Still Lake (7 page)

“Not the kind of fantasy world I'd choose,” he said. What the hell was he doing, standing there in the moonlight, talking to her? He had better things to do—Sophie Davis couldn't help him with his search for the truth. She hadn't even known of Colby, Vermont, twenty years ago. He needed to make his excuses, get the hell away from her. From inexplicable temptation.

“No, I like mine better.”

It was enough to stop his excuses. “Your fantasy world?”

She gestured toward the moonlit house. “Victorian values. Edwardian simplicity. Flower arranging and antique lace and wonderful food and everything just as it should be. I'm no fool, Mr. Smith. I know
perfectly well I create my reality to suit myself, and it has nothing to do with the way most people live. I just happen to prefer it.”

“Prefer living in a dream world?”

“Dreams are usually much better than the real world.”

The wind had come up, blowing the long, lacy nightgown against her body. A good body, nicely rounded, just a bit plump, he couldn't help but notice. An old-fashioned woman with hair that drifted away from her face in the soft breeze.

Not his type, he reminded himself. But for a brief, irresistible moment he wished she was. Wished he was the kind of man who could embrace this kind of life, instead of always living in the darkness. Wished he could simply climb up the steps to the wide front porch and pick her up in his arms, carry her to some fluffy, old-fashioned bed and strip that ridiculous nightgown from her lush body.

He wasn't about to do any such thing, and he dismissed the brief fantasy automatically. “Dreams turn into nightmares,” he said. “And they can't be shared.”

“You look like you know more about
having
nightmares than sharing them,” she said.

It was an odd conversation to be having with her, but she seemed unaware of it. A light in the house turned off, and he assumed Grace had finally gone back to bed. The bright half moon bathed the slop
ing lawn in silvery light. What would she do if he came closer? Would she turn and run?

Of course she would. And he wasn't about to move any closer, to put his hands on her skin and see if it was as soft and cool as he thought it would be. He wasn't going to see if she tasted of honey and fresh bread and wild clover. Even if he wanted to. He'd lost his innocence long, long ago and he'd never had a taste for it in bed. And as illogical as it was, he sensed that hardheaded Sophie Davis was, at heart, as innocent as a lamb.

He wasn't in the mood to play hungry wolf, no matter how tempting.

“I should let you get some sleep,” he said, turning to go.

“I can't.”

The quiet tone of desperation in her voice stopped him. He turned back. “Can't what?”

“Can't sleep,” she said with a rueful shrug. “For some reason I can't sleep. Too worried, I guess. I've just been lying in bed, tossing and turning.”

Innocent, indeed. In another woman, in Annelise, for example, that would have been a come-on, pure and simple.
Sure, darling, I'll take care of you, wear you out so you can fall asleep. You just need a good man and a good fuck
.

“They say worry is a waste of the imagination.”
Go away
, he told himself.
Don't stand here talking in the moonlight
.

“Then I've definitely got too strong an imagination. Do you want a cup of coffee or something?”

He closed his eyes in exasperation for a moment. Maybe he was wrong, maybe he'd misread her, let that virginal nightgown convince him she was something she wasn't. And maybe he wasn't interested in fighting temptation, after all.

“If you drink coffee at this hour it's no wonder you can't sleep,” he said. “Or was that your subtle way of asking me to go to bed with you?”

Victorian virgin, all right. She reacted as if he'd slapped her, with shock and outrage. “You really do have delusions, don't you, Mr. Smith?” she said, her voice icy. “I'm not interested in sex.” The moment the words were out of her mouth she stumbled. “Not with you, I mean. Someone else, maybe, at another time. I'm perfectly healthy, but I'm not the slightest bit interested…”

“Don't tie yourself in knots, Sophie. I figured as much, but by the way you were acting I thought I might have been mistaken. Let me give you a little hint. Don't stand on the porch in the middle of the night wearing only your nightgown, especially when the light behind makes the damned thing just about transparent, and don't invite strange men in for coffee at two in the morning unless you're wanting something else. People might get the wrong idea.”

Her mouth opened to say something, but she bit
the words back. Nice mouth, he realized with belated regret. Very nice mouth, indeed.

“Go ahead and say it, Sophie,” he said. “You know you want to, and you're not going to shock me.”

“Fuck you.” No hesitation this time. She was furious, and he told himself he should be sorry he'd goaded her. He knew he wasn't.

“I'll come back when you mean it,” he said. If he'd been closer he would have kissed her, just to see how she reacted. Just to taste her mouth.

But she was too far away, up on the porch, and by the time he reached her she would have locked herself back in her inn, well out of reach, and he'd feel frustrated and foolish.

He hadn't come here to waste his time with an uptight Victorian throwback. So he simply turned and walked back toward the lake path, half expecting her to hurl something at his departing head.

All he heard was the slam of the door behind him. And he had no choice but to admit he was damned sorry he wasn't on the other side of that door, drinking her coffee, drinking her mouth.

 

He gathered his tools with the care and deliberation of a master craftsman. He prided himself on his work, and on the variety of his approach. It was part of his divine mission, given to him as a way to finish his task in this world of sin and grievous sexuality.
He never killed the same way twice, and there were infinite ways to snuff out an undeserving life.

He had stabbed, slashed, garroted. Poisoned, beaten with his fists, hanged and drowned. Never the same, and the police had no way to track him down. The corrupt officials of the law had no idea how many women had died by his hand, their lives of filth and wickedness wiped out before they could ensnare another innocent.

He was running out of ideas, and he was a man who didn't like to repeat himself. He'd thought he had finished with his quest, until the newcomers arrived at the old inn. And he knew he had one more task.

Flames, he thought. A purifying fire to cleanse the body, the soul and the spirit. The old Niles place would go up like tinder, and by the time the volunteer fire departments arrived from the neighboring towns it would be too late. No one would ever know it wasn't the result of an old firetrap and an accidental cigarette from that young harlot. And if others died in the conflagration—well, there were always casualties in a holy war.

He'd pray for their souls.

M
arty opened her eyes to the glaring sunlight, cursing. It was well before noon, and outside her open window the sun was hideously bright, enough to give her a headache. A great, growling noise had shaken her awake, the insistent buzz like some giant dentist's drill, and she fumbled on the bedside table for her pack of cigarettes. Sophie had forbidden her to smoke in the inn, so Marty did her best to do so every chance she got. She encountered only an empty, crumpled package.

She shoved the covers away and stepped out onto the shiny wood floor. Everything was its usual blur—she pulled her glasses from the drawer and planted them on her nose, breathing an unexpected sigh of relief when the room came into focus. If Sophie would only let her have laser surgery to correct her eyes then she wouldn't have to bother with her damned contacts. At least extended wear would have been an improvement, but she'd never been able to get used to them, so each morning she had to wear glasses until she was ready to emerge from
her room. There was no way she was letting anyone see her without her contacts.

The horrible buzzing noise grew even louder, and she headed straight for the windows overlooking the side lawn. She grabbed the window frame, ready to slam it down to shut out the noise, when she saw the young man.

He was stripped to the waist, wielding a chain saw with deliberate power. For a moment she stared at him, mesmerized by the play of muscles beneath his tanned skin, the controlled strength of his movements, and she couldn't breathe.

He must have felt her watching him. He looked up, but she couldn't see his face beneath the shadow of the protective helmet he wore. She only knew he was looking straight at her as she stood in the window, dressed in nothing more than a baggy T-shirt, her hair sticking up, her glasses perched on her nose.

She jumped back, away from the window, just as the roar of the chain saw sputtered to a stop. There was no way she would edge back up to that window. For one thing, she wasn't going to risk having anyone see her in her glasses, and if she took them off she wouldn't be able to see a damned thing.

Where the hell was the plain, gawky boy who usually did the mowing and the gardening? He'd been of no interest whatsoever, and she'd decided she was doomed to an empty summer. Doubtlessly one reason Sophie had dragged her up here was the
complete and total lack of good-looking boys. It wasn't as if she was a sex fiend or anything. She just liked boys. A lot.

Things were definitely beginning to look up, judging by the muscular torso of the man outside. If only his face matched the body. She had friends who would have told her it didn't matter, but she hadn't gotten quite so jaded that she didn't appreciate a pretty face. But she was working on it.

There were times when it seemed like Sophie had hired the most homely people in northern Vermont to renovate the old inn. This was the first decent possibility she'd seen in months, and she wasn't about to let him get away until she got a good look at his face. Maybe he had cigarettes. Otherwise she was going to have a hell of a time getting new ones—Audley's was very strict about selling to minors, and she hadn't yet found someone to buy for her on a regular basis. People were so judgmental up here. It wasn't as if they all hadn't smoked when they were younger. Even her paragon of a sister.

Still, things were looking up. She passed Sophie in the hall on her way to the shower, and for once she didn't growl when her sister wished her a good morning. Maybe, just maybe, Colby, Vermont, wouldn't be so bad, after all. Maybe she wouldn't need to run away.

 

Sophie opened the door as quietly as she could. Gracey lay sound asleep, tangled in her soft covers,
her face oddly youthful in repose. It was no wonder—after her late-night excursion she must be exhausted.

What in God's name had sent her to the old Whitten house? She'd never shown any interest in it before now. She'd shown no sign of wandering in the past—it was all Doc could do to tempt her to have dinner with him and his wife in their little village home. Normally she kept to her room or the front porch, staring vacantly, humming beneath her breath.

It would be an absolute disaster if her mother started taking off. The money was so tight that Sophie didn't know where she could find enough to pay for a baby-sitter, and she couldn't add anything to her already overwhelming responsibilities. She could ask Marty, but chances were Marty would agree sullenly and then forget all about it. And Sophie couldn't bear the thought of her mother getting lost in the woods that circled the pristine lake.

Gracey was snoring softly—more like a faint purring sound than an all-out snore. There were books piled beneath her bed, and one lay open on the plain white coverlet. Sophie didn't have to look closer to know it was one of those lurid true-crime books—the blurry photograph on the cover was unmistakable in the genre. She supposed she should be glad. It was the first time in months that Gracey had
shown interest in anything at all. Even the gloomy and macabre were preferable to the dazed dreamworld she was floating in.

She'd have to tell Doc. He'd be very pleased—he was always telling her that Gracey needed to find new interests. In this case she was simply returning to her old ones, but at least she was reading, using her mind for something other than staring vacantly at the cool, clear lake.

Gracey stirred again, muttering something in her sleep, and Sophie turned and closed the door behind her, careful not to make any noise. At least while she slept Grace would be safe. But after last night's wandering, she doubted she herself would ever get a good night's sleep again.

She took her mug of coffee out onto the front porch, propping her skirted legs up on the railing as she looked out over the lake. There were early morning fishermen, and over near the Whitten place some wild ducks swam peacefully. No sound of the loons yet, and no sound of motorboats and jet skis. For now all was peaceful and quiet, just the birds and the fishermen and the occasional kayaker slicing through the stillness of the lake. Gracey was safe in bed, and even Marty had been marginally pleasant this morning, a welcome change. For now she could just drink in the peace and quiet, safe and serene.

She closed her eyes, letting the scent and sounds
wash over her. Then her eyes shot open again, as she realized what book Gracey had been reading.

Murder in the Northeast Kingdom
. A lurid, sensationalized account of the Colby murders by a famous true-crime writer. Sophie hadn't bothered to read it herself—Doc and the others in town held it in contempt as a lurid, inaccurate piece of trash. Obviously Gracey didn't have any such compunctions.

Odd, though. When Gracey's mind had begun to slip, soon after they moved to Colby, Sophie had gone into her room and taken the book out of her huge stack of paperbacks, planning to read it until Doc told her not to bother. Anything she wanted to know, he'd tell her, he'd said. Without the melodrama and emotion and the purple prose. So Sophie had dumped the book in the trash, and presumably it had been incinerated with all the other garbage.

So what was a copy doing back in Gracey's possession? How could she possibly have gotten it, when nowadays she was only just capable of seeing to her own physical needs and not much more?

She should set down her coffee and sneak back into Gracey's room to get the book. Her mother would never miss it—she probably didn't even realize it took place in the same town, some of it in the same house. Or if she did, it was only on some subconscious level.

Maybe the so-called Mr. Smith had given it to her. She still couldn't rid herself of the firm belief
that he was something other than what he said he was. No tourist immured himself in a falling-down house in the middle of nowhere, no matter how beautiful it was. Colby and Still Lake were well-kept secrets, and almost everyone who ended up here could trace their arrival to a long-time resident. Mr. Smith had appeared out of nowhere, and she didn't trust him.

She was still stuck on the idea of him being a reporter, someone doing an update on the unsolved Colby murders. He was probably asking Gracey all sorts of questions, confusing her even more than she already was, sending her scurrying back to her dreamworld of serial killers and innocent victims.

Sophie was going to have to have a word with him. Order him to leave her mother the hell alone. Gracey had enough problems without having some blood-sucking journalist confusing her even further.

She'd make cookies, that's what she'd do. Three-ginger cookies, and take them down to her reluctant neighbor. They could sit on his decrepit porch and she'd tell him, very politely, to keep away from her vulnerable mother. And at the same time, maybe she could find out for sure who he was and what the hell he was doing there.

For heaven's sake, it wasn't as if she was truly scared of the man. She didn't let people intimidate her, and if Mr. Tall Dark and Brooding wanted to
be standoffish, that was just fine with her. As long as he left her family alone, they'd get along just fine.

No, she'd face him, whether she wanted to or not, whether he frightened her or not. For some reason the notion was bizarrely irresistible, and she didn't want to stop and consider why. To think about why the necessity of bearding the lion in his den was so appealing. Unless, at the advanced age of thirty, she'd developed a taste for lions.

 

Vermonters woke too damned early, and they started work at an obscene time of day. Griffin hadn't slept well—for some reason he kept thinking about Sophie Davis's bare feet beneath that silly nightgown. He'd drifted off sometime around dawn, and it was only a couple of hours later that the barely muffled sound of the chain saw rasped through his sleep.

He put one of the limp feather pillows over his head and groaned. He could have closed the window, but that would have meant getting up, and if he got up he might as well stay up. So he shut his eyes and his mind and willed himself back to sleep.

Only to be jarred awake by the thunderous pounding on the front door below his bedroom. He cursed, loudly, distinctly, and hauled his ass out of bed. He ignored the fact that that peremptory pounding sounded like the police. He had nothing to fear from the police, hadn't in years. He was a lawyer, for
Christ's sake, and unlike Annelise he didn't even skirt the limits of the law. It was his own special challenge to get what he wanted within the confines of the system that had put him in a maximum-security prison for five years for a crime he didn't commit.

By the time he stumbled down the stairs he half expected to see old Zeke waiting there to arrest him. Behind the grimy lace curtains he could see several people standing on the porch, and he yanked the door open with a snarl.

For a moment he thought they were some kind of religious fanatics on a door-to-door mission for Christ. The tall man at the front of the delegation looked like Abraham Lincoln without a sense of humor—a long, narrow, disapproving face framed with a gray beard; beady, disapproving dark eyes; a thin, cold mouth; and an expression of deep wariness on his leathery face. He looked like something out of a Stephen King novel, and if he was going to talk about being saved then Griffin was going to be very pissed off, indeed.

“You Mr. Smith?” The question was terse, couched in the kind of thick Vermont accent that was rarely heard outside the Northeast Kingdom.

“Yeah. Who wants to know?” He could be just as surly as his unwanted visitor. He could see a small elderly woman standing just behind the man, but neither of them were carrying a Bible, so maybe
he was jumping to the wrong conclusion. Someone else hovered behind them, just off the porch.

“Zebulon King,” he said. “That's my wife and my boy. Marge Averill sent us out to work on the place. Seems you had some complaints.”

Shit. He wasn't sure anymore if he wanted locals prowling around his domain. And then something clicked in his brain—Zeb King was the father of one of the murdered girls. He'd testified at his trial some twenty years ago, all hearsay evidence that had been struck from the record but had done its share of damage, nonetheless. He remembered the man's daughter, as well. Valette King had rebelled against her parents' strict religious upbringing and slept with anything in pants. He'd spent a couple of nights with her, but she'd been too voracious even for his strong appetites, and he'd hooked up with the more pliant Lorelei. Valette hadn't liked it, not one tiny bit, and even her father had known there was bad blood between them. And so he'd testified at the trial.

It was twenty years ago, and Griffin hadn't even recognized the man. He was in his sixties now, with that leathery, ageless look that came from working long, hard hours in the sun, buoyed by an unswerving, rigid faith in right and wrong. There was no way Zeb King could recognize him. But he still hesitated.

“You gonna let us get to work?” King said, im
patient. “We waited till a decent hour to come over here, but time's awasting.”

Griffin glanced at his watch. He'd traded his Rolex for a cheap Timex as part of his cover. Zebulon King considered eight o'clock in the morning a decent hour.

Griffin unlatched the screen door and pushed it open. If he had any sense he would have sent them away, but the opportunity was too good to miss. Two people intimately connected with the murders had shown up on his doorstep, the only surviving relatives still in Colby. How could he refuse such an offering from the gods?