Читать книгу Doom Lake Holiday - Tom Henighan - Страница 8

They drove out of Bascombe and followed a winding road for a few miles through desolate farm country. At last they reached a small lake where a narrow causeway led them past a clean, pleasant farmhouse with a big red barn beside it and a wishing well out front.

“The place should be just ahead,” their father said.

They turned down a rutted road that ran between a wide stand of evergreen forest. The day had grown cloudy, and all at once they felt claustrophobic again, and a bit anxious, as they had on the hillside.

After a few miles, though, the evergreens had given way to a stretch of flat, rocky land, beyond which, at last, they could see the lake.

“It’s enormous,” Chip said.

“Spectacular,” Lee added. “That’s one big drink of water. And those islands! But look at the cottage! Oh my God!”

“That can’t be it,” Mr. Mallory said.

“It’s right where it’s supposed to be,” their mother said.

The dirt road divided and continued around both sides of the lake. But straight ahead on a narrow spit of land stood a small white-and-lime-green cabin — a shabby-looking place with sagging foundations, tiny windows covered with plastic sheeting, and broken gutters with drooping empty birds’ nests that looked like wisps of hair falling down from the bald, flat roof.

They all groaned aloud and their father swore. “Damn it! That’s not what the web picture looked like.”

Chip shook his head. “You know what you once told me, Dad. With photo-editing programs you can do anything.”

“You can edit reality,” Mrs. Mallory reflected. “You can make a dead cabin seem alive, but can you bring the dead owner back to life?”

“If she’s still alive I’ll gladly shoot her,” their father said. “She’s ripped us off something else!”

Nonetheless, they parked the SUV safely on the thick, wet grass, climbed out, and began to take in the surrounding landscape. Their father, mumbling to himself, circled the place three times, shaking his head and looking grim.

“Are you casting a spell?” Mrs. Mallory asked. “Or trying to make the cabin disappear?”

“You’re not thinking of staying here,” Lee asked bluntly, as Mr. Mallory groped among the concrete blocks in search of the key.

“I’m thinking of getting inside to confirm my worst suspicions. I plan on taking some pictures myself. And carrying them along to Mrs. Jackson to get my money back.”

“If she’s dead will she be liable?” Lee queried.

“Stop that, will you?!” their father commanded. “It’s just not funny.” Lee and Chip exchanged wicked smiles.

Chip shook his head in disgust and turned away. He strolled down toward the lake. It was a little cooler, but the air was stagnant, stifling. Having reached the end of the grassy point on which the cabin stood, he saw that the place was situated at a closed end or bay. The site felt a bit claustrophobic, especially since the shallow half-circle of water, although quite large, seemed clogged with reeds and cattails over much of its surface.

Chip shrugged and inspected the bank. Just below stood a rickety dock and an old, half-submerged rowboat. He lay on the dock, reached down, and slapped at the water with his hands. It felt warm, and somehow reassuring.

He yawned and walked back to the cabin where his father, still locked out, was getting frustrated.

“No key, Dad? Why don’t I go through that window?” Chip suggested. “That one doesn’t seem to be latched properly.”

“All right, let’s force it. And if we break it, all the better!”

But they didn’t have to break the glass. The sash was very stiff, but with the help of a stout stick they pulled from the dishevelled woodpile, they got it up.

Chip grabbed hold of the rotting frame. Twisting his body, and bracing himself with his arms, he slipped through — and found himself in a stifling, murky kitchen.

“You okay?” his father shouted. “What’s it like in there?”

Chip blinked and looked around. “Oh, just great! The floor’s a bit splashy, the stove looks like a blacksmith’s forge, there’s a dirty counter with flies sticking to it, and some chipped white plates decorated with Bible scenes.”

“Typical!” shouted Lee from outside.

“Just a minute, folks. I’m going to open the door. Have your gas masks ready.”

Holding his breath to shut out the smell, Chip tiptoed out of the kitchen and looked around the rest of the house. There were four more rooms: on one side, two tiny bedrooms with plywood panelling and rough-looking cots, and a bathroom dominated by a smelly chemical toilet but with no shower or tub; on the other, a long sitting room full of what looked like cheap second-hand furniture, including a couch. The lamps had oversized shades; there were glass ashtrays on the tables and in one corner a big box in which he could see a broken teapot, a headless doll, some old fishing rods, and a tattered paper Halloween mask. This room was hung with bright orange curtains, and there was a television set that looked as if it belonged in a museum.

“Fun place,” Chip murmured in disgust, wiping his sweating forehead and moving off to unlatch the door for the rest of them.

Mr. Mallory stormed in, took one look around the place, gritted his teeth, and told them, “Nobody unpack! We’re heading for a motel.”

Mrs. Mallory toured the cabin more slowly, laughing frequently, but to their surprise insisted, “We’re not going anywhere until we have a cup of tea.”

“As long as we don’t have to drink it in here,” her husband growled. “Now I’m going to dial that swindling witch and tell her what I think of her advertisement. ‘Well-equipped cabin on scenic lake. Excellent for a family vacation.’ Give me a frigging break!”

“The stove seems to work, anyway,” Mrs. Mallory told them. “Let’s use the water we brought along. Can you fetch it, Chip?”

“Surprise!” Lee shouted from the sitting room as Chip moved to get the water. “The television is broken.”

“That’s probably a good thing,” their mother observed. “We’re a technological travelling circus as it is. And at least the chemical toilet works, although I wish there were more chemicals and less toilet. Anyway, let’s get the windows open and say damn to the mosquitoes. We can have our tea outside and make a decision then. It’s getting late. I suppose we could stay here one night at least. It’s cooler now, but still too sweaty to move.”

She spoke the last two sentences rather softly, as if she were afraid that her husband would hear. But Mr. Mallory was pacing up and down beside the SUV, his cell pressed to one ear. He was obviously exasperated, shouting and gesticulating like some ham actor trying to capture a bored audience’s attention.

“I can’t get through from this place!” he shouted to his family. “I keep losing my connection. We seem to be in some kind of dead zone. I didn’t think there were any left in southern Ontario. Good Lord!”

Pretty soon, though, Mrs. Mallory got the tea break organized. “Let’s sit on the spare tarpaulin,” she suggested. “Chip says the deer flies rule the dock.”

“That’s a dock?” Mr. Mallory put in. “It looks like some driftwood blown up on shore.”

“All right,” his wife countered. “But you know, John, I think we’re all pretty tired — and understandably rattled. I don’t want to stay in this place any more than you do, but I think we’ll be fresher in the morning if we don’t drive around anymore. Why don’t we just stay in the cabin for one night and then head to Westport or some other town we know and take a hotel or B & B. I think we all need to calm things down a bit.”

John Mallory shook his head. “You think staying here will calm us?”

“I won’t sleep in that dump,” declared Lee.

“Well, the couch is a pullout, so your dad and I can crash there,” Mrs. Mallory said. “And we’ve got sleeping bags for you two. How about it, Lee? Just for one night?”

Lee tossed the dregs of her tea in the grass, deposited her cup none too gently on the tarpaulin, and stormed away. “This is too much! It’s the last time I ever travel with any of you!”

“Well, this trip accomplished something, anyway,” Chip said, and then he called after her. “Weren’t you going to try out that new bathing suit? Or are you afraid of the lake monster?”

“The only monster I want to tackle is Mrs. Jackson,” his father said. “I’ll be sure to get in touch with her from Westport tomorrow. Then I’ll let her know what I think of her dream cottage.”

Despite his threat, the tea seemed to have calmed Mr. Mallory. A few minutes later a somewhat chastened Lee returned, still sullen but also calmer. The four of them unpacked some necessities from the car. By the time they had completed a cursory tidy-up of the cottage and set up their bedrooms, they were hungry. Given the filth of the cabin, though, they decided to stick with the sandwiches they had left over from lunch.

“We can find a breakfast place tomorrow,” Mrs. Mallory said. “Anyone for a walk?”

“I’m going to watch a movie,” her husband told her. “I just want to escape from this wonderful nature we’ve all been looking forward to.”

“Me too,” said Lee. “It’s humiliating that our cellphones don’t work. But the batteries on my player do, and for now I’m crashing in the car.”

“It’s too hot for a walk, Mum. Why not go for a swim?”

“Good idea. You coming down to the dock?”

“Why not? We’ve got plenty of bug spray, don’t we?”