A Cold, Fine Evil Read online

  So Jon Palmer has come back and like a hibernating bear prodded with a stick, I sense something waking and stirring, sluggish but now aware.

  Black water lapped hungrily at the shore. Jon, his boots propped on the railing of the small porch, contemplated the obsidian surface. Now and then he’d lifted the glass to his mouth, inhaling the clean air, the quiet punctuated by the occasional call of a bird or splash of a fish. Leaves moved in an evening breeze that had taken on a bite signaling a cold front might be moving through. Everything smelled like pine and damp earth.

  Except the water. The water was scented with death.

  He’d done his research. The first body had surfaced in the late eighteen hundreds. The articles he’d printed had eerily familiar details he well-remembered. The vicious wounds on several bodies found in the woods, the inexplicable disappearances…

  All tied to Black Lake.

  It interested him at a time in his life when he needed something to think about besides his personal problems. The brooding melancholy bothered him, and he knew he should concentrate on something more cheerful, no doubt about it. Maybe watch cartoons instead.

  His cell phone rang and it startled him so much his feet slipped off the railing and thudded to the rough wooden floor and liquor sloshed out of his glass. Mentally shaking his head at his distraction, the utter quiet so different from the constant roar of Chicago, he saw the number and almost declined to answer.

  Talking to his ex-wife was usually a lesson in misery and he’d just as soon skip it, but the chance it had something to do with either his son or daughter meant he couldn’t quite bring himself to ignore it. He pushed a button. “Connie.”

  His voice was cordial. His feelings were not.

  “Where the hell are you?”

  “Good evening to you, too.”

  “Jesus, Jon, don’t fuck with me.”

  “I actually have no desire any longer to fuck you, so you’re safe there.”

  That stopped her. He could picture her manicured nails tapping the tabletop in annoyance, her long blond hair in a perfect fall over her shoulders. She was a very beautiful woman, but he’d meant what he’d just said. Even if she crawled on top of him naked—no way would he touch her. He doubted it would even get him hard. There was physical beauty and then there was attractive. Desire was a non-negotiable commodity no longer between them. At one time he’d hungered for her, but she’d effectively destroyed it bit by acrimonious bit.

  He’d rather not have sex again for the rest of his life than to have it with her. He missed that young man he’d once been, but lost innocence just could not be regained. Ten years of marriage had taken a heavy toll.

  If he’d ever been innocent in the first place. He didn’t think so.

  “I’m going to ignore that,” she said finally, her voice cold. “Where are you?”

  “Minnesota.”

  “You’re joking. I can’t imagine why you’d go back there, but we’ve never understood each all that well. Can you at least send me your address?”

  They’d never understood each other at all. He contemplated the water for a moment. “Why? Is there another bill you want me to pay? Our attorneys settled all of that.”

  “God, you’re so…distant. You always have been.”

  The hell of it was she could be right. “We’re divorced. That means our commitment to friendship is pretty limited just to necessity because of the kids. If this isn’t about them, I don’t have much to say.”

  “What if I need to get in touch with you?”

  “Do what you are doing right now. Call me.”

  Connie took in a long audible breath. “I can’t not know where you are. Minnesota isn’t exactly a small state.”

  He gently pressed a button and ended the call. Yes, she could not know. That was part of the point of it.

  It was misting, the moisture floating in through the screen as he watched the water. Jon listened to the rising keen of the wind along the moss-covered eaves and brooded over the changes in his life. Happiness was an abstract concept. Most of the people he’d ever loved were either dead in truth, or dead to him, like his wife. Yes, he loved his two children but he hadn’t fought for joint custody. There was no way he’d bring them to Black Lake. When he saw them, he’d take them on trips to Florida or a cruise or anywhere else, but not here.

  Why had he come back?

  Not even he could answer that question.

  He’d seen the way the woman—Alicia—had looked at him in the liquor store. That question had certainly been there in her eyes. He remembered her vaguely, but there was a lot of his past that was like a faded postcard he’d found in a drawer.

  Was the lack of recollection voluntary? He wasn’t sure. It was possible he just wasn’t as smart as everyone thought he was. He’d married Connie for instance, and that had proven to be a grave mistake of the lifetime variety. Through the children they were tied together forever and the disconnection of their lives was more rhetoric than discourse. He’d never felt it in the first place all that much. They’d bought a house and slept in the same bed for over a decade, but he’d never even tried to convince himself she knew anything about him or his life before he met her. There had been an image of contentment in his head and he’d followed it, like a mirage that shimmered in the desert.

  What the hell was wrong with him?

  That was why he’d come back, he speculated as he poured another finger of scotch into his glass. He’d lived the wrong life, married the wrong girl, and the money didn’t really matter since it had compounded his problems, not solved them. Success was a sliding scale.

  Something moved in the woods. A deer probably. He could hear it crunch through the underbrush, large and heavy and a shiver ran up his spine.

  He should go in and watch a movie or something. There was no cable but he could play a DVD or listen to a CD.

  Or stream in something through his phone and computer. A lighthearted movie not about unexplained deaths and this inner darkness he couldn’t seem to shed.

  Instead he decided to call an old friend.

  He’d known he was going to all along. It needed to be done.

  * * * *

  George Walda glanced at his phone and smiled. Black Lake was a small place and he’d known within an hour that Jon Palmer had returned. It took a lot longer than he’d thought for his phone to ring.

  Yet it did.

  “It’s Jon,” the disembodied voice on the other end said neutrally. “I’m in town. I wondered if you might want to get together for a beer some night.”

  In town? No. That translated to renting a cabin on the lake. One year lease—George knew everyone—Palmer was fooling himself if he thought he hadn’t already heard all about it.

  “Is this an olive branch?”

  “I’d appreciate no clichés. Use some imagination. It’s just about having a beer.”

  George contemplated the hutch he’d inherited from his grandmother since he was in the kitchen eating some canned chili. Damn, the thick ugly dishes on it were really dusty. Green and white, with leaves and what seemed to be vines but looked more like fat twisted veins. They would never be his choice. The house was a dump in general, but he wasn’t picky. It wasn’t high on his priority list to worry about where he lived and how it looked. “The last time we saw each other, you told me that you wouldn’t care if I disappeared off the face of the earth.”

  It had scared him a little. It had sounded like Jon meant it.

  “You’re still here. Drink?”

  Jon was as smart as ever. He obviously knew George wouldn’t and couldn’t resist. “Why not? We have a lot to say to each other. Maybe you’re finally willing to listen.”

  “I don’t know if I am or not, but nothing in my life makes sense anyway, so I’m willing to give it a shot.”

  “A half an hour at the BB?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be there.” Jon added quietly, “It’ll be good to see you.”

  George hung up and stared at
the wall. The paneling was dusty too. Shit. He had twenty-five minutes to contemplate what to say to his former best friend. The history between them was huge, and they’d alternately liked and hated each other since childhood, but this meeting was preordained and he’d known it was coming since the day Jon left Black Lake.

  That was fine. They needed to talk.

  About a lot of things, but mostly about that fateful last time they saw each other.

  That sounded so damned stupid and dramatic, George thought as he got up and went to go empty the trash. He didn’t run the large company for the six or seven figure salary. He was a professor at a small community college, and he knew he was adequate, but no more than that, and it rankled a little. Oh, he understood how the universe worked and there were people like him, who muddled along, and people like Jon Palmer who raced past in a blaze of glory.

  It was odd because he’d always wondered who he would rather be. It was a game he’d played with himself, and the result was fifty-fifty.

  On a brave day, he’d rather be the hero.

  On a practical day, he’d rather be the plain professor.

  Always, he’d rather dodge the ghosts of the past but it couldn’t always be done. He dumped the trash, put on his best pants, and foraged for a nice shirt that didn’t need an iron, so he could meet an old friend for a tasteless beer at a bar that could pass for another thousand such places in their fine state.

  Too bad they’d quit making Grain Belt, his old man had always groused. That was truly a Minnesota brew and he’d grown up on it, stealing from his father’s stash. He might have been ten his first time. It tasted like stale piss probably, but memories were memories.

  Twenty minutes later, he walked into the Brown Bottle Tavern, picked out a booth instead of sitting at the bar like he usually did, and greeted the middle-aged waitress by name. “Rita, I’ll have a draft Leinie.”

  “Coming right up.”

  When Jon walked in, George was taking his first sip and contemplating nothing more cerebral than wondering why they had never replaced that bulb in the beer sign above the bar. It had been dead since he could legally walk through the door and that was almost two decades ago. Probably could be considered an antique by now. It was uselessly plugged in, too. He could see the cord running down the wall to the socket.

  In an uncanny echo of his thoughts, Jon said by way of greeting, “Some things never change, do they? I’ve always wondered why they even have that damn sign.”

  “Oh, Black Lake is pretty much like you remember it.” George didn’t offer his hand, but then again neither did Jon. “So are you.”

  It was true. Jon was just as good-looking, maybe women might think even more so, with a little maturity. He irritatingly hadn’t started to go bald or put on a paunch. Instead he looked fit, was dressed far too well for the Brown Bottle, and had a tan he did not acquire in Chicago. He slid into the opposite side of the booth and Rita was there instantly—she would be, she even flirted with George and his hair was thinning and he was now wearing a size 38 waist—and Jon just pointed at George’s glass and smiled. “Whatever he’s having is fine. Thank you.”

  She was wearing too much mascara, jeans a size too small and a T-shirt that said, Kiss My Ass, and yet George could still swear she blushed. Yeah, some things really never changed. Jon also didn’t notice, which was pretty typical. He took the attention for granted, and why shouldn’t he? It had happened his entire life.

  As a second rate psychology professor, George was interested in the person sitting across from him from an academic point of view, but there was also his personal reaction to the situation. There was a lifetime of complex feelings about this man on several levels.

  They didn’t say anything until Rita delivered the beer and pointedly swung her hips as she walked away. Then George asked point blank, “What’s up?”

  Jon glanced up from watching himself smooth the moisture from the sides of his glass with his long, graceful fingers. “In a nutshell? I quit my job, got divorced, and decided to come back to maybe settle a few things in my head. I was sitting on a Caribbean beach, watching pretty girls in bikinis walk by but thinking about this place, so I decided maybe it was time to banish the ghosts.”

  That explained the tan anyway.

  “Reconcile the past?” George just ventured an educated guess there. “Do you think that’s possible?”

  “I’m not sure.” Jon finally took a drink from his beer. In the background a country song started that involved something about partying when the sun went down. Kenny Chesney. George had always liked it, but it was a little incongruous in Minnesota at this time of year—or maybe any time of the year, at that. Jon said, “You’re the professor.”

  “And you are the one who got a scholarship against all odds to a prestigious university. You never would tell me your SAT score. Why? I assume because it was off the charts. Come on, Jon. You’re almost disturbingly intelligent. We’ve known each other since kindergarten. Why are you back here, of all places, instead of on that island screwing some of those half-naked young women when you aren’t relaxing in the sun?”

  Jon had the nerve to not even argue or look flattered at the compliment. But then again, it was the truth.

  “I’m starting to think I don’t have a very pragmatic view of the world.”

  That could actually be true, but what the hell did it mean?

  “If that can be interpreted as you don’t understand the dynamics of human interaction,” George informed him dryly, “none of us do. Take my word for it. I am supposed to be somewhat of an expert on the subject. I’m a psychology professor, remember?”

  “I certainly miscalculated when I married. Besides, I don’t know if human is the word I would use.”

  “To describe your wife?”

  “Ex-wife. And true, inhuman could apply at times, but if I really felt that way, I would never have left my children with her. She’s a lot of things, and bitch is at the top of the list, but she’s a good mother.”

  “Did you consider taking them?”

  Jon gazed at him steadily. “And bring them here? Would you?”

  He had a valid point.

  His friend went on as if they were discussing the weather. “She’s petty and venal, but that mainly kicks in when I’m involved. To be fair, with them she’s pretty good. I’m not referring to her.”

  Okay, so they were going to discuss what had brought Jon back. He’d wondered. George tilted his head and considered his response carefully. “What word would you use?”

  “We both know human doesn’t apply to the topic of this conversation.”

  He took a long pull from his drink before he commented. “Are we just going to talk in circles? We haven’t seen each other in a long time.”

  “Not since that night.”

  That night.

  Jon picked up his glass. “How many people have disappeared around here since then?”

  Chapter 3

  History is fascinating.

  I’d always thought so, even before my death and I wasn’t convinced even now that the repetition of offenses wasn’t just an inevitable cycle. Men sinned, they repented or paid the price, and then it happened again. We try, but we can’t succeed on a consistent basis and it surprises only those who have never sat down and thought about it.

  Our imperfections amaze me.

  It isn’t that I think my expectations are so high. Quite the opposite. If I had to define it, I would say that beings so capable of graciousness and generosity also can sink to a level of depravity that defies my imagination.

  I think my attitude makes perfect sense considering why I was killed.

  Sheriff Troy Walda regularly cruised the parking lot of the Brown Bottle and never before had he seen a BMW parked there. It was sleek and black and its pedigree stuck out among the old pickup trucks and four-wheel drives. People who could afford a car like that one took one look at the battered façade of the unpainted front of the bar and the rutted lot and passed
it by, no matter how badly they needed a drink.

  He wanted one now. So much that if he thought about it he would start to sweat, but he’d been sober for two years and it hadn’t been an easy road. Luckily he could stand the smell of stale beer; he just couldn’t look at the whiskey bottles behind the bar. His wife still had a glass on the side—never in front of him, he’d give her that—and when she did, he wouldn’t touch her but pretended to fall asleep in his recliner in front of the television. He was like a damned shark that could detect a drop of blood in a million gallons of water and sleeping next to her when she smelled like booze was not an option.

  He had a suspicion he knew why she needed a stiff drink now and then, but just tried to not think about it. There were things he could fix and some he couldn’t.

  Since this was a small town, he was a little curious as to the owner of that expensive automobile. This was his territory, after all. He made it a point to know everyone, and everyone knew him. Illinois plates never thrilled him either. The FIB population in the summer swelled, but right now was at low tide.

  FIB stood for fucking Illinois bastards. They came up to vacation and to enjoy the lakes and he didn’t have an issue with either one of those things, but they broke the speeding laws like they didn’t even exist and were often aggressive when given a ticket. Besides, he was bored. During the summer they had tourists, but in the fall, it all started to settle as winter received that inevitable nudge and sharpened its claws and teeth.

  His cousin was there. He recognized George’s car by the license plate. PROF 11 surrounded by a University of Wisconsin plate holder. Otherwise it was a pretty ordinary silver compact like thousands out there. Ordinary described George pretty well, but Troy liked him probably more than most of the people in his family. At least their mean old witch of a grandmother had said her good-byes to this world finally.

  That was something.

  “Brian.” He walked in and nodded to the bartender. “No trouble. Just saw George was here. Haven’t seen him in a few.”

  “Hi Troy. Over there.” The man raised his chin at the corner.