Crescent Lake

  CRESCENT LAKE

  By David Sakmyster

  First Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press & Macabre Ink Digital

  Copyright 2011 by David Sakmyster

  Copy-edited and Cover Design by David Dodd

  Cover images courtesy of Karina: Visit her on Deviant Art

  and

  Ben: Visit him on Deviant Art

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  PROLOGUE

  With one foot sinking in the muddy bank and the other precariously balanced on the edge of the canoe, the killer paused for a breath and listened to the sounds of the night: leaves rustling on branches, crickets singing in the reeds; a pair of bullfrogs croaking somewhere along the lake's edge.

  He was barefoot and wore old sweatpants and a t-shirt, both streaked with blood. His jet black hair and his smooth, angular face were sprinkled with gore, bits of skin, and bone.

  He raised his hands to his face and stared at them for a long time, as if they belonged to someone else. Then he peered into the canoe, at the body wrapped tightly in a sheet, bound with a tough hemp rope and tied around a cinder block.

  The water was still, tranquil and trusting, gently supporting the canoe, oblivious to its gruesome contents. Carefully, the killer stepped aboard and crouched over the shrouded body. He studied the motionless figure. Finally satisfied that she was still dead, he found the oars, pushed free and rowed out toward the blackest section of the lake.

  The sky darkened and the first stars winked between gaps in the leaf-stitched canopy. A few more minutes of rowing, and the man paused and let the boat glide on ahead. He held his breath and cocked his head. He had heard something… some furtive sound like a wheezing, or a moan. Gripping the oar like an axe, he looked at the blood-soaked sheet.

  He held his breath and listened. Maybe she had just shifted, gravity and rigor mortis playing with her corpse. He watched the shrouded body for a long time, waiting for another twitch. Then, irritated to bear her presence any longer than necessary, he jabbed her with the oar – hard, in the ribs.

  Satisfied, he glanced up just as something else caught his eye – a flickering light glinting off the tired, drooping leaves. A faint glow.

  But from where...?

  Another sound, and his head snapped back to the shroud. He decided to check the rope around the cinder block. Tightened the knot, then raised the bottom of the sheet, revealing further knots around a pair of bruised ankles. He checked these as well.

  The light had all but faded, and it was getting harder to see. He had waited too long. He started to curse, then caught himself. Grumbling, he reached down, groaned and hefted her up over his left shoulder. Without another thought, he tossed the body overboard.

  It floated for a moment, toes curling up in the air. Bare, bloody arms pulled away from the sheet and flailed listlessly. Then the cinder block made a tremendous splash and sunk into the depths, yanking the feet down after it and thrusting the head above the surface for an instant.

  The face slipped out of the sheet – a bloody mess of flayed skin, shattered brown teeth, and crimson-stained hair. It turned, and the listless eyes stared into the killer's face, accusing, defiant – and then the eyes blinked, and the mouth opened and a scream began – just as the head submerged, leaving only a congregation of bubbles which dispersed and gave way to a peaceful, concentric ripple.

  Before oaring back to the shore, the killer decided to investigate the light he had seen earlier. He had the nagging fear someone may have seen him, someone who wouldn't understand.

  He rowed farther out. Four, five strokes. There. Just ahead. Something… under the water? It looked like it was at the bottom of the lake. Something illuminated? Glowing.

  He checked the sky. Nothing but wispy clouds obscuring everything beyond. But, Lord, that light. It looked... it looked like the moon, like the mirror-image of a crescent, shining overhead.

  He gazed at the sky again. Beyond the reaching branches, the night was dark as sin. But still, that glow under the water. It beckoned, it tempted, so seductively.

  He picked up the oar and started paddling, slowly, then faster, with deep, urgent strokes. Unless he was dreaming, the light had grown sharper, pulsing, throbbing as he drew nearer. He stopped rowing, letting the canoe glide into the ever-enlarging crescent of light.

  He rubbed his eyes. Blinked.

  The miraculous image flickered as he scrambled to the front of the craft in time to watch the tip pierce the golden liquid. He reached over, tentatively, and his fingers poised inches from the surface.

  With a deep breath, he dipped his trembling hand into the lake. Flexed his fist, stretched out his fingers. Waved his hand around. The skin on his palm tingled as if hundreds of tiny fish were nibbling at his flesh. It was not unpleasant, he decided, as he lifted his cupped hand and stared at the water.

  The liquid was dark, but still felt vibrant, tingling. It washed away the blood and the dirt and left his flesh pale and pure.

  Smiling, his heart surging with a newfound euphoria, he paddled with his hands until the boat was, as near as he could tell, directly over the crescent.

  He stood, turned around several times with his dripping hands stretched out to the sky. His soul was a whirlwind of emotion. Feelings long dormant – repressed and locked away – now surged and threatened to burst free.

  Joy, ecstasy, pure contentment, all pushed him to the verge of tears.

  It was too much. He dropped to his knees, bent over the edge and stared into the glowing depths.

  Something shifted in the light.

  The glow pulsed in long and short bursts, as if communicating with him.

  He gasped and reached into the water, suddenly terrified of losing the image, having it fade like the memory of a happy dream just after waking.

  The illumination surged, brighter this time, pulsing in more regular patterns.

  Patterns that were clearly intended as a message.

  No – an invitation.

  The killer stood, a broad grin on his blood-streaked face.

  ...and he stepped out of the canoe. He descended with barely a splash, dropping into the lake, into the heart of the crescent. The ripples quickly dissipated and the surface calmed over, concealing all evidence of his existence.

  In time, the glow faded. A lame breeze wafted through the forest and across the dark lake; slowly it nudged the canoe away, towards a distant reed-infested bank. With the return of complete darkness, a timid cricket began a melancholy song. Within an hour it was joined by other denizens of the night, other songs.

  Dawn came slowly and almost imperceptibly, its presence not fully experienced until mid-morning when the birds finally commenced their songs and the insects began their daily routines.

  The day was hot, the air stagnant. The water listless and unresponsive. A brave wind tried to stir through the trees around dusk, but quickly tired and gave up. Hours later, in the heart of the night, the air crackled and black clouds massed, announcing the onslaught of an hour-long thunderstorm that battered the lake with intermittent ra
in and hail. Animals huddled in their holes, birds shivered in carefully-located nests.

  Later that night, the darkness that defined the lake found itself pierced once again. The glowing crescent shape materialized for a short time only, but when it came, the animals and insects of the forest were subdued, as if reverently deferring to the object's power.

  The silence ruptured with the sound of ungainly splashes. Heavy feet trudged through the water, coming towards the shore, tripping and stumbling and rising again.

  Arms at his sides, a barefooted man emerged in the reeds. He wore old sweatpants and a t-shirt soaked to his skin. After a brief struggle, his feet found purchase on the soft earth. He promptly took two steps onto the shore, then dropped to his knees in the mud. He lifted his hands and his face to the treetops.

  Lake water gushed from his open mouth and streamed from his nose. And while the winds swirled and danced, caressing his skin, the branches swooned and bowed towards him, casting golden and crimson leaves around his body as if he were a king, returning in triumph.

  And when he grinned, the white of his teeth matched his thick head of hair, and the silvery wisps on his chin.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Hartford, Connecticut

  June 29

  Nicholas Murphy stood before the full-length windows, studying the gated front entrance to the Senator's spacious home. The night was unusually stifling, which, under the circumstances, only added to Nick's discomfort. Carefully, sliding his hand through an open button on the middle of his shirt, keeping the motion hidden from the Senator and her guests, Nick adjusted the wire – and the small, tube-like microphone taped to the skin under his left arm.

  All day long he'd had terrible premonitions. That he would be discovered – that one of the Bates twins would search him at the door, or else this damn wire would short circuit and start smoking or something.

  Don't let them see you sweat, the FBI agent had told him only a few hours ago. Nick rubbed his eyes, trying to dispel images of smoke-filled offices and men with shoulder-holsters, pompously counseling him, offering stern advice and long-winded instructions.

  As he re-buttoned his shirt, his mind cleared, leaving only this crucial task, and a small, but disturbing consideration: he was going to need protection after this. Serious protection.

  With what Nick knew, and what he could get the people in this room to talk about today, the FBI would have what they desperately needed – a weapon to bring down Malcolm O'Neil and his entire organization.

  The only problem, as Nick saw it, was that this case would require the combined services of the FBI, the IRS, the Justice Department and the DEA to sort out. And in the months, or God help him – years – that followed, certain people would be rather inclined to remove the thorn that had caused such damage.

  Yes, he would need protection. They'd offered him immunity – from his small part in past evils; but such a promise was an unnecessary incentive; Nick could no longer live with his conscience. He had owed his Aunt West a favor after what she had done for him in the period following Sally's death.

  Senator West had appointed him chief political assistant, a position with great perks and high visibility – everything he'd ever wanted. And before he knew it, he was sitting in on meetings like this one, attempting to shrink into the shadows while plans took sharper and sharper turns into corruption. Before he even had time to take stock of his plight, he had been completely ensnared. But that's how they worked. They let you in, made you rich, gave you power, and then, only too late you realized you're part of it, guilty as the rest of them.

  He straightened his tie.

  Sorry, Aunt Evelyn. I've more than repaid my debt.

  "Nicholas?" the Senator called from her seat at the far end of the mahogany table. "Are you ready?" Her voice was soft and delicate. Trusting.

  With a deep breath, Nick prepared to take his best shot at redemption.

  A man in a dark suit stood before each door, arms crossed, eyes boring straight ahead. Four men sat at the table, with Evelyn seated at the head, legs crossed, a half-burned out cigarette in one hand and a nearly empty glass of Irish whiskey in the other. On her right sat two men, each wearing spectacles, a thick folder and leather suitcase shared between them. Accountants, Nick quickly guessed.

  Opposite these men were two whose faces were all too familiar. Closest to the Senator sat Malcolm O'Neil, head of the Irish mob in New England. His helicopter was on the pad behind the tennis courts, being serviced as they ate dinner. Next to O'Neil was a man Nick had seen only once before, but had heard more than enough about to yield an occasional nightmare.

  O'Neil's right-hand man, Lloyd Stielman. He had served seventeen years as an assassin in O'Neil's organization after honing his skills in the Middle East, Vietnam and Central America. Lloyd was compact and polished like an industrial freezer; he moved gracefully despite his size, displaying an artistic finesse in even the most mundane actions, like pouring a glass of scotch for his boss. His hair was thinning, but maintained a graceful retreat from his forehead. Under other circumstances, Nick might have actually found Lloyd's presence comfortable – if not for the wolfish, predatory glint in his eyes – and his overuse of a pungent aftershave that smelled like moldy leaves in a compost pile.

  Evelyn West motioned for Nick to take the free seat. "Nicholas – I know you've met Mr. O'Neil..."

  O'Neil grunted and ignored Nick's hand stretching over the table.

  "And this is Lloyd Stielman."

  Lloyd took Nick's hand and squeezed tamely, purposely restraining his strength. Cold blue eyes found Nick's and a thin smile announced an intimacy with deception.

  Under the hitman's scrutiny, Nick felt his sense of calm deteriorating. Lloyd's grip tightened, as if he were intentionally pulling Nick off balance. He received the sudden notion that Lloyd was attempting to get an angle by which to see inside his sportscoat.

  Nick stood up straight and pulled his hand free. Could Lloyd feel the sweat on his palms? Was that why he regarded Nick with a disapproving gaze? Relax, Nick. It's just his job.

  O'Neil gestured to the liquor cabinet behind the Senator. "Join us in a drink, Mr. Murphy?"

  Nick started to answer, but the Senator responded for him. "Nicholas doesn't drink. Not anymore, at least."

  "An Irishman who doesn't drink?" O'Neil asked, clearly astounded.

  "Long story," Nick said, and wasn't about to elaborate.

  Evelyn smiled in a way that made Nick angry and ashamed at the same time. "Please take your seat so we can begin."

  He sat and lifted the briefcase he had left on the floor earlier. "Thanks. I have the files you asked me to bring. Information I 'appropriated' from the local law enforcement agency... names, addresses, salaries..."

  Nick casually looked up as he opened the briefcase. As he had hoped, the little crack about stealing from the police served to soothe O'Neil and Stielman. Lloyd appeared to be breathing easier. He scratched the back of his balding skull and let his attention wander.

  The information in the files had all been accumulated with the assistance of the FBI, and unless O'Neil had a plant within the agency, Nick assumed he was safe. But you could never be sure.

  The tape and the wire on his skin started to itch.

  These thoughts crept steadily closer with each folder Nick placed on the table. Nick was attuned to every sound, every smell. Whiskey, Lloyd's aftershave, the scent of leather from the briefcases and the chairs. The itching of that wire on his flesh… Was it throbbing now? A hysterical notion, he realized, but it was one he couldn't shake. Just like the tell-tale heart beating beneath the floorboards...

  O'Neil coughed violently, a guttural, liquid hacking. "Just getting over the goddamned spring flu." He took a folder and passed it to the Senator. "Now, if I have this right, we have five hundred and seventy-five thousand set aside for 'dealing' with the law." He glanced up at one of the accountants and raised an eyebrow.

  "Correct," said the slimmer of the two. "On
e-hundred eighty-five grand for local, the rest allocated to the Feds..."

  Evelyn raised a hand. "And the DEA? Are they taken care of? I can't have them sniffing around here. This state's not big enough to hide in."

  "Don't worry," O'Neil said in a reassuring Irish accent that he often brought out for humor. "We've got it covered."

  Nick fought back a smile. Keep talking boys. Don't mind little old me. Just keep yapping. He casually glimpsed at his watch: seven minutes had elapsed.

  The next time Nick looked at his watch, the major plans were over with, and the minor details were being addressed. Fifty-eight minutes had passed.

  Nick was about to rise and excuse himself for the bathroom. It was time to go. His part was done. The agents should have enough now to get all the warrants they needed.

  "Mr. Murphy," O'Neil called. He was shuffling through a stack of copies. "Where are the homicide detectives promoted to Lieutenant?"

  Shit. Nick stood on wobbly legs and walked over to O'Neil's chair. He reached over his shoulder and started fumbling through the papers. The accountants were cataloging their notes. Evelyn rose and walked to the liquor cabinet. The guards at the doors twitched slightly, obviously tired of remaining in the same position for so long.

  And Lloyd – Lloyd was right behind O'Neil. The hitman stared closely at Nick's scalp, at his forehead, where beads of sweat were collecting. "Doesn't feel so hot in here, kid. Why're you sweatin' like a five-dollar whore in church?"

  Nick's heart lurched as the room went silent.

  Think fast Nick.

  Evelyn turned, a bottle of Irish whiskey in her hand. O'Neil glanced from the Senator back to Nick.

  Come on, think. You have a new life waiting for you.

  He thought of Sally. Thought of the baby she was carrying… his daughter.