Gray Lake: A Novel of Crime and Supernatural Horror

Gray Lake: Chapter 6

Keith was almost home when the car behind him repeatedly flashed its brights. He lived at the far southern end of Lakeview about ten miles from Gray Lake, just barely on the Michigan side of the border with Indiana – it wasn’t officially even Lakeview anymore out here, just County Road 37.

He was driving what was technically Stuckey’s pick-up, a battered old Chevy 4x4 with a slipping clutch - a gift, more or less, from Menger. He’d borrowed it because Stuckey, having produced a fifth of Popov for his guests – who’d mainly been interested in weed anyway – was in no condition to drive him home.

Keith pulled into his driveway. He checked Stuckey’s glove compartment for a weapon. There was none. There was, however, a quarter-ounce bag of weed. Keith sighed. He quickly checked under both seats. Again, nada. Keith didn’t know which was more stupid, the bag of weed, the fact that Stuckey didn’t keep a gun in this vehicle, or the fact that he was sitting here, in his own driveway, his pregnant wife asleep in the house, finding himself neck-deep in a business where he was starting to only feel safe while armed.

He got out and walked directly to the other car, which had pulled in behind him. At least he’d have more mobility if he was the one outside a vehicle.

It was two high school guys he didn’t recognize. Both were white, but trying to look black. One had blonde dreadlocks and a Tupac shirt, the other had his bright red hair in corn rows and was wearing oversized jeans under a gigantic t-shirt covered with Insane Clown Posse insignia.

“Yeah?”

“Dude, we thought you was Stuckey. That’s his ride you’re stylin’, right?”

“I borrowed it from him, yeah.”

“Well, yo, check it. We party-trainin’ to Toledo yet tonight, yo. Gotta be there by mo’nin’, meet my girl. We was wonderin’ where could we maybe score some crank, help us keep our boat afloat?”

“You’re asking me, a total stranger, for meth?”

“Yo, you got it, daddy. You hook us up?”

Daddy? Were these guys for real?

Keith looked up and down the road. He didn’t like the nervous shift of their eyes, but probably they had just used up all their meth supply earlier tonight and were jonesing for more. These two wiggers were too much a caricature of themselves to be involved with the cops. Cops wouldn’t go the wigger route in the first place; they’d more likely go straight cornpone hick meth addict, imitating the sort they locked up in the county hoosegow every other day. Keith sighed again – normally he’d make a show of it, let them know how big of an inconvenience this was, but tonight he didn’t have to act. “Okay, come on in.”

“Dude!” the corn-rowed kid exclaimed when they came in through a side door in the kitchen. “Most dealers’ houses I know is trashed messes. You got a maid, yo?”

Keith had always thought the kitchen was boxy, a bit too small, appliances lined one next to the other against the back of the single long counter. Carrie, on the other hand, said she thought the fact that they had to practically rub up against each other to get past when one of them had the refrigerator open was “cozy.”

“I clean up after myself. I’ve got a wife,” he said. “I’m married. And she’s sleeping.” He pointed at the kitchen table. “Wait here.”

He marched up a set of stairs to the side of the kitchen. He kept most of his stash in well-sealed plastic bags in the tank of a toilet in his attic. And he kept a pistol, a Glock, in a cabinet next to it.

Keith had already stuffed the gun in the back of his jeans - just in case - removed the ceramic lid, and submerged his hands in the cold water when the corn-rowed kid’s voice exclaimed “Yo! Yo yo yo!” down in the kitchen.

Followed by his wife, Carrie, screaming.

Keith had the gun already drawn and was halfway down the stairs when he heard a chair tumble. The kid with the oversized ICP clothes had a magnum – a fucking magnum – drawn on his wife.

Carrie, her eyes wide, her blonde hair a sleep-strewn mess, was wearing his Tim McGraw t-shirt – it came to mid-thigh on her slim body, but he doubted she was wearing anything beneath it.

Keith kept his Glock on the kid, but consciously eased his shoulders, made sure his stance wasn’t too forceful. He made sure his arms weren’t locked and his face muscles were loose. “Dude?”

The kid suddenly broke into a grin and grabbed his gut with his gun hand – the gun still in it – and bent over and started laughing. “Sorry! Shee-it, homes!” He could hardly talk through his guffaws. “God damn! Shorty come in here so sudden and quiet, I just freaked, yo! Shee-it, bro!”

Carrie rolled her eyes, but then met Keith’s, glaring at him. He glanced at her stomach, eager to look away from her dagger eyes. His child was in there, though she wasn’t showing yet.

He held his hands in the air as if Carrie were the one with a gun. “Carrie,” he said. “It ends tonight. I’m calling The Chief in the morning. No more, no more.”

The Corn Row Kid – for that was how Keith was thinking of him now – suddenly stopped laughing and, still doubled over, turned and looked at Keith. Tugging at his crotch, he said, “But hey, we still getting product tonight, right?”

 “Yeah,” Keith said, lowering his hands, letting his shoulders slump. “Of course. Honey,” he said to Carrie, his voice thick with weariness, “just go to bed, please. I’ll talk with you in a minute.” He nodded at the kids. “Have a seat again, you two. Everybody put their toys away. Let’s get this over with.”

***

This novel will be serialized one chapter per week and will be available in full here on Wattpad for six months after being posted in its entirety. It is also available in print, Kindle - http://bit.ly/GrayLake (Amazon) - and all other major ebook and phone  formats  - http://bit.ly/GrayLakeSmashwords