Richard Laymon - The Lake

“Don’t think I’m unappreciative.”

“No, not you.”

He made the top of the wooded embankment, jogged past a deserted picnic table to the parking area, and opened the trunk of his Trans Am. He glanced around to be sure nobody was nearby, then lifted his .12-gauge Ithica shotgun, raised a corner of the blanket on which it had been resting, and took out his first-aid kit.

He hurried back to Mattie.

“What’s the big plan?” she asked.

“A Band-Aid on your toe.”

“You jest.”

“Not me. Mark my words, it’s just the touch that’s needed. An air of vulnerability to an otherwise perfect foot.” He opened the plastic case, took out a bandage, and offered it to her.

“You’d better apply it. You’re the artiste around here.”

“Fine. Sit.”

“Where?”

“On the ground.”

“It’s wet .” She wrinkled her nose. Then, with a heavy sigh, she sat. “You owe me for this, Charlie.”

“You’ll sing a different tune when your foot’s hanging in the De Young.” Tearing off the wrapper, he crouched at Mattie’s feet and picked the paper away from the adhesive strip.

“Why can’t you be normal and shoot nudes?” she asked.

“Leaves nothing to the imagination, my dear.”

She wiggled her toes. “That turn you on?”

He nodded. The bandage on the big toe might be a little too obvious. The third toe seemed best, though the Band-Aid was really too large for it.

Mattie leaned back, bracing herself up on stiff arms.

Yes, the third toe. He reached for it.

Mattie raised the knee of her other leg and swung it far to the side. “Does this turn you on?”

He looked. The cutoff jeans were very cut off—no more than a frayed seam remained between the legs. “How inelegant,” he said.

Mattie chuckled. She kept her left foot fairly steady while the bandage was being applied, but waved her bent right leg from side to side, whispering, “Now you see it, now you don’t… Now you see it, now you don’t.”

“All set.” He patted the bottom of her foot. “Assume the position.”

“Bet you can’t stand up straight.”

“Matter of fact, I already am.”

He pulled her hand, and they both stood up. Mattie bent over to check him out. “Well, shitski, hon, you could knock me over with a feather. Want me to take care of that for you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I know, I know.” Turning away, she stretched out her leg until her foot found one of the small, flattopped rocks a yard from the bank. Arms out for balance, she pushed away from shore with her other foot. Once she was perched on the rock, she carefully pivoted until she was facing him. Then she swept out her right foot, planted it on a nearby rock, and took a deep breath. “Fire away.”

Crouching, he framed the foot, the water shimmering around the rock. “Beautiful,” he muttered. He snapped the shot. The camera’s automatic advance buzzed. He clicked, straightened up a bit for a new angle, took another shot, sidestepped to the left and took more, stood up straight, took more, then waded out with the cool water filling his sneakers, bent down, and snapped a few extreme close-ups.

“What dedication,” Mattie said.

He waded ashore, changed the lens setting for six feet, picked up a stone, and tossed it underhand at Mattie’s midsection.

“Hey!” she yelped.

She caught the stone. But her quick movement was enough to upset her precarious balance. She flapped her arms as she fell backward.

He got it all on film—Mattie’s stunned expression as she snatched the stone, her flapping arms, her splash when she hit the stream back-first, feet flying into the air. Then her furious drenched face as she sat there scowling at him. He kept clicking away as she staggered to her feet and waded toward him. “I suppose you think you’re cute.”

He lowered the camera so it hung by the strap, and protected it between his arm and side. “Don’t do anything foolish,” he warned as she approached. Mattie had a brown belt in judo. She could throw him ass over head into the stream, and he had no defense short of decking her with a punch. He wouldn’t do that.

He didn’t like the way she was grinning. “Mattie, my camera.”

“Pity.”

“My beeper.”

“Oh, your precious beeper.”

“My revolver.”

“A little water won’t hurt that.”

“It’ll ruin my holster.”

“Not to mention your ego, big man.” She grabbed the front of his shirt. Instead of dropping backward, planting a foot in his gut and sending him on a trip, Mattie pulled him against her and kissed him. He put his arms around her. The wetness soaked through his shirt.

“I’m going to wait,” she murmured against his mouth. “When you least expect it, wham .”

“Fair enough.”

“Now, how about tooling me over to my place so I can get out of these duds?”

“You may feel free to get out of them at my place.”

“Haw.”

“We’ll give them a spin in the dryer, they’ll be good as new. Which isn’t saying much.”

She swatted his rump. “Let’s move it, then, Charlie.” She stepped into her sandals.

They climbed the slope. They were nearly to the top when his beeper sounded.

“I don’t believe it,” Mattie muttered. “There goes our Sunday.”

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.