Authors: Richard Laymon
He wanted nothing to do with any of this.
He wanted to be away from John and inside the house, alone, listening to the tape.
“Got only twenty-three bucks,” John announced. “Shit.”
It’s not my fault.
Owen wanted to say, “Well, I’d better get on with the tour,” but he knew how awful that would sound. Why not just say, “I don’t give a rat’s ass about your money troubles, fella. I don’t even know you. Just leave me alone so I can enjoy the tour.”
“Did you bring your checkbook?” Owen asked.
“Nah, it’s at home.”
“Where’s home?”
“Mattoon.”
“Where?”
“Mattoon. Illinois.”
“My God, you’re a long way from home.”
“You telling me?”
“And you left your checkbook all the way back in Illinois?”
“Sure. Closed the bank account before I took off.”
“Ah. So how did you get
here?”
“Drove.”
“So you have a car?”
“Well, it’s my brother’s. I borrowed it off him.”
“And now all you’ve got to your name is twenty-three dollars?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
Owen shook his head and laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re a couple of thousand miles from home and down to your last twenty bucks, but you managed to buy yourself a brand new Beast House hat
and
you blew fifteen bucks on today’s tour.”
John grinned. His teeth were crooked and needed to be brushed. Owen looked away from them. “That ain’t all,” John said. “I blew fifteen bucks on the tour
yesterday
, too.”
“Good God. You must be nuts.”
“Nuts about Beast House,” he said as if proud of himself. “Thing is, I always aimed to get here with enough money left over for the Midnight Tour and the whole shebang, but I ran into some car trouble along the way and had to buy me a whole new radiator. Car’s a piece of crap.”
“Well, I wish I could help you out. But...” He shrugged.
“Forget it,” John said. “I ain’t no freeloader. But you wanta do me a real big favor?”
Owen struggled not to groan. Trying to smile pleasantly, he asked, “What sort of favor?”
“Take my camera with you on the Midnight Tour? Get me some pictures of the good stuff? And a couple pictures of Lynn, too. That way, at least I’ll be able to see what I missed. How about it?”
“Well...”
John thrust the camera at him.
Owen held it away. “No, no, wait. Just keep your camera, okay?”
“You won’t...?” John looked ready to cry.
“The tour isn’t till tomorrow night. I don’t want to be... responsible for your camera. Look. Look. Tell you what. Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Me, too. Why don’t we go on over to the snack stand and have something to eat.”
John shook his head. “Gotta save my money.”
“My treat. Come on. We can do the house tour later.”
“Well. Okay. Sure. Why not?”
Side by side, they trotted down the porch stairs.
How the hell did I get into this? Owen wondered.
Payback for dumping Monica?
Chapter Twenty-nine
SANDY’S STORY—July, 1992
Reaching the beach ahead of Blaze, Sandy looked around.
Nobody seemed to be out on the water. She studied the rocky bluffs on both sides of the beach and saw no one. Good thing. Because this was such a secluded patch of shoreline, Blaze probably intended her to pose in the nude.
She lowered the easel and cooler onto the sand, then sat on the cooler to wait for him. She could see him a distance up the trail, making his way carefully down its switchbacks, the wind fluttering his white shirt and trousers.
“Be careful!” she called.
“I’m quite all right,” he called down to her.
A few minutes later, huffing and red, he walked out onto the sand. “Invigorating,” he said.
“Well, don’t invigorate yourself into a heart attack.”
He flung back his head and filled his lungs. Then he said, “Ahhhhh. Is this not delightful?”
She had to smile. “It’s pretty nice, all right.”
Blaze looked all around. “I see we have our privacy.”
“Nobody else is nuts enough to come all the way down here.”
“Let’s hope it remains that way. The sooner we start, the better.”
“I’m ready when you are.”
He laughed, then got to work setting up his equipment.
Sandy remained seated on the cooler, but swiveled around to watch him. She knew better than to offer any help. Blaze, very particular about the positioning of his easel and canvas, wanted no interference.
He set up on the firm, damp sand just beyond the reach of the waves, his canvas at about a forty-five degree angle to the shoreline.
“Where am
I
gonna be, in the ocean?”
He grinned at her. “Precisely! It promises to be brilliant! You’ll be trudging out of the sea, wet and bedraggled, half-drowned—as if perhaps your ship went down a mile or two offshore. I’ll call it, Sole
Survivor.”
He clapped his hands and blurted, “Ha! I’ll call it
Soul Survivor
, s-o-u-l. Or is that a bit too precious?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, I’ll think of something. We should get started.”
Sandy stood up. Fingering the front of her gown, she said, “You want this off?”
“I think not. You don’t mind getting it wet?”
“Whatever you want.”
“I’m afraid if we’re
sans
attire, we may loose the narrative. People will think you’re returning from a frolic. We’d have all the drama of a skinny dipping episode. No, no, we must have the gown! It will tell everyone that you’ve survived a mishap. You had no intention of taking a plunge. Perhaps your ship went down. Or you fell off a yacht, or leaped overboard to escape a madman. No one will quite know for sure
why
you were in the water. Do you see?”
“I see.”
“We attain
elusiveness.
Elusiveness, my dear, is what separates the artist from the mindless painter. We
hint
at mysterious vistas and depths.”
“So you want me to keep this on.”
“Precisely.”
“And wade into the water.”
“I need you to be drenched.”
“Including the hair?”
“Certainly!”
“My hair won’t look too great if its all wet and stringy.”
“Be that as it may... You’ve been swimming for hours, struggling to reach land, so of course your hair
has
to be... No! No, no, no! Your hair shall be
dry!
Dry and windblown and fabulous, just as it is now. And the people will gaze in amazement and ask themselves
why? Why
is her hair dry? It will mystify everyone!”
“It’ll give you some more of that elusiveness,” Sandy pointed out, grinning.
“Precisely! Look at her! She has barely escaped extinction in the briny deep, yet her hair is totally dry!
Why! Why
is the carcass of a leopard to be found near the summit of Kilimanjaro?”
“Huh?”
“Hemingway.”
“Muriel?”
“Bite your tongue.”
“Maybe we should keep the gown dry, too.”
“Don’t be silly. Now, go on into the water. Drench yourself, but be careful of the hair.”
She slipped out of her sandals and walked over the warm, damp sand to the edge of the ocean. A wave was coming in. She waited for it, watched it curl and tumble and flatten out, sliding its frothy edge up the sand. The cold water washed over the tops of her feet, making her flinch.
As the wave receded, she hurried forward, splashing through the water until -it reached her thighs. A wave washed against her, wetting her to the waist. After it had passed, she crouched down enough to let the next wave wash against her chest. Then she stood up straight and cupped water onto her shoulders.
Looking down, she saw that her shoulders and the tops of her breasts gleamed in the sunlight. The gown clung to her, blue and transparent. It revealed every detail of her body. But it didn’t feel so great. No longer light and airy, it felt like a layer of someone else’s wet skin.
She turned toward Blaze. He was gazing at her from behind his easel. “How’s this?” she called.
“Superb! You look glorious! But be a dear take a few steps forward. We don’t want to have the water hiding those extraordinary legs.”
-“Want me to stand on the beach?”
‟No, no.”
As Sandy walked slowly closer to the shore, Blaze scurried over to her. He stepped into the water. Taking her gently by the shoulders, he moved backward. “This way,” he said. “A little more. Yes. Here. Right leg forward. Yes. Exactly. Lean into it. Now we turn you toward me.” He adusted her position. “Yes. Now, hunch over. You’re bone weary, barely able to stand on your feet.” He stepped back and studied her.
“Put your right hand on your knee. Yes, that’s it. No. You’re hunched over too much. We can’t have your left arm dangling so much. It’s in the way of your boobie. Stand a trifle straighter. More. Yes. Excellent.”
He hurried away. Once again standing behind his easel, he squinted at her. “Now, look toward me, darling. Stare intently over my left shoulder as if perhaps you see something far down the beach. Yes. Exactly.” He squinted at her for a while, then frowned. ‟No.”
‟What?”
“It’s simply not the way I... You need to look more...done in.”
“Want me to sprawl on the sand?”
“Not
that
done in. We need to maintain the illusion of movement.” He frowned at her for a few moments. Then he said, “Don’t move,” and scampered back to her. “I’m afraid we may have to ruin your lovely dress.”
“Whatever works.”
He pulled out a Swiss Army knife, pried open one of its blades, and slit the left shoulder strap of Sandy’s gown. The soaked fabric still adhered to her breast, so he peeled it down. “Much better,” he said. “
Now
, you look distressed.”
“I
feel
a lot better,” she said, glad to have the clammy fabric off her breast. “Maybe we should take it
all
off.”
“No no no. I already explained.”
“I know, I know.”
“This will be brilliant.” He started trotting back to his position behind the easel.
“Blaze?”
“Yes?” He glanced back.
“How about this?” Not waiting for a reply, she reached down and tore a slit up the front of her dress, baring her right leg all the way to her hip.
Blaze beamed at her. “Perfect! You’re a genius!”
“That’s how come you give me twenty percent.”
“No no no. I give you twenty percent because you gave me no choice.”
“Feel free to dump me any time.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
She knew he couldn’t be tempted. The amount of money Blaze was making with his paintings of Sandy, he would probably be willing to part with
fifty
percent if she gave him no other choice.
He seemed ready to begin, so she gazed intently into the distance beyond his left shoulder.
Not that there was much distance to gaze into.
About twenty feet behind Blaze was the side of a rocky outcropping. Sandy pretended it wasn’t there, and gazed through it as if trying to identify something a few hundred yards away. An approaching stranger, maybe.
Then she began to wonder how much Blaze
would
be willing to pay her. Maybe even more than fifty percent.
Without me...
At her first sight of Blaze’s estate, Sandy had assumed that he was an enormously successful artist.
Not so.
He’d bought the estate with inherited money. His artwork sold only modestly well, earning him just enough income for a comfortable living.
Until Sandy showed up.
For the first couple of years, he’d paid her no more than the fifty dollars per session. And she’d been delighted to get it. After posing, she would hurry around to a few stores, buying food and supplies, picking up treats for Eric. Then she would hop into the pickup truck and rush home.
Near the end of the second year, however, Eric had started spending most of his days roaming the wooded hills. He was often nowhere to be found by the time Sandy returned from town. So she began to wonder why she bothered to hurry back.
One day, she
didn’t
hurry back. Instead, she wandered the streets of Fort Platt, exploring the town, dropping into shops that she’d previously seen only from the outside.
Including the Beachside Gallery.
She entered the gallery feeling like an intruder. It was so
quiet.
Was she the only one here? Silently, hardly daring to breathe, she wandered among the paintings.
She half expected to be discovered and kicked out.
After all, at her age she could hardly be expected to have enough money to purchase much of anything.
She was well dressed, though. Blaze, that day, had outfitted her in tennis whites and she’d posed for him on a court behind the high school. She still wore the tennis skirt and pullover. She looked like a rich kid whose parents might belong to one of the nearby country dubs.
If they give me any crap, I’ll threaten to sick my parents on them.
Sure, she thought.
Just act as if you belong here, she told herself. Act like you own the place.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, she wandered deeper into the gallery. She moved slowly and looked at every painting.
Many featured the surf crashing into rocky outcroppings. The surf crashed into them in daylight, at sunset, and in the moonlight. There were beautiful ocean vistas. Several underwater paintings depicted whales and dolphins. Sailboats glided into sunsets. She saw storm-tossed seas, a ghost ship with tattered sails, footprints in the sand along the shoreline, seagulls gliding through the pale sky.
And
Surfer Boy,
which showed a tawny, muscular young man wearing the skimpiest of swimsuits, posed on the beach with his surfboard. The sight of it gave Sandy a twist in the stomach.
Tyrone!
Stepping up close to the painting, she found Blaze’s signature low in a corner.
The price tag showed $450 with a slash through it, replaced by $150.