Overlook

  A Night Novel

  Dustin Stevens

  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

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek

  Thank You

  Free Book

  Dustin’s Books

  About the Author

  Overlook

  Copyright © 2023, Dustin Stevens

  Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden, without the written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.

  Cover Art and Design: Christian Bentulan

  Formatting: Jamie Davis

  No beast is more savage than man when

  possessed with power answerable to his rage. —Plutarch

  Chapter One

  Now

  “G, come in. Over.”

  The sound is from a standard two-way radio. A mechanized voice preceded by a burst of static, followed by a distinctive click. A clear end to the transmission, letting the receiver know the line is theirs to reply.

  An answer the man standing on the beach thirty yards away from me seems in no hurry to provide. Intent on getting the last few drags of his cigarette, he stands with his automatic weapon cradled against his chest. A midsized rifle with a magazine curved away from the base.

  A Kalashnikov, if I’m forced to guess, the thin moonlight overhead and my current position not exactly giving me the best viewing angle.

  A red cherry appears as he inhales deeply before flicking the remaining butt out into the water before him. A move steeped in complete disdain, his every movement since the top of my head first crested the water four minutes ago letting it be known that he would rather be anywhere else in the world.

  A sentry posted on the south end of Fawn Island, a tiny knob of earth rising out of Deer Harbor. Two and a half acres of dense pine forest resting atop a mass of boulders and rock beaches.

  Space enough for just a single estate, purchased both ten and six years ago before being sold one last time to its current owner. A sprawling mansion flanked by a pair of smaller guesthouses.

  Structures all arranged to the north and center of the island, making the lone gunman standing before me the sole line of defense on the south end. A football field of dense forestation separates him from where the party will take place tomorrow night.

  No doubt the reason for the disdain he wears like a cloak. Contempt for drawing the proverbial short straw and being cast down here, forced to stare at nothing but the darkened waters of the open end of the harbor. Endless trips across the sun-bleached shells of mussels left behind by the natives who called this place home a century ago.

  An omnipresent crunching sound, almost as distinct as the radio squawking from his belt. Noises that pass easily across the cold water, finding my ears resting just inches above it.

  A tiny spike in a flat sea stretching out wide before him.

  An aberration that would be almost impossible to see, even if he did give a damn about his job and bothered to look up every once in a while.

  “Still here,” the man known as G replies. Releasing the tab on the side of the radio for a moment, he lets a blast of static come in before adding, “Still not a damn thing to see out here in the dark.”

  Turning sideways to the shore, he begins his march anew. Another trek back across the gravel bar masquerading as a beach. An opening between two craggy outcroppings measuring no more than thirty yards across.

  Rocky endcaps to the razored cliffs surrounding ninety percent of the island, arranged in an inverted horseshoe formation.

  An opening I spotted on our scouting trip earlier in the day. A lazy jaunt with my daughter behind the steering wheel while I posed as a retired fisherman, right down to the fishing gear I carried and the oversized wave I’d offered to the guard watching from the eastern rock formation.

  Another little bastard like the one before me. Young punks playing dress up, wearing tactical attire they saw in some movie and carrying pieces of shit rifles.

  Guys holding themselves out as guns for hire, when in reality they are more like window dressing.

  Damned ceramic owls resting atop a building, hoping to keep pigeons from shitting on it, but not able to actually do a damn thing to stop them.

  “Look alive,” the voice on the other end instructs. “Never know what could be out there in the dark.”

  The guard doesn’t bother to reply. Returning the radio to his belt, I hear him mutter, “Yeah, yeah.”

  Words of dismissal just barely audible over the brittle shells being pulverized beneath his feet.

  The signal I’ve been waiting for.

  Floating with my body parallel to the surface, I grip the twin handles of the submersible that pulled me in from the same fishing boat currently floating somewhere in the darkness behind me. Close proximity that meant my arriving journey was less than a mile in total.

  A short jaunt through the inky depths clutching the motorized thruster, a small can of compressed air clamped between my teeth, a full-body wetsuit protecting everything but my cheeks and jaw from the frigid water.

  Icy cold that otherwise would have me succumb to hypothermia within minutes. Yet another cautionary tale, cast down into the waters surrounding the last bits of land separating the United States from Canada.

  Flipping the accelerator switch with my right thumb, I nudge the underwater craft forward. Small hits pushing me closer to shore, with water passing across my oval dive mask and over the balaclava that is the top of my suit.

  Silent progress that steadily cuts the distance between me and my landing spot by half.

  And then half again.

  A steady approach to the island rising before me. A darkened monolith formed from rocks and trees shooting straight up out of the water, towering high above.

  A sight I allow myself to consider for only a moment before putting my focus on the guard continuing to move east across the shoreline. Short, choppy steps that take him to the boulders on the far end before he pauses, again going for his belt.

  A reach that causes me to let up on the accelerator, expecting him to bring the radio back out. A call to whoever was on the line earlier, letting them know that they have an intruder.

  I have been spotted.

  My pulse picks up as I let my feet drift downward, my toes scraping across the rocky bottom beneath me. Semi-firm footing should I have to make a sudden move. A desperation heave I fully expect to need at some point tonight, though was hoping to put off until at least I’d made shore.

  Hopefully, even located the reason why I am here.

  The lone thing in the world strong enough to make a sixty-year-old man come out of retirement to do this sort of shit. Water landings and nighttime raids, to say nothing of the various other things I’ve resorted to in the last couple of days.

  Stuff I haven’t even attempted in damn near a decade. Successfully managed to pull off in even longer.

  Chances taken now
only because there is no other way.

  A fact that was drilled into me before I went into the water a few minutes ago, as if I haven’t been entirely aware of it since that moment on my dock a couple of days ago.

  A charge that starts right here.

  Now.

  This little bastard playing soldier just the first of however many obstacles I need to overcome.

  Chapter Two

  Then

  I gave up on actually paying attention to the lure on the end of my line more than five minutes ago. The instant I heard the faint whine of a car engine approaching in the distance, any focus I had on fishing faded away.

  Not the feel of the rattletrap lure I was working a few feet below the navy-blue surface of the pond or even the speed with which I was reeling. Movements that became nothing more than background activity, my attention moving toward the approach of the V6 engine. Standard fare for a mid-sized American sedan, pushed in a way that hinted the driver was in a hurry to arrive.

  A speedy approach just barely allowing me a complete visual of the vehicle once it finally made the turn into my driveway. A snapshot with blurred edges, taken by the cameras imbedded in the towering pine trees framing either side of the gravel lane.

  An initial line of defense, completely undetectable from the road.

  A first assessment, determining how far the rare visitor I ever received made it thereafter.

  The instant the snapshot was taken, it was sent directly to my cellphone. An image paired with the alerts from the sensors buried in the ground. Visual and auditory warnings letting me know that my personal sanctum had been breached.

  Sirens that sent small hits of adrenaline into my system, preparing me to act. Physiological responses beat into me both by training and experience.

  Momentary spikes that made me glance to the tackle box resting on the dock by my feet and the hidden compartment that comprised the bottom of it. One of many such hiding places around the property and throughout my home.

  Stash spots to ensure I was never far from a weapon.

  Ingrained behavior, going back more than twenty-five years. A reflexive reaction, lasting only until I checked the screen of the phone before dissipating. A quick flare of long dormant synapses, receding back to stasis as my gaze returned to the sight of the vehicle coming my way on the screen of my phone.

  An arrival not unwelcome, but certainly not expected.

  A potential friend, or an enemy far worse than whatever my body was preparing for just a moment earlier.

  Hitting a single button to open the gate nestled eighty yards further down the lane, I returned the phone back to the inside pocket of my fleece overcoat. Remaining fixed in position, I let my eyes glaze, listening as my guest came closer.

  More of the same hurried pace, the sound passing easily along the line cut through the forest encircling my home. A slash amidst the heavy timber more than twice as wide as necessary, done with that distinct purpose in mind.

  A means of turning it into a sound tunnel. One more way of alerting me to any visitors well before they arrived.

  Not that there was an abundance of people seeking me out these days, the full list of people who had ventured down the gravel lane since I moved in able to be counted on three fingers.

  The mailman, who had made the drive just twice before requesting that any future packages be retrieved at the post office in town. Agnes Elder, a woman who insisted on bringing me baked goods every so often, claiming it was what neighbors were supposed to do, her definition of the word apparently extending across the two miles separating the homestead of her and her late husband from my own.

  And the woman currently seated behind the gray Honda headed my way.

  Continuing with the performative charade, I sat on the roughhewn bench built directly into the dock overlooking my pond. A body of water more than ten acres in total, lined with cattails, dense pine forest rising behind them on either end.

  A deep pool carved by nature’s own hand, backdropped by the Cascade Mountains in the distance. Jagged peaks already kissed with the first snowfall of the year at the higher elevations.

  Omens of the brutal Pacific Northwest winter that would soon be upon us at the lower levels.

  A retirement destination that was not of my own choosing, though there were worse places to be.

  A thought I had been having, staring at the afternoon sun splashed across the surface of the water, when the sound of the engine pulled it away. One more thing shoved to the periphery, forgotten as I heard the sedan slide to a stop within thirty yards of where I was sitting. Tires slinging gravel, ending with the engine cutting out and the metal hinges of a door whining as it was wrenched open.

  Sounds that cut through the crisp Washington air while I hooked a finger into the filament line on my St. Croix rod. A means of holding it in place as I raised the tip toward the heavens before jerking it forward. A motion done thousands of times from that very spot, the cast sending the black and red lure onto a looping arc that ended with a small splash in the center of the marigold stripe resting atop the water.

  A landing place I was content to leave it as I set the line and pretended to reel, listening to the thump of boot heels moving the length of the dock.

  A percussive beat that was louder than necessary. Stomping meant to send shock waves down through the pillars and out into the water, effectively ending any chance of catching another fish for the day.

  A little trick she picked up long ago, making it quite clear what she thought of the pastime.

  “Used to be a time when someone couldn’t even make it off the road before you knew they were there,” the not-quite-familiar voice of my daughter Quinn opened. Words interspersed with more footsteps. Steady progress made in my direction. “Hell, now you don’t even look up from the damn water.”

  A greeting clearly meant to goad me. Pick up right where we left things the last time we saw each other.

  Exactly five hundred days ago.

  A gap that, according to the last thing she said before leaving, was but a fraction of the time she hoped it would be before we crossed paths again.

  What could have possibly drawn her out now, I could only guess at.

  “Your left taillight is out,” I replied. My own return barb, letting her know that just because I wasn’t standing in the center of the driveway as I once had, she still wasn’t able to sneak up on me.

  Never would be.

  Snorting softly, her pace slowed. The heft of her footfalls dropped. The heels of the hiking boots she wore scraped across the aged boards as she appeared in my periphery, her thumbs hooked in the rear loops of her jeans.

  Her preferred pose, adopted when she was but seven years old.

  One she had kept through the three-plus decades since.

  “Still out here every afternoon?” she asked, staring across the pond. As easy a place as any for her to put her focus, making a point of avoiding eye contact.

  “For as long as I can,” I answered, “before winter hits.”