“Oh, Brad,” Laura moaned.
She lay back, closed her eyes and allowed her husband to take possession of her body once more.
⸙
LAURA AWOKE TO A multitude of sounds. Classical music filled the bedroom, one of her favorite piano sonatas by Mendelssohn. Brad must have turned on the CD player, the one he kept on the bookshelf alongside his collection of rare art books.
In the bathroom she could hear him humming and splashing around in the shower—his regular ritual after early morning sex.
Laura stirred languidly, relished the cool feel of the silk sheets and soft, satin pillow.
Her mood crashed when she heard the patter of rain against the window. She groaned. She hated the thought of driving in the rain, especially in the mountains.
She sank back down between the sheets and drew the comforter around her chest. She didn’t want to move. Between the sweet strains of Mendelssohn and the relaxing murmur of the rain, she wanted to stay in bed for the rest of her life.
Brad came out of the shower, a towel draped loosely around his waist. He gave her a naughty wink. “Still got half an hour,” he joked.
Only Laura knew it wasn’t a joke.
"Forget it, Casanova," she cracked, rolling over and escaping beneath the covers.
Brad sat down next to her on the bed, reached for her under the sheets.
“Brad, don’t,” Laura reacted, “you're going to be late.”
"I have express check-in, remember? That leaves us ten more minutes, at least."
Laura saw the usual wicked grin. She pushed back the covers and jumped out of bed. She slid into a nightgown and hurried past her husband into the bathroom and shut the door.
“I take it that’s a no,” Brad said to himself.
⸙
FROM THE BATHROOM she heard Brad getting dressed. When she finished brushing her teeth, she slipped into a warm gown and trotted back to the bedroom. She found Brad quietly admiring himself in front of the mirror while buttoning his shirt
Laura had to admit, her husband was a hunk. She admired his strong, well-formed shoulders, his narrow waist and strong legs. In all honesty, she had always thought Brad was the sexiest man alive. She appreciated how hard he worked at the gym to stay that way,
She couldn’t resist pressing against his broad back, savoring his manly smell. “Sure you don’t want to change your mind and come with us up to the mountains?” she asked, a trace of seduction in her voice. "I can think of a lot of things we could do up there at your brother's cabin, some of them x-rated."
Brad finished buttoning his shirt and studied himself in the mirror. Pleased, he turned around and cupped Laura's face in his hands. “That's tempting, my little angel face, but you know the rules. If I don't work, I don't get paid. If I don't get paid, we can't have all the toys we so desperately crave."
He kissed her lightly on the nose. "Besides, you know there’s just too much riding on this Paris trip.” Nuzzling her nose with his own, he added, "The house is ours the whole month, remember? Shouldn't take me more than two or three days, tops, to wrap up this business with the Frenchies. I'll join you guys up there as soon as I get back."
The masculine scent of his cologne almost made Laura swoon. “We’re going to miss you.”
Brad gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “And I’m going to miss you guys, too,” he said. He slipped a bright yellow silk tie around the collar, reached for his coat. “Oh, almost forgot. Danny called yesterday, said if you need anything up at the lake cabin to give him a call.”
Brad's older brother's million-dollar lake house in the mountains was anything but a cabin. Laura had never seen it, but she understood the place was an architect's dream, with all the bells and whistles—stone fireplaces, vaulted ceilings and a drop-dead private view of Bear Gap Lake. And it was going to be all theirs through Christmas, free of charge.
Laura followed Brad down the hall toward Bit’s room. Bit was Laura’s eight-year-old daughter from a previous marriage, but Brad had treated her as if she were his own since their marriage five years earlier. The girl's real name was Beatrice, but she had gone by the shortened “Bit” since her second year in kindergarten.
Brad cracked open the door, looked in. The room lay in shadows, but he and Laura could see Bit coiled up in the middle of her bed, all curls and rosy cheeks, her arms looped around Teddy, her favorite cuddly bear. One leg protruded from a pink blanket.
Brad blew her a kiss. “Tell her I’ll bring her something nice back from Paris,” he whispered to Laura.
“What about me?” Laura asked, pretending to pout. “Don’t I get something too?”
Brad backed away from the door, pulled it softly shut behind him. “Don’t worry, angel face,” he said, leaning around and kissing her full on the lips. He pulled back, caressed her face with both hands. “I've got something special in mind for you."
⸙
THE RAIN HAD STARTED falling harder by the time Brad finished taking his things downstairs.
“Have you seen my umbrella?” he called out, adjusting his tie one last time in the hall mirror.
Laura, ever the dutiful wife, reached into the porcelain umbrella stand, retrieved his favorite Saks Fifth Avenue silk umbrella and stuck it in his hand. "What would you do without me?” she teased.
Still dressed in her flannel bathrobe, Laura followed him into the garage and watched him slide behind the wheel of his sleek, black Mercedes. He slammed the door shut and snapped the seatbelt.
He pressed a button on the console and the big garage door rumbled open. "See you in a few days," he said through the window and started up the engine.
“You know where we’ll be,” Laura shouted back, waving as Brad backed the big car out onto the rain-splattered driveway. He suddenly braked, cracked the window and yelled, “Don’t forget to call Danny if you need anything up at the lake.”
“We’ll be fine,” Laura shouted over the rain. “Just be careful and hurry back.”
Brad flashed her a million-dollar smile, blew her another kiss and drove off in the rain.
Chapter Two
LAURA STOOD AT THE STOVE stirring a bowl of French Toast batter. Behind her, Atlanta’s favorite local TV news team was blathering away with the latest headlines: An eighteen-wheeler had jackknifed on the I-285 beltway near Spaghetti Junction, backing up traffic for miles...The Falcons were headed to the playoffs again with their new coach and star quarterback...A storm front out of Canada was stalled over the North Georgia mountains, with the possibility of Christmas snow flurries in the higher elevations...
Not good, Laura thought.
Bit sauntered into the kitchen, still in her pajamas and clutching Teddy.
“There you are,” Laura said, brightening. “I thought I was going to have to eat all this French toast by myself.”
Bit sat down at the table and yawned sleepily. “Where’s Brad?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.
"He had to leave earlier so he could catch his plane," Laura replied.
Bit gave a disappointed look. "But I thought he was going with us to the mountains."
Laura poured the batter into the skillet then tossed in a handful of blueberries. “He’s going to join us as soon as he gets back, remember?”
Bit groaned. “Where did he go this time?”
Laura scooped up the toast with a spatula, dropped it on a plate and placed it on the table next to a jar of gooey honey and glass of milk. “Would you believe Paris?”
Bit was unimpressed. She yawned again. "Paris...where's that?"
Laura spread honey on the toast, then leaned over her daughter and said, “Paris, France, sweetheart. You know, way over there in Europe, all the way across the Atlantic Ocean.”
“That Paris,” Bit said, digging into her toast. “Why did he have to go to Paris, France?”
“Oh, same as always. Business,” Laura said, putting away dirty dishes.
“Did he have to go?”
“He didn’t want to, bu
t his boss asked him to go at the last minute.”
“But he promised to take me sailing up at the lake.”
“I know, sweetheart. He’ll take you sailing as soon as he comes back and joins us up at the lake house.”
Laura’s attention was suddenly drawn to a female reporter’s voice on the TV:
“...In Atlanta, the nude body of another young woman was found late last night…the fourth in as many weeks…Police say the victim had been decapitated, her body left hanging upside down against a fence...”
The reporter’s voice trailed away.
“Yuck, gross,” Bit said. She finished her toast while the newswoman’s voice droned on:
“Doctor David Kozinski, an Emory University pathologist, has put together a profile of the suspected killer…”
A white-bearded professor’s face suddenly filled the screen:
“Based on the evidence I’ve seen, the killer is obviously a white male, probably in his late thirties or early forties, perhaps a professional man…a loner who happens to harbor some kind of pathological hatred for certain females...That’s, presumably, why he chooses to remove their heads...”
Laura hurried over to the TV and switched it off.
“Hey, I was watching that,” Bit protested.
“Oh, yeah? Since when did anything on TV interest you other than Justin Bieber or Miley Cyrus? Now hurry up, Miss Smarty Pants, and finish your breakfast so you can go pack.”
“I’m already packed.”
“You are?”
“Yep. Did it last night.”
“Good. When you’ve finished breakfast, you can clean up the kitchen while I go upstairs and finish packing myself.”
“Hey, that’s not fair,” Bit complained.
⸙
THE MOMENT LAURA walked out of the kitchen, Bit jumped up and switched the TV back on. Another reporter, this one a young black man wearing round glasses and a bowtie, was holding a microphone in front of a distraught young woman:
“I just don’t think the cops are doing enough to catch this guy…None of my friends feel safe anymore, you know? It’s like, when we go out shopping or clubbing or whatever, we always go in groups now…”
“Airhead,” Bit quipped.
The camera panned to the black reporter’s face:
“And there you have it, folks…another victim…another tragic murder…another neighborhood terrorized, this one in a posh northeast Atlanta suburb…This has been another on-the-scene report, returning you back to our studios on Peachtree Street…”
Chapter Three
WHEN IT WAS BUILT in the late seventies, I-400's primary purpose was to connect Atlanta with the bucolic foothills two hours to the north. That strategy paid off big for isolated farming communities along the way, but the main benefactors were the remote towns and villages nestled far to the north among the lonely river valleys and rugged hill country from Ellijay and Dahlonega to Clarkesville and Clayton.
Opening up the mountains to wealthy vacationers and upscale outdoors enthusiasts from Atlanta and Florida brought much-needed progress and undreamed of revenues to the hard-scrabble region. Overnight, expensive vacation homes started popping up on every mountain peak and riverbank, from the Chattahoochee to the Chattooga. Chic golf courses and fashionable gated communities soon replaced cornfields and harvest festivals.
As the tourism dollars flowed in and the population boomed, so did the need for water. The shallow, fast-flowing creeks and rivers of the high country could not possibly provide the water needed to sustain the rapidly developing region. As far back as the 1930s, federal and state governments had started construction of a series of huge lake reservoirs that not only offered improved water resources and recreation, but also created new jobs for the chronically impoverished inhabitants of that part of the region.
By the early eighties, dozens of deep artificial lakes had been gouged out of primeval forests of fir and pine. The once-quiet coves and tranquil, water-fed valleys of the high country had become a thing of the past, much like the old mountain ballads and Scotch-Irish dialect once so prevalent in the Southern Blue Ridge Mountains.
⸙
THE LIGHT RAIN that had been falling since early dawn was now a steady downpour, casting a gray, blurry pall over the rolling meadows and sweet-scented pine forests along the interstate. The closer she got to the mountains, the darker and drearier the road became, slowing Laura’s progress and forcing her to strain past the rain-smeared windshield wipers.
On the bright side, there was little traffic on the curving mountain road that time of year. Despite the rain, Laura found the last leg of the drive surprisingly easy as she gunned her late model Jeep Grand Cherokee down the near-deserted highway.
Near the Dahlonega exit, she switched on the radio, but kept the volume low so she wouldn’t wake Bit who lay curled asleep in the back seat. A few minutes into the regular program, a local talk show host broke from his usual jabber to bring an update on what the media was now calling, “The Atlanta Butcher:”
“…The whole city of Atlanta is under siege, folks…Wherever women go these days, they go in groups…Neighborhoods once friendly and open are now closely guarded compounds, and folks rarely go to bed without a gun nearby…Speaking of guns, as you might guess, gun sales are through the roof, as Todd Wilkins of Wilkins Guns Sales and Service in North Atlanta explains:
“…Let’s just say business is booming…Mostly it’s women, all ages...”
Laura imagined the guy—typical redneck gun owner, big and beefy, clad in a too-tight t-shirt and Tractors International baseball cap and a thick cheek full of tobacco.
“…They're just plain terrified of The Butcher…Where are the cops, man? I mean, they ain’t doing Jack, if you want my opinion….There’s a lot of us who’d like to get our hands on that creep for about five minutes, know what I mean?”
For emphasis, when Todd Wilkins finished there was the sound of a shotgun being racked.
⸙
LAURA HEARD BIT STIR in the back and quickly turned off the radio.
“Are we almost there, Mom?” Bit sat up and asked. The light gray blanket had slipped from her shoulders. “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”
“Not much further, sweetheart,” Laura replied, glancing at her daughter in the rear-view mirror. “Can you hold it just a little longer?”
“I think so. But hurry.” Bit lay back down and drifted off to sleep, blanket pulled back up around her neck.
Laura smiled. This was the first time in months that she and Bit had gotten away on their own. She was looking forward to spending a few quiet days alone with her—just the two of them, mother and daughter—cooking and talking and hiking and doing other girl-things before Brad arrived from Paris.
Brad had been a wonderful father to Bit, always thinking up fun things to do and neat places to take her. This past summer they had rented a cottage on Lake Lanier and Brad had taught her how to jet-ski. Bit had loved the water so much, he promised to take her sailing at Uncle Danny’s new lake house. She couldn't wait.
At first Laura had worried about the weather. Winter on a mountain lake didn’t sound like the ideal time to go sailing. But Brad had assured her that it rarely got too cold at Bear Gap Lake, even in December. Warm sweaters and light jackets would be enough.
That sounded great to both Laura and Bit. They fancied themselves sitting around a big stone fireplace all day, roasting marshmallows, sipping hot chocolate and listening to music. Laura couldn't imagine a nicer place to spend Christmas.
Besides being a good step-father, Brad was an excellent husband in every way—not just in bed, where he was a rock star--or as a provider. His job as chief legal consultant for a high-tech Atlanta software firm afforded them a comfortable lifestyle—not nearly as lavish as his older brother's, but enough to allow her to quit teaching English at Georgia State University so she could stay home and spend more time with Bit.
It sounded so cliché-ish, but what Laura admired most
about Brad were all the little things he did on a regular basis that convinced her she had chosen the right man this time. She felt warm inside as she thought of how attentive he was most of the time, how respectful he was of her needs and desires. Always quick to run to the supermarket or the cleaners, change a light bulb, take out the trash, even surprise her from time to time with her favorite roses and breakfast in bed. And he always seemed to manage everything with his million-dollar smile.
Brad's past was still pretty much a mystery. He and Danny had apparently grown up on a small farm not far from the Georgia coast, the only children of an alcoholic father and hard-working mother. Cancer had killed his mother when Brad was only seven. The boys had drifted from relative to relative because of their father's inability to take care of them.
Always athletic, Danny won a football scholarship to the University of Georgia. But drug problems caused him to flunk out his senior year, forcing him to miss a golden opportunity with the NFL. Miraculously, he and a buddy teamed up to form a partnership in a Lexus automobile dealership in Buckhead, an affluent north Atlanta suburb. Their company grew fast, and soon they had several dealerships across Atlanta and two in Birmingham.
It wasn’t long before Danny was raking in substantial sums of money, more than enough to put him on the cover of Georgia Trend, the state's leading business magazine. Danny never neglected his little brother. He and his ex-wife, Billie Sue, practically raised Brad the last two years of high school, bought him a car—a spiffy little Mercedes 450SL—and made sure his college expenses were taken care in grand style.
Laura’s mind drifted back to Earl, her first husband and Bit’s biological father. At first things had been wonderful, and she had been over-the-moon happy. Earl had swept her off her feet in college, and she didn’t think it was possible to love a man so much. Then came the war in Iraq. Earl had been recruited by the Army straight out of Emory Medical School and served two tours in a trauma clinic near Mosul.
The People in the Lake Page 2