Page 66 of The Lie Maker

Klay hit the water on his back, his entire body going under for a couple of seconds. He thrashed about, found purchase on the bottom, and started to stand. But by the time he was upright, in water up to his knees, Michael was in the lake, too, pushing him under.

Why did I not bring a change of clothes? Michael thought. At least an extra pair of shoes and socks.

Klay fought back, trying to keep his head above water, gasping for air, but Michael kept shoving him back under. Klay, trying to fight back, had his arms bent, hands up by his shoulders, hoping to land a blow on Michael, but he was no match for the stronger, younger man.

Michael got hold of one wrist, then the other, squeezed hard, leveraged Klay down below the surface, and held him there. Klay stared up at him through the water, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream.

He continued to thrash, but there was no way he could get his head above the surface. Before long, the struggles diminished to nothing.

Michael held him there for another minute, wanting to be sure. Finally, when he was certain Klay was dead, he walked back to the shore, his waterlogged shoes squishing with every step.

Looked down at Klay’s body, then at the camping chair and easel.

The man could have fallen. Tripped somehow over his chair. Taken the easel with him when he went into the drink.

Yeah, that could work.

Michael walked out onto the dock and gave the chair and easel a gentle push into the water. The canvas floated, image side up, obscuring the dead man’s face for a moment.

Michael walked back to shore, then cast one last look back.

Saw his wet shoeprints on the dock.

Fuck.

Anyone coming by in the next little while would be bound to ask, how does a drowned man leave wet shoeprints on a dock?

No, it would be okay. The sun was out. The dock would be dry in a few minutes. Michael didn’t have to worry about—

“Hey!” someone shouted.

A woman. Standing on a dock. Maybe a hundred yards down the shore.

“Hey!” she called out again. “Is everything okay over there?”

Oh, shit.

Thirty-Five

Jack

“You can’t be serious,” I said. “You don’t know where he is? You don’t know where the hell my father is?”

“I don’t,” Gwen said, looking glum. “We don’t.”

“He just, what? Wandered off? You don’t need authors to write backstories. You need babysitters.”

Gwen bristled. “You want me to explain this or do you just want to mouth off?”

“Maybe both,” I said. I was flabbergasted. “When you relocate someone, you check in on them, right?”

“Yes.”

“I mean, everybody gets a handler or something, right? If I’m the guy, and I have a problem, like the job you got me isn’t working out, or I think the people you’re protecting me from have found me, or I’ve got some emergency that means I have to get in touch with the people I left behind, there’s someone I can call, yes? One of your people picks up the phone and says what’s wrong, what can we do for you?”

“Yes.”

“And I’m guessing it works the other way around. Someone in your position calls me up, if I’m that guy, asks how it’s going, is there anything I can do for you? And it’s not like you’re just being neighborly. There are rules, right? There are things I’m not supposed to do, like killing people again or knocking off a bank or just doing something stupid like running for a spot on the local school board in whatever two-bit town you’ve condemned me to and getting my picture in the local paper?”