Cradle Lake (16 page)

“She's fine.”

“Been working out?”

“Heather?”

Hank chuckled. “No, dummy. You.”

Alan shrugged and did not look up from his work. “Not really. I've been putting in a lot of hours working in the yard, that's all.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You look good. Strong, I mean.”

He'd dropped five pounds over the past week and had started exercising, not because he had any designs to look better but because he had found himself with an overabundance of energy that seemed to come from out of nowhere. He'd even gone running one morning with Mr. Pasternak, who'd been more than happy to share his company at first. But as they crossed the five-mile mark, up by Swain Street at the edge of town, and rounded the roadway to return to town, Pasternak's cheeriness was replaced by a quiet suspicion. It was the one and only time Alan had run with the man.

Over the past week, his jaunt to the lake had turned into a daily occurrence. He would rise just as the sun was breaking over the evergreens, the sky still dark and crowded with stars in the west, and pull on a pair of sweatpants, a sweatshirt, sneakers. With a bath towel folded under one arm, he'd follow the path to the lake where he'd strip and swim for forty-five minutes, sometimes an hour.

The water was always freezing at first, shocking his system
and tightening his muscles. But by the time he swam halfway to the other side of the lake, the water was lukewarm—or maybe he'd just become accustomed to it—and his muscles grew loose and strong. The only part of the lake that never seemed to warm up was the center, where a channel of icy water seemed to funnel straight up from the bottom.

After his swim, he'd return to the house just as daylight fully claimed the sky and cook some breakfast—bacon, eggs, toast, apple slices sprinkled with cinnamon—the smell of which typically roused Heather from bed just as he was buttering the toast. In that week, his ulcer had vanished, his eyesight grew sharper, and he felt healthier and stronger than he had in years. Strangest of all, it appeared his tattoos had begun to fade … the color slowly drawing out of them, the skin itself feeling smoother and tauter.

In fact, the only negative side effect was goddamn Jerry Lee. The old retriever seemed disquieted by Alan's presence lately. Once, when Alan had reached out to pet him, the dog had sunk to his haunches and emanated a low, distempered growl. Too shocked to reprimand the dog, Alan had just watched as Jerry Lee crept away. Jerry Lee's odd behavior had caused him to think of Patsy the Cat and how the beast had swiped and hissed at Cory Morris as the boy held her against his chest. (Jerry Lee spent the following nights sleeping on the bedroom floor on Heather's side of the bed instead of Alan's—something the dog had never done in the past.)

“Lydia wants to know if you guys can come over for dinner tonight. We're thinking about tossing some burgers on the grill.”

“I don't know. Kinda busy.”

“All day?” Hank took a swig of beer. “You'll be doing this straight through dinner?”

Alan stopped, tossing the hedge clippers into the grass. He was breathing heavy, but he felt good, felt invigorated, and his muscles were hardly sore. He estimated he'd been out here for nearly five hours since morning.

“Listen,” Hank said, looking more at his beer bottle than at Alan. “Can I ask you something?”

“Ask away.” Though he felt a slight tremor shudder through his body. He was certain Hank was going to ask him if he'd been going to the lake.

Hank cleared his throat and looked like he was turning over many thoughts in his head. “Did I, uh … Jesus …” He rubbed furiously at his forehead.

“What?” Alan said. “What is it?”
Just spit it out, will you?

Hank's words came out in a hurried waterfall: “Did I freak you out with all that talk about the lake and Catherine and everything else? Man, see, I didn't want you to think I was crazy or that maybe … I don't know … maybe I turned you off, turned you away by all that talk.”

Jesus Christ, is that what this is? The son of a bitch is worried I don't want to be his friend anymore?
It took all his strength to stifle a bitter laugh.

“Shit, that's not what's going on here.” Alan thought he sounded genuine; it pleased him to hear how smoothly the words came out of his mouth. “It's summer. I'm trying to get all this work done on the house before I start teaching in the fall. It's nothing personal.”

“You swear?”

“I swear.”

“Christ.” Hank's shoulders slumped, and a crooked smile broke out across his features. He looked pitiably relieved. “I've been worrying that you wanted nothing to do with me anymore.”

“Don't be silly.” Thinking,
Yes, be silly.

“Well,” he said, brightening up now, “that's a relief. Beer?”

“Sure.” Alan took one from the six-pack, unscrewed the cap, and chugged half of it without coming up for air. He hadn't realized just how dehydrated he was until the beer hit his throat and worked its way down. His head craned back as he drank, he caught sight of one of those horrid birds perched on the pinnacle of the roof. He nearly gagged. “Jesus.”

“What?” Hank said.

Alan looked around in the grass for a large stone to chuck at it. “On the roof. One of those filthy fuckers.”

“What're you talkin' about?”

“The bird.”

He found a stone roughly the size of a baseball in the grass and grabbed it.

“I don't see anything,” Hank said, looking up at the roof while shielding his eyes from the sun.

Arm already cocked back, gripping the stone, Alan froze as he stared at the roof.

The goddamn buzzard was gone.

Later that evening Alan was overcome by compulsion. The town was small so it didn't take him too much time driving around to locate Cedar Avenue.

The old Moreland house was vacant, its windows boarded up, its yard wildly overgrown and nearly tropical
in its disarray. A teepee of unclaimed newspapers sat in the center of the gravel driveway. The mailbox had been busted from its perch; it rested in the tall grass with a dent in its side, its door partially open like some animal that had died and gone to rot. But what collected Alan's attention were the two shapes perched on the stone rise of the chimney like gargoyles—the buzzards. Grotesquely oversized, they were hunched up against one another while balancing on the narrow ledge of the chimney, inky against a deepening darkness of an oncoming dusk.

Alan pulled the car alongside the shoulder of the road and turned off the engine. The homes along Cedar Avenue were staggered a good distance apart, the property lines designated by spindly evergreens. Digging around in the glove compartment, he located a flashlight. It would be fully dark soon. As he stepped out of the car, he felt secure in the fact that no one could see him behind the trees and in the encroaching darkness. Across the street was a small recreational park that was empty on this late evening, the swings sawing back and forth in the breeze as if ridden by ghosts. Beyond the park stretched many acres of low corn. He kept the flashlight off for the time being.

There was a single two-by-four nailed across the front door. A large, angry-looking padlock hung from the doorknob. The doorframe was splintered and rotting, a large spear-shaped chunk missing from it; Alan imagined that it happened on the day Sheriff Landry kicked his way into the house after neighbors claimed to have heard gunshots. Scraggly weeds curled up through the slats in the porch, twining together like strands of DNA.

Two more carrion birds were perched in a nearby tree,
heavy enough to cause the branch to sag. A fifth bird eyed him from the porch railing.

They were all over the place, creeping out of the lengthening shadows and clambering over the vacant house as if it were the carcass of an antelope in a prairie field. His good sense instructed him to get back in the car and go home. But there was something else—the same inexplicable, beckoning force that had prompted him to come out here in the first place—drawing him toward the house. It was a connection to something he couldn't quite explain …

Alan went around back. There was a cement patio and a redbrick barbecue pit filled with dead leaves. The drainpipe was pulled away from the house, jutting at an angle that reminded him of a broken bone breaking through skin.

Directly above him, sidestepping along the peak of the roof, one of the buzzards squawked at him. Both its wings were flared open, its feathers sparse and diseased-looking, trailing tendrils of graying cobwebs. Its scaly, dried sausage neck curled downward, its grotesque head bobbing with stupid inquiry. The creature's hideous hooked beak was adorned with what might have been the entrails of roadkill.

There was a sliding glass door here, also padlocked. Cupping his hands around his eyes, Alan pressed his face against the glass, which was pebbled with brownish gunk, but there were blinds pulled shut on the other side of the door, preventing him from seeing inside. Anyway, there were no lights on in the house.

Again, overhead, the bird shrieked. The sound—much like a sour note drawn out on a violin—stirred the hairs on his arms to attention. A second bird, nearly prehistoric in appearance, joined it, clawing down the canted roof on talons
as sharp as knives. The sound its claws made on the roof was like the scraping of stones across cement.

The door was padlocked, but the panel behind it on the inside of the sliding track—the glass panel that made up the back section of the two-sectioned door—was pulled about an inch away from the doorframe. The glass was grimy enough for traction; Alan pressed both hands against the glass and slid it away from the doorframe toward the padlocked section. It slid a few more inches, the blinds swinging into each other on the other side of the glass like wind chimes, and then was arrested by something jammed up in the door track. Alan gripped the back of the door and tried to force it farther along the track. At first it didn't budge, but then something surrendered with a hollow snap, and the rear door slid open the rest of the way.

He stepped into the house, passing through the slats of venetian blinds like a performer through a stage curtain. A stagnant, tomb-like oppression overwhelmed him. It was air that hadn't been breathed—hadn't been recycled—in a long, long time.

It was dark enough inside to prompt Alan to click on the flashlight. The floors were carpeted, and there were darker spots where the carpet hadn't faded, presumably where furniture, long since removed, had once stood. But the living room had been cleared out, gutted, hollowed. No evidence that life had ever been here. The two-by-fours nailed over the windows limited the amount of light coming into the room, and what light
did
manage to seep in through the spaces in the boards was of the bluish, spectral variety.

Keeping the flashlight beam low to the floor, Alan
walked the length of the living room, his shoes silent on the carpet. There was something that looked like an oversized plastic trash bag tacked to the front door. He could see where pieces of the doorframe had been splintered. Another plastic bag, thick as tarpaulin, was draped like a runner from the front door and down the length of the main hallway. Industrial tape held it to the carpet.

This was where Owen shot his wife, he realized. When she came through the door, this was where Owen Moreland blew Sophie Moreland's head apart with a shotgun. Alan could almost see it, clear as day, in his head. Had the mess not been cleaned up? Had they merely covered it with plastic? Or was it impossible to get the bloodstains and pieces of brain out?

Alan shuddered.

He crossed the foyer and headed down the hallway to the stairwell. The carpeting stopped, giving way to bleached planks of blond hardwood. A credenza that looked like Dracula's coffin stood against one wall. Off to his right, he saw kitchen chairs stacked into a pyramid in the kitchen. It reminded Alan of that scene from the movie
Poltergeist.

Something bizarre caught his eye. One wall was comprised of wood paneling, circa 1975, and Alan ran the flashlight along it. Someone had carved the same two words over and over again into the shallow wood. There were still shavings on the floor.

Repeated without variation. A litany, a mantra. He touched the carvings, ran his fingernails into the grooves. Devil's
Stone. What did it mean?

Continuing to run the flashlight up and down the wall, he found further carvings, and these caused a tight ball to clench in his guts. They weren't words, though he recognized them immediately. They were symbols. The same hieroglyphs that were carved on the white stones along the path that ran through the woods to the lake: wavy lines, crenellations, upside-down triangles.

Too easily he could picture an insane Owen Moreland carving the symbols and the mystic words into the wood paneling while waiting for his wife to return to the house just to blow her brains out with his shotgun. Had he carved them before killing the young firefighter, or had he returned from the scene of that massacre, his mind already broken, and started whittling away in the wall? Whatever the case, the notion creeped him out.

Upstairs, it sounded like someone stepping on creaking floorboards.

Alan cocked his head, listening.

There are ghosts here.

He ascended the stairs, piloted still by that inexplicable drive, and froze in his tracks as a low, scrabbling sound emanated from the opposite end of the hallway—a sound like a piece of heavy furniture sliding across hardwood floors, digging grooves in the floorboards.

Someone was in the house.

He was certain of it.

“Owen?” His voice came out in a pathetic croak. Yet what frightened him more than the sound of his own voice was the fact that he'd thought to call out for a dead man.
Was he really expecting an answer? Did he really
want
one?

Again: the sound of heavy dragging. It was coming from the last door at the end of the hall. The door was closed; a sliver of white moonlight glowed at its bottom. It was just like—