“It’s said in olden days, Sarah, that that square island-rock down there was used as a sacrificial altar. Some say it still is.”
“Pumpkineaters — yes I’ve heard of them. A hate group some call them. But not me.”
Al turned, but not to kiss this time. Kill? “Why not?” he said, disbelieving his ears. “I mean–”
“I know I know,” she tried to explain, wishing she’d never voiced her opinion on the subject now. “Little Jack Sprout.” Should she go ahead and say it? Why not (to echo Al)? “They never found the body.”
Al bounces up off the log, looks down on her. “They found his *clothes*. They found his little orange *hat*. Heck, they even found his *shoes*. No body?? Why would you even need a body with all that?” He turns toward the lake. “He’s probably at the bottom there, down in the rocks below where no one can see. Opaque Lake — not named that for nothing.” Even though, Al realized through the anger, that, yes indeed, he could see some of the bottom on the shallower side. Not quite opaque, although getting there. Maybe the sediment clouding the water has settled or something, he rationalized.
“And the gesture,” he continued, “the last gasp. They have it on film.”
“They have a re-*creation* of it on film.” Sarah had dug this hole, now she was going to stand in it. Fake footage we’re talking about here. Evidence split into 3, with the 1st conveniently missing and the second maybe conveniently faked, maybe the real reason for the 2nd even extends to the 3rd which would be the last, case, well, opened *up* again. She said all this to Al.
His love for Sarah already ran deep and clear. He started to reconsider.
(to be continued)
Sunklands 