"Ms. Reynolds." His voice was condescending, humor the poor hysterical witness. "You're saying the perpetrator was a mermaid?"
She turned to stare at him, a small flash of anger making her feel more like herself. "Not a mermaid--a merman, a triton. A male equivalent."
His face showed what he thought of that theory.
"I don't know, detective. I don't know if I saw it, or dreamed it, or hallucinated. I'd just found my best friend murdered, brutalized. I don't know. Is there anything else? I'm very tired." She wanted his condescension, his pity, out of her house, out of their house.
The dark-haired detective stood. Adria thought he frowned at his partner. "Ms. Reynolds, you had a very traumatic experience last night. There's nothing wrong with seeing things under that kind of stress."
"I suppose not." She hesitated and asked, "Do other murder witnesses see monsters?"
He folded his notebook up and put it in his coat pocket. "In a manner of speaking, yes, they do."
She turned away from his eyes, kind, sad eyes that had seen too much until Rachel's death was just one more, among too many.
"We'll want you to come down and talk to a sketch artist when you're ready. I don't mean to rush you. I know how hard this is on you."
She started to accuse him of not understanding, but his eyes wouldn't let her. They had seen more death than Adria would ever see, if she was lucky.
"Get some rest, Ms. Reynolds. Use those pills the doctor gave you. That's what they're for."
Adria turned back to the window.
"Let's go, Frank. We've got all we need for a while." The detective with the gold-framed glasses seemed ready to argue, but he followed his partner.
"We'll leave a patrol car outside for a day or two. Don't be alarmed."
"I'm not." The thought that the killer might come back to hurt her didn't seem real or possible, not in the broad light of day.
The door shut, and she was alone. She took a long, hot shower and two of the pills the doctor had given her. Adria tracked water across the carpet. Rachel wouldn't care. She would never fix her famous apple omelets for them late at night. No more popcorn and sad movies. No more anything.
Adria choked back a sob. If she started crying, she felt as if she would split into pieces and fall down a long black hole. She collapsed on the unmade bed, hair wet, wrapped in towels. A deep, dreamless sleep pulled her under.
She woke to late-day sunlight. She had slept nearly twelve hours. The first thought was, Rachel is dead. The knowledge was a leaden emptiness. It was as if a great hole had opened up inside her. And the hole was full of pain, and rage and helplessness.
Rachel was the third victim of what the newspapers were now calling "The Beach Rapist." The only thing the victims had in common was where they had been killed, at the edge of the sea. Two victims hadn't been newsworthy. Three seemed to be the magic number. There was a serial killer loose.
What had Rachel been doing out on the beach? Why Rachel? Adria needed answers, but there was no one to ask.
She checked her watch, not for time, but for what day it was. It seemed like it had taken weeks for Rachel to die, the hospital. Days at least, but her watch said it was Sunday. Only hours had passed. Only hours and Rachel was gone, just like that.
Adria dressed and tried to comb the tangles from her hair, but it didn't seem to matter all that much. The numbness shredded, falling away. Tears choked at the back of her throat. She took another little pill, just one. She didn't want to sleep, but she wanted the pain to go away. Had she really told the detective the murderer was a triton? Had she really seen a tail? Adria closed her eyes and saw it, flashing in the moonlight, wet and slick, and attached to the man. Could she have made it up, to make the brutality more understandable? Like a child, saying a monster did it, instead of Daddy.
Adria shook her head. It didn't help to call the man a triton. It raised more questions. Why would she hallucinate the man was a merman?
Co-workers from the health club came in the next few hours, to cry, offer comfort, and be comforted. Adria didn't want any of them, didn't want to grieve in a group. It cheapened it to share memories and sob on each other's shoulders. None of them had really known Rachel. She refused to exercise. She was five-nine and had never gained weight. Adria was nine inches shorter. Adria had to work at staying in shape. She could never convince Rachel to go to the club.
Adria asked all the people to go away. Their kind intentions, their helpfulness, their sorrow, it was all more than Adria could deal with. She needed to be alone, wanted to be alone. She wasn't ready for company, no matter how well intentioned.
Adria told no one about her delusion. There was no such thing as mermaids, or mermen. She didn't want to see pity and knowing looks among their friends.
When the flock of mourners had been chased away, Adria lay down on the couch and waited for the tranquilizer to give her sleep.
She woke, gasping in the darkness, strange dreams vanished. Nightmares fading. She had vague images of ocean and strong hands trying to drown her.
Darkness lay pressed against the sliding glass doors. Moonlight shivered through the closed drapes. Adria sat up, abrupt, and felt dizzy and awkward. She couldn't remember closing the drapes. Her head felt like cotton, her throat horribly dry. Too many pills, she felt detached, the rush of fear dying under the dregs of the tranquilizer.
A shadow fluttered against the drapes. Adria stood, a little unsteady. Was it a man's shadow? She touched the drapes, soft, cool. Fear was back, adrenaline chasing the tranquilizer away. The sound of her own heart was obscenely loud. Adria shoved the drapes back, sudden, and he was there. He stood naked and beautiful on the other side of the glass. She tried to scream but couldn't, not while looking into his eyes, dark and peaceful.
He put a hand against the glass, spread it flat. There was webbing between his fingers like a frog's. Adria touched fingertips to the glass. The webbing began to shrink, smaller and smaller, until it melted away, like a moonlit dream. He smiled then, and she felt his need like a physical touch. His hand touched the door lock. Adria jerked back, startled, frightened, awake. The drapes fell shut--the moonlight gleamed empty.
Adria peeked round the drapes, hand shaking. There was nothing there. Had she dreamed it? She had been dreaming of him, of strong hands pushing her under the water. Adria stared at the empty deck. Moonlight glittered off something. She knelt against the glass and stared. There was a puddle of water on the deck. There was no rain this time of year.
Adria was halfway to the phone to call the police when she stopped. What could she say? "I saw webbing between his fingers, and it melted away." They wouldn't believe her, and he had known they wouldn't. He had come to taunt her, or to kill her. Adria remembered the feel of him inside her mind, slick, and cold and warm, like nothing she had ever felt. She wondered what he could have done if she hadn't been on the pills, half dead to the world. If he had opened the door...
Adria knew now how he had gotten Rachel down on the beach. He had called her, lured her, with himself as bait. The police wouldn't find him, because he could go places they couldn't, places they would never dream of going.
Adria knew the truth, but no one would believe her. It was crazy. If she'd had her gun tonight she could have given him a surprise. Would bullets hurt a triton? They didn't hurt vampires, did they?
Adria couldn't remember any stories about how to kill a mermaid. Just fairy tales.
The morning paper showed another victim, miles from Adria. Adria drank morning coffee with a gun lying on the table. She had bought it years ago when her ex-husband had traveled a lot and left her alone. It was cleaned, oiled, and loaded. The hammer rested on an empty chamber. If five bullets weren't enough...well, Adria didn't think it would matter.
The triton didn't come back, but he killed two more women. The police were baffled, looking for lifeguards, triathletes. They weren't even close.
Adria stayed safe and warm and dry. And another woman died. He was killing
almost every other night. The police were frantic; everyone on the beach was terrified.
When Rachel had been dead almost four weeks, Adria dreamed of the triton again. Strong webbed hands caressed her skin; she swam under water and breathed. She woke halfway across her bedroom floor. Her feet were tangled in a pair of discarded old jeans. Almost tripping had woken her. Adria swallowed, tried to breathe, tried to think. She heard his song then, inside her head. Music that cried and wept, that rolled and roared, lonely as the sea, vast and deep, promising miracles. She stood frozen for a moment, listening.
Adria stumbled back to her bed and sat on the edge of the rumpled sheets. She could not go to him, should not, would not. The song sighed and eased her mind, until she was standing. His need was in the music, strong and deep, careless as the ocean itself, and as unstoppable. She picked up her robe from the floor and slipped it on. It felt real and soft. She picked up the gun from the bedside table and put it in the robe pocket. It hung heavy and awkward, bumping her leg as she walked. She could not deny him, but she might be able to surprise him.
The moon rode high and almost full, shimmering silver on the rolling waves. The sea whispered, adding to the triton's song. Music and ocean hissed and roared until Adria could not be sure who was singing to her. Was it the sea? Did the sea itself want to touch her, to hold her? Yes, the sea wanted her. It was not love the sea offered, but violent need, a need so great it filled the world with crying.
She walked at the edge of the wet sand, as the lips of curling waves sloshed over her ankles. High tide was spilling inland.
She waded ankle deep to the rocks, the water soaking the edge of her robe, pulling, tripping. The song said, Leave it. But Adria climbed the rocks with the heavy robe still on. She didn't remember why it was important to keep it on, but there was a reason. The beach was bigger on the other side; part of it stayed dry. She thought of Rachel, and fear, grief filled her mind, but the sea took her terror and her sorrow and wove it into its song. Her throat was tight with fear, heart threatening to choke her. She slipped down to dry sand and waited, waited for the sea to come.
A chill wind blew off the ocean. She shivered, and the song took the thread of her chill, for the singer had never been cold. There was something heavy in her pocket that pressed against the damp robe, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but the sea.
Something bobbed out in the surf, dark and small, a sea lion maybe. The head disappeared and surfaced closer to shore. It wasn't a seal.
The triton let the waves sweep him up on shore, tumbling. His upper half was the muscular paleness she remembered, except for the long dark hair. Below the waist, he was a soft grayish black, abrupt against the white skin, as if somebody had pieced together two different creatures. There was a small ridge along his spine like a whale's humped back. His tail flukes whipped up and down, a dull half moon. He lay on his stomach in the surf and watched Adria with eyes so huge and luminous, they seemed to have a light of their own.
Tail began to melt, like wax exposed to heat, the tail flukes became blunt, the main trunk began to shrink, growing tight, and the shadow of legs pressed against the shrinking skin.
His face flickered in pain, and that fed into his song. It hurt to change over. Adria felt his pain, crumbling to her knees, staring, waiting, needing.
He stood, nude, and human, his dark hair hanging in wet curls round his face. He called out to her, inside her head, the music sliding and seducing. She went to him.
He was tall. She came only to the middle of his chest. When he reached for her, moonlight glistened through the webbing on his hands. Adria took a step back, away. He frowned, and the song roared inside her until she could hear only that. She watched him come closer. He undid her robe, pushing it open. She shivered as the wind blew against her nightshirt. His hands cupped her breasts, water soaking through the shirt, cold. His face bent over her, eyes huge and drowning deep. Terror flashed through her; she shook her head, violently, tried to step back. He grabbed her, pressing her against the hard cold of his body. The song roared in her head, but her fear rode the waves. The sea had come to drag her down, and she was afraid.
His mouth closed over hers, probing. His lips nibbled down her neck. Adria tried to scream, but she couldn't. She was afraid, afraid of the song, afraid of the sea, afraid of this thing touching her, but she could not scream, could not move. He spilled her back onto the sand. Strong hands tore her nightshirt, leaving her gasping and half naked. Waves rushed in, spilling over her breasts, curling between her legs. He knelt over her, staring down, arrogant, no pity, no doubts, the sea made flesh. She meant nothing to him, the song clanged through her mind, a roaring violence, a vast unknowing guiltless thing.
She whispered, "No."
He lowered himself on top of her, skin cold, so cold. Waves splashed over his back and spilled into her face. He still kissed and bit along her skin. The hardness of him rested against her panties.
"No." Still only a whisper. She needed to shout, to scream. "No." Then she remembered the gun.
His hands ripped away her damp panties. He lowered his hips, eyes distant.
The gun clicked on the empty chamber. Adria pulled the trigger again. The gun fired through the robe pocket. The shot seemed to explode, so loud. His body jerked, eyes staring at her, seeing her for the first time. She pulled the trigger again. He jerked and then slumped over her.
The song ended abruptly, jarring. Adria's breath came in ragged gasps. She tried to push him off her, but couldn't. He was too heavy. She panicked, beating at his arms and chest. His blood flowed warm onto her skin. She took a deep breath that quavered, and let it out. "I'm all right. I'm all right." She began to crawl out from under him, his body dragging along her skin as she wiggled free. She was crying now, sobbing. She began screaming, low tiny screams. The screams frightened her because she couldn't stop them.
She crawled free of him and clawed through the sand until she was free of the water. She sat in the dry sand, letting it cake the wet robe. She held the gun in her hand, loosely.
A wave washed over him, and his hand waved limp, moved by the water. An image of Rachel flashed through her mind. She put a shaking hand against her mouth to stop the awful whimpering screams.
His hand clenched. Adria stopped breathing for a moment. He raised his head. She felt his mind reach out for her. It was like the slow drag of the sea when you're tired and it would be better, easier to rest, to let the water take you down. He got to his feet.
Adria raised the gun two-handed. Blood flowed from two wounds in his stomach, but he never hesitated; the sea did not acknowledge death. Blood blossomed in his chest. He staggered, but kept coming. Adria fired, watching the bullets explode into his chest, ears ringing with the noise. He fell to his knees and then slid to one side, slowly so slowly.
He lay on his side in the dry sand, staring at her. His dark eyes were patient as the sea, nothing in them that she could read, or understand. He didn't seem to be able to move. His chest was a bloody mess. He lay only an arm's length from her. She watched his life pour out into the sand. He blinked. Adria pointed the gun at those eyes and squeezed the trigger. The gun bounced in her hands. A neat red hole appeared in his forehead, blood leaking into his eyes. His eyes stared sightless, the light gone out of them.
Adria did not check his pulse to make sure he was dead. She backed off, the empty gun still in her hand and began running for home. She looked back once from the top of the rocks. The body lay pale and dark, shadow patched. Nothing moved.
Adria ran.
She heard police sirens a long way off. The strobe lights flickered outside her windows, colored shadows against the curtains. The police found blood on the sand but no body.
"The Beach Rapist" did not strike again. Was he really dead? Or had he just started hiding the bodies, letting the ocean take the evidence away? Adria couldn't sleep with the sea whispering outside her window anymore.
She sold the house for a nice price, even with the murders. Be
achfront property was dear. Adria moved inland, far from the sea. But there are nights when the rustle of leaves outside her window becomes the rushing of the sea. And there is an echo in her head, a hiss of distant music.
Adria is looking for some place out of state. Some place where the sea does not touch the land for hundreds of miles on any side. Surely, there she will be safe.
A SCARCITY OF LAKE MONSTERS
I have a degree in biology. Wildlife biologist was one of the few other careers I dreamed about besides writing. This story comes out of wondering if the monsters of fable existed, then how would we deal with them? What if lake monsters were real? It's another example of my continuing theme of taking the fantastic and dropping it into the middle of the real.
I WAS dreaming of sea monsters when the phone rang. I dragged the phone under the sheets with me and said, "'Lo."
"Did I wake you, Mike?"
Why does everyone ask that when the answer is obviously yes? And why do we lie automatically? "No, no, what's up, Jordan?"
"It's your damn lake monster. He broke through the barricade again."
I groaned. "What's he doing?"
"Chasing speedboats, what else?"
"We'll be right there."
"Make it quick, Mike. The skiers are about to wet their pants."
I hung up the phone and sat up, pushing back the covers. Susan was still deeply asleep. Her shining black hair lay in a fan across the pillow. Her face was an almost perfect triangle. The firm jaw was the only hint a person had that this pretty, delicate-seeming woman was one of the toughest people I'd ever met. She was a fanatical champion of lost causes. Right now, it was lake monsters, and our monster was loose.
I touched her tanned shoulder gently. "Come on, wife, duty calls."
She muttered something unintelligible, which meant she wasn't awake at all. She's the only person I know who hates morning more than I do.
"Come on, Susan, Irving broke out of his barricade and is terrorizing the tourists."
She turned over, blinking at me. "He won't hurt them," she said thickly.