Richard Laymon - The Lake

He liked that.

A harsh laugh blurted from his lips.

Never did catch her name…

Probably something like Debbie, Jennifer, or Susan.

Typical middle-class product.

He took a wild guess…

Wealthy daddy. House in Pacific Heights. Tennis and the beach all summer. UCSC in the fall. All set for a big exciting career in Daddy’s L.A. office.

Maybe…

Not anymore, though.

With that black hair…she’d’ve always been evil…Doin’ bad things the resta her life…

He’d done the world a favor.

He’d gotten rid of one more Tania.

Hate twisted his face. His teeth clenched.

He turned away. Busying himself with his holdall, throwing in the almost empty vial of GHB, the syringe…

He brought out the Nikon and began taking shots. Full-on. Sideways. Then zooming in for a close-up of that gaping “mouth.” It’d be a real change from the others in his scrapbook, he told himself.

A medical shot. Like a do-it-yourself tracheotomy guide on the Internet.

He gave a short laugh.

His bloodied fingers stained the camera.

Streaks of blood smeared his face.

Tugging the knife from the body, he threw it into the holdall. The Nikon followed, clattering against his spare service revolver, more vials of GHB, the pack of unused syringes.

Then, picking up opposite corners of the bedsheet, he pulled them across the body, knotted the ends, top left to bottom right. Top right to bottom left. A slim hand, slack and bloodied, slid out through a gap. He shoved it back inside the bedsheet.

Hoisting the bundle off the bed, he paused for a moment. Figuring out the means of disposal. He could stash it in the wardrobe. Leave it in an underpass. Or wait till dark, put it in the car trunk, and toss it over a cliff someplace.

Slumped in an armchair, a can of beer in one hand, the TV turned low, he waited till dark.

SIXTY-FIVE

Sheena stared at her reflection in the dresser mirror.

She looked pale, shaken; felt chilled to the bone.

She’d been stroking her hair with an ebony-backed brush. Now it lay where it had fallen, in her lap.

Slowly, she set the brush on the crystal tray in front of her. The tray held combs, bobby pins, and a couple of hair bands.

Her eyes went to a small wooden doll, hand-carved, dark with years of handling. The doll stood propped against the mirror.

She was seeing a brightly painted wagon. A woman, passing the doll to a small girl perched up front. The child was maybe two, three years of age. A man and woman sat either side of her. The shackled horse stamped and snorted, anxious to be gone.

Sheena sniffed. She smelled the horse’s breath, grassy, steamy, hot. Felt the child’s wonder, excitement at sitting up so high, at the horse shifting around. All the time wary of those strange people wrapped in furs by her side…

The thin-faced woman in the long gray dress wore an apron tied at the waist. She was saying, “Here, child. Don’t you forget this, now. It’ll keep ya company in the long nights ahead…”

Sheena began to shake. Her breath hissed out low and shallow…Sweat beaded her forehead, her upper lip. She felt its flush warm her armpits, then spread hot and slick down her body.

She went over the scene again. Recalling each detail. Figuring out its purpose, its meaning.

Knowing full well…

She was that child.

The doll was hers.

The thin-faced woman, her ma.

Edith Payne .

Her mind was picking up on something else.

A different scene this time.

The cold, dark place where Deana was.

Familiar territory…

Wild. Isolated. High in the mountains.

Along a rough dirt path.

One of many such paths.

Water thrashed and rumbled below.

She reached out, touching the girl on a mattress…

In that cold, dark place…

She was the girl on the mattress.

Feeling confused, in pain, desperate, knowing she couldn’t hold out much longer…

I’m gonna die and nobody’ll ever know…

Sheena leapt up.

Raced into the living room.

“Hey, bro!” she called out. “Make it snappy. We’d best take the Chevy.”

Warren looked up, his face pale.

“You’ve ‘seen’ Deana? Where is she, sis?”

“I know the area, Warren. She’s a few miles from here. Somewhere in the mountains. In Santa Cruz country…”

SIXTY-SIX

“You comin’ with me?”

“I’m not sure, Mattie. There could be news of Deana…Do I have to be there?”

“Shitski, Leigh. You gotta be there!”

Mattie drove Leigh to the Bayview.

They were quiet, their faces tense, serious.

Thinking about Deana.

And the upcoming meeting with Ava Sorensson.

Hoping she’d come up with some clues for them to work on. Any clue, however small, would be welcome. So they’d know where to start.

The cops had gone through Mace’s Tiburon apartment with a fine-tooth comb. Apart from his dabs, some photographic equipment, and the goddamn scrapbook, the place was clean.

He’s still out there, though.

Leigh shuddered.

And Deana…tortured, abused…Christ knows what by now…

She stifled a sob.

Please God she’s still alive .

Life just couldn’t get worse.

Like a survivor clinging to a shipwreck, she clung to the knowledge that Deana was strong, athletic. She was also feisty, resourceful, intelligent. Leigh gave a wry smile. She’d just described herself at that age.

Yeah, she acknowledged. Deana’s tough. But would she be a match for Mace…?

Leigh gave up trying to banish the scary scenarios playing in her mind. She felt shot to pieces. Her head throbbed. She hadn’t slept again last night. Nor for nights, it seemed, before that. Not since the day Deana disappeared.

Mattie swung into the Bayview parking lot. The old Ford shuddered to a halt. They climbed out and made their way to the front door on Main Street.

Ava Sorensson was already there. Seated at a window table overlooking the harbor. Outlined against the daylight, her profile was lean, clear-cut. She wore her fair hair smoothed back from her brow.

Now forty years of age, Ava had gone to law school, gained a master’s degree in criminal psychology, and then had set up a lucrative practice in Boston. The black pinstriped pantsuit and black-framed eyeglasses added to the crisp DA-in-waiting look.

Turning, she met Leigh’s gaze.

Nodding to Mattie, she rose from the table and held out a hand to Leigh. “Ms. West. I’m Ava Sorensson. I guess Mattie’s filled you in as to why I’m here?” Her mouth curved in a friendly smile. Leigh’s eyes focused on the bright red lips and straight white teeth. As well as being the best in her field, Ava Sorensson was also a looker.

“Please sit down, Ms. Sorensson.” Leigh returned the smile and sank into a wicker chair at the table. “It’s Leigh, by the way. May I call you Ava?”

“Why, of course.” The psychologist settled back into her chair.

Mattie made a grab for the menu. “Let’s eat,” she said. “Then we get down to business.”

Mattie and Ava chose baked swordfish with a salsa garnish. Feeling shaky and vaguely nauseous, Leigh declined food but ordered a bottle of chilled chardonnay. Playing around with the bread sticks in a basket Tony placed before them, she hoped her tension wasn’t showing too much.

Halfway through coffee, Ava dipped down and rummaged in her briefcase. She hauled out a sheaf of papers.

“So,” she said, looking over her eyeglasses, first at Leigh and then Mattie. “We have a rogue cop on the loose. A rogue cop with an unusual history. An ethnic, superstitious father, who was also a drunk and a potential child killer.

“Way I see it, our subject, given away as a child, swears vengeance on the mother who slew his father. The mother who later farmed him out to strangers.

“He’s also seeking the sister his father set out to kill.”

Ava took a sip of coffee, glanced at Mattie, and said, “Long and short is, we have a serial killer here—any update on where he might be?”

“You mean, you have no idea? ” Leigh burst in. She’d been waiting for this “brilliant” criminologist to come up with some wonderful clue. And now she’s asking us where Mace could be?

Diners began to sit up and take notice.

Leigh lowered her voice.

“You’re the expert,” she said tersely, across the table. “We thought you’d point us in the right direction. You’ve done profiling Mace, now you tell us where he’s likely to be. My daughter’s out there…and Christ knows what he’s done— is doing with her.”

“That’s understood, Leigh.” Sorensson was sympathetic. She’d experienced the wrath of anguished family members in the past, so she was more than ready for Leigh’s outburst.

“I’ll do my best,” she said gently. “I haven’t encountered many such cases, but having studied this guy’s history, I found it…quite interesting.” She paused, then said, “His crimes are symbology-based.”

Mattie raised her brows.

Ava continued. “Let me explain. Psychopaths often identify with an aggressive role model—in this case, Payne Senior. It’s my guess that had he lived to tell the tale, he would undoubtedly have abused both Mace and his siblings.”

“So where’s this going, Ava?” Leigh asked, her voice beginning to rise again.

Mattie laid a restraining hand on her arm.

“As we know,” Ava continued, “Payne Senior was murdered by his wife Edith, and Jess aka Mace now appears to identify with the myth that is his father. He puts himself in his father’s place. Assumes the persona. Is Payne Senior.

“At the same time, hating his mother for killing his father, never mind for her rejection of himself—by passing him on to the family in Duluth. Because of these issues, plus the superstition surrounding his dark-haired sister, Mace sees women as evil, untrustworthy people.”

Ava paused, glancing at Leigh, assessing how all this was affecting her. Leigh was pale but seemed in control. She decided to continue. “All Mace’s pathological maternal hatred, plus the desire to avenge his father’s murder, is now directed toward his ‘evil’ sister Tania.

“In the absence of the real Tania, Mace is systematically working his way through a series of dark-haired women. With each killing, he’s avenging Payne Senior’s death and, in effect, carrying out his father’s plan to murder his sister…”

Ava’s eyes leveled with Leigh’s. “I’m sure you understand, Leigh. We’re dealing with a dangerous psychopath. A man with a mission. We desperately need to bring him in…” She bit her lip. “Like many psychopaths, Mace Harrison is an intelligent man. John Gacy, Ted Bundy, and others disguised themselves as law-enforcement officers in order to gain access to their victims. And very convincing they were, too. Mace Harrison doesn’t need to act that part. He already is, pardon me, was a well-respected cop, who did his job in exemplary fashion.”

Mattie’s face was taut. “Damn right,” she muttered. “That sick fuck was the cleverest sonofabitch I ever did meet!”

Leigh felt faint. Her head began to swim.

“Please, Ava,” she whispered. “Tell me where you think Mace is—and where he’s hidden Deana!”

Sorensson placed a warm hand over Leigh’s icy one. She smiled gently and said, “I’m afraid I can’t tell you where your daughter is, Leigh. But I think I know where Mace is headed. It’s my guess he’ll return to his roots, his old stomping ground…Go back to where it all began.”