Dark Waters, page 7
But the instant she had the thought, she knew it was wrong. The silhouette did look familiar, but it was definitely not Ethan Walker. It was also too broad and muscular for Ace. Who was it, then?
Except for breathing, she did not move. And for a long time, neither did the stranger. Then he crouched and did something with his hands near the effigy mound’s head. She drew breath to shout, but sweat trickled into her eyes. In the brief moment as she paused to wipe it away, he vanished into the shadows.
She walked slowly forward, alert for any movement. She crossed the damp grass and reached the spot by the effigy mound, every muscle tense. In the faint illumination from the streetlights, she saw a dozen small rocks arranged in a circle a foot in diameter. She picked up one and held it toward the pinkish lights. It was a normal rock—the smooth kind found in any garden, or pulled from any stream or lake—but painted on it was a strange symbol.
She carried it up the hill to see it better. It resembled the Christian ichthus symbol but instead of graceful curves it had sharp edges and points. When she touched it with her finger, she saw that it was drawn on with mud. Her touch smeared one line.
She was about to toss it aside but at the last moment felt a powerful compulsion to return it to the ring on the ground. After she did so, she took several deep breaths and looked out at the water, which was normally inviting and irresistible. Now, though, it seemed subtly repellent. Encountering the stranger here had somehow broken the mood.
She could still swim, she knew. Chances were the spirits, with their intimate knowledge of her moods and responses, would have her moaning within minutes. Or she could go to another part of the lake. The spirits would be there wherever she swam, but she just couldn’t muster the desire to act on those certainties.
Who had the man been? And why did he look familiar? She knew many men socially, most through the diner, but she could not place this one.
Then as a little shudder ran through her, she realized who he was: Kyle Stillwater. She’d watched the half-naked Adonis stride into the lake, and he’d looked exactly like this man in silhouette. But why in God’s name would he be here? And what did that circle of stones mean? Had he built it or just examined it as she did?
It was all too weird. She turned and jogged back the way she came, then cut up three blocks before turning back toward home. Her feet echoed oddly, as if someone followed and matched her stride precisely, but whenever she looked back, the sidewalk was empty.
CHAPTER NINE
POSTED BY THE Lady to the Lady of the Lakes blog:
Those of you who were there know what I’m talking about. The big ground-breaking ceremony for the new community center was hijacked by one fine piece of manhood who came out of the lake in a temper and very little else. The Lady isn’t sure about his claims regarding the plot of land, but she does agree that he can protest anywhere he wants to.
Does anyone have any good pictures to share?
THE STORY OF Kyle Stillwater’s startling appearance at the park was on the front page of the Sunday Capital Journal and was the lead on the three local TV stations. Missing from them all, though, was any picture of the man himself. Owners of every electronic recording device—digital still cameras, video cameras, or cellphones—found that any images were hopelessly corrupted.
Even Julie Schutes, who had checked her photos right after she took them, had found them pixilated beyond any possible use once she returned to her office. Only one picture—a distant one that showed Stillwater as a mere silhouette standing in the lake and taken from her stall by a seller of hemp products—survived.
Most interesting were the photographs taken on actual film by a couple of camera buffs. In these, Stillwater’s features were both blurry and distorted: His eyes were round and black, his nose and chin elongated, and his mouth a death’s-head grimace.
These photos did not run in the papers, and the photographers were unable to scan them and post them online. When they tried, the hardware and software refused to cooperate.
The newspaper’s staff researcher did find the photograph of a local actor known as Kyle Stillwater—a one-quarter Ho-Chunk Native American who’d done some modeling and commercial work. He resembled the man who’d crashed the ceremony, except that he was ten years too young and his hair was jet-black. And when shown his picture, all the women who’d been at the park that day were absolutely certain it wasn’t the same man, because this mundane Kyle Stillwater just didn’t affect them the same way. At all. It couldn’t be him.
No one could reach the actor for comment. His agent in Chicago said he would pass along any media requests but could assure the authorities that his client had no paying jobs at the moment.
———
WHEN ETHAN WALKER got to work Monday morning, Garrett Bloom was already there, pacing in front of Ambika’s desk. Her expression indicated just how long that had been going on. “I thought you got here at ten,” Bloom snapped without preliminaries.
Ethan clenched his teeth in annoyance; he didn’t like being scolded, let alone in his own office before he’d had his coffee. He glanced at the clock. “It’s five after.”
“That’s still late.”
“Since I’m the boss, no one usually complains about my punctuality.”
“On most days,” Ambika muttered.
Bloom scowled at her, then said urgently, “I have to talk to you in private. Now. It’s important.”
“Okay. Ambika, hold all my calls until Mr. Bloom and I are finished.”
“Of course, sir,” she said coolly.
Bloom barely waited for the inner door to close behind them before he said, “You’ve got to start doing the serious construction now. Today, if at all possible. Bring in a crane, knock down some walls, that sort of thing. Stuff people can see.”
“Why is that?”
“Momentum, son. A body at rest tends to remain that way, but one that’s moving is hard to stop.”
“That’s ‘inertia,’ not ‘momentum.’ ”
“Well, whatever it is, we need it.”
“Because of what happened at the ceremony?”
“Yes!” Bloom exclaimed as if it was the dumbest question in the world. “It has nothing to do with whether or not he’s right, or legitimate, or anything. He’s drawn attention, and that’s what’s important. I expect a half-dozen Native American activists in my office before the day’s over.”
“Isn’t that what James Red Bird is supposed to handle?”
“Jim is a good man, and loyal, but he’s a behind-the-scenes worker. This has changed the whole game plan.”
“Why?”
“Because even if that lunatic was right, it’s immaterial, because it can’t be proved without a full-on archaeological dig that could take months, even years.”
Ethan hoped his sinking dread didn’t show. “That’s true.”
“But there’s no evidence, Ethan, and I’m certain no elected official in his right mind would shut down something that provided jobs for hardworking Americans. In this economy, jobs outweigh history.”
“Except to stray Native Americans.”
“Exactly!” Bloom almost shouted, missing Ethan’s irony entirely. “That’s why we need to get the ball rolling.”
Ethan thought hard before speaking. “The soonest I can do what you’re asking is next week.”
“Next week?”
“Yes. And you’ll have a hard time finding anyone else who could do it faster—and frankly, I wouldn’t trust anyone who said they could.”
Bloom thought for a moment. “Then that’s the best you can do?”
“It’s the best anyone can do,” Ethan said firmly. “I promise, a week from today there will be a procession of very visible big trucks carrying debris while we gut the building. And then we’ll very publicly knock it down.”
Now it was Bloom’s turn to ponder. “All right, then. If that’s the best that can be done, that’s what we’ll do. Thanks, Ethan. I’m sorry this has all gone to hell this way.”
When Bloom departed, Ambika came in, crossed her arms, and said, “He is not a nice man. Before you arrived, he stepped out in the stairwell to make a phone call. His voice was very loud. He called someone a ‘dumb Indian.’ For a moment I thought he was referring to me, but it was the person on the other end of the phone. I do hope he won’t be a frequent visitor.”
Ethan assured her he wouldn’t—and then, when Ambika had returned to her desk, he dialed up the State Archaeological Commission office. He had a friend on staff there and knew he could get straight information.
“Yeah, I saw that on the news,” Lannie Boyd said when Ethan reached him. “They didn’t have a picture of the guy, though. I was curious to see if he was someone I knew.”
“Is that likely?”
“I cross paths with a lot of so-called activists. Some are legitimately concerned with tribal dignity, and some are just out to see their names in the papers.”
“So his claim could be legitimate?”
“As a matter of fact, I did some proactive checking on that very thing, just so I’d know where to find the information in case anyone needed it.”
“And what did you find?”
“Nothing. When that old mental hospital was originally put up, a standard survey revealed no trace of former Native American habitation on that patch of land. Of course, they called them American Indians then, but you know what I mean. It was classified ‘clean and pristine,’ as we say unofficially.”
“So I have nothing to worry about?”
“We have better technology now, and I’m sure if you dug down far enough and sifted every square inch of dirt, you’d find some trace of human activity. These lakes have been around for a long time, after all. But those guys back then knew their stuff, even without computers and DNA analysis, so until there’s hard evidence to the contrary, I’m inclined to think they got it right.”
“That’s not just you sticking up for your profession, is it?”
“Maybe a little. But if there was serious doubt, we’d get out there and look around. Fieldwork is fun.”
Ethan tapped his fingers on the desk. “I’m supposed to start tearing down the building next week, Lannie. I really don’t want to get blindsided.”
“I can understand that. If you like, I can come over and check it out, unofficially officially, if you know what I mean.”
“That’d make me sleep better,” Ethan said.
“I thought that’s what that blond reporter was for.”
Ethan felt his cheeks burn. “Ah. She’s old news.”
“Really?” Lannie said with mock interest. “So she’s on the market?”
“She’d eat you alive, Lannie.”
“A man’s got to die of something.”
After the call, Ethan retrieved the survey maps of the lakefront and studied them. How exactly had Bloom gotten title to such a prime piece of real estate? For that matter, why had it lain undeveloped for so long in the first place? Lakeside property in Madison was in sky-high demand.
He scanned the lakeshore to either side of the parcel. There were effigy mounds in three nearby city parks, but they made no pattern implying one might have originally been located at the hospital site. Still, if Stillwater was part of some fringe group—and God knows Madison had plenty of those—his performance might be the start of something darker and more dangerous. People with environmental blinders on thought nothing of doing things that resulted in human injuries or death.
He gazed out the window at the capitol dome and went over his options, but he knew there was only one real choice. And he’d made it when he shook hands with Bloom.
IN HIS OWN office on the west end of the isthmus near the university hospital, Garrett Bloom continued to pace. It was his preferred mode of thinking. He’d worn the carpet in a circuit from his desk around the guest chair, to the door, and back. “Maybe it’s Seth Golfine,” he said at last.
“No,” Rebecca Matre said. She sat on the edge of the desk, legs crossed below a tight skirt. She knew he frequently checked out her legs, and she liked it. Then again, he checked out every woman’s legs. “If he was against it,” she continued, “he’d do it in public. Remember the hissy fit he threw when you wanted that homeless rapist released on bail?”
“Homeless accused rapist,” Bloom corrected. “And that scene at the lake was pretty fucking public.”
“But he wasn’t there. He’s too much of a media whore to let someone else take the spotlight.” She smiled. “And personally, I’d just as soon never see him walk around in a loincloth.”
Bloom barked a laugh at the image. “You’re definitely right about that.” He paced some more, then snapped his fingers. “Maybe it’s Asshole Anspach.”
“And why would he do it?” Becky asked wearily. They’d spent the morning this way, as Bloom went down his list of enemies, trying to figure out who might be behind the ceremony’s disruption. It was a long list, and Becky was already exhausted. But so far they’d identified no one who seemed likely to concoct such a bizarre stunt.
“Why would he do it?” Bloom repeated. “To make me look bad, that’s why. To get revenge for all those times I’ve pushed things past him to get them approved by the full city council.”
“It seems out of character for him. He’s more the slash-your-tires-in-the-parking-lot type.”
“Ah, you’re right. It’s silly. Still …” He stopped at the window and looked out at traffic on University Boulevard. “It looks like the only way to find the brain behind it is to find the body first. We have to locate that guy—the one who came out of the lake.”
“Kyle Stillwater?” Just saying the name sent an intimate flutter through Becky. She’d been awake a good part of the night fantasizing about him. It was out of character for her; Becky just didn’t lust after good-looking men like that. She preferred men of substance, with brains and goals and power. Like Garrett Bloom. But her body had certainly pursued its own ideas, leaving her with no choice but to indulge them. Her cheeks reddened at the memory.
Bloom was too preoccupied to notice. “That’s not his real name, I’m sure. ‘Stillwater’? Give me a break. But just to be safe, can you do some of that Internet hoodoo that you do so well? See if you can find out anything about him?”
“I already started,” Becky said. “There’s a local actor, a Native American, by the same name and who vaguely resembles the man we saw. I Photoshopped white hair on him, though, and it just wasn’t him. I’ll keep looking, though.”
As she stood, she bumped into Bloom during one of his circuits, and he caught her awkwardly in his arms. Their faces were inches apart.
Becky gasped with delight. She enjoyed the way his hands felt through her blouse, their long fingers promising nimble foreplay. His left palm rested over the clasp to her bra, and she wondered if he could undo it one-handed. She felt his body against hers, lean and hard from regular exercise.
She looked into his eyes. Kiss me, she thought desperately, wishing she was telepathic. Bend me over your desk, or push me to my knees before you. It’s all right, I’ll do anything you want. Anything.
“Anything,” she said, sighing.
He leaned close. His breath was minty. Then he released her. “Sorry, Becky, I should’ve watched where I was walking. Let me know if you find out anything.”
Then he sat back behind his desk and pulled up something she couldn’t see on his computer. Her skin tingled where he’d touched her through her clothes, and she seriously considered throwing herself across his desk and begging him to have his way with her. He was everything she admired: strong, committed to a cause, and mature. She wanted to be his lover, his student, his slave.
But she said, “No problem,” and went back to her own desk outside his office. She closed the door behind her, knowing he preferred privacy.
CHAPTER TEN
ON TUESDAY MORNING, Rachel’s diner was as busy as ever. Rachel, Helena, and Clara waited on the customers. Clara, dressed in tight shorts and a push-up bra, was a hit among the young men, and even old Professor Denning let his eyes follow her a couple of times.
Marty Walker sat at his usual counter stool, immune to the perky breasts repeatedly passing by. He wore his lightweight summer suit, which did nothing to hide the bulge of the gun beneath his left arm. When Rachel brought him a coffee refill he asked, “So how’s the tattoo removal going?”
“Surprisingly well,” she said with no irony. “I think I’ll be done early, in fact.”
“I have a friend on the force who had to get his ex-wife’s name taken off his arm. He said it was the second-worst pain he’s ever felt.”
“What was the worst?”
“Marrying her in the first place.”
They laughed, and Rachel tried to make the next sentence sound as casual as possible. “Oh, by the way, I ran into your brother over the weekend. Literally, in fact. At the ground-breaking for the new community center.”
“Oh, yeah, I heard about that.”
Her blush hit before she could do anything to stop it. “He told you about it?”
“No, I mean I heard about what happened at the park when Aquaman came out of the water.”
Rachel’s blush deepened. “Oh. Of course. Yes, it was quite a show.” Just walk away, she told herself, but her feet stayed resolutely put. “Ethan looked well,” she prompted.
Marty shrugged. “He’s healthy.”
Don’t do it, her common sense warned. But she said, “And I saw his girlfriend, too.”
Marty frowned. “Girlfriend?”
“Julie. The reporter.”
Marty laughed. “No, they’re not back together. She’s chasing, but he’s on full evasive maneuvers. He knows better than to get caught up in that drama again.”
Her knees grew weak at the rush of relief. “Really?”
He reached across the counter, took her hand, and said gently, “Rachel, you asked him to stay away, and he will until you tell him not to. He gave his word, and that’s the most important thing he has. It’s stubborn and ridiculous and old-fashioned, but that’s what he’s like.”
