Salvage (39 page)

Every man has two selves
, he thought,
the man who is, and the man he's meant to be.

Everett Crouch had the charisma, the intelligence, the passion required to be a great leader. But Woodrow would never let him be more than a snake in the grass, a conniving, selfish, evil man who'd plotted to murder his own son, who'd led eight innocents to their deaths.

May your cries be laid to rest.

Owen turned to gather up his tank and found the wooden frog in the muck, near the gutted carcass of a trout. Owen stared at it for a long time, thinking he was hallucinating. Finally, he picked it up, felt its weight, and turned it over in the moonlight. There were smooth ridges where Howie's knife had carved, and splinters elsewhere. He put it back in his fanny pack, which he supposed he must have left open, and zipped it closed.

Pushing himself up from the dirt, he looked out at the dark lake, trying to orient himself. The lights of the marina were just about straight ahead. The moon had settled above a black line of trees to his immediate left, in a cloudy haze. Between the marina and where he'd awakened was the church, which meant he'd washed up on a northern shore, on the same side of the lake as the trailer park and the dump. It would take hours to walk around the lake back to Hordyke Bay; dark, silent hours during which bears roamed the woods.

Owen threw the tank over his shoulder and crab-walked awkwardly up the smooth bedrock to the trees.

"Well, it's a little better than night diving," he said, able to make out individual trees in the moonlight. If it got too dark or too dense, he had his LED. If he heard the enormous crash of a bear in the trees, he'd snatch up a twig and strike it against the oxygen tank, hoping to frighten it with the clang.

Owen set off on his journey. Within minutes, he'd found a dirt road. From then on, it was clear sailing.

2

The sun had just begun to rise by the time he reached Hordyke House. The roads had been bare, but as he passed the dump he'd seen a handful of eager fisherman out on the lake. He tore the heavy tank off his aching shoulders as soon as he got through the gate, and dropped it on the patio, where he peeled out of the wetsuit.

Hunger had struck him halfway back, and he filled the painful pit in his stomach with two full bowls of cereal, too tired to cook. He practically crawled up the stairs, flopped down on the bed, and was asleep in moments.

When he woke, the hot afternoon sun was blasting through the gauzy curtains. He rolled over, yawning. The alarm clock still showed 2:06, and his wristwatch had stopped at 3:16, apparently having cracked under the pressure of the water while he'd sat in his father's chair, reliving the Blessed Trinity's final hour. It had stopped on that famous verse from John, probably the most quoted line in the Bible:
For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.

"Huh," Owen said, amused by the coincidence. He supposed there were probably a dozen verses that corresponded to 2:06, or 2:6, but he couldn't recite them from memory, and he wasn't about to look them up. He was still tired, but there was work to be done—
That all men may know His work
—and he wanted to get back on the lake before dusk.

Howard still needed to answer for his sins, and on his walk back to the house in the wee hours of the morning, Owen had made a rough plan for getting the old man out on the lake.

He got up, ran a cool shower in the tub to rinse off the smell of fish and the rest of his fatigue. He put on fresh clothes, the last clean pair of jeans and underwear in his suitcase, and the socks he'd worn on his first day, which he'd aired out on the windowsill. In a moment of inspiration, he snatched up the least flowery sun hat he could find in the wardrobe, along with a pair of lime green women's slacks and a cream blouse that could easily fit his mother. He made the bed neatly, folded the clothes as his mother would have on the bedspread, and hurried downstairs with the hat.

Looking out the front windows on his way down the stairs, he saw a car he didn't recognize parked in the driveway. A vaguely familiar men's cologne stung his nostrils, and it wasn't his own. His immediate thought was:
Mike Selkie
. But the voice that greeted him was not the Constable's.

"Have a little lie-down, did you?"

He recognized the accent before he saw Howard in the recliner, sifting through Lori's journal.
Speak of the Devil
, he thought. The old man was dressed in the same clothes he'd worn to the hospital, down to the wacky '70s cravat. He'd slung the tweed professor's jacket over the edge of the coffee table.

"I really wish you wouldn't touch that," Owen said.

"Oh?" Howard riffled its pages, the yellow hospital bracelet rattling softly on his wrist. "Something in here you wouldn't want me to see?"

"What are you doing out of the hospital, Howard?"

Howard grinned. "My son-in-law called. Some busybody or another spotted you out on the lake again last night. Michael wondered if I might know what you'd been up to."

Owen shrugged. "Just a little night diving," he said. "I was actually just running out a sun hat for my mom. Wouldn't want her to get heat stroke, you know."

"Madge—?" Howard swallowed his enthusiasm. "Your mother is here?"

Nodding, Owen said, "She came up for a visit last night. I'm sure she'd be happy to know you're here."

Now that Owen knew the truth, Howard's presence here made him edgy. That Howard had been sitting there for God knew how long, waiting for him to wake from his nap, disturbed him in some primal way. That he'd been reading Lori's journal bothered him even more—he had no idea what she might have written about Howard, if she'd already pieced together what had happened or not. He wished he'd spent more time reading it, though it would have meant spending less time with Jo in her final days. It was obvious Howard hadn't just popped by for a casual visit. The Devil's business had brought him here, and Owen wouldn't be the least bit surprised to find that Howard might be concealing the same gun he'd used to murder Everett Crouch.

At least with Howard here
, he thought,
I won't have to drive an hour to Peterborough and back. At least there's that.

"Mom's just out sunning on the dock." He gestured with the hat toward the kitchen. In reality, Margaret Saddler never would have suntanned, but it had been almost thirty years since Howard had seen her, and Owen figured he'd be safe with the lie. "Said she might go for a swim," he added, casting out his bait.

"A
swim
?" Howard blinked rapidly. He wore the look of a man choking at a polite dinner party, trying not to make a scene. The ruse had worked better than Owen could have imagined. Howard had taken the bait, and Owen had gained the upper hand. He intended to use it to his advantage.

"Sure. The water's perfect, Howard. I was thinking of taking a dip myself, if you want to join us."

The old man shook his head fearfully.

"Oh, that's right. You don't swim."

The shake became an equally mindless nod.

"Well, how 'bout coming down to the dock to say hi?"

Howard considered it for a moment. "I suppose there's no harm in that," he said finally, though the fear hadn't left his eyes. He stood, groaning with effort. "Let's go see your mother, then."

They headed to the kitchen, Howard a little ways behind, moving warily. Owen caught him peeking out the window before he followed Owen to the door, but with just a glance he wouldn't have been able to see the dock through the trees. The barometer's needle had settled on
Change
. Owen wasn't surprised.

He held the door open. "After you."

Howard eyed him, and then stepped out onto the patio. The wetsuit was still dripping into a puddle on the deck boards. He gave this a brief look. "Just some night diving, hmm?" Howard said.

"I wanted to see how easy it would be for someone to drown out there in the dark."

Howard cocked his head, curious. "And…?"

"Lori wouldn't have known which way was up. Even with a strong light and the moon, you can't see five feet in front of you."

The old man nodded. "Chapel Lake is dangerous in the best of conditions," he said.

"I'm sure Howie didn't suffer," Owen said.

"No," Howard agreed, caught off-guard by the still-fresh wound. "I'm sure he didn't." As an afterthought, he added, "I'd like to believe your sister didn't, either."

"Thank you. But I know that's not true."

The old man threw him an indecipherable look, and though it hadn't been Owen's intention—he'd only meant she must have suffered, lost in a dark void, circling endlessly until she'd run out of air—he seemed to have touched on something in Howard, and he wasn't sure what to make of it. "Oh?" the old man said, his bristly Adam's apple working unpleasantly.

"I don't need it sugarcoated," Owen said "She drowned. It's not a pleasant way to die. At least Howie was unconscious before he hit the water."

Howard nodded mechanically, and blinked away a tear. "I don't see your mother down there," he said, making a show of peering under the trees.

"She's probably in the lake, then."

"I'd rather not go down there…"

"We could sit and wait, if you'd prefer. She might be a while."

Howard narrowed his eyes out at the lake. "Right, let's go see, shall we?" He led the way. "Madge?" he called. "Madge, dear, guess who's come to dinner!" Howard stopped several steps from the water and looked out. "I don't see her."

Owen faked concern. "Mom?" He dropped Mrs. Hordyke's hat on the stone path. "
Mom!
" Owen hurried down to the dock. The hinges creaked and the floats bounced as he ran out, shading his eyes and looking around frantically. "Howard, I don't—"

"Madge, where the Devil are you?" the old man called out, staying put a few feet from the water.

"The boat's gone," Owen said, returning to the shore, glad to have washed up on the shore with the boat still back at the church.

"What would she be doing in the boat?" Howard asked.

"I don't even think she knows how to drive it," Owen said, and shot a fake nervous look out at the opening of the bay. Howard followed his gaze. "You don't think—?" Owen began.

"Dear, God, I should hope not!"

"Maybe we oughta go check. If she's out there at the church—"

"Madge…" Howard said under his breath, fingering his cravat.

Owen headed up the hill, toward the overturned canoe under its canvas tarp. He looked back, hoping the anxiety in his eyes looked real. "You coming?"

"Coming?" Howard looked at the lake. "In
that
?"

"I'll need help steering the canoe," Owen said. "Do you wanna help find her, or not?"

Howard nodded. He stepped gingerly up the hill to Owen's side. "It's just that I've never been in a canoe before."

"Neither have I," Owen admitted, and Howard snapped a look at him, more frightened now than before. "I'm sure we'll get the hang of it. Just don't stand up and rock the boat."

Howard's nod was slow and deliberate. "All right. Give it the old Dunkirk spirit," he said, then uttered a high, nervous chuckle.

Owen removed the tarpaulin, shaking off dead pine needles. The canoe was wooden—cedar, at a guess—and varnished to a high shine. He bent to take the end closest to the lake, and looked up to see Howard watching him curiously. "Ready?"

Howard nodded and scurried to the high end. Owen counted to three, and both men lifted simultaneously, Howard exhaling noisily. The paddles fell from inside, landing on a pair of sodden yellow life cushions. A bailing can, really a rusted old juice tin, lay beside them.

Slowly they trudged the canoe toward the lake, Owen lifting it behind his back. Howard's rhythm was a few steps off, and the pointy end—whether it was the bow or stern, Owen had no idea—kept bumping Owen in the tailbone. All the way down, he thought Howard could easily ram him into the lake and push him under, and put the situation with the Blessed Trinity behind him for good. But Howard never made a move. Owen guessed he was genuinely concerned for Margaret, no matter what he'd originally planned to do to her only son at Fisherman's Wharf.

Owen turned to the old man at the water's edge. "We're gonna flip it now, okay? On my count."

Howard agreed with a nod. Owen counted, and they turned the canoe right side up. The inside was mottled with black water stains, the varnish worn from use. "You keep pushing, and I'll go around the side," Owen directed. Howard did as he was told, while Owen stepped out onto the rock wall, carrying what turned out to be the bow out into the water. Once it was fully in the lake, he told Howard to let go. The old man did so eagerly, worried he'd be pulled into the lake along with the canoe.

"Perhaps you'd better get your wetsuit?" Howard said.

"Why would I—?" Then Owen understood. "You don't think…?"

Howard had looked like a man asleep at the wheel, but now his eyes came alight. "Of course not. Though it doesn't hurt to put on our belt and braces." Owen gave him a clueless look. "It's an expression," Howard said. "It means to be cautious."

"You're right," Owen said. He held out the frayed rope to him. "Can you hold the boat in?"

Howard looked uneasily at the rock wall—so close to the water, and shallow as it was—then the rope. He stepped up onto the wall like a man climbing onto a tightrope. His nice shiny shoes, Owen noted, were about to get wet. Howard treaded delicately toward Owen and held out his hand. Owen's skin crawled at the thought of holding hands with his father's killer, but he took it and helped him pass. Once the old man had situated himself, balancing precariously despite the wall being several feet wide, Owen handed him the rope.

"I'll just be a minute," he said, then headed up the path. It occurred to him as he reached the dark patch where the canoe had been that it was odd for Howard to suggest he put on the wetsuit. Even being overly cautious, what did Howard expect to happen out there?
I don't need a wetsuit to help him if he falls out of the boat
, he thought.
What's he got in mind?