A Cold, Fine Evil Read online

  Sure enough, George was in earnest conversation with a man wearing an expensive jacket that matched the car, and Troy recognized him with a small shock of dismay.

  Jon Palmer?

  Oh hell. This day just got better and better. He walked over slowly, giving them time to see him coming, his boots scraping the sticky floor. Without thinking about it he settled his hand on his weapon.

  “George.” He smiled affably or at least he tried. “How is it going? Jon, hey, been a long time.”

  Palmer was irritatingly the same with those pale blue eyes and his athletic build. What the fuck? There were times he just wanted to beat the shit out of someone and this was one of them. In high school they’d competed for the same girls and Palmer had won hands down every single time.

  Bastard.

  In the end Palmer had left and Troy married Amy, but he knew they’d slept together and it rankled.

  High school stuff. Leave it alone.

  “Long time,” Palmer confirmed. ”How’ve you been?”

  There was a country song playing. Something low and melancholy, what were the odds of the song being sad? Troy just flat-out lied. “I’ve been great.”

  His cousin gave a choked laugh but quickly hid it by taking a pull from the bottle in front of him. George was a lot of things, but he was not a fool. The slightly rotund exterior belied the mind involved. He looked like the kid you could steal from and push around, but he might just circle around and get you back in ways you never imagined. Troy had watched people make that mistake his entire life. He slid into the booth next to George, nudging his cousin down the seat. “You?”

  “Moved back for some local scenery.” Palmer shrugged. “Nice to see familiar faces.”

  Not all of them, Troy would guess. His might be at the top of the list. It was history though, so forgive and forget. If Palmer was back, his fairy tale hadn’t exactly had an ending sprinkled with happy dust.

  It didn’t say much about him that Troy found some satisfaction that the golden boy didn’t have everything his way.

  “Not much has changed,” he said expansively, realized he sounded like a pompous fool, and then modified his voice. “I meant Black Lake is pretty much the same.”

  “Seems to be.”

  “Take my word for it.”

  Jon finished his drink and set down his glass. “I hope this doesn’t seem personal and I hate to drink and run, but I have a decent drive and it gets dark early, so maybe I should just go. Don’t worry, Troy, it was just the one beer. George will back me up.”

  “I’m not going to follow you home and pick you up for driving drunk, don’t worry. You seem sober enough to me.”

  “Stone cold.” Palmer got up and laid a twenty on the table.

  After he left, Troy took his place at the opposite side. He leaned his forearms on the table and stared at his cousin. “What the hell was that about?”

  “The Amy thing was—”

  “A long time ago, I know. I’m actually not concerned about that, believe it or not. What’s he doing here?”

  George’s face took on a stubborn look Troy had seen before. “He has the right to be here just as much as you and I do.”

  He and Palmer had always been close friends, even if there had been some event to cause an acrimonious parting of the ways. “Sure,” he agreed pleasantly. “But I have a feeling he isn’t visiting because he missed being here so much. This isn’t Chicago with fancy restaurants and an active night life. What does he want?”

  “This is his hometown. Sanctuary? Just a thought.”

  That didn’t really fly. “He has no family left here.”

  “There are some unresolved issues. You and I both know it.”

  “Fuck, George, please tell me this isn’t about those murders years ago.”

  “I think he’s at loose ends and the past has been eating at him for a long time. Can you blame him?”

  Troy had a different perception. He splayed his hands on the table and said deliberately, “I think that is some sort of psychology bullshit like what you preach to your students. What does he want? Preach it at me.”

  * * * *

  Birches flashed by, ghostly and slender in his headlights. Jon was driving maybe a little too fast and he reminded himself about deer and bears crossing these roads bordered by trees and water, and consciously took his foot off the gas.

  Land of Ten Thousand Lakes.

  While he’d enjoyed the cosmopolitan feel of Chicago, and certainly it had appealed to his wife, he’d missed being outdoors. Clean air and quiet; but always, always, the deep woods full of shadows. They were eyeing him now, silent and unmoving as he passed, and the cold calculation of the regard chilled his soul.

  If he even had one.

  There were days—and long nights—when he wondered.

  When he pulled into the long lane winding back to the lake the arc of his headlights caught some creature, red eyes reflected before it ran off into the shadows, a fox maybe, or a small coyote. It loped off, not in a hurry, unafraid.

  It didn’t need to be afraid of him. There were worse things out there.

  He’d left a light on, which was a good thing since the clouds that had been gathering all day obscured the moon. There was no dark like a Minnesota night like this one and he went carefully down the steps to the front door and let himself into the cabin, fumbling a little with the key.

  It surprised him how much he felt at home as he switched on the light on the little table inside the door. This small summer place was furnished in a mishmash of old furniture that over time had acquired a patina that might even make the rough plank table and rusted pie mouse-safe for dishes actually valuable antiques. The chair by the woodstove had seen better days but it was comfortable, and the view overlooking the lake made it worth it. Right now the windows were just panes of black glass.

  Quite a cry from that big, showy house in Chicago set in a pricey neighborhood that Connie had to have. He was culpable there, too, because with his job, he was expected to own a place like that but he didn’t miss it.

  Jon poured himself another drink—whiskey this time, he was drinking too much and he knew it—and thought about his conversation with George and the encounter with Troy Walda.

  How many people have disappeared around here since then?

  Roughly eighteen or so.

  You’ve been keeping track.

  Jesus, Jon, of course.

  That’s a lot.

  In a county this size, not really. Some are considered runaways. Some lost in boating accidents or accidental drowning. There’s always an explanation.

  Oh yes, and we both know what it is.

  You are speculating. It was settled years ago.

  We hoped it was settled years ago. That’s different.

  Then Troy had walked into the bar, big and bad in his uniform. It was almost amusing that he was still obviously pissed that Jon had slept with his wife when they were all in high school but she hadn’t been his wife then. Jon could also point out Connie was hardly the better bargain. Troy still had Amy, sweet and pretty, and he had…well, nothing but a broken marriage and a venal ex. Nope, no apology was going to be offered ever for his first real crush, and the fact Amy had felt the same way about him. That history was just that, history.

  The place was quiet. A little cold, but he didn’t bother to light the fire. Too much work. He’d just keep his coat on and throw another blanket on the bed when it was time to sleep.

  It had been a long, long time since he’d allowed himself to think about it. That night, what had happened?

  The nightmare blended and became opaque. He’d been there, he knew it, and then it just seemed to end in his mind.

  It was what he didn’t remember that frightened him.

  The old clock ticked loudly in the background. It was a Seth Thomas in a rosewood case featuring a background of a New England setting with a gristmill on the front glass, and Jon listened to it along with the rasp of the insects in the
background. Soon that sound would still. It would be silent as every creature around went dead to sleep for the winter and he would be truly alone.

  Maybe that would be for the best.

  He sat there, now probably a little drunk, maybe even half-dozing until he realized that the low hum was the sound of a boat out on the lake. Well-tuned motor, running without lights since he didn’t see any. Kind of a strange thing for this time of year, but the fishing was still good, even if the cabins were mostly empty. Maybe someone was out on the lake for that purpose. The sound came closer and then the engine died.

  He heard the sound of it being pulled up on shore. Not much, but a gentle scrape of a hull. Right below the cabin. He peered out the window but still couldn’t see anything. The night was pitch, so maybe that wasn’t surprising.

  What the hell.

  He waited.

  Robbery? It was possible. All of these properties were sitting vacant now. None of them held much that was worth anything if he had to guess, but value was an individual perception. Surely, whoever it was saw his lights were on.

  There was the slightest noise, just a bump on the side of the building he would never have caught if it wasn’t for the utter silence. Then a rasp, as if someone might be edging along the perimeter of the cabin, fabric along rough wood, and the hint of uneven breathing.

  Jon went rigid in his chair.

  He turned just in time to see the flash of a pale face in the window of the kitchen as someone looked in.

  “Who’s there?” His voice was a little hoarse, but it was loud.

  No answer.

  It wasn’t like he’d shot a gun frequently in the past few years, but he’d grown up in northern Minnesota. Jon had brought a .22 caliber rifle and kept it loaded. He got up and fished it out from under the sofa where he’d put it, cocked it, pointed it at the front door and waited to see what might happen next. His heart was pounding, his skin clammy.

  The door handle rattled. There was someone outside and they wanted in.

  The gun wouldn’t stop a bear, or even a person necessarily, but it would get their attention. At close range—like this—it could do some damage. Enough for a person under duress to be able to run away, which he was very willing to do if necessary. It might put heroism on the line, but he was by himself and it was getting fairly late.

  The face came into view again and Jon instinctively fired. It wasn’t like he was a crack shot, but at least he hit the window, since the sound was loud and glass shattered all over the floor.

  Afterward, his ears rang, but otherwise he heard nothing. All he wanted was to scare the person away so he crouched in a corner of the living room by the musty couch and the scarred coffee table and cocked the gun again. With the window broken, they could now crawl in but it would take some doing as it was at least five feet off the ground and jagged bits of glass were left in the frame.

  Nothing.

  There was no other sound, he realized as his breathing slowed below runaway locomotive status, though that really meant nothing because firing a gun in such small space impaired his hearing to the point he couldn’t hear much anyway.

  Shit, I’ve killed him. Dead guy out front who’s done nothing but look in the window. Great call.

  No part of him wanted Troy Walda crawling up his ass because he’d shot someone. The sheriff would like nothing better. There had definitely been no friendliness in his eyes earlier. Jon’s only defense would be the person had come onto the property without permission. Sweat prickled along his skin and his stomach was a tight knot.

  Just leave, asshole.

  Ten minutes passed. The boat didn’t start up again.

  He was fucked.

  When he finally found a flashlight he went to the front door to look because in good conscience he had to know if he’d wounded someone, but the gun was still in the crook of his arm.

  He opened the door to a wash of cool night air that felt even colder since he was operating on adrenalin, feeling like an extra in a horror movie.

  Don’t go into the basement. Don’t look in the closet.

  There was no body when he warily flicked the light over the ground to the left. Just glass spilled everywhere like sprinkles of broken ice.

  No blood either. That was a relief.

  It took some courage to go down the hill to the lake because under the trees, even with the flashlight, someone could spring out and take him by surprise. At the least he could note the number of the boat license.

  No boat.

  He’d never heard the motor start back up. Confounded, he stood there with the beam on the shore and knew what he’d heard and what he’d seen and there was just…nothing.

  Impossible. He’d heard it come, just never leave…it was so quiet that his breathing was the only sound. The water rippled lightly under a breeze that chilled him to the bone. He stood there, shivering and wondered what the hell had just happened.

  There had been a boat. He’d seen the man looking in the window.

  Hadn’t he?

  It was like he’d imagined the whole thing.

  Chapter 4

  When I was five, my father went away. He wasn’t much of a loss in my opinion but he did at least put a roof over our heads. Even now I don’t know where exactly he disappeared to, but he left us, and as a result of what I consider to be his selfish action, we moved in with my grandparents. They were stern people who didn’t believe in much jocularity, prayed fervently before each meal, and followed the adage children should be seen but not heard. My mother did her best, but I admit to being somewhat of a challenge in that regard.

  Following the dictates of authority was never my strong suit from an early age. We are all haunted in some way, and I think my problem was my sense of outrage over the abandonment of a parent I didn’t like all that much to begin with, so I can’t explain my reaction.

  One night I remember creeping to the stairs and hearing them talk about me. Incorrigible was an unfamiliar word at the time but that was how I was described. From the context of the conversation I gathered it was not a compliment.

  For the record, I disagreed. I wasn’t incorrigible, I just did not want to follow their pious dictates.

  I think, then and there, I made up my mind to make them pay for the insult.

  There is a turning point in everyone’s life.

  Alicia was in the hardware store because the damn toilet wouldn’t stop running and she was sick and tired of having to turn on the water before every flush, and turn it off again after. It had happened before. Her ex had hardly been a genius, so if he could fix it, surely she could, right? Online there were sites to walk her through it, and that would be much cheaper than if she had to hire a plumber. On her salary it was not an option anyway, so she was learning to do things for herself one disaster at a time. The toilet didn’t even begin to qualify as a disaster, but a few months ago a tree had gone down in the backyard in a storm, narrowly missed the house and was a mess, so she’d bought a chain saw and cut it up herself. Much cheaper than hiring someone to do it; she’d called around. Then she’d used the wood in the fireplace to offset her heating bills.

  This would be a piece of cake compared to that.

  Hopefully.

  She heard his voice first, the cadence somehow instantly recognizable. Alicia rounded the aisle that held the plumbing hardware and saw Jon Palmer was at the service desk, apparently ordering a pane of glass. He was wearing a denim shirt, jeans, and boots, maybe in a nod for the establishment they were both visiting, and his hair wasn’t perfect like the other night, but instead it looked like he’d maybe just ran a comb through it. Some of that scotch he’d purchased could have been part of his evening.

  Still looked good though.

  It must be some kind of magic because he managed to pull it off even in his slightly rumpled condition. Alicia weighed whether or not she should just retreat sight unseen, decided nothing ventured was nothing gained, and said simply, “Hi. I thought that was you.”


  He glanced up and at least from his expression, he recognized her. “Hi.”

  She really wished she wasn’t wearing her fat jeans and a sloppy T-shirt, with her hair once again up in a ponytail. It was like fate would not give her a break. “So we meet again. There’s only one hardware store.”

  So now she was apologizing for being in the same place because she needed to fix the toilet? Smooth.

  He grinned. It gave him a boyish look that reminded her of that high school crush that she’d had on him, and he definitely hadn’t had on her. “I remember. Why are you here?”

  No way she should mention the real reason. Toilet? Very sexy. “Uh, I need some paint,” she improvised. “The deck looks awful.” She gestured at her clothes. “That’s why I’m all dressed up.”

  Good save.

  “Sounds like a full day. I have a short wait as they size the glass. Want to catch a cup of coffee?”

  Alicia blinked. Was Jon Palmer really asking her…what? Not out really, but a cup of coffee wasn’t a bad start.

  “Sure. I’m not dressed for it, but if you want.”

  “Not dressed for coffee?” He looked amused but maybe a little strained. Definitely there was a hint of bloodshot to his eyes. His brows went up. “I wasn’t aware there was a coffee dress code. I’ve probably been violating it for years.”

  Right. He still looked great without even putting in any effort. She shook her head. “Uhm, I doubt that but there’s a place down the street.”

  “I remember that too.”

  Of course he would. He’d lived there a long time as well before he left for Illinois. Alicia edged past an end cap of snow shovels, which was an unpleasant reminder of what was coming all too soon. Winter was not her favorite season. “I’ll come back for my paint when you pick up your glass order.”

  Lie.

  “Good idea.”

  He walked next to her down the street, hands in his pockets, his expression closed, and when they chose a small booth at the local diner, he politely waited for her to go first and then ordered a cup of coffee—black—in a distracted fashion.

  She liked hers with lots of cream and sugar, which might be part of the problem of shedding those pesky extra pounds. Alicia stirred her drink slowly, still a little unsettled that she was actually having coffee with the Jon Palmer. In high school she would have fainted. She was thankfully past that phase.