Richard Laymon: The Lake

“Don’t give me this ‘ladies first’ stuff. You’re quicker than me.”

“Deana.” He sounded ready to argue, but paused. He was silent for a few seconds. “I know what we’ll do,” he said. “You wait here. I’ll go out to the car and bring it right up to here. Sideways, so it’ll shield you. Then you just jump in, and off we go.”

“Don’t be a…” She shook her head. That’s right, she thought, snap at him for offering to take all the risk. Leaning closer, she kissed him softly on the mouth. “You’re all right,” she whispered.

“You too.”

She stroked his cheek. She almost said that she loved him, but decided it would sound too sappy and melodramatic. This is it. End of the road. I love you. Violins. Hand in hand, the lovers stride toward their rendezvous with death.

An hour from now, we’ll be laughing about this.

Sure. Maybe in a week.

“We go out together,” she said.

“I really think…”

“You and me, pardner. Butch and Sundance.”

“Please. Not Butch and Sundance.”

“Let’s get it over with.” She took the blanket from him. He didn’t put up a fuss, apparently realizing that they would have to rely on his quickness if something went wrong. She held his hand. It felt wet and cold.

They stepped out from behind the tree and walked through the high grass, straight toward the front of his Mustang.

The headlights of the other car came on. Deana’s stomach gave a cold lurch. One of the beams was high. It crossed the other. She moaned.

“Just act normal,” Allan said.

A foot in front of the bumper, they parted hands and split up, Deana walking to the passenger door while Allan stepped to the driver’s door. She gripped the handle, thumb on the latch button, ready. Forcing her eyes away from the other car, she looked across the Mustang’s low roof and watched Allan bend over. She heard the rasp of his key entering the lock, the quiet thump of the button popping up. Allan swung his door open.

The other car sprang forward, roaring. Allan’s head snapped toward it. He was bright in the glare of its headlights, hunched over, mouth wide.

“Get in!” Deana yelled. Dropping the blanket, she ducked and peered through the door window. The ceiling light was on. Allan dived at the driver’s seat. The car got his legs, yanked him out. Deana lurched back, numb, as the speeding car ripped off the driver’s door.

It was slow motion.

It was impossible.

It was the door flipping upward, twisting, skidding across the hood of the Mustang with a trail of sparks and the car rushing past with Allan in front, hooked over the bumper, out of sight from his waist down, the rest of him draped across the side of the car, arms flapping loosely overhead.

Brakes screaming, the car had too much speed to stop before the edge of the lot. It bumped over the grass and smashed into a tree. The tree caught Allan in the rump. He was thrown backward from the waist, hair flying, arms flinging out.

The backup lights came on. The car shot backward. Allan rolled loose, hung in the air for a moment in front of the one working headlight, then dropped and tumbled.

Deana was numb, frozen. But there was a lucid corner of her mind that somehow took control. She peered through the window of the passenger door as the other car shot backward. Allan’s keys lay on the seat where they must have fallen when he was hit. Though she knew her door was locked, she thumbed the latch button anyway and jerked. The door stayed shut. The other car had stopped slightly ahead of the Mustang. Its door opened.

Deana ran.

She ran for the woods, not looking back.

Dad sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and puffing on a cigar, while Mom helped Leigh with the dinner dishes. Most of the dishes, after being rinsed, went into the dishwasher. The crystal glasses, however, Leigh didn’t trust to the machine. Those were done by hand, Mom washing them while Leigh dried.

It didn’t take long, because there were no cooking utensils to contend with. The food had been prepared by the chef at the Bayside, delivered and served by two of Leigh’s best waiters, who had since returned to the restaurant.

When the last crystal wine goblet was dry, Leigh suggested after-dinner drinks. Dad, stubbing out his cigar, asked for Scotch and water. Mom wanted Bailey’s. Leigh stayed in the kitchen to prepare the drinks while her parents headed for the living room.

The evening had gone quite well, she thought. Dad and Mom both seemed to be in excellent spirits, as if oblivious to the rather scary fact that Dad was now only a year short of sixty.

Hell, they’re young. Damn young to have a thirty-seven-year-old daughter and a granddaughter who will be starting college in the fall. They’re both in good health. They’ve got plenty to be happy about.

Me, too.

She took her time pouring the drinks.

I’ve got two great parents, a beautiful, intelligent daughter, a thriving restaurant considered the finest place to dine in Tiburon. Not to mention the house. Fabulous house.

So what’s this jittery feeling in my stomach like something’s wrong? Nothing is wrong. Probably just that Deana’s out. It’s impossible to relax completely when she’s gone at night. So much could happen. A breakdown…

Allan seems reliable, though. He’ll take care of her.

That amused Leigh.

Other way around: Deana would be the one to take charge if a problem came up. Nothing will come up. She’ll waltz through the door around one o’clock—after the movies are over.

If they went to the movies at all.

Leigh set the glasses on a silver serving tray. She knew she was a bit tipsy, so she concentrated on holding the tray steady as she carried it past the dining area and down the single step to the living room. Mom was in the stuffed chair, Dad standing by the glass wall staring out at the view. He turned around as Leigh set the tray on a low table in front of the sofa.

“I can’t get over your view,” he said.

“Me, either.” Leigh had lived in this house for eight years and still found herself staring out at it daily.

“That was a lovely dinner,” Mom said.

Leigh handed her a snifter of Irish cream. “Beef Willington is Nelson’s specialty.”

“It’s such a shame that Deana had to leave early.”

Leigh smiled and fought an urge to roll her eyes upward. Mom had to start on that. Well, she could be counted upon to start on something, especially after a few drinks. “Mom, she and Allan canceled a dinner reservation so she could be here.”

“Why would she have a dinner reservation for tonight? Didn’t you tell her…?”

“We originally asked you over for last night, remember? But you and Dad had the club banquet.”

“It still wouldn’t have killed her to stay.”

“She has a life of her own,” Dad said. He took his Scotch and water from the tray and sat on the sofa. Leigh lifted her glass of Chablis off the tray. Holding it carefully, she lowered herself onto the sofa beside Dad. “I’m sure she has better things to do,” he continued, “than spend Friday night with a bunch of old fogeys.”

“We’re hardly old fogeys,” Mom pointed out. “It wouldn’t have killed her to spend one evening with her family.”

“She sees you all the time,” Leigh said. “It’s not as if you live in Timbuktu.”

“Wherever the hell that is,” Dad said. Smiling, he took a drink.

“What do you know about this Allan?” Mom asked.

“She’s been going with him for a couple of months. She met him in drama class.”

“He’s an actor? ”

“I think he intends to be an attorney.”

“Great,” Dad said. “We could use a lawyer in the family. You know what they say—every family needs a lawyer, a doctor, and a plumber.” He grinned. “And a restaurateur, of course.”