Page 98 of It Happened on the Lake

Rand barely looked up as he dug in, though he wasn’t really hungry. He placed the cereal box between himself and his dad and, keeping his face down-turned, pretended to be fascinated by his tricolored breakfast.

The woodpecker went to work again, rat-a-tat-tatting against the siding.

“Holy Kee-Rist! Do you hear that? Damned woodpecker! You got your slingshot?”

Automatically, Rand glanced up.

And Gerald Watkins got a look at his son for the first time that morning. He zeroed in on Rand’s bruised face. “What the hell happened to you?” Cigarette dangling from his lips, he was out of his chair in a second, examining his son’s face. “You get in a fight or something?”

“No, I just fell off my bike, into the gravel and rocks.”

Gerald noticed a scrape on the side of Rand’s hand. “Holy Mother of—” He didn’t ask, just rolled up his son’s sleeve and looked at the slight abrasions. Pall Mall clenched between his teeth, he said, “That’s one hell of a raspberry. You sure you didn’t get into a fight?”

“I told you, I just fell off my bike.”

“Really?” His dad gave him the stink eye and sucked hard on the cigarette. That was the problem with his old man being a cop. He was always suspicious. Frowning, Gerald asked, “You okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

Still unconvinced but not able to call Rand a liar, he said, “Well, put some Mercurochrome on all the cuts, okay? I think there’s some in the medicine cabinet. If not, we’ve got iodine.” He backed up and sat down, leaned back in his chair, and squinted at his son through the smoke. It was as if he was sizing Rand up and weighing how much he could believe his son. And just how much BS was being shoveled his way. “No need for infection to set in.” Still seeming unconvinced, he took a sip of his coffee. “You be careful on that bike.”

“I will.”

“Is it okay?” he asked, suddenly, his eyes dark with a new concern. “The Schwinn, it’s not wrecked, is it?”

“No. No. It’s good.” The three-speed had been last year’s Christmas present, and Rand had overheard his dad claim it had cost “a pretty penny” in more than one conversation. Rand scraped back his chair, left his bowl in the sink, and quickly started for the bathroom. The less he said to his father—and mother, for that matter—the better. If the old man ever got wind of what he’d done with his friends and thenliedabout it, there would be hell to pay. He wouldn’t be able to sit for a week.

“Election’s next week, you know.” Dad rapped his fist on the newspaper. “You know about it, right?”

“Heard about it in school.”

“It’s a big one. Kennedy, he might just beat old Tricky Dick.”

Like he cared. “Who?” Rand asked.

“Nixon. The vice president. Never liked the guy, not when he was a senator from California and not as Ike’s V.P. Just don’t trust him. Kennedy’s young, and he’s Irish Catholic. And ya know what? He might just beat Nixon.”

“Good,” Rand said, though he didn’t care. Right now, he had bigger worries. What if Craig Alexander’s father had recognized him? The old guy had been drunk last night, yeah, but maybe when he sobered up, he’d put two and two together.

“Don’t they teach you this stuff in school?”

“What?” Oh, his dad was still talking about that boring election stuff. “I guess.” Who cared? Stomach in knots, he met his mother in the living area as she was coming out of the bathroom.

“Good morning—hey, what happened to you?” she asked, catching him by the sleeve as he tried to pass. “My God, Rand.” Her gaze moved across his face, and she tried to touch his cheek, but he jerked away.

“I’m okay. I just fell off my bike.”

“How?”

“Hit some gravel last night. It’s no big deal. Dad told me to take care of it.”

“You were riding in the dark? I thought you went trick or treating.”

“We did. This was after. Just here on the street. Slid on some gravel. Old Ma . . . Mr. Sievers had a pile of it in his yard. I mean, I guess that’s where it came from. Don’t know.”

“But your face.”

“It’s okay.”

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