Cradle Lake by Ronald Malfi Page B

I’ll go pay the Morris house a visit, see how little Cory’s doing. Maybe he got the license plate numberstamped onto his forehead. How about that?” Again: that rumbling, gravel-crunching chortle.
    Jesus,
Alan thought, and actually winced.
    â€œAll right, then,” Landry said, moseying down the steps.
    â€œSheriff?”
    Landry paused at the bottom of the steps and, tipping his hat back again, turned around. “Yeah?”
    â€œHow come it took you so long to come out here?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI called 911 over two hours ago.”
    If Sheriff Landry was contemplating the magnitude of the question, his face did not show it. He remained stoic and unapologetic, like the wooden masthead of a great ship. After a few seconds he set his jaw and said, “One of my deputies came on the scene after your call. Checked around the neighborhood, took a couple statements. Folks said they’d witnessed the accident but the kid was okay. Said it was no big deal. Said they were surprised to hear someone’d called the cops over it, really, seein’ it was such a small, inconsequential thing.”
    â€œInconsequential?”
    â€œMy deputy didn’t think anyone had moved into your house yet, so he didn’t bother knocking on your door for a statement. Figured I’d come by this evening and extend the courtesy myself.”
    â€œOh.” His voice was suddenly small, nonexistent.
    â€œSo don’t worry about the boy. He’s fine. And, of course, we appreciate your concern in the first place.” Landry nodded, his expression unchanged. “Welcome to the pumpkin patch.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Around nine o’clock that evening, Heather went in for a bath. Alan grabbed a pack of cigarettes and snuck out to the back patio. Jerry Lee tagged along. Outside, the sky was an electric parade of stars. Alan smoked while Jerry Lee found a cool spot to snooze in the grass.
    It wasn’t long before Alan’s gaze drifted across the yard to the opening in the trees. Heavy boughs swayed before the mouth of the opening.
    A noise off to the side of the house caught his attention. Jerry Lee raised his head and emitted a deep, resonant growl. Alan froze, the cigarette jutting from his lips, and watched as the ill-defined shape of a man materialized from out of the darkness.
    It was Hank. He carried a six-pack of Miller Lite bottles. “You feel like some company?” There was tremulous uncertainty in his voice. “I just wanted to apologize.”
    â€œFor what? Scaring the shit out of me just now?”
    Hank crossed the yard and set the six-pack down on the picnic table Alan had been meaning to scrub clean for the past several days. Hank pulled out one of the plastic lawn chairs but cast a speculative look at Alan and did not move.
    â€œHave at it.”
    â€œThanks,” Hank said, dropping into the chair. “Mind if I bum one, too?”
    â€œYou smoke?”
    â€œSometimes. Don’t tell Lyds.”
    In a gesture of amnesty, he handed Hank a fresh cigarette, then nodded toward the beer. “How about a trade?”
    Hank smiled. His oversized teeth looked like tombstones in the moonlight. “Heck, I insist on it.”
    Alan dragged another chair around to the other side of the picnic table and sat in it. He hadn’t realized how exhausted he was until that very moment; his entire body seemed to sigh as he came off his feet. “So what was it you wanted to apologize about?”
    Hank popped the cap off a bottle of Miller Lite and handed it to him. “About earlier. About insulting your sensibilities by lying to you.”
    Alan took a swig of the beer. It was cold and tasted fantastic. “Lying to me,” he said. It came out more as a statement than a question. “You mean about what exactly happened to the kid?”
    â€œThat,” Hank said, “and some other stuff.”
    â€œWhat other