Still Lake (23 page)

“That's the least of my worries right now,” Grace said with ghoulish complacency. “She'll forgive me.”

“I just hope she gets the chance,” Marty said gloomily.

“She will, love. She will.”

 

Griffin didn't sleep. The moon scudded behind the clouds, spreading a shadow over the clearing, and he felt a sudden chill. The evening had grown cooler, and in a few minutes he'd be freezing his ass off. As would Sophie, since her delectable ass was still pointing upward as she sprawled across his body.

He wasn't about to move her, wake her up. Her
skin was cooling, but she seemed so peaceful that he didn't want anything to change that. And then she sneezed, twice, lifting her head to stare at him.

“Something bit my butt,” she said.

“It wasn't me. Not that I wouldn't be more than happy to, but you've been lying on top of me….” Before he could finish his sentence she'd rolled off him, scampering off the picnic table too fast for him to stop her. He could have kicked himself.

“Where are my clothes?” she asked in a worried voice, not looking at him now, intent on searching the night-shrouded clearing.

Damned shame about the moon, he thought, sitting up. He could still see her fairly clearly in the night—her pale skin and lush curves moved through the shadows with hurried grace. He reached behind him for the scattered clothing, tossing the petticoat in her direction.

“Here you go,” he said amiably.

She pulled it on, and she looked quite fetching bare-breasted, barefooted in a white lacy petticoat. He really hated giving up the bra, but she was holding out her hand, so he handed the rest of her clothes over to her, with the exception of the skimpy panties. He saw his jeans come flying at him, and he caught them before they hit him in the face. He'd had every intention of walking back to the house bare-assed, but Sophie clearly had other ideas, and he climbed off the table and pulled them on. As he
moved, the unused condom fell on the ground, and he just barely stifled a groan.

“What's wrong?” she said sharply.

“Nothing. Where do you think you're going?” It was a simple-enough question.

“Back home, of course. I need to check on my mother.”

“Your sister can look after your mother. We haven't finished.”

“We haven't?” she said, momentarily distracted. “What else were we going to do?”

“Well, I thought we could try it standing up….”

“I didn't mean that,” she said hastily. “Besides, we don't need to do it tonight.”

“I do,” he said. “Your mother's sound asleep, Sophie. Wouldn't you like to do it in a bed for a change? Mattresses have a number of advantages, not the least of which is it's easier on the knees. Yours and mine.”

He didn't need the moonlight to know she was blushing. “Come on, Sophie,” he said softly. “You know you want to.”

She was wavering, he knew it. He'd managed to turn a prim-and-proper spinster into a healthy animal almost as hungry as he was. He wanted her in his bed, now.

“I can't,” she said. “My mother had a bad spell tonight, and Doc's watching her. I have to make sure Marty's home and that Grace is sleeping. And Doc
should be able to go home and take care of Rima, and…”

“Go check on them and come back to me. They'll be fine. And when you do, find something slinky to wear,” he said wickedly. “It's a crime to keep covering yourself up in those stupid ruffles.”

“I like ruffles.”

“You're crazy,” he said flatly.

“Actually, it's my mother who really went crazy tonight, accusing people of murder, saying that the flowers were talking to her.”

A sudden chill settled over him that had nothing to do with the dropping temperature. “Flowers?”

“Doc brought me some pretty yellow flowers, and Grace started insisting that the flowers were talking to her, telling her he was a murderer. Sweet old Doc, who wouldn't hurt a flea.”

“Sweet old Doc,” Griffin echoed in a hollow voice.

“I really have to check on her,” Sophie said. “But I'll come back.”

“Sure,” Griffin said absently, his brain working feverishly. Pretty yellow flowers, in Sophie's kitchen, on the graves of the women who'd died. Pretty yellow flowers talking to crazy old women, telling them who killed.

He didn't even notice when she left. He was trying to remember something, and it kept eluding him. He couldn't even begin to guess what it was, he only
knew it was important. A matter of life and death. And if he didn't capture that long-lost memory then disaster would flow down over all of them. One more time.

He looked up and realized Sophie was gone. She was going to be pissed, he thought. She wouldn't like the fact that he'd gone off into some kind of trance, ignoring her. He wouldn't be surprised if she went home, locked the doors to keep him out and went straight to bed, furious with him.

He'd learned more than prelaw in prison. He'd learned how to hot-wire cars and jimmy most locks. As soon as he figured out what was preying on his mind he'd pay Miss Sophie Davis a little moonlight visit. Her bed was as good as his for what he had in mind, though she was going to have to be a little quieter when he made her come. Which he intended to do, any number of times.

He headed back to the cottage, making his way through the dark woods unerringly. He hoped Sophie hadn't gotten lost again, but he imagined he'd hear her if she did. She was about as delicate as a stampeding elephant.

He chuckled to himself. She wouldn't like that comparison. She didn't seem to have the faintest idea how completely gorgeous she was. It was a crime to hide a body as fine as hers in all those layers. Though he had to admit it kept other men
away, making her nicely vulnerable when he showed up.

He'd give her half an hour, and then he was going after her. He took a fast shower, threw on a clean pair of jeans and an old flannel shirt, this time pocketing half a dozen condoms. Nothing like locking the barn door after the horse was stolen, but with any luck they were still safe.

And if they weren't? He wasn't going to go there, not now. He couldn't even begin to think about what his reaction might be, and besides, he had other things occupying his mind, like talking flowers and Doc, and…

It hit him so fast he almost fell over. A shock of memory so intense, so unexpected, that he felt dizzy. He stumbled into a chair by the empty fireplace, staring sightlessly into the ashes.

Lorelei had flowers in her hair. Yellow flowers, that he'd never seen before, and when he'd questioned her, full of adolescent jealousy, she'd laughed and told him she'd gotten them from a gentleman admirer.

Things had gone from bad to worse then. He'd been angry, shouted at her, and she'd shouted back. She'd always had a fondness for rough sex, and that night had been no different, tinged with the knowledge that he was leaving her, getting the hell out of Colby with the morning sun.

She'd scratched him, as she liked to do. They'd
found traces of his skin under her fingernails, even though she'd been in the lake for hours when he'd found her. The yellow flowers had still been tangled in her hair. Her blood-soaked body covered with flowers in the toolshed as he held her and cried. And Doc watched.

He dove for the telephone, panic rushing through him. She said Doc had brought the flowers. Doc, who'd been around from the beginning, who testified against him, who knew everyone and their secrets. Doc with the yellow flowers and the gentle smile. And the murderous hands.

He dialed the old-fashioned phone, thanking God that he'd remembered to scrawl the number of the inn on the old green blotter. The telephone rang on the other end, an odd, hollow ring, and a moment later it clicked.

“Sophie, you've got to…” He didn't get any further, as a recorded voice droned on.

“We're sorry, the number you dialed is out of order. Please try again later.”

Griffin stared at the phone in horror. And then he dropped the receiver and ran.

S
ophie stormed up the hill to the inn, ignoring the pain in her side, the stickiness between her legs, the fury in her heart. How dare that son of a bitch simply forget she was there? How dare he do…what he did and then ignore her? She was going to kill him, it was that simple. Find a gun and shoot him.

Or at least she really really wanted to. She hadn't smacked anyone since John McKinney annoyed her in the fourth grade, but there was murder in her heart, even if it was never going to move past the point of fond desire.

The house was dark, only a faint light on in the kitchen. She wasn't wearing her watch, and she had no idea of how long she'd been out there in the woods with Thomas Griffin. Griffin with the snake tattooed on his hip. Griffin the convicted killer, who hadn't killed anyone.

Doc's car was nowhere to be seen. Marty must have come home a while ago. Doc would have headed home to take care of Rima, and Gracey would be sleeping her drugged, peaceful sleep.

Everything was fine, she told herself as she
climbed the steps to the porch. She'd just check on Grace, make sure she was sleeping peacefully, and then she'd take a shower and go to bed. And plan revenge on that lying, insensitive prick that she'd fallen in love with.

The moment the thought danced in her mind she kicked it out, angrily. If that was love she didn't want anything to do with it. It was nothing more than healthy, normal sex, it meant absolutely nothing, and she was out of her mind if she was going to start making up romantic fantasies about living happily ever after with such a lying, cantankerous pig no matter how tied to him she felt. She was much better off fantasizing about killing him. What's another murder or two in Colby, she thought, reaching for the kitchen door. It wasn't as if they hadn't had them before. Maybe the talking flowers would do it for her.

She pushed open the door and flicked on the light, then stopped. Doc was standing there, covered in dust and cobwebs, looking distraught.

“It's Grace,” he cried. “She's disappeared. I don't know how she managed it, but I think she got into the old hospital wing. I've been searching for her, but there's no light, and she might even be hiding. She seems to think I mean her harm.”

Panic raced through her, putting her fond thought of revenge on a back burner. “Where's Marty? She could help us look…”

“She's not back from her date.”

“Goddamn her!” Sophie exploded. Doc winced, and she knew she should apologize for her language, but somehow she didn't have it in her. “Have you called for help?”

He nodded. “The police are coming out to help us look. They're over in Hampstead, though, and it may take them a while to get here. I'm going back in there and see if I have any more luck.”

“I'll come with you,” she said.

“Like that?” Doc was glancing at her bare feet and bedraggled gypsy appearance.

“I don't think my mother will care what I look like,” Sophie said sharply, then immediately regretted it. She had no business snapping at Doc.

“I mean your bare feet. There's a lot of broken glass, boards with nails littering the place. You'd better get some shoes on.” He didn't sound the slightest bit offended, and she took a deep breath. That's what she needed in the midst of this crisis. Calm, sensible Doc.

“Okay,” she said. “I'll be right with you.”

She stuck her feet in the barn boots she kept by the kitchen door, then headed for the front parlor. “I'll be there in a minute,” she called. “I'm just looking for a flashlight.”

“Hurry,” Doc called urgently, his soft voice deep with worry.

She shouldn't have done it. She was furious with
Griffin, she didn't need his help. But her poor, lost mother did. She picked up the extension and started to dial.

There was no dial tone. She looked down to the baseboard, wondering if it had somehow gotten unplugged. The cord dangled loose, the plastic end crushed.

“Hurry,” Doc called again, beginning to sound impatient.

Her yellow flowers were sitting in a bowl on the table when she walked back into the kitchen, the huge, industrial-strength flashlight in her hand. It weighed a ton, and the light it shone was a beacon. The door to the abandoned wing stood open, the door she'd personally nailed closed. Grace wouldn't have been able to open it by herself—it had taken all Sophie's strength to seal it.

She glanced at Doc's sweet, concerned face. She knew where she'd seen those flowers before. And they had to have come from Doc, on the grave of each murdered woman. On her grave, as well, if she let it happen.

She wanted to run. She had a fighting chance—she was closer to the door than he was, and she was faster. She might even be stronger, though she doubted it. Doc was in excellent shape for a man of his age, and he could probably stop her before she could even scream.

She looked at Doc standing patiently in the open
doorway. If she ran, who would save Grace? And Marty? Doc had lied to her about the telephone, lied to her about Grace. He had probably lied to her about Marty, too. And she simply couldn't run off and save herself at the price of her mother and sister.

“Where do you think she is?” Sophie asked calmly, stepping toward him.

“I've checked everywhere but the old kitchen. She might be down there.”

That made sense. The kitchen was deep in the belly of the old building. No one would find them if they came looking, no one would hear her scream. She stepped through into the darkness and smelled the sharp, acrid scent of gasoline. And she knew what Doc had in mind.

“Maybe we should go for help,” she said, pulling back. “It's awfully dark in here.”

He clamped a hand around her elbow, and it was like an iron manacle. He was definitely stronger than she was, Sophie thought. And she was in deep shit.

“We'll find them, Sophie,” he said earnestly. “I promise you.”

He didn't realize he'd said “them” instead of “her,” Sophie thought, letting him pull her along through the rubble. The dust rose around them, eerie in the bright light of the flashlight. She could see a faint glow ahead of her, and the stench of gasoline had grown even stronger.

“What's that light down there?” she asked, stum
bling a bit as she tried to keep up with him. Not that she had any choice.

“I left a few candles burning to help us look,” he said easily. “I know it's a fire hazard, but I thought it was worth risking. We don't want anything to happen to dear Grace.”

“No, we wouldn't want that.” She tried to slow him down. “Shouldn't we check the second floor? There are lots of places to hide up there.”

Doc gave her a tug. “I already searched. She's not there, I promise you. Come along, Sophie. We'd better hurry.”

And she had no choice but to follow him, down the narrow stairs to the basement kitchen, trying to keep the heavy flashlight from shaking. Her mother was down there, probably her sister, as well, and if she didn't go, he'd simply kill them, anyway, either before or after he killed her. Her only chance was to go along with him and try to take him off guard. Running would only ensure that someone would die.

“Coming,” she said, gripping the flashlight tightly in one hand.

 

The basement kitchen looked grim and eerie, like some kind of pagan altar. No, not pagan. There was a tarnished silver crucifix on the old cast-iron stove. Grace and Marty were nowhere in sight, but the door to the walk-in cooler was tightly shut, when Sophie had carefully left it propped open. They had to be
in there. The question was, were they already dead? Could they even breathe in that closed interior? Was she too late?

And then she heard it. The sinister crackle of flames, licking through the dry timber overhead. The smoke was rising, sucking the air from the cellar with it. Doc must have started it as he followed her down the narrow stairs, and Sophie turned to look at him in sudden panic.

“It's all right,” he said in his soothing voice. “It will all be over quickly. Sin must be punished, so that you may find eternal life. Any pain or torment will simply bring you closer to heaven.”

“Where are Grace and Marty, Doc?” She didn't know how she managed to keep her voice so calm. Maybe she was just numb. She could already feel the heat from the fire, and it was just a matter of time before it traveled down the rickety stairs to engulf them.

“They'll be joining you, Sophie,” Doc said. “On your knees, child.”

“Why?”

“You need to repent of your sins so you can meet your Maker with a clean heart.”

“But if I repent of my sins why do I have to die?”

Doc frowned, as if she'd posed a complicated theological question. “Because you have to,” he said finally. “Pray with me, Sophie.” He sank to his
knees, dragging Sophie along with him, and began praying in a loud, eerie voice, his head bowed.

She thought she could hear the faint cry of voices beneath the increasing crackle of the fire, beneath Doc's loud exhortations. They must still be alive, she thought, clutching the heavy flashlight in her hand as Doc clutched her other one with clawlike fervor.

The flames danced down the rough wood banister, bright and cheerful, bringing death.

“Bow your head and pray with me, Sophie,” Doc shouted above the noise of the flames.

And Sophie looked at Doc's bowed head, the vulnerable nape of his neck, and brought the flashlight down with all her force.

The sound would stay with her the rest of her life. The sickening crush of bone. The blood.

He collapsed in an ugly sprawl, as the flames moved toward him. She didn't stop to think, she simply stepped over his body and ran for the walk-in cooler. She struggled with the huge latch, but finally it opened, revealing Marty and Gracey huddled in one corner, hugging each other.

“It's about time!” Marty scrambled to her feet, struggling to help Grace. “What the hell is going on? Where's that old psycho?”

“I think I killed him,” Sophie said.

“Good. Let's get the hell out of here. Grace needs
help. He drugged her, and her knees are still wobbly.”

Sophie moved into the cooler, coming up on Grace's other side. Her mother gave her a woozy smile, looking saner than she had in months. “I tried to warn you,” she said. “But you wouldn't listen.”

“But how did you…”

“Now isn't the time for talking, Sophie!” Marty said irritably. “Come on!”

The smoke was beginning to fill the cellar, thick plumes of it snaking down the stairway. “Cover your mouth and keep down,” Sophie said. “And follow me.”

She half expected Marty to argue, but for once she didn't. She simply helped drag Gracey through the billowing smoke, out into the swirling darkness.

“If you get us trapped I'm going to be really pissed off,” Marty said between choking coughs.

“Me, too,” Sophie said. She was running her hands along the wall, looking for the bulkhead. It was covered with tarpaper, and she hadn't bothered to nail it shut. She could only hope that Doc hadn't, either—it was their only way out with the stairs awash in flames.

Her hands found the thick wood plank that ran across the door, and she shoved it up, ignoring the pain in her hands. She kicked things out of the way as she dragged the other two up the short flight of stairs, and began banging against the door overhead.

It didn't move. He must have put something over it, trapping them down there, and they were going to die in the smoke and flames.

The hell they were. She slammed against it, and she felt it begin to give.

“Hurry up!” Marty shrieked.

The door gave way, opening into the cool night air, and someone was standing there, silhouetted against the smoky sky. A hand reached down for her, Griffin's strong hand, and Sophie scrambled out, collapsing on the ground as he reached to drag the two other women to safety. Above her the deserted hospital wing was a sheet of flames, and it was spreading toward the main body of the house.

For a moment Sophie lay in the grass, coughing, unable to move, as she watched the hungry flames lick over the beautiful old house.

“Would you get a move on?” Griffin snapped, catching her arm and dragging her away from the searing heat. And then the four of them were running down the sloping lawn toward the lake, just as the fire sirens sounded from the village.

“This is far enough away,” Griffin said, finally releasing her.

She collapsed in the grass, still coughing. “Where's Doc?” he asked grimly.

She couldn't answer at first. It was Marty who was able to speak. “He's toast,” she said. “Liter
ally. Down in the cellar. And don't even think of going back for him. He's a murderer.”

“I wasn't planning to,” Griffin said, stretching out on the grass, trying to catch his breath.

“He killed them,” Sophie said after a moment. “He killed them all.”

There was a long silence. “I know,” he said.