Free Dark Waters by Alex Prentiss Page B

Chances were the spirits, with their intimate knowledge of her moods and responses, would have her moaning within minutes. Or she could go to another part of the lake. The spirits would be there wherever she swam, but she just couldn’t muster the desire to act on those certainties.
    Who had the man been? And why did he look familiar? She knew many men socially, most through the diner, but she could not place this one.
    Then as a little shudder ran through her, she realized who he was: Kyle Stillwater . She’d watched the half-naked Adonis stride into the lake, and he’d looked exactly like this man in silhouette. But why in God’s name would he be here? And what did that circle of stones mean? Had he built it or just examined it as she did?
    It was all too weird. She turned and jogged back the way she came, then cut up three blocks before turning back toward home. Her feet echoed oddly, as if someone followed and matched her stride precisely, but whenever she looked back, the sidewalk was empty.

CHAPTER NINE
    P OSTED BY THE Lady to the Lady of the Lakes blog:
Those of you who were there know what I’m talking about. The big ground-breaking ceremony for the new community center was hijacked by one fine piece of manhood who came out of the lake in a temper and very little else. The Lady isn’t sure about his claims regarding the plot of land, but she does agree that he can protest anywhere he wants to.
Does anyone have any good pictures to share?
    THE STORY OF Kyle Stillwater’s startling appearance at the park was on the front page of the Sunday Capital Journal and was the lead on the three local TV stations. Missing from them all, though, was any picture of the man himself. Owners of every electronic recording device—digital still cameras, video cameras, or cellphones—found that any images were hopelessly corrupted.
    Even Julie Schutes, who had checked her photos right after she took them, had found them pixilated beyond any possible use once she returned to her office. Only one picture—a distant one that showed Stillwater as a mere silhouette standing in the lake and taken from her stall by a seller of hemp products—survived.
    Most interesting were the photographs taken on actual film by a couple of camera buffs. In these, Stillwater’s features were both blurry and distorted: His eyes were round and black, his nose and chin elongated, and his mouth a death’s-head grimace.
    These photos did not run in the papers, and the photographers were unable to scan them and post them online. When they tried, the hardware and software refused to cooperate.
    The newspaper’s staff researcher did find the photograph of a local actor known as Kyle Stillwater—a one-quarter Ho-Chunk Native American who’d done some modeling and commercial work. He resembled the man who’d crashed the ceremony, except that he was ten years too young and his hair was jet-black. And when shown his picture, all the women who’d been at the park that day were absolutely certain it wasn’t the same man, because this mundane Kyle Stillwater just didn’t affect them the same way. At all. It couldn’t be him.
    No one could reach the actor for comment. His agent in Chicago said he would pass along any media requests but could assure the authorities that his client had no paying jobs at the moment.
    ———
    WHEN ETHAN WALKER got to work Monday morning, Garrett Bloom was already there, pacing in front of Ambika’s desk. Her expression indicated just how long that had been going on. “I thought you got here at ten,” Bloom snapped without preliminaries.
    Ethan clenched his teeth in annoyance; he didn’t like being scolded, let alone in his own office before he’d had his coffee. He glanced at the clock. “It’s five after.”
    “That’s still late.”
    “Since I’m the boss, no one usually complains about my punctuality.”
    “On most days,” Ambika muttered.
    Bloom scowled at her, then said urgently, “I have to talk to you