Richard Laymon - The Lake

“Doors and windows have been double-checked, but no harm done if you check again. Do not open doors—or windows—to anyone . Right? I’ll give the guy a code word. What d’ya suggest?”

Deana perked up. “How ’bout ‘Eureka’?”

Mattie shrugged. “Eureka it is. I’ll call ya soon as I’m through with World War Three goin’ on back at the ranch.”

Mattie left. After she’d gone, Leigh and Deana hadn’t much to say. In the semidarkness, the living room suddenly seemed scary. Shadows, trembling in the flickering light from the TV, became potential intruders. And even with the sound turned low, they felt that tonight, Psycho was a bad choice of movie to watch. But they let it roll on, neither of them feeling inclined to switch channels.

11:28.

No Warren.

And no replacement bodyguard, either.

The phone rang. Shattering the stillness. Smashing into their thoughts.

Leigh looked across at Deana.

“Mattie said she’d call. That must be her now.” She got up, straightened her back, and went into the hallway.

Deana heard her say, “Can’t you deal with it, Tony?”

Leigh’s grip tightened on the phone. She was stunned.

Tonight of all nights. There had to be a major problem at the Bayview.

“I’m a waiter, Ms. West. Not a bouncer,” Tony reminded her.

“Call the cops, then.”

“They’re coming out just as soon as they can. Thought you needed to know that. Before you get here.”

“But, Tony. Can’t you deal with it?” Leigh persisted wearily. Her hand brushed her forehead. She felt sick.

“They want you , Ms. West. They specifically said for you to be here. Christ! All hell’s breakin’ loose… My God—you better get over here fast!”

Leigh sighed. She’d no wish to leave Deana alone. But it looked like she had no choice…

“Honey, there’s a fight at the restaurant. Apparently, the place is being trashed as we speak. Police are on their way over. I gotta go, honey. I hate to leave you here alone, but…”

“I’ll be okay, Mom. I’ll stay glued to my seat. Anyway, Warren’s on his way over. So is the replacement officer.” Deana gave a weak smile. “I’m gonna be okay. Really. Jeez. Sorry about the restaurant. Tonight of all nights. Hope it isn’t too bad.”

“Thanks, honey. Knew you’d be sensible about this. Call me the minute Warren shows up—don’t open the door to anyone else. Except the officer, of course. And don’t forget the password.”

“I won’t, Mom. Take care. See ya later.”

Leigh started the car, unable to shake off her misgivings. She hated leaving Deana like this. But the Bayview—how come it was being trashed?

Who would do this?

Not something her usual clientele would get up to…

At the top of the driveway, she made a left and turned down into the street. Be glad when this whole thing’s over, she thought. Can anything else go wrong tonight?

Good thing I didn’t mention Mace’s scrapbook to Deana. God. She would have been so scared …

Deana snuggled into her armchair.

Thinking, Where’s Warren? Said he’d be here in fifteen minutes. It’s way past that now…

She switched channels. Psycho had been a real bad choice. She channel-hopped, and found a low-budget scifi movie. She stared at the screen. So far, all the action seemed to be happening in a spaceship, with some crazy alien crew leaping around in tight suits.

Boring…

She switched off the TV.

Everywhere was spooky quiet.

The shadows, shifting around in the semidarkness, grew scarier by the minute.

Seemed like the house had taken on a life of its own. The trees outside rustled and sighed. The moving shadows they made, crouched like animals ready to pounce.

A low rumble jolted her upright. Huhhh. Goddamn water cistern again!

She slumped down, huffing a sigh of relief.

But—what was that?

A faint click…

Her mouth went dry.

Her heart raced. Her breath came out in short, harsh bursts.

Then silence again.

It was so eerie.

Even the trees weren’t rustling.

She relaxed, switched on the TV.

Psycho was still on.

It’d reached the part where Norman Bates was talking to his dead mother in the attic.

The movie was almost finished…

What then?

Warren should be here by now…

The doorbell’s gonna ring any minute.

Maybe I should call. Something could’ve have gone wrong…

She heard movement, a faint rustle behind her.

She stiffened. Froze. Her mouth dried up again.

“Hey. Sugar. How ’bout a cuppa coffee for your uncle Mace?”

His voice was soft, warm, familiar.

She jerked around.

“You,” she gasped.

“Who else, darlin’?”

Mace grinned, friendly like. He opened his arms, palms held out. As if to say, Hey. Here I am! Like the night in her room. The night Warren came to dinner.

Mace. The bastard!

She’d handled him then. But she wasn’t too sure she could do it now.

Knowing what she did.

Remembering what Mom had told her.

Her legs felt shaky. Her breath jerked out in quick, shallow gulps. Trembling, trying to play it cool, she steadied herself.

“Coffee? Sure. Take a seat, Mace. I’ll go see to it right away.”

She got up, made a move to the kitchen, thinking, If I’m quick I could use the extension in there. Call Mom, the police, Mattie. Warren. Anybody .

Mace watched her go, chewing on seeds, a loose smile playing on his lips.

Deana clattered around in the kitchen. Fixing coffee. Setting mugs on a tray. An eye on the phone all the time.

Do it now do it now.

What if he’s watching?

Fuck that.

Just do it. She did it.

Lifted the phone.

Dead as dirt.

“Well now, sweetheart.” He was behind her, making a snipping motion with his fingers. “Them li’l ol’ wires are all cut. Uncle Mace couldn’t take no chances. Not with a smart young gal like you around.”

He moved forward, catlike. Grabbing her hand. Twisting it behind her back. Holding it there. Tight.

She was hurting, but no way would she let him see it.

He pulled her close, their bodies touching.

She winced, catching a whiff of mulchy breath.

Goddamn seeds…

He grinned.

Slammed his free hand across her mouth.

Kept it there.

She struggled, trying to come up for air. Beneath his hand, she tore open her mouth, trying to say, “Warren’ll be here any minute.”

Only it came out like some weird mumbo-jumbo.

“Really. You do surprise me,” he said with a curt, amused laugh.

He frog-marched her into the living room. Flung her facedown onto the sofa. Rammed a knee hard into her spine. Grabbing a handful of hair, he jerked her up and back, and wound a black silk scarf tight around her head. It cut into her eyes, across the bridge of her nose.

Leaving only a slight airway.

She panicked. Struggled. Barely able to breathe.

Pausing, he stepped back, watching her mumbling, kicking, gasping for air. Then, dragging a coil of twine from his jacket pocket, he began to wind it around her arms.

She still wore her blue top.

The one Warren had put his hand inside earlier.

The tie had worked loose; the soft cloth slipped from her shoulders.

He gaped at her for a moment, seeing the rise of her soft round breasts, a glimpse of dark nipples, feeling himself rise, jerk, and grow hard.

She looked so… good and sweet. Scared. Vulnerable.

He smiled tersely.

Later, he promised himself.