Authors: Richard Laymon
He turned away and watched the road. He felt very strange—pleasantly tired, happier than he could remember ever being before, yet troubled.
It couldn’t be going better, he told himself.
Maybe that’s the problem.
Some problem.
It’s gone too well, too fast. It started less then twenty-four hours ago when he first saw her face—spattered by that lunatic’s blood. When he first looked into her eyes, and felt as if he’d known her before. No, as if he should have known her before. As if she had always been out there, and he’d known it but not who she was or where to look. It was like finding a part of himself that had been lost.
From that time on, she’d been a constant presence in his mind. He’d wondered about her, worried and hoped. Yesterday afternoon had been very bad, especially when she went looking for Dan. During dinner and later the threat from Dan had faded, but not completely, and he’d spent the night in a restless half-sleep, eager for the morning to come but dreading its arrival, afraid of losing her.
He nodded, realizing he’d discovered the source of his worry: he was still afraid of losing her.
The worry seemed unfounded. She’d apparently made up her mind in favor of Abe even before finding out about Dan’s death. She wanted him—maybe as much as he wanted her. But their lovemaking had brought such a closeness, such a joining that he now had much more to lose than he’d ever thought possible.
It was amazing.
But frightening, too.
“You’re looking mighty glum,” she said.
“Post-coital depression.”
She laughed. “How long do you expect it to last?”
“Probably till we coit again.”
“Can it wait till after lunch?”
“If it must,” he said. He turned onto Beach Lane.
At the end of the dirt road, parked next to a pickup truck, was a long, gray Mercedes.
“That looks like Hardy’s,” Tyler said. “I wonder what Mr. Wonderful’s doing at the beach.”
“My father, he’d been living with the guilt more than thirty years, and he told me he couldn’t abide it any longer.” Captain Frank raised the can of Bud to his mouth. He shut his eyes against the sun as he gulped.
Gorman took another can from the six-pack he’d brought along to lubricate the old man’s tongue, and popped open its top. Captain Frank mashed his empty and tossed it. Gorman watched it drop a long way to the ground.
“It was then he told me, for the first time, all about Bobo and how Bobo must still be alive and murdering.”
“Have another,” Gorman said.
Captain Frank accepted the fresh can. “Much obliged.” He settled back in his lawn chair and took a long drink. “Well, I begged my father to let me go with him, but he’d have none of that. Wanted me to stay behind and look after Mother. It was as if he knew he’d never come back, and he didn’t. He was a mighty fine shot with that Winchester of his. I ‘spect Bobo must’ve snuck up on him, caught him from behind.” With his free hand, the old man savagely clawed the air. “Just like that.”
“Was your father’s body ever found?” Gorman asked.
“No, sir. I ‘spect it’s buried over yonder, more than likely in the cellar.”
“The cellar of Beast House?”
“That’s what I figure.”
“If the beast actually killed him, as you believe, wouldn’t the Kutch woman have put a replica of your father on display for the tour.”
“Could’ve, but she didn’t. You ask me, the old bat’s mighty careful who she exhibits. You look at who’s in there. Take the Bagley kid, for instance. His friend, Maywood, got out alive and went running to the cops. Now how’s she gonna deny the killing? She doesn’t. She turned it to the good by having dummies made up. Same goes for the three last year. One’s Danny Jenson, the cop. How’s she gonna pretend it never happened? But let me tell you.” He squinted an eye at Gorman. “There’s plenty of folks just up and disappear. I figure Bobo got most of them. But old Maggie, she’s not gonna put them on display when she’s got a way to cover up. She’d have a whole house full, and how’d that look?” He took a long drink of beer.
“Four people disappeared last night,” Gorman said. “The Crogans, who run the Welcome Inn…”
“Oh, dear Lord.”
“And a friend of mine.”
Captain Frank scowled at the top of his beer can.
“The Crogans’ car was found abandoned this morning on the road to the highway.”
“Well, it got them. I was you, I wouldn’t count on seeing my friend again. Or the Crogans, either. Their girl, she gone too?”
“Yes.”
He let out a long sigh. “She was such a cute thing. Used to see her down at the beach. Always had a kind word. Goddamn, they should’ve known better. You just don’t go near that house, not after dark, not unless you’re looking to get yourself killed. They should’ve known that.”
“Does the beast actually leave the house?”
“Sure does. Unless Wick or Maggie are grabbing folks. One look at that pair, you know they’d be hard put to get away with it. Bobo’s gotta be prowling around. In the hills back of the house. Down on the beach. Some twelve years back, we even had a gal disappear from the cabin next door.” He nodded to the right. “Ry, that’s her husband, he come home late from the Last Chance and she was gone. Folks all said she’d run off ‘cause he was always whumping on her. But I knew different and told him so. He called me a screwy old fart and said to stay out of his business.”
He peered at Gorman and raised a thick white eyebrow. “You think I’m a screwy old fart?”
“Not at all,” Gorman assured him.
“Well, lots of folks do. They’ll change their tune one of these days when I hand over Bobo’s body.”
“You plan to kill it?”
“I’ll get Bobo, or it’ll get me.”
“Have you ever gone after it?”
“Why, sure. I’ve gone and laid ambush for it—oh, more times than I can count. But it’s never showed up.”
“You’ve never seen it?”
“Not a once.”
“Have you ever gone into the house after it?”
“Now, that’d be trespassing.”
Gorman controlled his urge to smile. Obviously, the old man was afraid to enter Beast House. “It seems,” he said, “as if the house would be the best place to hunt it.”
Captain Frank squeezed his beer can and hurled it from the bus top. It hit a low-hanging tree branch and fell to the ground. “Say, young man, how’d you like to take a look at my book?”
“What book?”
“I been keeping track. Yes, indeed. You’d be surprised.”
“I’d like very much to see it.”
The old man winked. “Thought you might. You’re a lot curiouser than most.” He pushed himself out of the lawn chair, and walked unsteadily along the top of the bus. “Bring the beer along,” he said.
Gorman got to his knees and watched Captain Frank descend the wooden ladder. The moment the man was out of sight, he pulled out his pocket recorder. The tape was still running, but it must be near its end. The old geezer had talked for the better part of an hour—and what a story he’d told! Gorman couldn’t have been more delighted. Everything was going his way. Everything! His fingers trembled with excitement as he ejected the tape’s tiny cartridge, flipped it over, and slid it back into place. He returned the recorder to his jacket pocket. He grabbed an empty plastic ring of the six-pack. The two remaining cans clanked together at his side as he walked carefully toward the ladder.
He approached it with growing alarm. The ascent had been bad enough, but he suspected the descent would prove worse. The ladder was simply propped against the end of the bus, its highest rung level with his waist. What if it should tip over as he attempted to clamber on?
Gorman Hardy, noted author of Horror at Black River Falls, fell to his death…
Captain Frank was down below, gazing up at him.
“Would you mind holding the ladder for me?”
The old man shook his head as if he pitied Gorman, then stepped under the ladder and clutched its uprights.
If you’re such a stalwart fellow, Gorman thought, why are you terrified of going after the beast? A screwy old fart, all right. And a coward. But his story was gold, and Gorman’s fear subsided as he wondered about the man’s book. Carefully, he mounted the ladder. It wobbled slightly. The rungs creaked under his weight. His legs felt weak and shaky, but finally he planted a foot on the solid ground.
“And you’re still in one piece,” said Captain Frank.
Gorman forced a smile. He followed the man through a litter of beer cans alongside the painted bus. “Did you paint this mural?”
“That I did.”
“I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Would you mind if I took a picture?”
“Help yourself. I’ll just step inside and…”
“Stay here. I’d like you in the picture, too. The canvas and the artist.”
Captain Frank nodded. He moved to the open door of the bus as Gorman set down the beers and stepped away. In the viewfinder, the old man looked like a crazed tourist: Huckleberry Finn straw hat, red aloha shirt flapping in the breeze, plaid Bermuda shorts, spindly legs with drooping green socks and tattered blue tennis shoes. He held an arm out, a finger pointing at the mural.
Gorman took a few more backward steps to fit in the entire length of the bus, and triggered the shutter release. “Marvelous! Now step over that way.” He waved the old man to the left. “There. Right there. The ancient mariner and the albatross.”
“You know the poem?”
“Certainly. It’s one of my favorites.” He moved in close and snapped the shot. “Wonderful. Thank you.”
“Hope they turn out.”
“Shall we have a look at this book you mentioned?”
“Right this way.”
When the old man turned away to mount the steps, Gorman switched on his recorder. He retrieved the beers, and followed. He found Captain Frank in the driver’s seat.
“Look here, matey.” With a sly wink, he whacked the sun visor. It flipped down. Secured to its back with duct tape was a sheathed knife. He tapped a fingernail against the staghorn handle. “I’m ready for it, see? Just let old Bobo make a try for me.” He pushed up the visor, hunched over so his chin rested on the steering wheel, and reached under the seat. He came up with a western style revolver. “My hogleg,” he announced. Thumbing back the hammer, he stared at the weapon as if it were a stunning woman. “This darling’s an Iver Johnson .44 magnum. She’ll knock Bobo ass over tea kettle.”
“Is it loaded?” Gorman asked.
“Wouldn’t do me much good empty.”
Gorman held his breath as Captain Frank lowered the hammer. When the revolver was safely stored away, the old man stood up. He stepped through the gap in the faded, split blanket draping the aisle. Gorman followed.
The rows of windows along both sides of the carriage had been painted over, tinting the dim light with hues of red, blue, green and yellow. A few, fortunately, were open to admit untarnished daylight and the fresh breeze. The original seats had been removed to make room for a strange assortment of furnishings: a cot with a rumpled quilt, a straight-backed wicker chair, a single lamp and several steamer trunks of various sizes, some standing on end, all cluttered with the odds and ends of Captain Frank’s reclusive life. On the trunk nearest the cot, Gorman saw a copy of Peter Freuchen’s Book of the Seven Seas, a Coleman lantern, a crushed beer can, and a revolver. He spotted three more weapons as the old man lowered himself onto the cot: a double-barreled shotgun suspended from an overhead luggage rack by a pair of misshapen wire hangers, a saber propped against a metal partition near the side exit doors, and the butt of a pistol protruding from the open face port of a deep-sea diving helmet atop one of the trunks.
“You’ve got quite an arsenal,” he said.
“Yessir. Just let Bobo come. I don’t care where I’m at. Here?” He snatched the revolver off the trunk and jabbed the air with its barrel as if taking hasty aim at a host of intruders. “In my galley?” He swept the gun toward the rear of the bus, where a second blanket draped the aisle just beyond the side exit. “I’ve got a .38 Smith and Wesson by my stove. I’ve got a Luger in the head. I don’t care where I am, I’m ready. Just let Bobo make a try.”
He put down the revolver on the floor by his feet. “Have a seat, here, matey,” he said, and patted the cot.
Gorman peeled the plastic rings off the remaining beers. He gave one of the cans to Captain Frank, and sat down beside him. He popped open his can while the captain cleared off the trunk. The beer had lost its chill. He took a few swallows and wished he’d had the foresight to bring along a bottle of gin for himself.
The old man opened the trunk and lifted out a battered, leatherbound volume that looked like a family photo album. He closed the trunk, and set the book on its lid midway between himself and Gorman. Leaning forward, he flipped open the cover.
“Fabulous,” Gorman said.
“My father, he did that. He wasn’t the artist I am, but he done the best he could.”
The pencil sketch, creased and smudged as if it had spent a lot of time folded in someone’s pocket, showed a snarling, snouted head.
“That’s Bobo,” Captain Frank said. “My father, he drew it aboard the Mary Jane on the return voyage.”
Gorman stared at the head. It was a frontal view, not much more than an oval with slanted eyes, a half circle to indicate the snout, and an open mouth revealing rows of pointed teeth.
“Not a hair on it,” the captain said. “Not even an eyebrow or a lash. And skin as white as the belly of a fish. Like an albino. Just no color at all, except for its eyes. My father, he told me its eyes were as blue as the sky.”
He turned the page. The next sketch, a side view, showed the creature’s blunt snout. Except for the snout, the head looked almost human. Where the ear should be, there was a circle the size of a dime. “Where is its ear?” Gorman asked.
“That’s it. Nothing to it but a hole with a little flap of skin over it. That’s to keep stuff from getting in. My father, he said Bobo could open up that flap like an eyelid and hear as good as a dog.”
“Incredible.”
Taped to the next page was a sketch of the beast standing upright. From waist to knees, its form had been obliterated by pencil marks as if someone had scratched over it in a fit of temper. The lead pencil point had even torn through the paper, rucking up an accordion wedge that had subsequently been smoothed down flat.