She sucked hard on the ciggy, trying to calm herself. Coming out to the Grand Lake cabin was supposed to comfort her, but it was almost midnight now, and it wasn’t working. Maybe she should’ve talked to the cop. Maybe it was time to come clean. About everything. But she hadn’t. She lied, or at any rate didn’t tell the truth. Certainly she didn’t tell him what she had seen, what she suspected. But she didn’t want any more trouble. She wanted to be free of this, not ever more deeply entangled. That was the problem with Erin Faulkner and her family and all the ever-increasing intrigue and horror that surrounded them. Instead of winding down, it just seemed to balloon and grow and become more and more demanding, more complicated, more impossible.
She threw down the cigarette, crushing it in an ashtray. Nicotine was not enough to calm her spirits tonight. She needed a serious drug. The real stuff.
She had not been sure, not until today. Not until she saw the picture in the paper. But now, as she gazed at the photo and let her mind travel backward in time, back to the last time she and Erin had been together…
She knew. She put the pieces together, and for once, they made sense. An incredible, horrible sort of sense. A dangerous sort of sense.
She walked to the kitchen, opened a beautiful blue bottle of Skyy vodka, and began drinking it right out of the bottle. Calm yourself, Sheila. Calm yourself. She hated when she got like this. She was turning into Erin-like in some weird way, now that Erin was gone, she felt she had to replace her. She felt as if there was a giant hole in her life, in her soul. Something that could never be filled. Sure, she had friends, family. James.
But she missed Erin. She wasn’t sure she could live without her. Or wanted to.
She felt responsible.
She took another swig of the vodka, letting it burn its way down her throat. It hurt, but it hurt good, as they said. She took another drink and started to feel the rosy blanket, the warm sense of… fading that came with the onset of drunkenness. It was a good feeling. She wanted more of it. She held the bottle in both hands and drank and drank and…
Did she hear something? Outside? This time of night? Way out here?
Couldn’t be. She raised the bottle to her lips once more…
And heard it again.
She walked to the rear of the cabin, pulled back the shades, and peered out into the darkness. She didn’t see anything. But she was certain she heard something. She wasn’t so drunk that she would imagine that-
Sheila screamed. Someone had jumped out of nowhere and was on the other side of the window staring at her.
No! she thought as she stared at the all-too-familiar face. That’s impossible!
She heard the pounding at the door and knew she had to run. Groping to steady herself, peering through blurred eyes, she made her way to the side door. If she could get out, get down to the lake, she could climb in the boat and speed away. There was no way she could be followed, not across Grand Lake.
But first she had to get there.
She ran outside, plunging into the darkness. The moon was barely a quarter and there were no electric lights way out here. She knew there was a path leading down to the lake, but where was it? Where the hell was it?
She heard footsteps close behind her. She did not have much time. Because it didn’t take a vast quantum of imagination to know what would happen if those footsteps caught up to her. The same thing that happened to Erin. And all the others.
By midnight, Mike and Sergeant Baxter had been sitting in his Trans Am for more than three hours. They had followed Sheila Knight-at a discreet distance, of course, all the way to Grove, then out onto Grand Lake. Sheila parked outside a lakeside cabin, went inside, turned on the lights. She’d been there ever since; no visitors had come to meet her. Mike parked about a hundred feet down the dirt road outside the cabin. It was the perfect vantage point; they could not only see the cabin and Sheila’s car, they could monitor the one-way road that led to the cabin.
“The night is long,” Mike said, gazing out the car window, “that never finds the day.”
Baxter grimaced. “Not with the poetry. Is that Wordsworth again?”
“Shakespeare, actually. From Macbeth.”
“Puh-lese. If I offer you coffee, will you promise to stop?”
“Distinctly possible.” After three hours of watching, Mike could feel the lateness of the hour and the stupor born of inactivity. He took the silver thermos from Baxter, filled his mug, and took a sip.
“Damnation, Baxter. You weren’t kidding about your percolating skills.” Mike held the mug between his hands, watching the steam rise. It felt good, warming his hands, warming his face. “This is excellent coffee.”
“Well, I try to please. Contrary to rumor.”
“You succeeded. What is this, some special blend?”
“Uhhh… yeah…”
“I can tell you’re a coffee gourmet. Is it an imported blend? Did you grind the beans yourself?”
“… possibly…”
“And the flavoring is delicious. What is it? English toffee? French vanilla?”
“Yes.”
“Both?”
“Uhhh.” Her fingers stiffened. “Look. I didn’t make the coffee myself, okay?”
“Where did it come from?”
“Where does coffee ever come from? Starbucks, of course.”
Mike whistled. “Wow. The good stuff.”
“Well, I wanted-I was-” She puffed out her cheeks in exasperation. “I was trying to make a good impression.”
“You?”
“Yeah, I know. Total waste of time.”
Mike’s head tilted to one side. “To the contrary-I’m honored. Flattered.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You got any more of this… what is it?”
“White chocolate mocha.”
“Heavenly. From now on, I’m inviting you to all my stakeouts.”
Sheila raced out into the darkness, plunging into the thickly treed brush that separated the cabin from the lake. Move, girl, she muttered under her breath. Get to the boat. You haven’t got much time.
She didn’t have to listen to know the footsteps were right behind her.
Unfortunately, the ground between the cabin and the lake was not only covered with brush but was also on a sharp slope. A cliff, practically. Normally, she would walk down the gravel road out front about fifty feet to an improvised slope that led down to the pier. But she knew she didn’t have time for that now, and besides, the footsteps were between her and the path.
If she was going to make it, she was going to have to go straight down.
She plunged into the brush, straining to spot safe places to run. Nonetheless, not three steps down, a tough piece of vine caught her foot and sent her tumbling forward. With a desperate lunge, she managed to grab a branch from a nearby river birch, stopping herself at the last possible moment.