Crescent Lake

by David Sakmyster

  In the shadows behind the desk, and beyond the desk lamp's feeble illumination, sat Reverend Zachary. Stuart could just make out a glint of white: he wasn't sure if he was glimpsing Zachary's beard, or noting the reflection off the Reverend's teeth.

  He shuffled forward, files pressed against his chest, until he came within a foot of the desk. He bowed and took a chair from the shadows. Immediately Stuart sensed the Reverend's mood – something he had become quite good at over the years. Tonight he could read those feelings as easily as his own. The Reverend wasn't pleased. The day hadn't gone according to plan.

  "Sit down, Stuart."

  He sat, placing the folders on his lap. His head bowed, Stuart battled with stirring emotions of fear and anger: fear that he was somehow responsible for the Reverend's displeasure; and anger toward the forces that would disrupt the Reverend's goals. The tide of unbelief was indeed strong, and Stuart was impatient; he wanted progress, wanted Reverend Zachary's brilliance to spread and touch everyone in this sinful nation.

  "Reverend," he said in a humble tone. "I have the report of George and Dawn Jacobs... as well as the file on the Angetti girl, and–"

  "The Jacobs matter is settled," Zachary said, and leaned forward so that the edges of his features were highlighted in the lamp's scarlet radiance. "Fortunately, I was able to repair the damage oversight had caused."

  "Sir, I should have kept closer watch. The fault is mine."

  "Yes, it is," said Zachary, his eyes narrowing to thin slits. "I trusted you, Stuart. This wasn't supposed to happen."

  Stuart hung his head.

  "Only the fact that this is the first such incident saves you from further reproach."

  "It won't happen again. I promise." Stuart bit his lip and clenched his fists. He felt himself stumbling to the edge of a yawning abyss, one that would claim his confidence and control and send him plummeting back to the worthless life of his youth.

  "No, it won't," the Reverend agreed. He sat back in his chair, and the shadows once again swallowed his features.

  "Tell me," he said, "of the Angetti girl. Any progress?"

  Stuart cleared his throat. He pulled himself away from the chasm, reaching for a slender line of confidence. This was his job, his station. He was needed. "Minimal, Sir. No reports of anything out of the ordinary. Her mother, needless to say, is still terrified. Patronizes Theresa beyond belief. She's a wreck, and may need emotional help soon."

  "Manifestations?"

  "The same," Stuart replied. "She believes Theresa's possessed, and therefore needs to be placated. She gives in to the girl's every desire out of fear of demonic retribution."

  "And, how about the girl?" Zachary asked, almost in a whisper. "Any nightmares? Visions?"

  Stuart shook his head. "Some very random sleepwalking; otherwise there's nothing beyond the occasional bad dream that she can't remember in the morning." He swallowed hard. "This makes almost a year, Reverend."

  "I know."

  "With no response."

  "I know." The Reverend's hands emerged from the darkness. Gloved, they settled on the desktop, two white fists against the smooth wood.

  Stuart shifted in his seat. "She's not a threat, Sir. But perhaps–"

  A hand slapped onto the desk. "No. Do not strain yourself. I shall take care of it. Personally."

  "When?"

  "Sunday. In front of the town," Zachary said, leaning forward. A determined look glazed through his eyes. "They'll all witness her redemption."

  Stuart smiled and his heart surged. He knew the Reverend would overcome all the obstacles.

  Zachary folded his hands. "Now. We have other problems."

  Stuart nodded. He lifted a file and placed it on the Reverend's desk.

  Zachary opened it and leafed through the few pages inside. "Yes. Joshua Franklin Stone. We've got birthplace, occupation, meager past history, bank records... good." He frowned, then looked up. "Keep a close watch on him, Stuart. Tomorrow, extend the invitation. We can't let this one slip through. He has ties to the outside."

  Stuart scratched his head. "I don't know, Sir. I don't like him. He's... not right, somehow."

  Zachary blinked, looked at the file again. "No... he's not. I sensed the same when I met him in the diner. He's hiding something. But that's good. It means he is not beyond salvation."

  Stuart made a face. "I think he's too much in league with the other side. He stinks of evil, and... he's a writer – or so he claims. You know what they're like."

  "All the better, Stuart." Zachary closed his eyes. "The greater his crimes, the deeper his corruption, the more we can draw upon to bring him over."

  Stuart sighed. The Reverend, as usual, was right. There was still a concern, however, especially after the Jacobs incident. "Are you sure it's safe to wait until tomorrow? I really don't know enough about him. What if it's so bad...?"

  "He will last the night. I'm sure of it." His smile faded. "Something about those woods, and his house, will give him the strength."

  Stuart frowned. "The house? What's so special about it? So far away, it must be the root of all manner of evil."

  Reverend Zachary raised a hand. "Once, maybe, you were right. But no longer." He grinned, and seemed to look past Stuart and through the wall, and far into the past.

  "It was cleansed of its dark elements long ago."

  After another half-hour of details pertaining to Sunday's service, Stuart bowed and bid the Reverend good night.

  As the doors closed, Zachary pulled the switch on the lamp and sighed as the room slipped into darkness pierced by a lone moonbeam. In the silver-streaked gloom the Reverend rose and walked to the window. He gazed lovingly out over his town, all those homes. Watched in silent fascination as lights winked out from the tiny windows.

  The cloudless July night seemed to reach down to place a goodnight kiss upon every rooftop and tuck in every member of his flock. High above them all, a quarter moon burned with a fierce and mesmerizing radiance. The Reverend watched the thin disc for nearly an hour as it ascended its cosmic pathway, rising higher and higher, until it passed beyond the window frame, leaving only a shimmering silver trail.

  He solemnly dropped to one knee and at this lower angle again felt the full brilliance of the moon. He removed his gloves and tossed them on the rug. With both hands he gripped the folds in his shirt, and pulled, ripping through the buttons. Quickly he tossed off the shirt and stretched out his arms; his flesh bathed in the silvery moonlight. Eyes closed, head back, his mouth opened.

  From inside his throat a hoarse gurgling arose, the liquid sound gradually draining, transforming into a snakelike hiss. When his eyes opened, they were thin slits, with feline-like pupils swimming in a sea of yellow.

  The flesh across his arms and chest began to bristle and twist. Ripples spread from his wrists up to his shoulders, then diffused across his back and around to his stomach. Thick veins bulged and protruded on his neck. The strands elongated and spread in a horrifying root-like fashion across his flesh, contorting until they reached his fingers, where the joints seemed to bend at impossible angles, and the fingertips were charged with electric sparks. The skin on his chest split in places, bloodless rifts gaped and flapped like unfettered sails in a storm.

  His mouth opened wider, displaying rows of lengthening razor-sharp teeth and a serpentine tongue.

  And a mocking laughter could be heard through the window, down the hill and into the valley, echoing towards the sleepy town as it descended into the waiting embrace of fitful dreams.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Washington, D.C.

  Friday, 6 p.m.

  Richard Walker's office was in the east wing, on the third floor. From his desk he had an extensive view of the nation's capital. The day was still bright outside, and bustling activity continued along Pennsylvania Avenue. Thin crowds milled about the Capitol building and under the Washington Monument. On the wall beside the window hung the enormous FBI seal: the olive branches around the flag, surrounded b
y stars, and at the bottom, inscribed in a banner: Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity. Walker contemplated this image, as he did first thing nearly every morning. His eyes followed every line and curve, noting the colors, the details. For this was the essence of his Bureau; this seal said it all, it inspired him day after day, and it brought bittersweet reminders that his position was the fulfillment of a lifetime's work – a career he would be leaving soon.

  In 1972 he had been working at a desk on the bottom floor when the FBI fell into disreputable favor under Hoover; and Walker had felt his dream slipping away. Ironically, the reforms that came in the early eighties made it possible for a man with the drive and intelligence Walker possessed to rise quickly and precipitously.

  And now he sat at the controls of one of the most powerful agencies of the United States Government. The wheel was firmly in his hands; and he thought, over his three years as Director, he had plotted a successful course for the Bureau, one that was leading steadily into calmer waters.

  The job had been exhausting; it meant long hours and weekends away from his family. This week was no exception. It was already dinner time on Friday night, and it seemed quite improbable that he might manage an hour's free time by Sunday.

  While he was brooding, his secretary, Harry Giles, entered the office, his arms loaded with white paper bags. The smell of fast food reached Walker's nostrils. He grimaced and turned his attention from the Seal. His stomach turned in a disruptive and conflicting mixture of disgust and hunger.

  Harry grinned as he pulled up a chair and sat at the opposite side of the desk. "The line for Chinese was out the door. Sorry, we had to settle for Wendy's."

  Walker groaned. "Again."

  Harry laughed. He dumped several bags on the desk and fished in the first one for a sandwich.

  "I wish," said Walker, chewing on a partially-burnt fry, "we ate as well as that O'Neil bastard."

  Harry nodded. "You'd never see him anywhere near one of these fine restaurants."

  "Not with a shipment of lobster coming in every Tuesday." Walker shook his head. That fact was just one of the hundreds being sent in by investigators on the case. They were making good progress. But it wasn't quick enough for Walker. He wanted this case nailed shut by October at the latest, and wanted O'Neil behind bars in time for Christmas. Some present that would be, he mused. As an afterthought, he considered again the possibility of retirement. Three years was enough; he'd accomplished what most thought impossible. And with the close of this case, there was really nowhere else he could go, nothing to top this victory.

  Walker smiled through a mouthful of processed meat. There would be time, then, for his family. For sailing and camping, for adventures of a pleasantly mundane sort, miles away from the problems and dilemmas of the Bureau existence. Oh, he was sure he'd still hang on as an advisor to the new Director, and could probably still command a handsome wage. And there was always that nice pension. But the work would be on his time, according to his schedule.

  Harry took a sip from his chocolate shake. "How late are you staying tonight?"

  "No clue," Walker responded, after blinking back into the present. "It all depends on the boys from the DEA. If they show up with the records we need anytime within the hour I may still get home in time for a real dinner and a few hours shut-eye before hauling my butt back here." He scratched his head. "It's going to be a long weekend, Harry."

  His secretary whistled. "Want me to stay tonight? I've got nothing pressing to do–"

  "No. Go home, Harry. I can handle it. Besides, what about that secretary from McGaffey's office? Thought you two had a romantic weekend planned?"

  Harry grinned and turned away as the color rushed to his cheeks. He was a young man whose record had attracted Walker several years ago. He took Harry Giles on straight after interning with the Bureau; and since then, his work and his attitude had been excellent. There was a real future for Harry, and Walker was determined to pull some strings for the boy after he had retired.

  "It is still planned," Harry said. "But... I kind of called and explained the situation. She understood. We can plan it for another–"

  Walker stood, so fast he nearly knocked over a Coke. "Get out of here, son!" He pointed to the door. "Now."

  Harry stood, fighting the smile that tugged at his lips. "Th-thank you sir."

  Walker called after him. "Wait!"

  "Yes?"

  The Director pointed at his secretary's sleeve. "You might want to get that stuff off your jacket before you pick her up."

  Harry glanced at the white mark on his arm. "What the–? Oh, jeez. They're painting the lobby again. I must have brushed against a wall on the way in here."

  Walker shrugged and sat down again. Just before Harry left, something snagged at his thoughts. "Harry? Are they still there? The painters?"

  "Yeah. Must be working on a tight schedule, like the rest of us."

  Walker frowned. For some reason the situation bothered him. His instinct, which was rarely wrong, flashed a warning light.

  "Harry – before you go, do one more thing for me."

  "Sure." He tightened his hold on the Wendy's bag.

  "Call downstairs. If memory serves, we had this whole place painted back in March. It's probably just another example of Finance wasting our funds on internal beautification. But, check it out, anyway."

  "Gotcha," Harry said. "Call you back in a few minutes."

  Walker nodded. "Have a great weekend, Harry."

  "I will," he said, and closed the door behind him.

  Walker turned in his chair. He let his vision roam across the city, watching in a detached sort of awe as the sky reddened and the shadows grew longer, menacing.

  Several minutes passed. He glanced at the phone at the corner of his desk. It was late. What was keeping Harry?

  And more importantly, thought Walker, why were they painting the lobby again? He stood and walked around the desk, pausing at the computer terminal to lean over the screen. A message had just come through from the internal manager at the DEA branch.

  Walker read the report with the same enthusiasm as he had watched the sunset.

  Unable to locate files on O'Neil, Malcolm J, or West, Evelyn P.

  Possible criminal activity related to missing records.

  Hard copies missing, terminals damaged.

  Investigations are underway.

  Great. He sat back against the desk and stared at the glimmering green letters. There, with a few words on a computer screen, went half the case. Months of research and legwork. Investigators risking their lives. All wiped out with one brief message.

  He gripped the edge of the desk with both hands. Despair was giving way to anger. He wanted these bastards. Wanted them worse than he had ever wanted anything in his life. Walker's grandfather, a withered man with a vacant smile, had once, ages ago, told him the secret to life: that there was a moment in everyone's life that defined their reason for existence, one event or thought or action that made everything else pale by comparison. You just had to find it, and pray you recognized it when it came.

  Richard Walker, this evening, thought he had found his purpose. He had done many important things in life – falling in love and marrying Nancy, raising three beautiful children, and of course, running the FBI. But these accomplishments faded suddenly, and he was left with one goal.

  He wanted O'Neil. Wanted him broken, made to pay. Let him strike at the records, let him steal and bribe away officials. Let him blow up homes in Miami.

  Walker still held the winning card. It was packed away in a deck and hidden beyond even O'Neil's reach.

  In the corner of his eye he saw the hallway light outside his office go dark. Reflexively, he reached for the phone and punched in the security code.

  Slowly, almost lethargically, he set the receiver back down. The phone was dead, issuing nothing but a hoarse static. Walker backed up, behind the desk. His heart thundered. He opened the top desk drawer and rummaged through the clutter for the .22 he kep
t there just in case such situations arose. The handle slid into his grasp.

  Before he could lift his arm, the office door silently swung inward, and a man in a dark suit took three steps inside. Something long and black glittered in his hand.

  Walker heard two soft pops that registered before he dropped the .22 and was jerked backwards against the window. His right shoulder was lanced with searing pain, its agony echoed and doubled by his exploded kneecap. He tried, but couldn't scream, not until his leg gave out and he fell to the floor, crashing on the shattered knee; he looked in agony toward the window. Trails of blood on the glass, painting the Capital red.

  He bit back a scream, held his knee and rocked with the pain. His eyes wouldn't focus, but he could make out a dark shape looming over him, a hand reaching down. He tried to struggle while something thin and sharp stabbed into his neck and remained; the pressure in that area grew, and a numbing effect spread through his body. His eyelids flickered and his mouth hung open, a thin trail of blood seeping from a split lip.

  He was propped against the wall, head sagging towards his bloody shoulder. The needle was finally withdrawn by a black-gloved hand.

  Lloyd put the silencer back into his suit pocket. He looked over his shoulder and raised his left hand. Down the hall, two men in white painters' uniforms gave a hand sign, then backed out of sight.

  Lloyd turned the Director's chair around and sat down. He lifted a sleeve and glanced at his watch; taking a deep breath he leaned back. He looked out the blood-stained window, impressed with the view. Without taking his eyes from the window, Lloyd reached over his shoulder for the bag of half-eaten French fries. Frowning, he turned and rummaged through the larger bag until he located a packet of ketchup. Again he looked at his watch.

  For the next two minutes Lloyd slowly chewed on the lukewarm fries while he waited for the drug to take effect.

  "Mr. Walker... Wake up Ritchie." Lloyd tapped the Director on his cheek. Finally, Walker blinked and opened his dried mouth. Lloyd bent down and, lifting the cap, spilled some Coke into Walker's mouth, over his parched tongue and lips.