Cradle Lake by Ronald Malfi Page A

me.”
    â€œYou make an emergency phone call earlier this afternoon? A boy getting struck down by a vehicle?”
    In all the excitement he’d completely forgotten about dialing 911. “Shoot, yeah, I did.”
    The guy looked like he wanted to come inside, but Alan didn’t want Heather to overhear their conversation, so he stepped onto the front porch and closed the door behind him. “I’m sorry. I’d forgotten.”
    â€œI’m Hearn Landry, county sheriff,” he said, leaning back on the porch railing. His knuckles looked like the forked hooves of a hog, all pink and fatty. “You folks are new in town, ain’t that right?”
    â€œMoved in a week ago. We’re from Manhattan.”
    Alan half-expected the sheriff to say something about how he didn’t cotton much to city folk in these here parts, but, to his surprise, he said, “No kidding? I got a brother works as a bouncer at one of them strip clubs up there.” He laughed deep in his throat—a sound akin to someone crushing gravel beneath a heavy boot. “Real nasty place, too.”
    â€œAbout the boy,” Alan began.
    â€œRight,” said Landry. “What was his name?”
    â€œCory, I think.”
    â€œFirst or last name?”
    â€œUh, I guess first. Not sure.”
    â€œLittle squirt, about to here?” Landry said, holding his hand perhaps four feet off the ground. “Could be the Morris kid.” Tipping his hat back on his square head, he said, “So what happened?”
    In truth, he didn’t know exactly what to say. Obviously, the kid had been struck by a car … but he had also walked home as if nothing had happened, clutching his mother’s hand, and that had been the end of it.
    He took a deep breath. Said, “I think maybe I overreacted.”
    Landry knitted his eyebrows together. “Overreacted?”
    â€œWell, I mean, the kid
was
hit by a car. I saw it happen. But then—”
    â€œDo you have a description of the vehicle?”
    â€œIt was a red Audi.”
    â€œAnd the driver’s name?”
    â€œWell, no, I didn’t get a name. She was from out of town.”
    â€œDriver was a woman.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œLicense plate, perhaps?” The tone of his voice said he didn’t hold out much hope.
    Alan shook his head, feeling like a fool. “Sorry.”
    â€œAnd the boy?”
    â€œI guess, uh,” he stammered, searching frantically for the words, “I guess he was just stunned.”
    â€œStunned?”
    â€œYou know, like—”
    â€œLike hitting a deer with your car. Sometimes you just shake ‘em up a bit. Scramble the marbles. That it?”
    â€œYeah.” The word eked out of him like squealing hinges on an old door.
    â€œIn other words,” Landry said, “the kid’s okay?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou sure?”
    â€œHe got up and went home.”
    â€œJust … got up?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œJust like that?”
    â€œYes.”
    The sheriff rubbed his mustache. “Cory, you said his name was?”
    â€œI think so.”
    He jerked a thumb toward the street. “Happened right out there, yeah?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou grow up in Manhattan, Mr. Hammerstun?”
    â€œI did.”
    â€œBet you’ve seen a few people get hit by cars in the city, huh? Crossing the street, not paying attention, jaywalkin’ and whatnot?”
    â€œI’ve seen a few.”
    â€œStill,” Landry said, tugging down the brim of his hat, “guess you got a little riled up for nothing this afternoon. See some kid get whacked by someone maybe going a bit too fast, figure you’d call the fuzz.” He winked. “Just, you know, in case. Ain’t that right?”
    He couldn’t think of anything to say other than, “Sure.”
    â€œWell,” Landry huffed, turning toward the porch steps, “guess