Flesh

CHAPTER NINE

Roland waited alone. He wished Jason were here, not off in Weston for his sister’s wedding. They could talk about the bet, make jokes. It wouldn’t be nearly so bad.

It wouldn’t be happening at all if Jason were here. Dana wouldn’t have crapped on him.

The bitch.

She’d always despised him, he knew that. But she never let it show much until today.

She was probably ticked because Jason left without her. They always went to the movies on Friday nights, then parked somewhere to screw around.

But not tonight.

No fun and games with Jason tonight, so take it out on Roland.

He stepped to the windows.

It was raining like shit out there.

A car came in off Spring Street, its headlights making slick paths on the pavement of the parking lot. Roland’s stomach twisted. As the car neared the rear entrance to the dorm, however, he saw that it wasn’t a Volkswagen.

The clock on his desk showed a quarter till nine. If Dana was on time, she wouldn’t be here for another fifteen minutes.

Fourteen.

His stomach stayed tight.

That bitch, why is she doing this to me?

Did it have to do with the Polaroids? That’s when she went haywire, after she realized he must’ve seen them.

Crouching at Jason’s desk, Roland slid open the bottom drawer, lifted out a stack of Penthouse and Hustler magazines, and pulled out the envelope. He took it to his desk. Sitting down, he turned on his gooseneck lamp. He removed the ten photos from the envelope and spread them across his desktop.

Two of them were overexposed.

Another shot, this one a real close-up apparently taken from between her knees, was blurry. Jason must’ve been so excited he forgot to adjust the distance setting. But he’d tried again and gotten it right.

Yeah, Dana probably wasn’t very happy at all that I got a look at these.

Roland unsnapped the case on his belt and pulled out his folding Buck knife. He pried open the blade. Touched its point to the glossy surface between her thighs. “How do you like this?” he whispered in a shaky voice. He felt an urge to shove the knife in, but didn’t dare. Jason would know he was the one who’d done it.

Pressing the flat of the blade against his chin, Roland stared down at the photos.

What if I give them to her? Maybe she’d let me off the hook.

If I try that, she’ll know I’m scared.

I’ll spend the night in that fucking restaurant and I’ll make a hundred bucks. A cinch. Might even be fun.

Fun. Like hell.

But he didn’t have any choice. If he backed out, Dana would tell everyone he’s a chicken and a phony.

Maybe I can find a way to get back at her.

He slipped the photos into the envelope.

The faint beep of a car horn made him flinch. He stood up, saw his reflection in the window, and turned off the lamp. Looking down through the darkness, he saw a VW bug at the curb. It was Dana’s all right. He recognized the banner on its aerial.

Roland pushed open the glass door and jogged toward the car. He was hunched over as if the rain were a heavy weight. His shoes slapped water off the pavement. He wore a dark stocking cap and a windbreaker. A sleeping bag was clutched to his chest.

Dana leaned across the seat to open the door for him.

After climbing in, he dropped the sleeping bag to the floor between his feet, pulled the door shut, and struggled out of a small backpack.

“A beautiful night for your adventure,” Dana said.

“Yeah. Too bad there’s no thunder and lightning.” He chuckled. He sounded nervous.

Dana pulled away from the curb and headed across the parking lot. “You’ll have to give me directions.”

“Take a right on Spring. I’ll let you know when to turn off.”

She stopped at the parking lot exit, waited for a few cars to swoosh past, and turned onto Spring Street. The rain was coming down hard. She leaned forward, trying to see better.

Roland was silent.

Usually he talked nonstop.

“Scared?” Dana asked.

“Yeah, I’m scared. Your wiper blades aren’t worth shit.”

“Tell me about it,” Dana muttered. Instead of sweeping the water aside, they seemed to smear it and leave trails across the windshield.

“I didn’t come out tonight to get killed in a car wreck.”

“I know. You came out to get killed in a haunted restaurant.”

“Haunted. That’s a good one.”

“Don’t you think so? Aren’t you the guy who told me and Jason that ghosts happen when people get croaked too fast?”

“Maybe,” he said.

“Sure. We were walking back from that midnight show of The Uninvited and you said a ghost gets started when someone doesn’t know he’s dead yet. His spirit, or whatever, thinks he’s still alive. Isn’t that how you explained it?”

“Well, that’s a theory, anyway.”

“These two people got blown away last night. Can’t be much more sudden than that. So their ghosts must be hanging around, don’t you think?”

Roland didn’t answer.

“My camera’s in the backseat. Maybe you can get some snapshots of them.”

“Make a left at the traffic light,” he muttered.

There was no turn pocket. Dana checked the rearview mirror. The road behind her was dark, so she slowed. A pickup truck approached from the front. She squinted against the glare of its headlights. The truck sped by, spray from its tires splashing her door and window. Dana made the turn, then took a deep breath. The road ahead was dark except for a few streetlights. There were houses on both sides. She knew that the road led out of town, but couldn’t remember a restaurant along the stretch.

“You don’t believe in ghosts,” Roland said.

“Ah, but you do. Or is that just part of your act?”

“They don’t scare me.”

“Ever seen one?”

“No.”

“Not yet, huh?”

“If ghosts exist, they’re harmless. They can’t do anything to you.”

“Such as cut your throat or something?” Dana asked, glancing at him and grinning.

“They wouldn’t be able to hold a knife. Or anything else, for that matter. They don’t have any substance. All they can do is appear.”

“And turn you into a raving lunatic.”

“Only if you’re scared of them.”

“Which you aren’t, of course.”

“There’s no reason to be.”

“Who are you trying to convince?”

Roland said nothing.

“The gal got her head blown off, right?” Dana said. “Does that mean her ghost won’t have a head?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I thought you were supposed to be an expert.”

Dana saw no more houses ahead. On both sides of the road were fields, barren except for scattered trees. “Where is this place, anyway?”

“We’re almost there.”

“Seems like a queer place for a restaurant, this far out.”

“The turnoff’s around the next bend. You’ll want to go right.”

“I don’t know much about these things,” Dana said, “but I’d bet the babe’s ghost is missing its noggin. Just a guess, you understand.”

“You’d better slow down.”

There were headlights near the crest of the hill far ahead. Her rearview mirror was dark. She eased down on the brake but couldn’t see the side road. “Where?”

Roland pointed.

It was a narrow low space that looked more like a driveway than a road.

Dana slowed almost to a stop. As she turned, the VW’s headlights swept across a large, dark, wood sign. She tried to read the sign’s carved words, but they were a blur through the water streaked and splattered on her windshield. The wipers beating back and forth were no help—just another distraction. The headlights left the sign. Squinting, Dana saw the falling rain, the slick trails her head beams made on the pavement, and land rising on both sides of the road.

“Have you got the money?” Roland asked.

“In my purse.” She grinned at him. “Not that you’ll be getting it.”

“I’ll get it, all right.”

“I’d be surprised if you last ten minutes.”

“You’re going to come in at dawn, right?”

“Wrong. We’ll both be back in town snug in our beds before midnight.”

“I mean, just assuming I don’t chicken out. Which I won’t. You’ll come in at dawn?”

“Just come out.”

“You want to see inside the place, don’t you?”

“No.”

“Well, come in anyway.”

“Forget you.”

The sides of the road were gone, and Dana realized she had entered the parking area. She kept driving straight ahead. At first, she couldn’t see the restaurant. Then the head beams found its stairs, porch, and door. The pale band of a police line ribbon was stretched across the porch posts at the top of the stairs. The door was crosshatched with boards.

Dana stopped directly in front of the stairs and killed the headlights. “Whoops,” she said. “Where’d the restaurant go?”

“How am I supposed to get in?”

Dana bent over, head against the steering wheel, and reached down between her knees. Her fingertips combed the gritty floor mat until they found the pry bar. She picked it up and gave it to Roland.

“You thought of everything,” he muttered.

Twisting around, Dana knelt on her seat and got the camera out of the back. “Take some good ones,” she said. “Especially of the gal. No head. Should be nifty.”

Roland put the camera into his pack. Leaning forward, he swung the pack behind him and struggled into its shoulder straps. He hugged the sleeping bag against his side and gripped the pry bar. “How about turning on the headlights till I’m inside?” he asked.

“Why not.” The lights tunneled into the darkness. “Have fun.”

“You’ll come in for me at dawn,” he said. It was not a request.

“I’m not going inside that place.”

“I think you will.” He opened the door and climbed out. Standing in the rain, he leaned inside. “I’ve got the pictures with me.”

“Give them here,” Dana snapped.

“You may have them in the morning. If you don’t come in after me, you’ll never see them again. But everyone else will.”

“You shit!”

He slammed the door.

When he was in front of the car, Dana blasted the horn and he jumped. He turned around. Glared at her. Then curled his lip above his crooked teeth and turned away. At the top of the stairs, he broke the police ribbon and stepped to the door. He started to pry the boards off.

Dana, furious, watched him. Her heart was beating fast, her breath hissing through her nostrils. She saw herself rush up behind Roland and slam his head against the door until he was senseless. Then she would search him and find the pictures.

But she didn’t move.

Her luck, the creep would probably hear her coming.

In her mind, she saw Roland whirl around and lay open her head with the bar.

She wouldn’t put it past him.

He’s a fucking wimp, she thought, but he’s not exactly stable.

She saw him drag her body into the restaurant.

The thoughts began to frighten her.

Roland got the door open. He lifted his sleeping bag off the porch, glanced back at Dana, then went inside. The door swung shut.

Dana shut off the headlights.

Leaning across the seat, she locked the passenger door.

She reached for the ignition key, intending to turn the engine off. But she changed her mind, shifted to reverse, and slowly backed the car away. She considered leaving. It would serve the shit right, getting stranded out here. If he realized she was gone, however, he might decide to spread out his sleeping bag on the porch. He had to spend the night inside. That was the bet. That was the punishment, the price he had to pay for being such an asshole.

And for looking at the pictures.

He has them with him.

Dana, suddenly realizing she might be dangerously close to the rear of the parking area, hit her brakes. The car jolted to a stop. She set the emergency brake and killed the engine.

When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she found that she could see the restaurant. It was about fifty years ahead of her, a low dark shape the width of the parking lot, black beneath its hooded porch.

It looked forbidding.

And Roland was inside.

Dana smiled. “You’ll have a real good time,” she muttered.

When Roland closed the restaurant door, he stood motionless and scanned the darkness. He could see nothing. He heard only his own heartbeat and quick breaths and the sounds of the rain.

There’s nothing to be afraid of, he told himself.

His body seemed to believe otherwise.

He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to drop the sleeping bag, take off his pack, and get his hands on the flashlight. But he couldn’t move.

Go ahead and do it.

He was sure it would be all right, but part of him knew with absolute certainty that something was hunched silent in the dark nearby. Aware of his presence. Waiting. If he made the slightest move, it would come for him.

The quiet whinnying of Dana’s car engine broke through his fear. He turned around and opened the restaurant’s door. The Volkswagen was backing away.

She’s leaving?

The thought alarmed him at first, then filled him with relief. If she actually drove off, he wouldn’t need to stay inside. Spend the night on the porch, maybe. Keep a lookout and make sure he was back inside when she returned.

If she returned.

And if she didn’t come back in the morning, the hike back to town was only a few miles and he’d still win the bet.

The car didn’t turn around. Near the far end of the parking lot, its red brake lights glowed briefly.

It stopped.

The engine went silent.

Roland’s hope died. Dana wasn’t leaving, after all, just putting some distance between herself and the restaurant. She must’ve been nervous about being close to it.

He watched for a while, but the car didn’t move again.

Leaving the door open for a quick escape, Roland dropped his sleeping bag to the floor. He took off his pack and removed the flashlight. With his back to the doorway, he thumbed the flashlight switch. The strong beam shot out. He whipped it from right to left. Shadows jumped and writhed, but no foul shape was lurching toward him.

Roland allowed himself to breathe. He wished his heart would slow down. It felt like a fist punching the insides of his chest.

He shut the door and sagged slightly against it. He locked his knees to keep them from folding under him. His kneecaps began to flutter with a spastic, twitching bounce, as if they wanted to jump off his legs.

Roland tried to ignore them. Aiming the flashlight ahead, he took several steps until he could see around the corner of the wall. The wall extended down the right side of the main dining room. Something just beyond the corner caught his eye. He held his breath until he identified the objects as a stepladder, a lamp, and a vacuum cleaner. On the floor near them were a toolbox, some jars and bottles and rags. He moved the beam away.

A bright disk at the far end of the room startled Roland, but it was only his own light reflecting off a window. He wasn’t alarmed when his light hit the other windows.

Except for the clutter near the one wall, the dining room was empty. He swept his beam back across it, to the wall ahead of him, and to the right. A few yards away was the corner of an L-shaped bar counter. The shelves behind it were empty. There were no stools in front of the counter. A brass foot rail ran its length.

Turning slightly, Roland played his beam over the space between the bar counter and the front wall of the restaurant. A card table stood near the wall. Bottles and a few glasses gleamed with the light. There were two folding chairs at the table.

Crouching, he shined his flashlight beneath the card table.

He stood up. Beyond the table, at the far end of the room, was an alcove. A sign above the opening read, “Rest rooms.”

Roland moved slightly forward until he could aim his light into the space behind the counter.

Returning to his backpack, he took but two of the candles he had purchased that afternoon. He went to the table, and lit them. He let the wax drip onto the table, then stood the candles upright in the tiny puddles. He stepped back. The two flames gave off an amazing amount of light, their glow illuminating most of the cocktail area.

Comforted somewhat by the light, Roland walked past the table. He noticed bat-wing doors behind the bar, probably to give the bartender access to the kitchen.

The kitchen.

Where the killings happened.

The areas above and below the doors were dark. He didn’t shine his light inside. Instead, he entered the short hallway to the rest rooms. A brass sign on the door straight ahead of him read “Ladies.” The door marked “Gentlemen” was on the right.

He needed to check inside each, but the prospect of that renewed his leg tremors and set his heart sledging again. He didn’t want to open those doors, didn’t want to face whatever might be lurking within.

It’ll be worse, he told himself, if I don’t look. Then I won’t know. I might get a big surprise later on.

He took the flashlight in his left hand, wiped the sweat off his right, and gripped the knob of the ladies’ room door. The knob wouldn’t turn. He tried the other door. It, too, was locked.

For a moment, he was glad. He wouldn’t be opening them. It was a great relief.

Then he realized that the locked doors didn’t guarantee that the rest rooms were safe. Probably, the doors could still be opened from the inside.

He shined his light on the knob of the men’s room door. It had a keyhole. A few times in the past, he had gotten into toilets simply by inserting a pointed object into the lock hole and twisting. He pulled up the leather flap of his knife case.

The snap popped open.

Christ, it was loud!

Whoever’s behind the door…

Calm down.

…heard it.

There’s nobody inside the goddamn john.

Roland stared at the door.

He imagined a sudden, harsh rap on the other side.

Gooseflesh crawled up his back.

Leaving his knife in its case, he backed away.

The candlelight was comforting.

He picked up the folding chairs one at a time and carried them to the entryway beneath the rest rooms sign. Back-to-back, they made a barrier that would have to be climbed over or pushed away. He placed a cocktail glass on the seat of each, near the edge. If the chairs moved, the glasses should fall.

Pleased with his innovation, Roland returned to the card table. He picked up one of the bottles. It was nearly full. With a candle behind it, he saw that the liquor was clear. He turned the bottle until he could read its label in the trembling light. Gilbey’s Vodka.

Great.

He twisted off the plastic cap, raised the bottle, and filled his mouth. He swallowed a little bit at a time. The vodka scorched his throat and ignited a fire in his stomach. When his mouth was empty, he took a deep breath and sighed.

If he drank enough, he could numb himself to the whole situation.

But that would make him more vulnerable.

One more swig, then he recapped the bottle.

Crouching over his pack, Roland lifted out Dana’s camera and folded it open. A flash bar was already attached to the top. He stood up and took another deep breath. It felt good inhaling, filling his lungs. They didn’t seem tight like before. In fact, he realized that he was no longer shaking. There was a slightly vague feeling inside his head. Had the vodka done this?

Back at the table, he set down the camera and took one more swallow.

Then one more.

Picking up the camera, he went to the end of the bar. He lifted the hinged panel, tipped it back so it would stay upright, and stepped through the opening. He stopped in front of the bat-wing doors. Beyond them was darkness.

The kitchen.

“Anybody…” He almost said, “here?” but that word wouldn’t come out. He wished he’d kept quiet. His fear had come back with the sound of his voice, a tight band constricting his chest.

He raised the flashlight above the doors. Its beam spilled along the kitchen floor, shaking as it moved.

He smelled the blood before he saw it. He knew the odor well, having collected some of his own in a mayonnaise jar and smeared it over his face on Halloween to gross out the guys in the dorm. His blood had smelled just this way—metallic, a little like train rails.

The flashlight beam found the blood. There was lots of it, all over the floor about halfway across the kitchen. It looked brown.

There were pale, tape outlines showing the positions of the bodies.

This is getting real, he thought.

Shit.

This is getting very real.

He’d made a big mistake. He had no business here. He was a dumb-ass kid intruding where he didn’t belong.

He lowered the flashlight. Backed away. Felt someone sneaking up on him and whirled around. Nobody there. He hurried to the other side of the bar.

I don’t need this. I don’t need to prove anything. I don’t need Dana’s money.

Near the door, he dropped to his knees and stuffed the camera into his pack.

Take pictures. Sure.

He stood, lifting the pack by one strap and hooking a finger of the same hand through the draw cord of his sleeping bag.

Shit, the candles.

The bundles swinging at his side, he rushed to the card table. As he puffed one candle out, he spotted the chairs he’d set up to block the hall to the rest rooms.

Leave them. Who cares.

He blew out the other candle. Followed the beam of his flashlight to the door. Opened the door.

The night breeze, smelling of rain, blew against his face.

He stared through the downpour at Dana’s car—a small, dark object waiting at the far edge of the lot. The plastic banner on its aerial waved in the breeze.

I’d be surprised if you last ten minutes.

The bitch, she’ll never let me live this down. She’ll tell everyone. I’ll be a joke.

Roland kicked the door shut.

“I’m staying!” he yelled. “Fuck it!”

He stepped close to the bar. He unrolled his sleeping bag, took off his cap and jacket, and sat on the soft, down-filled bag.

I should’ve done it like this in the first place.

Shouldn’t have snooped around.

Should’ve done it the way I’d planned.

Reaching deep into his pack, pushing aside the candles and camera, he touched steel.

The handcuffs rattled as he pulled them out.

He snapped one bracelet around his left wrist, the other around the brass foot rail of the bar.

Flashlight clamped under his left arm, he aimed it at the card table and gave the handcuff key a toss. It clinked against one of the bottles and dropped onto the table.

Out of reach.

We’ll see who chickens out, he thought.

We’ll see who lasts the night.