Richard Laymon - The Lake

“Mmmm,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Guess I feel a hot chocolate coming on. How ’bout you?”

“You bet,” she said, and smiled.

FORTY

Sitting in Warren’s kitchen, nursing a mug of his yummy chocolate drink, Deana relaxed. It felt good to be here in Warren’s home—especially in his friendly, slightly untidy kitchen.

Sabre retired to his den under the sink. He lay there, checking out Deana’s movements. Then, snuffling into his paws awhile, he closed his eyes.

But his ears stayed alert.

Like sentinels on guard.

Good old Sabre. Some dog, that. She smiled.

Then frowned slightly.

If only I knew what to tell Warren.

How much to tell him.

Or how little .

And not only about tonight, either.

She thought about Mace.

Warren deserves to be put in the picture.

What picture?

Dammit. There’s so much to say…

Oh God. If only things weren’t so complicated .

“Anybody home?” Warren watched her, his brows raised.

“Sure. Can you keep a secret?”

“Try me.”

“Well, you’re right, Warren. Mom doesn’t know I’m out tonight. She doesn’t know about the other nights, either. Jesus. She’d go hairless if she did know.”

It was a start, anyway…

“I see. Go on.”

“Something happened to us. To Mom and me. About ten days ago. I can’t explain it yet. But trust me it’s been a horrible experience. People died. Violently. It’s been bad, Warren.”

He hugged his chocolate, stared into its creamy depths. Giving her time to choose her words.

“Mom’s been concerned for my safety—and I for hers, come to that. We’ve both been in danger.” Deana stopped, then carried on, more cheerfully this time. “But in the end, it turned out okay. Thing is, I don’t want Mom worried about me going out at night. She’s been through such a lot.

“I told her I met you when I phoned your store for a book.”

Warren looked up sharply.

Deana smiled.

“ Get Shorty by Elmore Leonard. Is modern gangster stuff something you stock?” He nodded. She went on. “So, Warren, I’d be really grateful if you’d keep our…nighttime assignations to yourself. Oh, also your visit to the house.”

“I see. Had an idea there was more. I have a nose for mysteries.” He tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger. “ Murder She Wrote was a favorite show of mine.

“Okay,” he continued, choosing his words carefully. “I’ll go along with that. But let me tell you here and now, I don’t like unsolved mysteries. And I don’t go for subterfuge, either. Especially where Mom and daughter are concerned. So maybe, least said, soonest mended, huh? Give you time to sort things out with Mom.”

Deana nodded. For a moment there, she’d been about to confide in him.

Give him the works .

Tell him her feelings about Mace.

But now was not the time to mention Mace.

Later. Maybe.

Pity.

She’d have dearly liked to discuss him with Warren.

But maybe later. Much later.

Get too heavy and Warren might cry off.

“So.” Warren smiled at her encouragingly. “I’m invited to dinner, am I?”

“Sure are.”

“Best bib and tucker?”

“Mmmm…Not necessarily. Smart casual, I think. Mom’s kinda casual herself.”

“Ah.”

“So how about evening after tomorrow? You doing anything that night?”

“Er…Let me see.” Warren took his time. Humming a little. Studying the ceiling, as if checking out the evening after tomorrow. He looked at his wristwatch. It showed 12:14.

“Let’s get this straight. It’s already tomorrow, so does that make our date tomorrow evening or the one after that?”

They burst out laughing. Deana felt relieved. She’d been feeling quite tense, talking about the stuff she and mom had gone through these last few days.

She was glad to relax a little.

“Tell you what, Deana. Ask your mom which night is okay, and give me a call—at the store or at home. Phone’s on answer when we’re out at work.”

“Okay. I’ll do that.” She felt good and warm inside. Things were so easy with Warren.

“Anything else I should know? Subjects to avoid—current political situation, weather in Florida, stuff like that?” He threw her a warm smile. Then, turning serious, he added, “Given that you’ve both gone through a sensitive time just lately.”

His gaze held hers. It was as if he were telling her not to worry. Things would turn out okay. That he’d be there for her.

“Nope. Just talk books. Sports, like swimming and tennis, Mom loves those. And movies—seventies stuff. Oh, and food. Compliment her on the food.”

“Your mom likes to cook?”

“Sort of. She owns the Bayview Restaurant in Tiburon.”

FORTY-ONE

Sheena studied the redwoods out back.

Not really seeing them, because her mind was elsewhere. She’d gone way back; saw her ten-year-old self in class. Big for her age, awkward, alone. Writing wasn’t her strong point, but here she was, struggling with an essay on the life of a fuckin’ sperm whale. She looked at her spidery joined-up writing, all blotchy with ink.

Then, behind her, the fuckin’ teacher said in that cold, icy voice of hers, “Sheena Hastings. I do declare, the standard of your work gets worse. See me after class!”

All eyes turned toward her. Mary Jo Hassler sitting in the row behind, sniggered. Titters rose in waves from the rest of the class.

Her head jerked back.

Mary Jo. Tugging at her long dark braids.

She remembered how her eyes had watered up, how ashamed she’d felt…She’d never been much good at writing.

Christ. She’d hated her childhood. And school most of all. Who fuckin’ said schooldays were the happiest days of your life?

Whatever goddamn motherfucker it was, they wanted to come up with one more thing like that and then go blow their fuckin’ brains out.

But all of that was a long time ago. Those lousy schooldays; her lousy childhood . Only thing kept her going was beating the hell outa them kids on the sports field. Yeah. She was the greatest at sports in those days.

THE BEST.

Was then, is now.

Pumping iron in the gym, judo, karate, kickboxing, you name it. She’d done it all—and better than most men, too. She knew all about the pain barrier. Going through it, stretching her muscles to the max. Almost passing out. She’d been there. Done that.

And when she figured her body could take no more—there were plenty of other ways to feel pain.

Oh yeah, other ways .

Sheena’s lips curved in a triumphant smile.

In the early days, only one other person understood her. Really knew what made her tick.

Kat Tod, her partner.

Kat knew about pain; she’d had a cartload of it herself. Bad childhood. Bad marriage at thirteen years of age.

All of them, painful experiences.

Kat had gotten herself killed last October. Memory of it still hurt Sheena. It’d had been a bad business. S & M, the cops called it. Okay. That’s what they called it. But she knew Kat was following her own path of redemption.

Redemption?

Self-destruction, more like.

Yeah.

Ended up a mess a’ bloody ribbons in some shitty back alley…

Jesus. What a gal. She’d gotten mixed up with a real bad crowd. Rented herself out. An’ paid for it in full that one last time…

Sheena turned away from the window. Contemplating her “insight.” Her gift for premonition, whatever. She hated it, yet loved it, all at the same time.

It was part of her.

What she was .

Love it or loathe it, that gift was an important part of Sheena Hastings. Life as a kid hadn’t been a whole lotta fun, but she sure knew that her special talent—and her sporting prowess—set her way above the rest.

In the bad times, she held on to this.

Mom and Dad had tut-tutted her claims that she “knew about things before they happened.” They’d chastised her. Called in the local priest. Encouraged her interest in sports.

Finally, there’d been the psychiatrist.

He’d prescribed Prozac. Why the hell Prozac, for godsake? She was happy the way she was. Only person who understood that was Warren. They trained together. They talked together. She was a few years older, but she hung around with him most of the time.

Warren understood her. Like now. He knew she was happy at Pacey’s Place. Among her own kind. Problem people. Misfits. Weirdos. They got together, understood each other. No questions asked.

Now there was this “midnight runner.” Who in hell was she? Whomever, whatever, she turned out to be, she was involved with Warren.

Without knowing why, but trusting her instincts, Sheena felt a squirm of apprehension.

FORTY-TWO

It was Thursday evening. Night of the get-together with Mom and Warren.

Mom wasn’t home yet.

Warren wasn’t due for a couple of hours.

In her bedroom, Deana stripped to her bra and panties.

“Hope everything works out okay,” she murmured to herself. “Shouldn’t be a problem. Two nice people. Civilized guys who know the score. They’ll get along fine.”

She peered into the dresser mirror. Inspecting herself. Practicing how she’d look. A dry run for later.

She went over to her bed. Laid out were two outfits—her final final selection. A maroon cotton pantsuit, and a blue jersey crossover blouse and short denim skirt.

Smart casual, she’d told Warren.

No way was the black dress an option. Far too formal for a muggy evening.

It’s gotta be the crossover blouse and denim skirt, she decided. The blouse would be great, if…

If what?

If Warren wanted a closer inspection?

She hugged herself.

I know he likes me.

She could tell by the way his eyes swept over her in an approving, but not suggestive, way. Maybe he’d guessed she wasn’t interested in sex at the moment. Understood it was too soon…

Her relationship with Warren would grow, gradually and at her own pace, she decided.

She swung around. Looked into her dresser mirror again, posing, admiring her body. She eased up her breasts till the tops bulged out from her bra. She posed, hand on hip, drawing in her midriff so that her waist looked really small and neat.

Her flimsy panties stretched across her hipbones. She sure was glad she’d kept up with those abdominal workouts. They’d been a bore, but they made one helluva difference to her figure.

“Not bad!” she told the mirror. “Warren’s eyes are gonna stand out on stalks when he sees me tonight…”

Thick black hair tumbled around her shoulders.

Full, firm breasts brimmed out of their cups. Her nipples almost showing…

What would Warren think if he saw me now?

She imagined his eyes, watching her, longing to touch her, take her in his arms—but then, not wanting to, not after the bad experiences she’d hinted at.

What if Warren wanted to…wanted to see more of me? Anything’s possible—especially if I kinda give him the go-ahead. Maybe I should go over myself with the LadyShave. Just in case.

She ogled her reflection in the mirror.

Then teased both breasts out of their cups, pushing them up, just a little more, till she could see the dark pink aureole of her nipples.