sliding something heavy—a boat, perhaps—across the sand.
Please … please be Evan, he thought desperately as he slowed his pace and approached more cautiously. Through swirls of mist, he saw the dark bulk of the boat up ahead and someone—he couldn’t tell who it was—moving around on it. He resisted the urge to call out. If it was Ben, the only response would be gunfire.
He stopped short and, scooching down, watched as the person struggled with an oar, trying to push the boat out onto the lake. Waves slapped against the side of the boat, rocking it as the person struggled to cast off.
Jeff didn’t move as he watched and waited.
It had to be Evan.
Ben would have no reason to be taking the boat out.
But if it was Evan, where had he gotten the oars?
Ben wasn’t so stupid he would have left them on the boat … Was he?
Maybe, in all the confusion, he hadn’t had time to take them.
Jeff stared into the swirling fog as it congealed in thick, white clots. He imagined he saw several figures, darting elusively in and out of view.
Is that Ben, or is it the unsettled spirit of Jimmy Foster?
Come on, Jeff told himself. Get a goddamned grip!
No matter how much he tried to tell himself his imagination was getting carried away, he was all but convinced he could sense if not actually see presences nearby.
If it’s the ghost of Jimmy Foster, is he angry … or sad … or lonely?
Maybe he was trying to communicate with Jeff and tell him how, after being out here all alone for so long, he was glad someone had remembered him and come back to join him.
The fog muffled whatever sounds Evan or Ben was making on the boat. All Jeff could see was a dark silhouette looming out of the mist. He got a quick, horrifying image of Charon, the boatman, preparing to ferry him and Evan across the River Styx to the Land of the Dead.
He’s come for all of us, Jeff thought as the damp cold reached inside his coat. For Mike and Fred and Tyler … and Evan and me!
Jeff was frozen where he stood, unsure if he should call out to the person on the boat or wait and see what happened next. Maybe Ben was moving the boat to hide it someplace else so they wouldn’t find it. Or maybe Evan was trying to get away so he could meet Jeff where they had agreed to meet.
It wasn’t long before Jeff got his answer.
The harsh, hissing sound of someone running on the beach filled the night. Off to one side, between him and the boat, a figure appeared, running swiftly toward the water’s edge. A split second later, a flash of white light followed by a report of a gun split the night.
The figure in the boat dropped down. Something clattered loudly when it hit the floorboards of the boat. Jeff didn’t know if Evan had been hit or was ducking for cover. Less than thirty feet from the boat, Ben drew to a stop. He stood knee-deep in the water with waves washing over his feet. Steadying his arm by holding his right arm at the elbow with his left hand, he took careful aim and then shot again—once … twice.
Bullets whined as splinters of wood blew up from the gunwales of the boat. Evan stood up unsteadily. The boat was rocking wildly from side to side. A moment later, he pitched over the side, followed by a loud splash. The momentum of his fall kicked the boat so it spun around in a wide, lazy arc.
Jeff wished he was close enough to see if Evan had been hit or not and, if he had been hit, how badly, but it didn’t matter. In his weakened condition, Evan wouldn’t last more than a few seconds in the ice cold water. The waves would sweep over him, and—like Jimmy Foster thirty-five years ago—he would go under.
So, Jeff thought grimly, Jimmy will have company on this stretch of deserted beach after all.
Evan’s ghost will keep him company, and Jeff knew, if he didn’t get off the island tonight, he would also join them.
Talk about a camp reunion, he thought with a sinister chuckle.
He was sure Ben didn’t know he was standing about twenty feet behind him. He was still focused on the boat, watching it drift away from the shore, carried along by gusts of wind and the currents that swept around the