Page 65 of The Lie Maker

Michael pulled into the driveway, parking behind a white Lexus SUV. He took the gun from the glove compartment and was tucking it into the pocket of his windbreaker when the back door of the house opened and Klay came striding out.

He looked puzzled at first, but when he saw who it was, he smiled and said, “Michael? What the hell are you d-d-doing up here?”

He stuck out a hand and Michael, now out of the car, took it and smiled. “How you doing, Len?”

“What a surprise!” He grinned and slapped Michael on the shoulder.

“I’m driving up to Montreal, scoping out a few motel sites, realized I’d be driving right by your place, almost. A minor detour.”

“Come on in. Too early for a drink?”

“Maybe coffee, if you have some going,” Michael said.

Michael followed Klay into the house. Homey, lots of wood, plush chairs and a couch with afghans scattered about. A few embers glowed in the fireplace, just enough to take off the chill. It was in the low sixties outside.

Michael walked from the back of the house to the porch that looked out over the lake. A folding camping chair and an easel sat at the end of a dock that went some thirty feet out into the water. A canvas rested on the easel. Klay was in the middle of painting the far shore.

“It’s c-c-coming,” Klay said when he saw where Michael was looking. “I’m no Picasso.”

“Want to get a closer look,” Michael said. He went out to the porch, pushed open the screen door, and walked down to the shoreline and out onto the dock. Klay followed.

Michael admired the canvas, then their surroundings. There was no wind, and the water was like glass. Not one boat out on the water to start a ripple. Michael scanned the shoreline in both directions and saw no one standing out on any of the other docks. No one sitting in a chair by the water.

Maybe it was never going to get better than this.

“It’s not very good,” Klay said, looking over Michael’s shoulder at the work in progress. “But it’s something to do.” He chuckled nervously. “Keeps me out of t-t-trouble.”

Still with Michael’s back to him, Klay said, “You’re not really on your way to Montreal, are you?”

Michael turned around slowly. “What are you talking about?”

Klay smiled sadly. “Galen sent you.”

“I just wanted to stop by, say hello, see how you’re doing.”

Klay looked into the man’s eyes, as though trying to discern the truth. “He knows.”

Michael cleared his throat, gazed past Klay at the house. “It’s so peaceful here.”

“I know what you do for him,” he said. “I can’t think of any other r-r-reason you’d be here.” He shook his head sadly. “What happened to you, Michael? What happened to the young man I met when he came aboard years ago?”

He’s long gone, Michael thought.

“I remember your naïve optimism, thinking at the time that maybe he wouldn’t break you, that maybe you had it in you to rise above it, to resist. I still recall the day you came in and handed out cigars when your son, Jack, was b-b-born. It seemed so... quaint. I hadn’t seen any new father do that in such a long time. I’d quit smoking years earlier, but I smoked that stogie. Did you know that? It was wonderful. How are they, by the way? Rose? And your boy?”

“Fine,” Michael said. “Thank you for asking.”

“Look what he does to people,” Klay said. “He’s like a cancer that gets inside us. I suppose I’m as much to b-b-blame as anyone. I should have left years ago. To stay was to condone, to enable, even if I never sunk to your depths.”

Michael glanced down into the clear, cool water. It was only about two feet deep here, and he could make out the stones on the bottom.

“Helping the opposition, it was the only thing I could think of to get some, I don’t know, pound of flesh out of the man.” A sad chuckle. “Suppose I should have covered my tracks better. Should have known Galen would be w-w-watching me.”

Michael had the gun, but it was so still, even with the silencer, it would make a lot of noise when he fired it. Maybe there was a better way.

Klay sighed. “Do you think there’s anything I can say that—”

Michael pushed him off the dock.