by Jean Rabe
“No, I hadn’t heard that,” Jeff said, wondering if Mac even had an Uncle Charles. “Real sorry to hear that.”
“Well, he’d been ill for quite a while,” Bronson said. “At any rate, the will has now been probated, and Mr. MacAvoy has come into a small legacy.”
“Hey, that’s great,” Jeff said, brightening. “He’ll be glad to hear that.”
“Not a very big legacy, I’m afraid,” Bronson conceded. “Still, with the economy the way it is around here every bit helps. At any rate, I’m here with the legacy and the necessary papers for him to sign. But you say he’s gone fishing?”
“Yeah, but he’s not gone or anything,” Jeff said. “He’s out on the lake, in one of the old fishing shacks that don’t get used much once the season’s over. Likes to get away from things sometimes, you know. Says he likes to think things over, though just between us I don’t know if Mac’s really got much equipment in the thinking-over department.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Bronson said diplomatically, the way a good lawyer should. “Is the place he’s currently staying hard to get to?”
“Oh, shoot, no,” Jeff said, pointing over the other’s head. “You make a left at the end of the driveway and go back to the highway. Turn right there and go about, oh, three miles to Old Rillside Road—it’s a new sign; it used to be just Rillside Road until the new Rillside Road opened up through town—”
“Yes, we saw the turnoff for the new road,” Bronson interrupted. “And then?”
“About two miles down Old Rillside you’ll reach the lake,” Jeff said. “The shack’s right across the water—in fact, Perkins Pier points practically straight at it. Turn left and follow the road for another couple-three miles around the end of the lake, and it’ll run you right up to the cabin.”
“Sounds rustic,” Bronson said.
“You don’t have any noisy neighbors dropping by, that’s for sure,” Jeff said. “I can go along and show you if you want.”
He held his breath. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck in a car with these people when he had a bunch of jobs to do elsewhere. But it might look suspicious if he didn’t at least offer.
Fortunately, the last thing they apparently wanted was to be saddled with an unwanted witness. “No, that’s all right,” Bronson assured him. “We can find it. Are you Mr. MacAvoy’s handyman?”
Jeff snorted. “I wish,” he said. “Probably pay better than what I’m getting now. No, I’m just a neighbor who lost a bet and has to clean his damn gutters.”
“Ah,” Bronson said, nodding. “Well, thank you for your help.”
“Sure,” Jeff said, waving cheerfully and turning back to the gutter.
“By the way,” Bronson said, “is your name Wade, by any chance?”
Jeff turned back, frowning. “No, Jenkins,” he said. “Pete Jenkins. Don’t think I know anyone named Wade.”
“Or Wired, or Weird, or something like that?” Bronson persisted. “I received a strange text message from someone in town that simply said ‘weird happen.’ Any idea what that might mean?”
“Not really,” Jeff said, frowning harder. Actually, the message he’d sent had also included the words need help need help, but he wasn’t surprised that Bronson hadn’t mentioned that part. “We’ve got our share of campfire ghost stories around here. But no one really believes them. Probably someone just pulling your leg.”
“Probably,” Bronson said. “Good luck with the gutters.”
Jeff turned back to the house, watching out of the corner of his eye while he scooped out leaves. He waited until the car had disappeared down the drive, and he could tell from the engine and road sounds that it was headed back toward the highway. Then, climbing down, he hurried along the path toward Mac’s dock and the lake.
Halfway there, concealed again by the woods, he shifted to wolf and broke into a flat-out run. He had to get to the lake end of Old Rillside Road before Bronson.
He needn’t have worried. Whether Bronson’s driver got lost or, more likely, slowed to a leisurely pace to give their planned activities a more complete cover of darkness, Jeff was in place and ready by the time he heard the crunch of leaves and stones under automobile tires. Making sure the hood of the sweatshirt he’d borrowed from Mac’s boat was obscuring his face, he turned his back to the approaching car and nudged his flock of sheep onto the road.
The glow of the headlights lit up the ground and the sheep, bouncing their shadows across the ground all the way to Perkins Pier. There was an extra-loud crunch of gravel, and the light washing over them steadied as the car came to a halt. “Hey!” a gruff voice called. “Move it, will you?”
Keeping his face turned away, Jeff waved a hand in acknowledgment. Giving the nearest sheep an encouraging nudge, he looked toward the rear of the flock. Waving his arms as if beckoning to some stragglers, he headed that direction.
A few steps away, out of the glare of the headlights and obscured by a stand of bushes, he shifted to wolf. Circling quietly around through the trees, he came up behind the car.
The occupants’ full attention was on the flock of sheep milling past in front of them. Whoever might have been glancing at the rearview mirrors would have noticed nothing more menacing than a vague dog shape wandering around the woods at dusk.
Undetected, Jeff made it to his chosen spot directly behind the trunk without sparking a reaction from Bronson or his associates. Dropping flat onto his belly, he shifted to human and slithered far enough beneath the car to reach the valve stem cap on the right rear tire. He got it off, then shifted back to wolf and pressed one of his nails firmly into the valve, listening tensely as the tire slowly hissed itself flat.
Again, there was no reaction from inside. For a moment he considered flattening the other rear tire as well, then decided he didn’t have time, and backed his way carefully out from under the car. Crouching down, making sure to stay out of sight of all the mirrors, he shifted to human and carefully slid the small flat pebble he’d prepared into the trunk lock. He made sure it was wedged tightly, then again shifted to wolf and retraced his steps through the trees to the rear of the flock.
A minute later, once again in human form, he guided the last of the sheep across the road. “There you go,” he called back over his shoulder to the car, using an old man’s wheezy voice. “Sorry about that.”
There was a subtle change in engine pitch, and with a crunch of gravel the car started forward again. Jeff had made it another twenty feet with the flock when the crunching stopped, the engine shifted back to park, and there was the sound of a door opening. By the time he’d gotten the sheep gathered into the grassy pocket where he’d left them earlier, there were more doors opening and closing, and the car engine had been shut off. Jeff made sure the sheep were settled, then shifted to wolf and padded quietly back to the road.
There were four of them, all right, Bronson plus three others. All four gathered at the rear of the vehicle, while one of them tried vainly to open the trunk.
“—something in there,” the man said as Jeff arrived at the edge of the woods. “Feels like—I don’t know—like a stone or something.”
“How the hell could a stone get in there?” one of the others grumbled. “It just bounced in off the road and stuck? Huh?”
Bronson stirred. “Calm yourself,” he said.
Jeff bared his teeth, his fur standing momentarily on end. Back at Mac’s house, Bronson had been all smooth and pleasant, a civilized man on an honest errand.
Now, suddenly, that voice had gone cold, ruthless, and utterly evil. Bronson wasn’t another errand boy, Jeff realized suddenly. Bronson was the protection racket boss himself.
“How it got there isn’t important,” Bronson said. “Keep yourselves focused. Chinks, is that a boat I see by the pier?”
“Yeah, I think so,” Chinks said, peering toward the lake.
“Go check it out,” Bronson ordered. “See if it’s got oars or a motor.”
“Right.” Chinks
headed off toward the boat at a fast jog.
“We’re going to take a boat?” one of the others asked, sounding surprised.
“The cabin’s right there,” Bronson said, pointing toward O’Reilly’s cabin. “The DMV says Frank MacAvoy drives a ’95 Bronco. That’s a ’95 Bronco parked there.”
“Yeah, but a boat?” the man repeated, more plaintively this time. “I don’t like boats.”
“Would you rather walk?” Bronson countered. “Because if Stojan can’t get into the trunk for the spare, that’s the only other way.”
From the dock came the sound of Mac’s trolling motor. “Boat looks good,” Chinks called softly. “Motor’s all gassed up, too.”
“Good,” Bronson said calmly, stepping away from the car. “You going to walk it, Gav? If not, everyone in.”
“Oh, hell,” Stojan said suddenly, pointing at Jeff. “Look.”
The others turned. “Damn,” Gav breathed. “That’s a wolf.”
“Don’t panic,” Bronson said, glacially calm. “Wolves don’t attack people like they do in books. It’s probably just curious.”
That was, Jeff decided, as good an exit cue as any. Giving a small snuffle, he turned around and headed as nonchalantly as he could deeper into the woods.
“See?” he heard Bronson say from behind him. “All right, everyone in the boat. Let’s do this.”
By the time Jeff returned to his sheep the four men were in the boat and the craft was moving slowly away from the dock, heading toward the cabin on the far side. Jeff let them get a couple hundred feet from shore, and then shifted back to human. Pulling out Kostava’s cell phone, he punched in 911.
“This is Jeff Harfeld,” he said softly when the dispatcher answered. “I’m out by Perkins Pier on Old Rillside Road. There are four strangers out here with guns, and I think they’re stealing Frank MacAvoy’s boat. You’d better get Sheriff Daniels out here right away.”
He got an acknowledgment and hung up. Moving closer to the road, where he could listen for the sheriff’s approach, he sat with his back to one of the trees and settled in to wait.
It began as a quick but sharp splash from about fifty feet to the boat’s right, a small circular burst of white-water bouncing up in the fading light. One of the men in the boat looked in that direction. The other three didn’t bother. A few seconds later came a louder splash, this one from the same distance on the other side of the boat. This time two of the men looked. They looked again a few seconds later when another, louder splash came from directly behind the boat.
A sudden idea struck Jeff—a little extra window dressing to help set the proper mood. Shifting to wolf, he gave a long, mournful howl.
All four men looked back at the trees on that one. Jeff gave another howl, this one punctuated by another splash from the right side of the boat. Two of the men looked over at the splash area, and Jeff could hear low, nervous-sounding voices coming from the boat. He heard Bronson say something sharp, and with clear reluctance all but one of the men turned their attention forward again. The last man was slower, or else more nervous, his gaze lingering another second on the splash area.
Which was why he was the only one of the four who saw the head and shoulders of the dead Jano Kostava rise dramatically above the water.
The man yelped a startled curse, jerking so violently that he sent the boat rocking. The other three grabbed the gunwales for balance, and while they did so Kostava’s body slipped back out of sight. For a few seconds Jeff could hear the man’s panic-stricken voice as he tried to explain what he’d seen. The other three clearly thought he was nuts, and again it took Bronson’s sharp voice to quiet them down.
And then, on the opposite side of the boat, the body again rose into view.
All four of them saw it this time. They sat frozen, staring at the corpse as it floated impossibly upright in the rippling water. Tentatively, suspiciously, Bronson called Kostava’s name; the body’s response was to slide back down out of sight.
Jeff smiled grimly as a fresh round of agitated chatter broke out in the boat. Tressla was playing it perfectly, keeping them swimming in confusion as she ratcheted up the primal fear of death and the unknown. With men like these, Jeff knew, that fear could lead to only one response.
For a few tense seconds nothing happened. Bronson gave an order, and the man in the stern reluctantly fed power to the motor again. The others sat stiffly in their seats, looking back and forth through the gathering gloom.
Then, fifty feet to the right, the body once again rose into view.
Only this time, instead of just floating in place, it began moving slowly toward the boat.
It took a few seconds for the situation to fully sink in. Bronson gave a sharp order, and the man in the stern twisted the throttle arm hard over, sending the boat arcing away from the approaching corpse.
The body responded by picking up speed. The boat was driving desperately away from it now, but it was clear that the pursuer was closing the distance.
It was no more than ten feet away when it abruptly sank again beneath the water.
And with that, even Bronson had clearly had enough. He gave another terse command, his voice shaking now as badly as those of his men. The boat turned again, this time toward shore, and made for the dock as fast as the straining trolling motor could take it.
They were fifty feet from safety when the body rose for the last time from the water behind them and once again headed toward them.
Only this time, it was moving with the speed of an avenging angel, a white-topped wake streaming behind it.
The men in the boat didn’t even hesitate. Almost in unison, all four of them snatched guns from beneath their jackets and opened fire.
Jeff tensed. But Tressla was well protected as she pushed Kostava along, both by the body itself and the foot or so of water between her and the guns. The corpse didn’t slow down as the desperate thunderclaps split the quiet of the evening, sending birds streaming into the air from the shoreline trees. The men continued firing as the body caught up with the boat—
And with a sudden heaving lunge threw itself high over the side and into the bottom of the boat.
Someone screamed in terror, the sound audible even over the suddenly intensified gunfire. The boat rocked back and forth, nearly capsizing, as the four living occupants scrambled violently away from the body now sprawled in their midst.
And with every eye pointed at Kostava’s body, none of them saw the slender mermaid hand dart up from the water at the bow and slip Kostava’s gun over the side into the boat.
It took a few seconds for the men to realize that the body had stopped moving and for the gunfire to fade away. It took a few seconds more for them to realize just who it was. “It’s Kos!” someone gasped. “Mr. Finch, it’s Kos.”
“What do we do?” someone else said, his voice still bubbling at the edge of panic.
But Bronson, at least, was back on balance. “We dump him,” he said, his voice icy calm again.
“But—”
“It was a trick,” Bronson cut him off harshly. “I don’t know how MacAvoy pulled it off. But I’m very much looking forward to asking him. Come on—grab his arms.”
“We’re just going to dump him?” someone asked.
“Would you rather give him a ride?” Bronson shot back. “Come on, damn you—grab his arms.”
“Don’t even think about it,” an electronically enhanced voice boomed suddenly from Jeff’s left.
He started, twisting his head around to look. Sheriff Daniels was standing at the treeline by the road, a small megaphone raised to his lips. Behind him, Deputy Stadler shouldered a shotgun out of a police car that was now parked behind Bronson’s car. “Bring the boat in, nice and easy,” Daniels continued, striding forward with his hand resting on his holstered gun. “I see anything go in the water, you’re going in after it.”
With Stadler’s shotgun sighted on the foursome, Daniels gestured for them to exit the boat.
�
�Well, well,” he said, craning his neck. “What have we here?”
“It wasn’t us,” one of the men insisted, his voice still shaking. “He was already dead. I swear.”
“He was coming toward us,” another added. “He was in the water and coming right toward us.”
“Sure,” Daniels said. “Why don’t we go down to the station and sort all this out. Rick, better call Claire and have her bring her car, too—we’ve kind of got a crowd here. And you four boys can just set your guns right here on the dock, if you don’t mind.”
Traumatized, still shaken by what they had just witnessed, they complied. Then, one by one, they submitted to Daniels’ handcuffs. Bronson was the last, glowering silently as he put his hands behind his back and let the sheriff cuff him. Jeff held his breath . . .
“Hold it—looks like we forgot one,” Daniels said suddenly, peering into the boat. Kneeling down, he reached in and retrieved Kostava’s gun.
Bronson inhaled sharply. “That’s not ours,” he said quickly. “It must belong to the boat’s owner.”
Stadler snorted. “Who, Frank MacAvoy? You’re kidding, right?”
“No, really,” Bronson insisted. “It’s not ours.”
“I don’t know what you’re used to in the city,” Daniels said, his voice gone cold and professional. “But people in these parts don’t have much use for guns with suppressors.” He gestured. “And we sure as hell know better than to leave our guns in the water at the bottom of a boat. Deputy Stadler, I think it’s time we read these folks their rights.”
It took another hour for Jeff to get the sheep back to their barn at the Thompson ranch and then report to the sheriff a somewhat edited version of his side of the day’s events.
After that, he hung around the station for a while, staying out of the way but casually eavesdropping on the crowd of state police who had arrived on the scene to witness the big arrest.
It was full dark and Tressla was waiting, when he finally made it back to Perkins Pier. “You were gone a long time,” she said as he leaned down over the edge of the dock. “I was getting worried.”
