Period 8 - By Chris Crutcher Page 0,56

east. “Road’s that way. We can’t double back.” As they stare toward the road, the horizon brightens, shadows grow more pronounced. “Sweet Jesus,” he says, “more cars.”

He puts a hand between Paulie’s shoulders and moves him another twenty-five yards into the thickening forest.

“Logs, what is this?”

“I have a hunch, but whatever it is, we’re in way over our heads. We need help.” He slaps his head in realization. “Rankin has your cell and mine’s in the truck.”

“What’s your hunch?”

“Just believe whoever’s behind this has nothing to lose.”

“What are we gonna do?”

Logs is silent, then, “We got one shot,” he says.

Paulie gets it. “The lake.”

Logs leads them over the forested hill toward Diamond Lake. Voices behind them fade, but light patterns in the trees tell them someone is on the move.

“This is going to be cold as hell,” Logs whispers. “We can’t go to your car or the dock. Rankin knows we were headed back there. We’ll go north a couple hundred yards and get in through the tall grass.”

“Then what?”

“I’m not sure. They’ll probably check the shoreline. We might have to cross.”

“The one thing we can do that they can’t,” Paulie says.

“There’s no moon. It’s easy to get disoriented in the dark. There are cabins on the other side, but they’re back in the trees. We’ll have to find some point to fix on.”

Logs leads them well north of the dock. They emerge from the trees to see headlights back near Paulie’s Beetle.

Paulie whispers, “Fuck.”

“No, this is good,” Logs says. “If they think we’re dumb enough to go there, they’ll have to leave someone. That means fewer guys to come looking. I don’t have my glasses. Can you see how many?”

Paulie squints. “Three vehicles. Can’t see how many guys.”

“Too many, is how many.” His voice drops even lower. “Now listen. We leave our clothes here. You still have your suit on, right?”

Paulie nods.

“Me, too. Everything else we bury. There are probably sticks and rocks and all kind of shit in the grass between here and the water. I don’t care if you step on a rattlesnake, make no noise. Rankin is a cop. He’s armed.”

“Got it.”

“That water’s gonna be cold. When you hit it, you don’t even suck air. Dead quiet. Hands and knees crawling in, breaststroke for at least five hundred yards. Sound carries, Paulie, and if they hear us, we’re done.”

“I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever.”

Logs stares at him through the darkness. “I know you will. I’m just scared, just like you. We’ll be fine.”

They shed their clothes and quietly bury them beneath leaves and needles. The night air is cold and Paulie feels goose bumps rising. This is nothing, he thinks, compared to what it’s about to be.

Logs stands, looking out at the blackness that is the lake. He points—a single dim light flickers on the other side. “There’s our anchor point,” he whispers.

Paulie squints. “It’s the Thumpers,” he says. “Friday nights, Firth and the other YFC kids go right where Twisted Crick runs into the lake. Build a big bonfire and sing songs and shit.”

“Blessed be the Lord Jesus Christ,” Logs says. He breathes deeply. “Okay, stick together. Breaststroke or sidestroke until I say different.”

They crouch and move silently toward the water.

A powerful searchlight sweeps toward them; they simultaneously drop to their bellies in the tall grass. Logs watches as it passes over, then lifts his head, watches. “They’re not sweeping the water. They haven’t figured us out yet.”

Paulie shakes uncontrollably. He can’t feel the cold now, it’s all fear.

When the light sweeps past again in the opposite direction, Logs says, “Let’s do it.”

.16

Hannah can’t believe what she’s hearing. “I’m washing my hands of that girl.” Victor Wells stands facing her on the porch of the Wells mansion.

“You can’t do that.” Hannah clutches the scrap of paper onto which she copied the message from Paulie’s phone.

“She put us through hell just a short time ago. She promised me this kind of situation was finished. I will not have her embarrassing this family again. Her mother is beside herself.”

“But the text message says—”

“I don’t care what it says. It’s all lies with her recently. Why in the world would she contact Paul Baum instead of her own father?”

“Do you text, Mr. Wells? Do you? Do you have that function on your phone?” Hannah yells, glaring.

“Don’t be silly. Of course I don’t text. She knows my number, for crying out loud.”

“Read the fucking message!” Hannah screams, and thrusts it to his chest. “She’s in trouble! She can’t call!”

Wells