He jerked his hands up and pried at her fingers, wincing at the cold, dead feel of her flesh. Her fingernails dug into his shoulder as though they were knives. Her grip was as strong as iron, and no matter how hard he pulled, no matter how hard he tried to twist her fingers away, it was no use.
He shot a terrified glance at his grandfather, who was now close enough that Greg could make out his expression. “Grandpa! She’s got me! She’s got me, Grandpa! Help me!”
“Stay in that boat! Do you hear me, Greg? You stay in that boat!” his grandfather called.
Tears streamed down Greg’s face, hot where the rain was cold. He made fists and beat at the woman’s hand, but that helped no more than prying at her fingers had. He was halfway out of the kayak already, going into the water backward, going into her embrace blind.
As suddenly as she had gripped him, the woman let go. The kayak slapped down onto the surface, and Greg, who had been pulling against the force of her grip, slammed to the right and almost went into the black water. Greg’s hand scrabbled at the red, pebbly plastic of the kayak, shoving and pushing, lifting his face away from the lake.
His grandfather’s boat cut a tight circle around him, pitching to the side at a forty-five-degree angle, the starboard gunnel almost touching the water. His grandfather’s gaze tracked across the surface of the lake between them and then snapped up to meet Greg’s eyes.
He slowed the aluminum boat, still circling, his prop adding to the chop, and Greg held tightly to the kayak. His searched the water, but of the dead woman in the lake, there was no sign.
“Grandpa!” Greg stretched his arms toward the aluminum fishing boat, as a little child asking to be picked up might.
Joe Canton’s face softened, and he nodded reassuringly. He slowed his fishing boat to a stop and drifted close to the kayak. “Shhh, now. You’ve had a scare, Greg, that’s all. Grandpa’s here.”
Greg sobbed, still holding his arms out. His grandfather grabbed his hands and lifted him out of the kayak, setting him on the bench seat of the fishing boat right in front of him. He whipped off his windbreaker and wrapped it around Greg.
Greg lunged across the space between them and wrapped his arms around his grandpa’s middle.
Joe Canton returned the hug. “It’s okay, Greg. Everything’s okay now.” But his eyes scanned the surface of the lake, alert, watching.
12
Standing well away from the big bay window, Mason couldn’t keep his eyes off the scene as it unfolded. The old man from next door pulled his boat up to the dock, his expression one of worry tinged with confusion. He paused for a moment, glancing over his shoulder at the lake behind them. The brat was bawling, sitting hunched on one of the benches in the aluminum fishing boat. Mr. Canton turned his gaze back to his grandson, and his expression softened.
“I’m going outside to help Mr. Canton, Grandma.” He took five quick steps and pushed through the door leading to the porch.
“Mason, the storm—”
“It’s okay. It’s already dying off, and anyway, Mr. Canton needs help.” Mason banged through the screen door and out onto the strip of anemic grass separating his grandmother’s cottage from the lake’s shore. “Mr. Canton!” In the house behind him, his grandmother went on speaking, but Mason paid her no mind.
Mr. Canton glanced at him but couldn’t wave. He held the brat with one hand while struggling to loop the boat’s bow rope over one of the dock’s stanchions with the other.
Plastering a smile on his face, Mason trotted over and took the rope. He squatted and tied it off before standing up straight. “Got trapped out on the lake, did you?” he asked the little kid.
The brat turned his teary face away and said nothing.
“It’s okay now,” said Mr. Canton. “Only a little rain.”
Mason fought to keep his expression pleasant, helpful, fought to keep the glee out of his eyes. He longed to ask the kid about her.
But that wouldn’t be smart, not with Mr. Canton standing right there.
Besides, as Mason understood it, the brat and his family were staying for another couple of weeks, and he had a few tasks to carry out in that time—one of which was an afternoon alone with the brat.
He reached over and patted the kid on the back, watching Old Man Canton’s face the whole time. “Don’t you worry, little guy,” Mason said. “You’ll feel better in a bit. The lake can be scary in the middle of the storm.”
Mr. Canton flashed an appreciative smile at him and then turned toward the house. “Thanks for your help, Mason. Appreciate it.”
“Anytime, Mr. Canton.”
Mason stood on the Canton dock, watching as the old man carried his grandson up and into the house. When the door closed, he turned toward the lake, his eyes zipping around that surface, a wolflike smile plastered on his face.
13
Greg sat on his grandpa’s lap, wrapped in warm blankets, sipping cocoa with the little marshmallows. His skin bore the rosy glow of warmth and love. His grandmother sat next to them on the couch and smoothed his still-damp hair. No one said a word, content to sit and hold each other.
They were still sitting there twenty-two minutes later when Mary and Stephen Canton came home.
Mary took one look at her son, dropped the brown paper sack she carried, and sprinted toward him. “What happened?” she asked.
“He’s okay, Mary. He took a fright, that’s all,” said Elizabet.
“Dad?” asked Stephen.
Joe glanced at his son and treated him to a stern nod. “It’s as Mother said.”
Mary squatted in front of her son. “What happened, baby?”
Greg shrank back against his grandpa’s chest and shook his head. Even though he’d quit sucking his thumb three years before, he brought his hand up and stuck his thumb in his mouth.
“Now, now,” said Joe, squeezing Greg tight. “Everything’s okay.”
Elizabet motioned toward the bedroom with her head, then stood and walked through the door. With a glance at Stephen, Mary followed.
Once inside, Elizabet reached past her and closed the door. She lay her hand on Mary’s forearm and patted it. “He took fright,” she said. “But he’s okay. His imagination ran away with him, that’s all.”
Mary shook her head. “What…” Her eyes darted around the room.
“No, no. Greg was out on the lake, in the kayak, and the storm broke. He decided continuing toward the other side was better than turning back. Joe gave him a bit of money for candy, and I think he didn’t want to risk missing out by coming home.”
“But he knows better! He knows better than to be out on the lake during a storm.”
Elizabet patted Mary’s arm again. “Yes, dear, but up here dark skies don’t mean what they do down there—at least not always. He knows that, too. And even this storm was more of a bluster than a buster. A little rain, a little wind, a lightning bolt or two.”
“The storm scared him? Paddling back in the storm?”
Elizabet shook her head. “Like I said, his imagination ran away with him.”
“His imagination?” The low rumble of Stephen and Joe talking in the other room came through the door behind her, and Mary tilted her head but couldn’t make out any of the words.
“Yes. Greg saw—his words, mind you—a ‘dead lady’ under the water. He dropped his paddle in his panic and now imagines that this dead lady took it from him and tried to pull him into the water.”
“But if he lost his paddle, how did he get back to shore?”
For the third time, Elizabet patted her forearm. “I sent Joe for him the moment the storm broke, dear. Joe picked him up in the fishing boat.”
“I see.” Without another word, Mary turned and went back out into the family room. As she stepped closer, the two men stopped speaking and turned her way. Stephen flashed a reassuring smile at her. “Did Joe tell you?”
Stephen cut his gaze toward Greg and returned it to hers. He inclined his head. “Dad told me about Gre
g getting caught out in the storm and about going to get him with the fishing boat.” He ruffled his son’s hair. “Everything’s okay, right, Greg?”
Without looking at either parent, Greg snuggled closer to his grandfather but nodded.
Mary fixed Joe with a stern gaze. “We can talk about the rest of it later,” she said.
Joe’s ice-blue eyes met hers candidly for a moment, and he nodded. “Ayup.”
Chapter 2
2007
1
“So LaBouche is still around,” said Scott Lewis. Lee LaBouche—his so-called partner with the NYSP—the demon who killed his daughter and his wife was still out there, unpunished, free to murder again and again and again.
“Oh, yes,” said Benny. “He’s still around somewhere. So is Brigitta. We need to be careful for a while.”
“What do we do about Oneka Falls?”
“I’ve got an idea about that,” said Benny. “Here’s what we need to do…”
Dusk fell as they spoke, and high in a tree at the edge of the woods, a lone, yellow magpie looked down on them, watching.
“Well? What’s this great idea?” asked Mike. He nudged Toby with his elbow and grinned, but Toby didn’t smile back. His attention had strayed toward the trees at the edge of the parking lot. Mike followed his gaze, and his grin died stillborn. “Is that—”
“So, Benny, what’s your big idea? It’s not something like a letter-writing campaign, is it?” asked Toby in a too-loud voice. He turned away from the woods and walked toward the back of the Jeep.
Benny smiled and hugged Shannon closer. “Couldn’t we start a—”
“Mike, can you help me with this?” asked Toby, fiddling with the spare tire on the back door of the Jeep.
Mike started and tore his gaze away from the little yellow bird that was now hopping from foot to foot on a branch overhanging the edge of the parking lot. He glanced at Scott. “Sure thing, Toby. Scott help us.”
Scott seemed lost in his thoughts, leaning against the front fender of Toby’s BMW. At the sound of his name, he lifted his head and glanced toward the woods.
“Hey,” said Benny. “I thought you wanted to talk about my idea?” He glanced at Shannon, an expression of hurt and bewilderment on his face. She shrugged and gave his hand a squeeze. “You asked me, and I was about to explain that—”
“What’s the matter? The guy with all the graduate degrees can’t change a tire?” asked Mike. He turned and strode toward Toby. “Don’t say anything else,” he whispered as he passed Benny and Shannon.”
“It’s stuck,” said Toby. He reached in through the back window of the Jeep and moved things around with a clatter.
Benny shook his head. “Guys…” he said.
“One minute, Benny,” said Toby. “Let us handle this first. Afterward, you can tell us all about your idea.”
“Can’t you change the tire while I explain? It’s not complicated. I think I can—”
“LaBouche!” Scott yelled. His Glock 37 appeared in his hand as he came away from the BMW and sank into a shooting stance. He raised the pistol and snapped off two quick shots, the .45’s report thundering into the stillness of the coming dusk.
“Dammit!” yelled Toby. He stepped away from the Jeep carrying the Remington 870 tactical they had carried against Herlequin. He tossed the shotgun to Mike as he rounded the Jeep, going toward the passenger door.
“Benny! Shannon! Clear out!” shouted Mike. He caught the shotgun and racked the slide one-handed like a trick shot artist.
Scott fired, again and again, the big caliber gunshots echoing across the parking lot. He walked forward toward the trees, firing as he moved, his face set in a rictus of lividity and loathing.
The yellow magpie had taken wing and darted deeper into the trees, jinking left and right at random intervals.
“LaBouche!” Scott screamed again.
Mike jogged forward, carrying the Remington at port arms. “Let me have point, Scott!” he called. Scott didn’t respond, just stood pumping round after round at the yellow bird until the slide of his Glock locked back. Mike passed him as Scott ejected the empty magazine and slapped his hand on his belt where his spare magazine pouch should have been but wasn’t.
Raising the shotgun to his shoulder, Mike stopped and spread his feet. He aimed and squeezed the trigger in the space between his heartbeats, and banana-yellow feathers flew from the little bird. Though the bird squawked and lost altitude for a moment, it didn’t fall from the sky, and he didn’t stop flapping his wings, even for an instant.
“LaBouche!” Scott screamed for the third time, but this time, his voice cracked and broke. He turned and sprinted to the BMW and leaned in through the open driver’s window.
Mike worked the slide, ejecting the spent shell and slamming a new one into the chamber. He drew a bead on the dodging yellow spot in the fading light and fired again. Another squawk sounded, but still, the bird didn’t slow, let alone fall from the sky.
“God damn you, Lee!” Scott straightened from the car and slammed a fresh magazine into his weapon and darted forward, fouling Mike’s sightline before he could fire another round.
“Scott!” shouted Shannon.
He paid her no mind. Scott sprinted between the trees, his Glock pointed toward the sky.
“Stop him!” said Toby.
Mike ran after the trooper, cursing under his breath. “Scott!” he cried.
As the sun descended below the horizon, the yellow magpie darted below the treetops, angling into the murk of the coming night. He dodged around a thick trunk and disappeared. Scott raced after him, circling the tree and peering into the shadows, but the little bird had ducked away, the same as the sun. Mike reached him as Scott shoved his pistol into the holster tucked into his waistband.
“God damn it!” Scott snapped. “I’m going to get that evil son of a bitch if it’s the last thing I ever do!”
“And we’ll help you, Scott,” said Mike in a calm voice.
Scott glanced at him but couldn’t meet his gaze for long. “Total rooky bullshit back there,” he said. “Sorry. I lost my head.”
Mike waved it away. “Come on. Let’s get back. No telling what that bastard is up to.” He eyed the darkening woods with easy-to-read nervousness. “No telling what else is in these woods, and I’ve fought enough demons for one day.” He lay his hand on Scott’s shoulder and gave it a gentle tug, but Scott resisted a moment, his gaze crawling from shadow to shadow, still searching for the little yellow bird. “Come on, Scott.”
With a nod, Scott turned and strode back toward the parking lot, head down, walking in silence.
Toby, Shannon, and Benny stood in a tight knot between their two vehicles. Toby held his fancy tranquilizer rifle, but the other two were unarmed. “Get him?” asked Shannon.
Scott couldn’t meet anyone’s gaze. “No. He got away.”
“Our firearms won’t stop him,” said Toby with an air of gentleness. “We don’t have enough firepower.”
“Yeah,” muttered Scott.
“We will get him, Scott. Even if he’s the only one we get, we’ll get him.”
Scott crossed his arms and leaned against the front of the Jeep, his face turned away from them.
“That was LaBouche? Really?” asked Benny. “That bird was LaBouche?”
Toby nodded. “Yes. What’s more, what you all saw was no illusion. He is, in fact, a banana-colored magpie.”
“I thought you said they only appear to change shapes? That it’s all illusion?” asked Shannon. “How could he fly? Does LaBouche have wings?”
“He does now,” Toby said with a wry curl to his lips. “I don’t understand it, but however it happened, LaBouche is a little yellow bird in fact as well as appearance.”
“Good thing, too,” said Benny. “Otherwise he’d have probably killed us.”
“Yeah,” said Scott. “I lost my head.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean—” Benny bit off whatever he was going to say as Shanno
n lay a hand on his arm and shook her head.
“It won’t happen again,” Scott murmured.
But chances were, he would lose his head where LaBouche was concerned, and they all knew it. No one could blame him, either.
“So, Benny…” said Mike into the uncomfortable silence.
“Yeah?”
“What’s this big idea?”
Benny’s gaze scanned the darkening forest. “Maybe we shouldn’t discuss it here.”
“Whisper,” said Mike. “The suspense is killing me.” He winked at Shannon.
“Well…okay, if you think it’s safe.” Benny smiled, and his eyes danced like an eleven-year-old’s at the prospect of an extra dessert. “Politics!” he crowed. “We take the town away from them through elections!”
Toby rolled his eyes. “Too slow.”
“No, listen for a second. This guy, this town manager—”
“Chaz Welsh,” said Mike.
“Yeah. His position is by appointment by the town council, right? Isn’t that how it works when there’s no mayor? All we have to do is stack the council!”
“Yeah, but this is Oneka Falls we’re talking about,” said Mike.
“So?”
“So, Chaz is king. The town council does whatever he wants. No questions, no arguments. We call them the rubber-stamp brigade.”
“But not if we put our people on the council! Don’t you see? We can get Chaz out, then we can get an independent law enforcement agency in there and clean up the town once and for all! The State Troopers, for instance!”
Scott grunted. “Know any troopers?” he asked sourly.
“We do,” said Mike. “And a good one.”
“It’ll never work,” said Toby. “Besides, it’s too slow.”
Benny’s face fell. “Think about it, okay?”
Toby shrugged. “No promises, but we can talk about it later.”
“Let’s get out of here,” said Scott in a monotone voice. “I want to go home. I want to get away from this fucking town.”
2
LaBouche raced away from the confrontation in the park as fast as his little yellow wings could carry him. He grunted little birdy grunts as his body pushed each pellet of birdshot out…one at a time. The pain was inconsequential, but even so, it was still pain.
The Hag Page 3