Crescent Lake

by David Sakmyster

  The headlights off, Audrey steered the car into the dark parking lot in front of the library. Nick had been holding his breath, it seemed, for almost an hour, since she had extinguished the lights upon approaching the first block of houses. At every turn he had imagined a pack of crazed fanatics leaping out of the shadows and launching a tirade of stones.

  They left the car on the grass around the eastern section of the building; it was effectively draped in darkness and invisible from the street. Once they had removed the guns and the bags from the trunk, Grant took out a set of keys and handed them to Stan. "Those will get you in. The two round ones are for the front door, one's my car and another's the house key. The others open some doors inside the library. He cleared his throat and looked up at the sky. After a deliberately extended moment of silence, he said, "You might want to use my office. There's a phone in there too, if you need it."

  Nick, standing beside Audrey who was busy rummaging through one of the weapons bags, saw something unsettling in Grant's expression. A mixture of resignation and fear. But before he could place it, Grant was heading off toward the back of the building, into the deeper shadows.

  He paused, a faint outline in the blackness. "And, good luck. All of you."

  Nick started after him. "Wait! Grant!"

  But Audrey held his arm. "Let him go." She forced him to look at her. "He knows what he's doing. He'll be back, if he can."

  Nick turned away, more certain than ever that he'd never see the librarian again.

  "Come on kids," Stan called from the corner. He dangled the set of keys and grinned at them. "This here's a monumental occasion. My first time in a library!"

  "What are you doing?" Nick asked after they were inside. Audrey was crouching beside the door, tying a length of string around the door handle. She bit off the end of the string and returned the spool to her purse. Holding the end, she pulled hard and was satisfied of its resistance.

  "It should work," she said, walking to a nearby lamp stand, still carrying the string which she began to tie around the metal base. She took off the shade. "Alarm system," she told Nick and Stan.

  The Sheriff winked at her. "That's good. The door opens and yanks the lamp down and we'll hear the crash."

  "That's right. It won't be much. But at least no one will sneak up on us."

  "Why not just lock it?" Nick asked.

  "One, because Grant might need to get back inside in a hurry. And two, if Lloyd knows we're in here, a locked door isn't going to slow him for more than a few seconds."

  "Shit," Stan muttered. He rested a hand on the pistol at his belt and rolled his fingers around the handle. He glanced around the library, gazed at the stacks and columns of books and shelves that basked under the faint illumination. The chamber was dreary and dark, made worse by the fact that only three of the seven light switches were thrown, in an effort to keep advertisement of their position to a minimum.

  Stan's stomach began a quiet grumble, and a dull pain arose in his arm. "Damn..."

  "What's wrong, Stan?" Audrey, testing the tautness of the string, looked over, concerned.

  He watched the flesh on his arm ripple. "It's starting again," he said.

  "Can you control it?" Nick asked.

  Stan shook his head. "It hurts."

  "Try," Nick said, walking up beside the Sheriff. "Concentrate. Put it out of your mind."

  "Aggghh."

  "Just imagine your arm free of the pain. Imagine it under ice cold water. Remember, Grant could do it and his wasn't just confined to the arm."

  "Trying..."

  "Think of something else. How about your wife's meatloaf?"

  Stan laughed and fell to his knees. "Oh come on Nick, now I'm really going to be sick."

  Audrey glided up behind Nick and held onto his waist.

  Breaking out into a sweat, Stan held up his arm, staring at it. He heard Audrey gasp as the skin started to pulse and stretch. Stan made a fist and closed his eyes; a vein in his temple bulged out as his face turned into a mask of concentration. The arm jerked and trembled, the muscles fibrillating. Gradually they took on a lethargic quality, a bubbly rhythm that sent out short pulses for almost another minute.

  And then the motions subsided and Stan let out a gasp of relief. He started to fall but Nick was there to steady him. He helped Stan to his feet while Audrey looked on in wonder.

  "Goddamn!" Stan gaped at his arm. "I did it!"

  "Good for you," Nick said, patting him on the back.

  "Yeah. Well, now I gotta find the can," the Sheriff said, fixing his hat. "Be right back." He strolled off behind a row of bookshelves and found a set of stairs leading down.

  Nick turned to Audrey. He sighed and rested his forehead against hers. She looked into his eyes and touched his face. "How," she asked, "did I ever get myself into this mess?"

  Nick gave her a swift hug before stepping away. "I believe you signed up for it. Are you sorry?"

  Audrey took a seat at the first table, with their bags and equipment. "Nah," she said. "Otherwise I'd just be stuck in a police cruiser with some crude jerk as a partner, responding to lost cat reports and handing out parking tickets. No thanks."

  Nick joined her at the table. "Come on," he said, looking over the assortment of weapons and ammunition. "Your father's work didn't sound all that bad."

  Audrey winced briefly. She was careful not to show her sensitivity about the subject of her father around Nick. Why not? She wondered. Because she dreaded what his reaction would be? And yet, didn't she have to tell him, sooner or later? If she had learned anything from the horrors of the past few days, it was that you can't keep your secrets bottled up inside. They might be used against you later, and by the time they finally came out, they were infinitely more powerful.

  She looked at Nick, and her heart went out to him. She wanted him to know, wanted him to be a part of her life. But, could she tell him? Now?

  No. Not yet. Not here. They needed time together and time alone where she could properly explain it.

  Like that would make it seem any less terrible? What's done is done. Only one other person knew. And that doctor understood.

  "Audrey?" Nick leaned over the table; touched her hands that she suddenly realized were shivering.

  She pulled away. "Sorry. I'm okay."

  "Tell me," Nick said. "I know something's wrong."

  Against her judgment, Audrey met his eyes. She felt drawn into those pools of understanding and compassion. She felt her resistance cracking, her walls of defense crumbling. "I–" she started. How to put this, exactly. How do I start such a thing?

  He reached for her hands. And she gave them, felt reassured and strengthened by his touch.

  "I–"

  "Hey!" It was Stan's voice, jarring and strong. "Guys, over here!" He was standing at the top of the stairs, pointing down. "Come check out Grant's office. I think there's something you should see."

  Nick stood up, releasing Audrey's hands. Shaking, her heart still thundering, she slowly rose from the chair to follow them.

  At one point when Nick looked back, Audrey was leaning against a bookcase for support, catching her breath. He walked back, gave her his hand, and helped her along.

  Grant's office was at the end of a dark and narrow hallway lined with crookedly-hanging artwork: nature scenes and zoo animals. The eyes of predators followed them as walked towards the distant light. Along the way were several other doors – one to the children's section, two others for the rest rooms. At the end of the hall was an exit door, lit by a flickering green bulb.

  The office was a cramped cubicle, one desk littered with files and papers. A Far Side calendar hung on the wall between a black-and-white picture of Albert Einstein and a framed portrait of Ronald Reagan. A black phone sat at the edge of the desk, and a large fluorescent lamp in the ceiling made this the brightest room in the library.

  "Here," Stan said, moving to the desk. "I found this folder right on top of this other stuff, and–"

  "Sta
n," Nick said sharply. "What were you doing rummaging around on Grant's desk?"

  Stan gave them a guilty look which quickly passed. "Well, you see. I came in here just to check it out, you know. And then I noticed this folder which was open, I swear it. Right on the desk, like it was the last thing he was looking at before leaving." Stan rubbed his arm and spoke in a quieter voice. "Maybe he left it here because he... he wanted someone to know."

  Nick suddenly didn't want to see the folder. Didn't want to know what was inside.

  But Audrey stepped forward to look.

  "It's a collection of newspaper articles," Stan said. "And look at the picture on the first one. That's what drew my attention in the first place."

  Audrey went pale. "It's a picture of Grant. It has to be."

  "A much younger Grant."

  She looked up at Nick and showed him the picture. It was taken from the Dallas Times. He couldn't read the date. But the picture showed a man in a uniform – a pilot's uniform, standing on a runway under the wing of a large airplane.

  Nick snatched the folder out of Audrey's hands. The first headline read:

  Captain Wilson named Pilot of the Year

  It went on to describe Wilson's career and his service with the airline. The next clipping was a small article about airline pilots and stress. It was dated September 15, 1965. In a long paragraph, someone had highlighted Grant's name. It was in connection with a recent psychological examination of pilots, focusing on tension and stress and how it affected their work.

  The next clipping's title was:

  Wilson Suspended for Three Months

  Nick scanned the article. Captain Wilson had been having personal troubles that were beginning to affect his performance, and he had been reported to the board by his co-captains. The review board took the matter seriously; he promised to get help and would return with full qualifications in three months.

  The next clipping was just the first one of dozens. It was the same story taken from different newspapers:

  Flight 201 Crashes in Dallas

  147 Dead. Captain Blamed.

  The date was February 11, 1966. Nick read on with stunned disbelief. "Flight 201 from Atlanta to Dallas crashed on the runway at nine-forty-five p.m. last night, killing 147. There were 14 survivors, most required immediate care, five are in critical condition. It was a routine landing, authorities said. The runway was clear and the weather perfect. Investigators are following up on a lead that the captain had been suspended earlier last year after an incident relating to his temperament. 'We deemed him unfit at the time for piloting an aircraft,' said one Gerald Phelps on the aviation board. 'He was disturbed and distraught over something in his personal life. He was flying on little or no sleep and was relying on prescription drugs to keep him going. After three months we were satisfied with his progress and allowed him back.'

  "Today Captain Grant Wilson, one of the survivors, is being questioned by investigators. What, if any part, of the blame rests with Captain Wilson will be determined and..."

  Nick stopped reading. He flipped through the next few articles. "Here," he said pausing at a sheet near the end. "Captain Grant Wilson, pilot of Flight 201 that crashed on Thursday, February 11, has been fired, his pilot license revoked. In addition to suing the airline, lawyers for the victims are seeking more punitive measures against Mr. Wilson, claiming he was directly responsible for the crash that ended 147 lives..."

  Audrey leaned back against the desk. "My God. What a thing to live with."

  "Shit," Stan mused. "Guess that's why he moved out here."

  "Right," she said. "No one to ask questions. No one to recognize him."

  "No one to judge," Nick said softly. He looked at them both with a sullen expression. "You know," he said, waving the folder at them – the folder that was a message, a final apology and a last shot at salvation. "He's not coming back."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The light in the church tower burned with an inviting radiance. It had a calming effect on Grant, who stood under the tower, his back to the dark mass of the forest. The moon was turning from gold to silver and deflating as it rose and approached the hungry clouds.

  Grant stood motionless in the moonlight, staring at his shadow cast on the stones. He cleared his mind and concentrated on the tower and its occupants. Three people, he sensed after a few seconds. The assassin, the Senator and the Reverend. They were discussing plans for making the cross-country jump; their emotions were high and their talk animated. Zachary had not sensed him yet.

  Good, Grant thought as he walked up to the door. It was locked, bolted from inside. Grant placed his left palm on the door above the handle. The back of his hand was suddenly in motion, bubbling and twitching, and a dull blue glow sifted out from his skin, as if he were holding a brilliant bulb. The wood warped and bent under his touch, becoming transparent except for the bolt. Grant's fingers slipped into the wood, closed on the bolt, and jerked it back. He pulled his hand free, and instantly the wood shifted back into place. His hand stopped glowing, and the door swung open.

  Grant stepped inside and looked up the curving staircase. Not yet, he thought, and began to search the lower room. He opened the door and slipped into the darkened chamber. His eyes quickly grew accustomed to the gloom, and he saw what he was looking for on the wall on the other side of the altar: a fuse box.

  As he walked across the dais, Grant felt a strange feeling settle over him. Halfway across, he paused and looked over his shoulder. On the wall over his head hung a huge bronze cross. Unless he looked at it directly it seemed the edges were glowing with a reddish tint. A peaceful sight. Encouraging. Grant was struck with the exciting thought that he was soon going to learn the truth. About this, and about everything.

  It was a good feeling, and as he stood under the cross contemplating its mysteries, he decided to do something he hadn't done in many, many years.

  In the darkness he got down on both knees, folded his hands, bowed his head, and prayed.

  At the fuse box he wasted no time. He grabbed the metal box with both hands and ripped the entire thing off the wall. Wires sparked and danced in the hole left behind; and the light in the doorway to the tower winked out.

  Grant dropped the box and ran to the door. He started up the stairs, carefully, slowly, counting every one. He wondered how many there were. Thirty-four? Maybe. Surely not one hundred and forty-seven. Never that many. But hopefully this would still count and maybe, in the grand scheme of things, it would somehow go a little way towards making amends.

  The door at the top of the stairs opened. Someone whispered a command of silence. And the assassin steadily made his way down the stairs.

  Grant took another step up, keeping to the wall. He knew Lloyd couldn't see him here – he didn't have Grant's vision; but his hearing was probably fine-tuned by experience.

  Grant held his breath as Lloyd took two more steps down. He was holding an automatic weapon, his finger on the trigger.

  Another step.

  Grant couldn't wait any longer. He willed the change to come, to take over his body, to run rampant through his cells, to transform and mutate. To give him strength and power, and the quickness to slide up seven steps and hurl the assassin headfirst down the stairs.

  In a flash, it was done. Lloyd screamed, fired a short burst that went wild, then he thudded against the stone steps and flopped the rest of the way down like some rag doll. At the bottom he lay still and silent.

  And Grant, his flesh pulsing and teeming with activity, snarled, raced up the remaining steps and burst into the office.

  One hundred and forty-seven passengers dead, the investigator had repeated over and over in the days that followed – days in which he continued to go without sleep, and the media hounded him at every moment, and scores of his previous "friends" treated him as a criminal.

  One hundred and forty-seven, Grant thought, or maybe whispered, as he crossed the few yards between him and the Reverend.

  This is f
or you.

  Zachary spun around and his arms went up defensively. His face, too, was unrecognizable, a mask of shifting features, expanding teeth and slanting eyes. His mouth opened wide, baring glistening fangs and pointed teeth, a narrow and elongated tongue flicking like a snake.

  They met with a bone-crunching sound, hands seeking each others' throats. Grant's fingers dug into the Reverend's neck, and the skin burned.

  Somewhere in the dark office Evelyn screamed.

  Zachary broke free of the choking hold and dove into Grant, shouldering him against the wall. He bent and scooped the librarian up and over his head like a wooden dummy. A quick toss and Grant flew into the desk, shattering it in a thunderous crash.

  But Grant was on his feet in a second and speeding back at the Reverend. There was no time for words, no last taunts or threats.

  Grant caught the Reverend around the torso, lifted, and flung him against the window. Zachary crashed through, grasping at the air and clutching at a hail of glass as he fell. Grant didn't even pause before leaping through the pane after the Reverend. In mid-air he saw Zachary land on his back and take a sickening bounce. Then Grant landed right beside him. Glass shards still rained down upon them but Grant paid them less heed than he did the shooting pains vibrating up his legs from the fifty-foot drop.

  In the silver-streaked moonlight and surrounded by eerie shadows, Grant leapt onto the dazed Reverend and clasped Zachary's skull between his hands.

  "Now Isaac," he whispered softly. "It's your turn."

  Grant's hands were glowing fiercely, a cold blue fire. Zachary's eyes bulged, then went white. His body jerked and thrashed, blood seeped out of the corner of his mouth.

  "This," Grant said with a wild sense of elation, "Is for Mary, and for my daughter."

  The Reverend shrieked and pummeled Grant's chest from underneath. His body continued to violently twist like it was being electrocuted, and Grant felt a surge of hope that he might actually do it, he might win.