Richard Laymon - The Lake
Mace was smiling at her. She relaxed again. The mood was just right: warm, friendly, with more than a hint of sexual awareness, which she knew they both were feeling. Her heartbeat quickened, bringing a flush to her cheeks.
“Sounds like you really enjoyed life back there,” he said.
“Yeah, I guess I did.”
“And you met this girl again, today?”
“Right. It was a…wonderful surprise. We had a lot of catching up to do.”
“You never kept in touch?”
“No,” Leigh gave a wistful smile. “I guess I was too busy. Too busy making plans. Set my heart on having my own restaurant. Not easy, with a baby. But I managed; Mom and Dad helped me financially. Kept us both clothed and fed…”
“You didn’t go back there. Home, I mean?”
“Not straightaway. I was proud. Wanted to prove myself. Wanted to redeem myself, I guess. Show Mom and Dad I could be a success. Show them I’d grown up and could look after my daughter okay.”
“You’ve sure done all of that, Leigh. You’ve got a great kid who’s going to college in the fall, and a successful restaurant. Your folks must be real proud of you.”
Leigh saw a shadow cross his face.
Maybe not. Trick of the light, she guessed.
Sighing, she glanced at her wristwatch.
Almost midnight. Deana’s probably asleep by now.
“I can take a hint. Time I was somewhere else, Leigh. Thanks for the drink. And your company,” he whispered. “My treat next time. You choose the place—and we’ll make a date.”
“I’d like that, Mace.”
“You would?” He smiled eagerly.
“Yes, I would. Very much.”
He bent his head and kissed her lightly on the cheek.
“ ’Night, Leigh. Take care, now.”
Her heart raced again.
She saw him to the door, then watched the taillights of his black Trans Am snake away into the night.
TWENTY-THREE
Deana lay in bed.
Listening to Mace go.
She heard Mom’s voice. Light. Laughing a little. Then Mace’s, low and intimate.
Looks like he got Mom on the hop.
Bastard!
It was one of those nights again, hot and muggy.
I sure could use a shower.
She shoved the sheet down with her feet and lay still.
Feeling the sweat go cold on her body.
She lifted her nightgown away from her breasts and blew down inside the bodice. It made her feel hotter.
“Phewww!”
A night like this when I had my dream…
That was no dream. It was the real thing.
Nelson and his hatchet.
Sorry. Meat cleaver.
What’s the difference?
Either way, you end up the same—a chopped-up body.
Could’ve been my chopped up body.
Oh God. Let them find him soon.
Mom thinks he threw himself off the bridge.
Hope so.
Then we’d all be safe.
But he was out of his tree.
Anyone could see that.
Those wild eyes. Mistake. That wild eye. Slobbering mouth.
Uhhh. Yuck!
She swung her legs out of bed and stood up.
The breeze whispering through the open window felt good. Lifting her nightgown over her head, she let it drop to the floor—changed her mind, picked it up, wadded it, and tossed it in the hamper.
She looked down at her body, pale and slick with sweat. Her full, firm breasts, flat belly, and long, muscular legs.
Gleaming in the darkness.
No full moon tonight.
Not like the night Nelson paid me a visit.
Nelson. Fucking maniac.
If it weren’t for him, Allan’d still be here…
She opened the nightstand drawer, pulled out Allan’s gym shorts, and buried her nose in them.
She took a deep, deep sniff.
And couldn’t believe it.
Allan’s smell was gone.
So soon.
How could a person’s smell disappear like that? It was like it had died with him.
Bit by bit, piece by piece, Allan was going away.
Leaving her behind.
This is how it’s gonna be. I’ll forget what he looks like next. Except I have that photograph of him I took at Stinson Beach a couple of weeks back.
The one where he looked like a young Robert Redford. Tousled blond hair, broad smile, gorgeous teeth, eyes crinkled up against the sun.
He was wearing those tight, shiny swim trunks…
Oh God, Allan. I’ll never forget you. Never. I promise!
Knowing that Allan was gone forever hit her hard.
Again.
Tears stood in her eyes, then coursed down her cheeks. She wiped them away with the shorts.
She sighed, fighting back a sob. Gently, she folded the shorts and replaced them in the nightstand drawer.
Allan’s smell may have disappeared, but she would always have his shorts to remind her of the good times they’d had.
Could still be having—if it weren’t for that sick fuck Nelson.
Loud, hurting sobs broke through, bursting from her throat.
She threw herself on the bed and lay weeping into her pillow, drawing up her knees till they touched her chin. She rocked and sobbed, her tears drenching the pillow, hopelessness sweeping over her like a tidal wave.
Allan was gone.
Forever.
I’ll never forget you, darling…
The tears gradually subsided. She felt calmer now and turned over on her back.
Staring at the ceiling.
Watching the shadows from her tree spread across it like giant fingers.
If I could find Nelson, I’d kill him. That’s what I’d do. If I saw him tonight and killed him, nobody would know.
I could slit his goddamn throat. Stab him to death. Then hide the body.
Roll it away into someone’s garden.
Or into the stand of redwoods, back of the house.
Nobody’d ever think of looking there.
She leaned over Nelson’s body, blood streaming from the wound in his gut, pouring from his mouth. Sobbing and choking at the same time, he pleaded with her to stop, get help.
He hadn’t meant to do it.
Oh no?
He was sorry—he hadn’t wanted to kill anyone…
She laughed at him scornfully, kicked the knife into the bushes, and strolled back into the house.
She sat back on the bed, planning her next move.
Knife. That’s what I need, a knife.
Her mind flew to the kitchen.
Mom’s vegetable knife.
It was lethal. Short, strong, with a pointed blade. You could lose a finger and not even notice.
I could handle it, though.
Deana pictured Mom holding the knife.
Chopping carrots.
Quickly, expertly, like a machine, the root falling away from the knife like small orange counters.
Yes, Mom’s vegetable knife could kill Nelson okay.
No problem.
Deana swung herself off the bed, shivering with excitement. The idea of killing Nelson was scary, but it was turning her on.
It would be so easy.
And she’d get away with it.
Nobody’d suspect her.
If they did, well, she was a girl, wasn’t she—still distraught at the death of her lover.
They’d say she didn’t know what she was doing.
Maybe they’d think a young girl like her wouldn’t have the courage, the strength to kill a grown man…
Nelson won’t be hanging around, though, waiting to be killed.
Not if he has any sense.
Or would he?
Maybe he has got this fatal attraction for Mom and me.
Maybe he won’t be able to stay away.
She crept to the door.
Listening out for Mom.
Seems like she’s already in bed. Having cleared away the supper things, got into her nightgown, cleaned her teeth…
Probably went to sleep thinking of Mace.
Yuck.
The silence was everywhere, except for the rustling tree outside her window.
Reminding her of Nelson, the way he’d scared the daylights out of her…
I’ll scare the butt-ugly bastard shitless. If and when I find him.
She dressed quickly, her resolve to find Nelson growing by the second. She pulled on a black, long-sleeved sweatshirt and matching tights.
Bundled her thick hair into a knot.
Dragged a black knit cap over her head, safely anchoring the hair in place.
No black sneakers, though.
Damn! Then:
“Yes!”
Brilliant!
A brain wave…
She picked out black knee-length wool socks from her drawer and pulled them over her white Nike running shoes.
I look like a cat burglar!
Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief.
Slipping quietly into the kitchen for the knife, she felt like Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief.
Holding her breath, she stood still, listening.
No sign of Mom stirring.
Tiptoeing over to the cutlery drawer, she pulled it out carefully.
It rattled slightly. Drawing in a quick breath, she held still for a moment. Then she took out the vegetable knife and ran her fingers lightly over the steel blade.
Wow!
It was really sharp.
She closed the drawer, freezing as it rattled, louder this time, on its way back into the cabinet.
A gurgling sound belched behind her. She caught her breath again—and let it out with a gasp.
Phew…
Water in the pipes.
I think.
I hope…
Through her soft sweatshirt, she fingered the door key on its chain, lying in the deep cleft between her breasts.
Might need this in a hurry if things go wrong.
Like I’m standing over Nelson’s bleeding body…and someone sees me holding the knife dripping with blood…and I have to run like crazy to make it home before they call the cops.
Must be an idiot to think that Nelson’d be hanging around.
Waiting to get stabbed to death.
But you never know.
I got this feeling I could be in luck tonight.
One way or another.
Anyway. I’m out there for a run, aren’t I?
Not aiming to kill anybody.
I’m taking the knife along in case Nelson happens by.
Then I promise you, Allan, I’ll kill the bastard.
She slipped out the front door, holding the knife blade outward. She ran lightly down the driveway.
The knife felt awkward at first. Then she got used to it, pumping in and out in her hand as she ran.
The socks were great. Like this, she could run on in silence. No one would hear her muffled steps.
Blending in with the shadows, she felt like one of them herself. Part of the scenery.
Black clothes make perfect night camouflage, she told herself.
Wearing black made her feel a lot safer.
But it was still spooky out here.
Scary.
And it was hot. Her head was sweating already.
I’ll take off my cap in a minute…
She paused to work out her strategy.
She’d reached the end of the drive. Now, which way, up or down?
If Nelson’s around, which way is he likely to go?
Might be coming up to the house.
Got himself another car maybe? The cops have his old one.
Something rustled in the juniper bushes to her left.
She stiffened, not daring to breathe, flattening herself against the shrubs by the gatepost.
Yeoowwww…
A cat streaked out in front of her. She gasped; then, feeling relieved, she laughed a little. Fuckin’ cat!
Okay.
Start running.
Downbank?
Best go upbank; it’d make for an easier journey on the way home.
After I’ve annihilated Nelson.
She turned and jogged upbank, gently.
Looking around her.
Is someone watching?
Wondering what the hell that girl is doing out at one a.m.?
Asking for trouble…
A thrill buzzed in the pit of her stomach.
It was spooky.
But it was exciting, too.
She could meet anybody.
Or anything.
Dressed in black, the odds were that no one could see her anyway.
On the other hand, there could be some guy out there, thinking about what he’d do to her if he caught her…
She hastened her step.
Maybe she should turn around?
Go back home…
Not yet.
I’m not that scared.
Keep on truckin’, Deana…
And eyes front, all the way.
It’d be a dumb move to look around, enjoy the scenery as she ran along.
Yeah.
Asking for trouble that way.
Mostly, it’d make her feel scared, worrying about who or what could be out there.
I should worry. I have a knife.
Mom’s vegetable knife.
Don’t make me laugh.
Some karate kid comes along and kicks the knife outta my hand.
Then what?
Then you get jumped, raped—or worse, you dope.
Murdered.
Raped and murdered.
You’re an idiot, Deana West. What are you doing out here, anyway?
Mom’d have a fit.
If she knew.
She’ll never know.
I’ll be home in ten minutes. Fifteen and I’m tucked up in bed. No one any the wiser.
“Hey.”
A shout.
Ringing out in the night. Echoing loudly.
Deana gasped, melting into the shadows of a redwood spreading out from a driveway.
Her grip tightened on the knife.
She stood poised, ready for action.
“Hey. You want to look where you’re going?”
A German shepherd dog sprang up out of nowhere.
Knocking her to the ground.
Pounding the breath, the life, out of her.
Curling into a tight ball, Deana shielded her face with her arms feeling the dog’s weight as its heavy front paws pinned her down.
She kept still.
Do that, and the dog won’t eat me.
At least I hope it won’t.
You never can tell with dogs…
She moved position and the knife skittered away, its spinning blade glinting in the darkness.
Mom’s vegetable knife.
How quaint.
“Here boy. Sabre. Heel!”
Deana peeked though her hands. The voice didn’t sound like it belonged to a rapist.
