The Lake

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.

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.