B.J. Daniels - Shadow Lake

Nash saw her face and the driver’s for only an instant as she opened the car door, the dome light coming on. Lucinda Nash slid into the passenger seat. The door closed and the dome light shut off.

Son of a bitch. Nash sat up with a jerk, throwing open the patrol-car door as he drew his weapon. And just moments before, he’d felt bad for being suspicious and deceitful. Apparently he’d had every reason. Hadn’t he known something was going on with his wife?

His mind racing, he tried to come up with a reason other than the obvious one for why she would have gone out this time of the night—let alone with that particular man.

Nash had witnessed his share of affairs over the years. It’s what a man got for spending a good part of his life on dark streets when good people were in bed asleep. He was no stranger to the uglier side of humankind. He’d seen things he hadn’t wanted to see, the kind of things that left him with a nasty taste in his mouth and a shitty impression of humanity in general.

Now he tried to catch his breath, to still the trembling in his limbs. His radio squawked. He ignored it. He stumbled out into the muddy street, the rain pounding out a staccato beat on the car’s roof as he slammed his door behind him. Fuck retirement. He was going to kill the bastard. Kill them both.

The car in front of his house backed out slowly. Nash stopped and gripped the weapon in both hands, willing the driver of the car to turn down the street toward him.

But the driver turned back the way he’d come, keeping to the dark pines along the edge of town.

Nash raised the gun as the car took off, the taillights disappearing in the rain and darkness before he could get off a shot.

He took a couple of steps after the retreating car before staggering back under the weight of his discovery. His palm came down on the warm wet hood of the patrol car as he caught himself to keep from falling.

For a moment he thought he was having a heart attack. He fought to breathe, his chest heaving. His stomach convulsed. Launching himself toward the dried weeds under the tree, he retched until he was almost too empty to stand.

Behind him, his radio continued to squawk. He caught only snatches of what was being said. The operator from one of those fancy in-car emergency systems had called about an accident on the way into town.

Leaning against the car, Police Chief Rob Nash wiped his eyes, then slowly holstered his weapon before stumbling back to drop into the front seat of his patrol car. He had started to reach for the radio when he heard his second in command take the call.

ANNA COLLINS TRIED to open her eyes, the weight of her lids like concrete shutters. Light filtered in at the edge of her vision, growing brighter.

“She’s awake, Doctor,” a female voice said nearby.

The room swam in a sea of green and white. She focused on a nurse standing at the end of the bed. A hospital room?

Head pounding, she blinked in confusion, time and sense of place lost, leaving only one thought: She’d been here before. Or had she? She closed her eyes again, preferring the darkness.

“How are you feeling?” said a deep, older male voice next to her.

She forced her eyes all the way open. An elderly man stood beside her bed. His thick gray hair was rumpled as if he’d just gotten out of bed. His face was deeply wrinkled, skin weathered as if from the sun and wind. He wore canvas hunting pants and a flannel shirt beneath the white lab coat that flapped open as he moved closer. He smelled of cinnamon.

She watched him move something around in his mouth. He made a smacking sound, then pushed what appeared to be a round candy into his cheek as he eyed her with pale blue eyes faded by age.

Although he had a stethoscope around his neck, he looked nothing like any doctor she’d ever seen.

“Hello,” he said, giving her a smile, the candy making his cheek protrude on the one side. “I’m Dr. Gene Brubaker.”

She was in a hospital. Anna wet her dry lips as she glanced around the room, her thoughts jumbled, her head aching. The drapes were drawn on the window, but she could see through a slim opening. It was dark out.

She glanced at her wrist. No watch. Instead, she found that her arm was hooked up to an IV. “What…time…”

“Almost three—a.m.,” he said.

She nodded, time meaning absolutely nothing right now.

The doctor handed her a glass of water from the nightstand beside her bed and waited while she drank greedily.

“Easy,” he warned as she choked on the water. “You’re in a hospital, miss. You’ve had a car accident.”

She blinked. A car accident? Her heart began to race. “My son. Tell me my son is all right.”

He frowned, his thick gray eyebrows beetling together. “Your son?”

“Tyler. Where is Tyler?” She tried to sit up, but he rested a heavy hand on her shoulder as he took the empty cup from her.

“Easy now. Let’s just take it a step at a time. Can you tell me your name?”

“Anna…” For a moment, she couldn’t think of her last name. She swallowed, her throat raw, the headache blinding. “Collins. Please, I have to see my son.” Her voice broke. “Tell me he’s all right. Tell me he made it.”

“Try to remain calm,” he said, frowning down at her with grandfatherly concern. “Your son was in the car with you? How old is your son?”

“Tyler’s four. You have to help him!” Her voice rose and she began to sob as she clutched at one edge of his white lab coat. “Just tell me he’s alive. Please.”

She was hysterical now, sobbing and gripping at his coat, crying, “Save my son. Please save my son.”

“Sheila,” the doctor said, and the nurse she’d seen before moved into her line of vision. Anna felt something prick her skin. Darkness moved along the edge of her vision again, that silent black emptiness calling her back.

She’d been in the dark too long. She clutched tighter at the doctor’s white lab coat. “My son. Please.” Her voice rasped as the heavy weight of the drug worked to pull her under.

Dr. Brubaker nodded. “Don’t you worry now. We’ll take care of it.”

Her fingers loosened on his coat, her arm dropping back to the bed. Her eyes fluttered. She felt the dead weight of her body as she was dragged down, back into that dark nothingness.

OFFICER D.C. WALKER SHOOK the rain off like a duck as he entered the small, quiet hospital. He caught his reflection in the window as he passed the empty nurses’ station. He looked like hell. But he felt worse as he pushed open the door to the doctors’ lounge.

Doc Brubaker glanced up from the chair where he was sprawled. It gave Walker little comfort that Doc looked worse than he did.

“Any luck finding the boy?” Doc asked anxiously.

Walker shook his head as he shrugged out of his rain jacket and tossed it onto one of the orange plastic chairs. He helped himself to a stale doughnut.

Without asking, Doc reached for the coffeepot and poured him a cup, then refilled his own.

“Thanks,” Walker said as he took the coffee and plopped down in an empty chair. The coffee looked like black sludge, but as long as it contained caffeine and was hot, he wasn’t about to complain. He couldn’t remember a longer night and it still wasn’t over.

“I called out Search and Rescue,” he said, between bites of the doughnut. “They’ve combed the shoreline and the woods, but so far nothing. It’s so damned steep where the car went off. Water’s deep there and with the spring runoff, real murky. The dive team’s gearing up to go down.”

Doc shook his head. “I hate to think of a four-year-old out there, as cold as it is. I suppose he could still be in the car.”