F. Wilson - Secret Histories

someone who cal ed Mark. Soon Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Peter, and Paul Mul

iner—their mother was real y into the New Testament, apparently—piled into a truck of their own. The story went that they intercepted the thieves on

Carranza Road near Tabernacle. What happened after that nobody knew, or nobody was saying, but next morning the canoes were back at their usual spot.

Never a mention of the fate of the Trenton guys, and nobody asked. Piney justice tended to be swift, severe, and silent.

Weezy shielded her eyes as she stared at the canoers already on the lake.

“When you talked about swimming, I assumed you meant here.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re going to go diving for whatever Steve’s father threw in.” “Uh-huh.”

“You’l never find it.”

“Don’t be so sure. I have a pretty good idea where it landed. The water’s clear

and not very deep. I think it’s worth a shot.”

“You’re not the type to go looking for trouble. Wouldn’t it be better to do this at

night?”

“But then I wouldn’t be able to see.”

“Oh, right.” She pointed to the blocklike Lodge squatting on the far corner of the

opposite bank. “Yeah, you’l be able to see, but so wil they. If they’re

watching, they’l cal the fuzz.”

The Lodge owned the pond. They let people boat on it, even fish in it—someone

had stocked it with smal -mouth bass—but absolutely no swimming.

Jack had never understood why. But then, the Lodge never explained what it

did. It didn’t have to.

“I think I have a way around that. But I need your help.”

“If it involves swimming, forget it. I’m not going in that lake.”

“Don’t worry. I’l be the only one getting wet. I’m going to paddle one of these

canoes to the other side of the bridge. You’re going to fol ow along the bank. When I get to the right spot, I’m going to become a show-off.” “That’s it?”

“You’l see.”

He pul ed three dol ars from his wal et and dropped it in the coffee can, then

handed Weezy his wal et.

“Here. Keep this dry for me.”

Then he kicked off his Vans. He was glad he was wearing cutoffs, so he didn’t

have to rol up his jeans. He dragged the canoe into the water, hopped in, and began to paddle.

Weezy pedaled along the bank, looking confused. “What am I supposed to do?” “Easy!” he shouted. “Just look beautiful!”

Even from here he could see her blush. Immediately he wondered if he should

have said it. She might take it the wrong way. A guy could say one thing and a girl would hear something else.

Weezy wasn’t beautiful by most standards. Unless she changed dramatical y over

the next couple of years, she probably wasn’t going to have a gaggle

of guys fol owing her down the street. But she wasn’t bad-looking. She easily

could be cute or even attractive if she gave it half a try. He didn’t mean she should become a bowhead or anything like that, not that she ever would. But

Weezy considered herself a plain Jane, maybe even something of a bowwow—she’d never told him so but he could sense it—and so she never made

that try. Or maybe she just didn’t care. Maybe she was going to wait until she came across a Cure fan looking for a girl who reminded him of Robert Smith. “Easier said than done,” she replied in a barely audible voice.

“Nah! Just think beautiful!”

Ouch. That was bad—super hokey. He wished he hadn’t brought this up. But if

nothing else, it made him look like he was out here just having fun.

He guided the canoe under the bridge and into the south half of the dumbbel

-shaped lake. His was the only canoe on this end. To his right on the west bank he saw the big oak near where Mr. Brussard had stood when he threw

whatever he’d thrown. Jack guesstimated it had landed about thirty feet out. He backpaddled the canoe to stop it at the spot. Then he checked for Weezy on

the shore. She’d leaned her bike against the big oak and stood

watching him with her hands on her hips. She wore a Now-what? expression. Okay, Jack thought. Time to take the plunge.

Careful y he rose to his feet. The canoe began rocking with the shift in weight.

When he’d gained his balance he waved to her.

“Hey, Weezy! Look! No hands!”

“And no brains!” she replied.

Can’t argue with that, he thought. Or am I just crazy?

Maybe he was. This was certainly a crazy stunt. Weezy was right about his

chances of finding whatever it was. Slim to none, even if he knew what he was looking for, and he didn’t.

But he had to give it a try.

He pretended to lose his balance, windmil ing his arms, which increased the

canoe’s rocking until—

“Whoa!”

Taking a deep breath, he fel /dove off the canoe into the water. The

temperature was a shock. He’d known it was fed by a cold spring, but not

this

cold.

Fighting the urge to start swimming for the warm shore, he stroked toward the bottom for a look.

The water wasn’t crystal clear but enough light filtered through to reveal the muddy bottom. He stayed a few feet above it, stroking gently so as not to stir

up the muck. He saw some beer cans, dead tree branches, a sneaker, and some unidentifiable lumps al coated with green-brown ick. They looked like

they’d been here a long time. Something down here for only a few days should stick out like Weezy at an Air Supply concert.

He kept stroking. He’d always been able to hold his breath for a long time. Knowing it was only a short distance to the surface, he pushed it to the max

before kicking back toward air.

Nothing … he’d found nothing. On his next dive he’d search a little farther out from shore.

A shadow passed over him. He looked up and saw someone else in the water, swimming along the surface.

Who? Too big for Weezy.

As his head broke the surface he felt an arm go around his neck.

“Gotcha!” said a voice close behind him.

Jack panicked when he recognized it: Steve’s father!

He heard a high-pitched scream from somewhere as he began struggling to get free.

“Don’t fight me, Jack. I’m stronger than you.”

Jack knew that, but didn’t stop his struggles. The kil er was going to drown him to make sure he never found what he’d thrown in here.

“Be calm, Jack,” said the voice, close to his ear. “Relax. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Safe?

He must mean his secret wil be safe.

Jack took a deep breath, preparing for when Mr. Brussard forced him under. He could almost hear him later:

Itriedmybesttosavehimbutjust

couldn’t.

But instead of pul ing him down, the arm slipped from his neck to across his chest. And then he felt himself being pul ed along the surface. He craned

his neck and saw that Mr. Brussard was using a cross-chest carry to move him toward shore. Jack had learned this one in his lifesaver course last

summer.

He thinks he’s saving me.

“I’m okay, Mr. Brussard. I can swim.”

He stopped stroking. “You can?”

He released him and Jack treaded water as he turned to face him.

“Yeah. I … I just fel off the boat.”

“But you didn’t come up. I thought …” He laughed. “You mean I got soaked for nothing?”

“Wel , I wouldn’t say for nothing.”

“Poor choice of words. Let’s get to shore. It’s cold in here.”

“You go ahead. I’ve got to get the boat.”

“I’l help you.”

Together they stroked out to the canoe. Then, each grabbing a side, they swam it ashore.