Richard Laymon - The Lake

When they reached the car, he opened the trunk and pulled the blanket out from under the shotgun. Mattie wrapped the blanket around herself, then sat in the passenger seat. “Maybe it’s a wrong number.”

“Most likely.” He called headquarters on his cellular phone. “Harrison,” he said.

“Mace, you just got a call from a Leigh West. She said it regarded the Powers case.”

Mace took the number, broke the connection with headquarters, and put the call through.

“Hello?” The woman’s voice sounded taut.

“Miss West, this is Mace Harrison.”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but you said we should call if anything suspicious happened, and the car’s out on the street right in front of our house.”

He didn’t need to ask what car. “Any sign of the driver?”

“We didn’t see anyone.”

“Is your house locked up?”

“Yes.”

“You’re in Del Mar on Mark Terrace, right?”

“That’s right.” She gave him the address.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“We’re not absolutely sure it’s the same car, but…”

“I’ll be right over.” He put down the phone. “The Powers case,” he told Mattie as he swung his Trans Am around. “That was the mother of the girl. There’s a car in front of her house. She thinks it’s the one that ran down the boy. Want to come?”

“Like this?” She plucked the wet shirt away from her breasts.

“I can drop you off.”

“Hell, I don’t want to miss anything.”

“Didn’t think so.”

She bent over, lifted the hanging blanket, and brought her shoulder bag up from beneath her seat. She took out a comb and brush. Then she twisted the rearview mirror in her direction. Mace’s rear visibility was gone, but he didn’t protest.

“Guess I shouldn’t have stoned you,” he said.

“Those photos better just not show up at roll call.”

“On my honor.” He accelerated to make it through an amber light on Throckmorton. There wasn’t much traffic in downtown Mill Valley. He knew he would make good time.

“Should we notify Tiburon PD?” Mattie asked.

“We’ll check it out first.”

“You think he’s up there?”

“If he is, he hasn’t made his move yet. They’re secure in the house.”

“Unless he’s inside with them.”

It was a disturbing possibility, one that Mace had already considered.

Leigh hung up the phone and turned around in time to see Deana slide a butcher knife out of its walnut holder. “What’re you—”

The girl pressed a finger to her lips. She walked quietly across the kitchen to where Leigh was standing. “Follow me,” she whispered.

“What is it?”

“Shh. Come on.”

Confused and growing alarmed, Leigh followed her past the dining area. What was happening? Had Deana seen something, heard a noise? My God, does she think the killer’s in the house? He couldn’t be. The doors…Don’t kid yourself, anybody who wanted to get in…maybe the guest-room windows.

She scanned the living room. Deana was several strides ahead of her, shoes squeaking on the foyer tile. Leigh rushed to catch up. Beyond the girl’s shoulder, she saw the narrow, shadowed hallway stretching ahead of them.

Deana wasn’t planning to search the place?

Leigh almost reached out to grab her, but Deana made a quick lunge into the bathroom, caught Leigh by the hand, and yanked her through the doorway. She swung the door shut, locked it, then hurried to the tub and checked behind its frosted-glass shower panels. Turning to Leigh, she let out a loud breath. “Just being careful.”

“Do you think he’s in the house? ”

“He might be. I mean, I don’t really think so, but who’s to say he isn’t? I just think this’d be a good place to wait until your policeman gets here.”

“He’s not my policeman.”

“Then how come you called him instead of the Tiburon police?”

“Because this is his case. He knows what’s going on.”

“Uh-huh.”

Leigh shook her head. Deana boosted herself up and sat on the counter beside the sink. “You know what some people have,” the girl said, “is a safe room. Some actress has one. Victoria Principal? It’s the bathroom. You have a reinforced metal door put in, with special locks. You have a telephone put in. That way, you’ve got someplace to go if there’s trouble. You can call the cops, and nobody can get to you. The lock on this door wouldn’t keep out a four-year-old.”

“I wouldn’t want to live like that,” Leigh said.

“You don’t have to live in the john. It’s just so you have a place to go…”

“No pun intended?”

Deana grinned. Lowering her head, she scraped the knife over her thigh. “This thing isn’t very sharp.”

“It isn’t supposed to be a razor.”

She lifted the knife away and ran her hand up from her knee to her shorts. “I’m gonna start looking like a werewolf. You’re lucky you’re a blonde.”

“You’ve got lovely hair,” Leigh said, stepping past her.

“Yeah, everywhere. What did my father look like, King Kong or something?”

Leigh felt a cold ripple in her stomach. She took off her ballcap and started to unpin her hair.

“You don’t talk about him much,” Deana said after a while.

“There’s not much to say.” Crouching, she took Deana’s blow dryer from the cabinet under the sink. “Mind if I use this?”

“Help yourself.” Deana reached down beside her knee, slid open a drawer, and took out her hairbrush. “Here.”

“Thanks.”

“Gotta fix yourself up for your policeman.”

Leigh plugged in the dryer, turned it on, and started to brush her hair as the hot air blew against it.

“You never told me how he died,” Deana said in a loud voice.

“Yes I did.”

“I mean, not how it happened.”

“It’s a long story.”

“Okay, so?”

“Mace’ll be here in a minute.”

“Well, that’s…” She stopped. Frowning, she leaned forward and peered at the bathroom door. “Turn it off, Mom.”

Leigh silenced the dryer. “Did you hear something?” she whispered.

“I don’t know. That thing’s so loud.”

Leigh stood motionless, holding her breath. She flinched at the sudden sound of a thud.

A car door shutting.

“It’s probably Mace,” she said.

Deana hopped to the floor, cranked open the bathroom window, and looked out. Leigh gave her hair a few final strokes with the brush. She heard footsteps on the walkway leading to the stoop.

“It’s him,” Deana said. “He’s got a gal with him.” She stepped away from the window. “You think it’s his wife?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Don’t worry about your hair. Hers is wetter than yours.”

The doorbell rang.

“Just a second,” Deana called out. She picked up the knife.

“Why don’t you leave that here?”

Deana raised an eyebrow, kept the knife, and held it at her side, blade forward, as she stepped to the bathroom door. She turned the knob slowly, keeping the lock button depressed so it wouldn’t ping out. She jerked the door open fast. Nobody there. Leaning out, she looked both ways. “The coast is clear,” she said.

The ghost is clear, Leigh thought, following her out. That’s what Deana used to say when she was about four and didn’t know any better. It didn’t seem like very long ago. Now she’s eighteen, and looking after me .

Deana led the way to the front door and opened it.

“Come in,” she said, lowering the knife.

Mace stepped in, followed by the woman. The woman’s short brown hair was slicked down. Her blouse and cutoff jeans looked wet. “Any trouble?” Mace asked.

“We haven’t seen anyone,” Leigh said. “We were worried he might’ve gotten into the house, though, so we waited in the bathroom.”

“It’s about the only door with a lock,” Deana added.

“Good place to wait,” Mace said. “Ladies, this is Sergeant Blaylock. Sergeant, Leigh and Deana West.”

They nodded greetings.

“I’ll take a look around,” he said. He turned away. As he walked up the hallway, he lifted his shirttail and pulled a small revolver from a holster at the back of his belt.

Sergeant Blaylock stayed.

“You got one, too?” Deana asked.

She patted her shoulder bag. Her head moved slightly as she scanned the living room. “I heard you own the Bayview,” she said, glancing at Leigh before returning her gaze to the room beyond. “That’s a fabulous place.”

“Thank you.”

“Anytime some guy wants to impress me, that’s where he takes me. Works, too. Maybe I could hit you up for the veal scaloppine recipe. Or is that classified information?”

“I’ll get it for you,” Leigh assured her. The recipe was to be kept secret, but she liked Sergeant Blaylock. She felt a bond with this slim, attractive woman who looked as if she’d just lost a sorority tug-of-war. She didn’t know why she felt this bond. Maybe it had to do with the sergeant coming to her home on a Sunday morning, ready to put it on the line for her. “For your eyes only,” she added.

“Fair enough.”

“Are you Harrison’s partner?” Deana asked.

“Used to be. When we were in radio cars.” She frowned toward the corridor. “Mace!” she yelled.

“Yo!” he called back.

“He might take all morning,” she said, “but when he’s done you can bet your petuties you won’t have anyone creeping out at you.”

“Are you two on duty?” Deana asked.

Leigh wished she would quit.

“We are now,” the sergeant said.

“How come you’re all wet?”

“Sorry about that.” She looked down, apparently to see whether she was dripping. “You know the Old Mill Stream in Mill Valley?” She fluttered the front of her blouse. “This is it, Charlie.”

Charlie.

What is this, Leigh wondered, a conspiracy to keep dredging up Charlie Payne?

“We came right over, so I didn’t have time to change.”

“If you’d be more comfortable in dry clothes,” Leigh said, “you’re welcome to something of mine.”

“No. Thanks anyway, Ms. West.”

“Leigh.”

“Leigh it is. I’m Mattie.”

“I’m Deana.”

“I caught that.”

“You called me Charlie.”

“Yeah, I do that.”

“My father’s name was Charlie.”

Here we go again, Leigh thought.

But it didn’t go any further, because Mace came striding down the corridor. He held his short-barreled revolver close to his shoulder, pointed at the ceiling. “It’s all right back there,” he said. Before reaching them, he stepped down into the den and disappeared behind the fireplace area that separated the den from the living room.

A little while later, he walked past the rear of the fireplace and made a circuit of the living room, checking the sliding glass doors and looking behind furniture. At the far side of the living room, he unlocked the door, ran it open, and stepped outside. He vanished, then reappeared, walking the deck that stretched along the entire rear of the house.

When he came back, he headed for the kitchen. Leigh heard his footsteps on the floor, then the squeak of the door opening into the garage.

Finally, he returned. “The place is secure,” he said, and put his revolver away. “That’s to say, nobody’s here but us. There’s no indication of forced entry. You’ve got drop pins on your sliding doors, which is good. You should do something about the windows, though. Pick up some quarter-inch dowel rods to drop in the runners, that’s the easiest way. Cut them off in lengths that’ll let you open the windows a few inches for fresh air, but no farther.”