Paula DeBoard - The Drowning Girls

“Of course she does,” I breathed.

“But that friend. Whew.” He shook his head. “I’m glad she’s one of yours. She looks like a pack of trouble.”

* * *

“She might have asked me,” I huffed to Phil that night. “I have a phone. Would it have been too difficult for her to call me, to at least mention the idea? Oh, by the way, Liz, we’re going to stop by a salon. Would you mind if I had Danielle’s hair hacked all the way back to her scalp?”

“You did say you liked it.”

I sighed. “That’s not the point.”

The girls were upstairs, in the beginning stages of what promised to be a marathon clothes-trying-on session. They were using the mirror in our walk-in closet, so Phil and I were banished to the back deck, where we were slowly working our way through a forty-four-dollar bottle of wine from Victor Mesbah, a just-because gift he’d dropped by the office. I was slowly burning through my anger, too.

Phil sighed. “It’s hair, Liz. It’s not like it’s a neck tattoo. And she does look cute.”

“Of course she looks cute,” I bristled. “She couldn’t not look cute.” But she’d been cute before, when she’d been so patently herself.

Phil’s voice was calm, his words nearly lapped up by the pool. “You’re probably going to have to let this go.” He was distancing himself, I thought, playing the role of the disengaged stepfather.

Earlier, driving home, the blades of the wind generators on the Altamont rotated so slowly, they might have been giant house fans, barely displacing the warm air. Now the grass by the fourteenth hole was fading into a purplish blue, and sunset had brought with it a slight chill. I pulled my knees to my chest. “She’s becoming one of them.”

Phil laughed. “Who?”

“You know. The pretty girls.”

He leaned over, emptying the bottle between our glasses. “What pretty girls?”

“Please. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. Look at Deanna Sievert. Look at Sonia Jorgensen. Look at Kelsey, for goodness’ sake. Those pretty girls, the ones the world smiles on, the ones who get everything they want without even trying for it.”

“I haven’t noticed, particularly.” But his voice was distant, his gaze far away.

Liar. I took a large gulp, savoring the slow trickle of wine down my throat, and set the half-empty glass at my feet.

The night had been so quiet that the sound of a car starting still registered a few minutes later, an echoic memory. Out of the darkness came another sound, a strangled cry.

“What was that?” I sat up, thinking the worst—the girls upstairs, Fran Blevins home alone with Elijah.

He held up a hand, shushing me. We waited, and the sound came again—clearly a scream this time, its shrill edge piercing the night. Phil didn’t have to think, he was on his feet, heading for the door. I stood, toppling my glass, which shattered on the concrete.

“Shit.” I stooped to gather the shards.

“Leave it,” Phil called over his shoulder. “We’ll get it later.”

Inside, Danielle and Kelsey were at the top of the stairs, looking down on us. From this angle I could see straight up Danielle’s skirt, a tiny white thing that was a waste of money, no matter what she’d spent.

Phil charged through the kitchen to the garage.

“What’s going on?” Danielle demanded.

The garage door slammed and Phil was back, flicking a flashlight on-off, on-off to test the battery.

“We heard a noise,” I told them. “Just stay put. We’ll check it out.”

But Danielle had started down the steps, Kelsey trailing her in a skimpy baby-doll dress. “I’m coming, too,” Danielle said. “I want to go with you.”

“Right? That’s always how it is in horror movies. The killer comes upstairs, and there’s nowhere left to go at that point,” Kelsey put in.

“I’m sure there’s no—”

“Absolutely not,” Phil snapped. “You’re staying here. And put some clothes on, both of you.”

Danielle looked down at her legs, as if she were seeing them for the first time. Kelsey only smiled.

“Stay,” I ordered, as if they were disobedient pets. I followed Phil as he barreled down the front walkway, the beam of his flashlight bringing into stark relief the rounded humps of our landscaping rocks. I saw a dark figure standing in the middle of the road, and he spotted me, moving into the yellow glow of an overhead carriage light. He was tall, gray hair cropped close to his head, a button-down shirt tucked firmly into his waistband.

“Everything all right at your house?” he called.

“We’re fine. I guess you heard that, too?”

“Sounded like a scream.” He extended a hand. “I’m Doug Blevins.”

“Liz—Liz McGinnis. That’s my husband, Phil,” I gestured to Phil’s retreating form, a dark shadow preceded by the beam of his flashlight. “I’ve met your wife and son a few times.”

“That’s what I hear. Fran said it was nice to have another normal person around.”

I laughed. “I feel the same way.”

Again, the scream came. It was louder this time, and definitely female. I whirled around, trying to get a sense of its origin.

“That’s it,” Doug said, digging in his pocket. “Woman screaming? I’m calling the police.”

Phil was coming back from the clubhouse, his flashlight zigzagging toward us.

Doug took a step away, speaking into his phone. “Yes, I’m calling from The Palms. Alameda County, outside Livermore.”

“It’s not coming from the clubhouse,” Phil panted. “Everything’s shut up for the night.” He frowned at Doug Blevins, overhearing part of his conversation.

The scream became a breathy wail, carried by someone coming off the trail at a sprint. Footsteps pounded closer, and Phil stepped in front of me. “Who’s out there?” he called.

The running figure became first a woman, then Deanna Sievert in a fitted running tank and shorts, hair escaping her ponytail. Seeing us, she cried out again, more sob than scream this time.

“Deanna? What happened?” I called.

She stopped short in front of us, nearly collapsing. Phil caught her by the arm. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Her breath came in ragged gasps, and when she straightened up, her face was blotchy with tears. “There was—something—” she wheezed. “On the golf course. These two glowing eyes—”

“You saw someone out there?” I asked.

“No, something. At first—I thought it was someone’s dog. But the way it moved—it was feline, just massive—” She doubled over again, hands on her knees. Phil still had her by the arm, as if he were propping her up. “It disappeared when I screamed, and then I ran like hell.”

Doug joined us, phone in hand. “Police are sending out a patrol. I’m supposed to call back to update them. What did you see, exactly?”

Deanna repeated her story, only this time the predator seemed larger, stronger, faster, like the great fish that got away. She seemed less scared now, enjoying her position as the center of attention. I focused on Phil’s thumb, which was rotating in a circle on Deanna’s twenty-four-year-old shoulder.

Doug nodded knowingly. “Sounds like a mountain lion. We’ve had those before, off and on. The drought brings them out here to the golf course. They see all that green and think they’ve got a better chance of finding food.”

Headlights rounded the curve at the end of the block, blinding us with sudden light in the middle of the street. We didn’t move. It was a dark sedan, but it couldn’t have been the police, especially if they were coming down the winding access road from Livermore.

“Hey! It’s the Mesbahs.” Deanna waved to them, and Victor rolled down the window. He was wearing a tuxedo, a bow tie unclasped at his neck.