Stillhouse Lake (Stillhouse Lake #1)(14)

We’re halfway around the lake before Lanny, gasping, calls a halt to lean against a swaying pine. I’m not winded yet, but my calf muscles are burning and the points of my hips ache, and I stretch and keep up a light in-place jog while my daughter catches her breath. “You okay?” I ask. Lanny gives me a filthy look. “That’s a yes?”

“Sure,” Lanny says. “Whatever. Why do we have to make this so Olympic-level?”

“You know why.”

Lanny looks away. “Same reason you signed me up with that Krav Maga freak last year.”

“I thought you liked Krav Maga.”

She shrugs, still studying some fronds down by her shoes. “I don’t like thinking I need it.”

“Neither do I, baby. But we have to face facts. There are dangers out there, and we need to be ready. You’re old enough to get that.”

Lanny straightens up. “Okay. Guess I’m ready. Try not to run me lame this time, Terminator Mom.”

That’s hard for me. While I was still Gina, but after The Event, I’d taken up running, and it had been grueling and exhausting until I built up my strength. Now, when I stop holding myself back, I run like I feel breath on my neck, as if I’m running for my life. It’s not healthy or safe, and I’m well aware that driving myself that hard is a form of self-punishment, and also an expression of the fear I live with every day.

I forget, despite my best efforts. I’m not even aware of Lanny falling back, gasping, limping, until I’m around a curve and realize that I’m running alone in the shadow of the pines. Not even sure where I lost her.

I end up stretching against a tree and, finally, perching on a handy old boulder as I wait. I see her in the distance, walking slowly, limping a bit, and I feel a surge of guilt. What kind of a mother am I, running a kid into the ground like that?

That sixth sense I’ve developed suddenly drenches me in adrenaline, and I straighten up and turn my head.

Someone’s there.

I catch sight of a person standing in the shadows of the pines, and my nerves—never calm—go tight. I slide off the boulder and into a ready stance, and I face the shadow head-on. “Who is it?”

He gives me a dry, nervous laugh and shuffles out. It’s an old man, skin like dark, dry paper, gray whiskers, gray curls tight against his scalp. Even his ears droop. He leans heavily on a cane. “Sorry, miss. Wasn’t meaning to worry you. I was just looking at the boats. Always like the lines of them. Never was much of a sailor, though. I spent my time on dry land.” He wears an old jacket with military patches on it . . . artillery patches. Not World War II, but Korea, Vietnam, one of those less clear-cut conflicts. “I’m Ezekiel Claremont, live right over there up the hill. Been here since half forever. Everybody this side of the lake calls me Easy.”

I’m ashamed for assuming the worst, and I advance and offer my hand. He has a firm, dry grip, but his bones feel fragile beneath it. “Hi, Easy. I’m Gwen. We live up over there, near the Johansens.”

“Aw, yeah, you’re some new folks. Nice to meet you. Sorry I haven’t been up that way, but I don’t do as much walking these days. Still healing up since I broke my hip six months back. Don’t get old, young lady—it’s a pain in the ass.” He turns as Lanny lurches to a stop a few feet away and braces herself, bent over with her hands on her thighs. “Hello. You okay, there?”

“Fine,” Lanny gasps. “Peachy. Hi.”

I don’t quite laugh. “This is my daughter, Atlanta. Everybody calls her Lanny. Lanny, this is Mr. Claremont. Easy, for short.”

“Atlanta? I was born in Atlanta. Fine city, full of life and culture. Miss it sometimes.” Mr. Claremont nods decisively to Lanny, who returns the gesture after a guarded look at me. “Well, I’d better get myself on home. Takes me a while to get up that hill. My daughter keeps after me to sell my place and move somewhere easier to get around, but I’m not ready to give up this view just yet. You know what I mean?”

I do. “You going to be okay?” I ask, because I can see his house, and it’s an impressive distance uphill for a man with a bad hip and a cane.

“Fine, fine, thank you. I’m old, not decrepit. Not yet. Besides, the doctor says it’s good for me.” He laughs. “What’s good for you never feels good, my experience.”

“Boy, is that true,” Lanny agrees. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Claremont.”

“Easy,” he says, starting his way up the hill. “You run safe, now!”

“We will,” I say, then turn a sweaty grin on my daughter. “Race you the rest of the way.”

“Come on! I’m practically dead here!”

“Lanny.”

“I’ll walk, thanks. You run if you want.”

“I was kidding.”

“Oh.”





2


We’ve almost made it home again when my phone pings with a text message. It’s an anonymous number, and hackles immediately go stiff at the back of my neck. I come to a stop and step off the road. Lanny gleefully jogs on by.

I swipe and open. It’s from Absalom; it has his cryptic little text signature as the first character: ?. Then, Are you anywhere near Missoula?

He never asks exactly where we are, and I never tell. I type back, Why?