The People Next Door (4 page)

In the bow, flag snapping against her hip, Briela lost her brother in the sun’s white glare. She blinked and twisted her head
side to side. She saw the dam flashing by, and something odd on the path atop it. There was a family standing together, watching
her. They were very still, like a photograph, and there were four of them. Mother, father, daughter, and son. Holding hands,
dressed in clean white clothes like people at a tennis match. Their faces were creamy smears, their eyes specks of dark fixed
on her, and then she was blinded again. She put a hand over her eyes, but the top of the dam was empty from end to end.

The other family was … gone.

She felt sick in her tummy, everything inside of her suddenly hot. Oh no, she thought. It’s happening again. The flag fell
to the floor. Luckily her parents didn’t notice, and she scooped it up just in time.

A slight breeze had picked up, studding the lake with diamonds for him to crush. Kyle leaned away from the boat, drawing almost
parallel to the stern, looking at his family sideways now. The dentist’s boat was floating a hundred yards up ahead, but there
was plenty of clearance. Dad was obsessed with safety; he would never drive them within two hundred feet of another boat.

Kyle’s arms were cooked spaghetti. His mouth was dry, lungs heaving. He decided to take one more pair of turns and then drop
the line.

Briela mouthed something at him, then ducked.

Kyle edged in briefly before swerving right. He glanced at the dentist’s boat – he was passing it now, less than fifty feet
away – and saw long streaks of dark red across the white hull. A woman’s hand was hanging over the side, slapping against
the fiberglass before withdrawing in a jerk, leaving a red handprint, the fingertips dripping in thick rows. He caught all
of this in perhaps two seconds, looking back as he was towed away.

Blood, holy shit, that was blood
–

A wild ripple of adrenaline coursed through him,
sliding the ski, and the hardtop of the lake turned to mush. The rope went slack and he flailed, yanking the handle up to
his chin. His dad was still holding the throttle at cruising speed and Kyle knew he should let go, but his arms wouldn’t disobey
the order so recently mastered. The Connelly’s tip snagged as the rope leapt out of the water, locked taut, and ripped him
from the bindings.

It was as if God flipped the lake with a spatula, the water rushing over his head as he somersaulted. His hands actually grazed
the surface twice before he made a third revolution and his legs knifed in and he slammed to a halt chest-first in the water.
It felt like running into a tree. The wind was knocked out of him and his brain seemed to vibrate in its casing. Something
sting-grazed the top of his head and the Connelly javelined low across the surface, landing and skiing by itself for another
sixty feet or so before tipping drunkenly on its side. Little ripples of water lapped at his throat. He closed his eyes and
shivered as he bobbed.

The evil suck had gotten him after all.

‘Down! Down! Kyle fell down!’ Briela raised the orange flag.

Mick looked up from the depth finder – he had been hypnotized by the small school of digital fish beeping across the gray
screen – and saw too much concern on his daughter’s face. He looked over his shoulder. The rubber handle was skipping across
the empty wake, his son nowhere in sight, and only then did he remember to pull back on the throttle. The Bayliner came off
plane as he made a laborious U-turn.

Amy pivoted in her seat, a bottle of sunscreen in one hand. ‘Whoa, he’s kind of far back. How fast were you going?’

‘Not very.’ Mick frowned at Briela. ‘I’m sure he’s okay.’

But when he saw the Connelly floating so far away, he wasn’t sure Kyle would be okay – it had to have been a fantastic wipeout.
Mick pulled into neutral and the boat coasted in a circle. Kyle’s head was back, his eyes aimed at the sky.

‘Jesus, Mick, he’s bleeding,’ Amy said, scurrying to the back of the boat.

‘I’m okay.’ Kyle sounded dazed.

‘B, honey, wind the rope, would you?’ Mick said. She crawled onto the swim deck and began hauling the rope in. Kyle was paddling
feebly toward them as Amy unlatched the ladder. ‘What happened, bud?’

‘Something’s wrong,’ Kyle said, blowing water from his nose, eyes scrunched in pain. Mick frowned, killing the engine. Kyle
pointed toward Roger’s boat some two hundred feet behind them. ‘Someone’s hurt … blood … all over the place.’

‘His head is cut,’ Amy said. ‘Oh my God.’

Kyle ran a hand over his wet hair. ‘I think the ski’s fin nicked me.’

They helped him in, easing him onto the back seat. Amy made him sit still while she inspected his scalp.

‘It’s deep. He’s going to need stitches. Where’s the first-aid kit?’

Mick searched under dash, found the orange plastic box. Band-Aids, a roll of gauze, a tube of ointment, a packet of Advil.
A boo-boo kit, not a holy-shit-emergency kit. But this wasn’t too bad, right? His son looked okay. Amy fumbled the contents
onto the seat. Her hands were shaking, Kyle’s blood on her fingers.

‘This is useless,’ Amy said. The Band-Aids didn’t stick to wet hair.

‘I’m sorry, champ,’ Mick said, knowing this was all his fault.

‘Guys, I’m fine.’ Kyle pushed his mother away. ‘There’s something wrong on their boat. I saw someone struggling. You didn’t
see the blood?’

‘Blood,’ Amy said. ‘On Roger’s boat?’

Mick said, ‘Jesus, I guess we better go have a look.’

Amy grabbed his arm. ‘We’re not going near that sicko. Kyle needs medical attention.’

‘I said I’m fine!’

‘He says he’s fine,’ Mick said, smirking with pride.

Amy fumed at him. ‘Take us in now.’

‘Okay, okay. Let’s get the ski, then I’ll radio the lake patrol on the way in. Swim ladder up?’

Briela latched the ladder in place. Amy wrapped a towel around Kyle’s head and pressed. If the boy was in pain, he wasn’t
letting them see it.

Mick started the motor. ‘Tough stuff, Kyle. Damned if you didn’t do it. I’m so proud of you, son.’

Kyle grinned.

Mick found the handheld CB radio in the glove compartment. He set the channel to 16, pressed the buttons, but the light didn’t
come on. ‘Brand-new radio,’ he said.

‘Did you put batteries in it?’ Amy said.

Mick opened the case. Nope. ‘I have my cell,’ he said, removing it from his pocket. The screen was still full of water. He
jammed the buttons. ‘Hunk of shit.’

‘
Mick
,’ Amy said.

‘I know,’ he snapped. He opened the throttle and circled back to fetch the ski. ‘B, sweetie, do you think you can lean over
and grab it?’

‘It’s too heavy for her,’ Kyle said.

Amy tromped into the bow. Briela scampered out of her way and bumped her knee on the corner of the opened windshield frame.
‘Owie!’ She burst into tears.

Mick inspected her knee. A little curl of cut gray skin, no blood. ‘You’re okay, B.’

‘
Slow down
,’ Amy said, leaning over the bow.

Mick popped the shifter into neutral and held his breath. Amy grunted, snatched it up. She raised the ski and the bindings
emptied cold water onto her head. She growled with contained fury. Mick slid the ski into the locker, made another steep turn,
and raced for shore, everyone shooting each other unpleasant looks. He dropped them at the end of the dock.

‘Find Coach Wisneski in the boat house,’ Mick said. ‘Tell him to send out a lake patrol unit. Get the kids in the truck, pull
the trailer around, and wait for me at the top of the ramp. Be right back.’

‘Hurry,’ Amy said.

‘Daddy?’ Briela said.

‘What, sweetie?’

‘Be careful.’ His daughter appeared seasick, in some form of shock.

‘I will. Go on now with your mother.’

He chugged impatiently through the No Wake Zone, then aimed for the northwest corner and opened it wide.

A hundred feet from the SS
Laughing Gas
, Mick dropped the throttle and stood at the helm to inspect the situation. He saw no one on board, but Roger’s ridiculously
outfitted Glastron was a cuddy, not a bow rider, so it was possible the couple were below decks. He completed a slow circle,
checking for signs of blood, but the exterior was clean. He turned off the motor and floated to port.

‘Roger? Hey, Roger, you in there?’ No one answered. ‘Yo, Dr Lertz! It’s Mick Nash. You on board or what?’

The boat was drifting, unanchored. There were no watercraft within a quarter of a mile. The dam was at a swimmable distance,
but it was just a slanting, three-meter rock wall with a lot of empty grassland behind it. If Roger wanted to sneak off and
screw his new girlfriend on dry land, there were plenty of trees and sand inlets with privacy on the west side.

So, where’d they go? Were they under right now, lungs filling with water? Mick peered into the depth finder, as if a tiny
gray version of Roger might appear on screen, floating sideways with X’s in his eyes. Nothing moved. Depth: 36.7 feet. He
could dive in, but too much time
had passed and the reservoir’s visibility was maybe six or eight feet. Come on, boss, what are we doing here? The family is
waiting. No time to play Jacques Cousteau. He would make a brief inspection, then bug out.

‘Roger, I’m boarding you now,’ Mick called, feeling like an idiot. ‘So if you’re down there fooling around with Bonnie, now
would be the time to stop and let me know you’re okay.’ His voice echoed across the lake. The sun twinkled off the Glastron’s
high white walls and chrome detailing.

Mick threw both port fenders over, and used a gaff to inch the boats parallel. He cleated a twelve-foot section of pink nautical
rope to Roger’s stern. Slipped into his deck shoes and climbed from swim platform to swim platform. The craft bobbed gently
under his weight. The white leatherette seats were clean, as was the wood floor. A few bottles of Beck’s in the cup-holders.
A wet towel and Bonnie’s bikini top draped over one chair. Well, that explained it. They got drunk and Roger took her into
the cabin for a check-up. He should get out of here and leave well enough alone.

Except that his son said there was a struggle. Blood. And while he had caught the ski across the top of his head, Kyle wasn’t
loopy or prone to exaggeration. He was lucid and if he had a concussion, it was minor. And something here just plain felt
wrong. The lake was too calm, the boat too recently abandoned. It didn’t feel abandoned at all.

Go on. One peek inside the cabin. You won’t be able to sleep tonight unless you know. Something awful
happens to Bonnie, how’s that going to sit on your conscience?

Mick high-stepped over the bench seat and made the cabin in three long strides. For a moment he stood outside, one hand on
the chrome handle, feeling sick to his stomach.
What are you afraid of, champ? A little blood?

He opened the door. At first he could see nothing. There were too many shadows and the angle was wrong. He stepped back and
leaned down, removing his sunglasses. He stared for perhaps three seconds, sorting through shapes and forms set deep in the
dark berth. Something was moving in there … maybe … no. Like a holographic photo that has been tilted, the illusion escaped
him before he was even aware that there had been one.

He frowned, concentrating, and a single white flash strobed his eyes, obliterating the bulkhead, the boat, the lake. Mick
recoiled, the light spreading white wings that flapped inside his skull, and it was now, with his eyes scrunched shut and
temples throbbing, that they became visible.

Bonnie and Roger were sprawled on the floor and seat cushions, and hanging over the table, limbs severed, skin slashed in
dozens of places, the cabin transformed into a slaughterhouse. The floor was drenched, pooled with black and deep maroon that
leaked from open wounds, their ears and eyes. Their eyes were black, their faces without expression, as if they had died peacefully
a moment before being butchered.

Mick screamed and staggered back, blinking against
the sun glare. A wave of cold air funneled out, enveloping him, his head pounding as a rotten stench like dead raccoons on
the side of a summer highway broke over him in a thick cottony wave. He covered his mouth and gagged and then he was turning
with tears in his eyes, careening to the back of the boat. He could almost feel their hands reaching for him, pulling at his
shirt, their fingertips dragging down the back of his legs. His knee slammed into one of the seats and he halted as though
he had been slapped.

He gasped, rubbing his eyes as the lightning storm in his brain abated. The air was clean, the day bright. When he forced
himself to look back, the cabin was empty. The bodies were gone. The room was clean, free of blood. There were no passengers
on or inside the boat. Just the padded bench seats and the small table.

Jesus Christ,
what was that?
What the hell is the matter with you? Okay, you’re just suffering a panic attack of some kind. You let your imagination run
away. Focus on your family. Tamp it down. Forget about Roger and Bonnie. They’re not here …

And you have to go home.

He climbed back onto his boat. His hand was on the ignition key when he remembered he had tied off at Roger’s stern. He turned
back to cast off and climbed over the seats one more time. He kneeled on the Bayliner’s platform, reached for the loop of
nautical line, and the Glastron’s cabin door slammed open. He jerked up, a scream trapped in his throat.

But it was only the breeze. The wooden door was
swaying with a creaking patience. No one was coming for him.

Nerves. The stress.
Enough
.

Mick tossed the line into the Bayliner. He turned and set his right foot on the wet seat back and the siped rubber sole of
his boat shoe held for a split second, then shot from under him. He fell forward and his forehead bounced off a corner of
fiberglass. He saw stars like static electricity and flopped to his chest and rolled left, groping for a hold on something
as he spun backside down. The water caught him like a net, cupped high around him, and filled his startled eyes and open mouth.
His head pounded once terribly and the bright blue sky retreated, darkening, funneling into a cone, blue turning to green,
green turning to brown, darkening until it was all black, and then he was slack and sinking all the way to the bottom.