They walked on in silence for another twenty seconds. Joe glanced to her several times, taking her in as much as he could without being too obvious.
“That’s me,” Valerie said, pointing to a grove within the trees ahead. A pick-up truck sat parked in the driveway of a cabin that was a bit smaller than the one Joe was staying in.
“You calling it a day?” Joe asked.
“Yeah. Dad is going to take me out on the lake tomorrow. He’s going to try to teach me how to ski. He wants to get started early. Also, if he saw me out here talking to a strange boy, he’d kill you first and make me watch. Then he’d kill me.”
“My parents are the same way,” he said even though, in all honesty, they weren’t.
She nodded and they looked at one another, letting an uncomfortable silence grow between them. It was awkward, but Joe relished every minute of it.
“So what are you doing after skiing tomorrow?” Joe asked.
“Nothing that I know of. If the stupid Orioles are playing tomorrow, Dad will probably watch. Which means I’ll be out walking or something.”
“Want some company?” The boldness of the question shocked him and when it was out, his mouth snapped shut quickly.
Did I seriously just ask her that?
He barely caught the flicker of a smile on her face. She then shrugged and said, “Sure. That could be cool. How about three o’ clock? Meet me where you fell off your bike.”
“I didn’t fall. I was…distracted.”
Again, that smile. It killed Joe in the most glorious way.
This time the smile stayed on her face. Joe felt a surge of heat rocket through him and he wondered if he was blushing. Before giving himself enough time to become a stupid stuttering mess, he smiled back and turned his bike around, headed back towards his cabin.
“See you then,” he said.
“Bye, Joe from New York” she called back.
Joe took one look over his shoulder and saw that Valerie had a little bob in her step as she walked towards the driveway she had pointed to moments ago. He then turned back around and started to pick up speed again, pedaling with a new energy in his legs. Moments later, he took a wide swooping turn around the branch in the road that he had struck earlier.
He grinned as he passed the stray branch. Without that branch’s interference, he may have never spoken to Valerie. Sure, his left hand was hurting like hell—a stark reminder of his clumsiness—but it was worth it.
Joe drove on, recalling Valerie’s face to his mind at least once every ten seconds. He had never been one to develop fast crushes but he knew almost at once that it was happening to him now.
It was a little alarming, but he welcomed it all the same. Without Ricky Marshall and his friends from back home to ridicule him or make slanderous and dirty jokes about him, it felt safe. With a smile on his face, Joe pedaled leisurely back to his cabin, catching glimpses of the afternoon sun on the lake as he blazed by the trees.
NINE
As dusk started to settle on Clarkton Lake, a small fishing boat slowly crept out towards the center of the lake’s southernmost tip. It was an unremarkable little aluminum boat, pushed along by its only occupant, a twenty-three year old local named Brett Yates. He rowed the boat with precision, as he had done four days a week for the last two months, towards his favorite spot.
When he reached his spot, he brought the paddles in and tossed out his small anchor. He watched the chain spool out link by link until it stopped. The water here was about twenty feet deep. He had gone through this so many times that he had come to anticipate when the anchor would hit. He nodded to the chain at the exact moment it stopped unspooling.
Brett took off his shirt and sat it on the little boat’s rear seat. On the other rear seat there was a towel and a bottle of water. He opened the water and took a sip as he looked out to the water. A little more than two hundred yards in front of him there was a small bank. He kept his eyes on the sand and the trees over there as he arched his back. Then, with a motion that felt almost mechanical, he took a single step to the front of the boat and leaped into the water in a perfect dive.
He came up right away and swam for the bank two hundred yards ahead.
Some people liked to run. It was summer now and Brett had already seen several clueless tourists jogging down the trails that wound around the lake. They were sweating, huffing and puffing to get over the next hill so they could get back to their rented houses and cabins to put salves and lotions on their newly acquired bug bites.
But Brett preferred to swim. He had always enjoyed swimming as far back as he could remember. His mother had once joked that when he was a baby, it was impossible to get him out of the tub. He had always liked the water.
He’d never joined a team—not in high school (not that his backwoods high school had offered a swimming team) and not during the two years of college that he still considered a waste of his time. He had never seen the point in joining a team. To him, swimming was relaxing. It no longer even felt like exercise to Brett. He did it now because he enjoyed it and he knew that it kept his body in superb shape. He hadn’t bedded many women but the handful that he had slept with had all commented on his body, asking if he worked out.
No, he would always say. I just swim.
He thought about those women as he made his way swiftly to the bank. Maybe he’d head out to The Wharf tonight to see if he could get lucky. It was a gorgeous afternoon and the water was at an absolute perfect temperature. He was in a great mood, and it only improved with each stroke.
He swam with the mechanics and speed of someone training for the Olympics. He was oblivious to everything as he reached the bank, dug his feet into the murky bottom, and then kicked back off towards the boat.
He’d started this routine two months back, a little sooner than most people usually preferred to go back out into the lake after the chill of spring. The water had been very brisk then, but not too cold. Brett liked it that way; he felt like he knew the lake better than anyone, feeling the changes in its temperature every couple of days.
He approached his boat, tapped the side, and pushed off, headed back to the bank again. He would go two more times before ending his session—three, if he started to get that pleasant little burn in his lungs and shoulders. He liked pushing himself. It made him stronger, built up his endurance.
He glanced ahead as he sliced through the water. The bank was drawing close, its trees darkening as dusk slowly pulled in the night. He lowered his head and swam on.
In mid-stroke, he felt something brush along his stomach. It was soft and brief, but it had been enough to startle him. He stopped swimming to allow his nerves to settle and looked around for signs of the brave little fish that had wanted to join him for a swim.
Not seeing any sign of it, Brett stretched back out and picked up the pace again.
He made it a few yard ahead before he felt something at his leg.
He thought it was the same fish again and almost smiled at the idea. But before a smile could touch his lips, he felt pressure on his leg as something grabbed him and pulled him down.
He cried out once, his head going under and his mouth filling with water. He kicked at whatever had his leg and it let go right away.
Brett kicked to the surface, aware of a slight sting along his left leg where he had been grabbed.
What the hell was that?
He couldn’t think of anything in the lake that would attack in such a way. If it was a snake, he didn’t think it would have the strength to actually pull him under. The only thing with that sort of strength would be one of the monstrous catfish that he heard about from time to time, but they were supposed to live at the bottom of the lake in much deeper regions.
Whatever it was, it had effectively ruined his blissful swim. With his heart hammering his chest, Brett quickly turned back for the boat. No longer concerned with poise or technique, he swam as fast as he could.
His arms moved like pistons, his legs like prop
ellers. He swam forward frantically, unable to remember any time he had ever been afraid to be in the water. He looked up to the boat. It was twenty feet away, drawing closer with every stroke.
Brett put a bit more energy into his stroke, dipping his arms under and bringing them back up as fast as he could. Right, left, right, left, his legs kicking the whole time. Right, left, right—
A sudden burning pain tore through his right arm as it was submerged. It was unlike any pain he had ever felt in his life. He felt his consciousness being pulled away but he fought to reclaim it, desperate to get back to the boat. The pain rocketed through his body and he thought he might throw up.
He screamed and tried to jerk his arm out of the water, but it wouldn’t come. He tugged again and felt panic surge through him when he realized that he couldn’t feel his arm. That panic intensified when he saw the water around him growing red and the smell of blood reached his nostrils.
He tried swimming forward but flapped around, unable to feel his right arm. He looked in that direction and screamed.
He couldn’t feel his arm because it was no longer attached to his body.
Everything from four inches below his shoulder was missing, replaced by a grisly mess of red and a speck of white where his bone had been severed.
The world tried to float away. He saw white spots in his vision and his body suddenly felt as if it were floating—not in the water of the lake, but on some tide that wanted to carry him somewhere else entirely.
He made a feeble kick towards the boat that got him nowhere. He tried to cry out but even that wasn’t easy. He was too weak. He was too—
He felt something wrap around his waist so tightly that he fully expected his hips to snap. He let out a moan that came out in a thick, wet gurgle.
There was a pause and then a violent pull from beneath him. It was so fast that Brett didn’t understand what was happening until his mouth was filling with water.
His last glimpse of the world above the surface was his boat, rocking gently back and forth in the gathering night.
TEN
As someone that had lived in the town of Clarkton his entire life, Wayne was always happy to see a local business thrive. As is the case with small towns—Clarkton boasting a population of just over three thousand—it was never a surprise to see a new local business open, only to close its doors less than two years later.
But the one establishment that had always fared well in Clarkton was The Wharf. It was the town’s only bar and it did well all year long. Even when summer wasn’t luring in the tourists, the live music on most weekends brought people in from nearby towns during the non-summer months. And, of course, there were locals like Wayne and Al that kept the place busy.
But The Wharf was almost like a totally different place during the summer. When the tourists came into town, the place seemed fancier. The same cheap beer was on tap (although they did spring for a few summer ales and a wider variety of wine during the span between May and September) and the menu didn’t change very much. But still, there was something about the way the owners advertised their specials and decorated the place like a cheap man’s Margaritaville during the summer that gave The Wharf a charming sort of quality it didn’t have during the rest of the year.
One thing that didn’t change about The Wharf during the summer was its reliability as a source of local gossip. As a general rule, Wayne had always ignored gossip; his ex-wife had been at the center of the Clarkton grapevine and had often seeded its rotten fruit.
But ever since he and Al had briefly discussed those mysterious black vans parked in the driveway of a rental cabin on Kerr Lane, he’d considered heading to The Wharf to see if there was any low-hanging fruit to be plucked.
Using drinking as an excuse to gather any gossip was highly believable when it came to Wayne. He was a regular at The Wharf, the type that didn’t even have to place an order because the bartender knew him so well. Wayne knew that this was nothing to be proud of but it still made him feel cozy in a weird sort of way.
He was feeling this coziness as he and Al sat at the bar on Thursday night, four days after they had first discussed the black vans while playing horseshoes. They were only on their second round of drinks when he overheard the first snippet of conversation that made him think of that house of Kerr Lane.
The snippet in question had come from another of The Wharf’s regulars, Jimmy Fitz. Jimmy worked for the highway department and was widely known as one of the two men that were occasionally sent down into the dirt tracks that wound through the rental properties in the summer. It was well-known in Clarkton that if you wanted gossip on the tourists—who was rich, who was hot and single, and things of that sort—Jimmy Fitz was the man to see.
Wayne had caught the tail end of one of Jimmy’s sentences as he spoke to a woman that sat beside him. She looked too old to be Jimmy’s date and Wayne hadn’t seen her at The Wharf before. She was probably on vacation and enjoying The Wharf’s staged atmosphere.
“…the same as every other year,” Jimmy was telling the woman. “He said that every single rental house and cabin is booked all the way through summer. All but one, anyway. A house at the end of Kerr Lane that no one is being allowed to rent out.”
Wayne didn’t bother trying to be polite or pretend that he hadn’t been eavesdropping. He leaned over and nudged Jimmy Fitz in a good natured buddy-buddy sort of way.
“Who was telling you that?” he asked.
Jimmy seemed peeved that Wayne had interrupted his conversation with the lovely lady, but it was also apparent that he liked the feeling of having information that others were interested in. Jimmy looked to the woman, gave her a smile that was far too confident for his pudgy face, and then turned fully to Wayne.
“Stephen Collins,” Jimmy said. “One of the realtors down at Lakeside Rentals. You know him?”
“A bit,” Wayne said. “That one house on Kerr Lane…do you know which one it is?”
Jimmy shook his head. “No. I asked Stephen the same thing and he seemed like he didn’t want to talk about it. I’m pretty sure he said it was one of those properties that the owner usually stays in, though.”
“Like us,” Wayne said with a chuckle, elbowing Al.
“Exactly,” Jimmy said. “Anyway, the fella that owns the house is nowhere to be seen. And since it’s not rented out, I assumed that means that there was some sort of structural damage or some other expensive reason that needs to be fixed up before anyone can rent it out. I guess because the rent money goes to the owner and not Lakeside Rentals, Stephen didn’t really know enough about it. He was just nosy because it’s one property that he can’t shove tourists in.”
“Oh, I know,” Wayne said. “I live down that way. I see the vacationers come and go all summer long. Lakeside has to make a fortune off of them.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Jimmy said.
The conversation lulled at that point. Jimmy Fitz turned back to the woman he had been speaking with. Wayne thought this bit of information over for a bit and then turned back to Al.
“Well now,” Wayne said. “That seems pretty damn interesting, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” Al said. “But not enough to keep snooping.” He then looked around the bar, leaned in closer to Wayne, and whispered. “Especially not if you think you saw government plates on those vans.”
Wayne nodded and sipped from his beer. He took the last bit from the glass and set it on the bar. He considered ordering another one, but his mind was already elsewhere.
“You know,” he told Al, “those vans aren’t there anymore.”
“And how might you know that?” Al asked, irritated.
“I drove by yesterday. The vans are gone. So is George Galworth’s truck.”
“So?”
Wayne smirked and looked across the bar, through the milling locals and vacationers, towards the door. “So, I think it’s getting stuffy in here. I think it’s time to head out.”
“For what?” Al asked suspic
iously.
Now it was Wayne that leaned in to whisper. “Let’s go have a look. If they aren’t renting that house out, I can guarantee you that the government was up to a lot more than studying the water levels or the spawning habits of fish or whatever the hell those environmentalists do.”
Al rolled his eyes, but Wayne knew that he had won his friend over. What else did Al have to do on a Friday night? Also, there was some mystery to this entire scenario one way or the other. If Wayne and Al hadn’t seen those black vans rocketing down the dirt road on that first day of summer, it might have been easier to ignore it. But there was something going on in regards to that vacant house. If it turned out to be something small and unimportant, then at least their curiosity would be satisfied.
And if it was something bigger, the worst that could happen would be that they’d get a slap on the wrist from local law enforcement.
Wayne could see that these and similar thoughts were going through Al’s mind. Al slowly finished the rest of his beer and the motioned for the bartender. He paid for both men’s tabs and then turned on his barstool to face Wayne.
“Let’s go then,” he said in a playfully defeated voice. “But I need to be home by ten or so or Kathy will start to worry.”
“You’ll be fine,” Wayne said. “You’ll be with me.”
“That’s exactly what she’s worried about.”
They left the bar, Wayne clapping Jimmy Fitz on the shoulder as they made their way out.
***
As Al drove his truck down Kerr Lane, Wayne sat in the passenger seat and watched the night-shrouded trails pass by in the flicker of headlights. The roads out here along the rental properties seemed totally abandoned and emptied on most nights, the houses illuminated only by a few lights inside or an occasional porch light. They passed a single yard on their way in where people were gathered around a car that had a Randy Travis song coming out of its speakers. The folks were speaking loudly and no doubt drinking beer.
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