Crescent Lake

by David Sakmyster

  He gently kissed her neck. "Once your nephew's taken care of, we'll be free to deal with the other obstacles the State has placed in our path."

  Senator West pulled back and stared at him thoughtfully. Her expression was nervous, her eyes excitedly searching O'Neil's for an elusive element. Accepting its absence, as she had on many such nights, her face fell; curls of graying hair obscured her vision.

  "Malcolm?" she whispered as he turned his back to her.

  "What?" he snapped, standing and fumbling for his trousers.

  "Do you..." Evelyn chose her words carefully, not certain what had set her on this track, or even why she should want to know. "Do you ever regret?"

  O'Neil paused and turned to her. "Excuse me?"

  Evelyn wrapped her legs under her, pulled the sheet up to her neck, and leaned forward. "Regret? Do you feel, I don't know – sorry? Guilty about–"

  "About us?" O'Neil chuckled and turned away. "Don't make me laugh. We are both adults."

  "Not that," Evelyn responded, with a tint of malice in her voice. She didn't care for the brutality with which he dismissed their affairs. "I mean, about your life?"

  O'Neil slid into his shirt and his fingers glided up the buttons. "What other life is there, my dear?" He grinned at her in the scarlet candlelight. "No, I haven't regretted a minute of it, Evelyn. Not one minute. I grew up in this business, lived it, breathed it. Killed for it. The ends have always justified the means."

  He leaned over the bed, and the darkness lovingly cradled his face, as if mocking Evelyn and letting her know who was truly O'Neil's mate. "Truthfully, there is something I regret. I regret that I am now too high up in the organization to fully appreciate the simple pleasures, like taking out a nark myself. Now I'm too overwhelmed with responsibilities."

  O'Neil cupped her chin in his strong fingers. "But, if I could get away… just this once, I would risk it, because – oh, it would be so worth it. But you asked about regret?" He smiled and showed her his teeth. "The answer is, of course, no. No remorse. None, my sweet."

  Evelyn looked away. "Then you are blessed by the absence of a conscience."

  "And you?" O'Neil raised an eyebrow.

  She shrugged. "I haven't been sleeping well."

  O'Neil frowned.

  "Nightmares," she said, angrily, as if his understanding was crucial to her sanity. "I see the dead judge, I see the families of those we murdered. Don't laugh, please. I feel the pain of every addict we've created, I feel the anguish of those we've blackmailed, I–"

  Shaking his head, O'Neil slipped into his suit coat and picked up his briefcase. "You wanted to play with fire, and now you're complaining that it burns?"

  "Malcolm, this is serious..."

  "Take some sleeping pills." He opened the briefcase and withdrew a cell phone. He shot her a glance. "Although, if you're having second thoughts about entering a plea... If you even consider selling me out–"

  Evelyn shook her head. "No. Never. I'd fry–"

  "Yes, you would. And before you even made it to the courtroom."

  The Senator glared at him. A week ago she could have challenged him, stood up to the bastard and had him on his knees within minutes. But everything had turned upside down because of one unforeseeable mistake, one glitch: her nephew. Now all the blame fell into her lap, and she had to make up for years of preparations inadvertently doomed to destruction.

  "And I suggest," O'Neil added after dialing, "that in addition to taking sleeping pills, you immediately cease any fraternal feelings for your nephew."

  Buttoning his coat, O'Neil stalked out the door, past Carl Bates who was on his way up the stairs, making his rounds.

  The bedroom door slammed shut and the candle fluttered and winked out, leaving the Senator alone and shivering in the dark.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Silver Springs

  Thursday Night

  The Jacobs house was on Oak Lane, behind the Laundromat on Main Street. Mr. Jacobs worked in a timber mill ten miles north of Darrington. He put in long hours, sometimes not returning to Silver Springs until ten. Consequently he never had much time to share alone with his son. He worked Saturdays, and the boy was usually out and about, roaming with his high school friends until ungodly hours of the morning, doing God knew what.

  George took full credit for his son's waywardness. If he hadn't been so selfish in his pursuit for the dollar and the secular goods it could buy, maybe he'd have been there to steer Doug onto the right path. Sure, Dawn was home all day, but it wasn't the same. A boy that age needed a father, a good role model to emulate, someone to say, "Look son, at what I've done. You can stay on God's path and be happy and rich – maybe not in worldly matters, but in family and in spirit."

  Sighing, he turned off the television as Letterman made his first appearance. George shook his head. Role model. What had he shown the boy? The merits of ignoring what's best in one's life? How to let your life be run by greed?

  Fine lessons indeed.

  "Dawn," he called to his wife, dozing on the nearby couch.

  She stirred. "Yes?" Blinking, she stretched and looked at her watch. "Goodness. What are you still doing up? Work tomorrow at seven–"

  George shook his head. "Not tomorrow. And not Saturday, neither."

  A wide smile came to Dawn's lips. "You mean–?"

  He nodded. "I'm taking the Reverend's words to heart. My greed has blinded me for too long."

  Dawn grinned, and a tear leaked uncontrollably from her left eye as she glanced at the ceiling. "God be praised," she whispered.

  George, too, looked at the ceiling. "Is he in?"

  "God?" Dawn asked, giggling softly.

  George rolled his eyes. "No, silly. Doug."

  "Yes," she said, rising and folding her hands. "Oh, George, I'm so happy. We need this. We're going to be a family again. It hasn't felt right for years... I've made my sacrifices..."

  George gave her a sympathetic look. "I know, honey. And now I appreciate it so much. It took me longer, and I admit, I was angry at the Reverend at first."

  "Hush," Dawn whispered and placed a finger on her husband's lips.

  Her touch ignited something inside him, something dormant for too long. A reaction once natural and exciting. Now he backed away, and she did likewise, apologizing.

  "When did Reverend Zachary see Douglas?" George asked, clearing the air of temptation.

  "Monday," she replied. "He stopped by for coffee..."

  "And mentioned that Douglas hadn't been at services recently."

  She nodded.

  "He..." George fumbled for the words, "performed the Ceremony then?"

  Dawn shivered. "Yes. Doug didn't want to. I could tell, but since Reverend Zachary showed up in person..."

  "The boy was afraid?"

  "Yes."

  "Visibly?"

  Dawn nodded.

  "And how has he been the past few days?" School was out. Doug would have more time to himself, time to reflect... That thought suddenly chilled George, and once again he cursed his greed. He should have been home for the boy. Should have been here to help him through this.

  "I should have called the Reverend, I suppose," Dawn said, and again looked at the ceiling. She thought she heard something creak in Doug's room.

  George sighed. "It's always a tough call. The timing is important."

  "I know."

  George turned to the stairwell. "I'll go check on him now. Don't be afraid," he said to his wife. "This is the beginning of a new life for us."

  "We owe the Reverend," Dawn added.

  George smiled. "We do." He walked up the stairs, to his son's room.

  The bedroom door was closed, but a soft light filtered through a thin crack in the wood made from... a long time ago when the boy, as a thirteen-year old, had locked himself inside to escape punishment. George had thrust his shoulder against the door, cracked the wood and knocked the door open. George had never been proud of that night; he felt as if evil had taken control that eve
ning and made him brutally beat his own son over a minor infraction. Reverend Zachary demonstrated that evil had been at the root of the madness, and the Reverend purged his spirit and cleared away the lingering demons, restoring his soul as his own. It was the first step on the long road to redemption.

  This night, George gently rapped on the wood.

  "Douglas?" He called softly. "Can I come in for a moment, son? I'd like to talk to you."

  Silence.

  "Doug?" George put his ear to the wall. The kid was probably listening to the devil's music on that infernal iPod contraption, and couldn't hear a word his father was saying. The boy had better learn when to shape up, or God help him, he–

  George stopped in mid-thought, horrified at the emotions rising in his breast. He wasn't supposed to be feeling such anger. He was coming up here to make peace with his son, to settle their differences and to plan to live happily together. He wanted to share the boy's interests, become involved in his life. God, he didn't even know who his son had as friends. Didn't know if he ever kissed a girl, didn't even know if he liked girls.

  Oh Sweet Jesus, he thought suddenly. I haven't even thrown a baseball with my son. Not once.

  He nearly fell to his knees and wept, right there in front of his son's room.

  Inside the room, something creaked again.

  "Doug," he said, his emotions tearing at the word. "It's Dad, I'm going to change, I promise. I'll make up for everything."

  He turned the doorknob and stepped into Doug's room.

  The rope creaked, softly as it twisted around the sagging pipe.

  It took several minutes for George Jacobs to sort out what his eyes were showing him. And several minutes after that until he could find his voice again to utter the deepest scream of his life.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Silver Springs

  Friday evening

  At seven-thirty, Nick and Audrey entered the diner and took their seats at a small corner table beside the window. A thin middle-aged woman wearing an apron smeared with something that looked like mustard brought menus to them. Three other couples and a family of six were eating their meals at the other tables. Two older men, both wearing flannel shirts, sat on stools at the counter, sipping coffee and eating turkey sandwiches, discussing their day at the mill. Overhead fans hummed methodically and actually worked to cool the air to a comfortable temperature. In one corner sat an ancient jukebox; it was shiny and well-polished, but the coin slot had been duct-taped up shut.

  Audrey had arrived in Silver Springs later than she had planned. There was an unexpected development in the case and she had spent all morning in a meeting with the chief and several advisors, after which she met with agents involved in security. The fishing expedition was canceled, and instead, Audrey presented Nick with a gift from the FBI: a small personal arsenal including a .32 gauge shotgun, a nine-millimeter handgun with silencer and hollow-tip bullets, and a .357 Magnum.

  Fortunately, Nick hadn't seemed concerned with the emphasis on such tremendous firepower; he must have figured it was a regular part of the program. Audrey was thankful he hadn't pushed for the ulterior reason; she didn't know how to break the news to him, and she certainly did not want to ignite his anger or spark any incentives for revenge. He was safe at the moment, and there was no point in worrying him needlessly. She'd have to tell him, but not now. He would never be allowed to go to the funeral, in any event. The Miami incident was the reaction of a desperate criminal, striking at the family of one who threatened him. An enemy, Audrey hoped, who was still on the opposite coast, with no clues about how to proceed.

  The waitress slowly lumbered back to the table with a pot of coffee. Her name tag read Jennifer. Chewing gum, she filled their cups and set the pot on the table. She pulled a pencil out from behind her ear, and then seemed to notice for the first time that her patrons were strangers. She frowned, staring intently at Nick.

  "Mr. Stone?" she asked with a prying tone.

  Nick nodded, and raised his hand. "That's me. This is my friend, Audrey."

  Jennifer's eyes narrowed as she scrutinized the agent. "Welcome to Silver Springs," she said without emotion. "What'll ya have?"

  After they ordered, the waitress snapped up the menus and quickly scurried away.

  Nick raised an eyebrow as he watched her disappear into the kitchen. "I'm telling you, Audrey, you couldn't have picked a stranger place to hide me."

  "I had nothing to do with it," she replied, grinning. "If you hadn't come along, I would have been perfectly content for the next few months doing paperwork on bank robbers and other assorted bad guys."

  Nick sipped his coffee, put it down and decided to add another pack of sugar.

  "Besides," Audrey said, leaning forward. "This town's kind of cute." She pointed out the window. "One grocery store, one movie theater. No supermarkets, no lines, no traffic jams..."

  "No life," Nick added. "Oh, and the movie theater hasn't been open in years, from what I can tell."

  Audrey sipped her coffee. "Well, still. I could get used to this sort of living. The scenery is absolutely gorgeous... the mountains, the trees. Everything is so relaxed here. The people seem friendly enough." She smiled and took a deep swallow of the black coffee.

  "Except the waitress," Nick muttered.

  "Yeah, except her."

  "And you haven't met the librarian yet."

  "Oh? What did he do, scold you for talking too loud in the nonfiction section?"

  "No. Much worse than that. I'll tell you some other time."

  Audrey sighed.

  "And," Nick continued, "they're all fanatically religious. They think this beautiful little girl is a witch because she survived a near-fatal drowning."

  "Well… I guess that's to be expected in an area like this." In a low voice she said, "They are a little behind the times here."

  Nick groaned. "I just hope no one torches my satellite dish in some religious frenzy." She was stirring her coffee when she noticed the sound of someone crying. Nick heard it too, and peered over Audrey's left shoulder.

  Four tables away a teenage boy sitting with his parents and three sisters had his head down; he was weeping openly. His mother sat next to him, her arm around his shoulders, offering what comfort she could.

  "What do you suppose–?" Audrey asked, whispering.

  Nick shook his head, then turned away. "All is not perfect in Silver Springs."

  The waitress returned a minute later with their meals. She glanced at the family and made a motion with her head. She leaned close to Nick. "Boy's best friend hanged himself last night."

  Nick's eyes widened and Audrey gasped.

  "Yep. Little Doug Jacobs. Lived just in back of the Laundromat. I've been serving him buttercakes since he was a little tot." She shook her head. "The father's in a fit. Reverend's been at the house all day. There was some mighty screamin' goin on there early this morning, after the folks from Darrington came and took the body away. Quieted down around noon."

  Jennifer glanced suddenly out the window. "He's out!" she exclaimed. "The Reverend's come out again... he's stoppin' at the street..." She leaned over the table, nearly spilling the pot of coffee.

  "He's turnin', comin' this way." She straightened up and fixed her uniform. She slapped the bill down in front of Nick and whispered: "Maybe now you'll get to meet him."

  "Great," Nick said, rolling his eyes at Audrey.

  Jennifer began to walk away, paused, then glided back to Nick. She bent over and in a grim voice said, "I hope your friend has a safe and early trip out of Silver Springs tonight."

  Nick blinked as she walked away.

  "Oh my God." Audrey whispered. "Now I see what you mean."

  "Just wait," he said, pointing to the glass door and to the tall, silver-haired man preparing to enter. "I have a feeling it's going to get a lot worse."

  A hush fell over the diner. The mill workers turned around and watched the door. Even the young boy ceased to cry; he sniffled and put his head
down while his family tried to get a good view of the Reverend.

  Jennifer rushed to the door and held it open as the Reverend made his way inside. Reverend Zachary Bright's ivory hair and neatly trimmed white beard served as a handsome contrast with his black suit and dark shirt.

  But Nick's attention was drawn to the Reverend's hands.

  "What's with the white gloves?" Audrey asked in a whisper.

  Nick shook his head. He held the Reverend in his vision for what seemed like long minutes before turning to Audrey and blinking. "I don't know, but he's a very imposing figure. No wonder the town is so taken with him."

  "Shh. He's looking this way."

  Nick glanced at the Reverend, and their eyes made contact briefly, before Jennifer moved between their table and the Reverend, saving Nick from a strange and growing discomfort.

  "Reverend Zachary," she said, "how are George and Dawn?"

  The Reverend gently laid a gloved hand on her shoulder. "They are troubled, my dear." His voice was soft, but edged with potency, a charismatic, almost hypnotic quality. He paused, thinking, and when he began again, he spoke louder, as if addressing his congregation. "A loss of one's only son is very difficult. I have spent the day reminding George and Dawn that they are but followers of the Lord. It is not their place to question His designs."

  Jennifer nodded and lowered her head. The boy sniffled and covered his eyes; his hands were balled into fists.

  Zachary continued: "It was the will of God that he be taken at this time..."

  Jennifer blurted out, "But, Reverend! He took his own life! Surely–"

  Zachary gripped both her shoulders. "We can only pray, my child. Pray that God has it in His mercy to be forgiving."

  With that, the Reverend strode past the waitress and to the counter. He smiled and shook hands with the mill workers, calling them by first names, and inquiring about their health. Jennifer scurried around the counter and grabbed a coffee pot.

  Nick raised his eyebrows at Audrey as she picked up a French fry. He looked around the diner, still bothered by the veil of silence that had fallen with the Reverend's arrival. It seemed the very atmosphere had shifted with his presence; it had become warmer inside and the air was thicker, resisting the fan's efforts.