Lake Thirteen (13 page)

“Go away, Albert, go back to your girl,” Robert said, letting go of the bucket and turning away from the well. His voice sounded tired rather than angry, resigned. “I don’t want to be a part of this anymore.”

“Robert!” His voice cracked in despair and sadness, and Robert stopped walking. “I love you, you know that. I want us to be together when we go to the city—”

“What would be the point?” Robert’s voice sounded weary, and I could sense how tired and broken he was. He’d been run out of Boston for loving another boy, accused of all kinds of things, and he’d come here to collect himself and put his life back together, to deny the urges that got him into trouble out in Boston and find a woman, live a decent life.

He hadn’t counted on finding Albert, his Bertie, and falling in love all over again.

He loves me, he does,
Bertie whispered to me inside my head,
and I love him.

“I’m sorry,” Albert whispered. “But I kissed her—I kissed her for us.”

Robert turned and looked back, his pain written all over his face. “For us?” He half smiled. “And how do you figure that, my Bertie?”

And when I heard him say the word
Bertie,
I knew. I recognized the voice I’d heard, even though it had sounded empty and hollow as the word had swirled through the woods at night. I’d been wrong, so wrong, Bertie was Albert and Robert was calling him, still calling for him, all these years later.

“He knows, Robbie.” Bertie’s voice cracked. “He suspects. I know he’s written to Boston about you—about why you left, he saw something—”

The words affected Robert, the color draining out of his face, and he swayed on his feet, reaching out and touching the brick base of the well so he didn’t fall.

“No,” he whispered. “How—how can it be?”

“Molly told him,” Albert’s face twisted in a sneer. “She suspects—and she’s jealous and angry. That was why I kissed her, Robbie. I need to convince her she’s wrong, that there’s nothing between you and me.” His voice broke again. “If I have to spend the summer making love to her to protect you, so be it, Robert, I will do it. I will do whatever I have to do to make sure that nothing ever happens to you. I love you.”

Robert held out his hand, and Albert took it, pressing it to his lips.

Then I felt it.

The darkness, the evil, was coming like a shadow over the sun.

And it was dangerous, consumed with fury and anger, so consumed with the rage it was close to crossing the line into madness.

It was terrifying.

I wanted to scream at them to run, but there was nothing I could do.
Watch,
the voice said inside my head again,
watch so you will understand and you will know what you have to do.

I turned and saw the man, and my heart lurched.

If Robert looked like me, and Albert like Marc, the man on the path carrying the shovel was a dead ringer for Mr. Krueger.

My stomach twisted into a knot of horror.

But somehow, I’d always known.

He was a big man, thickly built from hard work cutting down trees and swinging an ax or a hammer. His arms were thick, his shoulders were thick, and so was his neck. I’d never realized before just how big Mr. Krueger was. He was wearing suspenders holding up his black wool trousers and a red and black flannel shirt, and his face was twisted in anger and rage.

“Take your foul sinner’s hands off my son!” he shouted, and frightened birds took off in droves from the trees around the clearing.

Robert and Albert sprang apart.

“I wanted to believe the little slut was a liar,” he went on as he came into the clearing, his grip on the shovel with his left hand tightening so that his knuckles turned white. “I didn’t want to believe that any son of mine could be so twisted, so sick, so perverted. But here you are, with your arms around a man, acting like a woman. Is that what I raised, another girl child?”

Albert stepped forward, his chin going up in the air. “Papa, it’s not what you think—it’s not a sin. I love him.”

The slap sent Albert sprawling on his back, and Robert stepped forward, in between the son and his angry father.

“Don’t hurt him,” Robert said softly. “I am to blame. Don’t punish him for the sin I led him into.”

Albert was getting to his feet as his father lifted the shovel and swung it.

The sound of Robert’s skull cracking echoed through the woods as his body went down, a trickle of blood coming out of his mouth.

“He’s not dead,” Albert said, almost drunkenly, his face white in shock as he staggered over to where Robert’s lifeless body lay. “No, he can’t be dead, I don’t believe it. He’s not dead.”

And he looked up at his father, his face twisted in hatred. “Murderer! You’ll hang for this!” He got to his feet. “If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll see you hang! I hate you! I hate you!”

And then his face changed, and he ran. He ran through the bushes, down the path heading to where the beaver pond was, running as quickly as he could, terrified because he knew now that his father had crossed the line, had gone completely insane, and was going to kill him, he was no longer his father’s son but some kind of monster that needed to be destroyed, and so he ran, his heart in his throat even as he sobbed while he ran, the shock and horror that Robert was dead, his father had killed Robert and he hated, oh, how he hated.

He stumbled and fell, and looked up to see his father, carrying the shovel stained with Robert’s blood, the evil glint in his father’s eyes as he raised the shovel and brought it down on his son’s head.

Bertie.

And as his body died, as his soul separated from his flesh, he saw Robert, on the other bank. And then he faded away.

And the light began to fade and I felt Albert slipping away from me, slipping away from me like he was dying all over again, a hundred and six years later he was dying again, and as my eyes began to focus and I could see the flame of the candle, and I knew I was weeping, there were tears coming out of my eyes, and I knew—I knew as surely as I knew my name was Scotty Thompson, I knew what this had all been about, all along, there had always been more going on here just as Carson had suspected, but we’d always been wrong.

And I blinked, and he was gone from my mind as if he’d never been there, and I let go of Rachel’s and Teresa’s hands and wiped at my eyes.

“Mr. Tyler killed them both,” I said as they all stared at me, their eyes wide open and their faces pale. “I don’t understand it all, I don’t understand how it works, the spirit world or whatever you want to call it, but they’ve been waiting all these years.” I turned and looked at the well. “Mr. Tyler threw Robert’s body down the well, along with the shovel he used to kill them both. He wrecked the well so no one would ever know that was really where Robert Shelby was. He lied and spent the rest of his life making sure that in death they remained apart. They truly loved each other.”

I got up and grabbed the flashlight and walked over to the well. I picked up a rock and smashed away at the rotting boards a murderer had used to seal the well. Once the hole was big enough, I pointed the flashlight down the well.

And there, on the dried bottom, a skull grinned back up at me.

I turned to the others. “I think we now know what Albert wanted us to know, all along.”

I felt an enormous relief, like the forest emitted a big sigh.

And it seemed, out of the corner of my eye, I saw them again—Albert and Robert—putting their arms around each other.

You know what you have to do.

I got up and ran away from the clearing. I could hear the others calling after me, but I couldn’t stop. I had to get back to the lodge, back to the game room where the Wi-Fi was so my phone would work.

Marc was in danger.

That was what it had all been about, from the very beginning.

History repeating itself.

His father took his phone. His father’s crazy, he always has been, there’s always been something wrong with him.

I remembered the joy I’d felt that first night in the cemetery and now knew it for what it was—joy and relief that finally the cycle could be broken, that I was there and the two of them somehow could reach me.

My emotions were out of control as I reached the fork in the trail and turned toward the lodge. I could hear the others coming after me as I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. I kept running, tears running down the side of my face.

In my head I was getting flashes of it.

I was inside the Krueger house. I could smell something cooking—lasagna, maybe, and garlic. I saw him sitting at his worktable in the basement. Marc’s phone was there, open and on, and I could see text messages. I could see the anger and fury and madness in Mr. Krueger’s eyes as he opened the desk drawer and pulled out a gun, checking the chamber for bullets.

I ran faster, my lungs contracting and tears streaming out of my eyes, a pain stabbing through me in the side, but I couldn’t stop running, I had to be able to get Marc on the phone and warn him to get out of the house—

Mr. Krueger was climbing the stairs, the gun in his hand.

I burst out of the woods and ran across the parking lot. I pulled open the door and saw Annie Bartlett staring as I ran across the carpet. I heard my mother call my name, but I ignored her as I saw the blessed bars finally show up on my screen.

I stopped, gasping for air, as I pulled up Marc’s entry in my address book. Sweat and tears rolled down the sides of my face as my trembling finger pushed his home number, and I slapped the phone to the side of my face.

Marc answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Marc—” I could barely talk, I was breathing so hard. I tried to catch my breath, form the words.

“Scotty? Are you all right?”

“You…need to get out of the house, now!”

“Dad?” There was a clatter as the phone dropped, and I could hear everything in the background.

“No!”
I heard Mrs. Krueger scream.

I heard a gunshot and sank to my knees.

A scream.

My entire body went numb.

I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Scotty?’” Marc said.

“Marc?”

He sounded strange. “I have to hang up.” His voice was weirdly monosyllabic. “My dad…my mom…he was going to kill me…”

“What happened?”

“Have to call 911.”

The call was disconnected.

“Is he okay?” Teresa asked.

I looked up at my friends. Their faces were white, their eyes wide.

I nodded.

And everything went black.

The airport in Albany was a small one, with only a few gates, so despite the fact we were all going in different directions we were able to sit together until the flights started boarding.

“It’ll be okay.” Rachel gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Marc and his mom will be fine, you’ll see.”

Mrs. Krueger had gotten between her husband and her son when he’d come upstairs with the gun, murder on his mind. She’d fought him for the gun, and it had gone off, killing him. She hadn’t been charged with anything yet, Marc had told me, but he felt guilty. He was blaming himself for everything, no matter how much I’d tried to explain to him it wasn’t his fault.

But it was hard to do over the phone or through text messages. I hoped I could make him understand everything better face to face.

I hoped.

They called our flight, and my parents moved toward the gate to board.

I turned to my friends for one last good-bye.

Since the séance, the week had been kind of crazy.

The discovery of the skeleton had been a bit of a nine days’ wonder in North Hollow. We’d been interviewed by the police, of course, and they’d found a waterproof satchel with the whole skeleton down there.

It was Robert Shelby.

I hugged everyone in turn and said good-bye.

“Tell Marc we can’t wait to meet him,” Teresa whispered in my ear.

“I will.” I smiled back at her.

Carson walked with me to the gate. We hugged one last time, and I said, “You know, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“I mean, I get it—you know, that Albert was tied to the place because he died violently, and had the time to hate his father…but Robert? Why was Robert still there, calling for Albert? I mean, he died violently, but…”

Carson took his glasses off and rubbed them with his T-shirt. He cleared his throat. “I don’t pretend to know all the answers, Scotty…and my theory is kind of, I don’t know, kind of sentimental.” He put his glasses back on. “But how could Robert rest as long as Albert wasn’t?” His eyes filled with tears. “If it was you, and it was Marc, could you? Or would you spend however long it took, calling him? Wanting him to come with you?”

I wiped at my own eyes and hugged him.

I boarded the plane.

Rest in peace, Albert and Robert.

Greg Herren is a New Orleans-based author and editor. Former editor of
Lambda Book Report
, he is also a co-founder of the Saints and Sinners Literary Festival, which takes place in New Orleans every May. He is the author of ten novels, including the Lambda Literary Award winning
Murder in the Rue Chartres
, called by the
New Orleans Times-Picayune
“the most honest depiction of life in post-Katrina New Orleans published thus far.” He co-edited
Love, Bourbon Street: Reflections on New Orleans
, which also won the Lambda Literary Award. He has published over fifty short stories in markets as varied as
Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine
to the critically acclaimed anthology
New Orleans Noir
to various websites, literary magazines, and anthologies.

A long-time resident of New Orleans, Greg was a fitness columnist and book reviewer for Window Media for over four years, publishing in the LGBT newspapers
IMPACT News
,
Southern Voice
, and
Houston Voice
. He served a term on the Board of Directors for the National Stonewall Democrats, and served on the founding committee of the Louisiana Stonewall Democrats. He is currently employed as a public health researcher for the NO/AIDS Task Force.