Page 36 of It Happened on the Lake

R and crouched by the edge of the spillway in the dark, the misting rain running under the collar of his jacket, the smell of the wet leaves and earth filling his nostrils.

Squinting, he peered through the large culvert, then clicked his flashlight three times, its yellow beam reflecting on the undulating surface of the creek.

The water was running fast for October, almost deafening as it rushed through the huge cement tube beneath the bridge.

He waited for an answering signal and hoped his friends were on the other side of the bridge as planned.

“Chase!” he yelled, though the current was so loud that even he couldn’t hear his echoing voice over the roar of the running water.

For the twentieth time he told himself he shouldn’t be here.

If his dad ever found out, he’d be a dead man.

Gerald Watkins would kill him. Or at least ground him like for ever .

“He won’t find out. No one will,” Chase had assured him two days earlier when they’d met at the sand lot behind the school and hatched their plans. “You’re just chicken.”

“Am not!” Rand had protested.

“Then prove it. Don’t be such a candy-ass.” Evan, always the instigator, was all-in on the plans.

“Fine.”

“Show up!” Evan had said, backing up toward his bike and pointing his finger at Rand. “Do it.”

“I will,” he’d vowed.

So now here he was, proving his courage, crouched on the slick, mossy rocks and wishing he hadn’t been so bold. “You’re a moron,” he muttered under his breath just as he caught sight of three responding flashes of light from the other side of the culvert.

So Chase was in place.

Returning the signal.

Rand’s pulse jumped, and he wondered if he should just leave. Before they really got into trouble. He’d shown up as promised. That was good enough, right?

No.

Of course not. They were blood brothers, a fact Chase never let Rand nor Evan forget.

The three had sworn allegiance to each other in a ceremony two years ago on the island.

They’d convened at midnight, in the boathouse that had been cut into the rock walls of the island and was connected to the huge house by a series of tunnels.

The perfect place.

With the smell of water and oil in their nostrils, while bats flew overhead and the old boat creaked on its lift, the three boys had sliced their palms with Chase’s dad’s hunting knife.

“Make it deep enough to count,” Evan had said in the flickering light of an old kerosene lantern he’d brought from one of the storage rooms.

Rand had gritted his teeth but made the cut. After a red line had bloomed on all three palms, they shook hands, all around, smearing and mixing their blood in the ritual uniting them, wiping their hands on their T-shirts once the process was finished.

What a stupid thing to do , Rand now thought as he hid on one side of the abutment, armed with a dozen eggs.

Once more, he considered ditching the others, climbing onto his bike and feigning getting sick or something, anything to avoid getting caught and having to suffer through his old man’s wrath.

Then he heard it. Over the roar of the creek, he heard the rumble of an engine—a large truck from the sounds of it, on the road above and fast approaching the bridge.

Too late to back out now.

“Go!” Chase yelled loudly, his voice reverberating through the culvert. “Go, go, go!”

Rand sprang into action, clambering up the rocky bank and reaching the road just as two headlights cut through the darkness, the pickup rattling across the span, headlights burning through the darkness, illuminating the road.

“Fire!” Chase yelled.

Rand reached into his pocket and loaded up. He hurled the first egg just as the front wheels of a red and white pickup reached the edge of the bridge. Splat! His egg landed on the Ford’s windshield. Its shell, yolk, and clear goo splattered.

He fired two more, zinging them in rapid succession, eggs smashing on the hood and windshield, the wipers smearing the egg gunk over the glass.

With a squeal of tires, the truck skidded to a stop.

“Hey!” the driver, a big burly man shouted, opening the door, the interior light flooding the area.

From the other side of the road, a bevy of eggs assaulted the truck.

Splat! Splat! Splat!

“You fucking kids!”

The driver leaped from the cab, his bald head shining under the dome light. He reached back inside.

To the gun rack mounted across the back of the cab.

To the rifle with its scope resting in the rack.

Holy shit!

Rand didn’t wait. He just started running.

No prank was worth being shot at! He sped through the trees lining the side of the road, then vaulted across a low fence.

He cut through a leaf-strewn backyard, tripping over the edge of a sandbox.

Catching himself, hearing the bark from a dog inside the house, he slipped through a side gate just as he caught a glimpse of the bald guy leaping over the fence.

Crap.

Scrambling to his feet, he beelined for the empty lot and forest beyond.

There was a trail that cut through these woods, a shortcut back to his house.

His heart was thumping as he glanced back. Seeing no one. But hearing heavy, fast-moving footsteps closing the distance between them.

Oh. Please.

“You!” a deep, male voice bellowed, seeming to ricochet off the thick trunks of the Douglas firs and vine maples.

Crap!

“You stop, you little fucker!”

No way.

He rounded a final corner and nearly tripped over his bike where he’d left it propped against the trunk of a gigantic fir tree, their meeting spot. He heard his friends running through the forest, rushing footsteps, all three of them trying to get away from the bald man.

Rand grabbed the handlebars of his Schwinn. With a running start, he flung his leg over the seat and started pedaling along the trail that ran in a zigzag pattern along the edge of the access road.

Faster and faster.

The world was spinning by, branches slapping at his face.

Where were his friends?

They had been close—

“Stop!” The man yelled, his low voice booming.

Oh God, how close was he?

Close enough to aim and shoot?

Already in third gear, Rand pedaled as if his life depended on it.

He didn’t know where his friends were.

Didn’t care.

He just had to get away from the bald guy with the gun.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

What had he been thinking, letting Chase talk him into this crazy-ass scheme. So it was Halloween. So what?

He sped across fallen limbs, dirt clods, and dips in the path, each bump jarring him, yet he was able to keep his three-speed on the familiar trail.

The night was dark, but this section of woods that stretched between the lake and the road above had a bit of illumination as street lamps offered feeble blue light, just enough so that he could see the path ahead, where it cut through the thickets, where it was crossed by other trails.

Rand heard the sounds of branches snapping, footsteps running, and his friends’ voices.

Nearby.

Somewhere in the surrounding trees.

Chase yelled, “Go, go, go !”

Rand went.

More shouts.

But no shots.

Yet.

He prayed they hadn’t been caught. Oh, Geez, what if they had?

His heart was pounding like crazy, his blood pumping wildly, his thoughts spinning as fast as the wheels on his Schwinn.

Evan wouldn’t be in trouble. He never was.

A rich kid whose parents thought he could do no wrong—“the little prince,” as Rand’s mom called him—always skated when it came to punishment.

But Chase? And him? Sons of cops? Holy shit, they’d be skinned alive.

And he couldn’t be found with the eggs.

No.

So riding with one hand, pedaling like crazy, keeping his balance, he emptied his pockets. He flung eggs into the underbrush, hearing them crack and splat as he strained to listen for the sound of his friends on their bikes. Where were they? Why hadn’t they caught up with him?

As he hurled the last egg into a clump of ferns, he saw movement on the trail in front of him. Something big and black. A dog? A deer? Or a man crouching and waiting?

The path curved.

His front tire hit a rock.

The bike shuddered, tire slipping.

Rand went flying, his momentum hurtling him forward.

Through the air in a split second.

Thud!

He slammed face first into the rough bark of a fir.

All of the bones of his body seemed to crush together.

Pain burst through his face.

“Oof!” He landed on the soggy ground.

Dazed, he blinked and tried to regain his bearings. Something warm was trickling from over his eye, and one arm, where his sleeve had bunched up, was scraped raw. The world swam for a second.

Shit!

Pain was everywhere.

But he had to keep going.

He couldn’t get caught.

Despite his injuries, he knew that much.

He blinked, staggered to his feet.

His bike . . .

It lay, wheel still spinning on the trail. He prayed it wasn’t wrecked.

Swiftly, with pain throbbing in his face, he righted the Schwinn and heard noises on the trail behind him.

Not the whizzing wheels of other bikes but the guttural swearing of a man. The man from the pickup.

And he was close.

So close!

Dazed, Rand swung his leg over the seat and—

A huge, gnarly hand grabbed the collar of his jacket.

“You little prick,” the guy growled, yanking him from the bike, hot beer breath and sour sweat assailing Rand’s nostrils. “What the fuck did you think you were doing? You could have caused an accident, killed someone. Killed me !”

Rand tried to shrink away, but the steely fingers held fast.

The man gave him a rough shake. “I’m gonna—”

“Hey, chrome dome!” a voice called from somewhere in the darkness.

Chase?

The man froze. “What the—?”

Phssst!

Smack!

The guy jerked as an egg caught him between the shoulders.

“What the fuck?” He whipped around, his fingers still gripping Rand’s collar.

Crack! Another speeding egg hit him square in the face.

He yelped, stung, his grip around Rand’s jacket loosening.

Splat! Another egg to his head, the gooey mass sliding down over his nose.