Page 35 of It Happened on the Lake

But one more wouldn’t hurt. He opened the fridge, grabbed another longneck, and opened it.

With the same damned church key his old man had used.

Frowning, he told himself he wasn’t his father as he climbed the stairs to the loft.

With a long swallow he settled back down in his chair and glanced down at the report on Olivia Dixon’s death.

Accidental overdose .

And not the only one , he thought, rubbing his chin as his gaze moved to Anna Dixon’s death certificate. Again, those words: Drowning caused by accidental overdose .

Like mother, like daughter?

He took a big pull from his bottle and went over the coincidences again.

Harper had been found outside on the night Anna had died.

She’d discovered not only her grandmother’s body but her brother’s as well.

And she’d been the woman who had first reported the fire the night Cynthia Hunt had died.

A weird connection.

If it was one.

He scratched the back of his neck as he wondered again about Harper being the one who had called 9-1-1 and risked her own life to save Cynthia’s.

There were houses scattered all around the lake, and yet Harper—who, according to her, had just arrived at her grandmother’s house—just happened to see the fire.

What were the chances?

Since leaving Almsville two decades earlier, Harper had married, had a kid, and divorced. She hadn’t been back to that house, as far as he knew.

He’d kept track as best he could.

For Chase.

His once-upon-a-time best friend.

Still missing.

His jaw grew tight as he remembered what Chase had told him the night of his disappearance. That he needed to vanish. Before Uncle Sam claimed him.

And Rand had kept his silence. Most of it.

Shit! He shoved his hair away from his face and kicked back his chair so hard it careened across the small space and slammed against the railing.

What a mess.

And he was in the middle of it.

In more ways than one.

Frustrated, he stood and rubbed the back of his neck, guilt riddling through him as it always did when he considered the consequences of keeping his promise to his drugged-out, confused friend.

He should have spilled his guts the minute he learned that Chase had gone missing. However, he’d kept quiet, hoping his friend would show up, as he left the next day, on his way to a camp in the middle of a jungle thousands of miles away.

But there had been other opportunities.

And if he had told everything he knew? Maybe then Chase Hunt wouldn’t be an open file on his desk.

He took a long swallow from his beer and looked down into the living area of this cabin he’d called home for most of his life.

The sloped, wooden walls and plank floors looked much the same as they had all those years ago.

Although the orange shag rug had been replaced years ago, and his father’s battered recliner and the small black and white TV were long gone, the freestanding wood stove still dominated the room and the avocado green stove still worked in the kitchen.

Just as it had when Chase had come over and they’d made Jiffy Pop on the coiled burners.

Leaning against a post, he thought back to the cold night high above the river. What had Chase confided?

That he would marry Harper to avoid the draft. If she was pregnant.

Or that he would find a way to leave the country—probably make his way into Canada and cross the border, like Patrick Sullivan had.

But there was also the allure of the free sex and drugs at the little house at the end of the street. He remembered his father calling them “no-good dope-smokin’ hippies, on the dole, if you ask me. Student deferments, my ass. President Johnson should draft ’em all.”

Maybe so, but those “no-goods” might just know something.

Rand thought back to the night Chase died. Hadn’t he said something when Rand had suggested his brother might watch over Harper. “. . . not Levi. He’s a prick! . . . Can’t be trusted.”

What was that all about? Simple sibling rivalry? Or something more? Something darker?

Recalling that night, he also remembered Chase’s damning accusation about Rand’s feelings for Harper: “You’re half in love with her already.”

That much had been true.

And seeing her today? He didn’t want to go there. Some emotions just never die.

Turning his thoughts from Harper, he rubbed his knuckles, almost remembered the pain he’d felt in his hand when he’d slammed his fist into Chase’s jaw.

From that fight and Chase’s desperate attempt to save himself from plunging down the cliff face, Rand knew that Chase would never have committed suicide.

Not only had no body ever been discovered, but the truth of the matter was that Chase Hunt was all about Chase Hunt living the good life.

He wasn’t about dying.

So how was his disappearance tied to all the rest of this mess, newly exacerbated by his mother’s bizarre death?

He kicked his chair back into position at the desk, sat down, and took another swallow from his bottle. As he flipped through Chase’s file, he once again found his father’s signature as lead investigator.

Rand’s own statement was there. Short and to the point.

He’d been with Chase earlier up at the logging road, where they said their good-byes over beers as Rand was leaving the next day.

He’d told the cops—not his father—a cleaned-up version of what had happened, leaving out the drugs, Chase’s crazy talk, and the fist fight that had nearly taken Chase’s life.

Then he’d explained that he’d stayed out until closing time at the local watering hole, which he assumed the bartender had verified.

He’d been so intent on drowning his own sorrows, he’d even missed his mother’s visit.

He’d learned later, from a letter he received on the other side of the world, that she had, as promised, stopped by the house, but Rand hadn’t been there.

If his dad had noticed Rand’s bruised hand and split knuckles, he hadn’t asked about it, but probably Gerald Watkins had been too busy dealing with Olivia Dixon’s death and Chase’s disappearance to notice.

Or he hadn’t wanted to know.

That thought ate at him as once more he eyed the pages on Chase’s missing person’s file.

The statements were old and faded, the notes short and inconclusive, a list of names and phone numbers of people associated with Chase.

He recognized a few, his own home phone number as well as the Hunts’ and the Dixons’, the number for the main house on the island.

The digits he didn’t recognize had names attached to them.

He read the familiar names: Harper Reed.

Tom and Cynthia Hunt. Levi Hunt. Rand himself.

A few other people, including Chase’s highschool coach, a couple of friends, his college roommate, and a few people Chase had befriended at the university.

No one had a clue. No one had thought Chase seemed troubled.

No one had been involved in his disappearance. No one knew if he had plans to leave.

Except Rand, and he hadn’t admitted as much.

“Well, hell,” he muttered, guilt creeping up on him as he paged through the notes.

Chase’s Chevelle had been left at the house. If he’d decided to head for the border, he’d taken off on foot, hopped a bus, or hitched a ride from a stranger. Unless he had some secret accomplice who had later lied.

Then what about the boat found in the middle of the lake?

A decoy?

Left adrift to put the police and his family on the wrong trail?

Possibly to buy time?

That damned boat , Rand thought.

He leaned back in his chair.

There were also statements from the other residents’ houses on the point, including Ed Sievers, the recluse next door; the Leonettis, who lived on the other side of the Hunts; and a few others from the rental house at the end of the block: Charla Lopez, Ronald Mayfield, and Janet Van Arsdale—ahh.

Moonbeam, as Chase had called her. He noted her given name.

But there was no mention of the kid from Texas who seemed to be the dealer.

What was his name? God, it had been so long.

He had a weird name. Like . . . what? Trip?

For the LSD? Or Tripper? No—Trick! Chase had said, “ A guy from Texas, Trick, he can get you whatever you want. Any slice of heaven. I’m not kidding.

” Unless Ronald Mayfield had been given the nickname of Trick, the guy wasn’t listed.

Harper’s and Levi’s statements echoed each other: Harper showed up at the house in the early morning hours.

She knocked on the window, waking Levi. Together they looked for Chase.

They stopped to talk to Rand. Then Levi drove her and her canoe back to the island before driving home and telling his parents that Chase was missing.

So all the information jibed.

And yet it seemed off. Shallow.

Harper had been questioned, of course, with her attorney present.

Her statement included information about how she’d been caring for her grandmother and how she, after allowing the woman to have alcohol with her medication, had waited for the old woman to fall asleep, then taken off in the canoe in search of Chase.

She’d admitted to dropping Olivia’s pills on the floor and scrambling to pick them up, perhaps screwing up the dosage, but it had been an accident.

And she’d been a minor, not quite eighteen, so no charges had been filed.

In fact, there had been no further investigation into Olivia’s death.

Accidental overdose .

He glanced through the window to the night beyond and, across the lake, the island with its heavy gate, private bridge, and imposing manor where a few lights burned. The isolated house with its turret and gargoyles, peaked roof, and rooms filled with antiques from another era seemed almost Gothic.

Or maybe he’d seen one too many vampire movies.

He glanced down at his notes again as he finished his beer.

What had his partner said?

If you ask me, all those deaths associated with that damned family deserve another look.

Anna Reed’s file lay open on his desk.

Before her death, Rand, Chase, and Evan had been close.

“The Three Musketeers,” Cynthia Hunt had called them.

They’d hung out, riding bikes through the woods and on deer trails or playing board games for hours on the weekends in the winter while spending as much time as possible swimming, skinny-dipping, and boating during the summer.

They’d snuck cigarettes and even some beers from their parents and camped under the stars on the banks of the river.

We had the world on a string , he thought, rubbing the thin white scar that ran across the palm of his left hand.

Until all their na?veté, bravado, and innocence had been shattered as easily as thin glass.