Monster Lake: A Thriller

by J. D. Crayne

  "And don't forget me own sad death in 1561!" Mother Shipton closed her eyes and crooned, "The world to an end shall come, in two-thousand and eighty-one!"

  "Fine!" Steve said, thrusting the paper back at Sancy. We'll send it to the wire services and all the local papers." He stared at her suddenly, perplexed. "How do you know about Mother Shipton?"

  Sancy shrugged. "Folklore 101 term paper. It's all a fake. Most of Mother Shipton's prophesies were made up in 1862 by..."

  Steve grabbed her by the arm and hustled her out of the shop. "Bye, Mom! See you later, whoever you are."

  The door shut behind them, and as they turned to go down the front steps they nearly ran into a dapper figure dressed in buckskins and silver jewelry.

  "Uncle Hank?" Steve said. "What are you doing in town?"

  "I thought the bookstore might have a few books on ceremonial indian garb," the old man said, eying Sancy with a gleam in his eye and the hopeful expression of a practiced lecher.

  "Yeah, we've got Paterek's Encyclopedia of American Indian Costume, and Mail's The Mystic Warriors of the Plains," Steve said, and then frowned. "Why do you need a book on indian costume?"

  "Just to refresh my memory," Uncle Hank said smoothly.

  "Yeah, sure," Steve muttered. "First bookcase to the right, bottom shelf. Don't mind my mother, she's not herself today."

  CHAPTER 3

  Steve and Sancy walked across the street and down the block to the Mayor's Office, a cubbyhole which shared the ground floor of the Lago Office Building with a video rental shop and a pizza parlor, and faxed the press release to every news service they could think of.

  "Do you think many news people will show up?" Sancy asked.

  "The Ukiah Daily Journal will be there. Probably the Willits News, if the weather isn't too bad," Steve said. "Maybe someone from Sacramento or Petaluma. Maybe even the Bay Area, if things are really slow and we're very lucky."

  "If one of the wire services picks it up," Sancy said optimistically, "You might get on a radio or TV broadcast."

  "Yeah," Steve said glumly. "Right after a rollerskating cat or some surfboarding beagle. Do you want to go and see how the monster's coming along."

  "No, I have to go home and work on my resume," she said.

  "Resume?"

  "That's right. I'm applying for a secretarial job in Santa Rosa."

  "Santa Rosa! That's two hours away. We'd never be able to..."

  "That's right!" she snapped suddenly. "I've had enough of waiting around for you to do something about your goofy mother. Face it, Steve, she's bonkers. Ga-ga! Two flavors short of a banana split! She can't even come up with a real prophet!"

  "Are there any?" he asked.

  "I don't know, and I don't care!" She flounced out through the door, which would have slammed if it hadn't been for the closer, which reduced her anger to a gentle "swoosh".

  Steve went out the door behind her and stared as her shapely form vanished down the street.

  He walked slowly along Main Street, head down, scuffing his feet on the pavement, and trying not to think about Sancy. Eventually his steps took him over to the lake shore, where White's Boat Rentals occupied a rust-red corrugated iron building by the side of a rundown dock and a concrete launching ramp. There was a murmur of voices from inside, and he found George Regent and Paul Berquem in earnest conversation with the owner, Marlow White.

  Marlow, a thin, wiry man with shoulder-length graying hair, ldressed in a tobacco brown T-shirt, baggy camouflage pants, and laced boots, looked around, saw Steve, and waved a friendly hand. His gray walrus moustache quirked at the ends.

  "Hiya, Mr. Mayor! What do you think of the monster?" He waved a tobacco-stained hand at the twenty-foot thing that was propped up on four sawhorses in the middle of the floor.

  Steve walked around it, considering, while Paul and George watched him anxiously.

  "Interesting," he said finally. "What did you make it out of?"

  "The foam from a few old surfboards, a bunch of packing material, and some broken ice chests I found floating under the dock," Marlow said easily, pulling at the ragged end of his moustache.

  "Ah! That would account for the blue and pink speckled look," Steve said. "That was very enterprising of you."

  Marlow threw out his skinny chest. "Glued 'em all together, and then shaped it with a hot wire and wood rasp!"

  "Nice job," Steve said, nodding.

  The trio beamed at him.

  "It's great, isn't it!" George said.

  "Yeah, it's nice," Steve said. "I'm not quite sure about the snout and teeth, though," he added cautiously.

  "That's from a picture I got of a World War Two fighter plane," Marlow said, sitting down on a stool by his workbench and picking up a heavy china mug of coffee. "I always wanted to fly one of them things."

  "Uh-huh," Steve said.

  "There's a hole in the belly where we can put the weights, sound system, and motor," Paul said. "So, what do you think?"

  "It's fine," Steve said finally, and his henchmen breathed sighs of relief. "I think you'd better put some paint on the back of it though. You know, slate gray or silver, or something. Just to... ah, sort of downplay the speckles. Leave the belly white. That's the way fish look."

  "And monsters!" George said gleefully, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. "I'll pick up the paint the next time I go to Ukiah."

  "Where are we going to start it off?" Paul asked. "Not too close to town; we don't want anyone to get too good a look at it."

  "How about the mouth of Bilgewater Creek?" Steve suggested. "That's just this side of Dr. Orloff's place, and there's a little inlet where you can get set up without anyone seeing you. I'll try to get the spectators assembled over by the Florentine Palace. There's a good view of the lake from there."

  Paul nodded. "Sounds good. We've got to coordinate the time, though."

  "Synchronize watches!" George said, beaming.

  "I got a couple of war surplus walkie-talkies you can borrow," Marlowe said, rooting around in a deep drawer and pulling out a pair of khaki-colored units. "They'll reach across the lake, easy."

  * * *

  As T-Day drew closer, Steve found himself short of sleep and increasingly nervous, running back and forth to check on the various aspects of the operation.

  The Tlaklot Museum was being installed in Janey Reitz old shooting gallery. The only door to the old gallery opened out of Janey's Lead & Liquor, a well-stocked liquor store that also carried ammunition and a few camping supplies. Her business neighbors had been–understandably, Steve felt– a little concerned about the near proximity of guns, ammo, and all that alcohol, and threatened to hire professional pickets to keep people out. Janey gave in with a good grace, although she was less concerned about the legal aspects of the matter than the aroma of Crosseyed Benny, who had been earmarked to head the picket line.

  This morning a stocky man in khaki pants and a blue checked shirt was leaning on the front counter, telling Janey's clerk to "gimme a six pack of Bud and two boxes of hollow point twenty-twos." Steve repressed a shudder and headed for the arched doorway into the museum.

  The museum was going well. Carlson and Janey had slapped a coat of quick-dry blue paint on the walls of the old shooting gallery and converted the counter to a display of unknown monsters from around the world. Behind the counter, the shooting gallery cogs and chains dragged plywood cut-outs of Nessie, Big Foot, and little green men in space suits across the room. A couple of display cases–picked up at a bankruptcy sale in Kelseyville–held neatly labeled Tlaklot artifacts, including a large wad of coarse black hair and twelve long, black, talons.

  "I think that's a bit of an overkill," Steve said, looking at the late anteater's neatly arranged claws. "What I mean to say is, people are going to wonder why, if we've got the whole set, we haven't got talak... telot... dammit! The thing itself?"

  "Well, hell!" Janey said, puffing on her panatela. "We've got 'em; why not use 'em?"

  "He
has got a point there, though," Carlson said. "Tell you what. Let's split them up. You know, three big ones here, four little ones there, and one or two in another batch. Then we put different labels on them."

  "How so?" Janey asked.

  "Well, we say one group was from the west shore of the Lake and was found in 1997, and another group was found in 2004 on the east side of the lake."

  "By a group of senior citizens having a picnic?" Janey growled.

  "Church group," Steve said. "Church groups always sound really respectable. Just don't say what church."

  He leaned forward, peering at a square of white plaster next to the wad of hair. "Footprint?"

  "George brought it in," Janey said. "He reminded us that you'd put him in charge of footprints."

  "And blurry photos," Steve added gravely. "Where did he get it?"

  Carlson looked embarrassed. "From the way he explained it, the process involved an avocado, a kiwi fruit, and a piece of stale French bread."

  "Very creative," Steve said mildly. He put on his reading glasses and walked slowly along the walls, looking at the neatly framed photos and reading the captions.

  "What's this one?" he asked, peering at the mouth of a gaping and sinister-looking black hole labeled, "Could this be the den of Tlaklot?"

  "Well, actually, it's a wide angle shot of a gopher hole," Carlson said. "My son was trying out the digital camera I bought him for his birthday."

  Steve nodded, congratulated them on a job well-done, and left with a feeling of mild confidence.

  Behind him the museum curators were painting "The Legend of Lake Mendocino," in slightly wobbly blue letters, on a large sheet of plywood. The museum, he felt, was in good hands.

  His next stop was the rancheria and Uncle Hank.

  Here, he ran into the first snag.

  "I had Tippy Comada all lined up to be Maid of the Great Basket," Uncle Hank said sadly, rubbing the side of his nose. "She's 22, built like a Hustler centerfold, and just got her fives." He stroked fingers down across his chin, indicating the tattoos that Huchnom girls got when they finished college. "But she's pissed off at Ernie, because she heard he was dating Elly Bluesky, and when she found out he was going to be one of the guys paddling the Sacred Platform, she refused to have anything to do with it."

  "So, get someone else!" Steve said, exploding. "Dammit, the ceremony is tomorrow at noon!"

  "Now, now," Uncle Hank said soothingly. "I talked to little Amy Cross's mother, and Amy can do it if she's over her cold by them. I 've got her sitting under a blanket with a croup kettle and a handful of ancient Huchnom medicinal herbs."

  "When you call her 'little' Amy Cross..." Steve began.

  "Just turned twelve, but very mature for her age."

  "I was hoping for someone a little more... ah, photogenic," Steve said.

  "Stacked, you mean."

  "Well, yes!"

  Uncle Hank clicked his tongue sadly. "You should be thinking of the spirituality of the event, not the knockers of some nubile young lady."

  "Spirituality hell! I'm thinking of publicity, advertising, and the cover of the Enquirer! What about the other two girls you conned me into subsidizing?"

  "JoLinda broke her leg playing soccer, and Clonice has a bad case of poison ivy."

  Steve groaned. "So we're down to one sacrificial maiden, and she's a flat-chested 12-yr-old?"

  "Looks like that's it," Uncle Hank said placidly. "But we've got the Sacrificial Platform all gussied up, and once we put Amy into a few layers of buckskin, hand weaving, and glittery trinkets no one on the shore will notice. Trust me."

  "Oh yeah, sure," Steve said, tromping off to look at the Sacrificial Platform.

  Here, he had to admit, Uncle Hank's friends and relations had done themselves proud. The platform, resting on a boat trailer, was twelve feet square, with a top made of plywood scraps over a framework of scrounged two-by-fours. Two large propane tanks were lashed under opposite sides, making what looked like a good-sized piece of pontoon bridge.

  What appeared to be the entire rancheria community was gathered around it, chattering cheerfully as they tacked pieces of screen wire to the surface and wove fir twigs, bay laurel, and dried grass through it.

  "Nice job," Steve said, approvingly. "What's that thing in the middle?" He pointed at a square gold-colored object in the center of the platform.

  "Gold-painted cardboard box," said Uncle Hank, who had sauntered along behind him. "We nailed it to the plywood so it'll stay put. You dump the Sacrificial Treasure in that and Amy can fish it out and toss it in the water."

  "Good thinking. In fact, the whole thing looks great!"

  Uncle Hank nodded. "Just like the Mardi Gras floats I worked on in New Orleans."

  "You've been to New Orleans?"

  "Grew up there. Dad was a full-blooded Huchnom, but Ma was a Creole Voodoo Queen."

  Steve stared at Uncle Hank for a moment, started to speak, and then just shook his head. "The ceremony is at noon," he cautioned. "You're going to be ready by then?"

  "Yep. Ernie and his cousin, Zed, will hook up Ernie's pickup and pull the trailer over to town at eleven, then launch the platform off of the boat ramp by White's boat rentals. Amy, Ernie, and Zed climb aboard; the guys row the platform out to the middle of the lake, and then wait for you to give your speech or whatever you're going to do."

  Steve froze. "I hadn't thought about a speech."

  "You ought to have some kind of intro. Tell you what, we've got a couple of tribal drummers. They do a set every Saturday night at the Casino; got costumes and everything."

  Steve sighed and reached for his wallet. "How much?"

  * * *

  The sun was setting as Steve walked rapidly back to town and over to White's, to make sure that Paul had the sound system under control. As he went into the rusted tin building he heard Marlow say, in a cautionary tone, "You oughta test that paint first."

  "It's just paint!" George replied, as he pried the black cap off of the spray can.

  Paul, Marlow, and Sancy Pitt glanced up as Steve came in, and then looked back at George.

  "George, maybe you should..." Sancy began, nervously.

  But George already had his finger on the button and was energetically spraying a thick coat of medium gray paint across the back of the monster. The smell of solvent filled the air.

  "There!" he said happily, stepping back from the foam sculpture. "How does that look?"

  "It's very... " Steve said, and then stopped–as the foam monster softened, developed gaping holes in several places, collapsed into itself, and began to drip onto the floor.

  There was dead silence for a long moment.

  "I warned you," Marlow said laconically, pulling at his moustache. "Damn. I really liked that Flying Tiger look, too."

  "I'll kill him!" Steve yelped. "Dammit, I'll wring his god damned neck!" he yowled, lunging for George, who was clutching the empty spray can to his chest and staring in disbelief at the rapidly disintegrating monster.

  Paul and Marlow grabbed Steve, while Sancy plucked the spray can from George's hands and scanned the label.

  "It must have been the toluene and acetone," she said sadly. "I don't think you're supposed to use them on plastics."

  "I don't care what the hell it was," Steve yelled. "The ceremony is twelve hours away and all we've got for a monster is a puddle of melted plastic!" He pulled away from his captors, staggered to a wooden stool and collapsed onto it, staring at the ruins.

  Paul prodded gingerly among the puddled plastics and pulled out various sealed metal containers, lengths of wire, and a small propeller. "Now what?" he asked.

  Marlow scratched his chin. "Trash bags?" He suggested. "You could tie four or five big black ones together and fill them with packing peanuts. Might look okay from a distance. Hang the other stuff from a rope underneath."

  "Trash bags!" Steve groaned. "Maybe we ought to tape a Halloween mask to the end of it too, just for atmosphere."

  "Can't get
Halloween junk this time of year," Marlow said, tugging at his moustache again. "You'll have to make do without."

  Steve buried his head in his hands.

  After a few minutes of hushed conversation, the Tlaklot construction crew decided to send George to Ukiah for penance – and a couple of rolls of black plastic sheeting, some packing tape, and a roll of clothesline.

  "We can make a long tube with the plastic and tape, fill it with packing peanuts like Marlow suggested, and then tie it off in segments," Paul said. "Make it look sort of like a big, water-going, caterpillar."

  "Why not add a mushroom and a big hookah too?" Steve said bitterly.

  "Cheer up!" Paul said, in a hearty voice. "Things could be a lot worse. I rescued the motor, sonar, and sound system, and all we have to do is hook up the batteries again and tie them to the new monster. It will be easy as pie, you'll see."

  While Paul cleaned congealed plastic off of his components, and Steve stared morosely off across the gleaming water of the lake–checking his watch every five minutes or so–Sancy took Paul's truck and went off in search of packing peanuts and Marlow cheerfully began building a monster head from shards of junk fiberglass.

  "I know you wanted a Halloween mask," he said, in a consoling sort of voice," but I figure we can tape this to the plastic tube and the whole thing'll look sort of like those Chinese dragons that dance in the streets at New Year's. Since you can't get the mask, that is."

  Steve closed his eyes and counted slowly to himself.

  Sancy came skidding back about an hour later, the back of Paul's truck piled high with sacks of plastic peanuts.

  "Everybody in town had bags of the stuff sitting in the garage," she said breathlessly, as she started unloading bags from the back of the truck. "They practically kissed me when I said I'd take it off their hands!"

  George's car rolled into the parking lot just then, and he hurried into the rusty iron building with a large shopping bag in each hand.

  The construction crew set to work.

  By the time they were done with Tlaklot Two it was after midnight and they were red-eyed and exhausted.

  "Eight o'clock in the morning," Steve mumbled. "Be here at eight. Gotta get the thing into the back of the truck and over to Bilgewater Creek. The Sacrificial Platform is gonna be here at elev... elev..." He yawned enormously. "Eleven o'clock."