Richard Laymon - The Lake

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

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Terrified, still coughing, Deana edged back into her corner.

Change the subject. Attract his attention. Anything—just make him stop this crazy goddamn crap…It’s driving me nuts…

“Mace. I want some water, please. I need water.” She coughed some more.

“Water? WATER? I ain’t got no water.” Mace shook his head, trying to clear it, shut out the memory of his mother’s face, the superstitious fears…The dark, desperate feelings of anger.

He’d avenge Pa’s murder, all right.

Rid his soul of Tania.

He glared at Deana. His eyes taking in her long dark hair. Her white shoulders. Remembering how she’d looked half-naked, that day in her room. How her breasts heaved and wrestled, tumbling out of that too-tight bra of hers.

Tania…

Taunting him.

Laughing at him.

Bawling at him to go away.

You BASTARD, she’d screamed.

Yeah. Tania has ta go…She brought a curse on us Paynes…Pa shoulda killed her right at the start…

“Mace…What’re you gonna do?”

Stupid damnfool question, but she had to keep him talking. Keep his mind on the straight and narrow. Keep it from wandering. She’d seen this film—what was it called? She couldn’t remember now, but the girl in it kept talking to this crazy guy, to stop him from throwing her over the cliff. She’d talked and talked till the cops came an’ took the crazy guy away.

In her mind, she pictured this happening to her.

Mace’d have his hands around her throat, squeezing the life outta her…Then she’d start talking. Maybe arguing. For hours on end. Mace’d give up, go away, an’ then Warren an’ Mattie and a gang of cops’d show up and take her home…

As if…

Her blood ran cold.

“Do?” Mace asked, surprised. “Why, go a-callin’ on that whorin’ slut, sugar. After I’ve rid me of sister Tania…”

Reaching down into the holdall, he drew out a hunting knife.

Drawing it from its sheath, he held it up to the window. Then, smiling softly, he wiped it on the seat of his pants.

SIXTY-FOUR

Saturday, August 14

The girl up ahead caught his eye.

She was stacked—tall, athletic-looking, with long dark hair caught up in bunches. The bunches bounced jauntily against her candy-pink sweatshirt. A tennis racquet swung in her hands. He eyed her long, shapely legs swinging down the sidewalk.

Her feet, in white socks and sneakers, almost danced in her hurry.

A glimpse of tight white shorts peeking out from beneath the sweatshirt got him going. He felt himself rise, go hard.

“All right,” he murmured to himself, a loose smile playing around his lips. “The kid’s a honey; a real live dancin’ queen. Most likely gaggin’ for it, too.”

Already wreckin’ lives, spreading her filthy evil all over town…

His gaze fixed on the swinging bunches. Long and black, they curled a little at the ends.

Thinking ahead to her tennis date, smiling to herself a little, the girl didn’t see the black Tornado cruise by, nor the driver slouched in the dark interior, wearing reflective shades, his left arm hanging out the window.

The car slid to a halt some twenty yards ahead of the girl. Through his rearview mirror, the man watched her swing toward him.

Drawing level with the parked car, she looked in the open passenger-side window. Saw the man at the wheel. Wearing a black leather biker jacket and one of those funky sports wristwatches that did everything ’cept play “The Stars and Stripes.”

He was chewing, his jaw working around with a steady, rhythmic movement.

Later, in one of his three rented Bay Area apartments, Mace surveyed his work. Dipping his head from side to side, appraising his latest killing, assessing the need for a little more embellishment.

He grinned, his white teeth glistening in the soft light from the bedside lamp.

One less evil bitch, he told himself.

In the small cramped space the realty office had euphemistically described as a living room, the blinds were drawn. And not only against the glare of the midday sun.

Mace eased the knife from the slit in her throat. It came away with a sharp, sucking sound. Fresh blood welled, pumping over her shoulders. Matting the long strands of hair. Making a pool on the pillow behind her.

She groaned, moved slightly. Her legs made small jerky tremors. Bubbles gurgled gently from the mouth-shaped slit. Her fingers twitched, then lay still.

Her lids fluttered gently, then opened.

The eyes staring up at him were blank, glazed.

Dead already.

Mace hefted the knife like a dagger. He raised his arm, visualizing the long clean slit he’d carve from throat to pubic bone.

His hand came down, slicing the firm white flesh, the blade juddering slightly as it hit the breastbone. Like a jacket unzipped, the torso sagged open.

More blood seeped from the “mouth,” easing onto the pillow…till the dark hair floated in a small black lake.

Mace paused, then hacked some more. Edging up the skin with the tip of his blade, flapping it open, peering at the hot steamy coils within.

He could smell her evil.

Warm, mulchy, sour.

Sniffing, breathing it in, he grinned, then flicked the skin back again. Kneading it into place with quick, practiced fingers. Patting the breasts, hanging loose, lolling sideways, away from the incision.

He fondled them, squeezing the soft dark nipples.

Frowning.

They’d been so taut, so ready, a half hour ago. When she’d squirmed beneath him, strong and agile. Yeah. She’d given him a hard time, all right, but he’d made it, ramming her, jerking his come into her moist warmth.

How she’d bucked, squirmed, screamed out.

Shoulda given her a double shot…

Not “liquid ecstasy,” though.

This time he’d used his trusty hunting knife. “Yessir,” he muttered, panting a little, remembering. “It’d been a real pleasure, slicing that smooth white throat.”

He’d shut her mouth, once and for all.

And he’d made another. One guaranteed to stay open, no matter what…

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?