Page 105 of It Happened on the Lake

Another dart flew past her shoulder to fall to the ground in the darkness ahead. The tiny little missiles wouldn’t kill her, but they sure could wound her. Slow her down.

Her foot slipped on a step. She caught herself but glanced back.

Zing!

Zing!

One dart hit her on the shoulder.

The second pierced her cheek.

She cried out but kept stumbling forward, the watery smell of the cave closer. She ripped the dart from her cheek, felt a trickle of blood. Didn’t care. In the wavering light, she saw the door to the storage room with the abandoned boating equipment.

And then a straight shot to the boathouse.

Finally!

If she could just get through—

Zing! A dart caught her in the arm, and she had to bite her tongue so she didn’t cry out.

Another door.

Then she would have to cross the final storage room before reaching the boathouse. But she didn’t have far now.

Zip!

A dart cut through the air, a hair’s breadth from her ear.

That was the fifth, she thought. Right? Or the sixth. Did he still have one more?

She raced forward, the rank, fetid smell of the boathouse reaching her nostrils. She was close. So close.

And he was right behind her, breathing hard.

Another dart zipped past her.

Damn!

“Stop!” he yelled.

Oh God, he was almost on her.

“Harper! Stop!”

“Screw you!” She flung open the door, saw the yawning blackness of the boathouse, and raced through. A cloud of bats swirled around the old, rotting Chris-Craft hanging drunkenly above. It swayed and creaked on the moldering straps of its sling.

“Stop!” Craig yelled before she could jump.

He was too close.

He would catch her in the water.

Drown her.

She wouldn’t have a chance.

“Harper! Stop!”

She spun, leveling the gun at the bobbing flashlight with its bright beam. If she pulled the trigger now, the shotgun blast would pepper him with pellets. But she backed up, her finger on the trigger, hearing his echoing footsteps. Could she do it? Could she shoot him? Kill him?

She yelled, “ You stop!” Behind her the empty boat slip yawned, a black abyss. Above the slip, the old boat groaned. Carefully she edged toward the water, along the thin wooden decking, the rotting wooden boards slick with mold and bat dung.

“Harper?” His voice was like thunder.

Shotgun raised to her shoulder, she eased backward.

He emerged from the doorway.

He held the flashlight in his left hand.

In his right? The iron poker, raised as if he intended to thrust it at her like a javelin.

“Don’t even think about it,” she warned, sweat collecting at the back of her neck, her heart pounding as she squinted against the light. “Don’t!” she warned. She was so close to the lake, but he was blinding her with the flashlight. Moving toward her.

Shoot! Pull the trigger!

He moved forward, taking his life in his own hands.

Shoot! Shoot him now!

Mouth dry, finger sweating on the trigger despite the cold, she tried to keep the distance between them so that he couldn’t reach her. Only a few more steps and then . . . and then she would have to take her chances in the water.

“Put the gun down.” His voice was low now, but the bright light was aimed right at her eyes.

Never. Pull the damned trigger!

Another step backward.

The timbers creaked, the musty water reeked, and the long-forgotten boat overhead hung drunkenly.

One more step, and there was nothing. She was at the entrance to the cave. From this point, she would have to drop into the water and he would be on her in an instant.

“You won’t shoot,” he said, his eyes focused on her, bats flying frantically in and out of the cave. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.” Her finger on the trigger was moist. Her pulse pounding in her eardrums. She set her jaw.

He smiled then, a slash of white in the darkness. “Give me the gun, Harper, you’re not going to pull the trigger.”

He stepped forward but turned his head toward the open doorway.

Blam!

The blast shook the cave.

Echoing.

Reverberating.

Knocking Harper back.

Craig screamed.

The flashlight rolled against the wall.

Overhead the boat rocked wildly, one moldering strap unraveling.

Blood blooming on his torso, Craig hurled the poker, then fell, crashing into the dangling boat.

Dodging the poker, she lost her balance, tried to catch herself, and tumbled into the slip. Rank, cold water surrounded her.

The gun fell from her hands.

She came up coughing inside the cave, heard the ancient timbers creak ominously overhead. Saw Craig, attempting to swim out of the slip as bats flew crazily and the dark water turned murky with his blood.

Above, the Chris-Craft was hanging precariously by its stern.

As she tried to swim out of the boathouse, she was transfixed, watching as it spun slowly, spilling its contents into the water. An old thermos and life preserver fell, then a tattered, rolled tarp unwound as if in slow motion.

From within, bones appeared and to her horror, a skeleton tumbled out.

Craig let out a rumbling cry. “Jesus Christ! Oh shit! Oh shit! This is so fucked! So fucked!” Frantically he swam, away from the boathouse, from the horror within.

But Harper was frozen.

Couldn’t move.

Her gaze glued to the skull with its haunting black eye sockets.

Those empty sockets seemed to stare straight to her soul.

No teeth missing in the skull, just a bit of blond hair, tattered shirt, and rotting jeans, and around its neck vertebrae a necklace of beads hung limply.

Love beads moving with the water.

Oh. Dear. God.

An arctic cold swept over Harper and she thought for a second that she might pass out.

She imagined him as he once had been. Tall. Blond. Athletic. Cocky. A bit of mischief in his blue, blue eyes.

Chase. She was staring at what remained of Chase.

Her heart stopped. Something inside of her broke, and a bubbling cry passed through her lips.

After twenty years of shadowy doubts, she’d finally found him.