He stared out at the lake, his gaze following the waves back to where the sheriff’s boat had left a wake. There was something oily on the water where the boat had throttled up. Something…something gray.
Once again, Greg snapped up, this time going all the way to his feet. His gaze stuck to that gray spot in the water.
As he watched, a hand rose in the exact center of the oily spot and waved at him.
Tears streaming down his face, Greg raced into the house, breaking Grandma’s cardinal rule, and letting the screen door slam behind him.
9
For dinner, Elizabet fried walleye in her electric skillet, and Mary made a diced potatoes and vegetable stir-fry to go along with it. Though the two women stood almost shoulder to shoulder, they worked in silence, each lost in her own thoughts, her own worry about Greg.
Joe had returned midafternoon, and from the moment he walked through the door, Greg hadn’t left him alone long enough to use the restroom. Whenever Joe took a seat, Greg crawled into his lap. But perhaps most worrying, the boy hadn’t taken his thumb out of his mouth all afternoon.
Stephen looked on, perplexed, confused. He’d never seen his son act in that way, and Greg refused to say what was wrong. Stephen didn’t know what to do, and as a father, that racked him, ripped at him.
Joe met his gaze, with calm eyes and a placid expression. One of his gnarled hands stroked Greg’s back as they sat. His other hand lay on the arm of his chair.
Stephen shook his head, reviewing the day’s events. When he first arrived, Joe had told him about the meeting with the two police chiefs, and about Tom Walton’s suggestion that they be prepared to defend themselves for ten to fifteen minutes, while Mary held Greg and cooed in his ear. Afterward, the two men had checked the gun safe and the rifle within it.
That the tranquility of the little house on Genosgwa Lake should be ripped away angered Stephen. His parents hadn’t owned the place when he was a child, but he and Mary—and later, he, Mary, and Greg—had spent many beautiful summer days there. It was a place of campfires, of s’mores cooked over open flames, of fishing with his father, of long walks on the gravel roads around the lake, of boating, of swimming. It shouldn’t have been a place of stress, and he hated that it had become such.
When Elizabet announced that the food was ready, they tried to get Greg to sit at the table, promising he could sit next to Joe, but all Greg would do was shake his head and turn his face toward his grandfather’s chest. So, they sat in the living room, resting their plates on their knees, all except for Joe who rested his on the arm of his chair as he tried to get Greg to take bites of the walleye—his favorite fresh fish.
When the phone rang, a shrill little scream escaped Mary. She glanced around, shame burning in her cheeks. “Sorry,” she said in a hushed voice.
As if without thinking, Elizabet patted her on the arm. With a glance at Joe and Greg, she said, “Stephen, please answer the phone.”
Stephen put his plate down on the floor and walked to the lake house’s only phone. He lifted the handset and put it against his ear. “Canton residence.”
“Joe, Tom Walton here. Listen I—”
“Excuse me, Chief Walton. This is Stephen, Joe’s son. My dad is… Well, my son has had another scare, and Dad is the only one who seems to be able to comfort him right now. Can I take a message for him?”
“I can speak to you, Stephen. Your dad told you he came to see me earlier today, correct?”
“Yes, and he told me about the conversation.”
Walton sighed, and when he spoke, his voice was grim. “Your father mentioned that the two of you were worried about whether…the situation…at the lake was from current events or those in the past.”
“Yes, very.”
“The body found last night results from a seven-year-old crime.”
“That is a relief. I’m so glad—”
“Hold on, Stephen. There’s more news, and it’s bad. A family on the other side and opposite end of the lake from you reported their eleven-year-old son missing an hour or so ago.”
Stephen’s stomach dropped.
“Now, we have no idea what has happened to that child. Might be he’s at a friend’s house or something equally innocent. I have nothing concrete to pass on, but I promised your father I would call if anything developed.”
Steven’s pulse beat in his temples like a triphammer. “And we all thank you for calling. Are we… I mean, should we—”
“Are you safe? Without a doubt. Should you leave the lake house for a while? That might be premature. As I said, the missing child may only be a missing child, with no nefarious overtone.”
“But maybe not?”
Tom Walton paused, and in the background, Stephen heard paper shuffling. “Affirmative. Listen, Stephen, things are happening over here, and I need to get off the line.”
“Thanks for calling. We appreciate it.”
The police chief hung up, but Stephen stood there for a moment, still holding the phone’s handset against his ear. His mind was whirling, thoughts streaking by at light speed. Should we leave? How can I explain it, if we do? Should I get Mom and Dad out of here, too? How do I explain all this to Mary?
With the speed of thick oil in winter, Stephen cradled the handset. He stood staring out the kitchen window and into the darkness-shrouded trees across the road. Each shadow looked like a kidnapper lurking in the trees. Each shadow seemed to grin and leer at him. My mind’s playing tricks, nothing more. He turned away from the window and returned to his dinner.
He rejoined the others in the living room, and without saying a word, retrieved his plate, sat down, and began eating again. Mary’s gaze was on his face like a physical thing, and the silence seemed to harry him. He took a quick glance at his father, his gaze straying across his son’s blond head. “Tom Walton.”
Joe grunted, his gaze darting down to his grandson’s face. “Do I need to call him back?”
Stephen took a bite of fish and shook his head. “He told me what he needed to tell you.”
“And?” asked Mary.
He could hear the ire in her voice, her frustration at his tight-lipped responses. He turned to her and plastered a reassuring smile on his face. “We can discuss it later,” he said with a meaningful glance at their son.
Her face screwed up in a little moue, but she let it go.
Through it all, Elizabet’s gaze tracked from Stephen to Mary and back again, her expression a careful neutral. She darted a glance at her husband but put her head down and returned to her food.
They ate in silence for a while before Joe cleared his throat. “Greg?” he asked. The boy didn’t move. “Greggy, can you look at me?”
Greg tilted his head back at an extreme angle and gazed up into his grandfather’s face.
“Feeling better?”
Greg shook his head.
“Doesn’t this fried walleye smell wonderful?” asked Elizabet.
Greg’s gaze darted toward her.
“Would what I have set aside for dessert interest you, dear one?”
Greg nodded slowly, but his thumb remained entrenched in his mouth.
“Banana cream pie…” sang Elizabet. “But only for people who have eaten their dinner.”
For the first time since his grandfather had returned home, Greg sat up and took his thumb out of his mouth. “Can I have two pieces?”
Elizabet glanced at Mary, who nodded, smiling at her son. “Your mother agrees. Would you like a plate, now?”
Greg leaned against his grandfather’s torso and hugged him tight. “Thanks, Grandpa,” he whispered.
“Any time, Greggy.”
With a small smile, Greg crawled off his grandfather’s lap and moved over to stand next to Elizabet. “May I have my dinner now, please?”
With a laugh and a one-armed hug, Elizabet stood, holding her plate in one hand and Greg’s hand in the other. “Let’s go into the kitchen. Just the two of us. You can tell me all about t
hat book you’re reading.”
As soon as they are out of earshot, Mary turned to Stephen. “Tell me. Now.”
With a glance at his father, Stephen suppressed a sigh. “Tom Walton said another child has gone missing. Across the lake and toward the other end. They have no idea if it’s related to the body they found this morning, and in that regard, Tom thinks what they told you earlier in the day is probably right.”
“Another child?” whispered Mary.
“Now, don’t get upset. Chief Walton stressed that this could be a missing child—no nefarious activities involved. He might be at a friend’s house and forgot to call.”
Mary nodded, and her gaze drifted toward the kitchen. “Is it…” She cast a sheepish glance at Joe. “No offense, Joe, but is it safe here? For Greg, I mean?”
“Of course it is, Mary!” snapped Stephen. He felt a pang of instant guilt at the strength of his response, given his thoughts in the kitchen, and a blush crept up from his neck to his cheeks.
“Now, now, Son. It’s a fair question, and I don’t begrudge Mary asking it.” He looked Mary in the eye. “We are not defenseless here. So even if a roving madman is out there, your son is safe. I would never—never—let anything happen to that boy.”
“I understand that, Joe. But if—”
“Mary,” began Stephen in a soft, calm tone, “we don’t even know for sure anyone is in danger, yet.”
She nodded, her gaze leaving Joe’s face and landing on Stephen’s. “And if we did?”
“If we did, I’d be loading the car right now, Mary,” said Joe. “In the meantime, take my word that we are not defenseless here.”
Her gaze bounced back and forth between the two men for a moment. “I’m not sure I have an accurate understanding of what that means, but I have an idea. Is Greg safe from the thing that’s defending us?”
“Yes. Absolutely.” Joe waved an empty hand at Stephen. “Only the two of us can get to it.”
“Should Elizabet and I—”
“No.” Joe shook his head. “These things…these things require practice—training—or they can be dangerous to the people you are trying to protect. No, it’s best we keep things as they are.”
“But if someone hurt the two of you, or you couldn’t get to it—”
“Honey, he’s right. Dad is a Marine, and you remember he taught me how to shoot. Leave it with us for now.”
“But if someone hurt the two of you,” Mary said doggedly, “say, they hurt your legs, and you can’t get to what you need. Elizabet and I should be able to at least go get it.”
“If that were to happen, we could tell you what you need to know at that time,” said Joe.
“And all of this is academic, Mary. There’s every chance we will get a call from Tom Walton later this evening saying it was a false alarm. Tomorrow morning at the latest. Everything will be fine. You’ll see.”
But it didn’t happen that way. It didn’t happen that way, and Stephen would come to regret those words.
10
Tom Walton pulled his car off to the side of the narrow road, hoping the spring rains hadn’t undercut the ridge more than it looked. He opened his door and stepped out, stretching his back and peering into the dark woods across the road from the lake.
Ever since Randy Fergusson—Owen Gray—had shot up half the countryside, let alone stalked the kids in the Thousand Acre Wood, Tom had grown uncomfortable around any large copse of trees. Especially at night.
With a sigh and a shake of his head, Tom turned away from the gathering darkness and took the stairs down to the lake house at the bottom of the ridge. The stairs were made of sturdy wood, but they creaked under his weight. The house below was lit up as if for a party. It looked as if all the lights of the residence were on, both inside and out. Tom could understand that—all too well—after his years spent in law enforcement. After Owen Gray.
Man, I wish Bobby Jefferson was still around. Or Matt Greshin. Stand up guys, both of them. I could use their brainpower, right about now.
He walked across the light-bathed front yard, climbed the steps, and knocked on the door. One of his own men—Pete Martin—let him in.
“Where’s Gary?” Tom asked.
“He’s in the kitchen, Chief.”
Tom grunted. “Things quiet?” Martin was new to the job and young to boot. He barely looked old enough to shave, but he’d passed his courses at the Academy, and in the past three months, had done an excellent job. Even so, Tom wondered if this detail would be too much for him.
“So far,” said Martin.” No phone calls, and the only visitors that came by, either Gary or I recognized by sight.”
“Good enough.” Tom stepped around the young officer and headed into the kitchen. He nodded to Gary and walked to the table where both Martha and Hedrick Stensgaard sat, looking lost. “Mr. and Mrs. Stensgaard, I’m sorry to meet in a manner such as this. I’m Tom Walton, Genosgwa’s Chief of Police.” He held out his hand, and Hedrick shook it without standing.
“Any news?” asked Martha.
“Unfortunately, no.” Tom glanced at Gary and said, “Has anyone called your son’s friends?”
Martha glanced at her husband and shook her head. “We purchased this place a few months ago. It’s our first season here. I…I don’t think he has any friends, yet.”
Hedrick Stensgaard cleared his throat and lay his hand across his wife’s. “He’s a boy, Martha. He has friends—” He glanced up at Tom. “—but no good friends, you understand.”
Tom nodded and put his hand on the back of one of the kitchen chairs.
Hedrick followed his motion and nodded his head. “Please have a seat. I don’t know where our manners are tonight.”
“Don’t worry about it. This is a time of crisis for you.” Tom sank into a chair and looked up at the distraught couple. “Mr. Stensgaard—”
“Hedy, please.”
Tom nodded to indicate that he heard him. “—you mentioned that the boy has a few friends, at least. So, you’ve seen him playing with other kids? Perhaps houses up and down the shore?”
Hedy shrugged. “I recognized none of them, but I assume they're from nearby.”
Tom swiveled in his seat and cast a glance at Gary, who nodded and left the room. “We’ll get right on that. At least then we can rule out that he’s not two houses away eating dinner with his new friends.”
Hedy nodded, but Martha looked at her lap, and her shoulders hitched.
“My officers already asked you these questions, but if you don’t mind answering them again, it will help my process. When was the last time you saw your son?”
“His name is Stellan,” murmured Martha.
“He went out to play after lunch. For a while, he was out back—down by the lake.”
“And when was the last time you saw Stellan down by the lake?”
The Stensgaards glanced at each other. “I looked out at around one thirty, I guess,” said Hedy.
“I saw him closer to two,” said Martha. “He had moved down the shore a little, toward the head of the lake.”
“And what was he doing?”
“He was… It was as if he had a toy boat with him or something, that he was floating in the lake. You know, as if he were pushing it along and watching it move.”
“Okay. Stellan walked or ran?”
Martha shrugged. “A little of both, I guess.”
“You said it was as if he had a boat in the water. Did you see the boat?”
“Well, I don’t guess I saw whatever it was, but—”
“Maybe it was a leaf or stick,” said Hedy. “He’s young for his age.”
Tom nodded and glanced around the small kitchen. As in most lake houses, space was at a premium, and the builders did the best they could with what they had. Even so, the small kitchen wasn’t cluttered, and despite the upsets of the day, it was clean. “And neither of you saw him after he ran off toward the head of the lake?”
Again, the Stensgaa
rds looked at one another before looking at Tom and shaking their heads.
“Okay, that’s that. Had you… Did Stellan get into trouble earlier today?”
Martha shook her head. “For the most part, he’s a good boy.”
“I’m sure he is. Hedy?”
Hedrick started and looked up from his lap. “We had words in the morning. But it was nothing serious.” He shrugged almost bashfully. “Slamming the door.”
Tom nodded. “I have kids of my own. Sometimes, kids get in trouble and run off for a while.”
“You don’t think…” Hedy’s face had gone an ashen gray.
“No, I don’t. I’m not here to judge, Hedy, and as I said, I have kids of my own. I’ve been out in the woods with darkness falling looking for a little girl who’s mad at me for taking away privileges. That wasn’t my fault, and this isn’t yours, even if he ran away over the scolding.”
“That’s right, Hedy,” said Martha in a quiet voice.
“But if—”
“No.” That was all Martha said, one single word, but she said it as if speaking it closed any discussion that Hedy was to blame.
“And slamming the door, I imagine you weren’t too stern?”
Hedy glanced at Martha but shook his head. “Words.”
Tom nodded. “We talked about friends, and we’ve talked about reasons he could be angry. Is there anything either of you can think of—anything at all—that might have upset or depressed Stellan?”
Martha’s eyes opened wide, and in them, Tom could see her terror. He held up his hands, palms out. “Upset enough to run off. That’s all I meant. It’s important, based on my experience with this kind of thing, that you try to keep a tight rein on both your emotions and your imaginations.”
Hedy nodded and patted Martha on the shoulder. It was almost…platonic.
“Have there been… The sheriff’s boat… I thought I heard something about another child on the radio during lunch. But we turned it off so Stellan wouldn’t hear.”
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