Richard Laymon - The Lake

• Название: The Lake
• Автор: Richard Laymon
• Жанр: Прочая старинная литература

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She shivered, pressing her thighs together, feeling the sharp tingly buzz between them.

He stopped stroking, pulled her forward, and kissed her softly on the lips.

Her breath quickened and she leaned into him, her breasts crushing against his chest. Her nipples stiffened. Her heart raced. It was like they’d been searching for each other all of their lives.

She squirmed and wriggled closer. His hand caressed her knee, then slid along her thigh, kneading the firm, naked flesh.

Deana sighed and reached down to touch him, smiling softly as his hard-on jerked under her hand. Hesitating a moment, she found his zipper, peeled it down, and reached inside. Her hand closed around his erection. It felt strong and hard. Her fingers traveled its length, caressing the tip. It was smooth, warm, moist. Their lips met again, his tongue found hers, and he sucked with long hard strokes. Still holding him, she moaned into his mouth, her hand jerking in a steady rhythm.

This is so fantastic, she thought. I don’t want it to stop. Ever.

Good thing I’m wearing my wrapover…and left off my bra.

His hand slipped inside her blouse; it felt warm against her breasts. Massaging them gently, feeling their weight, running his fingertips over her nipples.

Her lips found his again; she was gasping, wanting him so much. He came away, found her breasts, and freed them from her soft jersey top. She pushed a nipple into his mouth. He nuzzled hungrily. Her eyes closed…

Then snapped open.

A rap on the windshield, Deana’s side of the car, caught them off guard.

They heard a high, simpering giggle.

Deana bolted upright, taut, alert. Dragging her top across her breasts, she pulled away from Warren.

Who the hell?

Mommy Dearest…

In a trilby hat, set at a rakish angle. Wearing a dark, tailored jacket, a floppy handkerchief flowing from its breast pocket. Her hands, in shabby white gloves, poked through the open side window.

With a gasp, Deana drew back.

“Christ!” Warren muttered, staring at the apparition. “What’s she doing here?”

The hag’s eyes narrowed.

They looked different tonight. Ringed with smudgy mascara, they reminded Deana of black hairy spiders. “My God,” she breathed. “Nightmare City made flesh…”

Better say something.

Anything.

Like what?

Howdy. How’re the old folks back home?

She managed, “Where’s Harry?”

The whiskery chin jiggled at them.

“Harry died. Little runt went tits up on me. Weren’t nothin’ I could do.”

“Oh. Sorry to hear that. You must miss him.”

Jesus Christ! What am I, stupid? Sitting here talking to this maniac? I should be grabbing my cell phone, calling the cops…

Mommy Dearest batted her lashes in a grotesque wink.

“Caught ya at a bad time, did I, dearie?”

“You asshole!” Deana exploded. “Y’know I could report you for abduction? Serve ya right, too. And y’know the cops could get ya for keeping those old broads locked away like that? They almost ate me alive back there…How come the authorities let you run a home, anyhow? You’re a mad, sick old fuck and should be locked away yourself!”

Mommy’s head came forward, her eyes glaring. They leveled with Deana’s. The hat slipped, tilting to one side. She looked weird, scary—like she was about to tear open the car door and drag Deana away.

Back to her abominable brood…

Deana shrank into her seat.

Warren touched the remote. The window whirred up.

Grinning like an animated zombie, the fag-hag from hell pressed her skinny nose to the glass. Quickly, Warren turned the key, revved the engine. The car leapt forward. A little way down the street, he peered into the rearview mirror.

The fag-hag was gone.

“So Harry popped his clogs.”

“ ’Bout the size of it. Smart move. Wherever he is, he’s gotta be in a better place than in that weirdo’s freaky rest home!”

Warren shot Deana a quizzical glance. He guessed all this had something to do with her experience the night she invited him to dinner. He decided not to ask.

She gave him a weak smile. “Wearing that stupid hat, she looked like that gay English guy, Quentin Crisp…God, what a hoot!”

“You’re not kidding!”

“Well, that’s Mommy Dearest,” she said faintly. “Or should I say, Daddy Dearest? What a freak! No idea she was a transvestite.” Remembering the hag’s strong, scrawny arms tight around her, Deana murmured, “What d’ya reckon? Is it a ‘she’—or a ‘he’?”

Warren gave a thin smile. “Who cares? Just make sure we avoid her in future, that’s all.”

“Agreed. Apart from that, she did interrupt something rather special. Don’t you think?”

“Mmmm. You’re right there. We started…”

“Started what, Warren?”

“We started something I’d rather like to finish later. How ’bout you?”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Me, too.”

Deana went quiet for a moment. Then tears welled up. Slowly, they fell down her cheeks.

Warren stopped the car.

“What is it, Deana? Not something I did, I hope?”

“No. Nothing like that. What we did was all so…wonderful. It’s just that everything seems to be happening, is all. One thing after another. Especially tonight, coming face-to-face with that freaky old witch again. And then there’s Mace…I don’t know, I’m so scared of him. And of what he’s doing to Mom.”

She almost said, “And how he came to my room…” but stopped herself, reluctant to spoil things by discussing Mace tonight.

Warren drew her to him and kissed the tip of her nose.

Looking into his eyes, she said quietly, “You’re all right, Warren. Y’know that?”

“You, too,” he replied. “And don’t forget, whatever happens, I’ll always be here for you.”

Leigh met Deana at the door.

“What’s up, Mom? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I just did, honey. Nelson.”

Deana’s jaw dropped. She stopped in her tracks.

Oh my God. Not Nelson!

What the hell is happening to us?

FIFTY-THREE

“He’s sick, Deana. He wanted money…”

“Where is he?”

“He left. I called Mattie—I feel awful about that. He was just a pathetic human being. Real sick.”

“You called Mattie? Not Mace?”

“No, honey. Not Mace.”

Something in Leigh’s tone made Deana hesitate. There was a tension in it she didn’t like. If there’s a problem with Mace, she thought, I need to know about it. “Mom. About Mace—” she got out.

“How’s Warren?” Leigh interrupted, a little too quickly. Deana closed her lips. Maybe now wasn’t the time to say anything about Mace.

“He’s okay.” She pictured the fag-hag and her band of trolls, tucked away in the twilight zone. Best keep them under wraps, too. Mom doesn’t look like she can take any more shocks.

She led Leigh to the living room. “Guess you could use a drink,” she said, going over to the wet bar and decanting a cognac into a balloon glass. “Anyway,” she said, rapidly changing the subject. “How’re things at the office?”

“Er…I didn’t go today, hon.”

“No?”

“No. Something came up.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“Deana, better grab yourself a drink, too. There’s something I should tell you.”

Brriinngg…Brriinngg…

Leigh’s heart lurched.

“The phone, Mom,” Deana reminded her gently. “Shall I get it?”

“No, dear. It’s probably for me.”

It was.

Mattie.

“We got Nelson, Leigh. He’s in a bad way. Something terminal, I guess. But he’ll be looked after, where he’s going. Don’t you worry about him. Thing is, looks like he’s still harboring some kinda grudge. Swears he’s gonna get you—when he comes out. Which he won’t, of course. Come out, I mean.”

“Thanks for that, Mattie,” Leigh said. She gave an uneasy laugh. “Makes me feel a whole lot better. I don’t think.”

“Nelson’s going noplace, Leigh. Trust me—and you can take that to the bank. He’s real sick, and he’s behind locked doors. So, no chance he’ll bother you or Deana, ever again.” Mattie hesitated, then asked, “You okay? Musta been quite a shock…”

“Yeah. Right.” A pause. “And Mace?”

“He’s gone, Leigh. Vacated his apartment. Skedaddled. Vamoosed.”

“Oh my God…”

“Keep your doors locked, Leigh.” Mattie spoke quietly. Leigh, catching the urgency in her voice, felt a little faint. Mattie was asking, “Has he got a key to your place?”

Leigh’s heart missed a beat.

“Yes…No. I don’t know. I never gave him one. But he knows where I keep a spare.”

Mattie’s silence spoke volumes.

“Maybe you should have a minder,” she said. “I’ll get somebody over there. Whoever it is, I’ll bring them over myself, so when I call, you’ll know it’s okay.”

“Right.” Leigh shivered, bringing a hand to her throat. “This is getting worse, Mattie.”

“It will do. Until we nail Mace. And doing that won’t be easy. He’s one slippery chick.”

“You’re not kidding,” Leigh murmured, then said, “Okay, Mattie. See you soon.”

“That Mattie?”

Leigh nodded. Hugging herself, leaning against the door frame, going over the conversation. Deana studied her, frowned, and said, “Mom, you look awful.”

Leigh managed a bright smile. “Gee, thanks, honey. That’s all I need to know.”

“Here, take a sip of this.” Deana handed the glass of cognac to her mother. “You look as if you need it.”

“Thanks.” Leigh took a swig and winced. “How people can drink this stuff, I’ll never know.”

“Mom. You had something to tell me…What is it?” Leigh sighed. She wasn’t feeling up to repeating the whole thing over again.

“It’s a long story, honey.”

Here we go again: “Here lies Leigh West. Hers was a mighty long story…”

She sighed, and felt sick, going over what happened today. But Deana has to know. Best get it over with now…

Easing into the sofa, she took a sip of cognac and shuddered. At the other end, Deana faced her, her legs drawn up, chin resting on her knees. Her glass lay untouched on the table.

An uneasy silence hung on the air.

“Honey,” Leigh began in a quiet voice. “You’ve always wanted to know more about Charlie, your father. Well, today I learned the truth of the matter—straight from the horse’s mouth. Or, put another way, straight from the pen of Edith Payne, Charlie’s mother.”

Wide-eyed, Deana stared at Leigh. “And?”

“When I was your age, I was a bit of a rebel. Mom and Dad packed me off to Aunt Jenny and Uncle Mike’s in Milwaukee. It was there I met your father…”

Leigh’s hand reached out to touch Deana’s. She gave a hesitant smile.

At last, the tale came tumbling out. All of it. No holds barred. Leigh hoped to God Deana could deal with it. She watched her daughter’s face, afraid she’d see disgust, bewilderment, even contempt. Afraid things between them might never be the same again.

But what Leigh saw was Deana growing up before her eyes. She’d been listening intently, a small frown creasing her brow as she absorbed the details.

“And you never once suspected that Mace was Charlie’s brother?”

“Never. Not in a million years would I think such a thing could be true. Until…”

“Until what?”

“Until I saw Mace’s body last night.” She felt a little awkward talking to Deana like this, but as she’d gotten this far, she felt she had to carry on. “You know, like he’s a blond? Well, he had black hair. Pubic hair and stuff? He was a different person. He has a tan, but with the black hair, his bronze body looked so natural…Like he was born with it—nothing to do with the sun.”

She paused, realizing Deana would spot the link.

She did.

Black hair. Black body hair. Like her own. Deana grimaced. The awful truth was beginning to hit her.

“And I’m related to that creep?”

Gently, Leigh said, “That’s right. He’s your uncle, Deana.”

“Oh my God!!!”

The doorbell rang. Shattering the silence.

Their hearts raced.

Leigh rushed to the hallway.

Mattie was on the stoop.

“I’m alone, Leigh. Decided to go it alone. I know Mace’s mind better than anyone.” Quickly, she stepped inside the hallway. “We put out an all points,” she explained. A moment’s pause, then quietly she asked, “Does Deana know?”

Leigh nodded.

“How’s she taking it?”

“Well, I think. Probably hasn’t hit her yet. When it does, there’ll be repercussions—bound to be. But at the moment, she’s okay. It’s quite a story for her to deal with, Mattie.”

“Yeah, a pretty tough one to swallow, I agree. But she’ll pull through. She’s a sensible gal for her age. Best she knows what we’re up against; that way she’ll be aware of what might happen.”

“The devil you know, et cetera.”

Mattie frowned. “Something like that,” she said quietly.

They went into the living room.

“Hi, Mattie.”

“Hi yourself, Deana.”

“Deana, huh? Sure that’s not Charlie?”

“No, honey. No more Charlies. Enough of them around as it is, huh?”

Leigh broke in. “Hey. It’s been a busy day—and night. How about a nightcap before we turn in?”

“Sounds good to me. Thing is, I don’t reckon I’ll be doing much sleeping…”

“Me neither,” Deana put in.

Leigh went over to the sound system. She put on some Sinatra. Sexy ol’ Frank. “My Way” was her favorite. A good one to relax to at the end of a hard day.

They chatted and laughed. Trying to chill out. Trying to ignore what had happened earlier. But, beneath it all, their minds were on Mace. Wondering where he was.

What he was doing.

Finally blocking him out of her mind, Deana switched over to Warren. Thinking about how they almost made love.

Yeah. Almost.

Then she pictured Mommy Dearest and her band of old broads.

Forget her, she told herself. She’s history…

Deana’s thoughts slipped back to Warren.

Wishing he were here. Promising herself she’d tell him the whole story just as Mom told it to her.