Harry said, "Amelia, you're going to have to be a little more explicit…"
"Then one day you find that someone else has come to play your game," she went on, ignoring his request. "A real person. Just like you. And he has his own memories and desires, and his own sort of creativity, primitive though it may be. Great! you say. Wonderful! The game grows more real, and more complex, more challenging. But what you didn't bargain on were his fears, his subconscious. . . I don't know, his predilections, his tastes."
A wasp appeared and settled on her arm. She took no notice of it. "But you're torn. On the one hand, you like this new element thrown into the game, and on the other, you just want to be in complete control!"
He looked at her, but said nothing. He didn't know what to say.
She went on, "I'm stuck here, Harry. I have good reason to be here. And to stay. But you don't, and I think that you should leave. For the sake of all of us."
Harry shook his head. "I can't leave this place without Barbara."
Amelia sighed."You see only what you want to see, Harry. You're so blind. It's pathetic."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry said.
"Only because you choose not to. Barbara is beyond your reach." She looked at him, took off her sunglasses. "You act like you don't know where the hell you are."
"Of course I know where I am."
She studied him a moment, then said, "No, you don't. Suddenly it's clear. You have no idea where you are. Or even what you are. My God ..." She put her sunglasses on again—the whole effect of taking them off and putting them on was archly theatrical. She smiled quickly, and announced, "The lake's being awfully, awfully frisky, Harry. I've never seen it like this."
"Frisky?" Harry said, thankful for the change of conversational direction.
"Wrong word," Amelia said, and sat back, arms up once more.
"Okay," Harry coaxed. "So if 'frisky' isn't the right word, what is?"
"Corrupt," Amelia answered. "That's the right word. I've decided that it's corrupt."
"Corrupt?" Harry was incredulous. "What are you talking about? Lakes aren't corrupt."
"This one is. And it's. .. inventive too. As inventive as I can imagine." She smiled coyly.
"Inventive and corrupt?" He shook his head. "This is stupid. . . ."
"Its motives are inventive and corrupt," Amelia said, still smiling. She looked as if she was enjoying some secret pleasure.
"Lakes don't have motives," Harry said.
"This one does." She paused. "Two can play at any game, Harry."
He stood suddenly and proclaimed, "I still don't know what you're talking about. If you're playing a game, then that's your business. I'm not going to play it with you."
"I'm afraid you have no choice."
"The hell I don't. I'm going to find Barbara and we'll leave this place together."
"Then you'll never leave," Amelia told him.
Chapter Fourteen
Night had come as quickly as an owl that swoops from the treetops and Harry welcomed the chance to sleep. The bed in the motel room was abnormally comfortable. The green light showing under the curtain gave the darkness a soft and cozy glow. And Harry thought, ashe lay in his gray suit and trench coat—the black fedora propped on his head, so it almost shielded his eyes—that he had never felt quite so comfortable before. He was so comfortable, in fact that he began to mistrust it. Maybe there was some kind of gas leak in the room. Maybe he was being lulled into a sleep that would last forever. But if that were true, he'd smell something suspicious, and the only smell in the room was the faint odor of flowers and newly mown grass. And as out of place as that odor was, it too coaxed him toward sleep.
He thought that he could hear the lake whispering to him. This was probably not what he was hearing, he supposed, for surely the lake was miles from the motel. But still he could hear the rhythmic shush of waves licking at some unknown shore, and this too added to his drowsy contentment.
Then the whisper changed. It became vaguely harsh, as if, among a hundred violins, one or two were being plucked instead of bowed. It was barely noticeable, and when he tried to concentrate on the harshness, he couldn't pinpoint it.
He propped himself up on his elbows in the bed. The black fedora fell to the floor. "Is someone there?" he whispered.
Something bumped gently into the closed door. Was that outside or inside? he wondered. The soft green darkness told him little.
"Hello," he whispered. There was no response, so he said "Hello" aloud. The shush of the waves was gone now, replaced by silence.
"It's me, Harry."
The voice came and went so quickly that he didn't recognize it.
"Huh?" he said.
A hand touched him lightly in the darkness. He didn't recoil. He recognized the touch. It was Barbara's.
"Here I am, Harry."
He couldn't see her. The green darkness showed him only lumps that were chairs, an end table, a lamp. "Barbara, I can't see you."
"Does it matter? I can see you."
"Let me see you, darling."
She appeared out of the green darkness—naked, soft, delightful. She bent over him, held herself up with her arms, lay her breasts against his neck, straddled him, then let her arms go limp, so she was lying on him.
"I've missed you," she whispered into the top of his head.
"Oh, God, and I've missed you," he said.
"Take off the PI getup, darling," she whispered.
"Yes, oh, yes."
"We'll fuck all night."
"Yes. All night."
She didn't move.
He reached down and found the waistband of his gray pants. But she was lying on him and he couldn't get to the button and fly. "Darling …"
She said nothing. She lay still. She seemed unaccountably heavy.
"Darling, do you think you could…?"
"Yes?" she whispered.
"I can't seem to…" He strained to reach the button and fly of his pants, beneath her pelvis. "If you could just move a little."
She didn't move. She said nothing. Her body seemed to go limp.
He chuckled.
She chuckled.
"Very funny," he whispered, certain that this was a game she was playing.
She chuckled again. It was soft, low, delicious, a chuckle he loved.
He said, "Don't you want me to get naked, Barbara?"
She said nothing. Her body seemed to grow heavier.
He wished he could see her face. Her breasts were on his neck, so her neck was on his face.
"Okay, okay," he said playfully, into her neck, "so you've got me pinned. I give up."
She said nothing. She smelled of baby oil, as always. The smell was strong, almost cloying, especially because of her position on him.
"Barbara?"
"Move me," she said.
"Move you?" he said. "You don't think I can?" He chuckled. They had played this sort of game before. Often. He got his hands under her arms and pushed. Her arms moved. Her body stayed where it was. He pushed on her arms again, with the same results. He sighed. "Okay, I can't move you," he conceded. "You're stronger than I am. I give up."
"I don't."
"I wish you would."
Silence.
"Barbara?"
Silence.
"Barbara, please."
"Please what?"
He smiled, happy that she'd responded to him at least. "Could you move a little?"
"How can I do that, darling?"
He tried another chuckle, but it came out false and strained.
She said, "The mountain has come to Mohammed. Now Mohammed must move the mountain."
This was ridiculous. "Barbara, the game has gone far enough, don't you think?" He was immediately sorry for his impatience. He pushed on her arms once more. She didn't move. He chuckled falsely again. "I can't move you," he conceded. "Mohammed can't move the mountain. The mountain must move itself."
She whispered, into the top of
his head, "Once a mountain has moved, it cannot move again."
He sighed. She'd never taken a game this far before. He got his hands under her hips, so his fingers were on either side of her belly, and pushed hard. It was like trying to move a tree. Good Lord, where was his strength?
"Barbara, please, I'm pleading with you...."
"Don't you like my nakedness, darling?"
"Of course, but ..."
"Enjoy it, then. Enjoy it forever."
He didn't like the sound of that. Her nakedness was wonderful, yes. But a man needed to breathe.
He pushed again, with the same results.
She chuckled. "Imagine that," she said, into the top of his head. "Now that you have me, I'll lie here naked, chuckling and teasing, for all eternity. Would that be too much of a good thing, darling?"
He pushed again, hoping to catch her off guard, but her body didn't move a millimeter. Where's my strength? he asked himself again.
"You know, my darling," she said, "strength comes from knowing what and who you are. You don't. I do. So, naturally, I have strength and you have none. And if I wanted to lie here forever, insinuating my nakedness upon you, I could, and would. But I don't." A moment's silence. "So good-bye."
She was gone.
And the soft green light in the room was gone too, replaced by the hazy glow of morning.
Harry blinked in confusion, pushed himself up on his elbows and looked around the room. Empty.
Something lying on the floor beside the bed caught his eye. He looked. It was his black fedora. Flattened. Barbara had crushed it.
He picked it up, studied it. And what the hell was that all about? he asked himself.
Chapter Fifteen
A breeze pushed through the narrow streets of Silver Lake. It teased lace curtains and coaxed weather vanes into a languid spin. It played with the brackish water in birdbaths and briefly exposed the pale undersides of leaves. It whispered into the ears of a sleeping dormouse and then was itself spent and slept.
A black beetle, logy with sickness, lumbered across a dark wood floor.
Doors that were open stayed open.
Tidy beds remained tidy.
And in one neat little house, a woman lay dead. Punctured all over until she could bleed no more.
Her killer peered down and stuck the toe of his shoe into the blood that pooled around her body. Then he leaned over—a chore for him—stuck a chubby index finger into the blood and smeared a stripe across the bottom of his silver tie. "That's one," he said.
The cafe's big, square windows were lit brightly from within, and this pleased Harry as he climbed the high hill through early morning ground fog. He was looking forward to a hearty breakfast. Eggs, toast, sausage, pancakes. Maybe some hash browns too, and coffee, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. He was famished. After a lousy night's sleep and dreams straight out of hell, a body needed nourishment.
He could see people in the restaurant as he approached and he thought they looked happy. They wore contented smiles as they chewed. Good food created such smiles, so it was clear that the restaurant served good food.
He recognized a few of the people in the cafe. There was Leonard, who had bent over his car headlight, and Mrs. Conte, who had told him that Barbara was pregnant, and Mrs. Alexander, and even the old couple with whom he'd spoken upon his arrival in Silver Lake.
There were other people too, who were obviously residents. No one would come here from beyond it, as the community was too far out of the way. And the climb up the high hill was grueling. He wondered how the old couple had made it. And Mrs. Alexander.
He got to the restaurant and went in through the front door. People stopped eating and turned to look at him.
He nodded self-consciously and said, "Hello." They continued staring.
He looked at Leonard. "Hello, Leonard," he said, and Leonard continued looking at him.
He looked at Mrs. Alexander, who had a bowl of what looked like oatmeal in front of her, and had her dripping spoon poised halfway to her mouth.
"Hello, Mrs. Alexander," he said, and she continued looking at him.
He cast about for an empty table. There were several. One was near the door which he supposed led to the kitchen, and he went to it, draped his trench coat over the back of the chair, took off his black fedora, set it on the table and sat down.
He waited for someone to come and give him a menu.
The other diners continued looking at him. He looked back, from face to face. There were no contented smiles on these faces. Eyes did not blink and mouths stayed shut. Some spoons, like Mrs. Alexander's, were poised halfway between plate and lips.
The place smelled of wet clay. The odor was very strong—it stung his eyes.
Harry said, to no one in particular, "Why are you looking at me?"
There were no answers.
"Please don't look at me."
And dutifully everyone looked away and began eating again. Contented smiles reappeared. Forks and spoons found their way to plates or between lips.
Harry heard what he supposed was the kitchen door swing open. He looked. Mr. Habuda stood behind him, menu in hand. He wore a white apron.
"Hello, Mr. Habuda," Harry said. His eyes had begun to water from the stinging smell of wet clay. Mr. Habuda stepped forward, gave Harry a menu and said, "Welcome to my cafe, Mr. Briggs."
Harry took the menu and opened it. There were only a few items listed—spaghetti and meatballs, a turkey club sandwich, mashed potatoes and liver, spinach salad. This was disappointing. Harry had hoped for breakfast. He said so, and Mr. Habuda replied, in a tone of great apology, "I'm sorry, Mr. Briggs, but we stopped serving breakfast a very long time ago."
"Really?" Harry said. "It can't be much past nine o'clock."
"I wish that it were," Mr. Habuda said cryptically, then went on, "The turkey club is very nice, and we have just gotten in two kinds of pasta—rotini and cappellini—as well as spaghetti. All of it is excellent. Our chef is still learning, but he's a quick student."
Harry nodded. "Sure," he said. "It all sounds great." But his eyes were stinging and his hunger was leaving him because of the awful, cloying smell of wet clay in the place. He glanced about, hoping to discover its source. Perhaps there was some kind of construction going on. But he saw only the diners, the tables, the sturdy wooden chairs, the clean floor.
He got up. "I'm sorry, no. Some other time." He put on his trench coat and black fedora, and went back to his motel room.
He was standing over the bathroom sink, splashing water on his face—trying to wake himself up from his lousy night's sleep—when a knock came at the door. He went and answered it.
Amelia glared at him. "Damn you!" She stormed past him, into the room. She was dressed in her white shorts and white shirt. He thought she looked marvelous.
"Damn me for what?" he asked, and shut the door.
"For being here!" she snapped. She shook her head. "No. Not for being here," she amended. "For being."
"What have I done?" He was dumbfounded.
She stared at him a few moments, then shook her head again, clearly in frustration. "It's not what you've done, Harry. I'm sorry. It's him, your . . . villain."
He sighed. "Amelia, I'm sorry, I've had a very bad night and a worse morning. You're going to have to stop speaking in riddles and tell me what's going on."
"Mrs. Pennypacker is dead."
"I'm sorry to hear that." A short pause. "Who was Mrs. Pennypacker?"
"Viola Pennypacker. A very nice woman. The nicest woman you'd ever want to know. My God, she took in stray cats. She fed the birds. She made chicken soup for sick people."
"She sounds like a marvel," Harry said, regretting the tone of sarcasm in his voice.
"It takes all kinds to make up a community like Silver Lake, Harry. Mrs. Pennypacker was an indispensable member of this community, and her loss is ... an awful thing, just awful. The killer stuck her at least a hundred times. Do you know that? At least a hundred times. Ma
ybe more. And she bled all over, of course. What a mess!"
"Good Lord, have you called the police?"
Amelia sighed. "I've done all that could be done, Harry, but I can only do so much. And now I have to ask you to leave Silver Lake. No, I'm ordering you to leave. And take that madman with you."
"What madman?"
"Your villain. Your Mr. Greenstreet. He did this! He murdered Mrs. Pennypacker."
"Listen, whoever murdered her has nothing to do with me."
She looked silently at him for a moment, then smiled. "Oh, Harry. You're so blind. So pathetic."
"Then perhaps you could enlighten me. What exactly am I supposed to be seeing that I'm not seeing?"
She kept silent for a moment, then shook her head. "I think that it's better, strategically, to leave you in the dark. The less you know, the less of a problem you'll be. Just hear me on this, Harry. If you decide to stay in Silver Lake, I promise that you will massively regret your decision for a very, very long time. Last night will seem like a flicking game of Scrabble."
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