposite end of the church, to the thick stone tower rising over the lower section of the apexed roof. "I think they're in the tower," he whispered.

  "Well then, let's go say hi. I hope you were good this week, Timmy. Or God's going to find out, and when he does–"

  "Stop it!" Timmy tried to pull away. "I've been good, even if Dad doesn't think so. The Reverend didn't say anything to me. He would know if I was bad."

  O'Neil opened his mouth, but couldn't think of anything to say, so he just shook his head. They were walking around the perimeter of the church, keeping the tower in sight. The ground was hot, the discomfort made worse by the glare off of the white church walls.

  O'Neil cleared his throat, and as he stepped over an inordinate number of rocks lying around the grass, he thought of something. "And of course you wouldn't know what's right and wrong?"

  "The Reverend knows better than I do," Timmy said. "Knows better than anyone, even grown-ups. If they've sinned, he knows. And he makes them ree-pent."

  "Sure, kid. How do we get in there?"

  "Around the back. There's another door." Timmy sniffled. "You're bad. He's going to make you ree-pent."

  "Not a chance, kiddo." He yanked on Timmy's arm and directed him around the side. The back lawn was littered with more of those rocks and stones, and the grass was trampled in most areas.

  "Stop," said Timmy, rubbing his arm. "You're hurting me."

  "So what?" Still gripping the boy's arm, O'Neil found the wooden door to the tower. Carefully he pushed it in, the .45 aimed into the doorway. There was a large room, a stone staircase in the middle, and another door straight ahead.

  "Upstairs?"

  "Yeah," Timmy whispered, suddenly shivering.

  They went inside and started up. There was a window halfway up; brilliant sunlight filtered through, highlighting a flurry of dust particles.

  "He knows you're coming."

  "Shut up kid. He does not. I can shoot you now and still walk up there without him hearing a thing." The boy was getting on his nerves. O'Neil started to hope for an excuse to actually kill the kid. Kind of a prelude to Ms. West.

  He smiled as he took two more steps up, past the bright window.

  He was going to enjoy this.

  Suddenly Timmy yelled and stomped down on his foot. O'Neil swung out with his free hand, but just missed the boy who was already five steps down, racing for his life.

  "Son of a bitch!" O'Neil hissed and aimed at the tiny body. Had him in the sights. The kid turned around, a look of pure fright in his eyes–

  And a strong hand clamped over O'Neil's wrist. Another caught him under the chin, lifted him off the stairs and held him aloft. A powerful jolt ripped through his body from the two pressure points.

  O'Neil screamed and howled, jittering like a fish on a hook. The fingers around his throat increased their pressure and his consciousness began to fade. He blinked and tried to focus on the assailant, but all he could see was a mass of white hair and two furious yellow eyes.

  The images gradually solidified into recognizable shapes, but O'Neil first tried to establish his situation, and determine his enemy's location. He shut his eyes promptly, pretending he was still unconscious. He was sitting on a carpeted floor, his back against a cold, wooden surface. No
t bound or tied or restrained in any way. His gun... he had dropped it, he recalled, on the stairs. There was, however, still the six-inch hunting blade sheathed on his left shin. That, he was sure, would be his ace-in-the-hole to get himself out of this mess.

  Finally, he peeked out under heavy eyelids.

  He was in an office of some kind. One window, several couches, a large executive desk. Several shapes moved across the white carpet, apparently circling him. He was still dizzy and knew he didn't have the energy to make his move; he had to bide his time. The bodies shifted and a woman walked between them and knelt before O'Neil.

  "Malcolm," she said in an excited whisper. It was the Senator. She was here, a part of this scheme somehow. She looked terrible, though, her complexion marred by a multitude of scars and cuts. Her right arm was in a sling.

  She touched O'Neil's shoulder. "I'm so glad you followed me," she said. "We're to be together again, I promise. I've spoken to the Reverend, convinced him that we need your talents and that we can draw on the scope of your organization."

  Evelyn breathed softly into his ear. "Don't worry. The worst will soon be over." She stood and backed up, her legs disappearing behind several approaching figures.

  O'Neil cursed and tried to reach his knife. Torture – that was it. He knew it. They had broken Evelyn, that much was obvious; and now they were going to have a go at him. Who "they" were didn't matter. O'Neil's enemies were as numerous as flies around roadkill. He was simultaneously envied and hated by every other crime boss. Maybe some West Coast hot shot was grasping at a chance to make a name for himself.

  But O'Neil wasn't going down without a fight. Using the wall for support he lurched up to a bent stance and pulled the knife free from its sheath.

  And the figures advanced, silently.

  O'Neil gaped at them and nearly dropped the knife in shock.

  "What the hell?"

  There were four people coming towards him, shuffling with a frightful lethargy made even more terrifying by the realization that these were four that should not be up and around.

  "You're dead!" O'Neil screamed. He dropped to one knee and grabbed a huge chunk of the rug with one hand while frantically waving the knife with the other.

  The three men and one woman paused and regarded him with something resembling contempt. The taller man shook his head slowly, mouthing the word, "No."

  They wore tattered clothes, ripped and punctured. Thick, dark blood oozed out of some of the bullet holes. The woman had a chunk of her face missing, blown off. The skin was pale and withered, the eyes sunken and eerily vacant. The smell of death and decay was palpable, overpowering and intense.

  O'Neil's heart thundered in its bony cage, threatening to burst free. His stomach lurched at the smell. "Dead!" he repeated and started to rise. With every second he fought the dizziness and the horror. This wasn't happening. Wasn't real. Couldn't be. The dead stayed dead, he had proven that over the years.

  What made these four – his first four kills – different than the rest? True, they were the four that had paved the way to his unchallenged ascension, but that had been inevitable. Destiny. After all, it was a family business. He was bound to inherit the empire sooner or later. Malcolm was just an impatient man who didn't believe he should have to wait for anything in life, least of all, power. He wanted it sooner. And, on a tranquil Christmas Eve nearly twenty-five years ago, a twenty-two year-old Malcolm O'Neil gunned down his parents and his two younger brothers just as they were getting in the car to drive to church.

  And just as simple as that, Malcolm had gained the empire and all its responsibilities and rewards. For twenty-five years he had fended off every two-bit coup and would-be challenger. He made something of the organization that his father could have only dreamt of.

  None of that was going to be taken from him now, least of all by four putrid ghosts.

  O'Neil staggered forward, slashing at the apparitions. They backed away, hands raised, faces uncertain, flickering. Anger funneled into rage. "Get back!" he snarled. "I killed you once and I'll happily do it again."

  He swung the knife in a wide arc, ripping through the hands and arms of his brothers. The blade met almost no resistance and the metal was free of blood. O'Neil stared at the weapon for a moment, then looked back at the zombies. His eyes narrowed and his lip curled into a snarl. They weren't even real, he finally understood. An elaborate hoax designed to destroy his will, to break him down all in one stroke. It was brilliantly conceived, O'Neil thought. Whoever was in charge sure did his homework, got the bodies to look so realistic. The resemblances were uncanny.

  Even now, his mother reached out to him with blood-streaked arms and hands that methodically opened and closed. "My son..."

  O'Neil looked beyond her and, for the first time, saw someone else in the room, besides Evelyn and the ghosts. Someone seated behind the desk, lost in the glare and the intense sunlight gouging through the window and falling upon the desk.

  "Nice try," O'Neil sneered. He felt renewed suddenly, as if an infinitesimally small portion of his soul actually felt a shred of guilt over these four murders and had been suffering in silence all these years. Finally facing them again, seeing their wretched bodies and naively innocent faces, gave him a sprawling sense of personal triumph.

  Now he had conquered them twice.

  Laughing, O'Neil took two great strides toward the desk. He brushed aside his insubstantial relatives, and noted with a passing satisfaction that they were dissipating, fading like hot breath on a cold window. He vaulted onto the desk, kicking aside several folders and an antique lamp.

  The man in the chair wore the uniform of a Reverend. He had silver hair and a beard. And, O'Neil observed, he seemed frozen in shock; his eyes blinked in surprise and his face was pale.

  Evelyn screamed.

  The Reverend's hands rose to ward off the blow, but O'Neil knew he could slip the blade inside and slash the man's throat – even decapitate him if he wished. The sunlight glinted off the blade, into his eyes and temporarily blinded him.

  He moved – just as the sound of gunshots erupted in the office.

  The knife fell from O'Neil's grasp and a spurt of blood burst up his throat and sprayed out his mouth. O'Neil staggered forward, then back, gaping at the two holes in the wall over the Reverend's head. Then he saw the exit holes in his chest; and the next moment he slipped and fell off the desk, landing hard on his side on the plush carpet. He gagged on the pain, biting back a scream. His vision clouded and he fought the pull of unconsciousness. It was inviting, and offered an easy escape from this brutal agony.

  He knew both shots were through the ribs. Lungs punctured, but not the heart. He could live if someone could stop the bleeding. Had to fight it, had to pull himself up.

  Blood on the carpet, still gushing out of his back. O'Neil struggled onto one elbow and tried to focus on the doorway. Evelyn was crying somewhere nearby. And the chair behind the desk creaked. Sounds of someone walking around.

  "Who...?" O'Neil gasped at the shape in the doorway. It looked familiar. He put a hand on one of the wounds, felt the warm blood slipping through his fingers. Vainly he tried to stop the flow.

  The figure moved into the light. A gun in the man's hand, held at his side as he walked around O'Neil.

  "No..." O'Neil muttered, shaking his head. "Not you too."

  "Sorry," said Lloyd Stielman, standing beside the Reverend. "Loyalties change."

  O'Neil felt the waiting embrace of something dark and unimaginable, only inches away. Felt its icy breath on his neck, freezing his perspiration and blood while sweetly calling his name. The scene transformed. He thought he could see his brothers again. But this time they were younger, much younger. Playing in the fields of Northern Ireland. Running, chasing each other. Laughing, Malcolm ran after them; he put on a burst of speed, hurtled over a rickety wooden fence, and caught hold of them. He wrestled them to the ground. And, suddenly, Malcolm realized – only he was giggling. His brothers, flat on their ba
cks, looked up at him with nothing less than pity. Pity for him and for what he would do. Sadly they reached out to him, and now he reached back, desperate for their touch, their love and friendship, for his lost youth and innocence.

  One more time he tried to touch them, but they were too far away. Before his eyes their bodies withered, the flesh dissolved and two sobering skeletons lay on their backs, bony fingers reaching for him, still offering an impossible salvation.

  "Sorry," he said, apparently to Lloyd. Reverend Zachary glared at O'Neil and clenched his fists. Lloyd knew that the Reverend hated to have his plans thwarted. He was not used to failure. And this was the second time the Ceremony had failed in the last week.

  It wasn't supposed to happen.

  When O'Neil broke free on his own and made an attack, Zachary had been unprepared. It had almost ended right here because one evildoer resisted Zachary's God-given power.

  Lloyd awaited the command, and watched his former boss struggle with some private hell of his own making. Lloyd wondered what the O'Neil was seeing.

  Zachary said, "End it."

  At that moment, Lloyd moved in, but not before noticing that the Reverend's hands seemed different, alive somehow as if bugs and insects crawled around under his flesh and swam through his blood. Putting the image out of his mind, Lloyd stepped up to O'Neil, gripped the man by the hair and placed the muzzle of the .38 against his forehead.

  Evelyn covered her eyes and turned away.

  Malcolm O'Neil said, "I'm sorry, believe me. I am..." and then the back of his skull blew out, and he toppled into the impatient embrace of oblivion.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Sunday, 10:15 p.m.

  The moon was just clearing the highest reach of the forest when they returned to Silver Springs. It was an engorged crescent, large and almost crimson in color, surrounded by a pale haze. The night sky was saturated with thick black clouds that had congregated away from the horizons and left enormous shadows on the land. The town slept in silence, the air hot and still, the tenuous quiet broken only by the occasional mournful cricket song.