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Shadow Lake

SHADOW LAKE

a chainbooks publication

Starter Chapter by William J. Humphrey, Jr.

Final Chapter by Patty Greywacz

Alternate Ending by Sarah Madderra

Edited by Nancy Arant Williams, Gregory S. Humphrey

and Emily Davis



Publication Information

Copyright 2011

chainbooks, llc

all rights reserved. No part of this book may be

reproduced in any form,

except for the inclusion of brief quotations in review,

without

permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN-13: 978-0-982-05461-1

First Edition - October 2011

The publisher welcomes feedback at

[email protected]

chainbooks is on the internet at www.chainbooks.com

Additional copies may be purchased by visiting

www.chainbooksbooks.com, or writing to the publisher PO Box 1231 Dandridge, TN 37725 USA



ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

chainbooks is an on-line social network for authors from all walks

of life to gather with the goal of creating manuscripts one chapter

at a time. Shadow Lake is our first such publication that has

combined the collaborative efforts of twenty-four different writers

of various skills, experiences and nationalities.

While there are a tremendous amount of people that deserve

mention on these pages we would be remiss if we did not mention

our Partners and Board Members that worked to get chainbooks

off of the ground (Sallyann, David, James, Matthew, Rory and

Patty) our Investors that funded our start up, our friends and

families that encouraged a dream that took two years to come to

fruition, my wife Sallyann who has worked tirelessly throughoutthis process and never stopped loving me, our friends Mark and

Angie, Val and Pastor David who motivated us, all the authors

who’s positive words stimulated and encouraged us when we

wanted to give up and Christine Rockwell who left us too early

but not too early to be an inspiration to press on (sorry the first

book wasn’t about you).

Thank you and we all hope you enjoy our efforts. Please read this

with the understanding that twenty-four people combined on this

effort, writing each chapter in less than five days and none had

any earthly idea what was happening next or where it was going,

but we hope it entertains you as much as it has entertained us.



Contributing Authors

William J. Humphrey, Jr., Ohio, USAJ. Matthew Evon, Tennessee, USA

Gregory S. Humphrey, Tennessee, USA

Rory Anderson, Perth, Australia

Tim Anderson, New Zealand

Traci Carnes, South Carolina, USA

Brooke Williams, Nebraska, USA

Michaela Graf-Jones, Florida, USAMarie Williams, Maryland, USA

Sue Tripp, Pennsylvania, USA

Kate Barber, Tennessee, USA

Mya Barrett, Georgia, USA

David Higginbotham, Virginia, USA

Leah Hughes, Georgia, USA

David Velarde, Tennessee, USARochelle Devoe, Colorado, USA

Jes Starr, New York, USA

Liora Halevi, Massachussetts, USA

Vicki Miller, Idaho, USA

Tonya Stokes, Louisiana, USA

Angel Granata, Colorado, USA

Patty Greywacz, New Hampshire, USASarah Madderra, Missouri, USA

Contributing Editors

Nancy Arant Williams, Missouri, USA

Gregory Humphrey, Tennessee, USA

Emily Davis, Virginia, USA



IntroductionThe initial author’s concept of Shadow Lake was that a retired

Police Officer from Chicago, Illinois was visiting a small town

in Wisconsin on a weekend trip. The visitor was attempting to

get back to nature, visit an old friend, determine if this was to

be his retirement home and to reaffirm his relationship with

God. With the assistance of the creative minds of twenty-three writers, Shadow Lake has much more to offer. Follow

all of the twists and turns imaging how you may have changed

the story. Each writer was given five days to read the previous

chapter and write their chapter. Never knowing what would

be put in place before them, that is the intrigue of a

chainbooks publication and the mystique of

Shadow Lake.



Chapter One

The gravel of the old road crunched under the

weight of the pickup’s tires as it slowly made its way

down the grade. The side of the mountain was lined with

tall pines among outcroppings of boulders. A narrow,

potholed stretch, it had been a long hard ride up, andnow Cliff Morgan was hoping it would be a very quick

ride down. He had to pee like a racehorse. He glanced

over at his coffee thermos. Coffee may be the work of the

devil . On the other hand, maybe he was just getting older

and his bladder couldn’t take the strain like it used to.

Out the passenger’s side window, he could see the

glistening surface of Shadow Lake—his destination.

Maybe his retirement locale. Maybe his final resting

place. The town nestled around one end of the lake

looking small and quaint—picturesque. Just as it had

been described to him by his old friend, Ben Jackson.Ben had moved here almost twelve years ago and told

him that the place was just about as peaceful and quiet as

you would ever want a place to be. He was looking

forward to seeing Ben again and reliving old times.

Thoughts of Ben and the little town vanished into

thin air as he came back to the reality of his situation. He

still had to pee. He reluctantly pulled the truck over and



stopped. He got out and paused long enough to look

once more at the lake. He took a deep breath of the fresh,crisp air and then hurried around to the back of the truck

and did his business.

The rough gravel road eventually spilled out onto

a newly paved section that led directly into town.

Simpson’s Creek was located just this side of town. A

short, rickety-looking wooden bridge represented the

line between Shadow Lake and the rest of the world. A

sign on the far side of the bridge proclaimed the town to

be “A Peaceful Place.” Cliff chuckled.

He pulled his pickup into the first empty spot

along the beginning of the street. Stepping out hesurveyed the little town. A narrow main street populated

with single story buildings. A combination grocery store

and gas station. A post office that looked much like it

had been a private home converted many years ago. A

small bait shop. The sheriff’s office.

A sheriff’s office, he thought to himself. I’ll have

to stop in and say hello.

Cliff unzipped his jacket. There, his detective’s

badge hung from his belt. He touched the badge, by

force of habit. He always carried it, even on vacation. He

believed that being a detective was a twenty-four-hour-a-day, seven-day-a-week job. Always on. Always ready.

Maybe that was why he was thinking so hard about



retirement. He felt weary and worn down by always

being on. He zipped his jacket and started a leisurelystroll down the main street.His first stop would be the

bait shop. Entering the place, he had to make sure he

didn’t bump his head. He was not a tall man, five-feet

ten inches, but the place had a very low doorway. Once

inside his senses were barraged with all sorts of musty

smells and a wide variety of antique fishing gear. Most

of it looked like it had probably been around when he

was a kid.

The old man who ran the place popped up from a

chair stationed behind the counter. “Can I ’elp ya?” The

man had a New England accent, Bostonian if he wasn’tmistaken. Cliff liked to play a little game with himself

trying to pinpoint the exact origin of a person’s dialect.

He was guessing Boston on this one.

“No. No. I’m just looking around.” He picked up a

few items of miscellaneous fishing gear, slowly turned

them over in his hand, studying them for a time, and

then put them back in their respective bins.

“You ain’t from around here, are ya?”

“No. I just came to town to look at some property

about half way across the lake there.” He absently

gestured toward the lake.The old man peered out the window of his shop

and took note of the license plate on Cliff’s pickup.



“Illinoy. I figure Chicago, by the sound of ya.”

For the second time that afternoon Cliff had tochuckle. He thought only police detectives studied

dialects.

“Yeah, you’re right. South side of Chicago. I’m

getting ready to retire and hoping to set up housekeeping

down here.”

The old man pulled a piece of wood out of his

back pocket and a knife from under the counter and

began to whittle nonchalantly.

“Well, I can tell ya this, mister. You couldn’t have

picked a finer spot to settle down. The people here are

real nice and—well, you know the country’s just aboutas pretty as it gets.”

They both looked out the window toward the foot

of Bald Mountain just on the other side of the creek. The

lake had already started turning a deep, dark blue in the

shadow of the mountain, just after the sun crested its

peak. It was a far cry from Chicago.

Cliff sighed. “How long have you been here?”

The old man paused. “Goin’ on nearly ten years

now. I was an angler ‘fore that. Commercial, had a rig

out of a little town north of Boston.”

“Boston.” You nailed that one. “Why did youquit?”



The old man looked at Cliff as if he’d just asked

the dumbest question he’d ever heard. “Fishin’s hard—a job for young men. Besides that, the kind of winters we

had. Not suited to an old man like me. Not suited to no

one really. Colder than a witch’s ti ...” He stopped

himself. He started back in on his piece of wood. “You

planning on doing any fishin’?”

Cliff didn’t even have to think about it. He nodded

enthusiastically. “Oh, yeah. If the place I’m looking at is

even half-way decent, I’ll be fishing before I unpack. “

The old man smiled, showing a few gaps where

teeth used to be. “Hey now, don’t forget to get a license.

You can pick one up at the sheriff’s office.”“I was headed up that way. I’m looking forward to

meeting him. “ The old man was trying to carve a

delicate notch cut into the wood and only half-listening

to Cliff. “Meeting who?”

“Your sheriff.” The old man smiled again. Not as

big a smile this time. “Her. Her name is Linda. Linda

Spencer. She’s been the sheriff since about three years

after I got here.”

A female sheriff. This ought to be interesting.

“Her brother was sheriff before her,” the man

continued. “Then he died in the line of duty and the townelected her to take his place.”



“In the line of duty, you say?” Cliff began taking

mental notes then stopped himself. You’re not inChicago and this isn’t an investigation. Just cool it.

“Ya. He was checking out some vandalism or

some such thing. And I guess he was maybe too close to

the road. Some drunk, some kid, or some drunken kid hit

’em. Broke his back and then left him in the ditch to

die.”

The old man bowed his head. “Tragic thing. He

was a good man.”

Cliff didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”

The old man put the stick of wood back in his rear

pocket and brushed the shavings off his coveralls.“Well, you let me know if you need any fishin’

gear, won’t ya.”

Cliff headed toward the front door, remembering

to lower his head. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you.” He

waved his hand.

“Oh, I know you will...” the old man said. Once

Cliff was outside the door, he yelled in a louder voice, “I

got the best night crawlers in this part of the county.”

While walking down the street Cliff looked up at

Bald Mountain. It towered over both the town and the

lake, a huge protective mass that sheltered the town fromthe rest of civilization.



The Post Office. He looked in through the big

picture window. Just as he thought, it was oncesomeone’s home. They had added a counter, some

shelves, P.O. boxes, and had cut a new door to a back

room. Tile flooring covered a floor that had probably

once been thick shag carpet in a living room. A young-

looking, perky blonde, wearing a light blue postal

uniform top, was busy wrapping a package for an elderly

lady. Her lips and her hands were moving a mile a

minute. People like to talk in this town, he thought.

Next was a building that Cliff had missed when he

first looked over the town. It was the smallest

barbershop he had ever seen. He cupped his hand toshade his eyes and peered in the window. One chair.

Three waiting seats. Out of date calendars hanging on

the walls. Magazines that he was sure were at least three

or four years old. He could just imagine the smell of

musty newspapers and hair tonic. He brushed his

graying mop back with his fingers and read the sign

hanging on the door. Open Tuesday, Wednesday and

Thursday 10 a.m. to 4 p.m.

“Now there’s a guy who knows the value of a long

weekend,” he said to himself. He made a mental note to

pay the barber a visit if he was still here on Tuesday. Thesheriff’s office was located a couple of doors down the

street. The door stuck a little at its bottom as Cliff tried



to open it, and he had to put a little shoulder into it. He

looked down at the scarred threshold, worn down by thescraping motion. An electronic tone sounded in one of

the back rooms to signal his entry. He heard the distant

sound of shuffling papers and then footsteps.

As he walked into the main room of the office he

noted how much it looked like all the other sheriff’s

offices he had ever been in, and he had been in a lot of

them. A counter at the front, a desk behind that, most-

wanted posters hanging on the walls, and a gun cabinet

in the corner. He felt right at home. All his life, or at

least as far back as he could remember, he had been

totally engaged in the pursuit of police work. He lovedevery part of it and had always been around others who

enjoyed the work as much as he did.

The sheriff emerged from her office holding a

small stack of papers. Skimming them as she walked,

her reading glasses were perched precariously on the end

of her nose. She was quite an attractive woman. Cliff

guessed her to be about forty-eight, maybe ten to fifteen

pounds overweight, but not fat. The extra bulk was in all

the right places and her khaki uniform blouse seemed to

fit her like a glove. She had shoulder-length blonde hair.

She did not look up until she reached the counter.“How can I help you, hon?” she asked as she took

off her glasses and looked up. Blue eyes. Smooth, clear



skin and dimples. Cliff was still making his assessment

of her and was slow to respond.“Um, a couple of things. I need to get some

directions to a friend's cabin.” He felt his face flush

slightly.

She placed the papers, face down, on the counter

top and folded her glasses on top of them.

"Well, I'll help you if I can. What's your friend's

name?”

“It's Jackson. Ben Jackson. Do you know him?”

Sheriff Spencer flashed an amused smile.

“Sweetie, around here everyone knows everyone.” She

said the words in a southern belle voice that sounded alittle sarcastic to Cliff. She motioned out the window

toward the lake. “You take the lake road about half a

mile and you'll come to Larson's Pass Road. Turn onto it

and Ben's cabin is the sixth or seventh on the right.”

“What color is it?” He had to ask the question, just

in case the directions weren't that accurate.

“It has cedar siding on it and a red roof. You'll see

it, honey. Can't miss it.”

Cliff nodded and looked around the room again in

deep thought. The sheriff watched him for a second and

then broke the awkward pause. “Are you looking tomove down here?”



Why would she ask me that? Before he could run

the possibilities in his mind, she spoke again, “I mean,Ben had mentioned that he had told a couple of his

friends about our neck of the woods, and I figured you

were probably one of them.” Her warm smile showed off

her dimples. “Besides, I know the Shaw place just went

up for sale.”

Cliff grinned. It was the same deduction he would

have made. He took a moment to look at her. Very little

makeup. She wore her age well and did not try to hide it.

Cliff appreciated that in a woman. He found her lack of

vanity both charming and refreshing. “Yes I am,” he

answered. “The Shaw's place. Is it nice?”“Sure is and it’s just about a quarter mile from

Ben’s cabin. Do you know how to get there?”

Cliff nodded. “They sent me a map and a picture.”

A quiet little buzzer went off and the sheriff looked over

at the phone, and saw one of its lights pulsing. “Excuse

me, hon. I'm the only one here.”

She listened intently and then replied, “Thanks for

the call, Cyrus. I'll get out there as soon as I can and

check it out. No, don't worry. I'll take care of it.”

She hung up and picked up the threads of the

conversation without losing a beat. “It's a newer place.They were real nice people. It's a shame they had to sell,

but Sarah had allergies and they decided to move out



West. I hope you get it.” She thrust her hand out toward

him and gave him a firm handshake, more substantialthan he had expected.

“My name's Linda Spencer.”

Suddenly Cliff realized that he hadn't introduced

himself. All of his years on the force had trained him that

the first point of business was to introduce himself. Well,

he thought, this isn't business. It's all about retirement

now. Over the past few weeks, he had been trying to

remove himself from his work mode. Maybe it was

working.

“I'm sorry. I'm Cliff Morgan.”

She smiled. “Well, it's nice to meet you, Cliff.”“You too, sheriff.” He reached for his wallet and

pulled it out of his back pocket. “The other thing I came

in for was a fishing license. I hear you sell them here.”

“Sure do.” She hastened to add, “You may want to

wait until you buy that house. There’s a significant

difference in price for residents and nonresidents, you

know.”

He shook his head and put his wallet back in his

pocket. “Well,” he said with a chuckle, “I suppose

there’s no sense in throwing money away. I’m getting

ready to retire and I may as well start thinking about budgeting now.”



She looked at him skeptically, as if she believed

he was too young to retire, and although she didn’t sayit, he still felt somewhat flattered.

He turned away from her and looked out the big

window in the front of the office. “It’s really beautiful

down here. A peaceful place, just like the sign says.”

“Well, not always.” She looked down at the note

she had just written. “That call was from an old geezer

outside of town who hasn’t got used to the fact that

young men sometimes play their music too loud.” She

smiled another amused smile. “It’s probably not all that

loud. I think Cyrus is just a little bit sweet on me.”

Cliff smiled and changed the tone of theconversation as quickly as he could, before he said

something he might later regret. “I’ve just felt the need

to take the time to smell the roses, go fishing, read a

book, all the things I never took the time to do before.”

He paused for a long moment. “My wife died several

years ago, and I guess when something like that happens

you start thinking differently about things.” He had no

intention of relating all the details. Cervical cancer. A

horrid, merciless disease that had robbed Ellen of her

will to live. All that pain, and the treatment was almost

as bad as the disease itself. Chemotherapy—injecting poison into the body in the hope that only the bad cells

will be killed off. Agony and suffering day after day.



Had it really been worth it, to extend her life for a few

more miserable years?Cliff turned his head to the side. He had no more

tears, but the memories still brought pain. God, did I

make those last few years any easier for her? Every day

I hope and pray I did. She deserved that much. She didn't

deserve to have her dignity stripped from her in such a

cruel way. There, he did it; he didn’t go on and on to

someone about Ellen. In a strange way, it felt good that

he had stopped himself.

Linda read the look on his face and changed the

subject. “So how long have you and Ben been friends?”

He stood up straighter. “We go way back. We actuallyknew each other in high school. We used to have the best

time just talking. He’s such a character, a good talker,

and so imaginative. He can convince you that he’s been

places he’s only seen in picture books.” Cliff chuckled

and Linda smiled.

This little town was going to be good for him; he

just felt it in his bones. He was already comfortable

enough to let go and relax. He hadn’t looked at his watch

since he exited his truck. In some undefinable way he

had already begun the metamorphosis from high-energy

police detective to average retired guy.“What line of work are you in?” Linda asked.



“Same as yours.” The statement seemed to catch

her a little off guard. He continued. “I work—worked for the Chicago PD twenty-six years.”

“Oh, a big city detective.” She suddenly looked

down at her watch. “Well listen, honey, you better get

going if you want to make it out to the Shaw place

before dark.”

He once again glanced out the window. “You’re

probably right. Well, it was nice meeting you.” He

touched two fingers quickly to his forehead in a sort of

mock salute. “Hopefully I'll be back soon to get that

fishing license.”

When he turned to leave, he pulled hard on theknob and heard her mutter softly, “A big city detective.”

The road was heavily shaded, rough and winding.

The trees seemed to encroach on its space and he

thought it was a good thing that the area didn’t get much

snow. It would really make it hard to get around if it did.

They probably couldn't even get a snowplow through it.

Then he wondered if the town even owned a snowplow.

He drove along for about ten minutes and was sure

he had taken a wrong turn back at the last fork when he

saw a cabin that matched the photo in his hand.



Chapter Two

It would soon be dark, so Cliff thought he would

peer through a few windows of the Shaw house. Less

than ten years old, the cedar cabin was nice but not fancy

by any means, which was just what he had been hoping

for in a retirement residence. The house seemed solid

and quite charming. He had driven down the main road

and then into the driveway that approached the south

side of the house. About ten feet behind the house was a

trickling creek in which nature had staggered large

mossy rocks that only amplified the sound of moving

water.

A long, narrow porch covered nearly the entire

front of the house, and at one end a porch swing hung

invitingly from one of the porch beams. From what he

could see through the front window he estimated it to be

about 1500 square feet, probably a three bedroom. It had

several exterior doors, including one on a back enclosed

porch that entered what appeared to be the kitchen. A

dining room in front of the kitchen had its own entrance

through a quaint set of French doors that opened onto the

front porch. He made his way around the house and

cupped his hands around his eyes at each window to

look into each room, trying to get the lay of the land

from the outside. Out of habit, he checked each knob to



see if it was locked. He ended his tour at the French door

on the front porch. On the far end of the house a smallcovered porch jutted out from the rear of the cabin,

which meant it extended almost over the creek in the

back. Again he looked through the window that, from

the inside, would have a nice view of the creek. Just

before walking away, he thought to give the usual check

to the knob of the solid back door. It was unlocked.

He assumed that Shaw or perhaps a real-estate

agent had left the door unlocked for potential buyers.

Using this as justification, he entered what was no doubt,

a small bedroom, with an open door on the left interior

wall that led to a bathroom shared with a second bedroom on the other side. The room had a solitary

porcelain light fixture in the center of the ceiling with a

seventy-five watt light bulb hanging low, waiting to light

the room. Another interior door held a position on the far

wall of the bedroom directly across from the door he had

just entered. This door was currently closed, and it

piqued his interest. The hardwood floors groaned under

his weight as he walked across the small room. The

daylight was fading fast, but the bare windows invited

the last of the light to linger. He planned to make his tour

quick; he was not fond of navigating unfamiliar roads inthe dark of night.



The closed door had the type of knob and

hardware you would see on an exterior door—the typethat took a skeleton key, which he found somewhat

intriguing. He took hold of the black knob, turned and

pulled, but it wouldn’t budge. He wondered if it was

locked, but gave it another tug, pulling harder. The door

opened, creaking in opposition as it swung wide to

reveal a closet. Another door exited the closet into

another bedroom on the far side, this one a little larger

than the last, perhaps the master bedroom. With no

central hallways there was a third bedroom on the far

side of the living room. It was an odd configuration, but

interesting. The second bedroom exited through a door into the living room that opened onto the long, covered

front porch. He really liked the large windows that made

what was actually a mid-sized room seem much larger

and more open. He could easily visualize where he

would put his large screen TV and a recliner. He was

mentally arranging his other furniture when he suddenly

heard the back door slam shut.

Startled, he quickly took a strategic position

against a wall and reached for his sidearm. But his

holster was empty; upon his arrival in town he had taken

it out and placed it under the seat of his vehicle.Believing he was in a safer place than Chicago, he had

assumed there was nothing to be concerned about, and



yet he couldn’t stifle the years of police instincts that

automatically kicked into gear. He’d been on the job toolong not to respond that way. Searching his memory he

tried to recall if the offending door had been left open or

closed when he entered through the rear porch door. He

was sure he had closed it, out of habit—standard

procedure. He decided to see if he could retrace his steps

through the house and get back to the rear bedroom by

the way of the small bathroom he noticed when he first

walked in. From the living room, he made his way

through one of the bedrooms that shared the bathroom

and then headed toward the rear door where he had

entered. The outside door was closed, and he decided hehad seen enough; by then the sunlight was all but gone.

He exited onto the porch and shut the door with force

and listened to see if the slamming sound was similar to

what he heard earlier. While it sounded like a door slam,

it certainly didn’t clear up the mystery. Maybe I

neglected to pull the door shut and the wind decided to

do it for me.

He made his way around the front of the house,

and glanced onto the porch where he saw what looked

like paper sticking out from under the welcome mat that

he hadn’t noticed on his first pass.If the Shaws had moved, leaving the house empty,

it would be the neighborly thing to do to check out the



note, possibly left by someone who didn’t know they

had moved. Plus, his law enforcement instincts couldnever resist the temptation to investigate something like

a mysterious note. He lifted the mat and picked up a

plain post card. On the front, it said only “POST

CARD.” On the other side was nothing but the numbers

“30567.” It didn’t seem like an important message,

perhaps just a set of numbers to the lock box realtors

used, but a look around told him there was no lock box.

After a moment’s pause he replaced the card, hiding it

completely under the welcome mat.

Once he settled into the seat of his truck, he

reached under the seat and felt for his thirty- eight. Thecold steel brought a familiar sense of comfort as his

fingers found the barrel of his gun right where he had

left it. At that moment he decided that, vacation or not,

he would keep his sidearm with him the next time he

decided to explore empty houses or the like. He had just

reached down and turned the key in the ignition, when a

shadow from inside the house abruptly caught his

attention at it went past a window. Had someone been in

the house when he was there? Maybe the door was

slammed by someone coming in behind him.

Cliff sat and thought about it for a few secondswhile keeping an eye on the house, trying to decide

whether it was any of his business if there was a squatter



in the cabin. What bothered him most was the idea that

someone else had been there at the same time he was andhad never announced himself. But then again, he hadn’t

gone out of his way to announce his own arrival either.

He shut off the engine and decided he would just go

knock on the front door and see who answered. As he

got out of his truck and started toward the house, he

realized it was already quite dark. The few dim rays of

the setting sun now did little to shed any light on the

cabin at all.

Reaching out he opened the screen door and

knocked on the lower part of the front door, just below

its window. No one came to the door, nor did he see anysign of life inside. He knocked again, harder this time.

When there was still no answer he turned and made his

way back to the truck, unwilling to hunt in the dark for

an unknown subject. He really liked this place and hoped

to live there sometime in the near future, but the idea of

someone squatting there without invitation really

creeped him out. Out of curiosity he waited another five

minutes, knocking intermittently, with no results. Then

he decided it was time to go inside. He made his way

back around to the back of the house where he had left

the door unlocked. It would be great to sleepaccompanied by the sounds of the creek, he thought to

himself. For a moment he indulged his imagination



trying to picture himself there, enjoying retirement,

living in the little cedar cabin, falling asleep in hisrecliner to a late night ball game with the sound of

rippling water filtering in through an open window.

Enough of wool gathering; he pulled out his thirty- eight

and reached for the knob of the back door.

As he turned the knob, it refused to budge; it was

locked. He studied the door and its hardware. It was

similar to the closet door inside the back bedroom, with

a lock made for a skeleton key. That meant that someone

would have to have a key to lock it. Who was in there?

And why were they hiding? He knocked hard on the

back door, this time calling out, “Anybody home?” Stillno answer. His frustration level was rising; he just

wanted to know what was going on. Was there a squatter

living here or someone just hiding out? Heck, it could

just be a couple of kids, now afraid that they might be in

trouble for trespassing. Whatever the case, he had to

have an answer before heading down the road.

Once again he yelled to no avail. Maybe the

shadowy figure had just been the sun playing tricks as it

set for the evening. But if that was the case it did not

explain how the unlocked door was now locked. Who

had a key? Not that a skeleton key was that hard to come by; just about any hardware store sold them, and there

were only a few different variations.



Finally he grew weary of the game and decided it

would be better to investigate the situation after a goodnight’s sleep. He made his way back around the house

again, looking in each window from a distance, looking

for signs of life inside, but there were none.

The temperature had suddenly plunged within the

past fifteen minutes, and he pulled the collar of his

jacket up around his ears to protect them from the cold

wind.

After climbing into the truck he stuck his thirty-

eight into his belt, put the key in the ignition and started

the engine; he waited a moment and then turned the heat

on high. As he put the truck into reverse and turned tolook out the rear window to back out of the driveway, he

could not help but feel that he was being watched. He

chose not even to look back as he drove away.

Tomorrow would be a new day, with plenty of time to

tour potential new homes.

He now faced the challenging task of maneuvering

down more narrow, winding roads in the dark to locate

Ben’s house. His short adrenalin rush after the door

slam, was a thing of the past, and he felt drained. He

wasn’t even retired yet but was already looking forward

to quiet, uneventful evenings. His first night in ShadowLake had been far more adventurous than he



wanted. He could only hope that Ben’s house wasn’t far

down the road and would offer a warm bed and a goodnight’s sleep.



Chapter Three

Finding Ben’s cabin turned out to be no easy task.

He had gotten the same simple directions from everyone:

just turn by the empty field near the corner, and you

can’t miss it. Right. He finally concluded that one of two

things was true: either he had taken a wrong turn, or both

the sheriff and Ben had a warped sense of distance when

measuring a quarter mile. In the headlights he could see

the reflection of snow softly falling. The farther he drove

the heavier the snowfall. Would he ever make it to Ben’s

place?

“Snow’s more here than it does in Chicago,” Cliff

murmured aloud. The words were barely out before he

realized he was doing it again—talking to Ellen as if she

were beside him, as she had been for nearly thirty years

as his best friend and companion. She had been gone for

nearly five years, but the habit remained. As always he

paused to listen, as if waiting for her to speak, even

knowing it wouldn’t happen. He still talked to her every

day either on purpose or out of simple habit.

Sheriff Spencer was the first woman he had really

noticed since Ellen’s passing. As an investigator he

couldn’t help but look at every other woman with a

jaded eye, wondering if she had killed her husband,

robbed a liquor store, or written a bad check. It was an



occupational hazard for a cop, something he couldn’t

help. He wondered if he would ever change, so thatwhen he looked at people he could see the good in them

rather than feeling suspicious and dissecting every little

word and action. Maybe then he could take things at face

value. But if other cops were any indication of what the

future held he saw little hope for change.

Tilting his head he saw his own tire tracks and

realized he’d seen this place twice before; he was going

around in circles.

“Ahh—if I see that signpost one more time I’m

just going to run it down,” he said, feeling his frustration

rising along with exhaustion. “Or just shoot it.” Hereached down to his belt to grab his gun and frowned; it

was gone.

“What the...” He felt around the truck cab that was

now in darkness, except for the dim light of the dash.

The snow was coming down much harder now.

He knew a good detective should never be without

his sidearm, but he figured it had just slipped out and

fallen between the seats—a disturbing thought. The

messy truck had been the one sore subject between them

while Ellen was alive. She hated the Peppermint Patty

wrappers, empty cheese curl bags, crushed plastic water bottles and loose change that fell from his pockets.

Knowing it sounded defensive he said, “I know. I’ll



clean it up tomorrow.” He had said it out of habit, to

appease the now-absent Ellen, but as always, knew hehad no intention of cleaning it up. She had always seen

right through those old excuses. He shook his head,

blaming fatigue. He was arguing with a ghost of the past;

obviously old habits died hard.

He slid his hand deep into the crack between the

seats, searching for his gun, but found nothing. Just then

he turned his attention toward a flash of movement,

glimpsing a dark, shadowy figure just to the side of the

roadway. Instantly he jerked the wheel to avoid hitting it

—not a good thing to do on snowy, dark roads, in the

middle of the night. He pumped the brakes, but the tireslost traction and began to slide directly toward the place

where he had seen the dark figure.

He had taken the required defensive driving

classes at the academy, but his training made little

difference in his effort to stop the sliding vehicle. While

trying to think logically he hurriedly reached for the

emergency brake and pulled it toward him.

“That isn’t going to help,” he muttered out loud

before downshifting in a final futile effort to stop. But

the wheels still failed to grab, and he realized he’d better

brace for impact noting a cluster of pine trees that nowloomed large before him. The scene was surreal, as time

suddenly moved in slow motion, while huge white



snowflakes reflected in his headlights as he careened

toward the trees.His mind whirled, mentally bracing for impact,

while, at the same time realizing the danger of being lost

and injured in freezing temperatures. Briefly he

wondered what had become of the shadowy figure that

caused his now precarious situation. And last, he thought

of Ellen. His senses were heightened when he heard the

sound of branches scraping metal; that sent him into a

sudden adrenalin rush, before he saw a small opening in

the trees, but with one particularly large trunk dead

ahead. Simultaneously he felt the concussion of metal

crumpling, breaking glass and sending it flying in everydirection. He smelled gas, at the same instant a

deafening explosion sent the airbag crashing into his

face.

With a sigh of relief Cliff realized he had survived

the crash, but he now had a new set of priorities. He

moved each limb, checking for injuries, but felt no pain.

He quickly grasped the gravity of the situation—he had

crashed on a deserted road in the mountains with no cell

service in the middle of no man’s land. And God only

knew how soon help would come.

Aware that staying with the truck was usually agood idea, it didn’t seem that wise when he saw glass all

over the passenger’s seat, the result of the broken



passenger window that now let in massive amounts of

frigid air. But there was one good thing—somehow,during the collision his gun had shifted positions and

was now clearly visible at the back of the front

passenger’s seat.

When he reached for the thirty-eight he was

distracted by a sound outside his window. Without

thinking he grabbed for it, but felt pain as glass shards

on the gun’s well-worn stock tore into his skin.

Instantly he knew that move had been a mistake—

he could feel the sharp edges of broken glass cutting his

hand as he took aim to defend himself from whatever

had made the noise just inches from his window.Ignoring the pain he tightly gripped the handle, pulled

the hammer back with his thumb, turned to the window

and assumed the position with trembling hands. Without

warning a light flashed, temporarily blinding him.

“Whoa there, big fella!”

His shaking gun greeted a sight for sore eyes. He

dropped his sidearm and exclaimed, “What the heck are

you doing, trying to get yourself killed?”

In a matter-of-fact tone the sheriff said, “No, but it

looks like you are.” She stepped closer and used her

flashlight to quickly survey the damage to his vehicle.“You okay, darlin’?”



Perhaps it was his sense of relief or her words of

endearment, but suddenly the pain in his hand and thesudden throbbing of his lip hardly seemed worth

mentioning. “Oh, sure. It’s just a little fender bender.” In

that instant he seemed to come to his senses, grasping

the truth of the damage.

He frowned. “Hold on. What are you doing here?”

“Well honey, it’s my job to keep track of what

happens on Old Baldie.” She chuckled and shook her

head as if he should’ve known, but when he tried to

laugh the pain in his midsection warned him it was a bad

idea. Maybe he had broken a rib, but he sure wasn’t

going to let her know.She tilted her head and studied his face. “Actually

I was worried about you. I was heading up to Ben’s

place to make sure you made it.” She paused then added,

“Newbies can easily get lost here if they aren’t careful.

And since the rest of my flock is tucked in and sound

asleep I figured I’d better go and check on you.” Turning

to inspect the truck damage she added, “And now I think

that it may have been a really good idea, wouldn’t you

agree?”

He reached for the door handle, and after more of

a struggle than he anticipated it finally opened with agroan. As he inspected the damage he realized how

lucky he really was. He turned back toward the road and



figured he had traveled about fifteen feet down the

embankment, through a cluster of spruce trees, and hitone huge one along with several other slightly smaller

ones.

“Crap.”

“Listen, if all you got was a split lip and a bloody

hand, you did okay.” She reached toward his chin to

determine the extent of the damage to his lip then added,

“Well, other than totally smashing up the front end of

your truck.

He sighed aloud and shook his head. “Yeah, well

—it could’ve been worse. Some maniac was walking the

road and I barely missed him.”“You mean someone was out here? Really?”

“That’s why I swerved—to avoid hitting him—or

it. It happened so fast I couldn’t really tell who it was.”

“Come on—you need to come and get in my car.

Looks like I’ll get little or no sleep tonight. I’ll have my

work cut out for me getting a wrecker out here, then

searching for the guy you didn’t hit, and making the

accident report.”

“How’s that?”

She sighed, clearly annoyed at having to explain.

“Nobody lives within miles of this place, except Ben,now that the Shaws have moved. So that means there’s a

stranger wandering around out here, and it’s gonna get



mighty cold tonight. Would you want that on your

conscience?”He watched as she glanced around with a mixture

of uneasiness and concern. Then he turned back to the

truck and pulled out the heavy canvas duffel that held all

his belongings. Slinging it over his shoulder he grabbed

the pistol he had left on the seat and carefully tucked it

into his waistband. Turning he headed up the hill,

following his rescuer. The snow on the steep hill made it

slow-going, because he had to check his footing with

every step, just trying to stay upright, with the heavy

pack throwing off his balance.

At the top of the hill they were both breathing hardwhen they turned to study the accident sight. The moon

had emerged from the clouds just enough to illuminate

the area.

“Sugar, it looks like you’ve made quite a mess of

it.” Her tone didn’t improve his mood one iota.

“Can’t argue with that.”

“You know, I doubt the wrecker could make it up

here before morning in these conditions, so maybe we’ll

just leave it until daylight.” After a slight hesitation she

added, “Gonna have to give you a ticket for reckless op.”

He nodded, but said nothing.She took his arm and nudged his shivering frame

toward the waiting squad car where the engine was still



running. For the first time he noted the lights flashing

red and blue on top of the beat up old vehicle. It wasoutdated, at least twenty years old, and he could only

hope the heater still worked.

She opened the door for Cliff, who all but

collapsed in the front seat of the car. As he sat down hard

he unearthed several notepads with girlie doodles on

them and then shoved aside a half-eaten sandwich of

unknown origin. Her half liter coffee mug had clearly

seen better days— its logo was faded and worn,

completely illegible in the dim light.

“Oops—sorry. Don’t usually have people sitting

up here,” she admitted as she pulled the litter closer toher side of the seat.

Without thinking she went on, “Honestly...You

wouldn’t know it, but I’m really a neat freak. I mean if

you saw my house, you’d...” Her voice trailed off when

she realized she had said too much. It was a small town,

and people tended to talk. She knew this all too well.

Because there was little else to occupy their time the

town folks’ favorite hobbies included fishing and

keeping up with who she might pair up with that week.

As the population grew older the pickings were slim,

leaving fewer eligible bachelors to choose from. It was agood thing she was content as a single woman.

He cut her off. “I’m sure it’s nice.”



She changed the subject. “I’m going to call Doc,

and we’ll just run you over there right now.”He nodded absently, wondering whether his truck

was beyond repair. It was old, and he knew it would

eventually need replacement, but because it was still

reliable, he hadn’t planned to address the issue yet.

Before he could respond she added, “But first,

we’re going to make a couple of passes around

Christine’s Circle here to see if we can find your mystery

man.” Her tone let him know that she wasn’t sure of his

story.

By then he had his own doubts about what he had

seen. Had there really been something there? Theterritory was unfamiliar, and the roads foreign, to say

nothing of the dark and the crummy weather. Maybe he

had imagined it. But after searching his memory he was

certain he had seen something; he wouldn’t have

swerved and risked life and limb to avoid something that

wasn’t there. He wasn’t the kind to jump to conclusions

or make judgments without first checking things out,

which is what made him such a great detective. And he

wasn’t about to back down now, no matter what the

sheriff thought. And yet, there was the nagging feeling

that he might have imagined it. Under her questioninggaze and no doubt, questions that would come later, he

felt unsure of himself for the first time. Was the dark



figure just like the shadow in the window, a figment of

his imagination? There were too many unansweredquestions, but the primary question was: Am I losing it?

What are the odds?

While he was lost in thought the sheriff had made

two laps around the snow-covered roadway.

Suddenly her voice broke the silence. “We’ve

been around this route twice and I don’t see any signs of

life or even any footprints. You sure you actually saw

someone, or could it be that you were overtired from the

drive and your mind was playing tricks on you? Or

maybe it was an animal?”

“No way,” Cliff argued. “I saw someone. Just because we can’t find him now doesn’t mean it didn’t

happen. Maybe the new snow covered his prints.”

“Now don’t get in a snit, or you’ll get yourself all

worked up and split that lip open again.”

By that time he was chilled to the bone, so he

reached over and picked up her thermos hoping for a

warm drink of some kind. Coffee, hot chocolate or even

warm, flat soda would be better than nothing.

“Give me that,” she said reaching out for it.

“There’s a trick to getting it open.”

She had just turned the top of the red and yellowstriped container, when suddenly, out of nowhere a dark,

thin figure darted out from between the bushes and into



the path of her car. She turned the wheel hard to avoid

the collision, but the snowy road made traction nearlyimpossible, so that instead of correcting her position the

car skidded toward the other side of the road.

Unfortunately there was no stand of pines to break their

fall—only a broken guardrail. Beyond that, if memory

served him, there was nothing but a steep cliff beyond

that ended in the still, icy waters of Shadow Lake.

shadow lake

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