In the Dark of the Night

by John Saul

  “Then I’ll hold it for you,” Carol said. “See you soon.”

  Merrill stepped out onto Main Street, and now Phantom Lake didn’t seem quite as delightful as it had only a few minutes earlier.

  How could her friends not have told her what Carol Langstrom just had?

  And how was she going to stay in a house where who-knows-what took place?

  She walked quickly back to the car, foregoing the candles, already organizing her predeparture packing in her head.

  Then, as she started the car, she realized that neither she nor any of her family were going anywhere. They were going to be at Pinecrest for the summer, and no matter what Carol Langstrom had told her—or how she had let her imagination run away with her—she was once more looking for trouble where there was none.

  She was being stupid, she told herself, and it had to stop. Right here, and right now.

  “Mom?” Marci said as they started back to The Pines. “Do you think Dr. Darby was really murdered in our house?”

  “Of course not, honey,” Merrill said. “And I’m sorry you heard what Mrs. Langstrom said. Nobody knows what happened to him. It was a long time ago, and it’s certainly nothing you need to worry about.”

  And if he had been murdered in the house, Merrill thought, we wouldn’t tell you, because then you’d be afraid, and you’d have nightmares.

  Which, she realized, was exactly why nobody had told her about the history of Pinecrest.

  But now it was too late. Marci would be having nightmares.

  And she wouldn’t be the only one.

  DAN BREWSTER KNELT on the concrete apron in the boathouse, leaned awkwardly over the old outboard engine, bracing himself with one hand while clutching a rusty screwdriver in the other, and twisted the set screw on the choke a quarter of a turn. “Try that.”

  Eric pumped the bulb on the hose that led from the three-gallon gas tank under the seat to the motor, then gripped the starter cord and pulled hard.

  The ancient motor coughed out a plume of blue smoke, putted a couple of times, then died, leaving Dan coughing and choking. “Almost,” he gasped as the smoke cleared. “Choke it a little, try it again, and if it catches, give it just a little gas.”

  Eric adjusted the choke and gave another pull. The little engine caught on the second try and began a tentative putt. Very carefully, Eric twisted the grip on the handle; the engine raced for a second, then threatened to die again. He quickly backed off on the throttle, and the engine coughed, then settled into an uncertain, irregular putting.

  The motor was running, albeit roughly, and a great plume of exhaust was rising from the boat’s stern and quickly filling the boathouse.

  “Not bad for a lawyer who flunked auto shop, huh?” Dan crowed, rolling back on his heels and holding up his hand in a clumsy attempt at a high-five. Eric managed to make his own palm meet his father’s, then sat on the small seat at the boat’s stern and began adjusting the choke and the throttle until finally the engine warmed up enough to settle into a smooth—and almost smokeless—idle.

  “Let’s take ’er out for a spin,” Dan said. “Blow some of the carbon out of the cylinders.”

  Eric replaced the cover on the outboard. “Do we have time to fish?”

  Dan checked his watch. “Don’t see why not, at least for an hour or so.” He scanned the boathouse, but the only fishing rod he saw was covered with cobwebs, and even from where he stood, he could see that the reel was corroded to the point of uselessness. “Why don’t you check the garage for tackle? I’ll take a look in the basement of the house.” He cocked his head, gazing uncertainly at the boat. “Think we can risk shutting that thing off?”

  “It’s all warmed up,” Eric replied. “It’ll be fine.”

  Eric shut off the motor, climbed out of the boat, and headed toward the garage while his father started up the lawn toward the house. But even as he approached the old carriage house, he glanced back at the boathouse, still barely able to believe they’d actually managed to fix the old engine.

  The boat—the running boat—meant freedom. Eric didn’t have a car, nor was he old enough to drive one even if he did, but he knew that no license was required to drive a boat, which meant he could go to town—or anywhere else on the lake—whenever he wanted.

  He could go to the dances at the pavilion that Cherie had told him about, without having to either walk or—worse—have his mother drop him off or pick him up. The boat might not be as nice or as fast as the one Adam Mosler had been in, but if he cleaned it up, it wouldn’t be half bad. And already he could see Cherie Stevens sitting in the bow, her hair blowing in the wind as he took her out for a twilight ride.

  The image still bright in his head, Eric turned back to the carriage house. One of the garage doors stood open, and he stepped into the gloom of its interior, snapped on the bare lightbulb that hung from one of the rafters, and looked around for any sign of fishing rods. All he found, though, were some old jumper cables hanging from a nail, an old hydraulic jack whose orange paint was all but gone, and a collection of fan belts and old inner tubes that he was sure wouldn’t go on any car built in the last forty years.

  There was also a coiled, but rotting, water hose and some old lawn tools.

  But the garage was only a small part of the old carriage house, and Eric shut off the overhead light, closed the door, and began exploring. On the side of the structure that faced away from the house, he found several doors, one of which opened onto a small foyer at the bottom of stairs that led to the old grooms’ quarters above. Another door led into what must have once been a stable with enough stalls for half a dozen horses, but the stalls had long since been converted to other uses. At the back was the former tack room, still with a few old bits and bridles hanging on its walls. There was a long workbench backed by a pegboard full of tools, but still no sign of fishing tackle.

  He moved on, coming to another door. Pulling it open, he found a room filled with a jumble of old furniture and boxes that looked as if they were about ready to split open.

  He stepped into the room, gazing at the furniture. He could tell that some of the pieces were old—there was a mahogany table with a deep patina that told him it was at least a hundred years old, but some, like a chest whose white paint was chipped and stained, didn’t appear all that old, and looked like it must have been junk even when it was new.

  But what was it doing in here? Some of the furniture looked like it belonged in the house, but what about the rest? The stuff like the white chest?

  Could it have been hauled down from upstairs, where the grooms used to live?

  Moving slowly through the room, Eric let his hands brush over the pieces, his fingers almost tingling as they touched the surfaces. Most of them felt just like what they were—old wood. But some of them—

  “Eric!” His dad’s voice jerked him out of his reverie, and even through the walls of the carriage house he could hear that his father was angry.

  “Coming,” he yelled, his voice echoing oddly in the small room, though furniture and boxes crowded the floor. He quickly threaded his way out, closed the storeroom door behind him, and left the building, closing the outer door as well.

  His father was standing in the driveway, a tackle box in one hand, two rods in the other. “Where have you been?” he demanded.

  Eric cocked his head. “Looking for tackle,” he said.

  His father snorted. “It was in the basement—I found it half an hour ago. And I’ve been yelling for you ever since! Have you suddenly gone deaf?”

  “Half an hour?” Eric echoed, staring at his father in disbelief. “I just went in there a couple minutes ago—”

  “It wasn’t a couple of minutes ago. It was—” He raised his wrist and looked pointedly at his watch. “—exactly thirty-two minutes ago. And Jeff Newell just called. They’re going to be here in less than an hour, so if we’re going to take that boat out, we’ve got to do it and get back so I can start the barbecue.”

  “I’
m sorry,” Eric said, his head suddenly swimming. “I can’t believe I was in there—”

  “Daydreaming!” his father finished for him. “So if we’re going, let’s go. Come on.”

  Eric took the poles from his father and followed him down to the boathouse. Half an hour? He’d been in that storeroom for half an hour? It didn’t seem possible.

  Dan stepped into the boat, set the tackle box on the middle seat, laid the rods on the floor, then sat in the bow. A moment later Eric had settled in the stern.

  The motor started on the first pull, and as Eric released the stern line from its cleat, his father untied the bow line. Putting the engine in gear, Eric nosed the little skiff out of the boathouse.

  As his father opened the tackle box and began searching through the jumble of hooks, lures, and sinkers inside, Eric headed onto the lake, but found himself turning to look back at the old carriage house.

  Half an hour? He’d been inside for half an hour?

  Even now it seemed he hadn’t been in the place more than five minutes. Ten at the most. He’d taken a quick look in the garage and the workshop—it couldn’t have taken more than two minutes. Then he’d gone into the storeroom and—

  —and suddenly he couldn’t quite remember what he’d been doing. Just looking at stuff.

  And touching some of it.

  The fingers of his right hand tingled slightly at the memory of it.

  But that was all.

  And it had been only a few minutes—he felt sure!

  Except that now, as he gazed at the carriage house that was growing smaller as they motored out onto the lake, he wasn’t so sure.

  A moment later the building disappeared behind a screen of trees, and his father’s voice once again pulled him out of his reverie.

  “She’s running fine,” Dan said. “Why don’t we hook up a couple of lures?”

  But even as he began fishing, Eric’s mind was still on the storeroom in the carriage house. Kent and Tad would be here soon, and maybe after dinner tonight he’d take them down there.

  Suddenly, the idea of exploring the storeroom and finding out exactly what might be inside it was far more exciting than fishing.

  With fishing, all he’d get was the occasional trout or bass or muskie.

  But in that strange storeroom, there was no telling what he might find.

  ELLIS LANGSTROM DROPPED the last weed in the bucket, rubbed his aching shoulders, and finally stood up to assess his afternoon’s work. The entire border of flowers around the Islers’ summer house was weed free, the soil dark with fertilizer, and the flowers—whatever they were, which Ellis neither knew nor cared to know—actually seemed to be a few shades brighter now that there were no weeds around them.

  More to the point, Mrs. Henderson would be happy, and so would the Islers, when they arrived tomorrow.

  The yard cleanup had been a bigger job than he’d thought, and now he tried to stretch the pain out of his back as he searched for anything he might have forgotten.

  There didn’t seem to be anything—the place looked great, and even Rita Henderson would have to admit it.

  Ellis pulled off his gloves and tossed them into the bucket on top of the weeds just as Adam Mosler—stripped to the waist and streaked with sweat and dust—came around the corner of the house, using a filthy bandanna to wipe a smear of dirt from one cheek. The bandanna only made the smear worse.

  “It’s raked,” Adam stated, sounding more resentful about having had to remove the mown grass from the front lawn than pleased to have finished the job. “Are you done?” He scanned the patio area disinterestedly. “’Cause even if you’re not, I am.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Ellis said, then realized the sarcasm would be lost on Adam. “Yeah, I think it’s done.”

  “Yeah, well, you owe me.”

  “Hey, it’s not like no one’s paying you.”

  “There’s still about ten million better things to do. I feel like a pig.”

  “Look like one, too,” Ellis observed archly as he dropped down onto the cool grass and stretched out, feeling his aching muscles finally beginning to relax.

  “Hey, check that out.”

  Ellis sat up and followed Adam’s gaze, but saw nothing but two people fishing a few hundred yards offshore. “What?”

  “That piece-of-crap tin boat? That’s the one from Pinecrest. And that’s the conehead from Pinecrest in it. What a prick.”

  Ellis shook his head. “You think all the summer people are pricks. Just because you thought he wasn’t going to pick up his dog’s—”

  “He wasn’t!” Adam flared. “And he was hitting on Cherie Stevens right in front of me.”

  Ellis frowned. “Right in front of you? Okay, that’s not cool. Definitely not cool.”

  Adam scowled, spat at the ground, then glowered out at the tiny boat in the middle of the lake. “His buddies arrive today. I remember them. They’re all pricks.”

  “C’mon, Adam,” Ellis sighed. “Get real—they’re not all pricks. My mom says—”

  “You watch,” Adam cut in. “Those three guys are going to hit on all the girls. And guess what? Just because they’re rich summer kids who live at The ritzy-titzy Pines, they’re going to get ’em!”

  “Says you,” Ellis snorted.

  “Yeah, says me!” Adam shot back. “You should have seen Cherie—she was climbing all over herself inviting that jerk to the pavilion dances.”

  Ellis finally turned to face Adam, grinning. “Oh, really? I thought she was going with you.”

  “I thought so, too,” Adam said, suddenly wishing he hadn’t told Ellis that Cherie had practically dumped him. His eyes shifted back to the boat that was bobbing gently on the water. “If it wasn’t for that prick—”

  “Hey,” Ellis cut in, seeing Adam’s expression starting to darken into an ugly rage, which always wound up leading to some kind of trouble. “Come on. Let’s go get cleaned up.”

  But Adam wasn’t listening to him, his eyes still fixed on the boat. “I’ll tell you one thing,” he said, his voice so low that Ellis wasn’t sure Adam was talking to him at all. “If I catch him alone somewhere, he’s as good as dead.” Finally, he turned and looked Ellis straight in the eye. “Think I’m kidding?” he asked. “Well, I’m not. I’m not kidding at all.”

  ERIC FED A little bit more line off his reel, feeling the spoon he was trolling drop a few inches in the water. The sun was low in the sky, fish were feeding near the surface, and he could almost feel a strike coming. Slowly, he began to wind the reel, bringing the lure in, drawing it closer to the surface.

  And then his neck began to crawl, almost as if something was about to touch him.

  Or was staring at him.

  He turned around, half expecting to see another boat a few yards away—or even closer—but there was nothing. Then he saw two people on one of the lawns a few houses down from Pinecrest.

  One of them sat with his arms around his knees; the other one stood with his legs apart and his arms crossed over his chest.

  And both of them were staring directly at the boat.

  At him.

  But that was stupid—they were too far away for him even to tell exactly in what direction they were looking—they could have been looking at anything. Another boat, or a bird, or—

  But there weren’t any other boats on the lake, and when he scanned the sky, there were no birds, either.

  And he still had that crawly feeling.

  He turned his attention back to his rod and reel, slowly drawing his lure closer to the boat, but the strange sensation on the back of his neck didn’t ease up.

  He turned again, and this time he recognized the one who was standing.

  Adam. Adam Mosler.

  He recalled the scene from his first night at Pinecrest, when Adam Mosler and Cherie Stevens had turned up at the dock. Adam had been pissed off, and now, as Adam kept staring at him, Eric knew that he hadn’t gotten over it.

  And suddenly he had a bad feeling ab
out Mosler—a really bad feeling. He began winding the reel faster, and a few seconds later the lure broke through the surface of the water and glittered in the afternoon sunlight. Just as Eric raised the rod higher to swing the lure over the boat, a trout leaped, snapped at one of the lure’s bare hooks, missed, and dropped back into the water.

  “Fly fishing with a spoon,” his father said. “Don’t think I’ve seen that one before. Then, as Eric laid his rod on the floorboards of the boat, he began reeling in his own line. “Ready to go back?”

  Eric nodded, took the handle of the outboard, and made a sweeping turn toward home.

  He’d talk to Kent and Tad about this Adam guy—maybe they knew the story on him.

  He gunned the engine, and as the bow lifted and the skiff struggled to reach the plane, he glanced once again at the lawn where the two boys had been.

  It was empty.

  But the hatred Eric had felt emanating from Adam Mosler still remained.

  ASHLEY SPARKS GAZED dolefully at the enormous pile of cooked, peeled, and cubed potatoes that threatened to overflow onto the floor at any moment. “Merrill, do you have a bowl for the potato salad? Or can I just chuck it all in the trash and take everyone out for dinner?”

  “In the lower cabinet to your left.” Merrill pointed with the knife she was using to chop celery. “And no, you can’t throw it out. The worst is over—all you have to do now is add the good stuff.”

  “Oh, come on, Merrill,” Ellen Newell put in as she unwrapped the butcher paper from a dozen thick steaks and arranged them on a platter. “Ashley doesn’t cook—she shops.” Then, as Ashley tried to muster up a dirty look—and failed—Ellen gazed enviously around Pinecrest’s huge kitchen. “Too bad we aren’t all living in this place,” she said. “I can’t believe how huge it is.”

  Merrill glanced out to the terrace, where her friends’ husbands were drinking beer while her own poked at smoldering coals in the barbecue. “Marci, would you take the meat out to your father?”

  Marci finished drinking her lemonade, set the empty glass in the sink, then took the platter from Ellen.