Richard Laymon - The Lake

Toweling herself dry, she put on her only change of clothing—a loose navy sweatshirt and pants.

But as she lay on the bed, her former unease returned.

She tossed around, staring at the ceiling; all the while bad memories, fears about meeting up with Mace, and escalating concerns about Deana whirled through her mind.

She sighed.

One thing was for sure.

With all this going on in her head, she didn’t feel much like sleeping…

A hand curved slowly around her neck.

“It can be like this again, Leigh,” he told her.

So tenderly, she almost believed him…

Wanted to believe him.

His eyes glittered down at her.

His mouth hung open.

Her heart hammered. She drew back, her hands flying to her face.

“I loved you,” he whispered. “Things just got a little mixed up, is all…”

Her eyes snapped open.

“MACE!”

“I’m here, sugar. And y’came all this way to say hello? I’m touched, darlin’. I truly am.”

The late-noon sun dipped behind the trees, but it was still hot. The cabin was deep in shadow. Shafts of light from the open window pierced the semigloom.

A light breeze from the lake bellied the curtains.

Leigh gasped. How the hell had he gotten to her? The door was locked… and the windows…?

Shit!

Like a fool, she hadn’t checked the windows.

Her eyes darted back to Mace.

A different Mace now.

Plaid shirt. Combat pants—your average guy taking a well-earned summer break. A little fishing. A few beers… It figured, all right. Dressed like that, he’d pass unnoticed in a crowd.

His hair was darker, longer; the blond surfer streaks were gone.

He was a stranger.

A dangerous, unpredictable intruder.

Her blood chilled at the thought.

He swayed a little. A hunting knife hung loosely in his right hand.

“You shouldn’t’ve come, Leigh. Nosin’ around. Disturbin’ a man payin’ his respects to the place of his birth…”

His voice was flat, toneless.

Slowly, Leigh edged up the bed, flinching as her back caught the slatted rail behind. She pulled away from him.

Scarcely daring to breathe.

Sweat, slick and hot, flowed down her sides.

Mace leaned in, his knife making circles near her face. His eyes were deep pits. Grape-black. Glinting into hers.

Hypnotizing her.

Tearing her eyes from his, she thought, I’ve gotta break the silence—keep him talking…

“You did some awful bad things to Deana, Mace. Why did you do it?”

“She was a whorin’ little slut, that’s why. She deserved to die.” He spoke slowly, his voice slurring slightly. “She’s out of the way now. Yessir, where she is, little bitch won’t be causin’ no more grief.”

“Deana’s still alive, Mace.”

“Wrong, Leigh. I killed her. She had to die…”

He’s killed her! THE BASTARD’S KILLED HER… OH NO!

She shot upright, her heart racing.

Reaching out her left hand, edging it sideways toward the water glass on the nightstand, she extended a finger. Nudging the glass a little; cringing as it crashed to the floor.

In the silence, it sounded like a bomb going off.

Mace came in with his fist.

Mashing her jaw.

Whipping, cracking her head sideways.

Making a low “Uuggghhh,” she slumped back on the pillow.

Out cold.

Wrestling her onto his shoulder, he went through the kitchen bar to the front door. Unlocking it with one hand, closing it behind him, he hurried out back.

The cabins were behind him now.

Still running, he turned, snatching a look over his shoulder. Through the trees, he saw the cabins recede into the distance.

All clear.

He stumbled on, through another deserted copse, stepping over branches, chugging through rough grass.

Soon, the grass gave way to pebbles.

Okay so far…

Out of the trees now, the late-noon sun caught him off guard. Squinting into the light, he shook his head, trying to clear the noise, the clutter, the nonsense inside it.

He made his way to a secluded inlet.

Reached the rowboat.

Lowering Leigh into it, he pushed the boat forward.

It shushed quietly along the sand and slipped neatly into the sparkling water.

Leigh groaned.

Leaning over, he slapped her face. Her eyes opened, stared at him groggily for a moment, then closed again.

She was out. Okay.

He stepped into the boat, settled down, eased the paddles from the oarlocks, and stroked out across the lake.

“He’s got her, Sheena. I heard a crash, went to investigate, and she’d gone. It could only be Mace. Do you see anything out there?”

Sheena, mobile pressed to her ear, listened intently.

“I’m approaching the lake now, Mattie… Can’t see anything this end…” Her voice was hurried, breathy, as she jogged over uneven scrub and pebbles.

Drawing to a halt, she scanned the water. “There’s a guy in a rowboat. Dark hair, plaid shirt… Stroking like hell… He’s looking over his shoulder…”

She paused, then said quickly, “Mattie. It’s Mace. Travelin’ south. Heading for the pines out there.”

“You sure about that?”

“Sure as I’ll ever be. The guy’s in an awful hurry. Hey, didn’t Charlie have a hideout around here—like the place he died in? And yeah. There’s something in the boat, Mattie. Like a pile of clothing or…”

“Sheena, keep an eye on that boat. I’ll pull rank, requisition a launch. Rowboat. Inflatable. Whatever.”

Sheena kicked off her sneakers and waded into the lake till she was breast deep. Then, lifting her arms, she struck out after the rowboat.

Slowly, Leigh opened her eyes, trying to focus on the room. Everything blurred before her.

Her lids closed again.

Gingerly, she felt her jaw. It moved around freely—a little too freely for her liking. Pain shot through her face, stars exploded like fireworks in her head.

Her eyes opened. They darted to Mace.

“Recognize where y’are, darlin’? Recall this li’l ol’ place, do ya?”

Leigh went cold. She began to shake.

She was lying on a palliasse of some sort. It was lumpy, hard, with no give to it—like it was filled with straw or something.

She closed her eyes again. Shutting him out. Smelling the place… The damp, earthy, moldy odor…

Her eyes snapped open.

THIS WAS IT!

THE HOUSE.

WHERE CHARLIE DIED…

The nightmare began again.

Screams echoed around and around in her head, like those other screams, all those years ago.

Edith Payne’s screams. When she’d discovered her son Charlie, lying broken and bleeding. His head caved in…

“Never did take the old place down,” Mace was saying. “Left it here to rot. Gotta tread careful now… Could fall down one a’ these biiiig holes…” He grinned at her, standing on the edge of one, jumping up and down, testing the old boards, judging how much they could take.

She shuddered, feeling them shake, vibrate; hearing debris crumble and fall into the void below…

Mace gave a hollow laugh.

“All comes floodin’ back now, darlin’? Day you killed my brother Charlie?”

His fist came at her again. Smashing her head back to the mattress. He stood there, grinning and chewing, hearing her groans, her small, soft cries.

Then he was down, grabbing the neck of her sweatshirt, twisting it around his hand, bringing her up close till her face touched his.