The Lake

ONE

Tuesday, April 27

Verna Lavette clapped her hands.

“My favorites!” she squealed.

Almond marzipan, walnut whirls, and those scrummy caramel creams…

“Oh, thank you, she said, her chubby face wreathed in smiles.

“No problem, sugar,” the man said. “My pleasure—as always.”

Verna looked sheepish. “Can I have one, now? Before…”

“Sure. Have one, two, or three. Makes no difference, but…” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Best make it snappy. No time to lose.”

Sucking on a caramel cream, Verna looked at her benefactor. Well, she pondered, he ain’t really my benefactor. I give him plenty, in return for his dough—ooh, yes, and the candy. Don’t forget the candy.

She made a face.

Sure, she did her bit.

Got the scars to prove it, too.

Yessir. All things considered, the Candyman got pretty much what he wanted.

He must like what I do—and how I do it, she told herself. Keeps a-comin’ back for more.

Like now.

The room was dark except for the anglepoise spotlight by her bed. He was telling her to take off her slip, all slow and sexy, like Marilyn Monroe.

It always began like this.

Then the action moved on to… other things…

Some guys have weird ideas, and her Mr. Candyman was no exception. At times she wondered if it was worth her while. The things he made her do, an’ all.

She sighed. In her job, never mind the way she looked these days, she needed every goddamn cent she got—while she could still get it.

And, no question, the Candyman paid her good.

She watched him adjust the spotlight so it lit up her left side. Feeling around in his holdall, he brought out a Polaroid camera.

He put it to his eye, squinted into the lens, and ran off a couple of shots. Testing for light conditions. Verna knew the score inside out.

He waited a moment. The mechanism whirred and spewed out the Polaroids.

He peeled off a picture and watched it color up.

Frowned, muttered “Shit!” and tossed it on the bed.

The result was not to his liking.

The second one turned out okay.

Mr. Candyman grinned approval. His teeth gleamed briefly in the lamplight.

That’s my baby.

Now. Down to business.

Sweat broke out. Speckling his upper lip.

Placing the Polaroid camera on Verna’s nightstand, he brought up a small silver one from out of his holdall.

Verna smiled. One a’ them classy Japanese jobs—nothin’ cheap about this guy.

Dollar signs danced before her eyes.

The Candyman was naked.

Verna stared at his erection. Tilting slightly, stiff and strong, poking out from all that dark curly hair.

I wish, she thought, hungrily, the familiar tingly rush teasing her center like crazy.

Do things right the first time—and maybe, just maybe, Verna gets to taste some a’ that.

She sighed. The Candyman wasn’t into sex; he was interested only in his goddamn pictures. God knows she’d tried to play it for sex, but he just got angry. He’d slugged her in the kisser a coupla times.

If he weren’t so good-lookin’, he’d be just your average creep, she decided. But a mighty good-lookin’ creep, I’ll say that for him. The quiet type, too; don’t say much.

Bastard sure knows what he’s doin’ with a camera, though.

Verna shivered. A gal could go off the boil, time it takes… She studied the Candyman’s face. It was set. Engrossed. Maybe he’s one a’ them porno guys, she thought, making heaps a’ dough selling dirty pictures. She’d done a few porno flicks in her time, so she knew the score. Hell, there were plenty of big bucks in that game.

On the other hand, maybe the shit jacks off on ’em, all on his lonesome in a dark little room someplace…

Who cares? I do the job ’n’ I gets my fee…

Tossing back her blond hair, Verna swung into action.

Ready for my close-up now, Mr. DeMille.

She posed. Bunched up her lips. Lifted her shoulder, looked at the camera, and smiled coyly. She crossed an arm over her breasts and slipped off a shoulder strap.

Candyman focused the lens.

“Let it fall, slowly. Hold your breasts, sugar. Play around with them… like you’re making sweet love to yourself… That’s it. Now, for the next shot…”

Verna had done it all before. Many times. She’d lie on the bed, spread out, like one a’ them sacrificial virgins you read about in history books.

Oh, yeah?

She almost laughed out loud.

One thing’s for sure. Verna ain’t no fuckin’ virgin!

Candyman took a few shots. Then he straightened up and replaced his camera on the nightstand. He opened up his holdall. Put the Polaroid job inside it. His pants and T-shirt were already in there.

Neatly folded.

Out of the way.

He came up with a knife.

Verna shuddered. One false move with that baby, an’ I can kiss my candy good-bye.

He leaned over the bed, blocking the light from the lamp.

Her heart beat faster.

She looked at the blade. Felt a sharp, stinging thrill between her legs. Got her juices going, all right, but it sure was scary.

Too goddamn scary. Not really knowing what the fuck he was gonna do next…

With a forefinger, he traced a line from her throat right down to her pubic bone. For a big man he had a soft touch. Light as a feather.

She wriggled, and shivered.

“Ooh, that tickles…”

“Ssshhh. Not a sound, sugar. Mr. Candyman’s about to create a masterpiece here.”

Verna closed her eyes.

Let him have his kicks.

Any which way he wanted. After all, he was the guy with the dough…

“Heyyyyyyy whadyal…? AAaahhhggg…”

Blood sprayed the Candyman’s face.

He grunted, opened his mouth, and licked his lips.

The knife slicked down Verna’s torso, jerking a little going past her breastbone. The Candyman slowed down, then dug in deep, opening her guts like she was a sheep in a slaughterhouse.

Verna’s red mouth sagged a little in surprise.

Her baby blues snapped wide, then quickly glazed over.

Fascinated, the Candyman stared into them. He liked the way Verna fixed her eyes. All that black eyeliner. And those long black lashes. Way back, she told him she’d been a singer at some club in downtown Frisco. Yeah, it figured. Gals in Verna’s line a’ business knew all about makeup.

He stood back, tilting his head.

An artist surveying his masterpiece.

He liked what he saw. Verna was a work of art.

Picasso’s “red period.”

He stared at his creation.

Opening her up made her breasts flop over, each pointing outward, either side of the bloody ravine down her middle. Her breasts were big and white and splashed with red.

How ’bout that?

Candyman’s “red period.”

His lips curved in a tight smile.

All that blood…

He dug the way it flowered beneath her, like some exotic jungle orchid.

A strand of black hair peeked out from beneath the blond wig. He removed the wig, watching the way her head wagged, all loose like a rag doll. Her lids drooped. She coulda still been alive. Asleep.

He tossed the wig to the floor.

Carefully, he stroked her long black hair, smoothing it into place over her shoulders.

He rearranged her arms so they stretched out from her body. Engrossed in his work, his mouth opened slightly.

Verna’s legs gaped apart; blood oozed from her orifice.

It was still pumping from her belly.

Should be slowing down about now…

Mmmm. She looked like a five-pointed star.

Interesting.

“Doing the bitch a favor,” he murmured, “rearranging her like this. Only way she’ll ever get t’be a ‘star’!”

Neat, huh?

Grinning, he stabbed the knife deep into Verna’s middle. Her body shook; her breasts wobbled precariously. Spats of blood sprayed up from her guts. Landed on his belly.

Glistening gobs of it clung to his pubic hair.

His head buzzed inside. Like it was full of swarming bees.

He got angry. Couldn’t stop stabbing…

“You fuckin’ bastard, evil bitch!

“Rot in HELL! You hear me?”

Sweat beaded his brow, droplets stung his eyes. His breath came out in harsh, wheezy grunts.

Seconds later, he’d calmed down.

Wiping his hands on Verna’s bedsheet, he picked up his camera and clicked away.