Page 97 of It Happened on the Lake

But she didn’t come up the stairs. She spent some time in the bathroom and went to bed. Later, his father came home. Still wide awake, Rand braced himself. Expected to hear his father’s heavy footsteps on the stairs. Even if Martin Alexander hadn’t recognized any of them, what if he had gone to the station and made a police report? What if he’d given a description of Rand or his bike? His throat went dry, and he listened, barely breathing as his old man opened the refrigerator, rattled around in the kitchen, and, from the sounds of it, cracked open a beer.

After what seemed like an eternity Gerald Watkins finally turned off the lights.

Only then did Rand relax.

Only then did exhaustion take over anxiety.

Only then did sleep finally find him.

Chapter 23

Rand was facing a firing squad of one.

The bald guy was dressed in army fatigues and pointing a machine gun at him.

He couldn’t move!

“Got you, you little shit!”

“No!” he yelled, but no sound came out. He was gagged! And tied to some stake.

With a nasty chuckle, Chrome Dome pulled the trigger.

Rat-a-tat-tat!

Bullets sprayed all around him, hitting hard and fast and loud.

Rapid-fire explosions.

Rand’s eyes flew open.

The sound of the bullets striking furiously didn’t abate.

He bit back the urge to yell.

Then he realized he was in his own bed. The plaid comforter was on the floor. His sheets were twisted all around him.

But the sound of the bullets striking continued.

A woodpecker rat-a-tat-tatting noisily against the house. “Oh man,” he whispered, blinking, his racing pulse finally beginning to slow. He glanced at the nightstand near his bed. Five after seven, according to the clock radio.

Feeling sore all over, he remembered the night before and closed his eyes, trying to block it out, hoping for a few more minutes of sleep. But the alarm blared before he could doze off. He groaned and rolled over, then forced himself to get up. It was Tuesday. A school day.

Yawning, he carried clothes down the stairs and went into the bathroom, where he got ready, stepping through the shower and brushing his teeth, tossing water into his dark hair and slicking it away from his face. His battered face. He was bruised where his nose and cheeks had hit the rough bark of the tree, and one of his eyes was already red, a shiner on its way.

There was no way to hide it.

No lie he could think of that would explain it.

Crossing his fingers, he hoped his parents would sleep in.

No such luck.

Mom was in the bathroom. Rand heard the water running in the sink. And his dad had already poured himself a cup of coffee. He was standing at the back door, staring out at the mist-shrouded lake as he sipped from his mug. His T-shirt stretched tight over his shoulders, his slacks still without a belt, the worn moccasins he used as slippers on his feet. The newspaper already open on the table, his pack of Pall Malls near the ashtray.

Dad barely glanced over his shoulder as Rand stepped into the room. “Mornin’.” Holding his coffee cup in one hand, he opened an overhead cupboard with the other, pulled out a box of Trix, and shook the box. “Not much left, probably just a bowlful. That do?”

“Sure.” Rand, face averted, walked to the refrigerator, opened the door, and found a jug of milk. It, too, was nearly empty, but he grabbed a bowl from the shelves, a spoon from a drawer, then poured himself cereal as Gerald lit a cigarette and sat at the table, perusing the morning paper.

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