Summit Lake Page 2

  “People say it all the time,” Gail said.

  “What people?” Brad asked. “Who talks about us so much?”

  “I don’t know,” Gail said. “Just other kids. I’ve heard girls talk.”

  “And what’s their problem?”

  “They just think we’re weird.”

  “Who cares what they think?” Brad said. “Seriously, this is all in your head.”

  “It’s not in my head,” Gail said. “Okay, I’ll just put it out there and ask the question. Why are we friends?”

  “What do you mean?” Becca asked. “Because we like each other. We all get along, have things in common. That’s why anyone becomes friends.”

  “She means the sex, or lack of it, between us,” Brad said. “She’s just too shy to phrase it that way.” He looked at Gail. “You better figure out a way to express yourself more clearly if you want to be a litigator.”

  “Fine,” Gail said, closing her eyes momentarily to avoid eye contact. “Does anyone think it’s odd that we’ve been friends since freshman year and there’s been no hookups, no sleeping around, no drama?”

  “You had a boyfriend for the first year we knew you,” Jack said. “What was his name?”

  “Gene.”

  Jack laughed and pointed at Gail. “That’s right. Euge. I loved that guy. Sort of a tool, but in a geeky, cool kind of way.”

  Brad laughed also. “I forgot about that guy. He hated when we called him Euge. ‘It’s just Gene’ he kept saying. Remember that weekend?”

  Becca laughed now, too. “The ‘Just Gene’ weekend. Oh my God, that seems like more than three years ago.”

  Gail tried not to smile. “Yeah, very amusing. He never came back to DC after that weekend, anyone notice that?”

  “He broke up with you a few weeks later, didn’t he?” Jack asked.

  “Yes, because of that weekend.”

  “Come on,” Jack said. “Because we called him Euge?”

  “Forget it,” Gail said. “My point is that our little foursome here is unique. Two girls, two guys—all best friends, in college, without any of the crazy stuff to mess it up.”

  Jack closed his Business Law textbook. He patted Brad on the back. “Brad here will be the most powerful senator in Congress, you two will be schmuck lawyers working for him, I’ll be a lobbyist getting him all his money, and we’ll all still be best friends. Who cares why, and who cares if other people don’t understand?” He threw his books into his backpack. “I’ve had enough for tonight. Let’s get a beer at the 19th.”

  “Amen,” Brad said.

  They packed their things and stood to leave. Becca stared at Jack. “No one’s worried about Professor Morton’s final?” she asked.

  “I’m worried,” Jack said. “But I’m on the slow infusion process, which allows my brain to absorb his terribly boring and abstract lectures in small spoonfuls. If I cram it all in, most of it ends up seeping out.”

  “Yeah,” Becca said. “That’s a great plan for someone who’s kept up with the readings all semester. But for the rest of us, we’ll need to cram. You guys go without us, Gail and I are staying.”

  “Come on,” Jack said. “Don’t be lame.”

  “Finals are in two weeks,” Becca said.

  “Call it quits for tonight and we’ll put in extra time tomorrow,” Jack said.

  Brad stood up and lifted his hands. “Boys and girls, Bradley Jefferson Reynolds has you covered. This was supposed to be a surprise, but I can see you all need to know now. I will have for us, by next week, a copy of Professor Morton’s Business Law final exam. To be used and abused as you all see fit.”

  Becca pursed her lips. “Bullshit.”

  “No bullshit,” Brad said. “I have a source, and that’s all I can say for now. So let’s all have a beer to celebrate.”

  Becca looked at Jack, who shrugged his shoulders. “Who are we to doubt this guy?” he said.

  She reluctantly packed her things and looked at Gail. “This’ll be like the time he promised everyone full-length essays for the Asian History exam freshman year and we were up until 5:00 a.m. finishing things for him when he ‘hit a wall.’ ” She flexed her fingers to make quotation marks while looking at Brad. “Remember that?”

  “This is different,” Brad said.

  “Sure it is.” Becca threw her bag over her shoulder and grabbed Brad by the inside of the bicep, resting her head on his shoulder as they walked out of the library. “But I’ll still love you when you don’t come through. Even though I’ll have a C to tarnish my transcripts.”

  Brad patted her head as they walked. “No Ivy League law school will accept you with a C on your transcript. Looks like I’ll have to come through for you.”

  The 19th Bar in Washington’s Foggy Bottom neighborhood held the normal crowd for a Tuesday night, overflowing with college students in the peak of their existence. Most came from wealthy East Coast families and had plans for political careers or law. Some wanted other things, but they were outnumbered.

  They found an empty table near the front window, a floor-to-ceiling pane of glass that allowed passersby to look in with envy and see the lives of college kids on the way to stardom. They ordered draught beers and fell into their common routine of debating politics. After a few beers, Brad began his well-practiced, curse-riddled speech about there never having been a U.S. president who truly ran on his principles and then governed the same way.

  “They always fall prey to the politics of Washington, always give in to special interests. Can anyone name a president who really had the citizens in mind during the majority of his decisions in office? None of them did, and the current one doesn’t either. It’s all about power, keeping power, and dishing out power to those who throw the most money at them.”

  “You tell ’em, Bradley,” Becca said. “And you’re going to put an end to it all, right?”

  “Or die trying. And I’ll start with the crooked son of a bitch who calls himself my father.” He took a sip of beer. “As soon as I have the credentials.”

  “I’d build some contacts and support before you go after your own father. Or tort law in general.”

  “Good idea,” Brad said, pointing at Becca and then sloshing another sip of beer like he was in an Irish pub about to arm wrestle. He ran his forearm across his mouth dramatically and stared off at the ceiling. The others were laughing now at the show. “It’s gotta come out of right field, totally unsuspected. Yeah, I’ll build a coalition and when the old man thinks he’s got things covered, I’ll take him down like Giuliani tackling the Teflon Don.”

  “Not even accepted to an accredited law school yet and this guy’s comparing himself to Giuliani.” Jack laughed. “Love your confidence.”

  Becca and her friends loved Brad’s tirades. Jack and Gail listened for entertainment value, but Becca had a keener ear. She knew Brad best. She knew his secrets and his desires and his struggles. She understood his opinions were born out of rebellion. An oppressive father, who amassed a fortune running one of the biggest tort law offices on the East Coast, had tried too hard to steer his son’s life in a direction Brad did not want to go. In a mixture of feigned surrender and secret revenge, Brad agreed to an education at George Washington University and would soon endure an Ivy League law degree. But instead of joining his father in thievery, as Brad put it, he would use the degree and education his father paid for to go after tort law, and one day shut his father down. So the plan went, anyway.

  In the three years they knew each other, Becca had met Brad’s father on a number of occasions. Becca’s father knew him, too. Their dads had a professional relationship, with Brad’s father hosting an annual weekend at the Reynoldses’ hunting cabin where a dozen rich lawyers shot elk, smoked cigars, and talked business. Becca’s father was invited the year before, and came home with stories about Mr. Reynolds being a true ballbuster. A cold, hard man who pushed his children in unhealthy ways, Becca never had difficulty understanding Brad’s resentment. As punish
ment for his father’s absenteeism from little league tournaments and soccer practices and Orioles games and anything in high school besides brief appearances at debates to let his son know his deficiencies, Brad decided to use his father’s will against him. It was an insidious plan that would take years to accomplish, and if it ever came to fruition—if Brad’s resentment didn’t fade with maturity, and if his interests didn’t change with time—Becca figured there was no worse slap in the face to a parent than for their child to use the education they paid for to set out on a career that would hinder their own. So Becca did more than listen when Brad went on his rants. She knew there was a point beyond Brad’s words—it was therapeutic for him to plot a years-long rebellion against his father. It was his way of releasing his frustration without doing it to his father’s face and without ruining a relationship that in adulthood might stand a chance at restoration.

  They ordered more beer when Brad calmed down.

  “Is everyone going home for Christmas this year?” Gail asked. “Because we’re going to our place in Florida. My mom said you guys could come down.”

  “My parents would kill me if I didn’t go home,” Becca said.

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “My mother would not go for that. Christmas is too big of a deal.”

  “Maybe,” Brad said.

  “Really?” Gail asked.

  Brad shrugged. “Yeah, maybe for a few days. My old man gets exhausting after about forty-eight hours. Christmas Eve and Christmas are about all I can handle with him. Maybe I’ll head down for a few days after Christmas. Otherwise, I’ll be back here and this place is dead until everyone gets back.”

  “We’ll hang out on the beach and think of poor Jack freezing in Wisconsin.”

  “Rub it in,” Jack said.

  “It would be a lot of fun,” Gail said. “You guys should think about it.”

  Jack took a sip of beer and looked at Becca, then back at Gail. “Maybe spring break, but I can’t do it for Christmas.”

  Gail widened her eyes. “Spring break! My parents will be in Europe. We’d have the place to ourselves.”

  “Unless you boys would rather head to South Beach for hookups with University of Miami girls,” Becca said.

  Brad and Jack looked at each other and touched beers. “Yeah, we’ll let you know about spring break. We might have to make a quick stop down South,” Jack said.

  “Asses,” Gail said.

  They laughed and ordered more beers. It was two weeks before finals. They were immortal.

  CHAPTER 4

  Kelsey Castle

  Summit Lake

  March 5, 2012

  Day 1

  High on a bluff in the mountains of Summit Lake, Kelsey Castle watched as the rising sun burned the horizon red and turned the wispy clouds into cherry cotton candy torn across the sky. Farther off the horizon, over the center of the lake, dark thunderclouds formed. A storm was coming and it reminded Kelsey of her youth. Of the sunny rainstorms that always came on her birthday, and of her grandfather’s deep belly laugh when they saw the clouds roll in. The downpour happened quickly from newly developed clouds, and her grandfather would whisper in her ear as beads of water ran down their faces and wrinkled their clothes against their bodies—happy birthday to the rainmaker. Everyone else ran for cover, newspapers or jackets overhead. Kelsey and her grandfather danced and kicked puddles as the rain came down, all the while a bright blue sky, just beyond the storm clouds, threw slashes of sunlight across the ground and highlighted the raindrops like diamonds pouring from the sky. And just as quickly as the storm developed, it would pass, leaving dripping trees and street puddles that reflected the blue sky. It was an odd phenomenon Kelsey grew to love. That they happened each year on her birthday was a special tag on her life that said someone, somewhere, was watching over her on her special day. At least that’s what her grandfather always told her.

  She walked to the edge of the bluff now and took deep breaths to bring her breathing under control. Arriving in Summit Lake the night before, Kelsey jogged through town early this morning. Quiet and still in the dawn hours, she took twenty minutes to survey the center of town, jogging past storefronts and galleries and exploring side streets to get a feel for the place. After two laps around the town square, the waterfall was her next stop. It was, besides the lake itself, the most famous landmark this tiny town had to offer. And now, standing on the bluff where the falls originated and looking out over the sunrise and the town, Kelsey wanted to call Penn Courtney and thank him for getting her out of the city and away from her house. Thank him for giving her some time away she didn’t want to admit she needed. There were books and experts that might help her, but Kelsey was not the type to confide in those structured aids. She always relied on an inner strength to get her through difficult spots in life, and this rough patch would be no different.

  The waterfall fell for a hundred feet, passing just in front of the mountain face to eventually crash into the lagoon below. Spruce trees flanked the falls and bearded the mountainside, merging with a dense forest that isolated the lagoon. On the far side of the trees the town of Summit Lake took shape. From Kelsey’s vantage point high on the bluff, the town belonged on a postcard. One main drag—Maple Street—ran through the center of town with five roads slicing across, each heaped with shops and boutiques and restaurants and galleries Kelsey had inspected earlier during her run. On the north end was the Winchester Hotel, an old Victorian building that had been hosting guests of Summit Lake for decades and where Penn Courtney arranged for her to stay. Five blocks from the Winchester, on the south end of Maple Street, St. Patrick’s Church was a majestic structure built from white stone and decorated with gothic wooden entry doors and a tall steeple that looked like a needle ready to puncture the sky. To the east was the vast expanse of the lake after which the town was named, and together with the western mountains where Kelsey stood, it sandwiched the town of Summit Lake into a cozy setting known for summer houses and weekend getaways.

  Homes trickled down from the foothills and circled the lake. A few tiptoed on stilts into the water. The stilt houses, with tiled roofs and large bay windows, were arranged in two long, arching rows to give each a beautiful view of the lake. This morning, the cresting sun threw starbursts off the windows. Kelsey stared over it all. Somewhere in this quaint tourist town, a girl had been murdered. It seemed too nice a place for such a thing to happen.

  As she stared down from the bluff, Kelsey felt connected to the town. It had a story to tell her. And even though Penn Courtney sent her here to slowly get her swagger back, to ease her gently back into the occupation she once ruled, Kelsey had no intention of taking it easy. She had interviews to conduct, facts to gather, and evidence to discover. Still, Penn knew what he was doing. Kelsey spent the weekend in Miami researching the Eckersley case and picking through the scarce details about how the girl had died. Now in Summit Lake, she was scouting the town, scoping angles, plotting her path to discovery. Immersing herself in a different world and an unfamiliar setting. She was on the beat again, and it was the first time in five weeks she felt alive.

  Kelsey knew, however, the distraction wouldn’t last forever. She came to Summit Lake to write the story of a girl’s murder, but she also came to put her own demons to rest. That would require self-reflection, something she was not good at. Sitting on the edge of a boulder, she took a deep breath. The creek gurgled as it flowed past, its steady current pulling the clear water around rocks and over submerged logs and to the edge of the cliff where the water began its roar as it fell. As Kelsey watched the water spill over the edge, a single raindrop tapped her nose. Then another, and another. After a minute a solid drizzle fell across the bluff, slowly increasing to a heavy rain that pelted the creek and rippled its surface. She smiled as the rain drenched her, soaked her clothes and matted her hair. She looked out at Summit Lake. The stilt houses were still bright with the dawning sunlight.

  A sunny rainstorm, and it wasn’t even her birthday.


  CHAPTER 5

  Becca Eckersley

  George Washington University

  December 2, 2010

  Fourteen months before her death

  Brad’s arm supported her head as Becca lay in his bed. It was past three in the morning and not unusual for the pair to fill the empty hours of night with conversation. They talked about their dreams of being lawyers, of litigating cases in front of the Supreme Court, and changing the way Washington worked. They talked about the law schools they would pick if such a thing were possible—to pick a school rather than the other way around. They talked about love, and what they each looked for in the perfect mate. These all-night discussions, which bordered on intimate but never crossed into that territory, were not purposely kept a secret from Gail and Jack. It just happened that way. Without discussing why, they never shared their nights. They existed only between Becca and Brad.

  “Okay,” Brad said. “Give me one thing that’s an absolute deal breaker for dating someone.”

  Becca took no time to answer. “Back hair.”

  “Back hair?” Brad said. “Come on. How’s a guy supposed to avoid back hair?”

  “Wax it or shave it, but don’t display it. Complete turnoff.”

  “What if you dated a guy for two months, really liked him, and then learned he had a back like a sweater?”

  “Over,” Becca said.

  “Just like that?”

  “Well, that’s your scenario. I don’t accept the premise of the situation, since I’d never get as far as really liking a guy who had that much back hair.”