Page 89 of It Happened on the Lake

He glanced through the window to the night beyond and, across the lake, the island with its heavy gate, private bridge, and imposing manor where a few lights burned. The isolated house with its turret and gargoyles, peaked roof, and rooms filled with antiques from another era seemed almost Gothic.

Or maybe he’d seen one too many vampire movies.

He glanced down at his notes again as he finished his beer.

What had his partner said?

If you ask me, all those deaths associated with that damned family deserve another look.

Anna Reed’s file lay open on his desk.

Before her death, Rand, Chase, and Evan had been close. “The Three Musketeers,” Cynthia Hunt had called them. They’d hung out, riding bikes through the woods and on deer trails or playing board games for hours on the weekends in the winter while spending as much time as possible swimming, skinny-dipping, and boating during the summer. They’d snuck cigarettes and even some beers from their parents and camped under the stars on the banks of the river.We had the world on a string, he thought, rubbing the thin white scar that ran across the palm of his left hand.

Until all their naïveté, bravado, and innocence had been shattered as easily as thin glass.

1960

Chapter 22

Rand crouched by the edge of the spillway in the dark, the misting rain running under the collar of his jacket, the smell of the wet leaves and earth filling his nostrils. Squinting, he peered through the large culvert, then clicked his flashlight three times, its yellow beam reflecting on the undulating surface of the creek. The water was running fast for October, almost deafening as it rushed through the huge cement tube beneath the bridge.

He waited for an answering signal and hoped his friends were on the other side of the bridge as planned.

“Chase!” he yelled, though the current was so loud that even he couldn’t hear his echoing voice over the roar of the running water. For the twentieth time he told himself he shouldn’t be here. If his dad ever found out, he’d be a dead man. Gerald Watkins would kill him. Or at least ground him like forever.

“He won’t find out. No one will,” Chase had assured him two days earlier when they’d met at the sand lot behind the school and hatched their plans. “You’re just chicken.”

“Am not!” Rand had protested.

“Then prove it. Don’t be such a candy-ass.” Evan, always the instigator, was all-in on the plans.

“Fine.”

“Show up!” Evan had said, backing up toward his bike and pointing his finger at Rand. “Do it.”

“I will,” he’d vowed.

So now here he was, proving his courage, crouched on the slick, mossy rocks and wishing he hadn’t been so bold. “You’re a moron,” he muttered under his breath just as he caught sight of three responding flashes of light from the other side of the culvert.

So Chase was in place.

Returning the signal.

Rand’s pulse jumped, and he wondered if he should just leave. Before they really got into trouble. He’d shown up as promised. That was good enough, right?

No.

Of course not. They were blood brothers, a fact Chase never let Rand nor Evan forget. The three had sworn allegiance to each other in a ceremony two years ago on the island. They’d convened at midnight, in the boathouse that had been cut into the rock walls of the island and was connected to the huge house by a series of tunnels.

The perfect place.

With the smell of water and oil in their nostrils, while bats flew overhead and the old boat creaked on its lift, the three boys had sliced their palms with Chase’s dad’s hunting knife.

“Make it deep enough to count,” Evan had said in the flickering light of an old kerosene lantern he’d brought from one of the storage rooms.

Rand had gritted his teeth but made the cut. After a red line had bloomed on all three palms, they shook hands, all around, smearing and mixing their blood in the ritual uniting them, wiping their hands on their T-shirts once the process was finished.

What a stupid thing to do, Rand now thought as he hid on one side of the abutment, armed with a dozen eggs.

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