The Resort (7 page)

In a way, he supposed, he was glad that he had not kept in touch with them.

And he was definitely glad that he'd avoided the reunion.

But what about himself? How had he turned out? What would they think of him?

Those were questions he did not want to examine too closely.

The pool room was empty. He'd half expected it to be filled with jocks and health fanatics, all getting in their two hundred morning laps, but the pool area was unoccupied, the cement floor dry, clean towels all folded on a cart, and he saw no one exercising as he passed through the weight room. He had the entire building to himself—luckily—since the rules posted above a bench along the side wall stated that all swimmers must shower before entering the water and he clearly hadn't bathed this morning. He quickly jumped in and dunked his head before someone else entered and saw his wild uncombed hair.

The water was bathwater warm and remarkably free from the strong chlorine smell of the outdoor pool. He'd read somewhere that chlorine did not really smell, that the scent everyone associated with swimming pools and ironically thought was a “clean” odor, was actually caused by the interaction of chlorine with sweat and urine and other bodily fluids. Which meant that this pool was relatively uncontaminated.

The pool was divided into five lanes by ropes and buoys stretched across its length. He was in the first lane, and he paddled back and forth aimlessly for a few moments, acclimatizing himself, before backing against the wall of the shallow end and shoving off.

Lowell could not remember the last time he'd swum for exercise, and it felt good to be swimming so swiftly, with such purpose. Ordinarily, on vacations, he'd horse around with the boys, make a few halfhearted runs across the pool of whatever hotel they were staying at, then join Rachel for some sunbathing and reading. Other than vacations, he never swam at all these days. He had always liked the water, though, and it was invigorating to be doing laps, feeling the liquid sliding sensuously against his skin as he propelled himself toward the deep end of the pool.

He reached the far side, flipped over, pushed against the wall, and with swift kicks and broad, even strokes sped back down his lane, feeling the satisfying stretch of muscles in his arms and thighs and stomach.

He was halfway across the pool when someone grabbed his left foot.

Lowell kicked out, flailing wildly, shocked more than anything else, but the grip on his foot tightened, bony fingers digging into the thin flesh, holding firm. For a brief moment he was swimming in place like a cartoon character, then the hand let go and he floundered in the water as he fought against a force that was no longer there. Twisting, sputtering, trying to keep himself afloat and determine who had grabbed him at the same time, Lowell looked down into the bubbly choppy water beneath him, then scanned the surface of the pool. It was empty. There was still no one in the room but himself.

Someone
had grabbed his foot.

He remembered that back in high school, Tony Sherman used to do that to him in P.E.

But Tony Sherman had been killed in a drunk driving accident their senior year.

Tony had been the drunk driver.

A chill passed through him, making the water seem icicle cold. Even if he was superstitious—which he wasn't—there could be no possible connection between what he thought he'd felt and a twenty-year-old accident. Still, the coldness remained, and he pulled himself out of the pool, hopping onto the side. He sat there for a few moments, feet dangling in the water, as he continued to search for his unseen assailant. It was clear, however, that he was the only one in the building, and he decided that he had simply overreacted to a perfectly logical, explainable, natural incident. There was no mystery here.
no ghost

His foot had probably just caught on the lane rope and his brain had misinterpreted what he'd felt.

He forced himself to believe it and slid back into the water. Once again, everything seemed normal. He was in a pool in the resort's Exercise Center, not in the basement of some haunted house. He took up where he'd left off, swimming to the shallow end. Pivoting at the wall, he headed back into the deep water.

Fingers grabbed his right foot.

They were weaker this time, as though they'd used up all of their strength with the first attack, but they still clutched the middle portion of his foot with clear purpose, and the assault was nonetheless shocking for its familiarity. He kicked out hard, trying to hurt whoever—
whatever
—was at the other end of those hands, but he connected with nothing save water. When he stopped swimming and spun around, the pool was empty. There was no one here except him.

For the first time since he was a child, Lowell felt that deep primal fear of the boogeyman that had made his boyhood nights a living hell, a terror that he had never been able to make his parents understand. He gripped the edge of the pool and started pulling himself up.

The hand was back, grabbing him, attempting to draw him into the deep water. Whatever was in the pool wasn't strong enough to drag him down—but it clearly wanted to. The invisible fingers clutching his ankle were pulling at him, but they simply didn't have the strength.

He freed himself from the unseen grip and flopped onto the cement, trying to catch his breath. Reflections of light off the still rippling water shimmered on the wall and ceiling. Feeling he was still too close to the edge, he quickly stood and moved away from the pool, taking refuge on a bench against the wall, ready to run out of the room at the slightest sign of anything unusual. He was panting hard, not so much from the physical exertion as from fear.

What the hell had just happened?

He'd had a supernatural experience. There was no doubt about that. If he had formerly considered himself skeptical but open-minded when it came to the paranormal, he was now a firm believer. But what should he do about it? Should he rush back and tell Rachel? Let someone on the hotel staff know so they could . . . could . . . what? Hire a ghost-buster? Keep people away until the haunting stopped? The practical aftermath of such an incident never seemed to be addressed in horror movies, and he was unsure of what step to take next. Logic told him to keep quiet, not say anything to anyone, wait and see if something like this happened to anyone else before sticking his neck out and exposing himself to ridicule. At the same time, didn't he have an obligation to protect others? This wasn't just some shadow on the wall, this was a physical force that had attempted to pull him into the water, that could have drowned him. Shouldn't he warn others to keep them from harm?

But would anyone listen? Would anyone believe?

The lap pool sat there, light blue under the fluorescent lights, water once again calm, looking as modern and innocent as that in any fitness club.

Taking a deep breath, Lowell slid on his sandals, inching sideways toward the door, keeping his eye on the pool, prepared to run at any moment should the lights in the room go off or the water start to roil mysteriously. As he reached the exit, he was suddenly aware that there were other noises in the building, that his were not the only sounds in the Exercise Center. He walked through the doorway, past the showers and lockers. From the weight room up ahead, he heard the regular clang of metal on metal, as though someone were in there working out. This, too, seemed spooky under the circumstances, and his first irrational thought was that he would walk in only to find the place empty, none of the machines in use. He shivered—and not just from the air-conditioning on his wet skin.

He paused in the weight room doorway, overcome with the certainty that there'd be no one there. Or that he would catch a peripheral glimpse of someone in the mirrors lining the walls but the room itself would be empty. Thankfully, though, he saw through the overlapping rows of exercise equipment an overweight bald man sitting at one of the weight-lifting machines, heard the man's very real grunts of exertion. As he drew closer, however, walking toward the exit, preparing to give a friendly greeting as he passed by, he saw that the bald man was not just overweight but grossly obese—three hundred pounds at least.

And wearing no clothes.

The sight was disconcerting, and alarm bells started going off in his head. Lowell wanted to glance away, but his gaze was drawn by the huge symmetrical folds in the pale sweaty skin, the rounded rolls of fat that jiggled with each grunting lift and subsequent dropping of weights. The man was not only enormous but fearsome looking, his shiny shaved head and ferocious countenance giving him an almost inhuman appearance, and Lowell slowed, stopped, not wanting to walk past the man.

Afraid to pass by him.

He scowled at Lowell, continued to press weights, and, horrifyingly, his penis trembled and grew until it was fully erect. The man lifted the forked bars up to his shoulder level then let out a tremendous guttural grunt as he shoved them above his head.

Lowell did not stay to see the finish but quickly exited the building, practically running as he made his way down the short corridor. A closed door to his right said SPA. He did not even want to think about what could be in there.

Outside . . . everything was normal. A family of four was heading down one of the gravel paths on a nature walk, the younger boy complaining that his feet hurt. On the road connecting the parking lots, a Reata staffer drove by on an electric cart piled high with clean towels. Lowell stood there for a moment just to reacquaint himself with the real world. He heard the shouts of children playing at the big pool, heard the thump of music from within a passing Lexus. The air was hot and still, but it felt real, it felt good, and in the space of a few moments what he had experienced within the Exercise Center seemed unreal even to himself. He turned around, looked at the door, but though it looked perfectly normal and he felt no vibe, he was not about to go inside again.

He started walking back to the room.

“Dad!”

Rachel and Ryan were walking up the sidewalk toward him, on their way to the big pool. He purposely slowed his gait as he saw them approach, waving.

Ryan ran over. “We're going swimming!”

He ran a hand through his son's hair. “That's great, sport. Have fun.”

“Are you coming, too?”

“In a while.”

“That was quick,” Rachel said.

“Yeah.”

“So how was your swim?” she asked.

He thought for a moment, unsure of what to say.

She frowned. “Lowell?”

He forced himself to smile. “Fine,” he told her. “Fine.”

“Check out that one. I bet her snatch is a snack and a half.”

Owen casually glanced to his left, following David's subtle nod, and saw an older girl, probably seventeen or eighteen, walking toward them, the thin material of her white thong bikini clinging to her lithe form, revealing jutting nipples and a visible cleft between her thighs.

They were sitting in the Jacuzzi, drinking Cokes, feigning a sophistication only David actually possessed. Originally, David had wanted to go swimming, and Curtis would have gone along with it even though he didn't want to, but Owen had put his foot down. They'd been the first people to the pool this morning other than the staff, and when he'd glanced into the water of the deep end next to the waterfall, he had spied a shape at the bottom. The same human shape he and Curtis had seen yesterday. He didn't think his brother had noticed it because Curtis had been scoping out a hot resort worker in a one-piece who was scooping bugs and leaves out of the shallow end with a net, but he could tell from Curtis's reaction to David's suggestion that they get in some serious swim time that the figure was still in his mind.

The dead man.

That's what it was. It wasn't a
figure.
It was the drowned body of a man, and the fact that it had disappeared and turned into something like a stain on the light blue bottom of the pool made him think that it was probably the ghost of someone who'd died there. Not that he really believed in ghosts—not exactly—but he was still open-minded enough not to discount things he saw just because other people said they weren't true.

So he'd suggested that they hang out in the Jacuzzi, check out the chicks. Going on babe watch automatically trumped swimming, and David and Curtis readily agreed to his plan. They'd been here for nearly half an hour now, watching as the pool area filled up, even scaring away an elderly couple who wanted to use the whirlpool.

The girl in the white thong passed by, and all three of them casually turned their heads to check out her ass.

“I'd love to sniff her suit,” David said, and Owen could not help giggling.

Curtis finished his Coke and tapped his plastic cup on the raised ring of cement encircling the Jacuzzi. David tossed him the two-liter bottle and Curtis poured himself a refill. Suddenly the whirlpool's timer went off, and the jets stopped, bubbles ceasing. David stood. “I don't know about you two, but I'm sweating like a fucking pig here. I think it's time we hit the cool water.”

Curtis nodded. “I'm with you.”

Even Owen had to admit that a half hour in swirling warm water beneath an increasingly hot sun was more than enough. The three of them got out, carrying their drinks and walking over to the edge of the big pool. In front of them, two young boys sped down the slide together.

“Fags,” David said disdainfully. He sat down on the edge of the pool, putting his feet in the water. “Jesus Christ!” he cried out. “That's cold!”