Richard Laymon - The Lake

Up down, up down, up down…

Usually, this exercise focused her on the run ahead.

Thank God tonight was no exception.

Feeling loose-limbed and relaxed, she began running up the incline toward Warren’s house.

A shadow stepped out before her.

She gulped, stopped, and danced back into the shadows.

The shadow came toward her.

At her.

She held her breath. Moving sideways. Backward. Any way but forward.

Every move she made, the thing blocked her path.

Weaving, dodging, dancing in front of her, stopping her from moving on.

She fought back panic, her heart hammering in her throat.

Then there was this shrunken death-head swaying before her. Its eyes gleaming at her from deep, dark sockets, its wrinkled mouth drawn into a tight black O.

Backlit by a streetlamp, wisps of hair stood out around its head like a silver halo.

Maybe it just crept out from some crypt or other…

Nah. It’s not the living dead.

It’s solid flesh and blood…

A bent, skinny old woman!

The hag grunted, then pulled up short in front of Deana. She was clinging onto an untidy bundle in her arms. The bundle poked and jerked, then out jumped a small dog. It raced across the street and disappeared down a tree-lined drive.

“Shit!” the hag shrieked. “ Now look what you’ve done! Harry! Harry! Come to Mommy…Haaarrryyy!”

A small white head with pointed ears appeared at the driveway opening.

Harry.

Thank God.

Deana, not believing what she was doing, called out, “Come on, Harry…Come here, there’s a good dog!”

The tiny head darted back, then disappeared into the shadows again.

“Fuck!” The crone stepped forward, her fierce, raddled face glowering at Deana. She raised a skinny, clawed hand and whacked it across Deana’s cheek.

“Ouuchh—you bitch!”

Deana’s neck twisted up and sideways. The crack was like gunfire inside her head. Staggering back, she clamped a hand to her face.

Damn!

The punch had landed exactly where Nelson slugged her three days ago. Pain shot through her jaw again.

“Fuckin’ bastard sonofabitch,” she cursed through clenched teeth.

Let her find her own fuckin’ dog.

Huh. Harry—what kind of a name was that for a dog anyhow?

Head down, still nursing her cheek, she hurried past the old woman. Breaking into a run, she slammed smack into someone else hurrying toward her.

Dazed by the impact, Deana shook her head. She heard excited barks. Then loud wuffing noises, echoing up and down the street.

Sabre.

Thank God.

She didn’t think she’d ever be this grateful to hear a barking dog.

“What the…” Warren held on to her, tight. “It’s the midnight runner, if I’m not mistaken. What brings you out here again?”

“Warren. Am I glad to see you—” Deana broke off with a grim laugh. “My God. What an experience . I can’t believe it!”

They fell quiet for a moment, listening to the hag’s shrill voice, still calling: “Harrryyyy. Come to Mommy, darling…!”

Deana looked at Warren. Their eyes met and they grinned at each other. It was a nice, friendly moment.

Then, with a yelp of pain, Deana clamped a hand to her jaw.

Warren frowned. “You all right?” he asked. “I could drive you to an emergency room. There’s one a coupla miles from here…”

Deana shook her head.

“No? Okay. Then sit here on the wall awhile. Get your breath back.” He led her to a low brick wall. She lowered herself down, carefully, and leaned back into the bushes.

“It’s great to see you, Warren. And the mutt. Believe me—things got a bit nightmarish back there for a while.”

A large wet nose examined her knees with loud snuffling sounds. Deana smiled. Pushing the dog away, Warren said, “Sabre. Sit. Sit, boy!”

Sabre sat.

Warren dropped down by Deana’s side, wrapped an arm around her, and pulled her gently to him. Feeling safe and comfortable, she sighed and snugged into the crook of his shoulder.

Sabre squatted, bright-eyed, watching. Steamy breath plumed from his mouth like puffs of gray smoke.

“How about that cocoa?” Warren said at last.

“Sounds like a swell idea.”

“Sure? What if I’m a mad rapist?”

She drew back and faced him. “I’ll take my chances that you’re not.”

“Good. Nice to know I can be trusted.”

“Didn’t say that. Just meant that I’m willing to take my chances. Personally, I don’t think you are. Anyway, even if you were, I can look after myself.”

“Yep, I guess you could. You sure look like you’d hold your own in an emergency.”

Is he joking, or what?

Maybe not.

Anyway—now’s a good time to ask about Mom’s knife…

And try out his cocoa.

“Follow me,” he said.

Deana tagged behind, while Warren led the way up the driveway. She smiled. It had been his wall they’d been sitting on. And, like he said, there were two redwoods in front.

Sabre trotted by Warren’s side.

Without quite knowing why, Deana glanced back, through a gap in the redwoods. She could just about see the street.

A car was nosing its way past the driveway.

She caught her breath.

It was long and black, with tail fins. No lights.

The glare from the streetlight hit the windows. They were black, too.

She shuddered.

It’s going real slow…like a funeral car.

The car passed out of sight, and she hurried to catch up with Warren.

Warren was at the front stoop, reaching into his pocket. Bringing out a key, he slid it into the lock.

The door opened in on a dark hallway.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Here we go, Deana thought.

Straight into the lion’s den.

The vestibule had a warm smell. A faint aroma of food hung on the air.

Pot roast—last night’s dinner, she guessed.

Warren took her arm, leading her along the hall and through an entryway at the end.

He clicked on the light. It flooded a small compact area that obviously served as both kitchen and breakfast bar.

He gestured toward a pinewood chair. She sat down and scooted it along the tile floor to the table. It made a loud scraping noise. She wondered if she’d disturbed anyone.

Warren took a stool at the bar. Looking at her quizzically, he made the first move.

“Let me guess. You’ve come for your knife, right? I have it here. And your cap. Although I see you’ve found another one. Must need quite a wardrobe—going out, losing your things like that…”

“Okay, Warren. I confess. I did come back for my knife. It’s Mom’s, and she’ll go ballistic if she finds out it’s missing.”

“Looks remarkably like a vegetable knife to me.”

“So what? Any kinda knife is a good idea for someone out running at night.”

“Sure,” he said seriously. “But maybe it’s not such a wonderful idea. Midnight running, I mean. Especially for a young girl…”

“I’m eighteen. I can look after myself.”

“Eighteen?” He looked impressed. “All of eighteen?”

“Look. Hand me my knife, please, and I’ll be on my way.”

“Knife and cap. You ought to thank me.”

Uh-huh. Here it comes.

I have to thank him.

Serves me right for being so dumb.

For walking into his trap like a complete moron.

“Oh yeah? Thanks, but no thanks.”

“I meant by accepting my offer of cocoa. Nothing more.”

Warren seemed a little offended that she’d read something more into his words.

“Okay,” she replied, relenting slightly. “But we’ll have to make it snappy. I might be missed.” As an afterthought, she added: “Mom’s well in with a guy from Mill Valley PD.”

“Really? In that case, a quick swig of my special brew and you must be on your way. I’ll escort you, if you like. In case you meet up with Harry and Mommy Dearest again.”

“Whatever.” Deana was intrigued by his easy, lighthearted manner. He sure didn’t look threatening. She glanced at Sabre, lying, head on paws, under the sink unit. His bright eyes fixed on hers.

Watching every move.

Good one to have on the home team, Deana decided.

The cocoa was great. The best she’d tasted so far.

“What’s your recipe?” she asked.

“My secret,” he said, and smiled.

“Well, it’s tasty, I’ll give you that.”

He gave a smug smile, looking pompously complacent.

Then he winked at her.

“Told you I got awards for it. Anyway, how about you? At high school?”

“Going to Berkeley in the fall.”

“Mmmm…A little past that stage, myself. Though I confess, I do recall it with some affection.”

“Oh.” She looked at him. He didn’t exactly look like he was past it.

“What do you do, then?”

“I have a bookstore. In San Anselmo. I put out searches for rare and out-of-print books. Request a book, any book, and I’ll get it for you…Eureka.”

“Uhhh?”

“Eureka Bookstore. As in striking gold? Remember the old forty-niners?”

“Sure, sure. Got it.”

“Neat, huh?” He sounded childishly pleased, explaining the name of his place to her this way.

“Cute,” she replied. “Anyway, you look too young to be mixed up with old books.”

“I’m twenty-two, if that helps.” He smiled brightly.

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Quite ancient, aren’t I? As for the bookstore, my parents left me a small sum after they died, and as I’ve always loved books, I decided to make them my life’s work. Voilà, I bought myself a bookstore.”

“You mentioned your sister…”

“Yes. Sheena. She’s out right now. Should be back around five-thirty. Home with the dawn chorus, usually.”

“Stays out late, your sister?”

“Mmmm. You could say that. She works at a club. In San Jose. Hangs around in case of trouble.”

“That so? She keeps fit, then?”

“Oh, sure. Used to coach for a college baseball team. Gave it up. Too much like hard work, she said.”

“Must be quite a gal.”

“She sure is.”

“Younger than you?”

“No. A little older.”

Deana began to feel uneasy. She was thinking about the car she’d seen earlier.

The black funeral car.

She shivered.

Okay, it was interesting enough, all this personal stuff, but she really oughta be getting on home now. If it weren’t for thinking about that goddamn car, and worrying about Mom’s knife, she told herself, she could have stayed all night, no problem.

Chatting about whatever came into their heads.

Perhaps even more personal stuff.

She had the feeling Warren would make a good listener. Maybe she should hang around a little longer…

Except Sheena might object and throw me out.

If I stayed till five-thirty. Which I won’t.

“I gotta go.”

“Of course,” Warren said. He rose and pulled open a drawer by the sink unit.

“Here’s your knife.” He handed it to her, handle first.

“Oh, and your cap. Sabre found it and brought it to me. You may have to launder it,” he added.

Fishing around in a lower cupboard, he picked out the cap and passed it over.

Deana sniffed it, wrinkled her nose, and smiled.

“Get your drift. About laundering it, I mean.”