Page 73 of It Happened on the Lake

Then she dialed information, rather than 9-1-1, and asked for the detective division of the Almsville police where she was instructed to dial the emergency number for immediate assistance or leave a message.

She opted for the voice mail and was surprised to hear a man’s voice that identified himself as Detective Watkins.

Wasn’t that the name of one of the cops down the street when she’d lived on Fox Point?

One she’d seen that night? She froze for a second, her resolve crumbling a bit before she bolstered herself.

She left her name and number, and a longer message than she’d intended.

Then she figured she’d done her civic duty for the day.

Now it was her free time. She placed the folded laundry back in the basket and carried the sheets to the bedroom.

Humming again, Janet wondered if what she witnessed that night, or what she thought she witnessed would be of value now. Probably not. She’d been drug-impaired. Make that very drug-impaired. And she’d have to admit that painful fact.

She scowled. If either of her boys ever used LSD or anything stronger than weed, as they referred to it now, she’d kill him.

After putting the sheets in the closet, she walked into the kitchen again.

She found a half-full bottle of Merlot on the counter, the bottle she’d opened just last night after learning she was getting a raise.

She’d celebrated alone and hadn’t wanted to kill the bottle.

Which worked out well for tonight. “Time for a nightcap,” she told herself as she poured herself a healthy glass and took a long, smooth sip.

Perfect.

Kicking off her shoes, she headed for the pantry and grabbed a box of Cheez-Its on a low shelf from the back of the pantry where she’d hidden them from her tall sons who didn’t seem to have the brains to bend over and look on the bottom shelf.

She planned to settle down and watch a show or two she had taped on the VCR.

As she headed to the living room, she took another long swallow, felt the wine begin to mellow her out, and smiled to herself.

She’d snagged the VCR along with the king bed and an imported duvet in the divorce, despite her ex’s complaints.

“Too bad, Jeff,” she said to the empty house.

She had episodes of Roseanne and L.A. Law, along with her favorite guilty pleasure, Days of Our Lives, which she could never watch during the day as she worked as a Girl Friday at Ole Olsen’s Used Cars on Eighty-second Avenue in East Portland.

Tonight was all hers, and she only hoped that the gods of storytelling had beefed up Bo and Hope’s storyline in Days. That couple was her favorite, and they put Felicia and Frisco of General Hospital to shame. Not that Janet didn’t tune into GH when she had the chance.

Before she could sit down, she heard the dryer’s timer buzz.

It seemed early, but it would be best to get her son’s battered Levis out now.

Leaving her wine and crackers on a side table with the VCR cued up, she snagged her empty basket from the bedroom, then walked through the house to the garage and reached for the light switch.

Click.

Nothing happened.

No sizzle and wavering illumination from the aging fluorescents.

Damn it, the bulbs had burned out again!

How many times had she asked Jeff to fix the lights?

Or better yet replace them?

Well, that was then, when she was still married. This is now. She’d do it herself tomorrow, though she found it odd that all the tubes had burned out at once.

Just her luck!

She could still see, at least a little bit. Light from the inside of the house seeped past her and reflected off her car, parked on the far side. Also she knew this little ranch house like the back of her hand, as she’d lived here for the past fifteen years.

Three steps down to the garage where the washer and dryer were nestled together in a back corner next to the utility sink.

She took one step down.

And then the toe of her shoe caught.

She tripped!

Tumbled!

Flailed wildly, her empty laundry basket flying out of her hands to skid across the oil-stained floor where her ex had parked his pickup during their marriage.

She caught herself barely, then her foot hit the rake that had fallen over the second step.

“Wha—?”

She lost her balance and the rake clattered noisily away.

This time she couldn’t catch herself.

She fell, face down, on the dirty concrete.

Bam!

Her head hit.

Face-first.

The cartilage in her nose crunching.

Pain exploded in her face.

Blood gushed from her nose.

The world swam in a wash of pain and she cried out.

Tried to get her bearings.

Stunned, she blinked. Tried to focus in the darkness.

What the hell had happened? The stairs had been clear earlier, and no one was home, and . . . and she couldn’t think. Her heart was pounding in her ears. Blood was running down her face, salty and warm on her lips. And the pain already throbbed.

“Ooh,” she groaned, trying to get her bearings and mentally chastising herself for being such a klutz. She needed to get up, go into the bathroom, clean her wounds, and survey the damage. When was the last time she had a tetanus shot? Did she have any antiseptic? Neosporin?

So much for her cozy night alone with a glass of wine in front of the television.

Testing her arms, she started to push herself upright but paused.

Did she hear an unlikely noise?

The sound of rapid footfalls?

But she was alone. Maybe it was just the fact that she’d had her bell rung—Geez, she might really be concussed. She had to get up and—

Strong hands clamped over her shoulders.

“Hey!” she cried.

From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of her attacker. Someone all in black.

“Stop it!” she sputtered. “Who the hell are you?” She struggled, twisted, throwing punches, kicking wildly. But the man was strong. “Let me go!” Jesus God, he meant to hurt her, or kill her or—

She screamed as loud as she could. Loud enough to wake the dead.

“Stop that!” he commanded gruffly.

But she didn’t. He placed a gloved hand to shut her up, and she bit with all she had. Tasting the leather. Cutting through. Her incisors meeting flesh. Sinking deep enough that she gagged.

He yowled, his grip releasing, and she squirmed, trying to get away, now on her hands and knees. But he snagged a hank of her hair and twisted it while she screamed and writhed and kicked.

“You always were a bitch,” he growled, wrestling her down, face first.

She knew that voice, she thought wildly, thrashing and still wrestling frantically to get free.

But his weight on her back forced her down.

She bucked.

To no avail. With his handful of hair, he drew her head back and then, with one forceful shove, slammed her face onto the concrete edge of the step.

Bang.

Pain burst behind her eyes.

Her body convulsed.

She tried to scream again but only managed to gasp and drag in air.

Her voice wouldn’t work, her vision distorted.

The world began to disappear in the darkness.

She felt him, breathing hard, climbing off of her back.

From the corner of one bleary eye, she saw him bending over her, his wavering silhouette caught in the light from the open kitchen door and strangely familiar.

And then as he lifted her head once more, intent on banging her face against the cement, everything went black.