Time can be a great deceiver. Its flow seems relentless, uninterrupted, and immutable. But in rare, extreme circumstances, it can be defied, and almost completely stop. For Gordon, this was one of those moments.

  A flash of lightning lazily streaked across the horizon. Thunder rolled in slowly, tumbling over the lake. Raindrops were nearly frozen mid-fall. He stared down at the lower deck. An inner voice urged him to move, but his body stayed still. A minute passed. Then another. Her body, motionless. Boats rocked. Rain lashed at everything. The blood, what little had spilled, was already washed from the planks.

  Then he noticed the loose rope from Deborah’s boat slowly slipping toward the water. Like a plane cleared for takeoff, instinct and routine took over his body and mind.

  In a few strides, he was on the lower deck. He grabbed the rope and tied the boat back to the wooden post. Moments later, he stood in front of the fireplace, placing the rifle back in its spot. He closed his eyes, leaning both hands against the stone arch above the hearth. A list of tasks formed in his mind: the boat, the body, cleaning the rifle, the shell, the phone, escape. He had about six hours until sunrise.

  First, the boat. What to do with it?

  “.” If the boat stayed by their house, no one would notice her disappearance for three or four days. Still, it was risky. The water was rough. He’d have to cross half a mile across the lake.

  The shed was on the cabin’s forest-facing side. It had its own exit with a ramp leading to the access road, made for easier loading. He picked up a rope, a flashlight, a long plastic raincoat, gloves, two trash bags. He wrapped the boots tightly with the bags, sealed them with duct tape. Pulled the hood down so that only a small area around his eyes remained visible. Taped the sleeves of the coat to the gloves.

  He approached the old taxidermied eagle and pushed the Mauser shell into its beak. Straw, sawdust, and the shell now made up the insides of the long-dead bird. He switched off the terrace lights.

  Once again, he stood over Deborah. Looked at her. His eyes scanned the water’s surface. No movement. No light in the distance. He bent over her, avoiding her face, and searched her pockets. Keys. A lighter. No phone. He tied the rope around her waist, secured the other end to the post. Using both hands, he rolled the body into the lake. He hoped the rain and water would wash away as many traces as possible.

  Then he jumped into the old whaling boat, holding on to Deborah’s rope the whole time. He tied it to his own boat and moved toward the motor. Paused. Listened. The rain hitting the lake sounded like static on an empty TV channel. Thunder. Wind. He pulled the starter cord. The engine coughed once. Then again. Then settled into a soft, steady purr. He took off. The far side of the lake was pitch black. Only during lightning flashes could he catch a glimpse of the Wilkerson house roof. Time dragged. The boats bounced, the motor buzzed. Gordon watched it with both gratitude and dread. Just hold on.

  He had no idea how much time had passed before he reached the platform on the other side of the lake. He grabbed a long hook pole from the boat floor, stuck it into the platform’s wooden beam, and pulled himself close. First, he tied up his own boat, then Deborah’s on the far side. He secured it tightly, so the storm wouldn’t carry it away. Untied the “whaler,” pushed off from the shore. He didn’t start the engine right away.

  Where could her phone be? In the house? No way he’d find it in the dark without leaving a trace. It is what it is. He’d make sure his burner phone vanished without a trace. He started the engine and headed back toward the cabin.

  The Body

  He was back in the shed, looking for his father’s old waterproof sleeping bag. He grabbed it and returned to the lower deck. He pulled the rope, and Deborah’s body slowly rose from the water. She was unbelievably heavy. With every inch, her weight seemed to grow. He tied off the rope, grabbed her by the arm and leg, and dragged her onto the boards. Her skin was pale and icy, but there was no sign of blood. That was good.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  He unzipped the bag and pushed her inside. Then he slung the zipped-up bag over his shoulder. Staggering, step by step, up the slick stairs, he made it to the terrace. He set the bag down. His breath came in sharp bursts through clenched teeth.

  Where do I take her?

  He couldn’t carry her far, not at this weight. His eyes fell on the SUV. Under the raincoat, his fingers found the keys. He pointed them at the car, hazard lights blinked. He opened the trunk. Grabbing her by the legs, he dragged the bag across the deck and gravel. Legs first, then the whole body, he heaved it inside. He looked at her one more time, hand resting on the trunk. Silence. His mind was like rain on water, empty like static on a dead channel.

  He slammed the trunk shut.

  *

  That day, they woke up earlier than usual. He stood beside his father in the shed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His father pointed out the gear: helmets, ropes, descenders, carabiners, anchors… They packed it all into the pickup trailer and drove about ten miles, then turned onto a local road toward the dam.

  His grandfather had called the place The Scar. And truly, it looked like a deep gash carved into the forest’s face. They sat there and ate breakfast in silence. Gordon, still a boy back then, felt a mix of fear and excitement. They tied the ropes to trees, clipped in, and placed the first anchors into the rock. They descended slowly. With each meter, the world sank deeper into darkness.

  His father switched on the helmet light and motioned for him to do the same. At the first ledge, the fissure extended sideways. After the second drop, they reached the bottom. Darkness. Cold. In his nostrils, the stench. A bit ahead, the helmet beams caught the carcass of a wild boar and a pile of old bones.

  “They fall in from up top. Can’t get out. So they rot,” his father said flatly.

  The Scar was on his mind now.

  Four more hours till sunrise.

  *

  Display cabinets in vacation homes typically hold glassware or porcelain. Longley’s, true to form but contrary to custom, contained military gear: sniper optics, binoculars, hunting knives, and one AN/PVS-31: a multispectral night vision scope.

  At the wheel, visor strapped over his eyes and headlights off, Gordon started the engine. In the back seat, rappelling equipment for descending the cliff.

  He spent a full hour putting the cabin back in order. Everything cleaned, everything in place. The rifle, cleaned. He had taken the spent casing from the eagle’s beak and, with a pocketknife, etched in the number 1953, the year engraved on the base of the mount, marking the moment of the kill. He looked at the old bird, as if it were telling him: Keep this. He put the casing back.

  Three hours till sunrise.

  He drove slowly, tense at the thought of another car appearing. Who would dare witness anything on a night like this?

  He turned off at the rusted metal sign where someone had painted “Hawk’s Overlook” in white. Switched to four-wheel drive. Mud. Skidding. At the end, the Scar.

  Just as he’d been taught: he tied the rope to a tree and let it drop into the dark. The sleeping bag followed. Thudding against stone as it fell. Then, silence.

  He descended. Step. Rope. Release with the left. Tension with the right. Step back. Set an anchor.

  He reached the first ledge. Deborah was waiting there.

  He pushed the bag over the next edge. Climbed down to the bottom. In his nostrils, that same stale air, the stench of death. He looked around. Spotted a hollow. Dragged the bag over and shoved it inside with effort. Heaped stones on top.

  Checked his watch. Ninety minutes.

  Twice he blew air through puffed cheeks, and began the climb back to the world of the living.

  Step. Rope. Unclip the anchor. Carry it. First ledge. At last, he broke the surface.

  His legs were shaking. He stripped off the gear as fast as his tired hands would allow. Threw everything in the trunk. Stopped at the main road. Pulled off the raincoat, gloves, the visor. Threw it all in the back. Took the wheel again.

  The rain had let up as he drove on.

  The light of dawn found him on the interstate, as if to say:

  It’s over now. The worst is behind you. You’re a congressman. No one would ever dare suspect you.

  And yet, twenty years later, he will be staring at that damned blue balloon.