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  When it was finished, the appendage withdrew. His eyes went cold.

  Clint stumbled, feeling weak and nauseous. He crumpled to the floor, his hand returning to normal, and grabbed at his stomach.

  He had no idea how he’d done it, but he was certain of one thing–Jennifer was about to change. He just hoped he’d be around to see it.

  Chapter Nine

  Shane Davis awoke to the voice of Willie Nelson. Mae was already up. His wife, God love her, had an affinity for that old country buzzard. Davis could never get past the guy’s voice. He drew the comforter from his chest, slid his feet to the floor, and stood. He stretched and found his trusty, frayed slippers Mae had bought him four Christmas’s ago. He slid his feet in and walked out into the hall. The coffee aroma tangled with his senses and pulled him like a tractor beam toward the kitchen.

  “Mornin’,” he said.

  “Sit down. I’ll pour you a cup,” Mae said.

  “Thank you, dear.” He kissed her on the cheek and pulled out one of the mahogany chairs. The paper laid spread out before him. She’d even grabbed the paper from the steps. Now, if he could get a plate of bacon and get her to trade in the Willie Nelson for some Stones or The Who, he’d have something to write home about. He sat down just as she placed the steaming yellow mug next to him.

  “No word on the Neilson girl?” Mae said.

  “Nope.” Nothing like a shot of helplessness and failure with your coffee. The girl was sixteen-year-old Jennifer Neilson. She was Bret Cote’s niece. Cote was a fella Shane knew over at the firehouse. Jennifer had been missing for almost thirty-six hours. She went to school and never made it home. The kidnapper could be local. Could be some nomadic pervert already on his way to Canada too, but that didn’t feel right. Shane and his deputies felt it was the former. This scumbag was a county menace. A boy, Greg Hickey, vanished out by the lake two weeks back. Bret Cote’s teenage daughter, Michele, claimed Greg was pulled in to the lake by some kind of animal. Trouble was, there ain’t more in that lake than fish, and Hickey’s body never turned up. Understandable that a girl tries to come up with an explanation when her best friend disappears, but Jade Lake isn’t much like Loch Ness outside of the fact that both are wet. Either way, he now had two missing persons on his hands.

  “I talked to Margery Nicholas at Hannaford. She’s says the mother is locked in her house. Trapped like a ghost. Won’t come out. The husband’s spending his time at the bar. Said he had been trying to go sober for the last month and a half, now he’s back in all the way.”

  Shane didn’t know the girl’s parents. He sipped his coffee and closed the paper. It was moments like this he was grateful they could never have kids of their own. He had no doubts were the situation theirs, he and Mae would fall into the same roles as the parents of that young girl. Sixteen and walking home from school. His coffee suddenly didn’t taste so good.

  “I’m taking a shower.”

  “You want me to have something ready for you?” Mae walked over to the refrigerator door.

  “Nah, not hungry.”

  “Come here.”

  He walked over to her. Her sympathetic brown eyes always managed to level him, keep him from going too far over the edge. She put her arms around him. He placed his mouth in her faded blond hair and kissed the top of her head.

  “God tests us all in different ways,” she said. “This one’s out of your hands.”

  “I know, but I still feel like it’s my duty.”

  “And maybe that’s your challenge.”

  He held her tight. “And what’s that?”

  “Movin’ forward with your hands tied.”

  He kissed her head again. She leaned back and smiled up at him.

  “Go on,” she said. “You know Russ James has probably already found his way down to the 7-Eleven. Someone has to be there when he starts shouting at customers about flying saucers and little green men.”

  “Don’t forget about the owls.”

  “Oh, yes. Who, who, they say. Russ James, that’s who.”

  Shane let the smile warm his face. Russ James, one of the more eccentric and slightly mad members of their town would be a welcome hassle today. Anything he could make right. Maybe Mae was on to something with her Jesus theory.

  She stretched upward and met his lips.

  “I’ll put your coffee in your travel mug and have a bag lunch ready for you when you get out.”

  “Thank you, dear.”

  First thing Shane encountered was indeed Russ James.

  “Mornin,’ Sheriff.”

  “Mornin,’ Ben. What’s the story today?” Shane said.

  Ben Oliver, owner operator of the Quick Check Mart, lowered the thick-framed glasses on his pointy nose, crossed his arms over his wide chest, and nodded at the scruffy fella pawing through all the chips in the center aisle.

  Russell Jonathan James.

  Russ was harmless, outside of being a nuisance in shops around town from time to time. Part of Shane wished they could just ship him over to Riverside Mental Health Facility, someone that could take better care of him than he did for himself, but taking away what remained of the fifty-something’s freedom seemed worse.

  Mr. Oliver finished cashing Shane out for the coffee and the crumb cakes.

  “I’ll take care of him.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff. He never buys anything when I’m here. Only when my daughters at the register. She thinks it’s sweet, but truth be told, I don’t like it. Creepy old coot.”

  “I’m on it.” He stuffed the treats in his coat pocket and walked over to Russ.

  “Now, Sheriff Davis….y—y—you know I wasn’t doing nothing wrong. A man has a right to look and to think.”

  “I know, Russ. You’re a free man.”

  “Okay, then wh—wh—what did you want from me?”

  “I need secrets, Russ.”

  “Secrets?”

  “Yes, secrets.”

  “Secrets,” Russ whispered.

  “And I know that you’re the one to come to for secrets.”

  A mile-wide smile revealed every blackened tooth in the disheveled man’s dog breath mouth.

  “Oh, Sheriff. You have no idea.” He dropped the bags of Doritos to the floor, stepping on them as he walked up to Shane’s face. His breath unbearable.

  “Can you take me home?”

  “That’s just what I was thinking.” Shane bent and snatched the bags of ruined chips.

  Mr. Oliver looked displeased as Shane waked by and dropped a ten on the counter.

  “For his chips.”

  “You’re too nice to that one, Sheriff.”

  Shane winked and followed Russ out the door.

  As they were walking out, a big, blue Ford Econoline van pulled into the parking lot.

  Clint Truman sat behind the wheel, staring in his direction behind a pair of mirrored shades.

  Shane walked Russ to the back door of his patrol car and ushered him in.

  “Here, Russ.” Shane handed him the bags of chips. “Have something to snack on. I need to talk with someone real quick.”

  “Sure thing, Sheriff. I’ll just sit right here. Me and my secrets.”

  “That’s good, Russ. Sit tight.”

  Shane walked toward the van at the corner of the lot.

  Clint Truman and his dying father lived in a house on the other side of Jade Lake. They’d done a thorough investigation into each of the closest homes around the body of water where Greg Hickey disappeared; the loudest gut-talk of Shane’s experience in asking around came from this young man. The kid didn’t look well, or right. He had unusually dark gums, probably just some sort of gum disease, but it was more than that. He seemed like he had a story to tell. Truman was mostly timid, but as Shane was leaving he caught the slightest smirk on his face. The short exchange they’d shared at the Truman house reminded him of Edward Norton in that movie Primal Fear.

  The father, son, and house checked out, despite the colossal mess from one end of
the home to the other. Shane and Deputy Crawford found nothing that pointed to them as suspects.

  Shane leaned his forearms upon the open passenger window.

  “Sheriff?”

  “Hi, Clint.”

  “Can I help you with something?”

  Shane gazed at the interior of the van. Unlike the house, Clint obviously cared for the vehicle. Outside of some natural wear and tear from age, the Ford Econoline looked neat and clean.

  His eyes landed on the one thing on the floor.

  “What’s that for?”

  Clint didn’t bother looking down at the object.

  “Protection.”

  “Hmm. You can never be too safe. Even in a small town,” Shane leaned back looking out over the lot and the semi-busy road beyond it. “Anything can happen, right?”

  “Is there something you need from me, Sheriff?”

  Shane turned to the boy, gauging him. His crusty lips were tight, his hands working the steering wheel. The ends of each finger dressed in Band-Aids.

  “Something happen to your fingers?”

  “Nothing of your concern.”

  “How’s your father holding up? He didn’t look so good.”

  A bead of sweat rolled down the kid’s pale forehead.

  “Not good, huh? Well, Clint, you know…”

  “I have to go. Are we done?”

  “Sure. I was just going to say–”

  The van roared to life and jerked backwards.

  Shane barely got his arm out of the way before a side mirror could clip him.

  He made note to check back with the Truman’s sooner than later.

  He turned to see Russ James sucking the cheese off his Doritos and lining the wet tortillas up against the windowsill like triangular nacho constellations.

  He shook his head as the Econoline squawked out of the parking lot. He couldn’t shake that bad feeling in his gut.

  …..

  Clint clenched his fist and smashed it against the dashboard.

  Goddamn nosey cop. He’d been lucky the sheriff showed up at his place when he did. It’s part of what made him feel that bringing the girl home would be safe. They had already searched his place for the missing Hickey kid. Clint had never seen anyone else around his property. Still, the sheriff said a boy vanished in or around the lake. Clint had his suspicions, but hadn’t seen any proof that the boy was still around. There was magic in the waters. She could have taken him. Chose him like she had Clint, but if so, the boy was either dead or gone.

  He’d wondered about it when the sheriff questioned him then. That wasn’t exactly the kind of secret he was looking to share. In that brief exchange, the sheriff had seen something. Probably enough to make him wonder, but he didn’t have knowledge or know anything about this boy’s whereabouts. He hoped that one stop at the house would be more than enough. He couldn’t risk the sheriff coming back. Not now. Not without his father there. And not before Jennifer awoke.

  He needed to get home to her.

  …

  After dropping Russ at his small house on the edge of town, Shane decided to take a drive around the lake.

  The Truman place bothered him. The dying father had been a cranky, old bastard since the loss of his wife. The son, well, he had worked at the movie theater not too long ago. Mae didn’t like being in his line at the concession stand. She always made sure they were at least two away. Said he was dirty-looking. She didn’t want him around her food. Shane felt sorry for the kid. Losing his mother, having a difficult father, and now having to shepherd the man to his death couldn’t be easy. No wonder the guy was so suspect of everyone. Still, the smirk hadn’t been there before. People only grin like that when they know something that you don’t.

  Shane slowed his car.

  The Truman driveway stretched out through the woods. The old man’s GTO was there, rusting away, a damn shame. Clint’s van was gone. Pulling onto the dirt path, Shane gazed at the ratty two story house as he pulled up next to the Pontiac.

  The old man, Jack, had graduated two years after Shane. They’d played football and basketball together at Avalon High. He’d been a hard-nosed SOB as a fullback/linebacker for the Cats, and would have made Bill Laimbeer and the bad boy Pistons of the ‘80’s proud on the hard court. Outside of sports circles, Shane never crossed paths with Truman. Rumors whispered through the Avalon grapevine about the man being tough, possibly abusive, toward his only child. With nothing to shed light on such talk, Shane chalked it up to the hardships that come in a family that faces a loss like the Truman boys did. Jack may have walked the finest of lines of tough love, maybe crossed it a time or two, but that didn’t make him a monster. Of course, you never know what people are capable of behind closed doors.

  Six years ago, middle of July, David Burtleson, an upstanding citizen, church-goer by day, b-list horror novelist by night, up and murdered his wife, Sandy, and mother-in-law, Fran. He strangled Fran and stabbed Sandy no less than twenty-seven times before storing the two women in his newly finished shed on the back of his property. Neighbors called in the horrid smell, fearing it was a sewage issue. When Shane and his deputies showed up the man was giddy and plastered, waving his latest manuscript over his head claiming Stephen King was finished at the top of the horror world, the masses were going to worship David Burtleson from now on. After discovering the bodies in the shed and tossing cuffs on the writer, Shane confiscated the blood-spattered manuscript titled, “The Unleashed.” and tossed it in his burn barrel. When Mae asked what it was he was throwing in, he’d said “garbage.” She let it go. He wasn’t sure it was legal, but he wasn’t about to let the guy profit off his murders. No law suit ever came. Burtleson’s fifteen minutes of true crime fame crashed and burned, though Shane was sure the lunatic’s book sales probably tripled. People were always fascinated and motivated by real horror.

  Sitting behind the wheel of his cruiser, he wondered if there was more to the Truman’s. He reached for the antacids in his glovebox, popped a couple of the multi-colored chalk tabs in his mouth, and chewed. His doctor warned him that his ulcers would only worsen if he didn’t retire soon. Retirement was still a good ten to fifteen years down the road, but damn it if these last couple weeks hadn’t made him consider the idea. Between the missing Hickey kid, Jen Neilson’s abduction, and this nagging feeling about the younger Truman…he needed Mae’s calming, steady hand. His wife could quiet the stomach pain and give his mind peace better than anything a CVS or his doctor could prescribe.

  He popped two more tabs, put the antacids back, and put the car in REVERSE. It was lunch time, a perfect excuse to swing home. There was movement behind one of the curtained front windows. Applying the brakes, the stirring shade stopped. He considered whether he should check in. Jack would want to know why he was in his driveway. Hell, he couldn’t say exactly why he was here. Shane wasn’t in the best mood to put on his fake smile. He let off the brake and backed out, giving the window one last glance before heading back to town.

  Chapter Ten

  Ginny Neilson watched her husband Michael snoring in his Lazy Boy. Goddamn him. This was all his fault. The tears sluiced off her quivering chin and into the cold cup of tea set before her. Time stood still, or fell away, or just… it didn’t matter. The mug grasped in her hands was made by Jennifer. It featured some of her first artwork. It featured two reindeer, a mama reindeer and a baby reindeer, running free under fluffy white clouds away from two crude buildings that were supposed to be town. Jennifer came home so happy, so excited to present it to her. Ginny picked up the mug and cradled it to her chest, sobbing, no longer caring if she woke Michael. To hell with him. Pastor Hernandez’s jaw would drop at such a thought, but Ginny was safe here, holding what was left of her Jennifer, crying alone at the kitchen table.

  There was plenty of blame to be shared. Michael had wanted a son. Jennifer was their miracle. The only child she could bear before her body relinquished its ability to procreate. As ridiculous as it was, Michael never for
gave her or Jennifer for this. He put on his best good husband and father routine in public, but at night, at home, he was a dark cloud that refused to lift. Diving into his lake of fire and whiskey, Michael never got more physical than grabbing an arm or wrist a little too hard. He did sprain Jennifer’s wrists on several occasions, but Ginny told herself things could be worse. He could have beat them, like Jason Rotenberg, the bastard neighbor of theirs did to his kids. She sent a prayer anytime she saw the son, Bruce, leaving the front porch, roaring off on his bicycle with a black eye or busted lip, tears streaming as he pedaled away. That could have been them. Were they any better off? She often went to bed hoping that her husband would change in the night. That he would just wake up the man he was when they met in high school. Thoughtful, jubilant and quick with a joke. A smile and eyes that made her heart ache in the best way.

  Raising her chin, she gazed at the ruins of that man. He’d been running away since Jennifer was born. Piece by piece, night after night, devoured by the bottle and his misery.

  Jesus. Here she was, staring daggers and ready to condemn him for the way he’d treated their daughter and wrecked a perfect home, and now she was right back to making excuses for his actions and feeling sorry for him.

  Anger swelled up like a mad wave from within, held back for years, and unstoppable. She stood and threw the mug across the room, shattering it against the faded floral print wallpaper above the microwave.

  Michael didn’t move. He was in his happy place. Away from them, away from the world he refused to surrender to and accept. Why should he get to be the only one to escape?

  Her clenched fists trembled. The pent-up rage roaring through her veins, ready to make its presence known. She wanted to hurt him. Wanted him to know how they felt. She took a step toward the living room and stopped as the broken piece of ceramic sliced into the bottom of her foot.

  Jennifer’s reindeer mug.

  What did I do? Oh, God. Oh, baby.