Envy the Night

So he’d killed again and the lake had punished him, but then it had sent the trees to hold him up, and that was confusing, because he’d been ready to die and the trees would not let him. He didn’t understand that. Perhaps the trees were a gesture of forgiveness. The lake had healed him once, and maybe it would heal him again.

A low grinding sound filled his brain, and for a while he was sure it was a motor, but then it went away, fading until it sounded like a drill bit chewing through wood. Maybe there was no sound, and that was just the pain fooling with his head. A bullet could do things like that to you.

A sprinkling rain started again, much lighter now, and it felt good on Ezra’s face, helped to push the fog back. He thought he’d been floating above the surface, but now, after a hard blink to focus, he realized that the water only rose up to his shoulders. The water really wasn’t that deep down here. Maybe if he reached with his foot . . .

Son of a bitch, he could touch the bottom. Now how was that possible? The bottom should be way down there, at the base of the tree trunks, fifty feet away.

He tilted his head to the left, studied the tree that held him. The branches weren’t so thick. In fact, they were little more than twigs. He wasn’t in a tree at all. It was a bush, really, one of the wild tangles that grew along the shore. He was very close to shore, had his feet on the ground.

Ezra was not going to die out here. Not today.

_______

Grady had stayed on 51 too long, had missed a turn that he should have taken, though he wasn’t sure what it would have been. His state map was useless up here, he hadn’t seen a single sign for the Willow Flowage, and Atkins wouldn’t answer his phone.

He finally gave up as a gas station came into view, the highway a two-lane now, and pulled off and into the parking lot, got out of his car and ran inside and shoved past an overweight woman who gasped in indignation.

“Hey.” The shaggy-haired kid behind the counter was looking down at the register, and when Grady stepped up he just lifted a finger, asking for a minute.

“Hey!” Grady said and slapped the countertop. When the kid looked up at him, a haughty expression on his face, Grady showed him the badge. “I need you to tell me how to get to Willow Flowage.”

“Shit, man, FBI? For real?”

“Just tell me how to get there.”

The kid frowned, offended, and pointed out the window. “Straight across the highway, man. Swamp Lake Road. Take that all the way in to County Y, then take that to Willow Dam.”

“Swamp Lake to County Y to Willow Dam?”

“Yeah. What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Look, I need to get to a cabin out there. I have no idea where it is. Could be anywhere on the lake.”

The kid shook his head, and now the fat woman was standing close, listening with undisguised interest and clutching an armful of soda bottles to her large breasts.

“Not many cabins on the lake out there. Not many at all. You sure it’s on the lake?”

“Yes,” Grady said. “A guy named Frank Temple owns it.”

That widened the kid’s eyes. “No shit? I heard all about him.”

“Fantastic. You know where—”

“Yeah, yeah, I can get you there.”

“How long of a drive?”

“Maybe twenty.”

Twenty minutes. Okay, that wasn’t bad. Grady still had a chance. He would not be too late. He would not be too late.

A gentle rain faded to nothing as Frank crossed the lake, the clouds still heavy and dark but quiet now, the wind settling, the surface of the lake smoothing again.

Frank ran the boat at full throttle, knowing that the big engine would give him just enough time. He’d make it to the cabin maybe ten, fifteen minutes before Nora and Renee got to the dam, and that would be more than sufficient. It wasn’t going to take long at all, maybe thirty seconds, walk through the door, put the gun in Devin’s face, squeeze the trigger.

Simple.

And a long time coming.

And right.

Yes, damn it, it was the right thing to do. Ezra was dead, and so was Atkins, and Nora could easily have joined them. Forget Frank’s father, forget the betrayal, forget the past entirely—Devin had earned it today. Earned more than handcuffs and a cell. It was time to bring him to an end.

The gun in Frank’s hand was the Ruger he’d taken from Renee, and he discarded it as he crossed the lake, took the Smith & Wesson back, loving the feel of it, that FT ii engraved on the stock. Here’s a bullet from the old man, Devin. Enjoy it. I know he will. Wherever he is, heaven or hell or somewhere in between, I know he will.

He was utterly alone on the lake, even when he came through the Forks and out into the southern portion where the most boat traffic could usually be found. Nobody was going to venture out after a storm like that, with more rain threatening.

He dropped the speed as he neared the cabin, came in close to the shore and with the engine as quiet as possible until he saw the cabin. The van waited alone beside it. Nobody had noticed Atkins’s absence yet, or if they had, they didn’t know where to start looking for him. The cabin had one main window that looked out on the water, so Devin could be watching the lake right now, waiting for a boat to come in, sizing up the situation. If he saw it was Frank alone, he’d be ready.

Frank cut the engine and let the boat drift into the weeds. He was several hundred yards from the cabin and doubted Devin had seen or heard him. Possibly he’d heard the engine, but he couldn’t see this portion of the shore without coming outside, and the yard was empty except for that van.

He got out of the boat in the shallows, wrapped the bow line around a downed tree, and then climbed up the bank and into the woods and headed toward the cabin. He walked quietly but quickly, with his head up and the gun held down against his leg, finger hooked in the trigger guard.

Through the trees and into the yard without a shot fired or even a sound. Across the yard and to the door, still nothing. Hand on the knob, still nothing. He paused for one deep breath, slipped his finger completely around the trigger and tensed it, then twisted the knob and threw the door open and stepped into the cabin in a shooter’s stance, gun raised, ready to kill.

Devin was on the floor. Stretched out on his side, one cheek on the linoleum, his body slightly curled, as if he’d been going for the fetal position but couldn’t make it. His gun lay on a table beside the couch, out of reach, and Frank could see that he’d fallen from the couch onto the floor. There was a small puddle on the floor near his mouth, bile maybe mixed with traces of blood. For a second, Frank thought he was dead. Then he lifted his head.

He twisted to see the door, his hazy eyes taking Frank in before flicking to the gun on the table, several feet away, no chance of reaching it. When he moved, it was away from the table, rolling into a sitting position with his back against the wall.

“Where’s my wife?”

Frank stepped farther into the cabin, then reached back and swung the door shut behind him, never taking his eyes off Devin.

“She’s fine,” he said, “but you’re never going to see her again.”

“No?” Devin brought his head off the wall, and for a moment the light in his eyes seemed to fade, as if that small motion had still been too much.

“No.” Frank came closer. “The rest of them are dead. Your boy, AJ? I took his gun and I shot him with it. One