There’s not much hunting that goes on in the summer. The acres of land beyond the pond are privately owned by the Latham family. They don’t allow anyone to hunt there, but it’s not unheard of for folks to shoot guns on their own property.
A quiet moment passes as we wait to see if there’s anything more. After a few seconds of nothing happening and the eeriness of it already fading, everyone slowly winds back up to normal.
Wyatt, with a slippery beer-grin and the rope still in his hand, swings out over the water, releasing at the highest peak. The water erupts around him, causing a wake throughout the small pond.
He’s got Aunt Violet’s and Adaire’s dark hair, minus the galaxy of freckles the rest of us inherited. I’m the oddball in the family with my strawberry blond.
Davis joins the others. After a quick hello, I duck behind a holly berry bush, slink out of my sundress and into my bikini. Dark movement to my right snags my attention, but by the time I turn my head, the black shadow is disappearing into the branches.
Cautiously watching the woods, I stuff my clothes into my bag, then make my way back.
If Adaire were here, she’d be sporting her silver one-piece that looked like a blanket from the Space Shuttle. I never understood where she got the ideas for her bizarre clothing. But they helped get her into an art institute for fashion design, so what do I know?
I climb over the cragged rocks to get to the larger flat boulder people lie out on. The muted gray surface burns the bottoms of my feet after I kick off my flip-flops.
“You doing alright, Weatherly?” Raelean asks, handing me a beer.
I shrug, then take the beer and gulp down a good swig of it, surveying the motley crew of twentysomethings I’m proud to call friends.
Wyatt’s a country boy through and through. From his John Deere baseball cap to his plaid button-ups down to his boots. He’s an oak tree, physically and at heart. Wyatt became man of the house after Uncle Doug died years ago.
Raelean’s a head shorter than me but she’s feisty, with an I’m-gonna-kick-your-ass-if-I-don’t-like-the-way-you’re-looking-at-me attitude. Willowy is what she calls me. Makes me think about the willow switches Grandmama used to whoop my ass if I didn’t mind her just right. She waitresses down at the Watering Hole most evenings and every weekend.
Davis is tall and dark and lean. He and Adaire made an oddly perfect pair. Now that she’s gone and with his EMT training almost finished, I doubt he’ll hang around here much longer.
So it’s only me that doesn’t have it all figured out just yet. I wasn’t the college-going type, never seemed to get much out of high school. I was waiting—for what, I’m not sure, something, anything to happen, to call to me, besides a soul-song. Adaire used to ask how long I was willing to wait to start my life. I never gave her an answer.
Wyatt pulls Davis to the side, offering a few secret words. Brothers, despite their skin colors, bonded through Adaire. Davis chokes back his emotions. Something men tend to do, no matter how much they hurt.
“See any more of Stone Rutledge lately?” Raelean asks.
“No, ma’am,” I reply as I shake my head. “One run-in with the law this summer was enough for me, thank you very much.”
“That may be, but what are we going to do about Stone? He can’t just get away with this. It’s been over a month and I’m still mad as hell, can’t imagine how you must be feeling.”
I appreciate Raelean wants to take this on with me. We’ve become friends over the last year since she’s moved here. But this isn’t her burden. It’s personal. A family problem.
“He did get away with it, though, didn’t he?” I take another chug of my beer before setting it and my drawstring bag down next to her. I stand at the edge of the diving rock and tug my highlighter-yellow bikini from Walmart out of my ass crack. “Besides, we aren’t going to do anything. If anyone’s going to handle Stone, it’ll be me” is all I say before I plunge into the water to wash off the gasoline paw prints still ghosting on my skin.
Water trickles down my face after I come up for air. Far off behind me, I hear Raelean talking to Wyatt and Davis about a barbecue she’s having at her house on Sunday; they both nod in agreement, like it sounds like a nice idea. Davis moves on to ask what we think that gunshot was all about. I hum an I don’t know, not sure if he hears me, but I don’t engage further and stop swimming as something in the woods catches my attention.
I watch. And wait.
Their murmuring conversation is a buzzing gnat in the background. I slink deeper into the water and glide smoothly away. Eyes skimming the woods for another glimpse.
There it is again. I catch a darkness moving in the depths of the woods.
Not low and stalking like a coyote. Nor cautious and gentle like a deer. No, this is something in the tree canopy that scatters and compacts, then scatters and compacts again and again.
Curious, I swim closer to the other side, farther from the group, their voices now a distant mumble, tracking the erratic movement. The waves of the water rock the horizon line along the shore, blurring the edge of the woods. Eventually, the darkness stays tight together until a shape forms just beyond the tree line.
I squint to make out the shape—a man emerges in the shadowed space. I rear back, taken by surprise.
He isn’t coming from the direction of the church. Nor in the direction of the gunshot.
Shade and small breaks of sunlight through the trees camouflage him; I can’t quite make out who it is. Just a blur of dark hair and pale skin dressed in all black. Or maybe that’s the shadows?
From behind, I hear the others hollering at me, their voices growing louder as I return to my surroundings.
“He’s calling for you, Weatherly!” Wyatt yells out over the pond, and I turn, confused.
Wyatt jabs a finger in the air in the direction of the church; so I look that way to see what he’s getting all worked up over.
On the other side of the pond, Ricky is waving for me to come over to him.
Good lord. What now? I swim back to the rock to see what the fuss is all about.
“What do you think he wants?” Wyatt asks as he pulls me out of the water. No towel, so I stand there, dripping.
“Who knows? He probably just doesn’t understand what ‘it’s over’ means,” I mumble, but then I realize there’s a panic to Ricky’s stride. Everyone stands, catching on to the sense of urgency.
I glance back over to the trees where the shadowy figure was, but there’s nothing there now.
Ricky cups his hands around his mouth and calls my name. Contrary to my good sense, I head over, picking up on a something-ain’t-right vibe.
“Hey.” Ricky labors to catch his breath—courtesy of years of smoking. “We got a call at the gas station. From the Latham family. About the boys. They said—” More labored breathing. “They said...fetch the Death Talker.”
FIVE
