The Lake

In her mind, Leigh saw the gruesome pictures in Mace’s scrapbook. “Don’t, Mattie, please,” she whispered. “I don’t want to think about it…”

“Leigh. We gotta get to Deana. Fast.”

“Oh my God,” Leigh breathed, her eyes filling up. Her mind raced, considering the awful possibilities if Mace got there first. She felt trapped. Helpless. This was one helluva nightmare, all right.

If Deana was a target.

Maybe she wasn’t.

Maybe Tania’d show up.

Like that’s gonna happen…

Mattie changed gear, making a right into Del Mar. Driving up toward Leigh’s house, she wondered how she was going to deal with this one. They had no positive proof Mace was involved in murder. Without it, she knew the department would never believe her. So he saves gruesome pictures. Could be the scrapbook’s something he picked up someplace.

No accounting for taste.

She’d have it out with Mace… Oh yeah? She grimaced. She could see it now. Mace saying, “Gee, thanks, Mattie, that was some slug you threw back there… Guess I owe you one for that.”

For a moment, she saw herself lying at his feet, her lifeblood spilling out, soaking the carpet… Maybe dead.

Hell no. It wouldn’t be like that.

Mace was no killer. He had a temper and a weird taste in pictures, but they were buddies, weren’t they? They could always talk things through. She’d suggest he take time off, she’d cover for him… She’d wheedle the truth out of him. What he intended to do…

“Mattie.”

“Uh-huh?”

“Why d’you call people Charlie?”

Mattie gave a hoot of laughter. “Why do I call people Charlie, huh? I guess that holds a little resonance for you right now. Yes?”

“You could say that.”

“Well, it’s like this, Leigh. Remember little ol’ Yellow Bend? Like I told you, where I came from?”

Leigh nodded.

“S’far as I remember, seemed like everybody was called Charlie in that goddamn town. So, talk to a person whose name you didn’t know—I reckoned if you called ’em Charlie, you’d be right on the nose!”

“Makes sense. I think.”

“So you thought I knew about your Charlie, did ya?”

“It’s possible Mace could’ve told you!”

“Huh!” Mattie snorted. Then: “Okay, Charlie. You’re home.” Showing her even white teeth in a broad smile, she turned into the driveway. The battered Ford rumbled to a halt at the front stoop. Leigh got out of the car, closed the door, turned, and leaned in through the open window. Mattie liked the window open. Cleared out the fumes, she’d told her.

“Thanks a lot, Mattie. Looks like, between us, we brought matters to a head. Mace-wise that is. You gonna be okay?”

“Sure.” Mattie grinned. “Leave Mace to me, I can handle him. Just watch out for that daughter of yours.”

Leigh wondered if Mattie could handle Mace. After all, things had taken a turn for the worse—he could get nasty. She hesitated, then asked a question she’d thought about for a long time. “Mattie. Have you and Mace ever…”

“Nope.” Mattie smiled back. “Wasn’t that kinda relationship. Tried it on a coupla times, but he wasn’t having any. At the time, I guessed he must’ve been ‘funny’ that way. Y’know? As in gay? Turned out I was wrong. He fell for you all right, Leigh!”

“You think so?”

“I know so. ’Bye. Take extra care, you and Deana. I’ll keep you posted.”

It was late afternoon. Time for a shower, Leigh decided. Then I’ll prepare supper. Wonder what Deana had for lunch?

She eased the key into the lock. The door swung open.

“Deana,” she called.

No reply.

Her heart racing a little, Leigh bit her lip.

No worries, she thought.

Maybe Deana went over to Warren’s place.

FIFTY-ONE

The sun was going from the front of the house.

Fingers of shadow spread across the hallway.

Leigh held her breath; a twinge of dread plucked at her stomach.

She listened.

Heard a slight flutter…

Probably a bird outside…

Then:

Light footfalls scurried behind her.

A hand clawed out roughly, catching her hair, cupping her mouth.

Cutting off her cry of “HELPPP—”

Struggling wildly, she broke free. Twisting away, she swung around.

And gasped, her heart lurching, the color draining from her face. Her legs trembled.

She felt herself swaying.

It can’t be.

It was…

Nelson.

FIFTY-TWO

“I’d best be getting on home. Mom’ll be worried. I called to say I’d be back by ten.”

Warren glanced at his watch. Ten-fifteen.

“I’ll drive you,” he said, adding, “I’d be happier that way.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

They stepped into the darkness. It was cooler now. And quiet—except for the breeze stirring the leaves around them. Deana thought about the funeral car and shivered.

Inside the Porsche, she said, “Mom worries about me these days. Since… it all happened. I guess I should really be home, keeping her company.”

“Y’know, that’s what I love about you, Deana. You’re so nice to your mom.”

“Oh yeah? How about all that poetic stuff? Skin like milk, eyes like deep pools, etcetera, etcetera.”

“Oh, so you want Dark Lady of the Sonnets?”

“Mmmm, Shakespeare. Now you’re talking—although I’ll have you know, Warren Hastings,