by L. D. Fox
Then consciousness fled again as if it was too scared to stick around.
* * *
Angel pressed her face against the slats in the rails, a last tear trickling absently down her face. She pushed away, gripping the bench behind her when her legs threatened not to take her weight.
She looked up. Across the lake.
The boat bobbed up and down, blurred by the now furious rain. She wiped hair and water out of her face, staggering backward until her shoulder crashed into the side of the door.
Sidling inside the lakehouse, she drew her hair back against her scalp, urging as much water from it as she could manage.
The door — she had to bar it.
The police were on their way; she just had to make sure she was still alive by the time they arrived. No one could get up on the deck, so that was fine. But the front door posed a massive risk.
She dragged the dining room table over the living room’s shag carpet, wincing at the scream of wood on wood when she got closer to the door. She wedged the back of the chair under the door, giving it a kick for good measure, and stepped back.
A shiver tore through her, clattering her teeth together before departing.
The kitchen window.
Out here, there weren’t burglar bars. The house might have an alarm system, but it would take her longer to figure the thing out that to make sure no one could get in through the kitchen.
The problem with the kitchen door, she realized after dragging another dining room chair across the living room, was that it opened into the kitchen.
“Shit!” She gave the chair a kick and stared at the closed kitchen door with the heel of her hand pressed hard over her mouth.
Think, Angel. Fucking think!
* * *
Something thumped against Kelly’s leg. She groaned and shifted less than an inch. Pain blossomed like someone had set off every single Fourth of July firework in the state. In her head. Simultaneously.
The ground canted under her. There was the sound of metal against metal. Something rolling.
Her fingers dug into plastic flooring, and she tried to urge herself onto her elbows.
Nothing worked.
Her body lay like a damp rag on the floor, spineless, immobile.
The floor seesawed back.
Behind her, the scuba cylinder rolled back across the slanting floor.
* * *
Angel had the bench halfway through the deck’s sliding door when an inexplicable urge overtook her. She paused, wiping a mixture of sweat and rain from her forehead as she glanced over her shoulder at the distant boat.
It hadn’t moved.
At least, it wasn’t any closer.
It just bobbed up and down, seeming otherwise indifferent to the gusting wind and the small swells that pitched it left and right.
Angel shrugged her shoulders, trying to get rid of a curious tension building between them. Of that crawling sensation that was slowly making its way up her spine.
Then she ducked down, gritted her teeth, and put her shoulder to the bench.
* * *
The cylinder struck Kelly’s ankle this time, hard enough that the small jolt of pain forced her eyes open all the way. It took a few seconds, but she could eventually focus on the ground in front of her.
It was white. It was also red with blood. Her blood, it was clear, after a tickle worked its way down her temple, over her eyebrow, and fell from the bridge of her nose.
She brought a cautious hand up and flinched at the pain a single feather-light touch brought to her skin.
The floor slanted under her. She reached out instinctively, found someone else’s hand. Clinging to it, she slowly got her elbows under her, and then her knees. She retched at the agony that brought to her head, and almost lost consciousness again.
The hand she held felt wrong. Heavy and cold. She turned her head muzzily toward it.
A man’s hand. Limp.
Her eyes traveled up a dark, damp jacket. To black, tousled hair. To a slack, dead face with a small, burgundy starburst just above the left eye.
She fell away with a cry, ending up against the small, padded dinette behind her. The galley was small, to begin with, now cramped with her, a corpse, and everything else that had been tossed inside. She clapped a hand on her head and shuddered in pain. Her world became dark and dim as if the last of the light was leaking from the sky.
Someone let out a rough, tattered sob.
It might have been her.
Kelly fumbled with the door and managed to get it open without having to turn her eyes from Bryce’s face. Because something had her convinced that, the second she turned away, the man would push himself to his feet and come after her.
Irrational.
He was quite obviously dead.
But every time the boat pitched forward or rolled back, he would shift slightly.
And then he didn’t look all that dead anymore.
She fell out through the door, her feet refusing to find purchase on the wet deck. Or perhaps her muscles just wouldn’t cooperate.
Stars littered her vision when she thumped onto the deck. She would have howled at the pain, but the fall snatched her breath and left her incapable of speech. Incapable of thought.
For a few seconds, incapable of sight.
When she forced her eyes open again, everything was smudged. Rain fell into her narrowed eyes, stinging. There was something wrong with her legs — that, or she’d completely exhausted her resources.
Through the incessant clatter of rain, another sound drew her attention.
Then movement, blurred at it was.
A shape, a few feet away. Slinking through the premature night like a demon in human form.
She cowed from it, lifting her hands in front of her face as if her feeble limbs could somehow offer protection.
The thing turned then, perhaps having become aware of her presence. It stared at her, clothed midnight blue, before perching on the side of the boat. And then it disappeared over the side of the boat, the rain masking its fall.
Kelly stared at it, hands still raised, and tried desperately to think.
But something caught her eye. A flicker of bright light, licking the air close to the edge of the sink.
A birthday candle.
A solitary stick, neon-green, in grave danger of guttering out.
Was the candle for her? A belated birthday surprise? Then why did that tongue of flame look so sinister, so agitated, so bright?
There was a lull in the rain as if the clouds above were holding their breath.
The candle spluttered out.
* * *
The bench thumped against the kitchen door. Angel looked up, panting and blinking sweat from her eyes. She turned, exhaling hard as she sank to the floor.
Now no one could get in. And she wouldn’t let anyone. Not unless she saw a police badge and heard sirens and red and blue lights painted the house like an dance club.
The urge to close her eyes and give in to the aching, leaden exhaustion that draped her was intense. But she fought back by forcing herself to her feet.
Her teeth chattered hard for a second.
She was freezing. Had to find warm clothes. Perhaps even a blanket. Because the cops would be here any minute, and then she’d want to be able to speak without stuttering. Without her teeth chattering—
Outside, something exploded.
Angel’s feet tangled under her as she twisted to the door.
Full night streaked the land a sullen purple-gray.
It made the orange blaze in the middle of the lake that much more spectacular.
60
Just Keep Trucking
Seven Months Later
“Are you sure about this, Angel?”
Angel stood on the deck, staring out over the mirror-like surface of Blackwater Lake. Amazing, how nothing seemed different from when she’d been last here, seven months ago. It was a little warmer, sure. But the pines were the same m
uddy green. The water that same midnight blue — almost black — that had earned the lake its name. The lakehouse…
Turning, Angel gave Claire Hugo a small smile. “Yeah, I’m sure.” She flipped a hand in the air and pushed out her hip. “I mean, there’s not even wifi here. What’m I gonna do with it?”
Claire gave a small nod and disappeared into the house again. She began scanning the interior of the house, nodding absently to herself; obviously picturing the millions of annoying, humdrum things she’d have done at the lakehouse, had it been hers.
Well, it wasn’t.
It belonged to Angel Dunne, and she sure as shit wasn’t going to live here.
A shiver teased the back of her neck, and she quickly glanced over her shoulder. Nothing disturbed the lake’s serenity; no houses to be seen, mo people strolling on the distant, gravelly banks.
So why did it feel like someone was watching her?
That thought brought a whole host of uncomfortable feels pouring into her. She wrapped her arms tight around herself and went back inside.
Claire touched a small scrape on the kitchen door frame. “It might be best to send in a repairman. Take care of some of the damage.” The woman gave her a sidelong glance. “Are you sure you’re up to this? I could always—”
“I’m fine.” Angel flapped her hand at the woman. “Just… do whatever. Send me the bill. I want rid of this place.”
“Of course, sweetie.” Claire made a small note on her clipboard and stepped into the kitchen. “So you never came back here, after—” there was a soft cough “—is this the first time you’ve been back?”
“Yeah.” Something was lying on the floor. She walked over and retrieved the tablet computer lying on its face by the fireplace. Its screen was shattered, and it refused to turn on when she pressed the power button. She laid it carefully on the mantel and looked toward the stairs.
“The cops were here, obviously,” she said, speaking over her shoulder to the realtor. “But they didn’t stay long.”
“Understandably,” Claire said, emerging from the kitchen with a frown on her face. “So who cleaned up?”
“Cleaned up?”
“It’s pretty clean in there.” Claire pointed with her pen to the kitchen. “Normally a place like this, no one visiting regularly, so much dust.” She glanced around, pursing her lips. “Hardly any dust.”
“Oh, there’s like a maid.” Angel glanced vaguely around the living room. “I think there’s a maid.”
“You think?” Claire said, giving her a stiff smile. “I mean, wouldn’t you—”
“Look, just take your stupid notes so we can get the fuck out of here, would you?” She rubbed her hands over her arms. “Jesus, this place is giving me the fucking creeps.”
“Would you like to wait outside? I just want to do a quick—”
“No. Come.” She beckoned the woman, pulling open the stairwell’s door. “Hop to it.”
Claire dipped her head and went up the stairs, pausing midway up to make a full revolution with her pen poised above that clipboard like a circling vulture.
“All good,” Claire murmured. She pointed out the carpet. “There’s a little wear and tear—”
“New carpet, got it. Duck egg blue or some shit, I’m guessing. Now move on.” Angel shooed her up the stairs, glancing behind her as she waited for the woman to open the next door.
God, why was she getting so creeped out?
It wasn’t like anyone’d died in here. She had only good memories of this place, right up to the point where Bryce had pulled that fucking gun—
She blinked hard, pressing her thumb and forefinger over her eyes. When she opened them again, Claire was already in the first room.
Bryce’s room.
Angel came up behind her, taking in the room with a sweeping gaze that paused on the dresser table, then the bed. A few crumbs of weed still lay on the dresser, the candleholder with a few dog ends inside. Shunned candle a few inches away.
The cops had been thorough, then, taking all his shit as evidence.
Because they’d blamed him, of course. Bryce. It didn’t matter how she told the story, he’d been the one found guilty. He’d had the gun. He’d had the drugs. He’d been the one going after Drew.
And she hadn’t been on the boat. She didn’t know what had happened after Bryce had climbed aboard.
She shuddered and ran her hands through her hair. She wore it tied up lately; hairs touching the side of her neck almost always felt too much like fingers these days.
Claire gave her a thumbs up as they moved to the next room. Her stuff was gone, of course — she’d taken it back with her in the squad car a few hours after the cops had arrived.
The boat had still been playing pretty lights on the lake by then. The smell of smoke hung the air. She’d had to wash her hair four times before she’d stopped smelling it on herself.
And she hadn’t even been close.
She’d been on the deck the whole time, soaked through and incoherent when the police had arrived. Too scared to go inside, in case something came over the deck after her. Too terrified to open the front door, when the police had knocked.
They’d broken the door down eventually. Managed to calm her — at least, after a paramedic had spiked her with something — and then wrought a few words from her.
They’d pieced together pretty much everything by the time she was coherent enough to speak. And by then, they’d found the bodies. Enough pieces to almost make up two whole people, give or take a limb or two.
Which two of the three they belonged to, fuck knew. Kelly was mostly there, but the two brothers were a mess.
The cops believed the two men had been closest to the blast zone. So they’d been partially vaporized.
As if exploding scuba gear could have vaporized anyone.
Not that she was an expert or anything.
“—still all right?” A hand closed over her arm.
She jerked herself free, blinking furiously to wrench herself into the present. “Yeah. What?”
“The other rooms all look fine. Just some cigarette burns in the one, but I’ll suggest you redo the carpeting—”
“Yeah, fine. More new carpets. Give the place a paint, too.”
Claire looked shocked. “Over the pine? But—”
“Jesus, lady! Just do whatever the fuck you want to get this place sold, okay? I don’t give a shit.” Angel thudded down the stairs, her high heels sinking into the carpeting with every step.
Claire caught up with her outside, where she was trying to end the life of a cigarette as quickly as possible.
“Those are really not good for you,” the woman murmured as they walked past.
“Yeah?” Angel cocked her head to the side. “I’ll try and remember that next time I have a near-death experience.”
“Smoking is a near-death experience.”
She glowered at the woman and crushed the rest of the cigarette out under her shoe. “I only do it when I’m stressed,” she muttered, thumping into Claire’s passenger seat with ill grace.
Claire got into the driver’s seat and began sliding her seatbelt over her chest. Then she looked up, craning over her car’s hood, and frowned.
“Huh.”
“Huh, what?” Angel lifted her head to see what the woman was looking at.
“Just… I forgot about the boathouse.”
“What about it? It’s empty. You know, ‘cos the boat exploded?”
“Yes, I know—” Claire shot her a flustered, apologetic frown. “I just need to—”
“Fuck it,” she muttered, kicking open her door. “Hurry up.”
“Would you come with? I wouldn’t want to—”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said, shoving a new cigarette into her mouth and trying to light it without twisting her ankle on the gravel drive.
She followed Claire down the steps, giving the front door a long stare as they passed. It had been replaced a day or two after ‘the incident’
— that’s what the police called a boat exploding and killing three people, one of who might or might not have already been dead due to a gunshot wound in the head. She had no idea who’d paid for it. Possibly the state, although she somehow found that hard to believe. Maybe it had come out of her and Penny’s trust.
Grimacing around the cigarette at the thought of Penny’s name, Angel sidled into the boathouse behind Claire.
There was a blue jet ski parked in the dock.
“Sell it,” Angel said before Claire could form the first word of her question. “Percs. Whatever.”
“Of course.”
Then the woman began poking through the cupboards. “That’s strange.”
Angel blew out a furious stream of smoke and click-clacked over. “What is?”
“All this food.”
“Rainy day and shit?” Angel shrugged when the woman shot her a confused glance over her shoulder. “Lady, I never packed it. Like I said, there’s apparently a maid that comes in every now and then, keeps the place stocked.”
“For who?”
She opened her mouth, but her mouth chose to go dry in that instant. Instead, she sighed heavily and walked back to the door.
“Casper.” She waved an arm at the door. “Are we done? I got places to be. Places far the fuck away from Black-freakin’-water lake.”
* * *
The drive was excruciating; long, tedious, filled with Claire’s nitpicking questions about the house. About half an hour after they left the lakehouse, a rust-colored truck came to a halt behind them as they waited to merge with interstate traffic. Angel, fingers curled against her mouth as she stared out her window, caught sight of the truck in her side mirror. She dipped her head, glancing at the driver.
Fucking truckers; the man had a cap pulled low over his eyes and an unruly beard disguising the lines of his jaw. When he moved his head, sunlight flared off old-school silver-lensed sunglasses. When he saw her looking at him, he touched two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute.
She shuddered, forcing her eyes away. When would it stop? She still saw Drew everywhere; outside the police station wearing a detective badge, in the park tossing his dog a frisbee, waiting in line for a hotdog with a hand shading his eyes.
