No way.
No fucking way!
Rusty whipped his wheel to the right, cutting in front of Bass's car.
The Pontiac's headlights swept across his hood, glared on his windshield, held him. He clutched the steering wheel with all his strength.
The crash stunned him.
The impact tried to jerk him free, but he held on. He held on as the Pontiac knocked his car sideways, as the curb tripped his tires, as his patrol car flipped and the stone wall smashed his windshield, crunched his roof. He held on so tightly that his hands cramped as the car continued to roll, righted itself, and dropped.
God, this is it!
Taking a deep breath, he braced himself and watched through the break in the windshield. The moon was a brilliant, pale disk. Never before had he seen it looking so pure and bright.
His car tilted backward and its hood blocked out the moon.
Chapter Fifty-two
The Kill
Pac was lying belly-down on the parking-lot pavement when she heard the collision. She raised her head. The wheels of Rusty's patrol car turned skyward like the paws of a dog rolling over. Then the whole car dropped out of sight.
She stared, uncomprehending at first.
Then she knew.
Oh God, no! No!
She lowered her head and pressed her cheek against the rough cool pavement.
A long time seemed to go by. Then she heard the huge, distant thump of the car punching through the surface of Silver Lake.
She looked up.
And saw Bass staggering backward, eyes on his big red Pontiac. Though its front was smashed in, Rusty had stopped it from plunging over the cliff.
Below the raised, crumpled hood, flames flapped in the breeze.
Bass kept backing away. He was hunched over at the waist. His right arm was crossed against his chest.
He lurched toward the rear of his car.
Pac watched him look into the trunk.
Then she lowered her head. Through the slits of her nearly shut eyelids, she watched him turn away from the trunk and look for her.
She didn't breathe.
Bass turned again to the trunk. Reaching into it, he pulled out the severed head.
Faye's . . .
No, not Faye's.
It was Faye's body in the trunk -- what was left of it. But it was Alison Parkington's head.
Faye's head got mashed by the truck.
Alison's head swung by its short blonde hair, ruddy in the firelight, as Bass rushed with it to the parapet.
He swept the head forward, whipped it high over his own head and down again, around and around like a nutty kid winding up for a killer pitch.
Finally, he let go. Alison's head soared away into the darkness.
Pac waited.
She didn't hear it hit the water.
Bass started coming back.
Flames licked under the rear bumper of his Pontiac as if tasting carefully before rushing over it.
Bass bent into the trunk. The flames seemed to hold back until he had Faye's body out. As he staggered away with it, they curled into the trunk.
Ready!
Get set!
Bass stumbled and dropped the body. Then he crouched, hauled it off the pavement, and hoisted it again until it flopped over his shoulder.
He trudged toward the parapet.
Pac stared at Faye's bare back, at her dangling, swaying arms.
At the empty space below her back and between her arms -- where her head should've been.
That's Faye!
Faye?
He'll do as bad to me. . . .
Go!
Pac hesitated.
What if he looks around?
At least his hands are full.
Yeah. And mine are cuffed behind my back.
Terrific.
GO!
Pac rolled onto her back, sat up and sprang to her feet. Though her left knee throbbed, she started running. The pavement sent shock waves up her leg. Each time her heel came down, she strained to keep her knee from giving out and dropping her to the asphalt.
The harsh shocks diminished when the parking lot ended and she ran on the solid dirt of the trail. But the downhill slope seemed to rip at the fibers in her knee, tearing gasps from her as the pain seared.
In the moonlight that mottled the trail with milky puddles, she saw a turn too late. Her shoulder slammed into a tree trunk. The blow twisted her around and she fell. The ground hit her hard.
"PAC!" Bass shouted from somewhere above.
Here he comes!
She struggled to her feet and ran.
She saw the next switchback in time, slowed herself, and made the turn. As she ran, she listened for Bass. She heard nothing except her own harsh breathing, her own quiet gasps of pain, her own blood pumping inside her ears.
He was on his way, though. She was sure of that and the certainty made her keep running.
Soon, she heard Bass behind her.
She ran faster. Hammers seemed to pound her kneecap. She could hear Bass huffing for breath. She ran faster. Then her knee gave out. Her leg collapsed and she plunged forward through the darkness. Making a half-turn, she hit the ground shoulder first. She slid. When she stopped, she held her breath for a moment and listened.
The panting came from above her.
Rolling onto her back, she looked up.
Bass stood a few feet away, pressing his right arm to his chest. A patch of moonlight showed his agonized, bloody face. The streaks of blood looked black.
"Stupid bitch," he muttered. Bending down, he grabbed her under an arm and pulled. "Get up. On your feet."
As she rose to her feet, she staggered against him. He held her up and began walking her slowly down the trail toward the lake.
A few minutes later, she thought she recognized the place on the trail where she and Rusty had grabbed Trink and Bill.
She remembered tripping the girl. Now she wondered if maybe this was some sort of cosmic payback.
However much Trink had gotten banged up when she fell on the trail, Pac had already gotten it ten times worse. And Rusty . . .
Oh, Rusty. Rusty.
I can't think about that.
Anyway, I'll probably end up the same way.
Soon, the ground leveled off. Pac saw a trail sign, but trees shaded it from the moonlight so she couldn't make out its letters or numbers.
Bass led her to the right, toward the picnic area, toward the shore of the lake.
Maybe that woman'll still be here.
Fat chance.
Maybe someone . . .
"What are you going to do?" she asked.
Bass didn't answer.
"Are you going to drown me?"
"Not exactly." His voice was tight with pain. "I'm going to sink you. You'll be dead first."
"How?"
"You'll find out."
She felt his body go tense with pain then relax as the agony subsided. "Get a little banged up in the crash?" she asked.
"That fuck shot me."
"Good."
His fingers squeezed into the skin of Pac's upper arm until she winced.
"If you get treated for the gunshot," she said, "they'll have to report you."
"So who's gonna get treated? It just nicked me. Hurts like shit, though."
Ahead of them was the moonlit clearing. Bass led Pac into it, past a picnic table, past another.
She saw no one.
"Bass," she said, "don't do this."
He flung her to the ground. She cried out as the cuffs bit into her. A few moments later, the pain subsided and she felt the wet grass against her back and buttocks. She sat up.
Just to her left, the ground dropped off.
That's where the woman had been sunbathing this morning.
But nobody seemed to be there now.
At the bottom of the embankment should be the lake shore. Only ten or twelve feet away, probably, but Pac couldn't see it.
I can't see it, but it's there.
If I can just get away from Bass for a second . . . throw myself in . . .
"Do I get a last wish?" she asked.
"Sure."
"Take off these cuffs."
"Oh, I will. Soon as you're dead."
"Do it now, okay? I don't want to die with my hands cuffed behind my back. Please?"
"You think I'm a fucking idiot?"
"No."
"The cuffs stay on."
"Thanks a heap."
"You're welcome." He knelt on the grass beside Pac, shoved her down, then straddled her hips. Bending over, he took hold of her breasts. He rubbed them, squeezed them, pinched her nipples.
She jerked rigid.
Then she was crying.
Crying from the pain, crying from the shame of being naked under this man, cuffed and at his mercy, crying for the death of Rusty and for her own death, soon to come. Crying for poor Millie, made a widow tonight, her husband down in the line of duty. Crying for Harney, who would have to face the loss of his father and his wife -- both gone the same night -- along with whatever children she might've given him if things had gone differently.
The children she would never see, hold, kiss, watch grow.
"This is great," Bass said. "Mary Hodges, the Pac, crying like a baby. Never thought I'd see it."
"You . . . you don't . . . have to do this."
"Sure I do." He suddenly slapped the side of her left breast.
"Ah!" she cried out.
"Awww, poor Pac."
"Get off me!"
"Sure."
"Get off me right now, Bass. Right now! Or I swear to God I'll kill you."
"Oh, really? Going to come and get me from beyond the grave?"
"If that's what it takes!"
"Good luck," he said, smiling down at her. Then he slapped her other breast. . . .
And Pac swung both her legs up very fast, curling her back, spreading her legs wide and bringing them up and forward, past Bass's sides . . .
Forward very fast, ignoring the pains of her battered body.
Almost like one of the backward somersaults she used to do with such ease during the floor exercises . . .
Curling her back, bringing her legs over the top . . .
She pistoned both her legs, shooting her bare heels straight and hard into Bass's face.
She cried out with pain.
Bass let out a grunt.
The impact slammed him backward.
His weight no longer pinned her down.
She flipped herself clear of his sprawled, squirming body. Away from him, she leaped to her feet.
Bass shoved at the ground, trying to sit up.
Pac rushed in and kicked an arm out from under him.
He flopped on his back.
She stomped his face with one foot. Her heel crunched his nose. He grunted.
Standing by his side, she bent her knees then hopped off the ground.
Hopped as high as she could.
Which seemed pretty damn high, considering that she'd been out of training for a few years.
On her way up, she did a ninety-degree turn in midair.
At the highest point in the jump, she brought her feet up behind her. Her handcuffed hands were right there. She gripped her ankles.
Then she dropped.
Dropped straight down, fast.
She landed, knees first, of Bass's ribcage.
Pain shot through her injured knee.
But both of them crashed through Bass's ribs, punching an ear-ripping squeal out of him.
Spreading her legs, she eased herself down Bass, straddling him.
He squeaked and thrashed and squirmed.
"What've you got there?" Pac asked, gasping for air. "A little respiratory failure?"
He squeaked some more.
"Miserable, pathetic bastard," she said. "I hate to tell you this, but you just got yourself killed by a girl with both hands tied behind her back."
"And by her pissed-off father-in-law," someone said. A few feet away, a pistol roared. A blast of fire, bright as lightning, lit the stainless steel frame of an enormous Smith & Wesson revolver and Rusty's dripping face a small distance behind the weapon.
Bass's head jumped sideways as if it had been struck in the temple by a sledgehammer. Pieces flew off.
"Holy shit," Pac said.
But she couldn't hear her own voice through the ringing in her ears.
Chapter Fifty-three
After
Pac started crying again.
"Hey, it's all right," Rusty said, his voice soft and husky. He bolstered his revolver. Then he crawled the rest of the way up the embankment and sat down beside Pac. She was still straddling Bass's body. "Everything's fine," he said.
"I thought you were dead."
Rusty shook his head. "A little wet, that's all. Hell of a ride. I guess Merlon's still down there."
"Hmm."
"I damn near drowned, myself. Remind me not to drive off Loser's Leap again, will you?"
"Don't drive off Loser's Leap again, Rusty."
He laughed softly. Then he said, "You gonna sit on Bass all night?"
Sobbing, she nodded. Then she stammered out, "My . . . hands are cuffed."
"I'll take care of that." He crawled behind her. "You sure did a job on him, Packer. A hell of a job." He unlocked the handcuffs and removed them from her wrists.
"Thanks." She brought her stiff arms slowly in front of her. Both wrists were deeply grooved, cut and bleeding. Her hands were numb.
She climbed off Bass's body and sat down on the cool, dewy grass. Rusty sat down beside her.
"You okay?" she asked.
"I've been better."
He ruffled her hair. She smiled and wiped her eyes.
Though her ears still rang from the gunshot, she heard a distant siren.
"Cavalry to the rescue," Rusty said. He took off his shirt and helped Pac put her arms through the sleeves. It was wet and cold and stuck to her skin.
Pac tried to fasten the buttons, but her numb fingers felt thick and useless. "I can't get 'em," she said.
"Allow me, ma'am." Rusty buttoned the shirt for her, slowly and gently. "There you go," he said when he was finished. "Can you walk?"
"With a little help."
Rusty gave her the help.
Together, they made their slow way through the darkness. When the walking became too hard for Pac, Rusty carried her. They were halfway up the trail when two deputies appeared, running, flashlights streaking the night with white beams.
RICHARD LAYMON
Richard Laymon is the author of over 30 novels and 65 short stories. Though a native of Illinois and a long-time Californian, his name is more familiar to readers in Great Britain, Australia, New Zealand and the rest of the world (where he is published in 15 foreign languages) than it is to most Americans. He is the author of such novels as The Woods Are Dark, Out Are the Lights, Tread Softly, Resurrection Dreams, Midnight's Lair, The Stake, Quake, and Savage. He has also written The Beast House Chronicles comprised of The Cellar, Beast House, and The Midnight Tour. Two of his novels (Flesh and Funland) and his short story collection (A Good, Secret Place) were nominated for Bram Stoker Awards given by the Horror Writers Association. Richard lives in Los Angeles with his wife, Ann, and his daughter, Kelly.