Читаем The Lake полностью

He studied her face; saw the tears, her clenched jaw. The defiance still there.

His smirk broke out again.

“That’s a good li’l gal. Uncle Mace don’t like gals who get flighty…”

She wriggled her feet.

The twine sliced into her calves and ankles.

She pulled a face. Struggling only worsened the pain.

Mace is one sick fuck, she fumed inwardly, but he sure knows how to tie a person up.

In desperation, she stared at her legs: pale, puffy, crisscrossed with twine. “Dear God, Mace,” she gasped. “This hurts—I’m gonna get gangrene if you don’t untie me.”

Suddenly, the full realization of what Mace could do hammered home. The damage…the pain he could inflict.

She began to shake.

“Scared, honey?”

Her lips stayed shut. She shot him a sour look.

“No reply, huh? Maybe you’d care for another crack?”

The next one rocked her jaw.

Harder this time.

Starting up the pain where Nelson had slugged her two weeks ago.

“Uuugghh…,” she gasped, shaking her head. She felt a gush of blood spurt and rise inside her mouth, but her top teeth seemed to be embedded in her lower lip. She eased them free. Blood flowed out and down her chin.

Do this one more time, the fucker’s gonna break my neck.

Cringing with pain, her hand flew to her jaw. Her lips felt slick and rubbery. She scowled, clenched her teeth, and muttered, “Up yours, shit-face.”

His brows lifted slightly.

“Let’s pretend I didn’t hear that, sugar…”

She glared at him. But he seemed distant, as if his mind was on other things. It was.

Tilting his head, he looked at her, admiring his handiwork. The swollen eyes, bruised mouth, cut lips, the trickle of blood sliding down her chin…

Then, reaching forward, he slipped her blouse off one shoulder.

Not satisfied with that, he pulled it down some more, until her breast peeked out.

Deana cringed. Went taut. Goose bumps squirmed all over her body.

Gently, Mace fingered her breast, tracing swirls around it, touching up the hard dark nipple.

Her stomach shriveled. She pulled away from him, scarcely breathing.

His eyes held hers for a moment.

Daring her to move…

She lurched forward, thinking about screaming, throwing herself at him, clawing at his face, blinding him with her nails…

Then he was stepping away, like an artist assessing his masterpiece.

Deana gave up. She went still.

Now for the final touch…

That long black hair.

His hands came at her, reaching out, holding the dark shiny strands between his fingers…savoring the silky feel. Then he fussed around, arranging it over her shoulders.

“Mmmm—huh!” He seemed pleased with the effect. Humming under his breath, he took a little time poking around in the holdall. He brought out the Nikon and several unopened reels of film.

No need for Polaroids today. The light’s okay.

Everything should go according to plan.

He was about to create another Mace Harrison masterpiece. A surge of satisfaction, anticipation, welled up inside him. It felt good and warm.

Lifting his eyes skyward, he gave a cynical smile.

“This one’s for you, Daddy,” he whispered.

FIFTY-EIGHT

Mace bunched his lips in a fake kiss.

“Smile for the birdie, sweetheart,” he murmured, putting the camera to his eye. Moving back slightly, he extended the lens and adjusted it, twisting it around between finger and thumb.

He wanted all of Deana in the frame. First off, standing against the cabin wall. It’d be the perfect foil for her pale, bruised body. Plus the fact there’d be no giveaway clues…

Just Deana and the shitty ol’ pinewood wall.

Deana: tears coursing down her cheeks, jaw hanging loose, bloodied lips all swollen…eyes dark, frightened, pleading…

He aimed to cover every angle.

Left side…

“Stay still, sugar.”

Front.

Then the right side…

“I’m comin’ in now…”

He zoomed in. Getting one or two head shots in close-up.

Engrossed in his work, Mace clicked away for fifteen minutes or so, changing the film when necessary.

That done, he replaced the camera in the holdall.

Deana blurted a gasp of relief. She slid down the wall, feeling the floor cold and damp beneath her buttocks. She felt wrecked. Salt tears welled, spilling down her cheeks, nipping at her cut lips.

Eyes on Mace the whole time.

Watching him warily, like a mouse in the thrall of a cat.

Mace beamed, showing his rows of straight white teeth. “How ’bout breakfast?” he said, zipping up the holdall. “I’m starvin’!”

Over at the food box, he brought out a sandwich. “Here,” he said, peeling down the wrapper. “Take a bite.”

Deana couldn’t stop the rush of blood rising to her head.