Monster Lake: A Thriller

by J. D. Crayne

  George staggered to a cot at the back of the building, promising to guard the new creation with his life, closed his blue eyes, and was soon blissfully snoring.

  Paul checked out the whale songs on the CD player, made a final test of the propulsion system, pronounced it all lake-worthy, and left.

  Marlow White locked up the building, whistling happily to himself, and strode off down the street.

  Steve and Sancy, left alone in the parking lot, looked at each other.

  "Look," Steve said finally, "how about driving over to Redwood Valley? There's an all-night cafe, and we could get some coffee and a piece of blackberry pie."

  Sancy shook her head. "I'm sorry Steve, but it just didn't work out. We might as well call it quits now. Let's just go our separate ways and forget about it."

  "That's going to be pretty hard for me to do," he said, scuffing the toe of one shoe in the dust. "I was planning our future, you know?"

  "I know," she said gently. "You're a nice guy, but... well, let's just leave it at that."

  He nodded glumly. "You'll be here tomorrow morning?"

  "Wouldn't miss it!" she said brightly, turned away, and walked into the darkness of the rural night.

  When Steve got home, his mother's Finnish control, Nuupalokka Susiluola, was back again, drumming away for dear life in the living room. They nodded at each other without speaking, and Steve staggered off to bed.

  * * *

  T-Day dawned bright and clear, with the promise of heat by midday. Steve managed to drag himself out of bed when the alarm went off, dressed rapidly, tiptoed past his mother's bedroom door–in case someone new had woken up–grabbed a cup of coffee and a piece of toast, tucked the Sacrificial Treasure under his arm, and made it to Marlow White's Boat Rentals by five minutes to eight.

  Marlow was just unlocking the door, and the two men went inside to find George Regent still sound asleep. Tlaklot Two, however, was just as they had left it, and Steve breathed a sigh of relief.

  Resisting the urge to kick him, Steve prodded George awake and set him to work finding tarps to throw over the monster during its trip to Bilgewater Creek.

  Ernie showed up at eleven o'clock, driving his rusty old Ford pickup with Zed Cross in the passenger seat, towing the trailer that supported the decorated Sacrificial Platform. Riding on the platform were Uncle Hank in full regalia, a couple of muscular indian men in costume, what looked like most of the rancheria population, and a plump twelve-year-old girl wearing buckskins sewn over with shells, some long silver necklaces, and a pair of bright pink water-wings. She grinned, showing the braces on her front teeth, and snapped her bubble gum at him.

  "No!" Steve yelped, slamming a handful of sacrificial gewgaws down onto the dirt of the boat rental parking lot. "No, absolute NOT! I will not have a snaggle-toothed kid in water-wings pretending to be a sacred virgin of the whatever the hell she's supposed to be!"

  "She can't swim," Uncle Hank explained.

  "I don't give a damn!" Steve yelled, looking as though he wanted to stomp on the sacred treasure. "She is not going out there in pink florescent floats! What the hell do you think this is? The water slide at some amusement park? I want this to be newsworthy, not a goddammed laughing stock!"

  He looked around frantically, and caught sight of a familiar curly blonde head by the corner of the truck. He stomped over and grabbed her by the arm.

  "Sancy! YOU can swim!"

  "Yeah, sure," she said, confused. "We've been swimming together a lot of times. You know that."

  "Right! Now get into the bathroom with that kid and put on her costume."

  "I don't think it will fit," she said doubtfully.

  "Then put on as much of it as you can get into! Whatever hangs out is candy for the camera men."

  Behind him twelve-year-old Amy Cross was puckering up and getting ready to cry.

  "You said I could do it!" she wailed to Uncle Hank. "You said I could be the Sacred Maiden of the Great Basket!"

  Steve spun around, dug into his wallet, and pulled out a couple of bills. "Look, honey," he said, "wouldn't you like a great big chocolate ice cream soda over at the cafe?"

  She stared at him shrewdly, blinking back her tears. "A banana split and a big box of chocolate creams."

  "Okay, okay," Steve said, handing over the money. "Uncle Hank will take you. I can tell you're one of his relatives. Now please, go into the restroom with the nice lady and let her have your clothes!"

  George, Marlow, and Paul – who had arrived at the last minute–loaded Tlaklot Two onto Paul's truck. Steve handed them one of Marlow's walkie-talkies and they took off for Bilgewater Creek with a screech of rubber and a cloud of exhaust smoke.

  Steve ran the fingers of both hands through his hair and groaned. "There are people out there waiting to see this aren't they? Please, someone tell me we've got a crowd!"

  "Oh, yeah! No problem," Ernie said. "We drove past the marina and the Florentine Palace on the way in, and there were about fifty people standing around, leaning on the guard rails and staring at the water, plus a bunch of people on the boats. Lots of folks inside having breakfast too. That ought to cheer up the Briolette Bombshell!"

  Steve sighed in relief. Behind him the rancheria crew was sliding the Sacrificial Platform down some skids and into the water.

  "You got a couple of news crews too," Ernie went on. "One of them came all the way from 'Frisco, because I recognized the talent – that smarmy guy with the toothy grin from Channel 6."

  "Dubery Percale?" Steve asked in disbelief.

  "Yeah, that's the guy! He's got a cameraman with him, and he was talking to Hubert Pigott. They were laughing about something."

  "It's probably been a slow news week," Uncle Hank said, shushing Amy Cross, covered by a t-shirt that came down to her knees, who was pulling at his hand and whining about banana splits. "But one must not look a gift horse in the mouth. You might get a nice thirty seconds of air time out of this, maybe even before the first commercial break."

  "What do you know about air time!" Steve demanded.

  Uncle Hank shrugged. "Six years on a station in Chicago," he said. "The deadlines were bad for my nerves so I gave it up."

  Steve gaped for a moment, but just then Sancy came out of the rest room, with Amy's costume covering most of the strategic points, and a lot of Sancy bulging over the top.

  "I think I popped a seam," she said nervously.

  "Forget about the seams, you look terrific!" Steve said. "Now get on that float, wait until you reach the middle of the lake and then toss the junk into the water. Oh, and ... and... chant something!"

  "What am I supposed to chant?"

  "I don't know! Ya-ya-ya Wa-ha-ha-ha... You know, something ethnic!"

  "'Tlaklot, Tlaklot, Tlaklot?"

  "I don't care what the hell you chant! Just get out there and do it!"

  Behind him, the drummers on the raft were beginning a few experimental thumps. Sancy waded cautiously through the ankle-deep water and climbed onto the raft. Ernie and Zed plied their paddles. The Sacrificial Platform was on its way.

  Uncle Hank nodded. "Looks nice," he said, "just like a Rose Parade float on water."

  "What do you..." Steve began, and then stopped. "Never mind! Go get the kid her box of chocolates!"

  CHAPTER 4

  Steve hurried up Main Street toward the Florentine Palace, praying that George, Paul, and Marlow would get the monster launched by the time that the raft reached the middle of the lake. He didn't care if the damned thing sank afterwards, as long as it made it's official appearance in time with Sancy's distribution of the Treasure.

  By the time he reached the guard rails at the lake shore, he had a stitch in his side and was panting. He forced himself to slow to a walk, and tried to smile and make a dignified approach to the crowd that was milling around by the restaurant patio.

  "That's him," he heard a male voice say.

  A few people looked around, and a moment later Steve's upper arm was taken in a firm
grip and he was hustled toward the guardrail by a TV personality with a toothpaste smile, bright blue eyes, and blond hair spray-set into stiff waves.

  "Stand here!" Dubery Percale said, jamming him up against the railing.

  Beyond Percale, Steve saw Hubert Pigott, dressed in a pale yellow jacket, brown silk shirt, and yellow and brown checked slacks. Pigott was rocking back and forth on his heels and grinning.

  Percale turned toward a man with a camera on his shoulder said, "Okay, on me in three," raised a foam-covered microphone to chin level, and counted.

  The camera started.

  The reporter's white teeth gleamed in the sunlight. "Dubery Percale here, by little Lake Mendocino in Northern California. We're on the north shore of the lake, where a ceremony is about to take place that will keep the local lake monster from eating the tourists." He laughed cheerfully. "It's a great day for it, I must say! I'm standing in front of the town's only restaurant – this isn't San Francisco, folks!– and I have with me the Mayor of the town of Solitaire." The white teeth gleamed again. "Tell me, Mr. Mayor, how old is this ceremony?"

  "Real old," Steve said, trying to smooth his face into an affable expression. "Centuries back sort of thing, you know."

  "Before the White Man arrived in this pristine wilderness, you mean?"

  "Oh yeah, long before that," Steve said, doing his best to smile convincingly.

  "Then why is it that we've never heard of it before?"

  "It's ... ah... Secret ceremonial stuff."

  "I see," Percale said, smiling in a superior sort of way. "Then why are we being allowed to see it today?"

  "Well, as I understand it, there's some sort of increased threat," Steve said brightly. "You know, like a heightened terror alert."

  "Since Lake Mendocino is a man-made lake, with a dam at the outlet end, doesn't it seem a bit unlikely that it would be the home of some ancient monster?" Percale flashed a broad smile at the camera.

  Steve swallowed hard and then said, "Oh no. You see, there was a... a... sinkhole in the middle of the original river that no one had ever explored. Bottomless, you know!"

  "Ah! I see that you're holding a walkie-talkie, Mr. Cullinan. What would that be for?"

  "Crowd control," Steve managed to croak. "In case people get too carried away with the spectacle."

  "Well, I think I see the raft making it's way out into the lake now," Percale said into the microphone. "If you'll just move back a bit, so that our camera can get a good look at it... I hear the sound of drums coming across the water, folks, and it's a very pretty sight in the sunlight. That's a lovely young lady standing on the middle of it too. I don't think I've ever seen a blonde indian girl before."

  "Peroxide," Steve said through gritted teeth. "You must have heard of it," he added, staring pointedly at Percale's waved hair.

  Percale's lips tightened for a moment and then he smiled broadly against and asked, "Will you be staying on, as Honorary Mayor, perhaps, after the town properties are sold?"

  "I don't know anything about any property being sold," Steve said stiffly.

  "Oh? I understand from Mr. Hubert Pigott, the noted Bay Area property manager, that papers have already been drawn up for sale of the local winery, bait shop, restaurant, and antique store."

  Steve glared at Pigott, who was still rocking and grinning. "They may be drawn up, but they haven't been signed!"

  Just then the ululating song of the humpbacked whale came floating over the water. Steve whipped around to look out across the lake. An undulating series of black humps, shining in the water, was bobbing along slowly on the far side of the raft. Steve took a deep breath. Tlaklot Two was on time.

  The sun was high in a cloudless blue sky. It was a beautiful day; one of those hot autumn days that send people outside in shorts and suntan lotion. Along the shore tourists were laughing and pointing, and he could hear the click and whirr of cameras.

  Reverend John Finsch, pastor of Solitaire's only religious establishment–the non-denominational Brotherhood of the Spirit Church–had gathered a small group of the more devout locals around himself, and was talking to them earnestly about the ecumenical approach and tolerance for other people's beliefs. Steve noticed that Carlson Hope's daughter Bernadette, a slender, eighteen-year-old with a pale face and long fair hair like her father's, was one of the crowd and seemingly hanging on the pastor's every word.

  Next to him, Dubery Percale was snickering. "Well, there you have it, folks! The lake monster has made its appearance right on schedule. We can hear it singing across the water. And now the lovely young girl is tossing some glittering stuff into the water. I can't quite hear what she's saying over the sound of the drums. It sounds like "take a lot, take a lot," and she's certainly throwing enough stuff into the water for it to take! Say, Mr. Mayor, none of those... err... offerings... are likely to pollute... JEEZUS CHRIST, what the hell is THAT!"

  Out in the water a massive black shape, glistening in the water, had come up under one corner of the raft, tipping it dangerously. The raft righted itself and then a surging white wake cut through the blue water and ended at the bobbing shape of Tlaklot Two. There was a flurry of white spray and suddenly Tlaklot Two was nothing more than shreds of black film floating on the water. The crowd was suddenly silent.

  The humpback whale music still sang across the water, and part of Steve's brain noted that the foam casing which held the batteries and CD player must be working just fine.

  Now the raft was bobbing ominously again. A huge black mass gathered under it and heaved. People on the shore screamed as the raft tipped up on edge, sliding drummers, paddlers, and Sancy Pitt off into the water.

  Steve ran for the stairs that led down into the little marina and jumped onto a twenty-foot Stejcraft, whose owner was holding a martini and goggling at the carnage with disbelief.

  "Get out there and pull those people out of the water!" Steve demanded.

  To his credit, the martini-drinker was a decisive man and a good pilot. He started the engine, backed out of the marina, and was on the way out into the lake before Steve had hardly caught his breath.

  They reached Ernie first and Steve hauled him aboard as the boat idled in the water.

  "It got Zed!" Ernie gasped. "Damn, I never saw such a mouthful of teeth in my life! It snapped him in half and gulped down the pieces!"

  He coughed, leaned over the side, and was busy being sick when they intercepted Sancy, who was swimming toward shore with long practiced strokes.

  "What happened? What was that thing?" she asked, eyes round with fright.

  Steve pulled her out of the water and held her close. "I don't know what it was! Migod, honey, are you okay?"

  She nodded, her teeth chattering. "We didn't make anything like that, did we?" she asked with a shiver.

  "We sure as hell didn't!" Steve said hoarsely, settling her down on one of the boat's padded benches and chaffing her hands between his.

  The Stejcraft pilot gunned his engine and headed for the overturned raft, which was floating just under the water, held up by its butane-tank pontoons. One of the drummers was clinging to the side of it, and the other was a few yards away, using his drum as a float. Bits of greenery and dried grass were floating everywhere, mixed in with ripped pieces of black plastic and foam scraps from Tlaklot Two. An ominous string of bubbles was rising to the surface from somewhere in the depths of the lake.

  They rescued the two sodden drummers, plus the drum which its owner refused to abandon, and the pilot cut a long arcing curve and headed back to the marina.

  A flashy silver and blue Glastron passed them at full throttle, throwing up spray on both sides like a head of high pressure steam, and heading straight for the wreckage of the float. Seated behind the pilot were Dubery Percale, with his microphone in hand, and his trusty cameraman with the TV camera on his shoulder.

  "Hey! I don't think you ought to go out there!" Steve hollered as they passed, but aside from a casual wave by Percale, the Glastron passengers paid
no attention.

  Steve watched, holding his breath, as the Glastron slowed down and nosed gently in among the debris. Dubery Percale and his companion were both on their feet now, and Percale was talking into his microphone, gesturing toward the overturned raft for the benefit of the camera.

  Then, with a sudden hissing roar, the water parted and a shining black form shot upward, catching the Glastron at the bow and upending it in the water. The three men on board went flying into the air and the Glastron sank slowly, stern first, into the depths. The continuing whale song echoed triumphantly across the ripples.

  Sancy buried her face in Steve's shoulder, and the Stejcraft pilot was muttering, "Ohmigod," over and over again.

  * * *

  The County Sheriff's officers took Steve over the same story again and again. How the City Council had planned the ceremony with the help of the local Huchnom community, how they had rigged a "monster" out of plastic and foam, and how they'd rigged up the sound system.

  "But that's all it was!" Steve insisted. "It was harmless. Completely harmless! I don't know what happened out there on the lake."

  "That's what you say," Sargent Skulper, the middle-aged officer doing the questioning, said skeptically, leaning back in one of the Florentine Palace's dining room chairs.

  It was well after dark, and they were in the small back parlor, where the City Council had first hatched the lake monster plot–in what seemed like years before, but was less than two weeks past.

  "We've got an eyewitness who claims he saw a man chewed in half right in front of him." The officer rubbed his nose pensively. "Plus, there's three other men missing, and one of them is a TV reporter with a damned good rating."

  A younger officer, who was taking notes, cleared his throat. "Ah, not exactly missing. The TV reporter, I mean. I just got word that someone picked up his microphone over on the west shore, with his hand still wrapped around it."

  "Make that missing and presumed dead then," Sergent Skulper said. "Now, you want to add anything to your statement?"