Crescent Lake

by David Sakmyster

Do it for them. Get yourself out of this mess. Atone, clean the slate.

  "M-medicine." Nick fired the word out with all the strength he could muster. "I have… anxiety attacks, ever since my wife died." He moved close enough that Lloyd's pervasive aftershave made him wince. "I forgot to take my pills again, and… I'm not feeling well. Sorry, I'll be right back."

  Nick pushed away from the table. He could picture the scene in his mind: Lloyd searching his boss's eyes for the okay to restrain him. Evelyn frowning, trying to remember if he'd ever mentioned medication before. He could feel all their eyes on him.

  Head high, Nick pushed past the guards, opened the door, and without a backward glance, he strode into the bright hall.

  As soon as the doors closed, he staggered forward and leaned against the wall, taking in deep, clear breaths of freedom.

  Not yet! he told himself. Keep moving.

  Downstairs, Nick reached the oak door and quickly slipped outside. He approached the front gate. Hands in his pockets, head bowed, he strode toward the guard station, preparing to confront his fears of the Bates twins, fears that he had been harboring since high school.

  "Got a smoke?" he asked when he was within several feet of Carl – or was it Eric? Impossible to tell. Tall and gaunt, the man stood in the shadows under the stone wall. Dressed completely in black, only his face was visible in the darkness: an elfish chin, sunken, hollow cheeks, greased spikes of black hair.

  "Carl?" Nick guessed.

  Carl nodded and stepped into the light. He made a fake-punch motion, a jab toward Nick's chin. Then he held out his closed fist and turned his palm over to reveal a pack of opened Camels.

  "Didn't know you smoked, Nickie."

  In the guard station Eric sat behind a desk, a copy of MAD Magazine in his lap. Above him on a shelf were four screens monitoring the perimeter of the West Estate. Eric looked up and narrowed his eyes at Nick. He was chewing on a toothpick.

  Nick swallowed and took the pack, nervously fishing for a loose cigarette. "Started last month," he muttered, keeping his eyes away from Carl's. He observed the perimeter, scanned the clouded sky, looked back at the house...

  A figure stood outlined at the second-floor windows, a broad silhouette Nick easily placed as Lloyd's. He sees me. He's heard the tell-tale heart.

  "Guess you gotta do something if you don't drink." Carl searched his pockets for a lighter. "So, what's the story up there? Big wheels spinning too much for you?"

  Nick carefully lit his cigarette and took a small breath, fearing a violent cough would give himself away. "Not feeling well," he responded. "Thought I'd go for a walk while they talk shop." Nick took another drag and blew the smoke out into Carl's face. Satisfied by Carl's stunned reaction, he added, "Open the gate a sec. I'll be right back."

  Carl frowned as he put the lighter back in his pocket. "All right. Yo Eric!" he turned to the doorway. "Hit the gate."

  Eric leaned over the desk and pulled a lever.

  A heavy click. A grinding metallic sound. Carl moved close and jabbed Nick in the side, just inches below the microphone. "Remember when you was a kid, Nickie?" Carl wrapped an arm around Nick's shoulders. "Me and Eric roughed you up a bit, didn't we?"

  Nick nodded. "Yeah, Carl. You sure did." He reached up and pinched Carl's cheek. "But I got over it, and look – I'm a healthy adult now. No more therapy."

  Carl laughed. "Good old Nickie." He raised both his arms. "Who'd have thought you'd rise to such heights?"

  The gate was opening inward, grinding at a snail's pace. From the interior of the guardhouse, a phone rang, shrill and full of alarm. Eric swore, spat out his toothpick and got up.

  Carl, still chuckling, turned and put his hands in his pockets.

  Now, Nick urged. But his feet seemed rooted to the pavement, and his eyes were mesmerized by the mechanical preciseness of the extending gate. But then his head turned, as if on its own, to view the window once more.

  Lloyd lifted a fist, shook it, then disappeared.

  Uh oh. They don't like that I'm leaving.

  The ringing stopped abruptly, in mid-call. Eric grunted something into the phone. Carl smiled at him innocently.

  And Nick took off.

  He darted around the stone wall and raced across the short field. The smell of the recently cut lawn left him with an acute feeling of nostalgia, a longing for innocence.

  "NICKIE!!!" Carl's booming voice carried over the humid air, silencing the crickets and the hosts of the night.

  He reached the road just as a gunshot caused him to instinctively drop to the ground. Losing his balance, he tumbled, jammed his right knee, then pushed himself back up. Warning shot, that's all. They want me back, not dead.

  Another shot, and this time the pavement sparked just before his eyes. His head spun around. Carl was on his knees, arm outstretched, while Eric raced across the lawn.

  Nick instinctively dropped and rolled to the right. His heart leapt as a bullet sparked a few feet to his left.

  I'm a perfect target, he thought, panting. Can't get up again.

  Sweat dripped into his eyes as he glanced back. Carl – or Eric – was on one knee, taking aim. He shouted something that was lost in the roar of a car's engine. A flash of silver, a squealing of tires. The car sped past, and turned sharply, skidding to a halt in front of Nick, between his body and the gunmen.

  The passenger door flew open.

  "Get in!"

  Twenty minutes later, Nick was in a van heading north. He sat in the back, surrounded by sensitive monitoring equipment and communications systems, and four men in black suits.

  "Nick. Well done." An older man placed his hand on Nick's shoulder. His smile released the tension, and everyone spoke at once, congratulating each other. Still smarting from the pain of ripping the tape off his chest, Nick limply shook everyone's hand.

  "Never been shot at before," he said, dazed.

  The older man Nick first mistook for an agent was actually Richard Walker, current Director of the FBI, who had come to personally oversee this operation. When he smiled, Nick thought he looked like a personable old wizard, like Gandalf without the beard.

  "If we do our jobs right," Walker said, "and you play your part, hopefully that will be the last time." He leaned back, touched some keys on a laptop and started a section of the audible playback. He gave a professional nod to the agent behind him, who produced a set of headphones and got to work transcribing.

  Nick closed his eyes. He rested his head in his hands. "What now?"

  Walker sighed and moved to sit next to Nick. "Now... we go see a judge. And then we wait."

  "How long?"

  Walker shrugged. "With what you've given us, we can hit them hard. Close down numerous operations. We can subpoena all your aunt's records, and we can even reach right into O'Neil's pants. But... it's doubtful we can put either away until we assemble all the evidence. They'll post whatever bail we set. We can, however, put them on full-time surveillance..."

  "Everyone?" Nick asked sarcastically. "O'Neil? How are you gonna keep tabs on that guy?"

  Walker was silent.

  "Stielman?"

  The Director sighed again. "We'll do all we can Mr. Murphy, to keep them isolated on this end. But in the meantime, we won't need you until we've finalized the case. The goddamned financial loops alone are going to take our combined agencies months to figure out..."

  Nick turned and gave Walker a serious stare. "Okay, I'll pop the question. Where do you have in mind? In what godforsaken part of the planet are you going to hide me?"

  CHAPTER TWO

  Eighty-five miles north of Seattle, Washington.

  Monday, July 8

  Finding nothing but static on any other channel, Nick finally left the dial on "102.7, The Lord's Frequency", for nearly ten minutes, sometimes laughing, other times shaking his head in wonder. A devout Catholic until the end of high school, Nick's faith was tested in college; yet still he had clung to the basic tenets – until Sally's death, when ambi
valent devotion turned to bitter hostility.

  Unable to bear any more fire and brimstone, he switched off the radio, and as an afterthought, lowered the front windows and shut off the air conditioner. Alone on Route 23 in mid-afternoon, Nick breathed in the fresh air, caught the scent of pine mixed with a touch of maple. He crossed over a covered bridge and slowed until the sound of the gentle creek glided over the hum of the car's engine. Tempted to get out and scan the water for signs of trout or salmon, he made a mental note to buy some poles and lures as soon as he settled in.

  God knew he'd have time to fish.

  "Get yourself a hobby," Richard Walker had advised him in one of the FBI debriefing rooms two days ago. His cover was going to be that of a writer working on a novel set in a forested region. He'd have a nice advance from a major publisher to cover expenses until publication. And a new identity.

  His name was now Joshua Stone.

  The FBI also supplied this 2008 Ford Taurus with Washington plates and only 36,000 miles. And they took care of all his finances. He would have an account in Seattle under the name Joshua F. Stone, with thirty-thousand deposited by the time he arrived. Supposedly, his new hometown was so small it didn't even have a bank. "You'll need to keep a fair amount of cash on you," Walker said. "But I don't believe you'll need too much. You're free to run up a tab however, but please try to keep it within limits."

  Nick had grinned at that. What sort of limits were we talking here? The limits Aunt Evelyn was used to?

  "What about other agents?" Nick had asked. "Who else is in on this?"

  Walker held up his hand. "We've made this relocation so complex that no one's fully in on it. Information is broken up piecemeal and then given out to the specific agents involved. I don't even know exactly where you'll wind up. I only know that the agent assigned to your case is in Seattle, and you won't even meet until you're settled in. The number for your post office box will be given to you before you reach Seattle. In the box there will be a map and the final instructions to take you to your new home." The number had been slipped to him on the plane, in a sealed envelope under his coffee mug.

  He had stayed no more than thirty minutes in Seattle, leaving the car only to visit the post office and to purchase a newspaper and a sixteen-ounce cup of coffee at the AM/PM Market. He knew his agent was in Seattle, and Nick wondered what he was doing. He gave a smug grin at the thought of having his own agent – kind of like a guardian angel. But at the same time, he felt sorry for the agent. The poor guy probably wasn't relishing the idea of safeguarding the number-one man on the mob's shit list.

  The forests gradually thinned out and the mountain peaks resumed a more humble level, where rocky hills were dotted with cedar trees that seemed impossibly rooted in the stone. By the foot of a waterfall a pair of deer drank from a clear stream. The doe lifted her head and turned toward the road, and Nick saw one of her eyes was missing – a swollen red socket staring blankly at him.

  As the road became more tortuous, weaving through the hills and woodlands, Nick began to feel like an intruder – or an exile, like Napoleon banished to the exotic island of Elba. Connecticut had its share of environmental beauty, but it was nothing like this.

  The sun dipped below the tree line, and a jagged range of tooth-like mountains devoured the lingering sunlight. By the time Nick reached neared Silver Springs, the peaks were framed against a backdrop of purple and violet hues, and the western face of the forests were painted in gold.

  Before the sun set completely, Nick found himself concentrating less on the scenery and more on ensuring he got to the town before nightfall. Call it superstition, but he wanted to get a glimpse of his new home before its secrets were concealed in darkness.

  As it happened, he switched on the headlights only a minute before coming upon the sign.

  Now Entering SILVER SPRINGS

  Population... 408

  He passed the sign and followed the bend of the road descending into the valley. Make that 409, he mused, and rolled up the windows.

  Nick pulled over to the side of the street after the second light in Silver Springs, looking for the police station, where he was to receive the final directions to his house. He put down his map and stepped out of the car just as a portly man dressed in a plaid shirt and blue jeans emerged from the nearest building, as if he'd been waiting for Nick.

  The man came out and vigorously pumped Nick's hand. "You must be Mr. Stone!" His face held the enthusiasm of a young fan meeting his favorite major league ballplayer. "Name's Stan Michaels, and it's an honor to welcome you to Silver Springs."

  "Thanks," Nick said, and finally pulled away after an uncomfortably long handshake.

  "I'm sheriff of this beautiful town," Stan said cheerfully. "And mighty proud of it, too. Held this job, oh..." he noisily scratched at his scalp under his thinning brown hair. "Just over twelve years." He gave Nick a light slap on the shoulder. "Ever since my uncle Ned went senile and shot his deputy in the arm."

  He let out a whooping laugh. "But that's ancient history, as they say, Mr. Stone. Come on in here." He motioned Nick inside the humid office. "Let's get you settled in."

  "Thank you Sheriff Michaels, I–"

  "Oh, hell, Joshua." The Sheriff turned and adjusted his hat with both hands. "This town's too damned small for us to be goin' by last names. From now on it's Stan, right?" He leaned in close, awaiting a reply.

  Nick must have looked bewildered. "Uh... sure. Stan." He forced a smile.

  "That's it!" He shuffled over to his desk and started rummaging through a mound of papers. "Son of a... it's gotta be in here somewhere." He looked up for a second. "You know, I thought you were comin' in yesterday. Honest – I had the keys all laid out and – ah! Here they are, right under Mrs. Miederman's report about her missing cat."

  He walked over to Nick, opening the envelope and checking the contents. "Yep, that woman's got more cats than I got brain cells; but can you believe she knows where every damn one of those varmints is at all times?"

  "Is that so?" Nick asked, half out of genuine interest.

  Stan nodded and handed him the envelope. "Damn near uncanny. Lotta strange folk in Silver Springs. Mind you, all of them decent, God-fearing people though." Stan nodded. "Better neighbors you couldn't ask for."

  Nick smiled. "Well, thanks for this, and–"

  "Hell, son!" the sheriff nearly shouted, snatching the envelope back. "Ain't no way you're gonna find the place on your own. Hang on."

  "But–"

  "Nope. This ain't no rich suburb like you got back east. Houses all numbered in order, with clearly marked street names and all. It's a small town, yes, but confusing to the newcomer."

  The Sheriff winked. "And to top it all off, you picked the one house way the heck out in the woods." Stan walked him to the street. "The real estate agent said you needed your privacy. Writing some book or somethin'?"

  "That's right," Nick answered. If Stan was waiting for an elaboration, Nick wasn't about to provide one. He hadn't gotten around to fine-tuning his cover story, and ad-libbing had never been one of his specialties.

  "Well," Stan replied. "You're definitely isolated out there. Nothin' to bother you but the owls. And your occasional chipmunk." He laughed at his own wittiness. "I'd appreciate you driving me out there. Don't worry, I'll walk back." He lifted the plaid shirt out of his pants and slapped his large gut. "Need the exercise."

  As he opened the car door, he added: "And besides, the wife's cooking meatloaf – or shall I say, reheating meatloaf, so I'm in no hurry to get home."

  Nick shook his head and laughed to himself. This was going to be some vacation.

  "No crime out here, neither," Stan said after they left the main town behind and plunged into the maws of a thick pine forest. "Oh sure, you got your occasional shoplifting or minor fist fight, but never been a murder in Silver Springs."

  Nick said that was a rare thing.

  "You bet it is, Josh."

  Now it's Josh, Nick thought.
/>
  "Josh. Joshua." Stan looked at him. "Nice Christian name, isn't it? One of the books of the Bible?"

  Nick laughed. "Yes. Joshua was one of the Kings in the Old Testament."

  "Oh, right. Still," Stan looked him over again, "you don't look like a Joshua."

  Nick shrugged. "Sorry. Blame my mom."

  This comment nearly brought Stan into hysterics. "Damn, Josh, if you ain't quick with a wisecrack." He grinned. "I tell you, though. It's good to know you're a religious man."

  Nick gave him a dull look, his expression concealed by the shadows.

  "Don't matter what religion you are, there's only one church in Silver Springs. Everybody's welcome at Reverend Zachary Bright's church. Every Sunday, eight a.m."

  Nick groaned. He wasn't planning on being awake and conscious that early on any day, much less on Sundays.

  "Give it a try," Stan continued. "I promise you won't regret it. That man..." he lowered his head. When he looked up, Nick thought the sheriff's eyes were wet. But perhaps it was just a trick of the headlights glancing off the road and bending around the trees.

  Nick thought he'd change the subject. "So, why is the town called Silver Springs?"

  Stan coughed and sat up straight, scratching the back of his neck. "You know... that's the first time I've ever been asked that question. Tell the truth, I never thought about it much." He shrugged. "There was an Indian family used to live here about twenty years back. Had all sorts of weird tribal names for places. They'd be the one's to ask.

  "Silver Springs..." Stan picked at his mustache. "I don't know. We don't got a river anywhere nearby, much less any springs. But... there is a small lake not far from your house."

  He rolled down the window and, holding his hat, stuck his head out. "Yep. Beyond those trees, you can just make it out."

  Nick took his eyes off the road and peered through the open window. He couldn't see a thing past the curtain of bark and foliage. "Good fishing?" he asked.

  Stan wrinkled his eyebrows. "Never had much luck there myself. Nah, for the real stuff, head out back the way you came in, about twenty miles. Sauk River. Trout swimming ten across this month. Old Ms. Hutchinson once went up there and scooped out eighteen of 'em with just her frying pan."