Authors: Richard Laymon
No blood.
I might be in the wrong place
.
The van had been parked
near
here, but Neal hadn’t made a point of noting its precise location. He might be too far forward, or too far back. He even might’ve parked his own car in the very spot where the van had been.
What should I do, drive back and forth a few times?
Nothing conspicuous about that.
He looked toward the wooded area where he’d left the body.
Quit screwing around, he told himself. Run over and see if it’s still there.
He didn’t
want
to.
The idea of returning to look for the body gave him a sick, scared feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Besides, it would take forever to run all the way there and back. And somebody might see him.
The bracelet!
Of course!
A few seconds later, in the driver’s seat, he eased his door shut and killed the headlights. He locked the doors. After taking a quick look around to make sure nobody was nearby, he raised his right wrist toward his mouth.
Wait a second, he thought. I’d better stop and think about this. What if the creep
is
there? And I zip into his body?
Can’t, not if he’s dead.
Probably can’t, he corrected himself. Elise hadn’t mentioned anything about entering dead people, just that you don’t want to be in someone at the moment of death.
Which could happen
.
The man might be teetering on the brink, might take the fall while Neal was inside.
I’ll get out quick, he told himself.
If the guy’s even there.
He closed his eyes and kissed the gold bracelet. Even as his lips touched the warm gold, he felt himself rise weightless out of his body. He feared for a moment that the car roof might stop him, but he drifted through it. He hovered above his car.
Amazing, he thought.
This really
must
be a dream.
Analyze it some other time. Check on Rasputin
.
Eyes on the dark section of trees below the freeway slope, Neal flew over the field. In what seemed like a few seconds, he found himself in the dark clearing. He saw the tree where Elise had been tortured. Veering away from it, he darted to the place where they’d left the body.
The burial pile of weeds and bushes was thrown apart, scattered.
Let’s get!
He sped out of the clearing, across the field and down through the roof of his car. The solid mass of his body seemed to overwhelm him. He felt his weight, his tiredness, his aches and pains.
Quickly, he glanced about.
Nobody coming.
Okay, he thought. Now what? The body’s gone. Rasputin has risen from the grave. I didn’t kill the bastard, after all.
Unless someone came and got him.
That didn’t seem very likely, though.
He imagined the mound of foliage falling away from the rising body, saw the gawky man struggle to his feet and hobble across the field, bleeding and groaning, watched him climb in behind the driver’s seat of the van, crank up the engine and drive away.
Going where? he wondered.
Better be on his way to a hospital.
But what if he headed for Elise’s house?
Neal felt a rush of hot panic.
The guy could be at her house right now. He might already have her. She might already be his prisoner again – or dead.
On the other hand, maybe he was still on his way over.
Or just arriving.
Or not going to Elise’s house at all.
Gotta figure he’s after her, Neal told himself.
What’ll I do?
Save her. Somehow.
Okay, how?
Send the police? They could be at her house in a few minutes – but only if they get a call.
Neal had no car phone.
He was at least a five-minute drive from his own apartment. He supposed there must be a public phone closer than that – maybe over near Video City, somewhere.
The houses across the road probably had telephones.
He glanced at the dashboard clock: ten till three.
How do you get someone to answer the door at this hour?
At best, he figured it’d take him five minutes to reach a phone and put a call through to the police. At best, the cops might reach Elise’s house three to five minutes after that.
Too long!
Forget the cops – call Elise. Warn her. Tell her to get out.
Right, he thought. And waste five mintues getting to a phone?
He kissed the bracelet.
Lifted out of his body, left the car below him, and raced northward climbing fast.
Don’t go
too
high, he warned himself. Waste of time.
He crossed the Santa Monica Freeway at an altitude of about fifty feet. Cars and trucks sped along the lanes below him. He was vaguely aware of having an incredible experience, but he couldn’t appreciate it.
He was too scared for Elise.
The flight meant only one thing to him: the fastest way to reach Brentwood.
He hoped.
It was eerie, though. He could see and hear everything clearly, as if airborne in his own body. He was able to think clearly. He could even
feel
many things: his fear and hope and maybe an odd sort of excitement.
He couldn’t feel the speed, though. He felt no momentum or velocity or drag. He felt no rush of wind against his face as he raced through the night.
His awareness of speed depended entirely on his view of the buildings and streetlights, trees and billboards, parked cars and roads rushing along beneath him.
He flashed past Pico Boulevard. Considered following it west to Bundy, but found that he was already above Olympic.
Take Wilshire to Bundy, he told himself.
Seconds later, he swung left and raced westward through the heart of Beverly Hills, some fifty to sixty feet above the broad pavement of Wilshire Boulevard.
Not much moving around down there.
He willed himself to pour on the speed, but didn’t seem to go any faster. Probably already at the maximum, he realized.
As he passed above the San Diego Freeway, he began to bog down.
What’s happening?
You’re slowing down, that’s what.
Shit!
He felt almost as if he were attached to an elastic cord – a cord that reached all the way back to his body inside the parked car. Like a rubber band, it had run out of slack. Now, it was stretching, allowing him to continue, but resisting.
Elise had said there were distance limits.
Now, Neal knew what she’d meant.
But she’d made thirty miles, hadn’t she?
That was after lots of practice, he reminded himself. That was her record distance.
If she can make thirty, I can make eight or ten
.
Already, San Vicente was below him; he recognized its wide center island.
He turned west off Bundy and descended. Speeding just above the pavement of San Vicente, he watched for narrow roads to the right. And spotted Elise’s road, Greenhaven. And shot around the corner. Following the narrow lane, he didn’t spot the van.
Maybe this is a false alarm, he thought.
He veered away from the road. Heading for Elise’s house, he passed through bushes and trees – but didn’t feel them. They felt no different from the air.
What am I, a ghost?
He sped through the walls of Elise’s house.
Found her standing at the mirror in a bathroom he hadn’t seen before. The master bathroom, he guessed. Where she’d taken her shower. Now, she was brushing her teeth.
He entered her.
Yes!
Relieved to find her safe, Neal was amused to find her stewed. She must’ve had another vodka and tonic – or more – after he’d left.
There was a vagueness in her mind. And the pains from her numerous injuries didn’t hurt very much, anymore.
Mouth full of minty-flavored froth, she worked the brush over her teeth and gums. She seemed to be enjoying herself.
Do-de-do-do, dum-de-dum. What shall we do with the drunken sailor? Oh boy oh boy oh boy, I’m gonna have me a doozy tomorrow
.
She took the brush out of her mouth, grinned at herself in the mirror, and let the white froth flow over her lip and down her chin. Large dollops of it fell into the sink – splot, splot, splot. Then she spat out the rest, ran her brush under the faucet, and started scrubbing her teeth with the clean, dripping brush.
Better take me some aspirin. Gonna be headache city in the morning. Should’ve stopped after one or two. Yeah, well, what the hell. Not every night you get yourself kidnapped and tortured and damn near killed. Thank God for Neal
.
How nice, Neal thought.
Hope he doesn’t get himself jammed up with the bracelet. Maybe I shouldn’t have given him . . . Ah, he’ll be fine. Fine and dandy. Wish he’d stayed. Sweet guy. Ah, well. Win a few, lose a few. Anyway, he’ll be back. He knows a good thing when he sees one
.
Shaking her head, she laughed a bit.
Yeah, I’m a prize, all right. Drunk out of my gourd. Blotto city
.
Wonder what that Marta’s like
.
Wonder if he’ll try and pull another hitch on me? Never gonna know. Less he tells. Wouldn’t mind if he did, anyhow. Wonder if he’s in here now? ‘Hello, hello, wherever you are. Neal? You in here?
’
Sure am, he thought.
Didn’t think so. Alas
.
She spit into the sink again, rinsed her brush and resumed scrubbing her teeth.
Alas, alas, he ain’t in the lass
.
Unless he is
.
Neal noticed how the quick motions of her arm made her breasts jiggle. He felt her nipples slide against the inside of her pajama shirt. Elise didn’t seem interested in any of that.
Of course not, Neal thought. They’re hers. She’s used to them.
He tuned in on her thoughts again as she rinsed her brush and put it away.
Alka-Seltzer or aspirin? How about both? Some for the ol’ hangover and some for my multiple contusions, abrasions and lacerations
.
That’s me, a cut above the rest
.
Ho ho ho
.
How could that bastard do those things to me? Godsake. Biting me
.
Neal felt a hollow chill in her groin. She pressed her thighs together, and he felt stinging sensations.
Should I go to a doctor? Yeah, sure. Wouldn’t that be cute? What’s your problem, dear. Oh, nothing, had a little run-in with a sadistic
. . .
She took a foil pack of Alka-Seltzer out of a box in the medicine cabinet, then glanced around, looking for her glass.
Ah, yeah. In the dishwasher. Took it there this morning. Yesterday morning. Right. Fooey-kablooey
.
In a lower part of her mind, she imagined herself dropping Alka-Seltzer tablets into water cupped in her hand. And she supposed they would make her hand tingle.
Not quite smashed enough to pull that stunt. Some other time. Maybe. Fat chance
.
She dropped the packet into her shirt pocket. Neal felt its stiffness against her nipple.
She took a plastic bottle of aspirin off one of the shelves, popped its lid, and shook two capsules into her palm. Then she returned the bottle to the medicine cabinet and swung the door shut.
She walked out of the bathroom, across the soft carpet of her bedroom, and out to the hallway.
On her way to find a drinking glass, Neal figured.
In front of Elise, the lights were off.
He felt a small tremor of fear slide through her.
Since when are you afraid of the dark? Forget it, the bastard’s dead. Kaput. Finito. Gone with the wind. Toes up. His ticket cancelled, his farm bought
.
You’re wrong! Neal thought.
And then he thought, My God, I’ve got to warn her!
That’s why I came here, he reminded himself. Can’t take all night about it, either. My damn body’s sitting by itself in the car. No telling what might happen to it . . .