Last to Know: A Novel(11)

Diz watched his father dock the small, lightweight craft, pack the oars, drag the boat into the boathouse, then walk silently toward the house, followed seconds later by Roman. Diz pressed back against the tree trunk, rustling the leaves. For a second his father paused and looked directly at the tree. Roman was in the shadows behind him. Diz thought surely they must see him … but no, his father walked on and went into the house, while Roman simply disappeared into the night.

Two minutes later, the whole world lit up in a surprising rose-tinged glow.

Astonished, Diz immediately focused his binoculars on the house across the lake. The door was flung open. The blond girl stood there for a second, then ran screaming, toward the lake. It was odd, Diz thought, because she seemed to be surrounded by a halo that lit up her face, illuminating her open screaming mouth. And then he realized the girl’s hair was on fire … Oh Jesus, oh Jesus … he was down that tree in seconds, knees skinned, palms raw …

The girl flung herself into the water, submerging like a terrified porpoise. And then the explosion rocked around, knocking Diz to the ground and the breath from his lungs with its force, and the house behind the girl seemed to disintegrate in slow motion, pieces flying in the air, in a ball of fire that radiated heat to the lake itself.





8


Moments after the explosion, Harry picked himself up. He saw the girl plunge into the lake and begin to swim toward the island. He grabbed his little outboard boat kept for lake emergencies, and headed fast toward her, but even with the shock and her house in flames with debris falling all around her, she made it before him. She dragged herself onto the sandy strip of shore, where she lay on her stomach, arms stretched out sideways.

All the houses on her side of the lake were now in darkness, the power knocked out by the explosion, but every light was on on the opposite shore. The boat he had noticed earlier and thought might be Len Doutzer’s had disappeared, as had Wally’s.

He scrunched ashore, running toward the girl who sat, knees hunched under her chin, face in her hands, sobbing.

Harry stood over her, dripping lake water. He said urgently, “Are you hurt?” She did not answer.

Diz suddenly waded out of the lake. “Jesus H. Christ,” he yelled to the girl. “Your hair was on fire, you must be burned.”

Harry pushed back the girl’s hair and inspected her. She closed her eyes, seeming to await his verdict, as though, Harry thought, she felt nothing. He saw there were no burns on her face, but that she was in shock. In the background, fire engines clanged along the lake road.

“We’ve got to get her out of here,” he said to the boy. “I’ll carry her to the boat, you come back with us.”

Even in her soaked jeans, Harry thought the girl was light as a child. The word “waif” came to mind as he laid her down in the stern while Diz, who knew a thing or two about outboards from many summers at the lake, jerked the motor to life. They skimmed toward the Osbornes’ jetty where his family stood, illuminated like a row of cardboard figures, as were the occupants of every other lake house, all staring stunned at the inferno.

A police helicopter clattered suddenly, its searchlights beaming down on the boat. The girl moaned again, hiding her eyes with her hands. Harry wished he had a blanket to cover her but there had been no time to think. All he had on were his soaked striped boxers; his sweatpants and sweater were still on the lake path where he’d left them, along with the dog, while he swam first to his own jetty to get the boat, because a boat was the only way he was going to get to this girl in time. Oddly, despite the burning hair, as far as he could see her face was unharmed; even her hair seemed okay, thanks no doubt to her quick thinking, diving into the lake like that. He would never forget the halo of fire around her head, though.

Suddenly, she opened her eyes and looked at him; big clear blue eyes drowning in terror. “My mother,” she whispered.

Harry turned to look back at the inferno. He knew there was no hope.

The search-and-rescue squad brought the helicopter in low. Harry told Diz to switch off the outboard motor. The small boat floated silently as the rescuer swung himself down and with Harry’s help got the girl into the mesh stretcher to be hauled up and inside. She was already being wrapped in a foil blanket as the pilot gave the thumbs-up and took to the skies again. She would be in a hospital in Boston within half an hour. Not knowing the extent of her injuries, Harry hoped it would be soon enough.

He was thinking about that second boat he’d seen on the lake and about who was in it. It had to be a local, someone who knew how to maneuver the lake in darkness, knew what he was doing. He’d thought it might be the local oddball, Len Doutzer, it had looked like him anyway, but he could be wrong. Later, he would check Len out though, ask if it was him, and if so exactly what he was doing there when that house caught on fire.





9


Boston, Massachusetts

It was close to four that same morning when Homicide Detective Carlo Rossetti pulled his five-year-old stick-shift black BMW, tires screeching, into the lot outside the converted waterfront warehouse, now known as the Moonlightin’ Club. He ground through the gears into park, slid out of the front seat, slammed the door shut, and gave the car an affectionate pat.

He stood for a minute in the lemon-yellow streetlight, hearing the silence. Rossetti was thirty-six years old and good-looking and he knew it. He fastened his Italian leather jacket, buttoned his immaculate white shirt to the neck, adjusted his Hermès tie—the one with the tiny gold dragons, a gift from a woman who liked him—slicked back his already slick black hair, then, satisfied, sauntered casually into the club.