“Well, whatever the reason, I’m just glad you’re not hurt worse than you are.” Alison smiled at him, but the concerned expression in her eyes didn’t change.
“You and Janet, both. And me, of course.” He waved to his bloody face. “This looks worse than it is, I think.”
“I don’t imagine you’ve been sleeping much, have you?” asked Will. “First, the body, and now this mess with the little boy up the road.” Will shook his head, an expression of sadness stealing over him.
“Yeah, you could say that.” Tom watched the ambulance driver try and fail to navigate the steep driveway that led from the ridge to Will’s garage. “I better get up there, before they end up down here parked next to me.”
“I’ll walk you up,” said Will.
Tom nodded and started walking, holding his hand up to stop the ambulance from any further attempts.
Will fell in step beside him and cleared his throat. “I hope you know, Tom, that there won’t be any shenanigans about the damages. The town is good for it, and I trust you to make sure everything gets taken care of.”
Tom looked at him askance and nodded. “Absolutely, Will. I apologize again for the inconvenience.”
“It’s nothing.” Will made a shooing gesture with his left hand. “I welcome the interruption.”
Walton glanced over his shoulder as Alison, Sammy, and Sammy’s husband went inside the house. “I don’t remember your son-in-law’s name, Will.”
“Chris Stanton.” Will grimaced and belched. “Excuse me.”
“I take it you don’t care for Mr. Stanton?”
“A guy could say that,” said Will in a gruff voice. “He rubs me wrong.”
“Same here,” said Tom. “He seems… No, never mind.”
Will glanced at him with a sour smile on his lips. “Nothing you say about Chris will offend me, Tom. Hell, if you think he’s an asshole, it will only heighten my estimation of your intelligence.”
Tom shook his head and winced at the lightning bolt of pain the movement caused in his neck. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“But you did, and now I’m curious. To tell the truth, Tom, I’d appreciate hearing your thoughts on the man. I have my suspicions, and a second opinion would ease my mind.”
They walked in silence for a few steps before Tom nodded. “Okay. Chris strikes me as someone untrustworthy. I get a feeling off him, a feeling I usually get off skells.”
“Skells?”
Tom shrugged. “Yeah, you know. Suspects. Criminals.”
Will’s eyelids narrowed, his lips curled down in the deepest frown Tom could remember seeing, and the muscles of his face hardened. “Yeah. Me, too, I guess.”
As they neared the ambulance, the EMTs jumped out of it and took roughly thirty-seven ginormous cases of equipment and a gurney out of the back. One of them came toward Tom carrying a neck brace.
“Will doesn’t need a neck brace,” said Tom. “He wasn’t even in the accident.”
“Ha-ha,” said the EMT. “This is for you, Chief, and you know it.”
Tom held up both hands, palms toward the EMT. “The chief doesn’t need a neck brace, either. All I need for you to do is close up this cut in my scalp.”
“No, Chief. Let us run you in to the emergency room. Get you checked out by a doctor.”
“I don’t have time for that, gentlemen. I’m on a case I can’t make heads or tails of, and on top of that, I’m not hurt. Anyone can see that.”
Shaking their heads, the EMTs led him toward the back of the ambulance and made him sit on the rear step while they dressed his wound. Will stood close by, and his gaze kept straying toward the lake house.
“Will,” said Tom in a soft, but implacable, voice.
Will met his direct gaze with a frank expression before arching his eyebrows.
“Is there something…something I should know?”
Will grunted a harsh laugh that held little humor. Again, his gaze drifted to the front of the lake house. “I’ll say this, Tom. If I ever call you out here about that son of a bitch, I’d recommend you get here in a hurry.” He turned to meet Tom’s gaze. “That or send a meat wagon.”
One of the EMTs shot a glance at Will but said nothing.
“Well, now, Will, that doesn’t go a long way toward making me understand the whole story.”
Will shook his head and lifted his shoulders. “I don’t know anything, Tom.”
“But you suspect.”
It wasn’t a question, but Will answered him anyway. “Yes, and you can guess what I suspect.”
Tom nodded. “You call me, Will, if your suspicions pan out. Don’t do anything…”
Will flapped his hand in the same shooing gesture he made before. “When the boys finish torturing you, I’ll give you a ride to the station.”
“I’d appreciate it,” said Tom, but his probing gaze never left Will’s face. “But I’ll have that promise from you, Will.”
Will turned to face him. “Tom…”
Tom raised his hand to interrupt. “No, Will. You’re too good a man to spend your life in an orange jumpsuit over a bastard such as that.”
Will shrugged. “You understand, Tom,” he murmured. “You’ve got daughters of your own.”
“I do, Will. I understand, but you call me. Before you do anything.”
Will cleared his throat and nodded.
“Not good enough, Will. Make the oath.”
Will stared at him for the space of a few breaths. “Yeah, okay. I promise.” Despite his reluctance to make the pledge, his tone was one of relief—as Tom had expected.
“Have you… Have you had any trouble with dogs running wild around here?” Tom asked.
Will started. “Dogs? No, not that I’ve heard about, anyway.” He glanced up at the ridge. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” said Tom. “We had Leland out earlier today. We came across…a strange set of tracks—tracks such as a pack of wild dogs might make.”
Again, Will looked up at the ridge. “In the woods, I expect.”
“Exactly.” Tom shrugged. “It wouldn’t hurt to keep your eyes open.”
Will nodded without turning from the ridge.
“It wouldn’t hurt to keep a shotgun handy, either,” Tom murmured.
Will shot a sharp glance his way before returning his gaze to the ridge.
3
“Stephen! Stephen, wake up!”
He rolled over, groaning and opening his eyelids a slit. Stephen expected to see predawn light, but it was as dark as a tomb in the room of his parents’ lake house he shared with his wife. “What’s the matter, Mary?”
“He’s gone, Stephen!”
“Who? Greg?”
“Of course I mean Greg! Who else would you think I meant?”
Stephen sat up and rubbed his burning eyes. “Are you sure he’s not in the bathroom?”
“Not unless he’s invisible!”
Stephen slung back the bedclothes and stood, wincing at the sour taste in his mouth. “Okay, okay. I’ll go look.” He paused a moment to pull on a pair of jeans and flip-flops.
Out in the living room, Greg’s blankets lay puddled on the floor next to the couch, but his clothes were gone. Stephen glanced out the big bay window but saw only the darkness of the lake’s black water and darker pre-dawn sky. He turned, his gaze zipping around the kitchen and settling on the door to the pantry. In five long strides, he was there, staring into the deep pantry, at the open gun safe at the far end, and his stomach sank toward his ankles. He raced to his parents’ bedroom door and knocked.
“Mmmph.”
“Mom, it’s Stephen. Is Dad with you?” For a moment, Stephen was sure he would hear his father’s voice, sure that Greg had found a way into the gun safe and was out somewhere playing with the rifle. It was an irrational fear. Number one, because Greg knew better, and number two, because gun safes were built to withstand the best efforts of eleven-year-old boys.
“What? Is… Stephen? Wh
ere’s your father?”
“Dammit! Greg’s gone, Dad’s gone, and the gun safe is standing open!”
For the space of two breaths, his mother didn’t answer. “I’ll call Tom Walton,” she said in an icy calm voice. “You go find them both.”
“I will!”
“Stephen!” called Elizabet.
“What, Mom?”
“Take the shotgun. Shells are on the top shelf.”
“Will do!” Stephen turned and ran three steps before his mother called out again.
“And check the porch before you go far!”
“Will do,” he called over his shoulder. Twenty seconds later, Stephen stepped out onto the back porch, shotgun in hand, his front pockets stuffed full of 12-gauge shells. Mary stood behind him, holding a flashlight and breathing hard.
Together, they swept the yard, finding nothing and no one. They turned toward the rear of the house and stepped to the middle of the gravel lane. To their right sat one of Genosgwa’s police cars. Across the road from them sat the Canton and the Harper garages, though both looked buttoned up tight.
“Go to the cop car,” whispered Mary.
With a curt nod, Stephen turned and jogged to the car. The driver side window was open, the car was empty. “That’s weird,” he muttered.
Bam-bam-bam! The three shots thundered deep in the forest.
“Stephen!” Mary gasped.
A few moments later, more gunfire sounded.
“Let’s go!”
Stephen shook his head and put his hand on Mary’s shoulder. “Give me the flashlight. You go back inside with Mom.”
“What? No!”
He put his hand on the flashlight but only rested it there. “Mary, I don’t have time to argue. Go inside and stay with Mom.” He stared at her a moment before tightening his grip on the flashlight. She allowed him to take it from her but stood gazing back at him. “Go!”
Without waiting to see if she complied, Stephen turned away, slipping the flashlight to his armpit and thumbing shotgun shells into the loading tube. He racked the slide and ran into the forest, holding the shotgun in front of him, gripping both the flashlight and the shotgun’s fore-end in his left hand.
As he left the lights of the houses and cottages on the lakeshore behind, the woods closed in around him, like the tightening grip of a giant. More gunfire sounded ahead, and he increased his pace.
Stephen ran into the darkness, if not without fear, then without letting his fear slow him. He had the shotgun, and that was a comfort, but the night pressed in on him, leering at him like a drunken carnival clown.
The flashlight was less than useless, its sickly yellow beam bouncing with each running step, pointed at the mist more often than not. He clicked it off and shoved it in his back pocket without missing a step.
As much as the gunfire had scared him, the utter silence that replaced it scared him more. “Dad! Greg!” he cried into the darkness.
No one answered.
4
As soon as Greg’s mother returned to the Canton house, Mason stepped out of the shadows. Stephen Canton stared into the darkness of the woods, oblivious to anything else, and Mason smirked at his back. He had things to do, people to meet.
He waited for Mr. Canton to run off into the forest, then Mason turned and ran alongside the gravel lane toward the asphalt road at its end. The Lady in the Lake wanted him to show two of her friends where the Cantons spent their summers.
Mason had no idea why they needed him to guide them up the dead-end road, but he didn’t much care, either. She wanted him to lead them and lead them he would.
5
Gary came to slowly. He lay on his side, his arms splayed, and his legs laced over one another. His neck ached, as did his back. For a moment, he had no memory of where he was, no idea why he lay on the ground out in the middle of the woods. But as he sat up, it came back to him—seeing Joe Canton race across the road with his M1, following his grandson deeper into the woods; the gunshots, the calls for Greg to stop.
He pushed himself to his feet, looking around for his pistol. He remembered having drawn it and it wasn’t in his holster. Must have dropped the damn thing when I passed out. But he didn’t see it, not anywhere. That’s bad, he thought, and as soon as he finished thinking it, a derisive voice spoke in his mind, You think?
He slid his Maglite out of his belt and turned it on, spending a few minutes walking a widening search pattern, spiraling out from the point where he’d fallen, but he couldn’t find the gun. He’d lost Joe, he’d lost Greg, and Gary Dennis had lost his service weapon.
Worse yet, the mist had settled lower, obscuring the higher branches of the trees, and the surrounding woods had darkened. Turning on the Maglite had squashed his night vision, and a curtain of darkness enveloped him outside the light cast by the flashlight. He could no longer tell from which direction he’d come into the woods.
It was as if he’d fallen through reality into an unfamiliar, evil forest, blindfolded and then spun around to destroy his sense of direction.
He swept the beam of the Maglite back and forth, looking for either his pistol or tracks made by the Cantons. His frustration mounted, and his pulse accelerated. Better get a grip, son. Don’t want to pass out twice in one night, after all.
Gary jogged a hundred yards before stopping and repeating the search for Joe or Greg’s trail. He turned to his right and ran another hundred yards—knowing what he was doing was stupid, knowing his actions would most likely lead to him getting more and more lost, but doing it anyway. Joe Canton was a fine man, and Gary counted him as a close friend.
After zigzagging through the woods for ten minutes, Gary stopped and rested, bent at the waist, his hands on his knees, while he took huge, deep breaths. His Maglite shined up at the layer of fog, but it still illuminated the surrounding area up to about ten paces away. Outside of that circle, however, it seemed as though the woods had gotten darker—as if someone had drawn black curtains over what little light the pre-dawn sky had for him. “Well, fuck,” muttered Gary.
As he straightened, an all-too-familiar noise chilled his blood—the low growl of an angry dog. He played the flashlight in a wide arc around him but could see nothing—no eyes reflecting the light back at him, no shadowy forms twining between the tree trunks. After a moment, another growl joined the first.
By instinct, or maybe muscle memory, Gary flipped the Maglite to his left hand as his right hand slapped on his hip—on his empty holster. “Well, fuck,” said Gary again, but this time he said it with more passion.
The growling came from his left and a little behind him. Gary turned in that direction, the beam of his Maglite dabbing into the darkness that swathed the woods as would the timid brush of a novice painter on his first canvas. He expected to see eyes shining red in the flashlight's beam, but again the beam illuminated nothing.
Another dog began to growl, and it was behind him, despite his turn to face them. It was as if the dogs were approaching him one by one instead of in a pack. He shook his head and spun around but saw only more darkness. He picked the direction from which no growls sounded and sprinted away.
The moment he began to run, the growling evaporated into playful yips and barks. If only I had my pistol! But he didn’t, and part of him thought it was awfully convenient for the dogs that he didn’t.
He ran, his chest hitching every time he drew a breath, and purple spots danced before his eyes. Gary stayed ahead of the dogs, but he was sure they were chasing him. He knew better than to run from the dogs, that it would only trigger their instincts to run him down, but he didn’t want to face a pack of feral dogs barehanded.
Something howled in the distance before him, and he shifted his path to the left to avoid it. He ran on, pulse thundering in his ears, pain developing in his left side. The flashlight grew heavier with each step he took, and he shifted it to his right hand as his left hand began to ache.
Well, fuck! He knew what the signs were. Can’t keep running�
�I’m not an eighteen-year-old and haven’t been for thirty-nine years, but I don’t dare stop. Heart attack will stop me, though. It’ll stop me dead.
As if they knew his plight, the dogs behind him began to howl and bark as though celebrating a victory. Answering howls came from ahead of Gary, and again he wearily turned and continued his plodding run.
He’d lost his sense of direction. Am I running in circles? That could be how they’re getting in front of me. Even as he entertained the idea, though, he knew it wasn’t true. No, each new howl, each new bark, only underscored that more and more dogs were joining the chase.
He ran and ran, growing dizzier and dizzier with each step, his thundering pulse racing, pounding through his veins, his blood pressure thumping in his neck and temples. His breath rasped, and his side ached and burned as if someone had stuck him with a hot ten-inch blade.
The dogs—or whatever variety of four-legged bastards they were—closed on his heels. Their footfalls drummed behind him, a rhythmic accompaniment to his own sliding, shuffling steps. He shined the Maglite in a wide arc in front of him as he ran, his left hand pressed into his side over his rib cage.
His cheeks felt hot, sweaty, but he was cold—as cold as if he were already dead. He shook his head to clear such thoughts, and as he did, the flashlight danced over a black-furred form for half a second before the creature leaped behind a tree. “Dogs!” he shrieked in a watery, weak voice. “Just dogs.” What he’d seen was the size of a large German Shepherd, though with the black fur and mahogany markings of a Rottweiler. If I have to fight a bunch of those bastards at once, well…it’s been a good life. But they don’t seem to want to fight… They want something else… But what?
He lurched forward, his feet clumsy, his lips numb, but even so, he thought he might survive the night if he were lucky and smart. He slowed his pace, ready to spring forward if he was wrong, but the dogs behind him seemed happy in the chase at whatever pace he set and didn’t close the distance between them. Bleary-eyed, nauseous, and faint, Gary Dennis stopped running.
The Hag Page 20
