Lake Silence

by Anne Bishop

  “That is good news.” Ineke studied me. “Why aren’t you happier?”

  “I explained, twice, that The Jumble is a rustic getaway and that outside of me providing some fruit and pastries for breakfast, guests are responsible for their own meals, even if they rent the suites in the main house.”

  “Very smart.”

  Considering my cooking skills, it was more than smart. Although, since my cooking skills were pretty much in the range of making salads, heating up soup, and putting together a sandwich, I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do with the big kitchen garden that Aggie and the boys thought I should restore to provide food for The Jumble’s residents. Then again, if I put in enough carrots, maybe I could trade with Ineke, becoming her carrot supplier in exchange for cooked food. What I knew for certain was that I had to arrange for some trees to be harvested for firewood, both for my own use and to sell. And the kitchen garden and the orchard had to be restored, whether or not I prepared any meals for anyone but myself. I’d been so focused on getting the house and the first three cabins renovated that I only had a vague idea of what I, as the caretaker of a terra indigene settlement, should be doing with the land. Of course, no one had told me the true nature of The Jumble, so I should be excused for thinking of leaky roofs before food.

  “What are you thinking?” Ineke asked.

  “Are we still doing the trail ride beach party tomorrow?”

  “Yes. We need to try it out before offering it to guests. Besides, this might be the last quiet day I have for the rest of the season.”

  “Then I think I should go home and get ready for my guests. Or maybe I should sit on the porch and read for the rest of the day and let everything sort itself out.”

  “Clean sheets don’t automatically appear on beds or clean towels in the bathrooms. So you’re going to go home and get ready for your guests, just like I’ll be doing.”

  “You have guests coming in?”

  “A man and his wife who wanted time away from the city. Or so she said.”

  “Which city?”

  “That she didn’t say. But they’re also coming for a full four days. My rooms fill up in the summer—and even after the things that happened last year, people who have stayed with me in previous years have been calling to make reservations for a little getaway—so I made sure the wife understood that she was lucky to get a reservation when she called so close to the date she wanted. Oh, just so you know, I have a three-day minimum for my rooms during the summer and fall. You might want to do something similar for your cabins and suites since most people stay for at least a weekend if they’re going to drive or take a train here. Besides, you never intended to be an overnight billet like a motel.”

  “Good point. That’s something I’ll do for future guests.”

  “It’s better for us to be a unified front in that regard.” Ineke smiled. “So we’ll have our trail ride beach party tomorrow, which will be fun and should keep you from fretting about the guests on Firesday. It will be our trial run since Julian and Grimshaw will be playing the part of our potential guests.”

  Julian and Grimshaw, who were already acting weird. Goody. “So it’s the two of them plus you, me, and Paige . . .”

  “And Hector, since he’s coming along to tend the horses and get a free lunch.”

  I pushed away from the table. “I have to go.”

  “Going to tidy up?” Ineke asked.

  “I am.” And the first bit of tidying I was going to do was hide the Murder game.

  CHAPTER 39

  Grimshaw

  Windsday, Juin 28

  Grimshaw studied the OUT TO LUNCH, BACK IN ONE HOUR sign on Lettuce Reed’s locked front door. Then he walked down the driveway to the small parking lot behind the building. Julian’s car was there, so even if Julian was having lunch, he hadn’t gone far. And it wasn’t likely he’d gone anywhere since the windows were open and Grimshaw could hear at least one fan running to battle the heat and humidity. The storm hadn’t brought cooler or drier air; if anything it was even hotter and stickier. Oppressive.

  Unnatural? Would that be an appropriate word if the terra indigene were manipulating the weather for their own purpose? If they did play with the weather, would they take a request for a blast of northern air to knock down the wet heat for a few days?

  Natural or unnatural, this weather had meant more work for him, not only dealing with storm damage around Sproing but also dealing with the incidents that had happened to people who should have known better, even if they were youngsters. He appreciated that the public beach was crowded, and the portable potties were being overused to the point where the smell knocked a man back a couple of steps when he opened the door. So he understood the mutters and resentment about being kept away from Lake Silence’s other beach now that it was, once again, unquestionably private property. He understood why some of the teenage boys tried to sneak into The Jumble and make use of the beach. And he had to admit—just not out loud—that while he wasn’t looking forward to tomorrow’s trail ride except as a way to get a better sense of the land around Sproing and within The Jumble itself, he was looking forward to spending some time on The Jumble’s beach and in cool water that wasn’t so crowded with other people that you felt like a sardine in a can.

  While he wasn’t going to turn a blind eye to trespassing, the incidents were ranging from the ridiculous to the serious. Moonsday night, Osgood had brought in a kid who had been running down the road buck naked and almost dove through the cruiser’s open window in an effort to get away from the clawed monster that had ripped off his swim trunks while trying to catch him. Oh, the kid had scratches on his ass that proved something had tried to grab him after he’d gone swimming at The Jumble. The identity of the attacker came the following morning when Vicki DeVine brought in a pair of torn swim trunks and said that, according to Aggie Crowe, one of the Owlgard had grabbed the trunks while trying to get to the wiggly mouse inside. The boy made some noises about suing for injuries—apparently he’d been watching too many cop shows and not enough of the news reports about the terra indigene—but after Grimshaw impressed on the kid what could have happened if the Owl had managed to get its talons on the “wiggly mouse” while the kid was knowingly trespassing, the opinion of all concerned was that the scratches were sufficient punishment for a first-time trespasser but being caught a second time would mean a minimum of three nights in jail—if the kid got out of The Jumble alive.

  When the father picked up his son, he, at least, understood that the three nights in jail would be more for the boy’s protection than a punishment, because an Owl was one thing; the other hunters in The Jumble were something else.

  First thing this morning, three teenagers came into the station, admitting that they had ignored the after-dark curfew and had gone for a swim at The Jumble the previous night. They swore they’d heard voices—angry female voices that were so close the females must have been in the water too, giving the boys a reason to scramble out and go home. The words? Something about a monkey, which was an animal that lived in Afrikah. So that made no sense. Either the boys hadn’t heard what was said or they were too scared to repeat what they’d really heard.

  It didn’t matter to Grimshaw what was said. What mattered was the gut-level belief that warnings had been issued. From now on, anyone trespassing at The Jumble wouldn’t be so lucky to get away with a few scratches on his ass or hearing weird voices. And he and Osgood would be filling out Deceased, Location Unknown forms instead of incident reports.

  Which was something he wanted to discuss with Julian Farrow.

  He raised a fist to whack the door, then thought about the OUT TO LUNCH sign and walked over to Come and Get It. He ordered two of the sandwich specials and returned to the bookstore a few minutes later. Then he whacked on the door.

  Julian stared at him through the glass for what felt like minutes before unlocking the door a
nd letting him in.

  The man looked like he hadn’t slept in a couple of days. Or shaved. Since the clothes were clean and he didn’t smell, Grimshaw figured Julian had at least gone home long enough to shower and change.

  “I brought lunch.” He held up the carry bag from the diner.

  Julian led him to the back room that served as an office and break room. Grimshaw unpacked the carry bag and wondered where to set the food since most of the table was covered with an enhanced version of the Murder game.

  Leaving the food, Grimshaw studied the game and the little figures scattered throughout the rooms and outdoor areas. He knew from Pops Davies that Julian had bought the game and as many different sets of little figures as Pops had available. The people weren’t quite the same as the figures in the set Vicki DeVine had. For one thing, the police officer had brown skin and black hair like Osgood and the figure that had been teeny Vicki was now a long-haired redhead. No, wait. There was a figure with shorter brown hair standing next to an upright athletic sock that had a face drawn on a square of paper that was attached with a safety pin.

  “That’s your Fuzzy Sock Elder?” Grimshaw asked.

  Julian moved to the other side of the table. It wasn’t casual enough to be anything but a man trying to put something between himself and a potential adversary, which Grimshaw found disturbing in too many ways.

  “My great-grandfather’s brother on my mother’s side,” Julian said. “He could sense a place. Worked construction, building houses mostly. The work took him beyond Intuit villages, but he was good and was hired on whenever he wanted the work. The company was scheduled to build a rich man’s house, and when the uncle saw the land, he went to the foreman and told him it wasn’t a good place, that the land was weak there and couldn’t support the house. He pointed out a couple of other locations on the property where the house could be built safely, but the owner and the architect were firm about wanting the house to be built on the spot they’d chosen. He insisted that location would only bring darkness and sorrow to the family. He refused to work on the house, so he was assigned to the crew who built the barn and other outbuildings.

  “The house was built. A month after it was completed, a sinkhole opened up and swallowed the house. The edges of the hole kept collapsing, so within hours, the house was buried under so much earth there was no way to save the man’s family.”

  Grimshaw felt a bead of sweat trickle down his spine. “What happened?”

  “People said the uncle had cursed the man and that was why the ground opened up and swallowed the house and family. One night a mob came to the uncle’s house. They dragged him out of bed and hanged him, and when his pregnant wife ran out and pleaded with them to stop, they beat her so badly she and the baby died.” Julian stared at Grimshaw. “A family story, told as a warning of what can happen to us when we tell people who aren’t Intuits what we sense.”

  That explained a few things about Julian Farrow.

  Not knowing what to say, Grimshaw pointed to the game. “Have you figured out anything from that?”

  “I figured out that the reason I had so much trouble playing this game in the past is because the game board represented a place without being a place. So I was trying to sense something that didn’t have enough markers—like trying to breathe in the scent of a rose by smelling a photograph of one. But this?” Julian waved a hand over the board with its additional woods and blue-paper lake. “That’s close enough to act like a model for The Jumble.”

  “Do you think the same thing would happen with a model of a place you didn’t know?” Could an Intuit look at a model of a village and sense a coming storm or a human-made problem like a bank robbery? Considering the story Julian had just told him, convincing Intuits to participate in such an experiment would take a lot of persuasion.

  “I don’t know,” Julian replied. “We usually have a feel for the place where we live and the people around us. And unlike the blood prophets, who can see the future, what Intuits sense is immediate most of the time.”

  A thought for another day. “So what have you figured out about The Jumble?” He noticed a figure that could be teeny Julian standing two squares into the water and several other figures in the space between the “lake” and the house. “You’re okay with your piece being in the water now?”

  Julian paled, making the dark smudges under his eyes more pronounced, but he nodded. “If Vicki is around The Jumble, the water feels safe.”

  “And if she’s not around?” Grimshaw picked up teeny Vicki and set her beyond the playing area.

  Julian seemed to be fighting some impulse, but after a few seconds, he grabbed teeny Julian and placed him in the kitchen on the game board. His breathing sounded labored.

  Worried that Julian would need an emergency trip to the doctor’s, Grimshaw set teeny Vicki in one of the wooded areas near a bear that was twice her size.

  Julian’s breathing returned to normal. “Sorry. I’ve been working through scenarios since yesterday. Guess I need a break.”

  “Sounds like a good idea.” He looked at the little figures that were scattered around the board and the few that were out-of-bounds. “Last question.” He picked up the businessman who had been out-of-bounds and set it right in front of teeny Vicki.

  Julian’s reaction was instantaneous. He jerked away from the table and shouted, “No!”

  Grimshaw took the businessman off the board. “That’s the trigger, isn’t it? That’s what set you off when we played the game the other night.” Concerned about his friend, he moved around the table but stopped when Julian stumbled away from him, blind panic in the gray eyes.

  “It’s all right,” Grimshaw said quietly. “Julian? It’s Wayne. You’re safe here. We’re safe here.” He pulled a chair away from the table. “Come on. Sit down before you fall down. You can’t help them if you can’t think clearly. Come on, Julian. Sit down.”

  Julian reached for the chair and fell into it. Grimshaw slipped the businessman figure into his pocket, poured glasses of water, and handed one to Julian.

  “Yeah,” Julian said after drinking the water. “That’s the trigger.”

  “How many times did you test that while you were here alone?”

  Julian hesitated. “I got used to working alone.”

  “Well, wrap your mind around the idea of working as part of a team,” Grimshaw snapped. Coming from him, that was almost funny, but he didn’t remember Julian being this spooked when he sensed something during their time at the academy or when they were working the streets together at the beginning of their careers. Then again, he didn’t know how many times Julian had played out this scenario and had to work through his reaction on his own.

  Wanting to think about something else, he focused on the sock and cocked a thumb in its direction. “The Crow did a better job.”

  Julian made a hand gesture that expressed his opinion quite clearly, then said, “Did you bring anything good for lunch?”

  “I did.” He fetched the covered plates and placed them on the two narrow strips of table that weren’t covered by the game. He concentrated on eating for several minutes, glad to have the silence. As they finished the meal, he asked, “You still coming out for the trail ride and beach thing tomorrow?”

  Julian nodded. “I did the trail ride wine tour when I first came to Sproing. It was . . . interesting.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Grimshaw collected the dishes and put them back in the carry bag. “I’ll walk these over to the diner. See you tomorrow.”

  As he turned to go, Julian said, “Wayne? I think you still have a piece from the game.”

  “Yes, I do. I’m going to keep it for a while.” He walked out, too aware of the teeny businessman in his pocket.

  CHAPTER 40

  Vicki

  Thaisday, Juin 29

  The morning of the trail ride beach party, I walke
d out of the laundry room and found a pony in the kitchen. To be precise, I found a pony with his head in the fridge, rummaging around. I wasn’t sure if he was really looking for something or just enjoying the cold air that was wafting out of the fridge, but I realized the tried-and-true phrase “Were you born in a barn?” wasn’t going to convey what I wanted it to convey.

  I hurried around the table, giving myself plenty of distance from his back end, then skidded a little on some water. Gods, I hadn’t been out of the kitchen long enough for the fridge to start defrosting from the heat, but where else could the water have come from?

  Looking at the pony’s tail, I chose not to contemplate the alternate answer to that question.

  “Hey,” I said sharply.

  The pony pulled his head out of the fridge, a bunch of carrots dangling from his mouth.

  He was a small white pony with a barrel-shaped body and chubby legs, and clompy hooves the size of dinner plates. Okay, they weren’t that big, but I was wearing sandals and felt a little nervous about anyone who could stomp on my toes, intentionally or otherwise. Once I got over the surprise of finding a pony in the kitchen and stopped wondering if Hector or Horace had brought him over early for some reason, I started to wonder about the color of the pony’s mane and tail. They were aquamarine, a lovely shade of greenish blue, with streaks of stormy gray. I wanted to believe there was some colored glass in the kitchen somewhere that was coloring those bits of him, but I knew there wasn’t any colored glass. Maybe someone dyed the mane and tail? Not likely.

  Which meant that whatever he was, he wasn’t quite what he seemed. Which meant I should do the neighborly thing and let him have a carrot.