by Tanya Huff
"Yeah? Well, I'm feeling a lot more Stephen King than Agatha Christie."
Sobering, Vicki laid her hand on the barricade of his crossed arms and studied his face. "You're really freaked by this, aren't you?"
"I don't know exactly what I saw, but I didn't see a fish get eaten by another fish."
The muscles under her hand were rigid and he was staring past her, out at the lake. "Mike, what is it?"
"I told you, Vicki. I don't know exactly what I saw." In spite of everything, he still liked his world defined. Reluctantly transferring his gaze to the pale oval of her upturned face, he sighed. "How much, if any, of this do you want me to tell Mr Gordon tomorrow?"
"How about none? I'll tell him myself after sunset."
"Fine. It's late, I'm turning in. I assume you'll be staking out the parking lot for the rest of the night."
"What for? I guarantee the vengeful spirits won't be back." Her voice suggested that in a direct, one-on-one confrontation a vengeful spirit wouldn't stand a chance. Celluci remembered the thing that rose up out of the lake and wasn't so sure.
"That doesn't matter, you promised twenty-four-hour protection."
"Yeah, but…" His expression told her that if she wasn't going to stay, he would. "Fine, I'll watch the car. Happy?"
"That you're doing what you said you were going to do? Ecstatic." Celluci unfolded his arms, pulled her close enough to kiss the frown lines between her brows, and headed for the lodge. She had a little talk with Pete Wegler, my ass. He knew Vicki had to feed off others, but he didn't have to like it.
*
Should never have mentioned Pete Wegler. She settled down on the rock still warm from Celluci's body heat and tried unsuccessfully to penetrate the darkness of the lake. When something rustled in the underbrush bordering the parking lot, she hissed without turning her head. The rustling moved away with considerably more speed than it had used to arrive. The secrets of the lake continued to elude her.
"This isn't mysterious, it's irritating."
*
As Celluci wandered around the lodge, turning off lights, he could hear Stuart snoring through the door of one of the two main-floor bedrooms. In the few hours he'd been outside, the other man had managed to leave a trail of debris from one end of the place to the other. On top of that, he'd used up the last of the toilet paper on the roll and hadn't replaced it, he'd put the almost empty coffee pot back on the coffee-maker with the machine still on so that the dregs had baked on to the glass, and he'd eaten a piece of Celluci's chicken, tossing the gnawed bone back into the bucket. Celluci didn't mind him eating the piece of chicken but the last thing he wanted was Stuart Gordon's spit over the rest of the bird.
Dropping the bone into the garbage, he noticed a crumpled piece of paper and fished it out. Apparently the resort was destined to grow beyond its current boundaries. Destined to grow all the way around the lake, devouring Dulvie as it went.
"Which would put Stuart Gordon's spit all over the rest of the area."
*
Bored with watching the lake and frightening off the local wildlife, Vicki pressed her nose against the window of the sports ute and clicked her tongue at the dashboard full of electronic displays, willing to bet that call-me-Stuart didn't have the slightest idea of what most of them meant.
"Probably has a trouble light if his air freshener needs… hello."
Tucked under the passenger seat was the unmistakable edge of a laptop.
"And how much do you want to bet this thing'll scream bloody blue murder if I try and jimmy the door…" Turning towards the now dark lodge, she listened to the sound of two heartbeats. To the slow, regular sound that told her both men were deeply asleep.
*
Stuart slept on his back with one hand flung over his head and a slight smile on his thin face. Vicki watched the pulse beat in his throat for a moment. She'd been assured that, if necessary, she could feed off lower life-forms — pigeons, rats, developers — but she was just as glad she'd taken the edge off the hunger down in the village. Scooping up his car keys, she went out of the room as silently as she'd come in.
*
Celluci woke to a decent voice belting out a Beatles tune and came downstairs just as Stuart came out of the bathroom finger-combing damp hair.
"Good morning, Mike. Can I assume no vengeful spirits of Lake Nepeakea trashed my car in the night?"
"You can."
"Good. Good. Oh, by the way," — his smile could have sold attitude to Americans — "I've used all the hot water."
"I guess it's true what they say about so many of our boys in blue."
"And what's that?" Celluci growled, fortified by two cups of coffee made only slightly bitter by the burned carafe.
"Well, you know, Mike." Grinning broadly, the developer mimed tipping a bottle to his lips. "I mean, if you can drink that vile brew, you've certainly got a drinking problem." Laughing at his own joke, he headed for the door.
To begin with, they're not your boys in blue and then, you can just fucking well drop dead. You try dealing with the world we deal with for a while, asshole, it'll chew you up and spit you out. But although his fist closed around his mug tightly enough for it to creak, all he said was, "Where are you going?"
"Didn't I tell you? I've got to see a lawyer in Bigwood today. Yes, I know what you're going to say, Mike; it's Sunday. But since this is the last time I'll be out here for a few weeks, the local legal beagle can see me when I'm available. Just a few loose ends about that nasty business with the surveyor." He paused, with his hand on the door, voice and manner stripped of all pretensions. "I told them to be sure and finish that part of the shoreline before they quit for the day. I know I'm not, but I feel responsible for that poor woman's death and I only wish there was something I could do to make up for it. You can't make up for someone dying though, can you, Mike?"
Celluci growled something non-committal. Right at the moment, the last thing he wanted was to think of Stuart Gordon as a decent human being.
"I might not be back until after dark but hey, that's when the spirit's likely to appear so you won't need me until then. Right, Mike?" Turning towards the screen where the black flies had settled, waiting for their breakfast to emerge, he shook his head. "The first thing I'm going to do when all this is settled is drain every stream these little bloodsuckers breed in."
*
The water levels in the swamp had dropped in the two weeks since the death of the surveyor. Drenched in the bug spray he'd found under the sink, Celluci followed the path made by the searchers, treading carefully on the higher hummocks no matter how solid the ground looked. When he reached the remains of the police tape, he squatted and peered down into the water. He didn't expect to find anything, but after Stuart's confession he felt he had to come.
About two inches deep, it was surprisingly clear.
"No reason for it to be muddy now, there's nothing stirring it…"
Something metallic glinted in the mud.
Gripping the marsh grass on his hummock with one hand, he reached out with the other and managed to get thumb and forefinger around the protruding piece of…
"Stainless-steel measuring tape?"
It was probably a remnant of the dead surveyor's equipment. One end of the six-inch piece had been cleanly broken but the other end, the end that had been down in the mud, looked as though it had been dissolved.
When Anne Kellough had thrown the acid on Stuart's car, they'd been imitating the spirit of Lake Nepeakea. Celluci inhaled deeply and spat a mouthful of suicidal black flies out into the swamp. "I think it's time to talk to Mary Joseph."
*
"Can't you feel it?"
Enjoying the first decent cup of coffee he'd had in days, Celluci walked to the edge of the porch and stared out at the lake. Unlike most of Dulvie, separated from the water by the road, Mary Joseph's house was right on the shore. "I can feel something," he admitted.
"You can feel the spirit of the lake, angered by this man
from the city. Another cookie?"
"No, thank you." He'd had one and it was without question the worst cookie he'd ever eaten. "Tell me about the spirit of the lake, Ms Joseph. Have you seen it?"
"Oh, yes. Well, not exactly it, but I've seen the wake of its passing." She gestured out towards the water but, at the moment, the lake was perfectly calm. "Most water has a protective spirit, you know. Wells and springs, lakes and rivers, it's why we throw coins into fountains, so that the spirits will exchange them for luck. Kelpies, selkies, mermaids, Jenny Greenteeth, Peg Powler, the Fideal… all water spirits."
"And one of them, is that what's out there?" Somehow he couldn't reconcile mermaids to that toothed trunk snaking out of the water.
"Oh, no, our water spirit is a new world water spirit. The Cree called it a mantouche — surely you recognize the similarity to the word Manitou or Great Spirit? Only the deepest lakes with the best fishing had them. They protected the lakes and the area around the lakes and, in return—"
"Were revered?"
"Well, no actually. They were left strictly alone."
"You told the paper that the spirit had manifested twice before?"
"Twice that we know of," she corrected. "The first recorded manifestation occurred in 1762 and was included in the notes on native spirituality that one of the exploring Jesuits sent back to France."
Product of a Catholic school education, Celluci wasn't entirely certain the involvement of the Jesuits added credibility. "What happened?"
"It was spring. A pair of white trappers had been at the lake all winter, slaughtering the animals around it. Animals under the lake's protection. According to the surviving trapper, his partner was coming out of high-water marshes, just after sunset, when his canoe suddenly upended and he disappeared. When the remaining man retrieved the canoe he found that bits had been burned away without flame and it carried the mark of all the dead they'd stolen from the lake."
"The mark of the dead?"
"The record says it stank, Detective. Like offal." About to eat another cookie, she paused. "You do know what offal is?"
"Yes, ma'am. Did the survivor see anything?"
"Well, he said he saw what he thought was a giant snake except that it had two stubby wings at the upper end. And you know what that is."
… a glistening, grey tube as big around as his biceps. "No."
"A wyvern. One of the ancient dragons."
"There's a dragon in the lake."
"No, of course not. The spirit of the lake can take many forms. When it's angry, those who face its anger see a great and terrifying beast. To the trapper, who no doubt had northern European roots, it appeared as a wyvern. The natives would have probably seen a giant serpent. There are many so-called serpent mounds around deep lakes."
"But it couldn't just be a giant serpent?"
"Detective Celluci, don't you think that if there was a giant serpent living in this lake that someone would have got a good look at it by now? Besides, after the second death the lake was searched extensively with modern equipment — and once or twice since then as well — and nothing has ever been found. That trapper was killed by the spirit of the lake and so was Thomas Stebbing."
"Thomas Stebbing?"
"The recorded death in 1937. I have newspaper clippings…"
In the spring of 1937, four young men from the University of Toronto came to Lake Nepeakea on a wilderness vacation. Out canoeing with a friend at dusk, Thomas Stebbing saw what he thought was a burned log on the shore and they paddled in to investigate. As his friend watched in horror, the log "attacked" Stebbing, left him burned and dead and "undulated into the lake" on a trail of dead vegetation.
The investigation turned up nothing at all and the eyewitness account of a "kind of big worm thing" was summarily dismissed. The final, official verdict was that the victim had indeed disturbed a partially burned log and, as it rolled over him was burned by the embers and died. The log then rolled into the lake, burning a path as it rolled, and sank. The stench was dismissed as the smell of roasting flesh and the insistence by the friend that the burns were acid burns was completely ignored — in spite of the fact he was a chemistry student and should therefore know what he was talking about.
"The spirit of the lake came up on land, Ms Joseph?"
She nodded, apparently unconcerned with the contradiction. "There were a lot of fires being lit around the lake that year. Between the wars this area got popular for a while and fires were the easiest way to clear land for summer homes. The spirit of the lake couldn't allow that, hence its appearance as a burned log."
"And Thomas Stebbing had done what to disturb its peace?"
"Nothing specifically. I think the poor boy was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It is a vengeful spirit, you understand."
Only a few short years earlier, he'd have understood that Mary Joseph was a total nutcase. But that was before he'd willingly thrown himself into the darkness that lurked behind a pair of silvered eyes. He sighed and stood; the afternoon had nearly ended. It wouldn't be long now until sunset.
"Thank you for your help, Ms Joseph. I — what?"
She was staring at him, nodding. "You've seen it, haven't you? You have that look."
"I've seen something," he admitted reluctantly and turned towards the water. "I've seen a lot of thi…"
A pair of jet skiers roared around the point and drowned him out. As they passed the house, blanketing it in noise, one of the adolescent operators waved a cheery hello.
Never a vengeful lake spirit around when you really need one, he thought.
*
"He knew about the sinkholes in the marsh and he sent those surveyors out anyway." Vicki tossed a pebble off the end of the dock and watched it disappear into the liquid darkness.
"You're sure?"
"The information was all there on his laptop and the file was dated back in March. Now, although evidence that I just happened to have found in his computer will be inadmissible in court I can go to the Department of Lands and Forests and get the dates he requested the geological surveys."
Celluci shook his head. "You're not going to be able to get him charged with anything. Sure, he should've told them but they were both professionals; they should've been more careful." He thought of the crocodile tears Stuart had cried that morning over the death and his hands formed fists by his side. Being an irresponsible asshole was one thing; being a manipulative, irresponsible asshole was on another level entirely. "It's an ethical failure," he growled, "not a legal one."
"Maybe I should take care of him myself then." The second pebble hit the water with considerably more force.
"He's your client, Vicki. You're supposed to be working for him, not against him."
She snorted. "So I'll wait until his cheque clears."
"He's planning on acquiring the rest of the land around the lake." Pulling the paper he'd retrieved from the garbage out of his pocket, Celluci handed it over.
"The rest of the land around the lake isn't for sale."
"Neither was this lodge until he decided he wanted it."
Crushing the paper in one hand, Vicki's eyes silvered. "There's got to be something we can… Shit!" Tossing the paper aside, she grabbed Celluci's arm as the end of the dock bucked up into the air and leaped back one section, dragging him with her. "What the fuck was that?" she demanded as they turned to watch the place they'd just been standing rock violently back and forth. The paper she'd dropped into the water was nowhere to be seen.
"Wave from a passing boat?"
"There hasn't been a boat past here in hours."
"Sometimes these long narrow lakes build up a standing wave. It's called a seiche."
"A seiche?" When he nodded, she rolled her eyes. "I've got to start watching more PBS. In the meantime…"
The sound of an approaching car drew their attention up to the lodge in time to see Stuart slowly and carefully pull into the parking lot, barely disturbing the gravel.
"Are you
going to tell him who vandalized his car?" Celluci asked as they started up the hill.
"Who? Probably not. I can't prove it after all, but I will tell him it wasn't some vengeful spirit and it definitely won't happen again." At least not if Pete Wegler had anything to say about it. The spirit of the lake might be hypothetical but she wasn't.
*
"A group of villagers, Vicki? You're sure?"
"Positive."
"They actually thought I'd believe it was an angry spirit manifesting all over the side of my vehicle?"
"Apparently." Actually, they hadn't cared if he believed it or not. They were all just so angry they needed to do something and since the spirit was handy… She offered none of that to call-me-Stuart.
"I want their names, Vicki." His tone made it an ultimatum.
Vicki had never responded well to ultimatums. Celluci watched her masks begin to fall and wondered just how far his dislike of the developer would let her go. He could stop her with a word, he just wondered if he'd say it. Or when.
To his surprise, she regained control. "Check the census lists then. You haven't exactly endeared yourself to your neighbours."
For a moment, it seemed that Stuart realized how close he'd just come to seeing the definition of his own mortality but then he smiled and said, "You're right, Vicki, I haven't endeared myself to my neighbours. And do you know what: I'm going to do something about that. Tomorrow's Victoria Day. I'll invite them all to a big picnic supper with great food and fireworks out over the lake. We'll kiss and make up."
"It's Sunday evening and tomorrow's a holiday. Where are you going to find food and fireworks?"
"Not a problem, Mike. I'll e-mail my caterers in Toronto. I'm sure they can be here by tomorrow afternoon. I'll pay through the nose but, hey, developing a good relationship with the locals is worth it. You two will stay, of course."
Vicki's lips drew back off her teeth but Celluci answered for them both. "Of course."
