Authors: Richard Laymon
“So,” she said, trying to sound calm, “did you sleep well? No nightmares about Bobo, I hope.”
He studied her face. “I slept fine. How about you?”
“Like a log.” She broke from his gaze and turned away. Her knees were shaky as she crossed the room. She took the coffee pot down from the mounted hotplate, and carried it into the bathroom. She filled it and brought it back. As she plugged in the dangling cord, Abe walked up behind her. She turned to face him. “It’ll probably take a few…” Her voice fell away. She stared into his eyes.
His open hand caressed the side of her face. “I missed you,” he whispered.
Tyler tried to speak but her throat was tight. She stepped into his arms, and kissed him.
Abe held her tightly, more tightly than last night, as if they’d been away from each other a very long time and he needed the feel of her body to know she was with him again. After a moment, his embrace loosened. His hands slid up and down her back.
Tyler wished he would hike up her robe and nightgown so she could feel his hands on her bare skin. But he patted her rump, and eased away.
Tyler untied her cloth belt. She parted her robe. She took him by the wrists and lifted his hands to her breasts. His hands were warm through the filmy nightgown. Her breath trembled as he caressed and gently squeezed. Then he shut the robe. Gripping its lapels, he pulled her forward and kissed her lightly on the mouth. He smiled. “You trying to seduce me?” he asked.
“It crossed my mind.”
“Shameless hussy,” he said.
“That’s me.”
“What about your friend, Dan?”
Her stomach tightened. “What about him?”
“You came all this way to find him.”
“I know, but…”
“If I’m going to lose you to this guy, I’d rather not…get in any deeper. I want you too much already. Don’t make it any tougher on me.”
“Oh, Abe,” she whispered. His face blurred as tears filled her eyes. She stepped against him and held him tightly.
“There you go again,” he said, stroking her hair. “Now why don’t you get dressed, and I’ll fix the coffee. You invited me in for coffee, remember?”
Tyler nodded. She wiped her eyes.
“Don’t try undressing in front of me, either.”
She managed a smile. “Darn, that was my plan.”
“I must be psychic.”
“Don’t you want to see what you’re missing?”
“That’s it, rub my face in it.”
“You must be psychic. That would’ve been phase two.”
Abe laughed softly and shook his head.
Tyler stepped past him. He watched as she bent over the spare bed to search her suitcase. “I thought you were going to fix the coffee.”
“Do you take anything in it?”
“Just black.”
But he didn’t turn away. Tyler took out her corduroys, her yellow blouse, the filmy bra she’d worn last night, and a fresh pair of panties. She held up the garments for Abe to see. “Do these meet with your approval?”
“Very nice.”
She gave him a coy smile. “Dan never cared much for these,” she said, and let the bra flutter to the bed.
“You have a definite cruel streak,” Abe said.
“Do I?” She took the rest of the clothes into the bathroom. “Ta ta,” she said, and shut the door. She leaned against it. Shutting her eyes, she could still feel his arms around her, the firm pressure of his body, his eager lips, the way he’d touched her breasts. I want you too much already. My God, had he really said that? He had, he had! She found herself smiling and weeping. If I’m going to lose you to this guy…
No need to worry about that, Mr. Abraham Clanton.
Tyler Clanton.
She whispered the words.
Good Christ, don’t get crazy.
But she felt crazy: joyous and guilty and confused. He wants me, but how much? What’s next?
Breakfast is next. Take it one step at a time. Breakfast, then the tour of Beast House and confronting Dan (Jesus, what’ll I say to him?), then what? Lunch, maybe. What happens when it’s time to leave? Don’t think about that. Not yet. Cross the bridges as you come to them. Maybe we can all stay one more night. Or two. Or…
“The coffee’s ready,” Abe called through the door.
“I’ll be right out,” she said. Quickly, she shed her robe and nightgown. She used the toilet, washed, brushed her teeth, rolled deodorant under her arms, and dressed. It made her feel daring and sexy to wear the gauzy blouse without a bra. Luckily, there was a pocket over each breast. She tucked it in, leaned close to the mirror, and studied herself. “Lookin’ good,” she whispered. She unfastened another button to allow a glimpse of cleavage.
Nora would open still another.
She considered it for a moment, then shook her head.
Abe smiled when she stepped out. “Lovely,” he said.
She glanced down at her blouse. “Dan always liked me in yellow.”
Abe gave her a strange look. He must suspect. Wasn’t her teasing a dead giveaway? Well, she would just let him wonder. At least for a while.
He gave her a plastic cup. Steam was still rolling off the coffee. “Nora knocked while you were changing. They’re just about ready to go.”
Tyler sipped the coffee, and wrinkled her nose.
“What can I say? It’s instant.”
“At least it’s hot.” She took her cup to the dressing table, sat down, and drank as she brushed her hair. Abe stood behind her, watching. “Was Jack there?” she asked, and saw him nod in the mirror.
“Lucky Jack,” he said.
“Lucky Nora.”
Abe put down his cup. He rubbed her shoulders, and she moaned.
Then came a quiet knocking. He let go of her, crossed the room, and opened the connecting door.
“All set and rarin’ to go?” Nora asked. She entered, followed by Jack. “We thought it’d be fun to go in town for breakfast. That sound good to everyone?”
“Sure,” Tyler said, getting up.
Nora was wearing a tube-top that left her bare to the tops of her breasts. A faint red line marked her shoulder where the man, yesterday, had struck her with the radio antenna. Her skin had a rosy glow, and her hair looked damp. She must’ve recently taken a shower, Tyler thought. Jack, too, was slightly flushed. Had they showered together? Made love under the hot spray?
Abe and I could’ve…
“Got your room key?” Abe asked her.
Nodding, she picked up her purse.
They went outside into the cool morning shadows, and Tyler slipped a hand around Abe’s back.
“I think,” Nora said, “I could go for pigs in a blanket.”
Gorman dreamed they were after him. He was running down a sunlit slope, laughing at first and waving the paper—the contract—overhead to taunt them. “You can’t catch me,” he sang. He knew they couldn’t. He was fleet of foot while Marty and Claire were staggering after him like sleepwalkers. No, like zombies. It suddenly struck Gorman that they were, indeed, zombies. That notion took away some of the fun: what if they should catch him? Zombies would likely treat him to a horror or two.
Though he knew they were after him, they were somewhat preoccupied. Marty was busy ripping to shreds a pair of pink panties while Claire was digging out one of her eyes with a blunt stick.
I never did that, he thought. You’re doing that to yourself, sweetheart.
Looking forward, he saw Brian wave at him from on top of the fence. Janice was up there, too, straddling the spikes—one of them in her—writhing passionately on it while she sucked Brian’s cock. She saw Gorman and sat up. “Hey,” she shouted, “that’s my contract!”
“Finders keepers, losers weepers!” he yelled back, flapping it at her.
“Forget it,” Brian told her. “You’ve got me.”
With a shrug, she leaned down again and took him into her mouth.
Gorman turned away and raced alongside the fence. Looking back, he saw Marty and Claire. They were close behind him, which didn’t make much sense because he was running and they were shambling along slowly. Marty was stuffing bits of the shredded panties into his mouth. Claire, beside him, had one eyeball dangling over her cheek and was working on the other, trying to pry it out with her stick. Let her get that one, Gorman thought, and she won’t be able to see worth shit.
Then he tripped over the end of a bathtub. He fell toward the water. The water was red. A naked woman, reclining in the tub, stretched out her arms to catch him. Her wrists were crossed-hatched with slashes. Martha! He fell toward her, and fell, and fell. “Leave me alone!” he shrieked, and lurched awake.
The room was bright with daylight. Gasping for breath, he stared at the ceiling. He used the pillow to mop the sweat off his face.
Good Christ, he thought. What a nightmare.
He glanced at his travel clock. Nine twenty. He’d been in bed no more than three hours. But he’d had some sleep before Marty and Claire came knocking.
God, if only that had been nothing but a dream.
He crawled to the edge of the bed and sat up. The bruise on his stomach where Marty had punched him (he started it) looked like a smudge of dirt. There were a few minor scratches on the backs of his hands, but his knuckles weren’t even skinned from rapping Claire’s face. He walked to the mirror above the dressing table, and peered at his own face. Except for the bloodshot eyes, it looked fine.
He went into the bathroom. Kneeling beside the tub, he looked closely for traces of blood on the enamel, especially around the drain. The tub looked fine. It should—he’d bathed in the ocean before returning to the room and showering.
He turned on the shower, adjusted the temperature, and stepped beneath its hot spray. As he washed himself, his mind went over every detail. Had he overlooked anything?
The contracts. He had burned them both and flushed the ashes down the toilet.
The tape. He’d pried open the plastic cassette, stripped out the tape, and held it dangling over the toilet while it burned, making greasy black smoke.
The recorder. Since he’d touched its casing with his bloody hand, it had to go. It went into the ocean.
The camera. Same problem. Same solution.
His clothes. After tearing off the tags, he’d weighted each garment with a rock and hurled each into the surf. The shoes hadn’t required rocks.
The cars. In Gorman’s estimation, his solution to that problem had been brilliant and daring. At the time he’d taken Marty’s keys, he hadn’t known why he wanted them. But the scheme must, even then, have been brewing in his subconscious. Not until he reached the cars did the plan come fullblown to his mind.
Since he couldn’t risk leaving even a minute trace of Claire’s blood in the Mercedes, he left it untouched and drove Marty’s car to the beach. He’d been very lucky finding the beach; the very first road leading west had taken him within a couple of hundred yards. He’d simply followed a moonlit path along a hillside and voilà—the ocean.
Farewell to the cassette player, the camera, and his clothes. The worst part was washing his body in the ocean. No, perhaps the worst part was the trek back to Marty’s car, naked and wet and freezing, and frightened half to death that someone might see him. The area was desolate, though, and the only building with a view of the parking area appeared to have no windows.
He’d found a rag under the car’s front seat. He’d used it to wipe the seat and steering wheel before climbing in, just in case some blood remained on them. Later, after parking behind the Mercedes, he’d used the same rag to wipe the car for fingerprints. When he’d finished, he wiped its outside handles and flung the keys far up the wooded slope. Then he had simply climbed into the Mercedes and driven it back to the motel. Stark naked. Right through the center of town. But he hadn’t seen a living soul, thank God, and all the bungalows of the Welcome Inn were dark when he arrived.
Looking back on it now, he was amazed that he’d succeeded in carrying it off—amazed, indeed, that he hadn’t allowed the panic of the situation to overwhelm and destroy him. For he would have been destroyed if he’d simply fled without taking elaborate precautions.
As matters now stood, even if suspicion should fall on Gorman, he was confident that he’d left no evidence connecting him to the crimes. And he had a marvelous bonus in his favor: investigators would naturally assume that the same perpetrator had dispatched Brian, Marty and Claire. It would be obvious to anyone that Gorman was physically incapable of impaling Brian on a seven-foot fence.
Only one possibility worried him—that he may have been seen. Janice was unaccounted for. If she’d been alive on the hillside and witnessed the murders…Possible, but highly unlikely since she neither appeared nor called out during the search. More than likely, she was dead. But Gorman had committed the murders within view of Beast House. Someone watching from a window could have watched it all. If that had been the case, however, and his crimes reported, certainly the police would have intercepted him at the cars. Since the police didn’t show up, he could assume that either he wasn’t seen or the witness had crimes of his own to hide—such as the murders of Brian and Janice.
The thought that he might have been watched by their killers sent a chill through Gorman. He suddenly felt squirmy. His scrotum tightened and his penis drew in as if to hide.
Who could have done such a thing to Brian? The strength it must’ve taken!
Perhaps, he thought, there is a beast.
He was no longer enjoying the hot spray of the shower. He finished rinsing the soap from his body, and climbed out. To perk himself up, he concentrated on his good fortune as he dried and got dressed.
The killer, whether man or beast, had done him a splendid service. Gorman may or may not be able to use the incident in his book, depending on the outcome of the investigation. Regardless, all the proceeds would now come to him. Every last cent. Even if Janice should miraculously reappear, the contracts were destroyed. The initial correspondence implied no commitment (perhaps he could find those letters and destroy them…awfully risky…why had he thrown away Marty’s keys?) but basically Janice wouldn’t have a leg to stand on without the contract itself.
Besides, she’s dead.
Please, let her be dead.
As he finished buttoning his sport shirt, he heard a knocking on the door—a light, tentative rapping but it made his stomach lurch. It came from Brian’s room. He took a deep breath, cautioned himself to remain calm, and stepped through the connecting doors. Both of Brian’s beds were intact. He rushed silently to the closer bed, raked back its cover and sheet, and mashed the pillow. Then he opened the door.