The Lake

Deana didn’t want to wait. She didn’t want company. It wouldn’t be the same. “You’d never be able to keep up with me.”

“You’re talking about the gal who wipes you off the tennis courts.”

“You don’t want to get sweaty after your bath.”

“I’m not kidding about this. I don’t want you going out alone. I mean it.”

Deana sighed. “Is it all right if I wait for you out front?”

“Where out front?”

“On the driveway. I’ll just warm up while I wait.”

“Where on the driveway?”

“At the bottom.”

“All right. But keep your eyes open.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll be right out.”

Deana started away. Christ, Mom thinks the guy’s out there. Ready to pounce on me. Or run me down.

What if she’s right?

That is just what I need on top of everything, a good case of paranoia.

“I don’t want to frighten you,” Harrison had said. Mace. “You and the Powers boy might very well have been random victims. On the other hand, it’s possible that the assailant knew precisely who he was after. If he was after you, Deana, then he might make another attempt. You and your mother need to face that possibility and take precautions. Do you understand?”

“He wasn’t after me. I mean, it had to be random like you said.”

“Not necessarily.”

“I already told you, I haven’t dumped any boyfriends, I don’t have any enemies, I—”

“This could be a guy who spotted you at the supermarket and followed you home. It could be a guy who stopped beside you at a traffic light, or sat behind you one night at the movies. And seeing you triggered something. Maybe you wear your hair the same way as a girlfriend who jilted him. Maybe you’ve got his mother’s blue eyes, and she used to abuse him. It could be a hundred things. Do you understand? There’s a good chance it was random, but you have to act as if you were the intended target. At least until we nail this guy. I don’t want you to end up… hurt.”

He had sounded as if he really meant it, as if he cared. And somehow as if his lecture, though addressed to Deana, was actually spoken for Mom’s benefit. Something going on there. A subtle undercurrent.

It must have made an impression on Mom. Calling him Mace.

Deana opened the front door, pulled it shut behind her, and stepped over the San Francisco Sunday Examiner and Chronicle. She looked back at the paper. Part of her routine was to bring it down from the top of the driveway each morning when she finished her run. She always found it near the top of the driveway—sometimes hidden in the geraniums. This was strange. No matter how good his arm, the paper man couldn’t possibly have winged the Chronicle all the way to the front stoop. You can’t even see the stoop from the road. He had either driven or walked down the steep driveway to get it here. Really going for brownie points. Christmas is six months away. Maybe it’s somebody new.

Maybe he did it.

Deana felt a chill crawl up the back of her neck.

Paranoia must be contagious. Like the flu.

She scanned the ice-plant-covered slope across the yard, the hedge at the top, and the weed-choked stretch of hillside behind the Matson house. It all looked normal. The hedge up there was a bit too skimpy to conceal anyone.

At least this is taking your mind off Allan.

She walked past the kitchen windows and stopped on the broad, concrete apron in front of the garage.

The paper man got ambitious, that’s all.

One steep mother of a driveway. Narrow, too.

She shook her head.

The geraniums along the sides of the driveway were not skimpy.

Get off it.

Deana stepped closer to the garage. Facing the driveway, she took a deep breath. The morning air smelled sweet and clean. She did a few jumping jacks. When she started the toe-touching exercises, her rump brushed the garage door.

Thataway, back to the wall. Nobody’s gonna sneak up on you. No-sirree.

Chicken shit.

She took five steps forward—count ’em, five.

That’s better.

That wasn’t better. She felt exposed.

What’s keeping Mom?

You wanted to go running alone, remember?

She sat down. The concrete, still in shadow, was cold through her shorts and worse against the backs of her legs. She leaned forward, stretching, grabbing her shoes.

I would have been just fine except for Mom’s little talk. And she had to remind me of what Harrison said.

The way you wear your hair.

Bull.

She touched her forehead between her knees.

Saw a madman in a chef’s cap bounding down the driveway waving a meat cleaver, and looked up fast and saw no one.

Where’d you get this chef’s cap nonsense?

Oh yeah, the dream.

Lovely little dream—and all that weird shit the night before.

Legs spread wide, she leaned forward, touched her right hand to her left toe, left hand to right toe. The stretching muscles felt good.

She flinched at a sudden bumping sound, then realized it was only the front door shutting. Mom. That was pretty quick, actually. She got to her feet and hitched up the shorts that had been inching down her rump during the exercises.

“What took you so long?” Deana asked.

“Are you kidding? I’m still wet.”

Deana stared. Mom looked so normal. So good. As if this were just any other fabulous Marin County morning. Except for the blue ballcap covering her pinned-up hair, she was dressed in white —knit shirt, shorts, socks and shoes, all white. Which made her fair skin look almost bronze.

Deana had rarely seen her with her hair up.

“My gosh, Mom, you’ve got ears.”

“Anything wrong with them?”

“They’re rather large, is all.”

Mom grinned. “Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

Deana’s own smile slipped.

Sure have, Mom.

She remembered it well. A red-eyed girl clutching gym shorts.

“Not to change the subject or anything, I thought you promised to stay down here.”

“I did.”

Mom raised an eyebrow. Then she swept down from the waist, touched her toes, and made a quick catch as her ballcap dropped.

“Oh, you mean the newspaper.”

“That’s right, Watson. Here, hold this.”

Deana took the hat.