Page 150 of Slack Tide Kill

Liam stood, a collection of fuse caps and a large metal plate in his hands. His face was ash-white. "You lied to us," he said, then tossed all the pieces into the tub.

"Shit!" Spate shrieked, springing backward. "You could break my bloody toe with that thing."

"I'll do more than that, you murdering prick. Meeks told us you were boasting about Richter and the seal two whole days before he died. Two days, Spate!"

Spate stared. For a moment the light seemed to go out in his eyes. His shoulders drooped, his body went slack. Then he mustered. His chest puffed back up, his eyes igniting.

"Crawford Meeks is a pussy, and he'd say anything to save his own skin. You can't believe anything he tells you, because–"

"But I do believe him," Liam said. He made a sideways step, took hold of one of the thin support rods for the tarpaulin above, and pulled.

The spike rooting it into the sodden grass sucked free easily. Liam paused a moment, the tarp strung taut above, then let go. The rod fell to the ground and the canvas instantly caught the gale like a kite, bulging up then letting slip with an ear-thumping slap.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

With each pulse the porch frame shook harder, the remaining rods jerking, the first blades of rain slashing in to spatter the hot tub surface.

"What the hell are you doing?" Spate cried.

"You shouldn't take a hot tub in a storm," Liam shouted, and moved to the next rod. "You shouldn't run a generator in a storm. You shouldn't murder an innocent boy and cover it up for 30 years, Gerald, for a dead, criminal leech like Reg Rook, but you never learned what you shouldn't do, did you, so you just keep doing it."

He pulled out another rod.

The tarpaulin lashed manically, a long straining sweep up that rocked the mobile home and sprayed rain over the three of them, then a hard whipcrack down. One corner of the canvas smacked Spate in the forehead. He raised a hand; blood welled where a metal eyelet had struck.

"What the…" Spate mumbled, staring numbly at the blood on his palm as Liam moved to the final rod and took hold of it.

Sally's eyes widened. "Liam," she said. But not loud. She made no move to stop him.

He ignored her. "The sea should've claimed a man like you three decades ago," he shouted over the tumult. "Instead of Richter. Instead of Harrow. But you know what they say about the river. It just keeps on rolling."

He tugged. The rod sucked loose, the tarpaulin pushed taut, and–

"Wait!" Spate cried.

Liam paused, looking at the man in the tub like a spider eyeing a fly in its web. "What is it, Gerald?"

"I just, you can't…" Spate's eyes darted, searching his sunken kingdom for an escape then settling on Sally. "Stop him!"

She said nothing.

Liam dropped the rod.

The tarpaulin shot upward, enflamed with wind, stark white lines stretching at the final mooring points to the mobile home's roof. Then the wind spilled out with a thudding, ear-popping suck, and the canvas dropped down to shroud Spate completely. Half a second passed, filled with a low keening whine coming from within, then the wind ripped the canvas off his trembling body and up.

There was a sickening snap as the first eyelet tore, releasing the canvas to gyrate directly above, thrashing side to side. Rain soaked them all, rain splashed off the generator.

"Oh my God!" Spate called.

A final gust gripped the tarpaulin, the last few eyelets wrenched away and the blue fabric rocketed away into the storm.

Sally watched it go, its chaotic, twitching form engulfed swiftly by the rain.

Then Spate was moving. Sally's gaze dropped back, to where the older man slipped, slid and tumbled out of the hot tub. He landed with a splash in the lake below, scrabbled for purchase then took off; a geriatric from the starting blocks.

She watched as he lurched awkwardly through the deluge, feet dragging wakes in the high water, barely holding his balance. This was all crazy. It was too much.

"I'll go," said Liam, and strode after him.