John Saul - In the Dark of the Night

Tad rolled his eyes. “Fat chance.”

“It’s all about attitude,” Kent said, and led the way up the ramp to the pavilion dance floor. “You’ve got to act like you own the place.” He found a vacant spot along the pavilion railing, leaned against it, and scanned the crowd, deciding that if he didn’t see Kayla, he might actually try to find a girl for Tad. Assuming, of course, that Tad liked girls at all, which Kent suspected he didn’t. Maybe, he thought, he should look around for a guy for Tad. But what if Tad hadn’t figured out he was gay yet? Better stick with girls, at least until Tad figured himself out. “Plenty to chose from tonight,” he whispered into Tad’s ear. “You know these locals can’t be satisfying the demand.”

As Tad pointedly ignored Kent’s goading, Eric saw Cherie and Kayla walking up the ramp. He was about to move toward them when Adam Mosler and Chris McIvens stepped in front of the girls, intercepting them before they’d reached the main floor. Eric’s jaw tightened as Mosler talked to them, not letting them pass. Then Cherie said something that made Adam step back as if he’d been slapped and brushed past him.

Kayla followed, jerking away from Chris McIvens when he reached out to stop her.

Cherie scanned the crowd, spotted Eric, waved, and started toward them.

“Uh-oh,” Tad said quietly, reading the expressions on the two local boys’ faces as they watched what was happening. “Now there’s going to be trouble.”

“Not for me,” Eric said, grinning, and a moment later Cherie leaned against the railing next to him and he turned away from Tad and Kent to focus his entire attention on her. “Hey, I was hoping you were going to be here tonight.”

“It was me who asked you to come, remember?” She let her hand brush against his as the band started a slow song. “Want to dance?” Her hand slid down his arm to his hand, and Eric let himself be led onto the dance floor.

• • •

“PRICKS!”

Adam Mosler spat the single word as if it were as foul as the wad of tobacco jammed in the corner of his mouth, then gritted his teeth as he watched Cherie lead Eric Brewster onto the dance floor. “Who do those bastards think they are?” He grabbed the bottle from Chris and sucked down a gulp, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. The vodka burned through his throat to feed the fire already raging in his belly, and he could feel the strength of his fury building. His eyes shifted unsteadily to Brewster’s friends, and he elbowed his companion as he saw Kayla rubbing up against the big dumb football player. What was his name? Newhall? Newell — that was it. Kent Newell. In his mind, Adam switched the e in Newell’s first name to a u, then snickered drunkenly at his own joke. “Moving in on your territory, too,” he said as he passed the bottle back to Chris.

McIvens drank a couple of swallows without taking his own furious eyes off Kayla. “I should kill the bitch.”

“Not her, asshole,” Adam said, his voice slurring. “It’s all their fault.”

“Yeah,” Chris agreed. “You’re right.”

“Who the hell do they think they are, waltzing in here and tryin’ to take over everything? They really think we’re jus’ gonna let ’em get away with it?”

“No way,” Chris agreed. He took another swig from the bottle, then passed it back to Adam.

As the band played and Eric and Cherie danced, Mosler and McIvens kept pouring more fuel onto their already blazing rage.

CHERIE PUT HER hands behind Eric’s neck as he circled her narrow waist with his arms and drew her close. They moved together to the gentle rhythm of the music, and the faintest wisp of a breeze came off the lake.

The evening was starting to feel perfect — exactly the kind of evening Eric had imagined hundreds of times when he’d been stuck in Evanston while Kent and Tad had been up here. But now, finally, he was here, too, and with Cherie Stevens in his arms, and the music playing, and the lights — even the lake itself — glowing, and the sweet summer breeze wafting over him, he wondered if it could get any better. Then, as he swept Cherie into a turn and drew her still closer, he saw Adam Mosler glaring at him, fists clenched. His whole body tensed, and he moved his lips close to Cherie’s ear. “You think Adam’s going to make trouble?”

She shrugged and snuggled closer against his chest. “Who knows? He and Chris have a bottle, and sometimes Adam gets mean when he drinks.”

“Think maybe we better chill for a while?” Eric asked, hoping she’d say no even if it meant winding up in a fight with Adam.

“I think we should just ignore him.”

Eric did as he was told, closing his eyes and letting the warmth of Cherie’s body spread through him.

“ OKAY, THAT’S IT!” Adam Mosler growled, draining most of what was left of the vodka into his mouth. “Son of a bitch’s got his filthy hands on my girl.”

Chris McIvens reached for the bottle. “So what are you gonna do?”

Adam surrendered the almost empty bottle. “I’m gonna kill him,” he said, and started unsteadily across the dance floor.

McIvens finished the vodka and threw the empty bottle into the lake, then followed Adam as he pushed his way between the dancing couples, going directly toward Cherie Stevens and Eric Brewster. But when he got there, instead of spinning Brewster around and smashing his fist into his face, Adam merely tapped Eric on the shoulder.

“I’m cuttin’ in, man.”

Eric turned to see Mosler glowering at him, his face twisted with rage, his eyes bleary from alcohol. “I don’t think so,” he said softly. Out of the corner of his eye he could see other couples stop dancing to watch, and he silently prayed that Kent and Tad were among those watching.

“Why don’t you just go away, Adam?” Cherie said.

Adam ignored her, fixing his eyes on Eric. “I want you to leave my girl alone.”

“I’m not your girl,” Cherie said, grabbing Eric’s hand. “Come on, Eric, let’s just go.”

“Not so fast,” Adam growled, putting a hand on Eric’s chest.

Eric balled his right hand into a fist and his whole body tensed as he braced himself for the first blow, but just as Mosler drew his arm back to take a swing, a sound rose above the music.

A scream.

The music faltered, then stopped.

Adam Mosler, his fist still poised to strike Eric Brewster, hesitated, and then, as another scream and then another came from the water side of the pavilion, his arm slowly dropped to his side. “What the fu—” he began, rocking unsteadily as he looked around. “Wha’s goin’ on?”

Eric ignored Mosler as he followed Cherie toward the railing at the far end of the pavilion, where people were gathered. They pushed their way into a narrow opening at the rail and looked out over the water as someone else cried out. At first he saw nothing, but as someone a few feet away pointed, he looked down.

He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but then he saw what looked like a pair of tennis shoes floating almost under the pavilion.

The crowd behind Eric pressed forward, and he felt the railing give slightly.

Below him, the tennis shoes disappeared for a moment, but then they were back, and as Eric watched, they drifted away from the pavilion.

Except the shoes were not simply floating.

They were attached to legs.

Legs clad in black jeans.

With the glowing water rippling around them, the legs floated up, followed by a torso, and then a head.

The body floated facedown in the water, its right arm and hand stretched out, as if reaching for something.

There was no left arm.

As the crowd gathered at the rail stared down at it, the outstretched right arm began to sink and the body rolled over.