Night Tides (3 page)

She jumped back into the darkness, too far from her clothes to reach them, and her hands reflexively flew up to protect her modesty. Soft, steady steps approached on the dew-damp grass, accompanied by the jingle of keys. She hunched down, annoyed, and then froze. Her involuntary gasp of fright sounded like a scream in her head as something obvious occurred to her.

It was true that she’d never been shown the future, but what if the vision was absolutely contemporary, happening in real time as she watched?
She needs you now
, they had said. Had the flashlight that momentarily shone her way earlier been held by the girl’s abductor? Was he only now taking her away, where she would be abused and discarded? Or was the girl stashed in the trunk of his car while he trolled other parks,
this
park, for additional victims? Was he standing near her now, keys jingling with every step?

Momentarily she could not even breathe. Like the girl in the vision, she, too, was naked, unable to run or escape. She could be stared at and mocked and fondled, her body no longer her own, belonging to some man who—

No
, she shouted at her panic.
I don’t think that way anymore. Now I’m in charge. No one will do anything to me
. Only the lake spirits had the right to take her, and then only when she allowed it. She would die before she submitted to someone unwillingly.

The distinctive radio crackle brought a flood of relief. The policeman walked slowly along the hill just above her, his flashlight moving across the water’s edge. She’d left one clear footprint in a patch of mud, and if he swung the light to the left he’d spot her easily. But he turned off the flashlight and spoke into his microphone. “Unit 512 here,” he said. “Just checking Hudson Park. Continuing on to Elmside. Jiminez out.” Then she heard the unmistakable trickling sound as he relieved himself against a tree. She bit her lip to keep from laughing, especially when he let out a long, contented sigh.

When he returned to his car and drove away, she emerged from the bushes, trembling and fighting the giggles. Then she dressed.

Hudson Park was located in a lakeside neighborhood whose residents had the kind of clout to ensure regular police patrols. Less than a block in size, it existed to protect the remains of an effigy mound built by the long-departed Native Americans. It was the earthen silhouette of a four-legged animal with a straight tail that extended as far as the curb. Before the street, and the huge houses that lined it, were built, the tail had continued another hundred feet or so, according to the people who studied such things. Constructed centuries before Europeans arrived in the New World by a tribe that no longer existed, its origin and purpose could only be conjectured. Even the animal it depicted was disputed. Some called it a lizard, others a panther. Most used the generic term
water spirit
.

Rachel knew
her
water spirits did not dwell within the mound, like ghosts haunting a mansion. But they considered the spot sacred, along with all the other areas around town, some now lost, where the mounds once existed. Often, the visions they shared with her depicted native tribes gathered around these special places, in solemn rituals whose purpose she could never fathom. And so, to honor her lovers, she always paused by the irregular outline of the effigy’s head, its shape worn away and distorted by time and disrespect, and bequeathed it a moment of solemnity.

She reached beneath the waistband of her shorts and touched the spot below her navel where she had a small, simple tattoo of the mound silhouette. It was invisible beneath her clothes, unless she wore particularly low-slung pants, but it was always there, a sign of her commitment to her lover—or lovers, or whatever they might be. And sometimes, like now, she swore it tingled along its edges.

R
ACHEL JOGGED DOWN
the empty streets toward home. Her tennis shoes slapped the pavement, sharp in the post-midnight quiet. All the big houses were dark, except for those whose motion-triggered security lights blinked on as she passed. These mini-mansions were far too expensive for someone like her, and it always seemed ironic that the people who could afford them had little or no respect for the lake they so desperately wanted to overlook. They thought nothing of tearing out great sections of the shore for their docks and boathouses or cutting down ancient trees that dared obstruct their view. Then they wondered why the unspoiled lake they’d admired seemed to turn all brown and choked, once the plants that anchored the soil had been removed.

She turned a corner and skidded to a stop.

A car was parked at the curb, and two young men leaned down to talk to the driver. All appeared to be in their twenties, with that air of privilege and narcissism distinctive to economic security. As she turned to leave, the car’s headlights bloomed, pinning her the way the flashlight had done the girl in her vision. She froze.

“Hey, honey,” one of the men slurred, “why you in such a hurry?”

“Yeah, we having a party,” another one said, using a ghetto accent that made him sound even more white. “Why don’t you swing around and hang with us, yo?”

Don’t show fear
, she told herself. Maybe it was a coincidence and unrelated to her vision. Still, the warning echoed vividly:
Help her
. Was this what the spirits meant? Was the poor girl waiting in the car, hoping Rachel would save her?

No, she decided. There had been only one consciousness, one malignant entity behind that flashlight. These were just aimless boys looking for someone to scare.

She turned to face them. The car’s stereo exploded into the quiet night, the bass making her chest vibrate. She raised one hand to block the light. “Hey,” she began, “I don’t think—”

Suddenly one of the men was right in front of her, his hand on her wrist, pulling it away from her face. “Hey, yourself. You’re kinda hot, you know that?” He reeked of beer, sweat, and body wash. “You must run all the time to keep those abs so tight.” He lightly patted her exposed belly.

“Man, she a MILF for sure, yo,” said ghetto boy.

“Bring her over,” the car’s driver called. “We’ll all go for a ride. Want to get high, honey?”

Rachel said nothing. This was a situation she could handle. She gave the boy a friendly smile, then drove her right foot down onto his instep. As he hollered and bent double, she slammed the heel of her hand into his nose. His head snapped back and he fell to the pavement.

“Hey, what the fuck?” one of the other boys exclaimed. But by then she was already running, flat out, in the other direction.

She was not panicked, but she knew that if it came down to a physical confrontation, she was outnumbered and overpowered. And if they got her into their car, it would be over. So when she heard the vehicle’s tires squeal as it pulled away from the curb, she left the sidewalk and cut across the silent, dark backyards.

She left a trail of security lights and startled family dogs behind her. Glancing back, she saw the car’s headlights sweep around as it turned the corner and tried to anticipate where she would emerge. She stopped, pivoted, and ran back the way she’d come. They’d have to loop the block to catch her, if they even realized what she’d done—if their Halo-shortened attention spans could even
care
for that long. By then she’d be long gone.

And as she was feeling proud of herself for her strategy, she ran straight into the path of an old pickup truck driving without headlights.

Its tires bit the pavement and she slammed her hands onto the hood, as if she had the strength to stop it. It halted inches from her, engine wheezing as it fought not to stall.

For a long moment, neither she nor the truck moved. The metal was warm beneath her palms, and she felt the engine’s rough trembling. It was an uncharacteristic vehicle for this neighborhood, and doubly so for riding with its lights out.

Then the headlights came on. The driver leaned out and said, “Sorry about that. Forgot to turn on the lights. You okay?”

Something about the voice seemed familiar, and it chilled her far more than the rowdy would-be fraternity rapists following her. But she couldn’t see past the light. “Yeah,” she said, and moved aside. “I should’ve been paying more attention too. No harm, no foul.”

The truck rattled off into the night. She tried to see into the cab as it passed, but the driver remained a faceless silhouette.

Porch lights were coming on around her. She took off again, indirectly toward home. She’d had more than enough excitement, in every sense, for one night.

A
T LAST SHE
emerged onto Williams Street, the demarcation line between the quiet upper-class neighborhoods and the rest of eclectic downtown Madison. Minutes later, she unlocked the back door of the diner she owned. She looked behind her to make sure she hadn’t been followed, but all the streets were empty and silent.

In her apartment above the diner, she methodically locked the doors and ensured that all the blinds were down. Then she undressed again, showered, and pulled on a clean, oversize T-shirt. She wrapped her wet hair in a towel, then checked the blinds again. Satisfied that no one could see, she went to her bedroom closet.

On the top shelf, in the back, inside a Kohl’s department-store box and wrapped in a silk scarf, lay her weapon of choice. She carefully removed the laptop computer from its hiding place and carried it into the living room. She cultivated a reputation as a technological Luddite; none of her friends knew she even owned a computer, let alone that she used it for a single—and singular—purpose.

As she reached for the touch pad, she noticed that her fingers were shaking. She smiled; at one time, a night like this would’ve left her huddled, sobbing, in the back of her closet. Now it barely made her hand tremble.

She got online and clicked on her lone bookmark: the blog for
The Lady of the Lakes
. This was her secret identity, something no one else knew about. It was also the only practical way to pass on the things the lake spirits showed her.

The spirits had first requested her help five years previously. It had been a particularly maddening encounter, as they repeatedly teased her almost to orgasm and then pulled back, leaving her hovering on the edge. When she was finally allowed to climax, the sensation had overwhelmed her, allowing the spirits to communicate with her in an entirely new way.

She’d been given her first vision—so vivid she could recall even the most minor details. She saw a white police officer gleefully beating a skinny black teenager at one of the isolated boat ramps located along the isthmus. The wet crunch of each blow stayed with her, as well as the muffled “Oomph!” from a boy too battered to cry out. The cop occasionally dunked the boy’s head in the lake, to revive him when he passed out from the pain. When the scene faded, the spirits told her in no uncertain terms:
The truth must be known
.

The next day she cautiously went to the police to report it as an incident she’d personally witnessed. They insisted there was no officer matching her description, and no similar crime had been reported. She got the same response from the newspaper. Embarrassed, she’d tried to avoid the lakes after that, but the spirits’ hold on her body was too much to resist.

Months later, on a visit to the state historical museum, she’d stumbled across the officer’s face again, in a photograph from 1975. With his name as a starting point, she found that he’d been acquitted of beating a black teen in 1970. Yet, if the vision was true, he’d actually been guilty.

Rachel found an e-mail address online for the victim, now a middle-aged bus driver living in Mount Horeb. The spirits insisted
the truth must be known
, but, after her experience with the police and newspapers, she was afraid of more humiliation if she wrote him directly.

Then it occurred to her that an anonymous blog, where she could post these visions, would be ideal. And so
The Lady of the Lakes
was born. And with the judicious addition of local gossip and legitimate news, plus a few tricks to make sure she remained untraceable, she managed to hide the lake spirits’ messages in plain sight.

The response had been immediate and overwhelming. Posters jumped to add opinions and other bits of gossip, making the “Comments” section as full of information as any of her entries. And one of the first replies had been a heartfelt thanks from the bus driver’s daughter, who said it was the first time she’d seen her father cry with joy.

She paused for a moment, wondering again if this time they meant something different by
Help
her.
She needs you
. But what? The lake spirits had said nothing about the first two girls; Rachel had picked up the details from the idle talk of the police who frequented her diner. They never glanced twice at her when she refilled their coffee, and it never occurred to them that their gossip might be overheard. She was careful to paraphrase and reword, though, so that nothing could be traced back to the officers involved, and from them to her.