Richard Laymon - The Lake
“Here boy. Sabre. Heel!”
Deana peeked though her hands. The voice didn’t sound like it belonged to a rapist.
Or a murderer.
It sounded strong. Ordinary. Youngish.
The dog backed off, its long tongue lolling over some seriously pointed teeth. The dog fixed its gaze on its master, like it was waiting for the next command.
Deana blushed in the darkness.
It’s only a dog, for chrissake! Just a big stupid mutt.
The mutt turned its attention to her curled-up legs. Snuffling around some, giving her a steam clean with its big slobbery nose.
Yuck. The beast!
Deana scrambled to her knees. Stood up, then bent down quickly to pick up the knife.
In the shadowy darkness, the blade flashed embarrassingly bright.
“What’s this?” The guy grabbed her hand, twisting it backward. Her grip loosened and the knife clattered to the sidewalk.
He yanked her wrist again, making her yelp with pain.
“What d’you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
She regained her balance, drew back a leg, and aimed a kick at his crotch.
He danced back. Just in time.
Then, holding up both hands in mock surrender, he laughed.
“Hey. You’re looking at a friend here. Not foe!”
“What the hell you doing with that dog? It could kill a person, jumping out at them like that!”
She scowled at the dog. It was hauled in on a short lead now, sitting quietly by his master’s feet, tongue lolling out of mean-looking jaws…Hot breath clouding the night air.
“Sorry. I’m Warren Hastings. This is Sabre, my trusty sidekick.” Warren held out a hand. “You must have been really scared.”
Deana ignored the hand.
“You aren’t kidding. That’s a monster you’ve got there.” She was still fighting back tears of relief.
“That’s no monster. That’s my mutt. Let me tell you, there’s a kittycat lurking beneath that rugged exterior. Right, boy?”
“Some kittycat. He scared me half to death, I’ll have you know.”
Warren smiled.
“You dropped your knife. Make a habit of carrying a knife? Make a habit of midnight runs, come to that?”
“A girl’s gotta stay safe. Never know who she might meet up with. And yes. I like to run at night. Got a problem with that?”
“Nope. But why not run during daylight hours? Safer that way, so they tell me.”
“What’s it to you? What were you doing out here, anyway?”
He laughed, a warm, infectious sound. “Why don’t I offer you a mug of cocoa. To make up for my marauding mutt?”
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
“I make a mean mug of cocoa when I’ve a mind.”
Warren tilted his head to one side. His smile was infectious, too. Deana found herself relenting and grinned back at him.
Steady on. Mustn’t let him think I’m easy meat.
“How do I know…”
“That I’m not a rapist? Or a serial killer? That the problem?”
“About the size of it.”
“Look. That’s my house, there. The one with two redwoods in front. Moved in just a coupla days ago.
“Here’s the deal. I make us some cocoa and you fill me in on the neighborhood. Might even run to a cookie or two…?” He smiled, showing nice white teeth.
“Your house? You live there alone?”
“Not alone. There’s my sister, too. She’s called Sheena. You’d like her.”
“I really oughta go. Mom’ll be worried…”
“Does Mom know you’re out?”
Nice one, Warren. You sure know how to press the right buttons. “Sure she does. She doesn’t mind me running at night.”
“With a knife?”
“Just let me pass. I gotta get on home.”
“As you wish. Take a rain check on the cocoa, though. Finest on the West Coast. Got Best Frothy Choccy Drink Award last year…”
“Good night, Warren.”
“Let me walk you home. Sabre’ll defend us from would-be rapists.”
Don’t keep using that word. Makes me scared.
“No, thanks. Only a block to go and I’m there.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Yeah. Good night.”
“Good night, O nameless lady in black. We shall meet again, maybe.”
Deana turned and ran swiftly downhill, her sock-covered feet beating a muffled rhythm on the sidewalk. By the time she got to her driveway, she was breathing hard.
Running lightly down the slope, she reached the stoop, steadied herself against the doorpost, and felt for the key. It nestled hard and warm between her breasts.
She hauled it up, lifted the chain over her head, and felt hair.
Shit. I left my cap on the sidewalk!
After the trusty Sabre jumped me.
Carefully, she slid the key into the lock.
She cringed slightly. Sometimes the lock made a loud, metallic scraping noise.
But not tonight.
Thank God.
Wouldn’t do to meet up with Mom.
Deana snuck into her bedroom.
She closed the door and leaned back on it, breathing a deep sigh of relief.
Her legs were shaking. Her heart still pounded.
Must be the excitement of her nocturnal adventure, she guessed. Not the exercise; she’d had too much practice for that to be a problem.
Warren.
She gave a wry smile.
Looks like I made a new friend.
Allan’s image flashed before her.
I went out there to kill Nelson, Allan. To kill your murderer. I got waylaid, though. But we’ll get him, soon.
She flooded her mind with thoughts of Allan till, suddenly, he was there.
She tilted her head and sniffed, catching a whiff of his scent. It eddied all around her.
Then it was filling the room.
Allan’s here!
His hands cupped her breasts; his upturned thumbs stroked her nipples.
Shuddering with ecstasy, she remembered how he liked doing that. How he loved the feel of her skin. Warm, silky, so ultra-sexy, he’d told her.
For a long time Deana stared at the window, at the soft billowing drapes and the flickering shadow of the tree…Thinking about Allan.
Slowly, she undressed, piling her sweats back into the drawer.
Throwing herself onto the bed, she stared at the ceiling for a long, long time, feeling hot salt tears stream down her cheeks.
Allan would always be special to her.
She’d never forget him.
How could she?
“Even when I’m old,” she whispered. “I’ll always remember you, Allan…and cherish the memories of the good times we’ve shared.”
Yeah. The good times.
Before the horror of that night took them all away.
Before Nelson…
No. She’d never, ever, forget Allan.
Some adventure she’d had tonight, though.
Warren was quite a guy.
Bet he did make a mean cocoa.
She smiled…
He had a nice voice. Warm and friendly.
Good teeth, too.
Hadn’t seen much more in the dark.
Maybe, soon…
The mutt would have to go, though.
Deana sighed.
Didn’t get to kill Nelson.
Fuck Nelson. I’ll hack him to death some other time.
With Mom’s vegetable knife…
Oh no!
It was on the sidewalk. With her cap.
TWENTY-FOUR
“Oh God. This gets worse. I’ve gotta go out there and get the knife. Can’t go back now, though. Warren’ll be asleep. And his dog. Fat chance I have of sneaking into his house to see if Mom’s vegetable knife’s in there, with Sabre around.
“Maybe it’s on the sidewalk. Maybe someone kicked it into the bushes.”
No way. An urgent little voice told her the knife was now in Warren’s house. She stared at the curtains, billowing inward. Felt the soft breeze. Sniffed at the air, thinking she’d caught a whiff of Allan’s scent again.
Stop it.
Now!
She let her eyelids droop. Wriggled her shoulders. Relaxed her body right down to her toes. Breathed deep. In, out, in, out…
But her special relaxation technique wasn’t working tonight. She couldn’t get the knife out of her mind.
Mom’s gonna miss her knife. She uses it almost every day.
She’s gonna think that someone stole it.
No way would she think she’d lost it…
She always puts it back in the drawer.
Hope Warren did find it.
Probably took it indoors, intending to return it later.
The knife and my cap.
Doesn’t really matter about the cap.
Idiot. Warren doesn’t know where I live.
Didn’t give him the chance to ask where I lived.
Didn’t want to tell him, either. He could’ve been a rapist.
Nah.
Not with a dog that size. Rapists creep about on their lonesome.
Preying on girls.
Dog like that, a would-be rapist wouldn’t have a victim to rape. They’d be dead with fright, or halfway down the street.
Only one thing for it. Wait till Mom goes to bed tonight, then sneak out.
Again.
If I’m lucky, I’ll catch Warren walking his dog.
Then I’ll ask him if he saw the knife, and did he happen to pick it up. And if so, please can I have it back?
Make it easy on yourself, Deana. Buy a new one.
Can’t do that.
Mom’d notice the difference.
She’d wonder why she’s suddenly got a new knife in place of the old one.
Phweww…
What a tangled web…
Only one thing for it.
Gotta go out there and find Warren.
Sample his cocoa.
Maybe. Whatever. Just get the knife back.
TWENTY-FIVE
Nelson shivered.
It was dark and getting colder all the time.
Blinded by the glare of headbeams, he couldn’t make out where he was walking.
His pirate patch was long gone; his sewed-up eye looked like it had been sucked back into his skull. Hot tears welled up in his good one.
He was exhausted; his head throbbed with a muzzy ache. The tears made everything blurred and hazy. He lifted a hand to dash them away.
Christ, this is one mean mother of a headache…
He’d lost his floppy chef cap, and his tunic was all dirty from when he’d last fallen.
Clutching the hatchet, he held it, blade up, like a rifle on his shoulder. Just having it there gave him a warm, safe feeling.
“Anybody messes with me ’n’ I’ll use it,” he muttered to himself. “Bank on it, you fuck pigs out there; I’ll hack ya t’ pieces, jes’ like a cut a’ meat.”
Nelson stumbled off the sidewalk. Into the path of an old Ford truck. Brakes slammed home. The truck screeched to a halt. Then, with a crashing of gears, it swerved around him, almost knocking him off his feet.
Through a hazy blur, he caught the driver’s face, bloated, maniacal, mouthing profanities. The near-side window dropped down. The man shook a meaty fist at Nelson.
“What are you, punk—a fuckin’ loony, or WHAT? You wanna die? Do us all a favor, lemme help ya do it!”
The driver’s big face shoved itself through the window. A wad of phlegm shot out like a bullet, hooking itself on Nelson’s tunic.
Noisy blasts and honks peppered the air.
Sobbing, Nelson hurled himself back onto the sidewalk. The hatchet escaped his grasp and clattered to the ground. He scrabbled around on his knees, his hands circling the gritty path. Then, with a cry of relief, he caught the blade, fingered it carefully, and felt his way down till he found the heft.
Cradling it lovingly to his chest, he rocked back and forth, his face turned skyward.
“Thank you, Lord,” he said, sobbing huskily. “I found my cleaver. The only thing left…from Nelson’s magnificent, goddamn career…His dear old cleaver…”
He rocked a while longer, crying like a baby, then wiped his eye on the sleeve of his tunic.
That’s better.
His good eye was clear now.
“Thank you, thank you…” He wagged his head up and down. The Lord was on his side, he knew it.
Raising his arms in triumph, he hoisted the cleaver high, its blade shining in the glare of the streetlamps.
A siren wailed behind him.
He jerked around.
Cops!
Pressing into the shadows, he became one of them.
Bastard cops!
After him.
The shadows suddenly gave way to an embankment. He scrambled upright and tentatively put one foot over the edge. Then the other…
Soon he was slipping and sliding down over rough grass. Clutching at weeds, stretching out his arms, hanging on to the cleaver; trying not to tumble headlong into the awful darkness below.
Crying out, his feet caught at tangled roots and bushes. He lurched forward, slipped again, lost his footing, and landed smack on his butt. He slipped down some more and panicked. No way could he stop.
He plummeted down.
Still clutching the cleaver.
“Yo…What have we here?”
Grabbing at the weeds with his free hand, Nelson shoved his heels into the turf. He shuddered to a halt and went quiet. His heart lurched. He gripped the hatchet tighter.
Whoever’s out there, he thought, will think maybe I’m a drunk. Or a dopehead…If I’m lucky, they’ll leave me be. If’n I’m not lucky…
A throaty chuckle rumbled in the darkness.
A hand grabbed his ankle. Yanked him farther, much farther down the slope.
Into a deeper, darker place.
The smell was awful. Rank. Like bad meat.
He scrabbled and clawed at weeds and tufts of grass frantically trying to halt his progress…
The hand pulled harder.
Someone sniggered.
“S’matter, boy? Don’t ya want to join us down here? My, aren’t you the party pooper? We want ya to join us.” The voice rose a notch. “Don’t we, guys? Always a hearty welcome for new blood around here…”
Nelson sobbed. His heart lurched again; this time it bounced around his chest like a big chunk of rock.
“Please…let…me…GO!”
Another yank and he was on the move again.
Undergrowth tore at his face, burning the flesh in raw, hurting patches.
He struggled like a mad thing, rolling from side to side, wrestling to free himself from the viselike grip.
The hand held firm.
It dragged him across more rough ground. Garbage—jagged cans, glass, sharp objects—scraped and cut into him as he bumped and jolted along.
Still gripping his hatchet.
Can’t let it go…Gotta use it to hack my way outta here…
Suddenly, the hand let go. Nelson broke free rolling over and over…and over. Into a stinking ditch; into water that was thick, cold, and slimy.
