The Lake

“Shit!” the hag shrieked. “Now look what you’ve done! Harry! Harry! Come to Mommy…Haaarrryyy!”

A small white head with pointed ears appeared at the driveway opening.

Harry.

Thank God.

Deana, not believing what she was doing, called out, “Come on, Harry…Come here, there’s a good dog!”

The tiny head darted back, then disappeared into the shadows again.

“Fuck!” The crone stepped forward, her fierce, raddled face glowering at Deana. She raised a skinny, clawed hand and whacked it across Deana’s cheek.

“Ouuchh—you bitch!”

Deana’s neck twisted up and sideways. The crack was like gunfire inside her head. Staggering back, she clamped a hand to her face.

Damn!

The punch had landed exactly where Nelson slugged her three days ago. Pain shot through her jaw again.

“Fuckin’ bastard sonofabitch,” she cursed through clenched teeth.

Let her find her own fuckin’ dog.

Huh. Harry—what kind of a name was that for a dog anyhow?

Head down, still nursing her cheek, she hurried past the old woman. Breaking into a run, she slammed smack into someone else hurrying toward her.

Dazed by the impact, Deana shook her head. She heard excited barks. Then loud wuffing noises, echoing up and down the street.

Sabre.

Thank God.

She didn’t think she’d ever be this grateful to hear a barking dog.

“What the…” Warren held on to her, tight. “It’s the midnight runner, if I’m not mistaken. What brings you out here again?”

“Warren. Am I glad to see you—” Deana broke off with a grim laugh. “My God. What an experience. I can’t believe it!”

They fell quiet for a moment, listening to the hag’s shrill voice, still calling: “Harrryyyy. Come to Mommy, darling…!”

Deana looked at Warren. Their eyes met and they grinned at each other. It was a nice, friendly moment.

Then, with a yelp of pain, Deana clamped a hand to her jaw.

Warren frowned. “You all right?” he asked. “I could drive you to an emergency room. There’s one a coupla miles from here…”

Deana shook her head.

“No? Okay. Then sit here on the wall awhile. Get your breath back.” He led her to a low brick wall. She lowered herself down, carefully, and leaned back into the bushes.

“It’s great to see you, Warren. And the mutt. Believe me—things got a bit nightmarish back there for a while.”

A large wet nose examined her knees with loud snuffling sounds. Deana smiled. Pushing the dog away, Warren said, “Sabre. Sit. Sit, boy!”

Sabre sat.

Warren dropped down by Deana’s side, wrapped an arm around her, and pulled her gently to him. Feeling safe and comfortable, she sighed and snugged into the crook of his shoulder.

Sabre squatted, bright-eyed, watching. Steamy breath plumed from his mouth like puffs of gray smoke.

“How about that cocoa?” Warren said at last.

“Sounds like a swell idea.”

“Sure? What if I’m a mad rapist?”

She drew back and faced him. “I’ll take my chances that you’re not.”

“Good. Nice to know I can be trusted.”

“Didn’t say that. Just meant that I’m willing to take my chances. Personally, I don’t think you are. Anyway, even if you were, I can look after myself.”

“Yep, I guess you could. You sure look like you’d hold your own in an emergency.”

Is he joking, or what?

Maybe not.

Anyway—now’s a good time to ask about Mom’s knife…

And try out his cocoa.

“Follow me,” he said.

Deana tagged behind, while Warren led the way up the driveway. She smiled. It had been his wall they’d been sitting on. And, like he said, there were two redwoods in front.

Sabre trotted by Warren’s side.

Without quite knowing why, Deana glanced back, through a gap in the redwoods. She could just about see the street.

A car was nosing its way past the driveway.

She caught her breath.

It was long and black, with tail fins. No lights.

The glare from the streetlight hit the windows. They were black, too.

She shuddered.

It’s going real slow…like a funeral car.

The car passed out of sight, and she hurried to catch up with Warren.

Warren was at the front stoop, reaching into his pocket. Bringing out a key, he slid it into the lock.

The door opened in on a dark hallway.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Here we go, Deana thought.

Straight into the lion’s den.

The vestibule had a warm smell. A faint aroma of food hung on the air.

Pot roast—last night’s dinner, she guessed.

Warren took her arm, leading her along the hall and through an entryway at the end.

He clicked on the light. It flooded a small compact area that obviously served as both kitchen and breakfast bar.

He gestured toward a pinewood chair. She sat down and scooted it along the tile floor to the table. It made a loud scraping noise. She wondered if she’d disturbed anyone.

Warren took a stool at the bar. Looking at her quizzically, he made the first move.