In the Dark of the Night

Chapter 7

MERRILL WENT OVER the shopping list in her head one more time as she pulled into the parking lot to pick Marci up from the Summer Fun program that the Phantom Lake Elementary School was running, and that Marci had reluctantly agreed to try for the day.

“But if I hate it, I don’t have to go back, okay?” the little girl had insisted for what seemed like the hundredth time when Merrill had dropped her off two hours ago. Merrill had gotten the message loud and clear that Marci fully intended to hate Summer Fun no matter what might be going on, but at least she’d given it a chance.

In the two hours she’d had to herself since then, Merrill had gotten better acquainted with the town. She had been to the grocery store — which was far better stocked than she’d anticipated — picked up the hot dogs and steaks at Vern’s Butcher Shop, browsed through the bookstore, found two art galleries that actually had decent things in them, and picked up all the odds and ends that were either missing from the house or she’d forgotten to pack. The rear of the Lexus was almost as jammed as it had been nearly a week ago, when they’d driven up from Evanston, and there was far more food than she’d need tonight when the Sparkses and the Newells arrived.

All that was left after picking up Marci was a stop at the hardware store to get some citronella candles.

As she braked the car to a stop at exactly the place she’d dropped Marci off two hours ago, she braced herself for her daughter’s recitation of her objections to Summer Fun. But when Marci jumped into the car, her first words were the opposite of what Merrill had prepared for.

“Guess what, Mom? I get to be in the Fourth of July parade!” Merrill gaped at her daughter in utter shock, but Marci barely noticed. “We’re going to do a red, white, and blue float, with flags and everything, and we have to start working on it Monday. It’s going to be made out of tissue paper and, listen to this: I get to be the Statue of Liberty! Can you take Krissy and me shopping?”

“Who’s Krissy?” Merrill asked, as Marci paused for a breath.

“She’s my friend!” Marci replied, giving her mother the kind of scornful look only a ten-year-old can muster. “So can you? Take us shopping? We need to get stuff to make my costume.”

“That’s wonderful news, honey. Of course we can go shopping. We’ll go next week.”

“And can I go over to Krissy’s house tomorrow?”

A wave of relief broke over Merrill as she put the car in gear and made the right turn down Main Street. “Shouldn’t be a problem,” she said once they were safely on the road. “So what do you think?” she asked as she scanned the block for the hardware store. “Did Dad and Eric get the boat running yet?”

Marci rolled her eyes. “Dad said that they don’t know what they’re doing.”

Merrill pulled into a diagonal parking spot directly in front of the kind of old-fashioned hardware store that hadn’t existed at home for as long as she could remember, feeling like she’d somehow slipped back at least half a century in time. “Want to come in?”

As Marci slid out of the car, Merrill scanned the window of the antiques shop next to the hardware store and stopped short, her eyes fixing on a floor lamp with a stained-glass shade — exactly the kind she’d been looking for to finish Dan’s study at home. She backed up two steps and looked at the sign on the store.

CAROL’S ANTIQUES

“Let’s stop in here for a minute, okay?” She pulled the door open and Marci followed her into the small shop’s air-conditioned interior. While Marci headed for a case filled with ancient dolls in faded dresses, Merrill went directly to the lamp.

Up close it was even better; Dan would love it.

“Hi,” a cheerful voice said from behind her. “Can I help you?”

Merrill turned to see a smartly dressed woman about her own age whose smile actually seemed genuine rather than pasted on to impress a possible customer. “I just love this lamp,” she said, realizing too late that she’d just undercut her bargaining position.

“Isn’t it something?” the woman asked. “It just came in yesterday.” She moved closer, holding out her hand. “I’m Carol Langstrom.”

“Merrill Brewster. That’s my daughter Marci drooling over the dolls.”

“Up for the summer?” Carol asked, putting on her reading glasses and peering at the tag on the lamp.

“Yes. We’re staying at Pinecrest.”

“Pinecrest? Really?” Carol took her glasses off and looked again at Merrill.

Merrill cocked her head. “You sound surprised.”

“I am surprised. I didn’t think it would be for rent.”

Merrill’s brow creased slightly. “Why not?”

Suddenly, Carol Langstrom looked uncomfortable. “Well, it’s just that Dr. Darby was an odd sort of man.” As Merrill’s frown deepened, Carol Langstrom spoke more quickly. “It’s not that I disliked him. I didn’t. No one did. In fact, he was very well respected in town. And certainly one of my best customers — practically everything in Pinecrest came through my shop.”

Merrill’s puzzlement deepened. “Then what’s the problem?” she pressed as Marci wandered back from the doll display.

“Oh, mostly it was probably small-town rumor,” Carol Langstrom replied. “And perhaps I misspoke — it wasn’t so much that Dr. Darby was odd as much as it was his interests that were—” She hesitated, then spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “Well, they were odd. He worked with the criminally insane down at Central. You know, Central State Hospital? From what I’ve heard, he was doing some kind of experiments on some of his patients. New kinds of treatment or something, I suppose. But then to have him disappear like that! At the time, the stories were just incredible! I heard that one of his patients murdered him, and I heard that his experiments made him go crazy himself. I don’t know — it was all just so strange. Kind of creepy, you know?”

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.

But what was it doing in here? Some of the furniture looked like it belonged in the house, but what about the rest? The stuff like the white chest?

Could it have been hauled down from upstairs, where the grooms used to live?

Moving slowly through the room, Eric let his hands brush over the pieces, his fingers almost tingling as they touched the surfaces. Most of them felt just like what they were — old wood. But some of them—

“Eric!” His dad’s voice jerked him out of his reverie, and even through the walls of the carriage house he could hear that his father was angry.

“Coming,” he yelled, his voice echoing oddly in the small room, though furniture and boxes crowded the floor. He quickly threaded his way out, closed the storeroom door behind him, and left the building, closing the outer door as well.

His father was standing in the driveway, a tackle box in one hand, two rods in the other. “Where have you been?” he demanded.

Eric cocked his head. “Looking for tackle,” he said.

His father snorted. “It was in the basement — I found it half an hour ago. And I’ve been yelling for you ever since! Have you suddenly gone deaf?”

“Half an hour?” Eric echoed, staring at his father in disbelief. “I just went in there a couple minutes ago—”

“It wasn’t a couple of minutes ago. It was—” He raised his wrist and looked pointedly at his watch. “—exactly thirty-two minutes ago. And Jeff Newell just called. They’re going to be here in less than an hour, so if we’re going to take that boat out, we’ve got to do it and get back so I can start the barbecue.”

“I’m sorry,” Eric said, his head suddenly swimming. “I can’t believe I was in there—”

“Daydreaming!” his father finished for him. “So if we’re going, let’s go. Come on.”

Eric took the poles from his father and followed him down to the boathouse. Half an hour? He’d been in that storeroom for half an hour? It didn’t seem possible.

Dan stepped into the boat, set the tackle box on the middle seat, laid the rods on the floor, then sat in the bow. A moment later Eric had settled in the stern.

The motor started on the first pull, and as Eric released the stern line from its cleat, his father untied the bow line. Putting the engine in gear, Eric nosed the little skiff out of the boathouse.

As his father opened the tackle box and began searching through the jumble of hooks, lures, and sinkers inside, Eric headed onto the lake, but found himself turning to look back at the old carriage house.

Half an hour? He’d been inside for half an hour?

Even now it seemed he hadn’t been in the place more than five minutes. Ten at the most. He’d taken a quick look in the garage and the workshop — it couldn’t have taken more than two minutes. Then he’d gone into the storeroom and—

— and suddenly he couldn’t quite remember what he’d been doing. Just looking at stuff.

And touching some of it.

The fingers of his right hand tingled slightly at the memory of it.

But that was all.

And it had been only a few minutes — he felt sure!

Except that now, as he gazed at the carriage house that was growing smaller as they motored out onto the lake, he wasn’t so sure.

A moment later the building disappeared behind a screen of trees, and his father’s voice once again pulled him out of his reverie.

“She’s running fine,” Dan said. “Why don’t we hook up a couple of lures?”

But even as he began fishing, Eric’s mind was still on the storeroom in the carriage house. Kent and Tad would be here soon, and maybe after dinner tonight he’d take them down there.

Suddenly, the idea of exploring the storeroom and finding out exactly what might be inside it was far more exciting than fishing.

With fishing, all he’d get was the occasional trout or bass or muskie.

But in that strange storeroom, there was no telling what he might find.

• • •

ELLIS LANGSTROM DROPPED the last weed in the bucket, rubbed his aching shoulders, and finally stood up to assess his afternoon’s work. The entire border of flowers around the Islers’ summer house was weed free, the soil dark with fertilizer, and the flowers — whatever they were, which Ellis neither knew nor cared to know — actually seemed to be a few shades brighter now that there were no weeds around them.

More to the point, Mrs. Henderson would be happy, and so would the Islers, when they arrived tomorrow.

The yard cleanup had been a bigger job than he’d thought, and now he tried to stretch the pain out of his back as he searched for anything he might have forgotten.

There didn’t seem to be anything — the place looked great, and even Rita Henderson would have to admit it.

Ellis pulled off his gloves and tossed them into the bucket on top of the weeds just as Adam Mosler — stripped to the waist and streaked with sweat and dust — came around the corner of the house, using a filthy bandanna to wipe a smear of dirt from one cheek. The bandanna only made the smear worse.

“It’s raked,” Adam stated, sounding more resentful about having had to remove the mown grass from the front lawn than pleased to have finished the job. “Are you done?” He scanned the patio area disinterestedly. “’Cause even if you’re not, I am.”

“Thanks a lot,” Ellis said, then realized the sarcasm would be lost on Adam. “Yeah, I think it’s done.”

“Yeah, well, you owe me.”

“Hey, it’s not like no one’s paying you.”

“There’s still about ten million better things to do. I feel like a pig.”

“Look like one, too,” Ellis observed archly as he dropped down onto the cool grass and stretched out, feeling his aching muscles finally beginning to relax.

“Hey, check that out.”

Ellis sat up and followed Adam’s gaze, but saw nothing but two people fishing a few hundred yards offshore. “What?”

“That piece-of-crap tin boat? That’s the one from Pinecrest. And that’s the conehead from Pinecrest in it. What a prick.”

Ellis shook his head. “You think all the summer people are pricks. Just because you thought he wasn’t going to pick up his dog’s—”

“He wasn’t!” Adam flared. “And he was hitting on Cherie Stevens right in front of me.”

Ellis frowned. “Right in front of you? Okay, that’s not cool. Definitely not cool.”

Adam scowled, spat at the ground, then glowered out at the tiny boat in the middle of the lake. “His buddies arrive today. I remember them. They’re all pricks.”

“C’mon, Adam,” Ellis sighed. “Get real — they’re not all pricks. My mom says—”

“You watch,” Adam cut in. “Those three guys are going to hit on all the girls. And guess what? Just because they’re rich summer kids who live at The ritzy-titzy Pines, they’re going to get ’em!”

“Says you,” Ellis snorted.

“Yeah, says me!” Adam shot back. “You should have seen Cherie — she was climbing all over herself inviting that jerk to the pavilion dances.”

Ellis finally turned to face Adam, grinning. “Oh, really? I thought she was going with you.”

“I thought so, too,” Adam said, suddenly wishing he hadn’t told Ellis that Cherie had practically dumped him. His eyes shifted back to the boat that was bobbing gently on the water. “If it wasn’t for that prick—”

“Hey,” Ellis cut in, seeing Adam’s expression starting to darken into an ugly rage, which always wound up leading to some kind of trouble. “Come on. Let’s go get cleaned up.”

But Adam wasn’t listening to him, his eyes still fixed on the boat. “I’ll tell you one thing,” he said, his voice so low that Ellis wasn’t sure Adam was talking to him at all. “If I catch him alone somewhere, he’s as good as dead.” Finally, he turned and looked Ellis straight in the eye. “Think I’m kidding?” he asked. “Well, I’m not. I’m not kidding at all.”

• • •

ERIC FED A little bit more line off his reel, feeling the spoon he was trolling drop a few inches in the water. The sun was low in the sky, fish were feeding near the surface, and he could almost feel a strike coming. Slowly, he began to wind the reel, bringing the lure in, drawing it closer to the surface.

And then his neck began to crawl, almost as if something was about to touch him.

Or was staring at him.

He turned around, half expecting to see another boat a few yards away — or even closer — but there was nothing. Then he saw two people on one of the lawns a few houses down from Pinecrest.

One of them sat with his arms around his knees; the other one stood with his legs apart and his arms crossed over his chest.

And both of them were staring directly at the boat.

At him.

But that was stupid — they were too far away for him even to tell exactly in what direction they were looking — they could have been looking at anything. Another boat, or a bird, or—

But there weren’t any other boats on the lake, and when he scanned the sky, there were no birds, either.

And he still had that crawly feeling.

He turned his attention back to his rod and reel, slowly drawing his lure closer to the boat, but the strange sensation on the back of his neck didn’t ease up.

He turned again, and this time he recognized the one who was standing.

Adam. Adam Mosler.

He recalled the scene from his first night at Pinecrest, when Adam Mosler and Cherie Stevens had turned up at the dock. Adam had been pissed off, and now, as Adam kept staring at him, Eric knew that he hadn’t gotten over it.

And suddenly he had a bad feeling about Mosler — a really bad feeling. He began winding the reel faster, and a few seconds later the lure broke through the surface of the water and glittered in the afternoon sunlight. Just as Eric raised the rod higher to swing the lure over the boat, a trout leaped, snapped at one of the lure’s bare hooks, missed, and dropped back into the water.

“Fly fishing with a spoon,” his father said. “Don’t think I’ve seen that one before. Then, as Eric laid his rod on the floorboards of the boat, he began reeling in his own line. “Ready to go back?”

Eric nodded, took the handle of the outboard, and made a sweeping turn toward home.

He’d talk to Kent and Tad about this Adam guy — maybe they knew the story on him.

He gunned the engine, and as the bow lifted and the skiff struggled to reach the plane, he glanced once again at the lawn where the two boys had been.

It was empty.

But the hatred Eric had felt emanating from Adam Mosler still remained.