Page 110 - What They Did to the Kid

98 Jack Fritscher

drunk. Therefore it’s Deak’s fault. Him out there with the car keys.
Not coming when he’s called. Making us walk all the way to good
old Fred and Alice’s.”
“That’s the turnoff road for the Point,” Kenny said.
We swung off the blacktop to a one-lane dust path. Weeds
scraped the bottom of the car. Finally, the trees ahead broke into a
sunny clearing that fell down a gentle slope to the water and a long
finger of sand bar. Strange for the Fourth of July, the place was
deserted, like a resort lake closed for the season.
“Our car’s off to the right in the shade,” Kenny said.
I pulled up next to it. “Where is everybody?” I asked.
“Nobody here but us and Deak like out on the water.” Kenny
pointed to a rowboat drifting easy and silent, floating more on the lake
glare than on the lake. “Nobody much comes out here anymore...”
“My dad owns the property,” Rip said.
“...except at nights, they come.”
“But only,” Rip sniggered, “by like...my invitation.”
“I’m supposed to find Mike Hager out here. His folks told me
in town.”
“You mean Deak? The Deacon’s your friend?” Rip asked.
“You’re from that weirdo place in Ohio?” Kenny asked. “Crap,
man, sorry.”
“That explains why you’re so weird,” Rip said.
Kenny laughed. “Hey, like we said, he’s out there in that boat.”
“Open the trunk.” Rip pulled at the front bumper of my car
with both his big arms. They carried the packs through the clear-
ing. Kenny sat down, rattling the morning bottles ranged like dead
soldiers across the heavy wood table. Two rolled to the ground. Rip
didn’t bother to catch them. He straightened up and rubbed the
slight balloon of his stomach. “Damn,” he said. “I’m getting a gut.”
He was hungry for compliments.
“How long’s he plan to stay out in that boat?” I asked.
“It’s not the beer,” Rip said. He pointed at me. “It’s your fault,
O’Hara.”
“Mine?” I said.
“Yours. Deak’s and yours.” Rip belched and became very precise.
“Like you’re one of his seminary friends, man. You tell me. His way’s

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