The Lake

Done with that, Mace straightened his back. A wide beam lit his face. “Y’take a good photo, sugar, I’ll say that for ya. Your mom’s gonna be real pleased to see these.”

“Where d’you get off, Mace? If y’think Mom’s gonna break down before your eyes, you better think again, shit-face. She’s one tough lady, and don’t you forget it.”

“Mmm-huh. Know what? Y’could be right, honey. But let me tell you one thing…You’re bad blood. Y’know that? Only one thing to do with bad blood, an’ that’s git rid of it.” He dropped the Nikon into the holdall and zippered it shut.

Deana shuddered. The bread stuck in her gullet. She began to choke again.

Careful, now. Don’t rile him any more…

“Yeah, you’re bad blood, sweetheart,” he went on in a calm, conversational tone. “Pa wanted you dead, Mom saved you and then hacked him, killed him, for doin’ what he knew was right. After that, y’could say most of us Paynes came to a bad end. Pa murdered. Me farmed out to those good, God-fearin’ folk in Duluth…Charlie dead after fornicatin’ with that whorin’ slut. An’ you…” His eyes accused her. His face was a dark, wild mask. Spittle hung from the side of his mouth.

Terrified, still coughing, Deana edged back into her corner.

Change the subject. Attract his attention. Anything—just make him stop this crazy goddamn crap…It’s driving me nuts…

“Mace. I want some water, please. I need water.” She coughed some more.

“Water? WATER? I ain’t got no water.” Mace shook his head, trying to clear it, shut out the memory of his mother’s face, the superstitious fears…The dark, desperate feelings of anger.

He’d avenge Pa’s murder, all right.

Rid his soul of Tania.

He glared at Deana. His eyes taking in her long dark hair. Her white shoulders. Remembering how she’d looked half-naked, that day in her room. How her breasts heaved and wrestled, tumbling out of that too-tight bra of hers.

Tania…

Taunting him.

Laughing at him.

Bawling at him to go away.

You BASTARD, she’d screamed.

Yeah. Tania has ta go…She brought a curse on us Paynes…Pa shoulda killed her right at the start…

“Mace…What’re you gonna do?”

Stupid damnfool question, but she had to keep him talking. Keep his mind on the straight and narrow. Keep it from wandering. She’d seen this film—what was it called? She couldn’t remember now, but the girl in it kept talking to this crazy guy, to stop him from throwing her over the cliff. She’d talked and talked till the cops came an’ took the crazy guy away.

In her mind, she pictured this happening to her.

Mace’d have his hands around her throat, squeezing the life outta her…Then she’d start talking. Maybe arguing. For hours on end. Mace’d give up, go away, an’ then Warren an’ Mattie and a gang of cops’d show up and take her home…

As if…

Her blood ran cold.

“Do?” Mace asked, surprised. “Why, go a-callin’ on that whorin’ slut, sugar. After I’ve rid me of sister Tania…”

Reaching down into the holdall, he drew out a hunting knife.

Drawing it from its sheath, he held it up to the window. Then, smiling softly, he wiped it on the seat of his pants.

SIXTY-FOUR

Saturday, August 14

The girl up ahead caught his eye.

She was stacked—tall, athletic-looking, with long dark hair caught up in bunches. The bunches bounced jauntily against her candy-pink sweatshirt. A tennis racquet swung in her hands. He eyed her long, shapely legs swinging down the sidewalk.

Her feet, in white socks and sneakers, almost danced in her hurry.

A glimpse of tight white shorts peeking out from beneath the sweatshirt got him going. He felt himself rise, go hard.

“All right,” he murmured to himself, a loose smile playing around his lips. “The kid’s a honey; a real live dancin’ queen. Most likely gaggin’ for it, too.”

Already wreckin’ lives, spreading her filthy evil all over town…

His gaze fixed on the swinging bunches. Long and black, they curled a little at the ends.

Thinking ahead to her tennis date, smiling to herself a little, the girl didn’t see the black Tornado cruise by, nor the driver slouched in the dark interior, wearing reflective shades, his left arm hanging out the window.

The car slid to a halt some twenty yards ahead of the girl. Through his rearview mirror, the man watched her swing toward him.

Drawing level with the parked car, she looked in the open passenger-side window. Saw the man at the wheel. Wearing a black leather biker jacket and one of those funky sports wristwatches that did everything ’cept play “The Stars and Stripes.”

He was chewing, his jaw working around with a steady, rhythmic movement.