Читать книгу Doom Lake Holiday - Tom Henighan - Страница 9

The swimming, however, was not much fun. The water was dark and murky, and Chip found it far too soupy warm. Reeds grew everywhere around the rickety dock, and when his feet touched bottom he seemed to be standing in a kind of goo. He gave up when a sharp stone half-buried in the oozing mud cut his foot.

“We’ll have to put some disinfectant on that,” his mother said, examining the wound. “I guess we should call it a day — if you can call it a day. This place really is a turn-off. And to think I was going to bring along my old watercolour set. ‘Inspired by nature’ — that’s a joke!”

They walked back toward the cabin, Chip limping a little, but busily swatting at deer flies, which zoomed in without relenting. The sky was glooming over now, dark clouds drifting in from the west, a light wind ruffling the water. The lake seemed less inviting than ever, and the nearby treed islands looked dark and impenetrable. Chip caught sight of Lee in the car, engrossed in her movie. His father sat close by under some improvised netting; he too seemed wrapped up in his technology.

The roar of an engine sounded nearby. A battered old red Chevy bumped down the dusty road and approached the cottage. It rumbled up the track and pulled in behind the SUV. Lee glanced lazily over her shoulder; Mr. Mallory slipped off his earphones and stood up inside the netting.

Two men emerged from the car and stood there, sniffing and coughing. They glanced sourly at the SUV and its occupants, then fixed their hostile stares on Chip and Anne Mallory as they approached. One of the men was tall and muscular, with brawny bare arms, and a dark beard that hung down over his red-checked hunting shirt. The other was stocky and handsome, but smirking and shifty-eyed, with unruly sprouting hair, outdated jeans, and a yellow T-shirt. He looked like some sixties country singer who’d just stepped out of a time warp, and he kept shooting wary glances at Mr. Mallory and Chip, while casting intermittent sly ones at his partner.

The two men waited, their big boots planted in the driveway, while Mr. Mallory emerged from the mosquito netting, and Chip limped up and stood beside him. One look at the pair had convinced Mrs. Mallory to head for the cabin.

“Afternoon,” Mr. Mallory greeted them. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

“G’day, sir,” said the big man, tugging at his red shirt. He seemed impervious to subtleties of address, Chip thought, but at least his dad’s “gentlemen” had forced a “sir” out of him. The shorter man had obviously picked up on the social dynamics at once and his sensitive lips twisted unpleasantly.

“Me and my partner here was just passing by and we saw your car,” the big man continued. “Nice vehicle, by the way. BMW, eh? One of them expensive European jobs. Must be some upkeep on it. Just renting the cottage here, are you?”

“That’s right — we’re renting from Mrs. Jackson. Not sure how long we’re staying, though. You don’t happen to know how I can find her, do you? Mrs. Jackson, I mean. I have a few complaints to make about her advertising.”

The big man laughed and looked perplexed. His partner said smoothly, “You’ll have to kick the bucket if you want to find her. She passed away a couple of years ago. If she’s still collecting rent, I’d like to know how she manages it.”

Chip exchanged a glance with his father. The big man laughed again. “This is my partner, Garth Laberge,” he told them. “I’m Dalton Smith. We do a little hunting around here. In season, of course, always in season. We’re not hunting right now.”

“Well, my name’s Mallory,” Chip’s father told them. “I don’t hunt at any time. I fish a little now and then. In season, though, always in season.”

The big man’s cold, grey eyes glared at Mr. Mallory, as if he were trying to pinpoint some mockery in the reply. Then, just as quickly, he relaxed, cleared his throat, and continued.

“We dropped by to give you some friendly advice, like. Maybe you won’t be staying here — this place don’t seem too suitable for folks like you — but just in case you do, I wanted to tell you about the Dobes we train.”

“Dobes?”

“Yeah, the Dobermans — you know what they are. Mighty fine dogs, but not very friendly. We raise ’em to sell and even hunt with ’em sometimes, along with a beagle we got, and they keep the shanty folk away from our property, but they ain’t too good at picking out shanty folk from tourists, so it’s as well if you don’t make ’em try.”

“We got farms side by side up the concession road — he’s got the big house and I’ve got a modern one — both on the other side of the bay there,” the shorter man indicated with a wave. “We ain’t no shanty folk, either. We were born in these parts. Lived here all our lives. Do pretty well for ourselves, too, even though the factories down here are closing and the government up there in Ottawa just keeps stepping on us.”

He strutted over to the Mallorys’ SUV and laid one rough hand on the hood. “I drive something pretty well in this class,” he said, stepping back and waving at the SUV, “even though Dalton here makes fun of it.”

“Me? Hell no! I don’t make fun of no car that attracts the gals the way yours does.” The big man guffawed loudly, but his partner seemed suddenly irritated.

He leaned forward toward Mr. Mallory, his dark eyes flashing, and said very quickly, “Anyone’s welcome to use the beach over on the other side of the bay. But I wouldn’t go back in the bush beyond if I were you. We can’t always be keeping an eye out for strangers. And the Dobes don’t like the shanty folk any more than we do.”

“Who are these shanty folk you keep talking about?” Chip asked.

The stocky man started to answer, but the big man cut in, hardly looking at Chip as he told him, “Those are no-good hillbilly folk — from the States, most likely. Why they drift up this way, I dunno. All of ’em useless. Come up here just to breed and sit on their bottoms, I figure. They’ve built a whole row of houses, a real rabbit warren, along the road toward Nashua. Terrible shacks, junk and garbage everywhere, all tossed out the windows. Don’t pay their taxes, don’t do nothing for themselves. Give the country a bad name. We work hard for a living and don’t want them folks sneaking around and stealing our stuff.”

“Well, I don’t think we’ll be doing any hiking in your neck of the woods any time soon,” Mr. Mallory said lightly.

“Well then, I think we’re about done,” the stocky man confirmed. “Just wanted to lay some friendly advice on you.”

They turned together and ambled on back to their car. “Have a nice vacation,” Dalton called out as he swung himself into the vehicle.

“Don’t let that Mrs. Jackson haunt you none,” Garth Laberge added, bestowing a final smirk on father and son, their SUV, and the scene in general.

Within minutes the red car had disappeared down one fork of the dusty lake road.

Chip stopped to explain to Lee about the visitors, then drifted inside to tell his mother. She shook her head as she dabbed on the disinfectant.

“I didn’t like the look of that pair at all.”

Twilight came on fast; the air grew heavy and damp; a curtain of mist began to hide the lake. They gathered inside and shook out the beds, ignoring the sad, torn coverlets, then carried their sleeping bags and a few blow-up pillows in from the car. After they had shut all of the screenless windows, they attacked the whole cabin with bug spray. Lee complained loudly about the chemicals.

“Get eaten or get gassed,” Mrs. Mallory said. “Take your pick.”

“Could we throw out that chemical toilet?” Mr. Mallory asked.

“Why not just burn the place down?” Chip suggested. “In the morning, though.”

It was getting very dark outside; everyone was bustling around, setting up for sleep, when a knock on the door surprised them.

“It’s not them again, I hope,” Mrs. Mallory said.

“Let us pray,” her husband growled. He looked around instinctively for a weapon.

“It’s only a girl,” Chip informed them, gazing out one of the dusty windows.

Lee scrambled to the door and flung it open.

“Excuse me,” their visitor said in a small, timid voice.

She was a tall girl, taller than Lee, but bony and underfed-looking, though with good features and pale, clear skin. She gaped at them, confused or shy, peering from one to the other with her big, dark eyes.

Chip found her fascinating, but also off-putting. There was something unfocussed and crazy about her expression, and her clothes were simply embarrassing: a mauve T-shirt with a Bambi transfer; a man’s dark suit jacket, much too big for her; polyester green slacks; and cheap running shoes, one of them with string in place of laces.

“Excuse me,” the girl repeated. “I’m looking for my dog.”

Lee gave a little shriek of laughter. “Don’t tell me — it’s a Doberman!”

The girl looked suddenly terrified. “That’s enough, Lee,” her mother said sharply. “Why don’t you come in, my dear?” she invited the stranger. “You look stressed and the mosquitoes are swarming around.”

Their visitor hesitated, gazing from one to the other, then stepped into the cabin.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She swallowed, cleared her throat, took a step forward, and when she spoke her features were stiff and tense. She seemed about to burst into tears.

“It’s my dog,” she said. “They tried to kill it. They set those other dogs on it. Then they tried to catch me. I had to leave my bike behind. I got away from them, but I couldn’t find Sheba — that’s my dog. I thought maybe you found her. She’s a husky and she likes people. She might come here.”

“Who’s they?” Mr. Mallory asked. “Who chased you?”

“Let the poor girl sit down,” Mrs. Mallory said. “I’m sure you’d like a drink, dear. A Coke, maybe? Here, sit down, I’ll get you one. What’s your name anyway?”

“May Bates,” the girl said, almost in a whisper.

Chip pulled a chair over for her and she sat down. She had an odd smell, he noticed, as if she’d spent too much time in a musty cupboard. Her fingernails weren’t quite clean, either.

May took a few swigs of the Coke; after a few minutes she seemed more relaxed.

“It was them guys from the hill farms,” she said. “They have a red car. They make fun of us. They ran my bike off the road.”

Mr. Mallory clenched his fists. “Those pigs!” He paced once, twice, across the kitchen floor. “I knew there was something nasty about them. We should call the police right away.”

“Oh no, please!” the girl begged. “The police will just get angry. The police hate us, too. And Uncle Earl will kill me. He’ll think I told them about him.”

“Told them what?” Mrs. Mallory asked. Awaiting the girl’s answer, her face seemed to cloud over. Chip could read his mother’s thoughts perfectly : I hope this isn’t too shocking, she was thinking. I hope we’re not getting in too deep.

“My uncle was… after me,” she said. “I don’t have no dad and my mother don’t do much except watch TV. I took my bike and my dog and I tried to run away. I was going to see Mr. Bascombe. He’s always been good to me. Then I ran into them hill farmers.”

Mr. Mallory flopped down into a chair. “My God!” he said. “This is turning out to be some vacation.”

“I don’t want to be mean or anything,” Lee said, “but you live in what they call the ‘shanties,’ don’t you?”

“It’s just a house I live in,” May told her. “It’s a house for shelter.”

“Of course it is, May,” their mother said. “But it doesn’t sound as if you should go back there. If you’ll just excuse us a minute, I want to have a word with my husband.”

Chip knew, they all knew, exactly what that “word” would be. Mr. Mallory shrugged his shoulders, and, with an expression of rather grim resignation, dragged himself to his feet and ushered his wife down the hall toward the other end of the cottage.

Lee yawned, stretched her arms, and quickly strode after them. Chip stood there awkwardly for a few minutes.

“Excuse me,” he sighed, then, nodding politely to the girl, he followed his sister, leaving May Bates alone in the kitchen.

He found his parents huddling with Lee in the hall beside the toilet.

“You’re not offering her my room, I hope.” Lee insisted. “I don’t even see why she has to stay.”

“You’re going to be in big trouble with me if you go on that way,” her mother warned.

Lee sulked and shook her head. “I don’t see why Dad can’t drive her to the police station. She’s nuts. She thinks everybody’s after her.”

“All right, Lee, we get your point,” Mr. Mallory said. “You don’t want her here. But I think you’re outnumbered — am I right, Chip?”

Chip nodded. “Yep. Can’t throw her out now, can we?”

“ I want to sleep in the car,” Lee cut in suddenly. “I don’t want to sleep next door to her. She probably snores or sleepwalks or something. I bet she’ll steal half my clothes. Chip can sleep next door to her and dream about marrying a shanty girl.”

There was a moment of silence. Mrs. Mallory glared at her daughter but seemed at a loss for words.

“You’re being a trial, Lee,” their father said. “I’m putting you on notice, right now. Not a word more from you!” He paused, fixing her with a stern look, then continued. “Okay, this is the final arrangement. Lee in the car, and the girl in Lee’s room. Let’s get it done now. C’mon, Chip, you can help.”

The two men started down the hall.

Mrs. Mallory squeezed her daughter’s hand. “Don’t worry,” she told her. “We have no plans to adopt the poor creature. But we’ll sort this out better in the morning.”