John Saul - In the Dark of the Night

Now Merrill was barely listening as some of Carol Langstrom’s words echoed in her mind.

…creepy…

…experiments…

…criminally insane…

What had really happened at Pinecrest?

Merrill’s mouth went dry, and she suddenly found she couldn’t think of a thing to say to Carol Langstrom. For a moment she felt light-headed, dizzy, almost afraid she’d faint. She put a hand out to steady herself against an oak armoire.

“Do you know Ashley Sparks?” she heard Carol Langstrom asking, and her head began to clear. “Ashley is a longtime customer of mine. She could tell you about Dr. Darby.”

Suddenly, Merrill found herself acutely aware that not only she, but a very wide-eyed Marci, was taking in every word that Carol was saying. “Well,” she finally said, clearing her throat and deliberately trying to break the mood and change the subject, but not so obviously that Marci would see the ploy, “Pinecrest is a beautiful house, and we’re enjoying ourselves very much.” She put her hand on Marci’s shoulder, trusting that Carol Langstrom would get the message. “And tonight we’re having a barbecue.” She squeezed Marci’s shoulder. “Aren’t we, sweetheart?” She herded her daughter toward the door. “And I’m serious about that lamp!”

“Then I’ll hold it for you,” Carol said. “See you soon.”

Merrill stepped out onto Main Street, and now Phantom Lake didn’t seem quite as delightful as it had only a few minutes earlier.

How could her friends not have told her what Carol Langstrom just had?

And how was she going to stay in a house where who-knows-what took place?

She walked quickly back to the car, foregoing the candles, already organizing her predeparture packing in her head.

Then, as she started the car, she realized that neither she nor any of her family were going anywhere. They were going to be at Pinecrest for the summer, and no matter what Carol Langstrom had told her — or how she had let her imagination run away with her — she was once more looking for trouble where there was none.

She was being stupid, she told herself, and it had to stop. Right here, and right now.

“Mom?” Marci said as they started back to The Pines. “Do you think Dr. Darby was really murdered in our house?”

“Of course not, honey,” Merrill said. “And I’m sorry you heard what Mrs. Langstrom said. Nobody knows what happened to him. It was a long time ago, and it’s certainly nothing you need to worry about.”

And if he had been murdered in the house, Merrill thought, we wouldn’t tell you, because then you’d be afraid, and you’d have nightmares.

Which, she realized, was exactly why nobody had told her about the history of Pinecrest.

But now it was too late. Marci would be having nightmares.

And she wouldn’t be the only one.

DAN BREWSTER KNELT on the concrete apron in the boathouse, leaned awkwardly over the old outboard engine, bracing himself with one hand while clutching a rusty screwdriver in the other, and twisted the set screw on the choke a quarter of a turn. “Try that.”

Eric pumped the bulb on the hose that led from the three-gallon gas tank under the seat to the motor, then gripped the starter cord and pulled hard.

The ancient motor coughed out a plume of blue smoke, putted a couple of times, then died, leaving Dan coughing and choking. “Almost,” he gasped as the smoke cleared. “Choke it a little, try it again, and if it catches, give it just a little gas.”

Eric adjusted the choke and gave another pull. The little engine caught on the second try and began a tentative putt. Very carefully, Eric twisted the grip on the handle; the engine raced for a second, then threatened to die again. He quickly backed off on the throttle, and the engine coughed, then settled into an uncertain, irregular putting.

The motor was running, albeit roughly, and a great plume of exhaust was rising from the boat’s stern and quickly filling the boathouse.

“Not bad for a lawyer who flunked auto shop, huh?” Dan crowed, rolling back on his heels and holding up his hand in a clumsy attempt at a high-five. Eric managed to make his own palm meet his father’s, then sat on the small seat at the boat’s stern and began adjusting the choke and the throttle until finally the engine warmed up enough to settle into a smooth — and almost smokeless — idle.

“Let’s take ’er out for a spin,” Dan said. “Blow some of the carbon out of the cylinders.”

Eric replaced the cover on the outboard. “Do we have time to fish?”

Dan checked his watch. “Don’t see why not, at least for an hour or so.” He scanned the boathouse, but the only fishing rod he saw was covered with cobwebs, and even from where he stood, he could see that the reel was corroded to the point of uselessness. “Why don’t you check the garage for tackle? I’ll take a look in the basement of the house.” He cocked his head, gazing uncertainly at the boat. “Think we can risk shutting that thing off?”

“It’s all warmed up,” Eric replied. “It’ll be fine.”

Eric shut off the motor, climbed out of the boat, and headed toward the garage while his father started up the lawn toward the house. But even as he approached the old carriage house, he glanced back at the boathouse, still barely able to believe they’d actually managed to fix the old engine.

The boat — the running boat — meant freedom. Eric didn’t have a car, nor was he old enough to drive one even if he did, but he knew that no license was required to drive a boat, which meant he could go to town — or anywhere else on the lake — whenever he wanted.

He could go to the dances at the pavilion that Cherie had told him about, without having to either walk or — worse — have his mother drop him off or pick him up. The boat might not be as nice or as fast as the one Adam Mosler had been in, but if he cleaned it up, it wouldn’t be half bad. And already he could see Cherie Stevens sitting in the bow, her hair blowing in the wind as he took her out for a twilight ride.

The image still bright in his head, Eric turned back to the carriage house. One of the garage doors stood open, and he stepped into the gloom of its interior, snapped on the bare lightbulb that hung from one of the rafters, and looked around for any sign of fishing rods. All he found, though, were some old jumper cables hanging from a nail, an old hydraulic jack whose orange paint was all but gone, and a collection of fan belts and old inner tubes that he was sure wouldn’t go on any car built in the last forty years.

There was also a coiled, but rotting, water hose and some old lawn tools.

But the garage was only a small part of the old carriage house, and Eric shut off the overhead light, closed the door, and began exploring. On the side of the structure that faced away from the house, he found several doors, one of which opened onto a small foyer at the bottom of stairs that led to the old grooms’ quarters above. Another door led into what must have once been a stable with enough stalls for half a dozen horses, but the stalls had long since been converted to other uses. At the back was the former tack room, still with a few old bits and bridles hanging on its walls. There was a long workbench backed by a pegboard full of tools, but still no sign of fishing tackle.

He moved on, coming to another door. Pulling it open, he found a room filled with a jumble of old furniture and boxes that looked as if they were about ready to split open.

He stepped into the room, gazing at the furniture. He could tell that some of the pieces were old — there was a mahogany table with a deep patina that told him it was at least a hundred years old, but some, like a chest whose white paint was chipped and stained, didn’t appear all that old, and looked like it must have been junk even when it was new.