The Killer at the Lake

The Killer at the Lake A Robert Vance Thriller Rick Van Etten Des Moines, Iowa The Killer at the Lake Copyright © 2023 by Rick R. Van Etten ISBN: 978-1-7348269-1-3 All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America This is a work of fiction. While many of the locations and businesses mentioned herein do exist, they are used fictitiously and to the best of the author’s knowledge, none of the incidents described have ever occurred. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Published by Proud Point Press Des Moines, Iowa Cover design by Eric Labacz www.labaczdesign.com Dedication For Linda, Karen, Tracy (in absentia), Susan, Katie, Tom, Bob and Barb, Drew, Terry and all the other Maffitt Reservoir regulars. And in memory of Mike Stephenson, 1952-2022 We miss you, guy. Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Chapter 64 Chapter 65 Chapter 66 Chapter 67 Chapter 68 Chapter 69 Chapter 70 Chapter 71 Chapter 72 Chapter 73 Chapter 74 Chapter 75 Chapter 76 A Note from the Author Acknowledgements About the Author VANCE’S RULES FOR CONTRACT KILLINGS No personal involvement…i.e., there must be no personal feelings whatsoever attached. This would cloud judgment. No collateral damage. Absolutely unacceptable; must remain true to purpose—righting a wrong, stopping a bully, etc. Eliminating bystanders/witnesses not permitted. Ditto letting an innocent person take the fall. Never keep a handgun after it’s been used. No politicians (regardless of how much they might deserve it); too well protected; too much public scrutiny and investigation. No organized crime members. Flat-out too dangerous, and too much risk of touching off a gangland war that might result in innocents being killed. Prologue Evening at the lake, and the predator was watching. Watching and waiting. The predator was sitting in his parked vehicle at a gravel turnout on a high grassy point above a cove on the west side of the lake. He was facing toward the dam at the north end of the water, and from his position he could look across the cove and see a small portion of the road that began at the west entrance and wound around to the turnout where he was parked. He was watching for a specific vehicle, a dark blue Ford Explorer driven by a woman named Hannah Wilkinson. It was a few minutes past seven on a Wednesday evening in late July, warm and humid. The predator had the front windows of his vehicle rolled down and he sat with his left elbow cocked on the open window frame. He kept his gaze focused on that small section of road across the cove, imagining himself a keen-eyed raptor riding the thermals and watching for signs of prey below. No, he decided after a moment, not riding the thermals. Because he was stationary, he revised his thinking and imagined himself perched atop a high vantage point, ready to launch into action. A red-tailed hawk at the top of a tall dead tree, maybe. Or a golden eagle on a rocky crag. Ready to launch with deadly talons extended. The predator liked to think of himself as being able to change form at will in the manner of Native American shape-shifters. Sometimes he imagined himself a coyote trotting silently along a deer trail through the woods, or a bobcat crouching motionless in ambush on a fallen log in a dense thicket. Maybe, if he was in a more whimsical mood, a raccoon prowling the lakeshore, looking for something edible at the water’s edge. The predator chose these images carefully, based on where he was and what he was doing. But he was always a predator, never prey. He knew the lake and its surrounding woods intimately. He also knew most of the people who came to the lake regularly: the kayakers and canoers, the fishermen, the hikers and bicyclists, the dog walkers. He knew most of their names, or first names, anyway, and most of them knew his. He was fine with that, because—he smiled at the thought—none of them really knew him. They saw only his public face. The non-predatory one. That was the face Hannah Wilkinson saw, and that was the person she thought she knew. Won’t she be surprised to learn differently, he thought. He smiled at the realization that soon, very soon, her belief, certainty even, that he was a nice guy, a friendly acquaintance and nothing more, would come to an abrupt end. End being the operative word. Hannah Wilkinson was running late. Earlier in the day she’d agreed via text to meet a friend at the lake for an evening walk. They were supposed to meet at seven o’clock at one of the gravel turnouts on the west side of the lake, where they would leave their vehicles. Then, Hannah guessed they would probably follow the roadway around to the metal gate at the head of the main hiking trail. Hannah wasn’t sure whether they would slip past the gate and continue on the main trail or turn and walk back to their vehicles. It was