Lineage(109)

The edge of a license plate peeked from beneath a patch of dark green algae just above the chrome. There was no mistaking the rounded blue border and the faded yellow background. The light blue leg of a letter had been wiped clean. Lance rubbed his hand across the surface, the hidden letters and numbers emerging just as he knew they would.

189-GRR.

He shone his light farther down the row of what he had thought were boulders, their shapes now familiar to him. The flattened hump of a roof, the rounded shape of a fender, the dull shine of chrome beneath layers of time. They stretched off into darkness, out of the light’s reach.

Movement made him turn his head to the right, and his eyes met the empty sockets of Rhinelander, who hung motionless beside him, his blond hair splayed out around his head.

The scream escaped Lance in a rush of bubbles so thick it veiled the ghost completely from view. He kicked toward the surface, the flashlight falling from his hand unnoticed. He swam upward, his arms anticipating the feeling of breaking the surface, while his legs waited for the cold grip of a long-dead hand. His chest began to hitch reflexively, seeking air, though his mind screamed that there was none to be had. The darkness of the lake looked like it was beginning to lighten, then it all became the same opaque shade. I’m passing out, Lance thought, even as he kicked feebly one last time.

A half-lidded eye hung above him in the void, its flawless white pupil probing him as he floated there. He imagined it was God looking at him, but he felt no warmth in the gaze, only indifference and a harsh scrutiny. It wasn’t God, or anything like him. He realized then under its cyclopean gaze that there was no God. Only the floating darkness of eternal apathy. No warmth, only the cold understanding of absolute desolation, the hopelessness of being utterly forsaken.

A cold rushing sensation flowed up from the pit of Lance’s stomach and forced its way out of his open mouth. He vomited lake water in a gout that flew up and landed on his upturned face. He coughed and rolled onto his side in the water. More brackish liquid surged from inside him, and he sucked in air greedily when the racking coughs passed. He felt his arms and legs begin to tread water, and turned so he faced the shore. He could see the gazebo glowing warmly, and he began to swim toward it. When he finally chanced putting his feet down, he felt the grazing touch of the bottom and began to walk, pushing with his arms to help propel him forward. Soon, the grass was beneath his feet and he moved up the forever climb of the hill. Then the door was open and he stood in the warmth of the gazebo. The fire crackled as it chewed the wood into cinder, and Lance saw arms held out before him—he supposed they were his—to the edge of the fire. All at once, he began to shake, just a shiver at first and then harder. He felt that the chattering of his teeth would jar the fillings from his mouth. He shook and then, just as fast as they had begun, the tremors eased, and he lowered himself into the lawn chair after throwing yet another piece of wood on the flames.

His eyes darted to the windows, although he couldn’t see anything beyond the reflection of the room. He wondered if his light still burned on the lake bed, if it shone on Gerald’s license plate, or perhaps on Gerald himself. His mind went back to the humps on the bottom of the lake. The cars. How many were there?

There’s so many, Andy’s voice answered in a hollow tone. At least now Lance knew what he’d meant. The fact that a man’s car, missing for over forty years, sat submerged along with God knew how many more overwhelmed him for a moment. Rhinelander had been trying to show him all this time. At first, he had just been a character in Lance’s mind, a figment of his imagination that had taken shape within the story. Then he had appeared in earnest, within Lance’s dreams and in the lake itself. Gerald had been trying to lead him to the car. To show him that he had been murdered.

There, Lance thought, at last giving in to the idea that had been building in his mind since seeing the license plate beneath the cold waves. Gerald Rhinelander had been murdered by someone in the house. His father’s face floated before his eyes, but how old had Anthony been at the time? Eleven? Twelve? It didn’t make sense. The only other possibility was Erwin. John had said the man had been violent—but murder? And not just one person but, from the looks of it, many.

The thoughts swirled around inside his head too fast to make sense of them. Soon he felt his eyelids beginning to close, and he realized that no amount of thinking would accomplish anything tonight.

Standing, he peeled off his still-soaking boxer shorts and hung them to dry on the back of the chair. His skin dried and warmed in the extreme heat of the fire, but he shivered as he slipped, naked, into the folds of the sleeping bag.