No Sanctuary

RICHARD LAYMON

RAVE REVIEWS FOR RICHARD LAYMON!

“A brilliant writer.”

—Sunday Express

“Laymon doesn’t pull any punches. Everything he writes keeps you on the edge of your seat.”

—Painted Rock Reviews

“One of the best, and most reliable, writers working today.”

—Cemetery Dance

“Laymon is incapable of writing a disappointing book.”

—New York Review of Science Fiction

“Laymon lets out the stops in typically ferocious fashion. The Traveling Vampire Show contains some of the wisdom of King’s The Body or Robert R. McCammon’s Boy’s Life, but the book belongs wholly to Laymon, who with his trademark squeaky-clean yet sensual prose, high narrative drive and pitch-dark sense of humor has crafted a horror tale that’s not only emotionally true but also scary and, above all, fun.”

—Publishers Weekly (Starred Review)

“Laymon always takes it to the max. No one writes like him and you’re going to have a good time with anything he writes.”

—Dean Koontz

“If you’ve missed Laymon, you’ve missed a treat.”

—Stephen King

“If, like me, you consider Ray Bradbury’s “Something Wicked This Way Comes an American classic, you are in for a real treat. The traveling Vampire Show will put you in the same vicarious world that no one has entered since the master.”

—Denver Rocky Mountain News

“Laymon is an American writer of the highest caliber.”

—Time Out

“Laymon is unique. A phenomenon. A genius of the grisly and the grotesque.”

—Joe Citro, The Blood Review

Other books by Richard Laymon:

DARKNESS, TELL US

NIGHT IN THE LONESOME OCTOBER

ISLAND

THE MUSEUM OF HORRORS

IN THE DARK

THE TRAVELING VAMPIRE SHOW

AMONG THE MISSING

ONE RAINY NIGHT

BITE

Copyright © 2001 by Richard Laymon

Chapter One

Saturday May 24

The sound of breaking glass shocked Rhonda Bain awake. She went rigid on the bed and stared at the dark ceiling.

She told herself it wasn’t someone breaking into the house; a framed picture or a mirror had fallen off one of the walls.

She didn’t believe it.

Someone had smashed a window. She’d heard glass hitting a floor, so it was the kitchen window; the other rooms had carpet.

Rhonda imagined herself bolting from the bedroom, racing for the front door. But as she rushed past the kitchen, a dark shape would lurch out and grab her.

I can’t just lie here and wait for him!

She flung the sheet aside, sat up, snapped her head toward the bedroom window. The curtains were open, stirring slightly in the breeze. She shivered and clenched her teeth, but not because of the mild night air on her bare skin.

I’ve gotta get out of here!

The window was no good. The damn thing was louvered. There wouldn’t be time to pull out enough slats, remove the screen and climb through. If she barricaded the bedroom door and smashed an opening with a chair ...

She flinched at the sound of a footstep—a shoe crunching broken glass.

He’s still in the kitchen.

If I try smashing the slats, he’ll know I’m here, and what if he gets to me before I can—

He doesn’t know I’m here!

Rhonda swung her legs off the bed. She rose slowly. The boxsprings squeaked a bit, but then she was standing. She turned to the queen-sized bed. With trembling hands, she smoothed her pillow, drew up the top sheet, then the electric blanket, then the quilt. A few tugs and the bed looked as if it hadn’t been slept in.

She crouched. She sat on the carpet. She lay back and squirmed sideways, the hanging quilt brushing across her body. It passed over her face. She kept moving. It slid over her left breast, then her shoulder. She scooted in farther. Stopping, she fingered the hem of the quilt. It was five or six inches beyond her left hip and about two inches short of touching the floor.

Good enough.

She lay still, hands pressed to the sides of her thighs. She was trembling badly. She heard her quick thudding heartbeat. She heard herself panting. But she didn’t hear footsteps.

He’s probably out of the kitchen, walking on carpet. Where?

Turning her head, Rhonda could see out with one eye. She watched the bottom of the doorway.

Calm down, she told herself.

Oh, sure thing.

Want him to hear your damn heart drumming?

She let go of her legs, rested her hands on the carpet, and concentrated on letting her muscles relax. She filled her lungs slowly and let the air out.

Calm, she thought. You’re not even here. You’re lying on a beach. You’re at the lake, stretched out on a towel. You can hear the waves lapping in, kids squealing and laughing. You can feel the sun and the breeze on your skin. You’re wearing your white bikini.

You’re naked.

Her stomach twisted.

You’re naked and hiding under a bed and somebody’s in the goddamn house.

She suddenly felt trapped. Though the bed didn’t touch her, it seemed to be pressing down, smothering her. She struggled for breath. She wanted out. She ached to squirm free, scurry to her feet and make a dash for safety.

Calm down. He doesn’t know you’re here.

Maybe he does.

The pale beam of a flashlight danced through the darkness beyond the bedroom door. Rhonda glimpsed it. Then it was gone. She held her breath and stared through the gap, waiting. The beam scrawled a quick curlicue, darted high and vanished again.

He’ll come in soon, Rhonda thought. He’ll find me. God, why didn’t I make a run for it when the window broke?

Why didn’t I go with Mom and Dad to Aunt Betty’s?

She forced herself to take a breath.

The beam of the flashlight slanted through the doorway, swept toward Rhonda and up.

He’s checking the bed, she thought.

See, nobody’s here. So get on with it. Rob the place. Take whatever you want, you bastard, just don’t look under the bed.

With the snap of a switch, the lights came on.

Rhonda’s fingernails dug into her thighs.

Her one eye saw a pair of old jogging shoes in the doorway. The ragged cuffs of blue jeans draped their tops and swayed slightly as the man walked forward.

The shoes stopped, turned, moved toward the closet. Rhonda watched the closet door swing open. She heard some empty hangers clink together. A loop of threads hung from the back of the jeans’ frayed left cuff, dangling almost to the floor.

The shoes turned again. They came toward her, veered away, and passed out of sight as the man walked toward the end of the bed. She heard quiet steps crossing the room.

A sudden clatter and skid of metal made Rhonda flinch.

He must’ve yanked the curtains shut.

What for? The backyard is fenced. Nobody can see in. Maybe he doesn’t know that. Or he knows it, but isn’t taking any chances. Not with the light on.

The bed shuddered. It kept shaking above Rhonda. The edge of the bedspread trembled. She turned her face up. There was only darkness above her, but she pictured the man crawling over the mattress.

What’s he doing?

He’s right on top of me!

The bed squawked as if he’d suddenly flopped down hard. Something wispy—the fabric under the boxsprings?—fluttered briefly against Rhonda’s nose.

She heard a click.

What was that?

Rhonda suddenly knew. The stem on the back of the alarm clock. She’d pulled it after getting into bed, wanting to wake up early for Jurassic Park Marathon on a cable channel.

He knows I’m here.

Rhonda squeezed her eyes shut. This isn’t happening, she thought. Please.

The bed shook a little. Turning her head, Rhonda watched fingers curl under the edge of the quilt near her shoulder. The quilt lifted. There was more rustling above her. The quilt stayed up. Hands lowered and pressed flat against the carpet. Then an upside-down head filled the space between the bed and the floor.

A man, perhaps twenty-five or thirty years old, stared in at her. His light brown hair was cut short. Even though his face was upside-down, he looked handsome. In other circumstances, Rhonda might have found herself attracted to him. But she felt only revulsion.

She squirmed sideways, moving toward the center of the bed.

“Go away!” she gasped.

The man did a quick somersault off the bed, landed lightly on his back, rolled over and peered in at her. One hand darted out like a paw. The hooked fingers missed her upper arm by inches and raked back along the carpet.

Pushing himself up, he crawled on hands and knees toward the end of the bed.

Heading for the other side?

Rhonda heard nothing. She turned her head to watch the quilt along the right side of the bed. It was lower there, touching the floor.

She shrieked as cold hands grabbed her ankles.

They pulled. Rhonda skidded, the carpet burning her back. She swept her arms away from her sides, reached up and clung to the metal bedframe. The pulling hands stretched her. She kicked, barking a shin on the end of the frame. The hands tugged. Her body jerked, leaving the floor and pressing the underside of the boxsprings for an instant before she lost her hold and dropped.

The carpet seared her buttocks and back. She clawed at the bed, ripped the flimsy cloth, tried to grab springs, curled fingertips over the edge of a wooden cross-slat. But the man was dragging her too hard and fast. Nothing could stop her rough slide.

The quilt flapped her face.

Clear of the bed, she squirmed and tried to kick her feet free of the man’s grip. He clamped her ankles against his hips. He smiled as if he enjoyed watching her struggle.

Finally, exhausted, she lay still and panted for breath.

The man kept smiling. He kept her feet pinned to his sides. His head moved as he inspected her with wide, glassy eyes.

Rhonda pressed a hand between her legs. She crossed an arm over her breasts.

The man laughed softly.

He said, “No need of modesty, Rhonda.”

He knows my name!

“Who are you?” she gasped.

“I’ve been watching you. You’re very beautiful.”

“Leave me alone.” Her voice sounded whiny, scared. She didn’t care. “Please,” she said.

“Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you. Just don’t cause any trouble and do exactly what I say, and you’ll be fine.”

Rhonda started to cry.

The man kept smiling..

“Okay,” she finally said through her sobs. “I’ll ... just don’t ... hurt me. Promise?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Rhonda’s body was found three days later and far from home.

Chapter Two

Saturday June 21

The jangle of the telephone forced its way into Rick’s dream and woke him up. Moaning, he rolled onto his side. The lighted dial of the alarm dock on the nightstand showed five o’clock.

Braced up on an elbow, he reached over the clock and lifted the phone’s handset. As he brought it to his face, the uncoiling cord nudged the dock off the stand.

“This is obscene,” he muttered.

“How did you guess?” Bert started breathing heavily on the other end of the line.

“It’s still night,” Rick interrupted. “That’s the obscenity. Human beings weren’t meant to get up before dawn.”

“There are human beings who do it every day.”

“Not when they’re on vacation.”

“Speaking of which...”

“Must we?” Rick asked.

“Don’t be so negative. You’re going to love it. The fresh mountain air, the grand vistas, not to mention the peace and quiet ...”

“I’ve been camping before. It’s not my idea of—”

“Never with me.”

“Right. Bertha Crockett, Queen of the Wild Frontier.”

The sound of her husky laugh reminded Rick of just why he had allowed Bert to talk him into a week of backpacking. “Are you still in bed?” he asked.

“I’ve been up for an hour. I’m all packed and showered.”

“Dressed yet?”

That laugh again. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Matter of fact.. ”

“Come on over and find out.”

“Bye.”

“Hey!”

“Huh?”

“I called for a reason.”

“I thought it was just to interrupt my sleep.”

“You’ll be passing some doughnut shops on the way over. Why not pick up a dozen? We can eat them in the car. I’ll fill a Thermos with coffee.”

“Okay, fine.”

“See you later.”

“Half an hour. So long.” He hung up, swung the sheet away, and sat on the edge of his bed.

We’re actually going to do it, he thought. The realization made him tight and shaky inside. Leaning forward, he propped his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor.

It’s today. Christ.

When they’d decided to make the trip, when they’d outfitted him, even last night while he was packing, the journey seemed somehow distant and vague, as if it were a concept, not an event that would actually occur.

Like having a will drawn up, he thought. You do it, but you don’t quite figure on having any real need for it.

Then one fine morning ...

You can still back out.

Hell I can.....

Should’ve just refused when it first came up.

He had suggested alternatives: the MGM Grand in Las Vegas, the Hyatt on Mauii, a tour of Ireland, a cruise on a luxury liner to Acapulco, even a steamboat trip down the Mississippi. But Bert had her heart set on backpacking in the Sierras. Somehow, she’d let two years slip by without roughing it, and she needed time in the wilderness. She had to go, with or without Rick.

And who would she go with, if not with Rick?

Myself, she’d answered. I find myself excellent company, but you’re pretty excellent, too.

That had settled it. The thought of Bert going alone was intolerable.

And what was true three weeks ago was still true. Rick was sure of that. If he backed out, Bert would make the trip alone.

He flinched at the sudden blare of his alarm clock. Reaching down, he picked up the clock and silenced it. He placed it on the nightstand. Hard.

Okay. You’re going. So relax and enjoy it.

He put on a robe, walked down the hall to the room he thought of as his “entertainment center,” and stepped behind the wet bar. There, he made himself a Bloody Mary with a double shot of vodka, light on the tomato juice, heavy on Worcestershire and tabasco. He twisted a wedge of lemon over the drink, added ground pepper, and stirred.

It tasted tangy and good. He carried the glass into the bathroom. After using the toilet, he took a shower. He wanted to linger under the soothing hot spray. After all, there would be no showers for the next week.

No soft bed.

No safety of walls and locked doors.

No Bloody Marys.

At least you’ve packed a fifth of bourbon and a revolver, he thought. Those’ll help.

Bert’ll crap when she finds out.

Tough. Not going into the wilderness without my peace-makers.

Rick turned off the water and climbed out of the tub. He quickly dried himself. He took a long drink of his Bloody Mary, then rolled deodorant under his arms. The shower hadn’t lasted long enough to steam up the mirror. He lathered his face and shaved. Though his hand trembled, he managed not to cut himself.

Back in the bedroom, he tossed his robe aside and stood in front of the full-length mirror on his closet door to comb his hair. At least you’re in good shape, he consoled himself. You were a wimpy teenager last time around. - .

Last time around ...

His scrotum shriveled tight. In the mirror, he saw his hanging penis shrink.

Turning away from his reflection, he stepped into his underpants and pulled them up. The hugging fabric took away some of the vulnerable feeling. He took another drink, then finished dressing.

Bert had selected the outfit: a camouflage shirt with epaulets and pocket flaps, and baggy olive green trousers with pockets that reached down almost to his knees. He fastened the web belt, put on his socks and boots, and stepped in front of the mirror again.

All you need is an ascot and a red beret, he thought, and you’ll look like a paratrooper.

Appropriate. You sure as hell feel like one—like a paratrooper about to take the big step without benefit of a ’chute.

Rick made his bed. He checked the bedroom windows to be sure they were shut and locked.

He finished his Bloody Mary on the way into the kitchen. There, he rinsed out the glass and put it into the dishwasher.

Then he went into the living room.

His backpack was propped upright against the front of the sofa. On the nearby table were his sunglasses, handkerchief, wallet and keys, Swiss Army knife, matches and a pack of thin cigars. He loaded them into his pockets. Then he mashed a battered old cowboy hat onto his head. He stepped over to his pack.

Forgetting anything? he wondered.

He had double-checked Bert’s instructions while packing last night. He knew he was missing nothing on her list.

What else?

Curtains all shut. Lights off. The timer set for the living room lamp so that it would come on at eight each night and go off at eleven. Doors and windows locked. Newspaper delivery stopped. Mail put on vacation hold.

That seemed to be everything.

Rick hoisted the backpack and slipped his arms through its straps. It felt heavy, but had a comfortable fit.

He turned around once.

What are you forgetting?

Rick entered the courtyard of Bert’s apartment building. On his way up the outside stairs, he paused and stepped aside while a man in a sport coat and necktie came down.

Lucky guy, Rick thought. He’s on his way to work. Wish I was.

But that feeling changed when Bert opened her door. Rick stepped inside and into her arms, felt the moist warmth of her mouth, her tight hug, her breasts and pelvis pressing against him. He slipped his hands beneath her loose shirt-tails and caressed her back. It was smooth and bare. He moved his hands all the way up to the sides of her neck and slid them out along her shoulders. He was always amazed by her shoulders; they were slender but wide, giving her body a tapered look and feel. As he stroked them, Bert squirmed against him and moaned.

“How about one for the road?” she whispered.

“You’re kidding,” Rick said.

“Well, if you’re in a big hurry to get going ...”

“I think we can spare a few minutes. Or a few hours. Or a few days.”

“However long it takes.”

Straddling Rick on her hands and knees, Bert stared down into his eyes. Her mouth was open. She was still breathing heavily. “Well,” she said.

“Well.”

“Guess we’d better get a move on.”

“Yeah.”

She lowered herself and kissed his mouth. He felt her nipples brush against his chest. Then she pushed herself up. “I guess that’ll hold us till tonight,” she said.

“Isn’t it customary to sleep after all this exertion?”

“If you want me to drive, you can sleep in the car.”

“How about a shower first?”

“Already had one this morning.”

“So did I. But this was a messy job, and—”

“I’ll keep my mess, thank you. Something to remember you by,” she added, smiling down at him. “You may feel free to take a shower, however, if you make it quick.”

“Without you?”

Nodding, Bert climbed off him.

“I’ll pass,” Rick said.

He got out of bed and followed her. The air stirred against his damp body, cooling him. He watched Bert. Her short blond hair looked brown in the dim light, her skin dusky. She walked with easy strides. Rick’s gaze slid down her wide shoulders, her back, her slim waist, and lingered on the smooth moving mounds of her buttocks.

When we’re on the trails, he thought, I’ll let her take the lead.

He tightened inside. He wished he hadn’t thought about being on trails.

We’re not there yet, he told himself.

He stopped in the entryway to the living room and leaned against the cool wood.

Bert continued into the room. Her head lowered as she looked at the discarded clothing. She was in profile when she bent at the waist, and Rick stared at the side of her breast. She picked up her panties. Her breast swayed slightly as she shifted from one foot to the other and stepped into them. The panties were little more than a white elastic waistband. When they were on, she turned toward Rick.

“Am I the only one getting dressed around here?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“Anything to stall.”

“Magnificent view. Mount Bertha.”

“That’s twice.” She raised an eyebrow. “Once more and you’ve had it.”

“Bert’s a boy’s name. You quite obviously are no—”

“Bertha’s a cow’s name. My parents were mad.” After a glance at the floor, she ducked down and picked up a white sock. She bent over, raised a foot, and started to put the sock on.

“What name would you have liked?” Rick asked.

“Maybe Kim, Tracy, Ann. But they didn’t ask. How about you?” She stretched the sock almost to her knee and picked up its mate.

“Ernie,” Rick said.

“Ernie’s a trucker’s name.”

“We’d be Bert and Ernie. We could move to Sesame Street.”

Bert shook her head. She lost her balance and hopped on one foot to steady herself. Rick watched her breasts shake. She finished with the second sock and straightened up. She looked at Rick’s penis, then at his face.

“You missed your calling,” she said. “You should’ve been a peeping Tom.”

“Doesn’t pay as well as ophthalmology.”

“Taking care of other people’s peepers.”

“So they won’t miss out on the glories of observing the human form.”

“You’re a humanitarian.” She picked up her tan shorts and stepped into them. They were loose-fitting, with deep pockets and button-down flaps like the trousers she had picked for Rick. After belting them, she sat on the floor and began to put on her boots.

She was deliberately leaving her shirt for last.

“What I like about you,” Rick said, “you’re so considerate.”

“Maybe I enjoy being looked at as much as you enjoy the looking.”

“Impossible.”

“Then just consider it a perk. I know you’re not thrilled about spending your vacation in the boonies. Anything I can do to make it more bearable ...”

“So far, it’s just great.”

When Bert finished tying her boots, she reached around, picked up Rick’s socks, and tossed them to him.

“I usually start with my shorts,” he said.

She grinned. “Not this time.” She leaned back, braced up on straight arms, and watched. Rick couldn’t take his eyes off her. After his socks were on, she threw the shirt to him. Then his shorts, and finally his trousers. While he fastened the belt, Bert slipped into her faded, blue chambray shirt. Leaving it open, she rolled the sleeves up her forearms. Then she buttoned the front.

Show’s over, Rick thought.

A sudden rush of panic squeezed him.

Bert frowned. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head.

“What is it?”

“Just butterflies.”

“You look like you got kicked in the nuts.”

Feel that way, he thought. “I’m fine,” he said.

Bert got up. She put her arms around him. “What kind of butterflies?”

“Mallards.”

“Mallards are ducks.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“It’s about camping?”

Rick nodded.

“I thought you just didn’t want to go without the comforts. It’s more than that.”

“I had some trouble the last time.”

Bert stroked the hair on the back of his head.

“I was fourteen. I was packing with my father out of Mineral Springs. We were in deep. Nobody else was around. I stumbled going across some rocks and stepped into a crevice. It was so dumb. I should’ve looked where I was going. Anyway, I sustained fractures of my left tibia and fibula. Dad left me alone to go for help. It was three days before I got air-lifted out. Not such a big deal, I guess, but I was fourteen and it was a pretty desolate area like some kind of Dah nightmare landscape, and I felt ... vulnerable. There were coyotes around. I’d see them slinking over the rocks near the camp and I figured I was probably on the menu. Hell, I was scared shitless the whole time. The end.”

Bert held him tightly.

“No major deal in the scheme of things,” Rick said. “But enough to dampen my enthusiasm for roughing it.”

“You must’ve been terrified,” Bert said.

“It was a long time ago.”

“I shouldn’t have pushed you into this. I mean, I knew you weren’t eager to go, but I never suspected ...”

He patted her rump. “We’d better get a move on.”

“Maybe we should change our plans.”

“Call it off?” Rick asked.

“Sure. It’s okay with me.”

Go for it, Rick thought. This is just what you’ve been waiting to hear.

“What about the call of the wild?” he asked.

“I’ll answer it some other time.”

“Without me?”

He felt her shrug.

“I’ll go. You know what they say about falling off a horse. And about lightning striking the same place twice.”

“Are you sure?” Bert asked.

“Absolutely.”

She squeezed him. “I’ll make you a promise. If you break a leg this time out, I’ll stay with you. We’ll stick it out together until somebody comes along, and send them for help. I’ll stay and take care of you. If we run out of food, I’ll fish and set traps. And I’ll shoo the coyotes away.”

It was the last thing Rick wanted to hear. “A deal,” he said.

Chapter Three

Gillian O’Neill stared at the ringing telephone. She didn’t want to pick it up.

This time, she thought, I won’t.

If I don’t pick it up, they’ll be all right.

But as she watched, the handset rose into the air.

No!

She had a pair of scissors in her hand. She rushed forward, ready to cut the cord, but she wasn’t in time. A voice boomed out of the phone as if from a loudspeaker: “Guess what happened to your parents!”

The mouthpiece sprayed blood. The red shower splashed Gillian’s face, blinding her. She shrieked, lurched backward, tripped and began a long fall, and jerked awake.

Gasping, she rolled onto her back.

The bell rang again.

Not the telephone; the front door.

Trembling, Gillian used the top sheet like a towel to wipe her sweaty face. Then she scurried off her bed. At the closet, she grabbed her robe. She put it on as she rushed from the room. It clung to her skin. She got the belt tied on her way down the hall.

“I’m coming,” she called when she reached the living room.

“Okey-doke.” It was the voice of Odie Taylor.

She slowed down. Just Odie. Good.

She opened the door.

Odie smiled nervously. His head bobbed and swayed, as usual, like the heads of the toy dogs Gillian sometimes saw in the rear windows of cars. As usual, he didn’t look her in the eyes. His gaze stayed level with her neck.

“Wake you?” he asked her neck.

“I’m glad of it. I was having a bad dream.”

“Gee, I’m sorry.” He hitched up his sagging jeans. “You been gone.”

“I took a little vacation. Want a Pepsi?”

“Thank you.”

He stayed on the balcony outside the door while Gillian hurried into the kitchen and took a can of soda from the refrigerator. She knew better than to ask Odie in. The only time she had invited him into the apartment, he had gone wild-eyed and started stuttering, scared as a trapped animal until he was outside again.

She handed the can to him.

“Thank you very much,” he said. He held it and stared at her neck. His head weaved and nodded.

“Is there a problem? My rent late?”

“Heyuh.” It was Odie’s way of laughing. “You’re trying to joke me, Miss O’Neill.” Odie seemed as nervous about calling her Gillian as he was about entering her apartment. “You don’t pay no rent, you own the place.”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot.”

“You didn’t forget, you’re trying to joke me.”

“Is there a problem, or ...”

“Gee.” He bit down on his lower lip.

“What is it?”

“I’m gonna have to go on back home. Pa took a spill off the barn roof.”

“God, I’m sorry.”

“Well, he ain’t dead or nothing but he got busted up some. Me and Grace, we’re gonna have to go on back home. I’m sure sorry.”

“Will you be coming back?”

“I jist don’t know. I jist might stay. I been thinking maybe with the baby coming we oughta stay at the farm. City’s not a good place for a kid.”

“Or for anyone else,” Gillian said. “I’m really sorry to have you and Grace leave, you’ve done a great job managing the place.”

“I’m sure sorry. You’ve sure been nice to us. I don’t know what we’d of done ...”

“You’re good people, Odie. I’ll miss you and Grace. But I bet you’ll be glad to get back home.”

“Well ...”

“When will you be leaving?”

“Friday, I guess. The rents’re all paid up for last month and everything’s tip-top around here. Want me to bring the stuff over?”

“No, that’s fine. Just leave it all in your apartment so it’ll be there for the new people.”

“Okey-doke.”

“I might not be around for the next few days, so hang on a second and I’ll get you your pay.”

Odie stayed in the doorway while Gillian returned to her bedroom. Her handbag was on top of the dresser. She took out the checkbook and wrote a check.

Odie was drinking his Pepsi when she reached the door. She handed the check to him.

“Thank you very much,” he said. Then he glanced at it. He raised it close to his face and peered at it. His head stopped moving. He looked at Gillian, looked into her eyes. “You made a mistake here, Miss O’Neill. You got a zero too many.”

“It’s no mistake, Odie.”

“This says five thousand dollars. We get five hundred, nor five thousand.”

“It’s a bonus for you and Grace being such good managers.”

“Holy cow.”

“If I don’t get a chance to see you again before you leave, have a good trip.” She held out her hand. Odie gripped the check in his teeth and pumped her hand. “Drop me a line sometimes, let me know how things are going.”

His head started bobbing again. He took the check out of his teeth. “Sure will, Miss O’Neill. Gillian.” His voice was high-pitched. He grimaced as if he were in pain. He fluttered the check under his face. “Grace, she’s gonna lay a brick when she sees this.” He shrugged.

“Take it easy, Odie.”

“Yeah. Holy cow.” Rubbing the back of his hand under his nose, he turned away and started along the balcony toward the stairs.

Gillian shut her door. She went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.

She would miss Odie and Grace. She had managed the twenty-unit apartment complex herself for almost a year before they showed up in their lopsided pickup truck. Odie was unemployed, but Grace had already lined up a book-keeping job that would bring in enough money to cover the rent and little else.

Gillian not only liked the two at once, she trusted them. She gave them an apartment rent-free and hired Odie, overjoyed to be released from the burden of running the place.

Now they were leaving.

I’ll have to get someone else, she thought as she poured a mug of coffee. No way am I going to start managing again.

Sliding open the kitchen door, she stepped onto the sundeck and sat down on a padded chair. She stretched her legs out, propping her feet on a plastic table. She took a drink of coffee.

Damn.

Her stomach hurt. It wasn’t just losing her managers, it was liking them and knowing she would never see them again after they left.

They weren’t exactly friends. But she had cared about them, and now they’d be out of her life forever.

That’s life, she told herself. That’s why you shouldn’t start caring.

She drank some more coffee. She rested the mug on the arm of the chair, dosed her eyes and tilted her head back to feel the sun on her face.

How’s about bugging out? she thought.

I don’t know.

She’d only come back yesterday. The need wouldn’t start getting strong for a week or two.

Right.

But with Odie and Grace taking off, she might be stuck here after Friday—at least until she could find someone to replace them.

If you wait, you might have to go without for a whole month. Maybe even longer.

You’ll be climbing the goddamn walls.

Better go for it while you’ve got the chance.

Her decision made, Gillian felt a familiar stir of excitement.

Get a move on, she thought. If you don’t have any luck today, you’ll have to wait for Monday.

She finished her coffee and went inside.

Gillian drove to an area in Studio City where the homes were nice but not elaborate. Rarely did she venture into truly exclusive neighborhoods—except on occasions when she wanted a special treat. Not this time. She had no taste today for the luxuries of a million-dollar home. Nor for dallying with such frills as elaborate alarm systems and private security patrols. A nice home in a middle-income neighborhood was all she desired. This area was just right.

Gillian had spent a terrific week in a house not far from here. The Jenson place. Murray and Ethel, away on vacation to Boston, had been good enough to leave their calendar clearly marked with their departure and return dates. Gillian had simply cleared out the day before they were scheduled to return. That had been back in February. This was June, so plenty of time had passed. She never liked to return to the same general area unless at least three months had gone by.

After cruising the streets for a while, she spotted one of the white Jeeps with red and blue stripes used by mail carriers. It was parked near a comer.

Gillian left her car on the next block, then began to wander the streets in search of the mailman.

Within ten minutes, she found him.

She walked slowly toward him. With his detours to front doors, she soon overtook him. She left him behind. At the end of the block, she crossed to the opposite side of the street and watched him from there.

When he made no delivery to a house, Gillian wrote the address on a note pad.

She spent nearly two hours observing the mailman. By then, she had five addresses on her list.

She returned to each house.

At one, she heard voices through the front door. She walked away and scratched that address off her list.

At another, a surly old man came to the door when she rang the bell. He glared at her. “I ain’t buying. I ain’t donating, I ain’t signing shit. Get outa here’n stop annoying me.” Gillian smiled at him. “Are you saved?” she asked. “Get fucked,” he said, and slammed the door.

Gillian scratched that address off her list. Her hand shook when she did it.

At the other three homes, nobody answered the doorbell.

One of these had an alarm system, two didn’t. She scratched off the one that had the alarm.

In an alley behind one of the remaining homes, she peered through a narrow gap between the fence and gate. There was no swimming pool, but the back yard had a nice patio area and a hot tub.

She walked two blocks to the other house. On close inspection, she found that it had a swimming pool. A definite plus.

Gillian returned to her car.

On the way back to her apartment, she weighed the choices. A pool was preferable to a hot tub. However, the place with the hot tub had a vacant house next door with a For Sale sign in front. That would mean one less next-door neighbor who might get suspicious of her sudden presence.

Gillian decided on the hot tub house.

Chapter Four

They had set off with Bert driving. After the coffee and doughnuts, Rick nodded off and dozed for an hour. When he awoke, they were on the Grapevine, heading down through the Tehachapis. The valley below them looked flat and endless.

In Bakersfield, they stopped at a filling station. The gas tank was only half empty, but their bladders were full. Bert used a restroom while Rick pumped gas at the self-service island. When she returned, he hurried to the men’s room.

He came back and offered to take over the driving, but Bert said that she wasn’t tired yet. “Why don’t I drive till Fresno?” she suggested. “That’s when we start east. I’ll let you experience the joys of the mountain driving.”

“Fine. And you can navigate, since you’re the one who allegedly knows where we’re going.”

When they reached Fresno, they were ready for lunch. Bert took an off-ramp. Along the sideroad were several restaurants. Bert said that a Burger King would do nicely, but Rick talked her into Howard Johnson’s. “I’ve really got a craving for fried clams,” he told her, “and that’s a specialty at Howard Johnson’s.”

“You interested in the clams or the bar?” Bert asked.

“Both,” he admitted.

“Just remember you’ll be driving.”

Inside, they each drank a Bloody Mary while they waited for the meal to be served. Then Bert had iced tea with her clams and French fries, and Rick had a beer. He nursed the beer along, wanting another but holding back so Bert wouldn’t start to worry.

The car was stifling when they returned to it. Rick put on the air conditioner, and soon cool air was blowing against them.

Though the alcohol made him groggy for a while, it blunted his apprehension as the valley was left behind.

The land changed quickly. For a while, the road rose and dipped through brown foothills where cattle grazed. There were few trees, and only a scattering of rock. Then the rolling fields became littered with rock, and clumps jutted up like broken knobs of bone that had split the flesh of the earth. The road curved upward, a granite wall on their right, a ravine on the left. Then trees on both sides cast their deep shadows onto the pavement.

Bert asked Rick to turn off the car’s air conditioner. They both rolled their windows down. Warm air that smelled of pine rushed into the car. “Delicious,” Bert said.

She rested her elbow on the window sill, and Rick stole glances at her as he steered around the curves. Her forearm was sleek and tanned. Her face was tilted toward the window. The one eye he could see was half shut and her mouth was open slightly, smiling. The wind ruffled her hair and fluttered the open neck of her shirt.

God, she was beautiful.

In Rick’s imagination, she opened more buttons and the wind flapped her shirt open.

Then his mind strayed away from her beauty. He found himself wishing he were Bert, face to the wind, relishing the scented mountain air. She seemed untarnished, pure and free, enjoying herself like a child. Rick longed to be inside her and feel the way she must feel. There would be no worries, no knot in his stomach, only the thrill of being in the mountains at the very start of a vacation.

He could remember the way it felt to be that way. The memories made him hurt for what had been lost.

Maybe I can get some of it back, he thought. Maybe some of Bert will rub off on me.

Just don’t let me rub off on Bert. Don’t, for godsake, ruin it for her.

Bert turned her head. “I once hiked three days,” she said, “and never saw anyone. Can you imagine that? Nobody else on the trails. We camped by lakes and had them all to ourselves.”

“That does sound nice,” Rick said. “I hope we get a lake to ourselves.”

“Yeah, I bet I know what you’ve got in mind.”

“You can freeze your nuts off in those glacial lakes.”

“Not me.”

Rick laughed.

“It’s not so bad,” Bert said, “once you get used to it.”

“I was never in that long.”

“One does tend to take on a lovely shade of blue.”

“I guess we’ll find out,” Rick said. “You swim, I’ll watch you turn colors.”

“Chicken.”

“I’ll be your towel holder.”

“One doesn’t use a towel. One lies out in the sun on a flat rock.”

“That’s how it’s done, huh? Does one wear a swimming suit?”

“Not if one can help it.”

“This is sounding better and better.”

“But you’ve got to be somewhere isolated for that, so I wouldn’t count on it.”

“You mean we won’t be isolated? I thought that was the whole idea.”

“It’ll be in an area that’s pretty out of the way. I know the popular places that’ll be swarming with campers, and we’ve steered clear of those. But we won’t be in deep. Even if you do go in deep, that’s no guarantee. Just means you meet a hardier breed of hiker. We’ll probably have some company, but not much.”

“Be great if it was just you and me.”

“That, of course, is what we’ll be shooting for.” She ran a hand down his thigh, gave him a pat, then reached to the glove compartment. She took out a map. As she unfolded it, the wind snapped it taut. She lowered it against her legs.

“We almost there yet?”

“Not by a long shot. The fun hasn’t even started.”

“Which fun is that?”

“About thirty miles on an unpaved road.”

“I can hardly wait.”

“That’s the part that keeps out the riff-raff.” She spent a while studying the map. “It’s not even on here,” she said.

“Maybe it doesn’t exist.”

“Jean at the office was there last summer with her husband. They stumbled onto the road by accident and thought the area was great. I’ve got her directions.” Bert patted her breast pocket. “We’ll find it.”

A while later, dwellings began to appear among the trees on both sides of the road. Some of them looked like summer cottages Rick had known as a boy. There were a few log cabins and several A-frames. He heard the sputter of a distant chainsaw.

A sign read: Bridger Creek, Population 63, Elevation 7,300.

“We’re getting up there,” Bert said.

Bridger Creek had a crossroads. On two of the comers stood A-frame real estate offices. On another comer was the B.C. Bar with a few pickup trucks and motorcycles and off-road vehicles parked in its lot. The fourth corner was occupied by a general store with gas pumps in front.

Rick stopped beside one of the pumps. A skinny teenaged boy in bib overalls trotted down from the porch. He wore a cap with its bill at the rear. He smiled through the window at Rick. Two of his upper front teeth were missing. “Help ya?” he asked.

“Fill it up with unleaded,” Rick said.

The kid went over to the pumps.

“ ‘Duelling Banjos,’ anyone?” Rick asked.

Bert gave the side of his leg a gentle punch.

After paying for the gas, Rick moved the car to the end of the lot. They went inside the store and used the restrooms. Before leaving, they bought a bag of potato chips and two bottles of cream soda.

He drove with the bottle of soda clamped between his legs. It was cold through his trousers. The open sack of chips rested on the seat. He took turns with Bert reaching into it. Sometimes, when he was concentrating on the road, his hand collided with hers.

Soon after the chips and sodas were gone, the road narrowed. It curved along the side of a mountain. Beyond the other lane was a sheer drop to a wooded valley. Rick’s hands tightened on the steering wheel and he slowed down and edged to the right each time he met a descending vehicle. There were pickup trucks, Jeeps and vans, a few R.V.s. The big campers barely had room to squeeze by. Rick began pulling onto the gravel shoulder and stopping each time one of them appeared around a bend.

After the fourth time he did that, he slid a thin cigar out of the pack in his shirt pocket.

“Uh-oh,” Bert said. “The man’s getting serious.”

“They help calm me down.” He held the cigar out to Bert. “Want one?” he asked.

“Why not?”

Though she had never complained of his cigars, she had never smoked one, either. “You are in a festive mood,” Rick said. He took one out for himself. His hands shook badly as he unwrapped it.

Cigar jutting from her pursed lips, Bert leaned toward Rick for a light and wiggled her eyebrows like Groucho.

Rick lit it for her. “You’re a regular guy,” he said.

“If I’m a guy, I’m irregular.”

He grinned and fired up his own cigar. He checked the road. Then he eased off the rough shoulder and picked up speed.

Smoking the cigar helped his nerves. So did watching Bert with hers. She didn’t smoke it so much as fool with it: she held it out daintily between two fingers; she stretched out her lips and sucked it like a monkey; she talked with the cigar clamped in her side teeth; she tapped off ashes with her pinky; looking at Rick with half-shut eyes, she licked its blunt wet end and slid the shaft deep into her mouth and out and in again.

“You’re going to make me crash,” he said.

“You’re doing fine.”

Long after the cigars were snuffed out in the ashtray, Bert unbuttoned the flap of her breast pocket and took out a folded yellow sheet from a legal pad.

“Does this mean we’re almost there?”

“Time to start thinking about it,” she said.

She spread the paper open across her thighs. There was no map, just handwritten directions. She looked at it briefly, then put it away and patted it. “There’ll be a road on the right with a sign for Jacktooth Mountain.”

“And we take it?”

“Nope. We check the odometer and go about twelve miles more. There’ll be a big rock on the left.”

“A rock? That’s a great landmark.”

“Some lovebirds painted ‘Bill & Marie, 69’ on it surrounded by a heart.”

“Romantic. Do you think that’s a year or their favorite pastime?”

“If it’s a year, it’s been around a long time.”

“Maybe they make annual pilgrimages to touch it up.”

“At any rate, after the rock we go about two hundred yards and there’ll be an unmarked road on the right. We take that and follow it to the end. Then we’ll be there.”

Rick looked at his wristwatch. “Almost three,” he said.

“Jean said it’s about two hours from the Jacktooth Mountain sign.”

“Lordy. I hope we spot it soon.”

They passed it forty-five minutes later. Rick checked the odometer, added twelve to the mileage, and kept an eye on the slowly turning numbers.

Eighteen miles later, they spotted the rock. Bill and Marie had not been the only artists to leave their mark on it, but they’d been the most ambitious. Their heart, names and number were faded but twice the size of the surrounding graffiti.

“Two hundred yards,” Bert said.

“Want to get out and pace it off?”

“Thanks anyway. It might be a mile the way Jean gives directions.”

Rick slowed the car. The area to the right was thickly wooded, the spruce and pines brilliant green in the sunlight but dark in the shadows beyond the edge of the road. It looked foreboding.

Rick flinched at the blare of a honking horn. He checked the rearview. A van bore down on them. Without slowing, it veered into the other lane and rushed by. It had a mountain landscape, red in the sunset, painted on its side panel. Rick watched it speed around a bend.

“There!” Bert stuck an arm out of the window and pointed.

Rick eased off the road and stopped. He peered through Bert’s window. “You think that’s it?” he asked.

“Must be.”

All he saw were tire tracks like parallel walking paths leading into the woods. Between the tracks was a hump with foliage growing on it.

“Fondly referred to as ‘the fun part,’ ” Rick said, and steered onto the twin paths.

Only a few dusty shafts of sunlight slanted down and mottled the forest floor, not enough to dispel the gloom of the heavy shadows. The car rocked and bounced along. Sometimes, the springy limbs of nearby saplings brushed the sides of the car or scraped along with squealing sounds like fingernails on a chalkboard.

Rick wondered vaguely if they were scraping the paint.

The least of my worries, he thought.

“What happens if we meet another car?” he asked.

“It’ll get interesting,” Bert said.

“Or have a breakdown?”

“We’ll call the Auto Club.”

“Yuk, yuk.”

“You worry too much.”

A rock on the center hump scraped and clattered against the undercarriage.

Rick took one hand at a time off the steering wheel and wiped each dry on his trousers.

The tracks rose up a gende grade and dipped on its other side. At the bottom, the tire ruts were puddles. The water whooshed as Rick drove through.

“Thirty miles of this?” he asked.

“Maybe it gets better,” Bert said.

Around the next curve, the way was blocked by a fallen branch. Bert shrugged.

“You don’t suppose,” Rick said, “someone put that there to discourage us?”

“Could be an ambush.”

Rick smiled, but he scanned the nearby trees before climbing out. Quickly, he walked in front of the car and stopped at the broken end of the limb. He crouched over it. The branch had neither been sawed off nor hacked with an axe.

Of course not. Rick felt a little silly for even suspecting such a thing. There was a long split up one side. The limb had simply been torn from a tree by its own weight or a strong wind or a burden of winter snow.

He lifted it with both hands and stepped across the tracks, swinging it out of the way. He gave it a shove and let go. The limb dropped with a soft thud onto the brown mat of pine needles. There was sap on the index finger of his left hand. He bent the finger and felt the skin stick. He sniffed the brown stain. It smelled like a Christmas tree.

Turning back toward the car, he saw Bert behind the steering wheel. He went to the passenger door and climbed in.

“Mind if I drive?” she asked.

Bert seemed to enjoy it. Rick enjoyed watching her. She sat forward, away from the seat back, and peered intently out of the windshield. She held the steering wheel with both hands. Sometimes the tip of her tongue appeared at the corner of her mouth.

As time passed, however, Rick found himself watching the woods more often than he watched Bert. He gazed out the windows, half expecting to spot someone in the deep shadows sneaking around among the trees. He saw no one. But the farther they traveled along the dirt tracks, the more certain he became that they were not alone. Once, a sudden moving shape deep in the woods made his heart jump before his mind registered that the shape was merely a deer.

This is going to be a long week, he told himself, if you don’t settle down. Nobody’s out there. Nobody’s stalking you.

But he wished his revolver were close at hand, not in the car’s trunk at the bottom of his backpack.

He kept watching the trees. Sometimes, he looked over his shoulder and gazed out the rear window. If they were being followed, the man or vehicle was not in sight. Could someone looking closely at the tracks tell that their car had recently made the passage? He remembered the limb that he had lifted out of the way and wished he’d had the sense to place it back across the tracks after they’d gone by.

“What are you doing?” Bert finally asked.

“Just enjoying the scenery.”

“You look like a cemetery guard keeping an eye out for spooks.”

“Just a little edgy,” he admitted, and made a weak smile.

“Hey, if there was anything to worry about, do you think I’d come out to a place like this? I’m the world’s greatest chicken. I get the willies all the time. You should see me when I get back to my apartment at night. Especially after I’ve been with you and it’s late. I check behind the furniture, look in closets. I’ve even been known to look under the bed. And I’ve usually got a great case of the shivers till I’ve made sure nobody’s lurking around.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. I always figure some drooling maniac has gotten in, somehow, and is just waiting for a chance to rape or murder me. Or both.”

“You’re kidding. You?”

“Had me figured for a fearless Amazon?”

“Something like that.”

“Disappointed?”

“Well, I knew you were no Amazon. You’ve got two boobs.”

Bert grinned. “But really, the way I see it, a certain percentage of people are criminals or dangerous nut cases. Therefore, the smaller the population, the less danger of running into one. When you get out in a place like this, there’s almost nobody so your chances of meeting a creep diminish to almost nothing.”

“On the other hand,” Rick said, “the larger population works to your advantage in that the nut has a larger pool of victims to choose from. Start decreasing the population, you might have fewer nuts but it also knocks down the odds that someone else will be the victim.”

Bert nodded. “So if there is a nut out here, we win by default.” In a teasing voice she added, “Better keep a sharp eye out.”

Though Bert was making light of it, Rick wished he hadn’t pointed out the less comforting side of her argument. Getting her worried would serve no purpose. He should’ve kept his mouth shut.

“I’ve spent a lot of time in wilderness areas,” Bert said after a while. “I’ve never run into trouble so far.”

“Well ...”

“That probably hurts the odds on this time out, huh?”

“Don’t be such a pessimist,” Rick said.

She laughed.

In the silence that followed, Rick’s uneasiness came back. He felt a strong urge to resume his watch of the surrounding forest, but he fought it. He watched Bert instead. Then he lay down on the seat and rested his head on her lap. Drawing up his knees, he propped his feet on the window sill.

Bert smiled down at him. “Comfy?”

“Very nice.”

Rick felt her warmth through the fabric of her shorts. Her flat belly eased against his cheek sometimes when she inhaled. The front of her loose shirt, jutting out like smooth hills just above his eyes, stirred slightly as the bouncing, rocking motions of the car shook her breasts.

“Down there,” she said, “you can’t keep a look-out.”

“The view’s fine.”

She let go of the wheel for a moment and brushed a hand through his hair.

“If you’re nervous about going back to your apartment at night,” Rick said, “how come you won’t stay over at my place?”

“I believe we’ve been over that ground.”

“Well, you could do it sometimes. Maybe just on weekends.”

“It might start with just weekends, but pretty soon that wouldn’t be enough. I know men, and I know myself. Before long, you’d be pointing out with infallible logic that keeping my apartment is a wasteful expense, that I should move in with you and get rid of it.”

“And you,” Rick continued for her, “value your independence too highly—”

Bert stopped the car.

“What’s wrong?”

“We’re there.”

Rick’s stomach did a small flip, but he managed a smile. “And I was just getting comfortable.” He sat up slowly, keeping the side of his face against Bert. His cheek nuzzled her breast. He turned his head and kissed it. Her nipple was stiff under her shirt. He opened his mouth wide and ran his tongue over the fabric.

Bert slapped his stomach gently. “Stop it,” she said. “People are watching.”

Rick stopped. He bolted upright and looked out the windows. Perhaps he’d sensed rather than seen somebody back there in the trees. He stared. Hard. Nothing moved.

“Just kidding,” she said. She pinched the cloth away from her breast. “Look what you did.”

His mouth had left a dark wet patch on the blue pocket. “But it felt good, right?” he asked.

“Feels damp.”

“Better get into a dry shirt.”

She gave him a smirk, then took the key from the ignition and rolled up her window. She punched the lock button down. Rick watched her climb out. The back of her shirt was wet and clinging, though not as wet as he’d made the pocket. She swung her door shut.

The car had stopped in a clearing. Rick saw no tire tracks ahead. There was a heavily wooded slope, dim with shadows. Looking out of his window as he cranked it up, he saw that the clearing provided enough room to allow the car to be turned around. He elbowed down his lock button, then checked the rear doors. They were secure.

He joined Bert behind the car as she opened the trunk. She gave the key case to him. “Don’t lose it,” she said.

Her comment triggered new worries. What if he lost the keys? What if they came back here, ready to depart, and the battery was dead? What if the car had two flat tires? What if it was vandalized or stolen while it sat here unguarded for a week?

So many things could go wrong. They might get through all the camping unscathed only to find themselves stranded when they were ready to leave. By that time, their food supplies would be depleted ...

Bert reached into the trunk.

“I’ll get it.” Rick lifted out her pack. He held it while she slipped her arms through the straps. Then he propped his own pack on the edge of the trunk. Bert held it steady. He crouched and found the straps. Standing, he felt the solid weight pressing his shoulders and back.

Bert took their hats from the trunk and shut the lid. She plopped Rick’s hat onto his head and put on her own. It was a tan, Aussie hat with one side of the brim turned up. It might look silly on some people, Rick thought. On her, it looked great.

“Now what?” he asked.

“Now we find the trail and start walking.”

“Maybe we should spend the first night here.”

“Sleep in the car?”

“There’s a thought.”

“Jean said there’s a nice area near a stream about half a mile from here.”

“The way she gives directions, it’s probably two miles.”

“We’d better get moving, then. Need to get there before dark.” Bert dug deep in a pocket of her shorts. She came up with a compass, held it flat in her open hand and studied it. “Trail should be thata-way,” she said, and pointed to the left.

Rick followed her past the front of the car.

“Ah-ha!” she said.

At the edge of the clearing, nailed to a short brown post, were two slats of wood with carved messages. She pointed to the left and indicated that Mosquito Pasture was two miles distant. The other pointed straight ahead. Dead Mule Pass was eight miles in that direction.

“Encouraging names,” Rick muttered.

Bert smiled back at him. “You’ll be glad to know we’re not heading for Mosquito Pasture.”

“Dead Mule Pass doesn’t sound like the Garden of Eden.”

Bert tucked a thumb under each of her shoulder straps. She flexed her knees and pulled the straps as if to adjust the fit of the pack.

The wet patch on her pocket was still dark.

She turned away and started walking down the trail.

Rick looked back at the car. Then peered into the deep shadows among the trees. Get a grip, Rick. There are no boogey men out there. Believe me

Hurrying to catch up with Bert, he began to sing. “Please Mr. Custer, I don’t wanna go.”

Chapter Five

The parking area under Gillian’s apartment building was deserted. She slid her suitcase onto the floor of the car in front of the passenger seat, set down her purse, then went around to the rear and opened the trunk. Reaching inside a nylon satchel, she took out a pair of license plates. It was one of six sets she had removed, late one night last month, from cars parked along a secluded lane in Brentwood. She had used WonderGlu to fix strong magnets onto the back of each plate.

She covered her own plates with the stolen ones, and drove out.

She shivered as she drove. The tremors seemed stronger, less pleasant than usual.

Maybe this is too soon, Gillian thought. Maybe I’m pressing my luck.

Nothing to worry about, she told herself. You’ve never been caught, and there was only that one close call.

That, and the house on Silverston.

The “close call” had happened nearly a year ago. She’d been swimming in the pool at the Farnsworth house in Ran-cho Park when car doors thudded shut nearby. Thrusting herself out of the water, she ran dripping to the comer of the house. From there, she saw the roof of a van beyond the top of the gate. She heard quiet voices. The Farnsworths weren’t due home for two more days, but they must have cut their trip short. In seconds, they would find themselves prevented from entering the front door because of the burglar bar. When that happened, they were bound to come through the gate to try a back door. Gillian, choked with panic, raced around the end of the pool. At the rear of the yard, she sprang at the redwood fence, boosted herself up and squirmed over the top, scraping her thigh in the process. She dropped into the alley on the other side.

Fortunately, she’d left her car parked around a comer from the Farnsworth house, with an ignition key in a magnetized compartment under the rear bumper.

That wasn’t good fortune, she thought, that was good planning.

The good planning also paid off in that Gillian had taken nothing into the house that could be used to identify her. She lost her suitcase, clothes, security bars, purse and camera (along with a roll of film in the camera that must’ve given the Farnsworths food for thought if they had it developed), but nothing to give them any clues as to who the owner might be.

Still, it had been a narrow escape. She’d sworn off intrusions for good after that.

As time passed, however, the urge had grown. Three weeks later, she was inside another house. It had been scary for a while, but soon the fear of being discovered had faded and she’d had no more problems.

So why, tonight, was her usual anticipation tainted by a shadow of dread?

Gillian parked in front of the house. Light shone through the closed draperies of the living room, but that was normal; most people had timing devices to activate a lamp and make their homes look occupied while they were away.

She shut off her engine and headbeams, and got out of the car. As she walked around to the passenger door, she eyed the next-door houses. The one with the realtor’s sign was dark. The other had lights on, but no car in the driveway. The owners might be home, but there was a good chance they were out enjoying themselves.

Ten o’clock on a Saturday night was the ideal time for Gillian to make her entries: too early for most people to return home from movies or dinner parties; not so late that her arrival, if noticed by a neighbor, would draw much suspicion.

Especially not the way she was dressed.

Gillian opened the passenger door. She took out her purse and suitcase, and walked casually toward the front porch, confident that anyone who might spot her would assume she was a legitimate visitor. Burglars, after all, do not usually wear heels, a skirt, and a turtleneck sweater.

If questioned by a neighbor who’d been alerted that the owners were off on a trip, she would simply claim to be the niece who’d come to house-sit. That had happened a few times. Usually, they bought the story. If not, Gillian was ready to cover herself. “Uncle Henry insisted that I—”

“No Henry lives here.”

She would frown. “Sure. Henry Wadsworth.”

Assured that no Henry Wadsworth resided here, she would act perplexed and show the suspicious neighbor a slip of paper on which she had written Uncle Henry’s name and address. The neighbor would then explain that she was at the wrong address. “This is 8322, not 3822.” Grateful for having her error pointed out, she would depart.

Tonight, Gillian had no use for the slip of paper on which she had reversed the first two numbers of this address. Nobody questioned her. She saw no one on her way from the car to the porch.

The light above the front door was dark. She listened for a few moments and heard no voices from inside. Ringing the doorbell went against procedure. Though that was a good way to make sure nobody was home, the sound of a doorbell could sometimes be heard by neighbors. Also, it went against the logic of her cover, a niece coming to house-sit would hardly ring the doorbell.

Setting down her suitcase, Gillian opened the mailbox. It was empty except for a flier. She quietly lowered the lid.

The porch was an L-shaped concrete slab with a waist-high wall, and extended around the corner of the house. Its front was concealed from the street by a pair of geraniums. The house windows that looked onto the porch were dark.

Gillian carried her suitcase and purse around the comer and set them down. From there, she could see the high redwood fence that ran alongside the property. The next-door house had a single story, and only the very tops of its windows were visible above the fence. Lights shone through the windows.

It was all right, though. Not only were the curtains shut, but anyone inside would have to stand on a chair to see over the fence.

After slipping out of her shoes, Gillian stepped barefoot to the low wall and peered down. In the space between the house and the fence was a driveway that extended from the gate to a two-car garage. The porch was elevated leaving a drop of about six feet from the top of its wall to the driveway. There was no opening at the rear of the porch wall. She would have to jump.

Gillian opened her skirt and stepped out of it. She folded it, set it on the edge of her suitcase, then pulled off her sweater. Shivering in her gym shorts and tank-top, she opened her handbag and removed a small leather satchel. Then she climbed onto the side wall of the porch and pushed off. Her feet slapped the pavement, a quiet sound that could certainly not be heard inside the neighbor’s house.

She walked quickly up the driveway, noting that all the windows along this side of the house were dark. At the rear was a sliding glass door, then more windows. The concrete slab of the sundeck had a single lounge, a glass-topped table, a Weber grill, and a square platform surrounding the covered hot tub.

Gillian stepped around the corner of the house. She walked along the dewy grass strip between the wall and the fence, checking the windows and listening for sounds from inside. The last two windows showed light through their curtain, undoubtedly from the same source that illuminated the picture window she’d seen from the street. On this side of the house, there was no gate at the front.

Completing her rounds, Gillian felt sure that the house was deserted. She returned to the rear deck.

At the sliding door, she took a small flashlight out of her leather case. Shining its beam downward through the glass, she checked the runner. No rod had been placed there to prevent the door from being opened. She inspected the inside handle. It was one of those with a simple lever. A downward flick would disengage the lock.

With the flashlight clamped between her teeth, Gillian started to work. An open square of duct tape on the glass in front of the lock lever. A circle of tape stuck to the center for use as a handle. A careful line with her glass cutter along an inside border of the tape. Three more slices through the glass, completing the square. A few gentle taps at the edges. Finally, a pull at the tape in the center. The square of glass came out.

A cinch, Gillian thought.

She set the small section of glass on the table.

Reaching through the opening, she lowered the lock lever. She removed her hand and pulled the aluminum handle. The door slid open with a low, quiet rumble.

Gillian left her leather case on the table. She entered the house. The warm air had a closed-in, stuffy heaviness; one more indication that nobody was home.

Shining the flashlight around, she saw that she was in a den or recreation room. It had a couch, a couple of easy chairs, lamps and tables, a television with a large screen and VCR, a stereo, bookshelves along the wall in front of her and a built-in bar at the other end of the room. The floor was hardwood.

Very nice, Gillian thought.

Especially the bar and the VCR.

Pointing her flashlight at the bookshelves, she found that the owner had an extensive collection of tapes for the video recorder.

Gillian turned around and went through a doorway. Ahead was the dining room. To the right was another entryway. She stepped through it and found herself in the kitchen. After a quick look around, she backtracked, passed the door leading into the den, and entered a hallway on the left. A short distance down the hallway, she came to a wide arch that opened onto the living room. She switched off the flashlight. Then she peered around the corner of the arch. Satisfied that the room was deserted, she continued her search.

Just beyond the arch, she found a closet, then a bathroom. Farther down the hall, on the left, was a small room with exercise equipment. Squinting into the darkness, she saw a Nautilus, treadmill, rowing machine and weights, a mat on the floor and a wall of mirrors.

Then she came to the bedroom. Standing close to the open door, her back pressed to the wall, she held her breath and listened. No sounds came from the room. She wiped her sweaty hands on her shorts. Flashlight still off, she stepped away from the wall and moved in front of the doorway.

In spite of the closed curtains, the room had a dim gray glow. Gillian peered at the bed. Its cover was flat except for the bulge of pillows near the headboard.

That’s that, she thought.

Suddenly exhausted, she sagged against the doorframe.

End of Phase One, she told herself. You’re safely in and nobody’s here.

Of course, someone could be here, hiding. It was unlikely, though. So unlikely that it wasn’t even worth worrying about.

Even if all the other indications were misleading, the stuffy air of the closed-up house was sure proof.

After a while, Gillian thrust herself away from the doorframe and walked toward the bed. She turned on her flashlight. Though it was aimed at the king-sized bed, a bright beam streaked across the ceiling.

She flinched and looked up.

Mirrors. Mirrors on the ceiling above the bed.

Well now, Gillian thought. Whoever lives here must be quite a sport.

Turning around, she found the light beam ricocheting off mirrors on the wall. Even the shut door of the closet had them.

Grinning, Gillian went to the bed, sat on it, and gasped as she sank into the mattress. Waves rolled back against her rump.

A water bed!

This is going to be terrific.

She flopped down on the undulating softness, felt herself rise and fall on the gently moving surface, stared up at her reflection in the mirrors.

She’d been in a few houses with water beds but none with mirrors like this. It would be strange, trying to sack out with images of herself on the ceiling and wall.

The sport who lives here must get quite a kick out of looking at himself... or herself. Could be a woman, she thought. But definitely not married. Definitely on the make.

Her curiosity aroused, Gillian went to the closet and opened it. The inside of the door had a necktie bar. On the floor were men’s shoes. The hanging clothes were shirts, slacks, and sport coats.

Our Narcissus, she decided, is definitely a guy.

Gillian shut the closet. Beyond the end of the bed was a bureau. She could inspect its contents later. Beside it was another television. This TV, like the one in the den, had a VCR attached.

Leaving the room, Gillian went to the front door. She opened it, looked around, then stepped out on the porch. She gathered up her shoes, clothes, purse and suitcase, and carried them into the house.

Then she headed back into the den. She spent the next few minutes gluing the square of glass into its original place in the door. She taped it there to hold it while the glue had a chance to set. Then she packed up her tool satchel and entered the house.

She locked the sliding door.

In the living room, she opened her suitcase and took out her burglar bar. She extended its telescoping rod, fitted its V-shaped end under the doorknob and jammed its other end against the carpet at a wide angle.

“All right,” she said. “The house is mine.”

Chapter Six

Rick woke up. The tent was dark. He pulled an arm out of his mummy bag and fingered a tab at the side of his wristwatch to light the digital numbers. Eleven-fifty. He grimaced. He’d been asleep less than two hours, and now he felt wide awake.

Bert, in her own bag alongside his, breathed slowly in and out. She was deeply asleep, gone, and Rick felt abandoned.

Trying to find a more comfortable position, he rolled onto his side. The rubber mat under his bag helped a little, but it was thin and the cold earth was unyielding. Too much weight bore down on his shoulder, upper arm and hip.

They’ll fall asleep before I do, he thought.

He rolled the rest of the way over and crossed his arms beneath the makeshift pillow of his rolled coat. This was better; the ground felt fine under his thigh muscles. But he was pressing down hard on his lower ribs. His penis, sideways against his groin, felt mashed. He turned slightly to relieve the pressure. Now his knee pushed against the ground and there was more weight on the left side of his ribcage. After a while, the knee and ribs began to ache.

Muttering, “Shit,” he rolled onto his back again and gazed at the slanted walls of the tent.

This is madness, he thought. I could be home in my own soft bed, instead of out here in the wilderness scared out of my gourd. Like last time ...

He listened to Bert’s slow breathing, and resented her. This was all her fault.

“Get off it,” he told himself. “You didn’t have to come. And she’s been great.”

Rick wished he’d had a couple of shots before turning in. He’d been reluctant, however, to let Bert find out that he’d brought the bourbon along. She might not complain, but she would certainly disapprove. She did complain about her parents’ drinking, whose cocktail hour had stretched into two hours on the several occasions when she and Rick had dined at their house. She didn’t complain to them. She complained to Rick later on. By implication, her comments seemed directed at Rick since he had matched her parents drink for drink. “Can’t people have a good time,” she would say, “without trying one on?”

Rick had seen opportunities to sneak a couple of slugs after dinner tonight when Bert left camp to gather firewood. But he’d resisted the urge, knowing that she would smell it on his breath later when they made love.

I should’ve brought vodka instead of bourbon, Rick thought. Hell, she would’ve smelled that, too. Its odor is faint compared to bourbon, but distinctive.

He thought about the bottle. It was near the bottom of his pack.

They had left their packs outside the tent, resting atop slabs of rock on the other side of the campsite and covered with ponchos.

Not only was his bourbon out there, but so was his revolver. A lot of good the gun would do them some forty feet from the tent, but Rick didn’t want Bert to know about that, either. The gun was a double-whammy; she hated firearms in general, and Rick bringing one on the camping trip would probably be seen as an act of cowardice.

If I’d had a gun the last time ...

Maybe I should’ve told Bert the whole truth this morning. Giving her that sanitized version probably just made me look yellow—like I was a kid back when it happened, scared of my own shadow.

Rick had never told the whole truth about that camping trip to anyone.

When they first came upon the lake, Rick had wanted to keep moving. It was a deep shade of blue, itself beautiful, but trapped in a landscape of such desolation that Rick felt the skin crawl on the back of his neck in spite of the heavy sun.

Steep canyon walls loomed over the lake on three sides. High up were gray stretches of glacier shaded by overhangs so that they probably never melted completely, year after year. There were a few scraggly patches of foliage on the rock walls, trees stunted and twisted into grotesque shapes. Otherwise, the slopes were bleached tumbles of broken granite.

The trail down from Windover Pass led to a small oasis that looked alien in the midst of the otherwise bleak surroundings. The oasis, a shady clearing near the lake shore, had a campsite.

A nice campsite, probably added onto over the years by many people who had stopped there after the exhausting trek down from the pass. There was a stone fireplace with a heavy steel grill that must’ve been brought in by mule. Surrounding the fireplace were several flat-topped rocks that could be used as either seats or tables. Here and there were walls of stone, no doubt constructed to hold back the winds that must rip through the canyon at night. The site even had a few flat areas, mostly near walls, that looked as if they had been carefully cleared of rocks and leveled.

Dad swung his backpack to the ground and stretched. The armpits of his tan shirt were dark with sweat. “Fantastic, huh?” he asked.

“I don’t like it,” Rick said.

“What’s not to like?” Dad asked.

“This place gives me the creeps.”

“It is a little ... barren,” Mom admitted. “They built those walls. The wind must be awful.”

“Well, folks, it might be a long trek to the next decent spot. Even if we move on, there’s no guarantee we’ll find any place better than this. Might even be worse.”

“It’s still pretty early in the day,” Mom said.

Dad showed her the topographies map, pointing out what lay ahead. Mom grimaced. “I guess we stay,” she said.

They set up camp, pitching the larger tent in the flat area between two of the stone walls, setting up Rick’s tent in a naturally sheltered area beside a high clump of rock. After arranging their gear, they rested for a while. Dad sat on a rock near the shore and smoked a corncob pipe. Mom sat cross-legged under a tree and read, and Rick lay down inside his tent. The tent was hot in spite of the shade, but he liked being enclosed, hidden away from the bleak landscape.

Later, Dad suggested that they take a hike to “explore the environs.”

Rick wanted no part of the environs. “Let’s not and say we did,” he suggested.

“Stay if you want,” Dad told him. “We probably won’t be gone more than an hour.”

“Mom, are you going, too?”

She crawled out of the bigger tent, stood up and nodded. She had changed into a tube top that wrapped her breasts and left her midriff bare, and cut-off jeans so short that the ends of the front pockets hung out below the frayed leg holes. She had abandoned her hiking boots for a pair of ragged tennis shoes. “You want to come,” she asked, “don’t you?”

Rick certainly did not want to stay by himself. “Sure,” he said.

They started out, Dad leading the way. It soon became clear that his plan was to hike entirely around the lake. Though the lake was not large, maybe a couple of hundred yards from one end to the other, the shoreline trail petered out on the other side of a rushing stream just beyond camp. After that, the lake was bordered by rocks: tilted pale slabs, chunks the size of cars, piles of smaller blocks, some that wobbled or slid underfoot.

In spite of the rough terrain, the going wasn’t difficult. Rick felt amazingly light and springy in his sneakers and without the burden of his pack. He leaped from rock to rock, strode easily across slanted sheets of granite, hopped over crevices.

Mom, just ahead of him, sometimes looked back to see how he was doing.

He watched her feet, and stepped where she stepped. Now and then, his gaze wandered higher. Her slender legs looked dusky through his sunglasses. Her shorts were cut so high in the rear that he could see the creases where her buttocks joined the backs of her thighs. Isn’t she wearing panties? he wondered. He felt himself getting hard, and guilt swarmed through him.

She’s my mother, he warned himself.

Not really. His real mother had left Dad when Rick was six. Two years later, Dad married Julie.

That doesn’t mean you can get the hots for her, Rick thought.

But sometimes he did. He just couldn’t help it.

He looked away from her. He watched the rocks in front of his feet.

Soon, however, his eyes found their way back to her. He stared at the faded seat of her shorts, at the way the curves under her rear pockets took turns rising and falling with the movements of her firm rump as she walked. He stared at the exposed crescents of her buttocks. There was little more than a narrow strip of denim passing between her legs. If she got high enough above him, maybe he would be able to see up inside the shorts and—

Rick yelped with surprise as his foot came down. Rock was supposed to be there, but wasn’t. He glanced down. Saw his shoe and jeaned shin drop into a crevice. Tried too late to push out with his other foot. Fell forward. Shrieked out his pain as the bones snapped.

Mum threw her arms around him, catching him in time to prevent the bones from ripping through muscle and skin. Then Dad was there. They eased his leg out of the fissure and lowered him onto the rock.

They both knelt over him. Dad, who never seemed to lose his calm, had a frantic look in his eyes. Mom’s face was twisted with fear. “Are you okay?” she asked. “It’s not broken, is it?”

Rick, teeth clenched in pain, nodded.

“Let’s get those jeans off,” Dad said.

As Mom unfastened his jeans, Rick noticed that her tube top was askew. It must’ve been pulled when she stopped his fall. On one side, a smooth half-moon of dark skin showed above the fabric hugging her breast.

He was in too much pain for the sight to arouse him.

But he remembered where he had been looking when he stepped into the crack.

He shouldn’t have been looking there. It was dirty of him, even though she wasn’t his real mother. The fall had been a punishment.

“I ruined everything,” he muttered.

“Could happen to anyone,” Dad said, and pulled the jeans down Rick’s legs. His left leg, below the knee, looked swollen and slightly bent. Dad ran his hand along it. “There’s a break, all right.”

“What’re we going to do?” Julie asked.

That was when Rick stopped thinking of her as Mom. It didn’t seem quite so terrible to have gloated over a woman who was not Mom, just Julie.

“Hold his knee,” Dad said.

Julie clutched his knee with both hands, and Dad tugged sharply on his ankle. Rick flinched rigid as white-hot pain streaked up his body.

Dad fingered the shin again. “I think that set it. You okay?”

Rick nodded.

Dad stood up, looked around, apparently didn’t spot whatever he wanted, then crouched and pulled off Rick’s sneakers. Following his instructions, Julie pressed the soles of the shoes flat against both sides of Rick’s shin. A little more of her nipple was showing. Rick forced himself not to look at it. He watched Dad instead. Soon, the shoes were strapped tightly into place with two belts.

“That ought to hold it,” Dad said.

They helped Rick up. Julie suggested they support him under each arm and walk him back to camp, but Dad said that it would be easier, and less risky, if he carried Rick piggyback.

“You might hurt yourself,” Julie said.

“You kidding? The man of iron?”

Dad didn’t feel like a man of iron as he carried Rick over the rough terrain. He felt like oak, thick and solid and resilient. He wasn’t even breathing heavily by the time they reached their campsite.

Instead of putting Rick down, he waded into the lake.

“What’re you doing?”

“I want you to soak that leg for a while. The cold’ll keep the swelling down.”

“Do I have to?”

Dad crouched. The icy water soaked through the seat of Rick’s cotton underpants, shocking his anus and biting into his genitals. Then the water numbed his legs. Julie, behind him, clutched him under the armpits.

“Okay, I’ve got you,” she said.

Releasing his father, he eased backward against Julie. She lowered him deeper. Dad let go of his legs, then moved around to where Julie was. Together, they guided him closer to the shore. They found a flat rock for him to sit on.

Both legs were still submerged below the knees, but the agony was gone. Rick felt as if his balls had been released from a vice. He took a deep breath.

Dad and Julie both stood in front of him, thigh deep in the lake. Didn’t the water hurt them?

Julie had Rick’s jeans with the crotch at the nape of her neck and the legs draping her front.

“You should probably soak that leg a few times a day,” Dad said. He looked at Julie. “You make sure he does.”

“You’re going for help?” she asked.

“Don’t see any way out of it.”

“You’re going to leave us alone?” Rick was stunned.

“There’s no reason to worry. You’ve got plenty of food. Shouldn’t take me more than about two days to reach the ranger station. They’ll probably bring in a chopper.”

“God almighty,” Rick muttered.

“It won’t be so bad,” Julie said, and showed him a smile.

“Let him have some bourbon,” Dad told her. “That’ll help if the pain gets too bad. I’d better get a move on.”

Rick and Julie both tried to talk him into staying the night, but he argued that there were still several hours of daylight and he’d better get to the ranger station as fast as possible.

They left Rick.

Turning sideways on his tiny island of rock, he watched his father pack a few things in his rucksack, kiss Julie goodbye, wave, and start striding briskly up the trail toward Windover Pass.

That night, the wind woke Rick. It howled and shrieked through the canyon. It shook the tent in spite of the protective stone walls on either side. He was glad that Julie had moved his sleeping bag into her tent, but she seemed to be sleeping through the uproar. His leg throbbed. He began to weep. The pain was bad, but the fierce noises were worse. He felt as if their presence had somehow offended a monstrous thing that dwelt in the canyon; it hated intruders in its domain and wanted to crush them. Finally, unable to bear the terror, Rick shook Julie awake.

“Huh? What ... Jesus, what’s going on out there?”

“Just the wind,” Rick said, trying to keep his voice steady so she wouldn’t know he was crying.

“Sounds like the end of the world.”

“My leg hurts awfully bad,” he said.

“Maybe we should break out the booze. Do you think that’d be a good idea?”

“I guess so.”

“I could use some myself. What’s going on out there?”

Rick rubbed his eyes. He saw Julie sit up in the darkness. A moment later, light stung his eyes. She had turned on the dry-cell lantern hanging from a joint of the aluminum tent poles near her head.

She crawled out of her mummy bag. She was wearing a T-shirt, baggy gray sweatpants and wool socks. She put on her down parka. “Right back,” she said. On hands and knees, she made her way toward the front of the tent.

“Where are you going?”

“The bourbon’s in my pack.”

“Don’t go out there,” Rick said. There was a whine in his voice.

“I’d send you, but you’re gimped.” She opened the tent front and crawled away.

Braced up on his elbows, Rick stared at the shuddering flaps. He thought he heard a scream. Maybe it was only the wind.

Julie didn’t come back. The packs were only a few feet from the tent. Even if she had trouble finding the bottle, it shouldn’t take this long.

Suppose she never comes back!

He called out to her, but she didn’t answer.

It got her! Whatever it was out there shrieking like a demon, it got Julie and ripped her apart and next it would come after Rick!

The tent flaps whipped inward and a scream stuck in his throat as Julie crawled in, her hair a tangle and the bottle in her hand.

“Where were you!” he raged through his sobs.

“Hey, calm down. What’s the matter?”

“You didn’t come back! I yelled and ...”

“I was out there anyway so I took a pee. Calm down, for godsake.” She sat cross-legged beside him and combed fingers through his hair.

Slowly, he regained control. He sat up, keeping his splinted leg straight inside his mummy bag, bending his other at the knee and turning so he could face her.

“Better?” she asked.

Rick nodded.

She unscrewed the cap of the bottle, took a sip, and handed it to him. He had tried wine and beer a few times before, but never whiskey. He drank some and winced. It tasted like medicine and scorched his throat, but then it felt warm and nice in his stomach.

“Like it?” Julie asked.

He wrinkled his nose. He took another swallow. “It’s okay.”

He gave the bottle to Julie and she drank. “Nasty out there,” she said.

“I knew this was a bad place to stay.”

“I wasn’t too happy about it myself, but we didn’t have much choice. We would’ve had to go over another pass to get out of here.”

“I wish we had’ve.” Rick accepted the bottle, took another swallow, and handed it back. His cheeks felt a little numb and there was a mild, pleasant fogginess inside his head.

Though the wind still howled and shook the tent, it soon stopped bothering Rick. It was outside and couldn’t get in, couldn’t hurt them. In here, talking with Julie and sharing the bottle, his worries slid away. He even found himself feeling glad that he’d broken his leg; otherwise, he wouldn’t be here with her. Dad would be here instead, and Rick would be off alone in the other tent.

“When I get older,” he said, “I hope I get to marry someone like you.”

She smiled. “The booze must be getting to you.”

“No, I mean it. Honest. You’re really neat. For a mother,” he added, just so she wouldn’t get the wrong idea.

“You’re pretty neat yourself. Even if you don’t clean up your room.” After capping the bottle, she placed it near the head of the tent and said, “We don’t want hangovers in the morning. You think you’ll be able to sleep now?”

“Maybe.”

She took her parka and rolled it up. “Any more problems, just wake me up.” She leaned forward and kissed him gently on the mouth. “Sleep tight,” she said.

Rick settled down into his bag. He watched Julie reach up to turn off the lantern. A side of her T-shirt rose, showing a wedge of bare skin. He saw the way her nipples made the fabric jut. He felt a warm, heavy stirring in his groin.

The light went out. He closed his eyes. His mind held the picture of Julie reaching up toward the lantern. He knew he should feel guilty, but he didn’t. He felt only languid and peaceful and pleasantly aroused. Soon, he fell asleep.

The next day, the men came.

There were two of them.

Rick was in his swimming trunks and wearing no shirt. He had just finished soaking his leg in the frigid lake. Julie, crouched in front of him, was using belts to strap the splints to his shin. She had made the splints yesterday, soon after Dad’s departure, by chopping a length of dead branch into a pair of thin slats and padding each of them with one of Rick’s undershirts.

Rick didn’t hear the men coming. Suddenly, they just appeared among the trees behind the tent. He flinched. Julie looked up at him. “Someone’s here,” he said.

Julie made a final adjustment to the bindings, then stood and turned around.

“Morning,” one of the men said in a cheerful voice. He and his friend came forward. He had a thick, shoulder-high walking stick. He wore a faded Dodger cap with sweaty blond hair sticking out like spikes around its edges. He wore sunglasses with silver lenses that hid his eyes. He looked as if he hadn’t shaved for a couple of days. The sleeves of his filthy, plaid shirt had been cut off at the shoulders. A big sheath knife hung from the belt of his jeans.

His friend looked a couple of years younger, maybe eighteen. He was shorter and heavier, but not fat. His T-shirt bulged with muscles and was cut off just below his ribcage. For a hat, he wore an army helmet liner. Around his waist was a wide web belt with a canteen hanging at one side and a knife at the other. He wore plaid Bermuda shorts. He looked slightly ridiculous, but Rick didn’t feel like smiling.

“You got some trouble there?” asked the thin one.

“My son broke his leg yesterday.”

“Bad place for a thing like that.”

With the help of a crutch Julie had made for him after preparing the splints, Rick pushed himself up. He stood beside Julie, most of his weight on his right leg, using the crutch for balance.

“We’re getting along okay,” Julie said. “Did you come down from Windover Pass?” she asked.

“Nope. Heading that way. Mind if we rest up for a minute?”

“Help yourselves.”

They lowered their backpacks to the ground, but didn’t sit down. “Nice camp,” the lean one said. “Just the two of you?”

“My husband’s around here someplace,” Julie said. She looked off toward the outcroppings beyond Rick’s tent. “Dave?” she called.

Rick, already concerned by the presence of the two men, was frightened by Julie’s lie.

“I’m sure he’ll be along in a minute. He just went after some firewood.”

“Right.” The lean man turned to his friend. “Dave went after firewood. How many packs you see?”

The stocky one smiled. “Just two. I’ll just bet Dave hiked out to get help for the kid.”

Rick felt as if his lungs were caving in. He swayed on his one leg and crutch.

It’s okay, he told himself. They’re jerks, but nothing’s going to happen.

Julie shook her head. In a voice that sounded calm, she said, “My brother-in-law hiked out. Dave’s just over—”

“Hey Dave!” the heavy one yelled. “Yoo-hoo, Daaavy! Where arrre you?” He shrugged. “Gosh, Jiff, I don’t know where he could be.”

Jiff, grinning, took a step toward Julie.

Julie’s back stiffened. “Now don’t ...”

He barely moved, just reached his left hand across to the walking stick by his right leg and rammed it upward with both hands. The point caught Julie under the chin. Her head snapped back. Her arms flew up. She was still falling when Jiff pivoted and swung the staff at Rick. It smashed him above the ear.

There was a terrible, roaring pain in his head. He thought, I shouldn’t have drunk so much booze last night. If this is what it means to have a hangover ... Groaning, he opened his eyes.

He wasn’t in the tent. Above him, the leaves of trees were shivering in the wind. He lifted his head off the ground, felt himself spinning, and twisted onto his side. The sudden motion shot pain through his head and leg. Vomit erupted out of him.

Good thing I’m not in the tent, he thought vaguely.

When he was done vomiting, he wiped his teary eyes. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, blew his nose, and cleaned his mouth and chin. Then he sat up.

He saw Julie naked on the ground.

He remembered.

The men!

He looked around quickly, making his head whirl. The men seemed to be gone.

“Julie!” he yelled.

She didn’t move. She was sprawled on her back a few yards away. She still had her knee socks on. And one shoe. Her blouse lay in a heap near her head. Her shorts were on the ground dose to the shoe that was off.

Don’t look at her, Rick warned himself. She’s naked. God, naked. You might get turned on, and if you hadn’t been looking at her yesterday, trying to see up her shorts ...

As sick as he felt, and as guilty and frightened, he realized there was little need to worry about becoming aroused.

From where he sat, Rick didn’t see any blood on her. But she didn’t look right.

“Julie?” he asked again.

She’s just out cold, he told himself. Like I was. That’s good. Maybe she’d been unconscious while the men did things to her. They must have done things to her, or why were her clothes off?

When she woke up, she would know.

It’ll be all right, Rick thought. I’ll take good care of her. I’ll cover her first. That’s the first thing I’ll do, so I won’t keep looking at her.

Cringing as the pains in his head and leg punished him with burning throbs, he thrust himself up with his crutch. Another wave of dizziness came. He swayed, barely staying up as the ground tipped and turned. When the dizziness passed, he hobbled over to Julie.

She had a dark bruise where the walking stick had hit her under the chin. Her eyes were shut. Her lips and cheeks were crusted with something, as if white glue had been squirted around her mouth and dried. Rick wondered what it was. Then he knew.

Gagging, he turned his eyes quickly away from her face. But what he saw only added to his disgust and horror. The skin of her shoulders was bruised and dented from bites. Her breasts still held the imprint of fingers, as if they had been fiercely squeezed. Fingernails had left tiny, crescent-shaped impressions. Her nipples looked chewed. Rick covered his mouth and shut his eyes. But he had to look again. Lower, she was caked with dried blood and more semen. Rick had never seen that part of a woman before, just in a few pictures.

Embarrassment suddenly pushed its way through Rick’s other agony. Even though he wasn’t turned on, what if Julie woke up and saw him staring there?

He bent over and lost his balance. Though he waved an arm to steady himself, he knew it was useless. He flung the crutch from his other hand and reached beyond Julie as he fell. For a moment, he was braced above her like a bridge. But his left leg gave out as pain blasted up it. He collapsed. He fell on Julie.

He started to cry.

She was naked, and Rick had nothing on but swimming trunks, and he was lying on her. Her bare skin against him. He could feel the jut of her hipbone, her flat belly, her ribcage. He could feel a breast against this side, just below his armpit.

If she comes to now ...

There was no movement under Rick.

No rise and fall of Julie breathing.

Of course she’s breathing, he thought.

But she wasn’t ...

Rick’s mind seemed to freeze. He shoved himself off Julie, rolled onto his side with his head resting on her outstretched arm. He saw his hand reach out as if it belonged to someone else. It curled around her throat. His fingers searched for the feel of blood pumping through arteries and veins below her jaw.

Then he was up on an elbow, sobbing as he shook Julie by the shoulder. Her head wobbled from side to side. He waited for her eyes to open.

They didn’t.

They never would.

Chapter Seven

Gillian’s first task, after securing the house, was to determine the name of its owner.

On the coffee table were several magazines: People, Playboy, Los Angeles and Newsweek. They had apparently been bought in stores, and bore no subscription labels.

Gillian went into the den. She shut the curtains across the glass door, then turned on a lamp. On top of the television, along with two remote control units, was a copy of TV Guide. It had a label with the address of this house.

The owner, therefore, was undoubtedly Fredrick Holden.

So, she thought, I’m house-sitting for Uncle Fred. Or is it Unde Rick? I’d better just stick with Uncle Fredrick till I find out what he goes by.

With the lamp off, she stepped under the curtains and slid the door open. She carefully peeled off the duct tape she had used to hold the glued section of glass in place. She wadded it in her hand, shut and looked the door, turned on the lamp again, and tossed the tape into a waste basket she found behind the bar.

The bar had a refrigerator. Inside was a nice selection of soft drinks and beer, and a couple of jugs of wine. Gillian lifted out a jug of Blanc de Blanc. She chose a good-sized brandy snifter from a shelf of glasses, twisted out the bottle stopper, and filled her glass. She took a sip. The cold wine had a subtle, fruity flavor, and was not too sweet.

With the glass in one hand and her flashlight in the other, she went into the kitchen. The windows there faced the side of the house and the front porch, as she searched the kitchen in darkness except for the glow from outside. A bulletin board hung next to the wall phone. Some notes were pinned to it. Gillian decided to wait until morning to read the notes. Beside the bulletin board was a picture calendar. Flashlight tucked under her arm, she lifted the calendar off its small nail and carried it into the den.

She sat on a soft recliner chair, took a sip of wine, and studied the calendar. The top portion had a glossy color photo of a slender young woman posing beside a pool. She wore a string bikini and her skin was shiny with oil. Just what Gillian expected of a fellow who had mirrors on his bedroom ceiling.

The lower portion of the calendar was devoted to the month of June. Today was Saturday the 21st. The square block for the 21st had no writing on it. Neither did any of the squares for earlier in the week. On the 13th was written: “7:30 Stewardess; 9:05 Passion.” The 7th had similar notations: “7:10 Elena, 8:50 Crazy.” Gillian guessed that these were the starting times for double-features, the movie titles abbreviated. The rest of the dates for the month of June had no writing in their spaces. She glanced at July, then shook her head.

“You’re no help,” she muttered at the calendar.

Apparently, Fredrick Holden needed no reminders of when he was leaving on his trip or returning. Maybe Gillian would turn up some information later. She was in no mood to continue investigating the matter now. She wanted to settle in and relax.

One final chore.

After taking the calendar back into the kitchen, Gillian went to the front room. She stepped into her skirt again and pulled the sweater over her head, but decided not to bother with her heels. Car keys in hand, she removed the burglar bar and unlocked the door.

Outside, the night air was cool and fresh after the stuffy warmth of the house. The grass was dewy under her bare feet. Down the street, a car swung into a driveway. A man and a woman climbed out and walked toward their front door. Nobody else was in sight.

Gillian climbed into her car. She drove it to the end of the block, turned the comer, and parked at the first empty stretch of curb. She walked back to the house.

At the driveway, she stopped.

Something looked different.

She frowned. What was ... ?

Light no longer glowed through the living room curtains.

The nape of Gillian’s neck went tight.

Someone inside the house? Had someone been in there all along?

No. Probably the lightbulb burnt out.

But what if someone is ... ?

She suddenly knew. Shaking her head and smiling at her foolishness, she checked her wristwatch. Eleven o’clock. Though she hadn’t seen the timer, hadn’t even bothered to look for it, the living room lamp was obviously equipped with one. It would be set to turn on the lamp after dark and kill it around bedtime.

Nobody in there after all.

Hearing the grumble of a car engine behind her, Gillian looked around. A Corvette. Slowing down as it approached.

Her heart lurched.

Oh Jesus, no!

But the car didn’t swing into the driveway. It went by and turned onto the driveway of the house next door.

Gillian hesitated.

She must’ve been seen.

Okay, she thought. Fine. Great, in fact.

As the Corvette stopped in front of the gate at the far side of the neighbor’s house, she cut across the lawn, heading for it. The engine went silent. The headbeam died. A man climbed out from the driver’s door, swung it shut, and walked around the low front of the car.

“Hi,” Gillian called.

“Hello,” he said. He was slim, dressed in dark slacks and a sport shirt, and appeared to be in his mid-twenties. He had a friendly smile.

“I’m Gillian,” she said. “Glad you came by. I’ll be staying at Uncle Fredrick’s place till he gets back. You know, house-sitting?”

“Didn’t know he was gone,” the man said.

“Well, I was afraid he might’ve mentioned he’d be away, and maybe forgot to tell you I’d be watching the place for him.” She grinned. “Didn’t want you thinking I was a burglar or something.”

“You don’t look much like one,” he said. “I’m Jerry Dobbs.”

Gillian offered her hand, and he shook it. “Nice to meet you, Jerry.”

“From around here?”

“I’ve got a cramped little studio apartment in West LA. Which is why it’ll be so nice spending a few days here.”

“I can imagine. I was an apartment dweller myself till I scraped up enough to get this place. Hated every minute of it. Confining, no privacy ...”

“Exactly,” Gillian said. “Well, I’d better let you go. It was nice meeting you.”

“Same here. Look, you need anything, just drop over.”

“You mean like a cup of sugar?”

“Or company. Whatever.”

“Thanks. Maybe I will.” She backed away, raising a hand in farewell. “I’ll see you around, Jerry.”

“Right. So long.”

Gillian headed across Jerry’s lawn. She felt him watching, so she glanced over her shoulder and smiled, then continued toward the house. That had turned out great. Seemed like a nice guy, Jerry. If he’d been suspicious at all, he sure hadn’t shown it.

Now, Gillian would be able to make herself at home without worrying about what the next-door neighbor might see or hear. A terrific development.

Inside the house she made her way through the darkness to a table lamp. After turning it on, she knelt on the floor beside the lamp that had gone off. She followed the cord, pulled the plug for the small plastic timer unit and inserted it into the wall socket. The lamp came on again. She turned off the other one.

After securing the door, Gillian carried her suitcase, purse and high-heeled shoes into the bedroom. She removed a few items from the suitcase, then packed her sweater and skirt.

She made a detour into the living room to pick up her wine glass.

In the bathroom, she had a few sips while she undressed and waited for the tub to fill.

She set the glass on the edge of the tub. She stepped into the water, sat down, and sighed with pleasure as the heat wrapped her to the waist. She stretched out her legs.

Flinched rigid as a bell jangled somewhere in the house.

Someone at the door?

Oh, Christ. And me in the tub.

She braced herself, ready to spring out, but the ringing came again and she realized it was the telephone.

A call. At this hour.

Her skin crawled. She saw goosebumps rise on her submerged thighs, felt her nipples tighten and pucker.

Calm down, she told herself. One thing’s certain, it isn’t for me.

Unless it’s Jerry.

But it’s not, she thought.

Each bray of the phone scraped her nerves.

It’s not for me. That’s the main thing. It’s not bad news. Shit, there’s nobody to get bad news about.

Maybe a neighbor, someone from across the street who saw me come in. Maybe just a wrong number.

At her apartment it was almost always a wrong number when it rang late at night.

Why doesn’t it stop!

Gillian gritted her teeth.

Maybe an obscene caller, she thought. Maybe a burglar checking to find out if anyone’s home before dropping by.

Maybe Fredrick Holden, calling in to ask what the hell I’m doing in his house. A pretty thought.

Gillian realized that a few seconds had gone by since the last ring. She sat motionless in the tub, her back rigid, her heart thudding, and listened. There was silence except for the slow drip of water near her feet.

Okay, she thought, he finally quit.

Or someone picked up the phone.

Charming idea.

Absurd.

She strained to hear a voice.

Your damned imagination is running haywire tonight. What are you, going paranoid? The house is empty, empty. Nobody home but me. The caller hung up, that’s all.

Shit.

Gillian thrust herself up and climbed out of the tub. She rushed to the bathroom door, jerked it open, then ran dripping through the dark hall.

This is great. If someone is ...

Even before she reached the kitchen, she could see the pale shape of a wall phone just beyond its entrance. Nobody there. Of course.

But the house had phones in the den and bedroom.

She reached for the handset. Stopped.

Drips of water trickled down her legs.

What if you pick it up and hear voices?

That’s easy. You beat it the fuck out of here.

Or drop dead of cardiac arrest.

She snatched up the phone. A dial tone buzzed in her ear.

Of course.

Still shaking, Gillian returned to the bathroom. She locked the door, then stepped into the tub and sat down. She took a few swallows of wine.

Now just relax, she told herself. Nothing’s wrong.

She set aside the glass and lay back. The water washed over her, covering her to the neck, its warm caress soothing, but not enough to make the gooseflesh go away. She rubbed her thighs. The skin felt tender and achy at first, then better. She rubbed one arm, then the other. She massaged the back of her neck. She covered her breasts until the tightness faded and the flesh was smooth again. Letting her arms sink into the heat, she closed her eyes. She took a deep breath.

As the fear seeped away, a heavy weariness settled into Gillian.

She moved her arms and legs, sending gentle currents rolling against her body. Her mind seemed vague. She could almost fall asleep. The water bed would be nice.

She was back in her own apartment, lying on the sofa.

Feeling pleasantly warm, her limbs all lazy and limp. Suddenly, she was flotsam; drifting, floating beneath clear sparkling water. She felt so-ooo peaceful ... Sunlight glittered like diamonds through the rippling waves above. Below, a mass of dark swirling weeds undulated in the current. Reaching up, but not quite touching her.

With a gasp of fear, she swam up toward the sunlight.

She was back on the sofa, the TV on, the sound turned low. Shadowy images flickered across her vision. Her eyelids closed ...

And snapped open again.

In one limp hand she held a glass of wine. The wine was red and dark. Staring into its ruby depths she saw ...

But the glass slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor. Rising up on an arm, she looked down at it. Watched the stem snap away ...

Click.

Smoothly. Neatly.

Like a slender neck, broken by a strong, practiced band.

She stared at it for what seemed like an age. Then her eyes slid beyond the glass to the patch of spilt wine spreading around it.

Blood.

Whose?

Her face felt taut, expressionless. As if her skull was hard, molded wax. She glanced down at her arms, turning them over, this way and that. Studied her hands.

No blood there.

Her arms fell, heavily, and her eyes strayed down the length of her body. It came as no surprise to see that she was naked. Naked and glistening with sweat. It was so hot.

I need air!

She opened her mouth to scream but nothing came.

Then, like angry snakes, cords and wires whipped themselves around her ankles. Cutting into her flesh. At the same time, her wrists crushed violently together. She jerked with the shock and pain. Beads of sweat and blood eased out of her pores.

Aaagbbb!

A strangled scream broke from Gillian’s lips.

And another one. Louder this time.

In a frenzy of fear, she kicked and floundered in the tub; her body thrashed, the water heaving around her like a storm at sea. Her wrists, mashed tight together, were thrust up high before her.

She came to with a jolt.

Her hands hit water, hard. With a tremendous splash, waves of it smacked her face, stung her eyes ...

Uggbbb. How long had she been out of it? She shivered and shook her head, spraying droplets all around. The water was barely warm and goosebumps crawled all over her skin.

No blood. No cords No wires.

“No panic, Gilly-babes. Just your friendly neighborhood nightmare,” she muttered, clutching her arms across her breasts and shivering some more.

“So I dropped off in the tub. Lesson to be learned there. Never relax on the job, babe. Take a tub, sure. But don’t fall asleep in it!”

Toweling herself dry, she dwelt on the mystery telephone caller. Who could it have been? She shrugged and slipped into a long, hooded terri-cloth robe she found hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Maybe she would never know.

Tying the belt tightly around her waist, she dug her hands deep into the pockets. A grateful smile curved her lips. So long, nightmare. Time for beddy-byes.

She felt warmer already.

Snuggling between the satin sheets on Uncle Fredrick’s Amazing Wonderbed, she curled up into a fetal ball. Undulating gently with her movements, the bed reminded her of the bath she’d just climbed out of.

She still felt shaky after her weird experience.

After falling asleep in the tub.

That, and her scary dream or nightmare, whatever it had been. She told herself that similar slip-ups must never, ever happen again. Her intrusions were based on perfect planning. No, she prided herself on being the consummate strategist, right?

So no more sloppy hiccups. Okay?

She shuddered and shook her head, making the bed bounce some more. What if Fredrick Holden had come home early and found her hallucinating in his tub?

Yeah. What if!

Chapter Eight

Sunday June 22

When Gillian woke up in the morning, a mild breeze was stirring the curtains. She squirmed a little, enjoying the feel of the satin sheets sliding against her bare skin and the way the water-filled mattress undulated. Turning over, she saw herself on the ceiling. She drew the sheet away, stretched, and folded her hands under her head.

Fredrick Holden might have a few quirks, she thought, but she had to admit that the combination of water bed, satin sheets and mirrors was rather appealing. She wouldn’t want to have such things herself, but they would be nice for the few days she hoped to stay here.

Gillian was in no rush to leave the bed.

Soon, she found herself sliding around, rolling, savoring the smooth feel of the sheet and the warm breeze from the window. She tried every position she could dunk of and watched herself in the mirrors, at first with simple curiosity about how she looked from the different angles. Then she imagined a man being with her, a man admiring her display. He had the face of Jerry from next door. She twisted and writhed and contorted herself into erotic poses for his benefit, and suddenly blushed with shame.

For godsake, she thought, what am I doing?

She sprang from the bed. She was sweaty and breathing hard.

The blue satin bottom sheet, dark in places from her moist body, swelled and sank like the skin of something alive and panting.

Fredrick’s Amazing Wonderbed. Too true, Gillian thought. Climb aboard, folks. See the astounding Miracle Mirrors transform you before your very eyes into lusting slaves of carnality.

Come one, come all.

Who’re you kidding? Gillian thought. It’s not the bed and mirrors, it’s me.

Been alone too much.

She opened her suitcase, took out her white bikini and hurried to the bathroom. She dried herself before putting it on.

In the kitchen, she made coffee. While she waited for the pot to fill, she went to the den, opened the curtains, and slid the glass door wide. Most of the concrete slab behind the house was still in shade. The breeze felt good on her hot skin. She returned to the bedroom for her sunglasses and book, then poured herself a mug of coffee. and stepped outside.

The redwood lounge chair needed a pad. She found one in a storage room alongside the garage. Then she sat down, crossed her legs, and drank coffee while she read her Simon Clark paperback.

When the mug was empty, she wandered over to the fence. On tiptoes, she peered into Jerry’s back yard. He wasn’t there. He had a big pool that shimmered in the morning sunlight, a patio set with an umbrella over the table, a couple of loungers and a barbecue.

It was against procedure, she reminded herself, to get involved with neighbors. It was risky. Too much danger of letting something slip. You make the brief, initial contact to allay their suspicions, then you stay away from them.

Curious that Jerry had wandered into her Wonderbed fan- . tasy.

A little disturbing.

Disturbing, too, that she had hoped to see him when she looked over the fence.

The last thing you need is to get interested in some guy, she thought. All they do is mess you up.

Gillian went into the house for more coffee, then resumed reading until the mug was empty again.

She took the mug and book inside.

Then she went to the bedroom for her camera.

It had all started when Gillian was seventeen.

On her way home from school, she was walking past the deserted house when John Deerman called out to her. She stopped and waited for him to catch up.

“Look at this! Look!” He tugged a typed sheet out of his binder and waved it in front of her face.

She took it from him.

The tide page of his term paper: “The Whiteness of Moby Dick.” It had a big red “A” beside his name. The teacher had scribbled, “Wonderful job. A vast improvement.”

“That’s nice,” Gillian said.

“Nice? It’s great! I got an ‘A’!”

“Somebody did.” The “A” called for a ten-dollar bonus in addition to the twenty-dollar advance John had paid her for writing the paper. She held out her hand.

Smiling, John produced his wallet. “You’re terrific, you know that?” As he slipped out a ten-dollar bill, a sudden gust of October wind snatched it from his fingers. Gillian made a quick grab for the tumbling bill as it fluttered past her face. She missed. It sailed over the battered picket fence.

“Shit!” John yelled.

Several yards beyond the fence, weeds in the overgrown yard snagged the bill.

“Don’t stand here like a numbnuts,” Gillian said. “Go get it.”

“No way. I’m not going in there.”

Gillian sighed, set her binder and books on the sidewalk, and rushed toward the gate.

“I wouldn’t do that!” John called.

“Obviously,” she said. The gate hung crooked, held up only by the single hinge at the bottom. She lifted it, shoved it inward, then ran through the weeds. She plucked the money off a sticker bush.

“Boy, that was stupid,” John said when she returned to get her books.

“The only stupid thing was that you made me go after its ”

“That’s Mabel Brookhurst’s place.”

“So? Who’s she?”

John’s eyes brightened as if he were thrilled to meet someone who hadn’t heard the story. “She was a lunatic. My dad’s a paramedic, you know. He was one of the guys that went in and got her. She’d been dead like three weeks, hanged herself. The stink was so bad the neighbors had started complaining. That’s how come she got found.”

“Pleasant,” Gillian muttered.

“They say there’s no way to get the smell out. That’s how come nobody’s bought the place. And there’s the writing. Dad said she’d written weird shit everywhere—all over the walls and ceilings. With a marking pen. You can’t just paint over a marking pen, it comes right through the paint. So even if they could get rid of the stink ...”

“What sort of stuff did she write?”

John shrugged. “Who knows? Weird shit. She was cracked.”

“Didn’t anybody read it?”

“I don’t know. Dad didn’t. I mean, the place reeked. He didn’t stick around any longer than he had to.”

“I wonder what she wrote,” Gillian said.

Grinning, John said, “Why don’t you go in and find out?”

“Sure thing,” Gillian said. “You think I’m nuts?”

It was a Friday. Before her parents went to bed, Gillian told them she would be staying up late to watch TV. It was not exactly a lie. At that time, intrigued as she was about the writing Mabel Brookhurst had left on the walls and ceilings before hanging herself, she doubted that she actually had the courage to sneak over to the old house for a look.

After an hour of staring at the television movie, wondering about the Brookhurst house and trembling, she made up her mind. She left the TV on with its volume low. She turned on the light in the downstairs bathroom and shut the door to make it appear that she was inside—just in case one of her parents should come downstairs and wonder why she wasn’t in front of the television.

In her bedroom, she changed from her nightgown into jeans, a chamois shirt and sneakers. She picked up her Polaroid camera and tiptoed downstairs and out of the house. In the garage, she found her father’s flashlight and a screwdriver.

The walk to the Brookhurst house took no more than ten minutes. She stopped in front of it. Her mouth was dry, her heart thudding. She felt the wind under her shirt-tail, chilling her back.

Lights were on in some nearby houses, but she saw no one.

And no one sees me, she thought.

The Brookhurst house looked dismal. The weeds in front shifted and crackled in the wind. One of the front windows was broken, a star of blackness on the reflecting sheen of its pane.

I must be nuts, Gillian thought. I’m not going in there.

She walked past the crooked gate and kept on walking, and felt her fear slide away.

I’ll just go back home and forget it. Nobody will ever know. It was a stupid idea.

Instead of relief, Gillian felt a sense of letdown.

What’s the worst thing that could happen if I did go inside, she asked herself. The cops might get me. Can’t be much of a crime, sneaking into an abandoned house. They’d take me home. I’d have some explaining to do, but Mom and Dad are okay. They’d think it was a weird move, but ...

What’s really the worst thing that could happen?

I’m not, for godsake, going to meet Mabel’s ghost.

The worst thing, she finally decided, would be to sneak in and get herself nailed by some kind of creep or pervert. A deserted, run-down place like that, anybody might be staying there.

She began to feel the fear again. This time, she recognized that part of it, at least, was excitement.

Just watch your step, she thought, and get the hell out if there’s any sign the place is occupied.

Gillian had already reached the corner of the block. She turned back. On her way toward the Brookhurst house, she watched the neighboring homes. Most of the draperies in the lighted windows were shut. Someone might be peering out a dark window, but she was willing to take the chance. If the cops grabbed her, too bad, but so what? A little embarrassment. She could live with that.

She swung open the gate and ran through the weeds to the side of the house. Ducking around the corner, she leaned against the wall and tried to calm down. For a few moments, she couldn’t get enough air. This seemed strange to Gillian. She was in good shape; running such a short distance shouldn’t have winded her at all. It had to be nerves.

Soon she was breathing more easily but her heart continued to race. Though she was no longer cold, she felt shivery inside. She noticed a tingling tightness in her chest and throat—a peculiar cross between pain and pleasure that she associated, somehow, with sliding down a rough hill on her rump. Her skin was crawly with goosebumps. Her nipples felt stiff and sensitive, alive to every touch of her blowing shirt. The inseam of her tight jeans pressed against her like a finger. The denim was moist.

For a long time, she didn’t move. She simply leaned against the wall, hidden by a thick hedge along the neighbor’s property line, and wondered what was going on with her body. It had to be a combination of fear and excitement—the thrill of doing something forbidden and a little bit dangerous.

I’d better get on with it, she finally told herself.

Easing away from the wall, she walked alongside the house. The weeds crunched under her feet. She crouched each time she came to a window. At the rear of the house was an overgrown yard.

She found a back door. Stepping up to it, she tried its handle.

The door was locked. Good. If it hadn’t been, she might have given up, figuring that somebody else might be inside. She realized that she hadn’t tried the front door.

Too late for that now.

With the screwdriver, she dug into the doorframe beside the lock plate. Bits of wood broke off. Splinters tore loose. Finally, she worked back the lock tongue and opened the door.

She entered the house.

The stale air was warm and had a faint, sweetish odor that Gillian found a little sickening, but not so bad that she needed to gag.

She was in the kitchen. For a while, she stared straight ahead into the darkness and didn’t move. She heard the rush of her heartbeat, the sounds of her shaky, ragged breathing. She tried to hold her breath, but couldn’t. She still trembled. The current sizzling through her body seemed even stronger than before; it made her ache for release, to cry out in terror or quake in orgasm.

Get moving, she told herself.

She turned on the flashlight and swept its beam through the kitchen. There was no writing. Maybe John had it all wrong.

Then Gillian stepped into the hallway. The ancient wallpaper, yellow with age and peeling in places, looked like the canvas of a crazed graffiti artist. So did the ceiling. Amazed, she swung her light beam along the multi-colored words and drawings.

All the drawings seemed to feature an obese woman. They were as primitive as the artwork of a four-year-old: bloated bodies, pumpkin heads with scrawls of orange hair and faces composed of bright slashes and circles, oval legs and arms, stick fingers. There were pictures with colors scribbled onto represent clothes. In many of the pictures, the woman was naked, with mammoth, pendulous breasts and huge red nipples. Here and there were drawings of a rump that looked like a pair of clinging balloons.

Must be self-portraits, Gillian thought. She felt a little sorry for the woman, but her pity was mixed with astonishment.

As if she had discovered a hidden treasure.

She read some of the scrawled messages:Mabel Mabel big as a stable,

Finished her meal

So she ate the table.

I think that I shall never see—

my feet!

Blubber. Blub blub blub.

It is no fun

To weigh a ton,

It is no fun at all.

It’ll take a crane

As big as a train

To pick me up if I fall.

Deader is bedder.

I have no kids,

No Mary or Bill.

It’s just as well.

I have no kids,

No Bonnie or Jim.

If I had kids

I’d eat them.

Wingle wangle

Hang and dangle.

Why me?

Gillian didn’t read anymore. She had brought her camera along, intending to take photographs of whatever she might find interesting in the house, but she wanted no reminder of this woman’s torment.

She didn’t explore the rest of the house.

She left.

Would’ve been fine, she thought as she walked home, if the woman hadn’t put such depressing shit on her walls and ceilings.

What d’you expect? The gal committed suicide. You’re lucky you didn’t find something a whole lot worse.

Depressing.

Interesting, though.

Sneaking in that way, spying into her life.

Next time, don’t pick a goddamn suicide.

Next time?

Gillian wanted to feel that way again, to feel as she did before the gloomy drawings and messages ruined it for her.

The next day, she called John on the telephone. “Guess what I did,” she said.

“Finished my history paper?”

“I had a look inside Mabel’s house.”

“Sure thing.”

“I wanted to see what she wrote all over the place.”

“Yeah. And what did you find out?”

“She was fat. A blimp. Apparently, that’s what drove her crazy enough to kill herself.”

“I knew you didn’t go in there. You kidding? She was nothing but skin and bones. Dad said she looked like one of those pictures you see of Auschwitz survivors.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Hey, she was always that way. I used to see her around. She’d turn sideways, she’d disappear.”

“No way.”

“Ask anyone.”

The revelation astonished Gillian. She couldn’t get over it. Though Mabel’s problem certainly seemed tragic, she felt as if she’d made an amazing discovery.

What if every house held strange secrets?

And even if they didn’t, there was the thrill of sneaking in to explore.

That night, after her parents had gone to bed, she broke into the house of Ralph and Helen Norris, friends of her parents who were in Las Vegas for the weekend.

She felt a frenzy of fear and excitement.

She searched their closets and drawers.

Though she made no startling discovery, it didn’t seem to matter. All that mattered was being there.

She tried their bed.

She took pictures and notes of every room.

What else? She wasn’t ready to leave. Not yet.

She drank a cold beer and ate potato chips at their kitchen table, sitting in the darkness, hardly able to swallow because of her thudding chest.

Still unwilling to leave, she went into the master bedroom. There was a huge sunken tub. She filled it, took off her clothes, and climbed in. Except for the dim light from the window, the bathroom was dark.

I can’t believe I’m doing this, she thought. I must be nuts. What if they come home and find me naked in their tub?

Hi, folks. I’m Goldilocks.

With a trembling laugh, she slipped down into the deep, hot water.

The Norris experience had been the start of something big. A life-changing event. The beginning of a series of adventures that led to a weird kind of addiction. It set in motion within her a yearning desire to discover the innermost secrets of other people’s homes. In doing this, Gillian found an immense sense of fulfillment. A needy gratification that was almost sexual.

The highlight of it all, though—the cherry on top of the proverbial cake—had been bathing in the Norris’s tub. After that, the ritual bath had been the highlight of every one of her intrusions.

Later. Two years and forty or so intrusions later, she’d tried to reason out, why baths? Why this fetish with other people’s bathing arrangements? That first glimpse of the bathroom itself, the tub and the accessories that went with it: oils, shampoos, talc, deodorants, perfumed soaps. They all played an important part, leading up to the real climax. The shivers of excitement, the thrill of invading the inner sanctum of some unknown person.

Then. Easing into those hot bubbles.

As good as an orgasm.

The sensual release of some kind of mental climax. Lying naked and up to the neck in some guy’s hot, foaming bubbles, she’d come, no problem.

Other girls had sex with strangers. Just for the thrill of it. Wham bam, thank’ya ma’am. And goodbye forever. No hassle. No hangups. No long-winded affairs to cool off, or drift into indifference. Two ships that passed in the night.

For Gillian, it was like: who needs a man when you can have it all in a stranger’s tub?

You get it off in a hot tub? In somebody else’s bathroom? D’you get all of your kicks this way? Like as in some kind of titillation? The whole experience is a come-on?

No shrink had heard of this one.

Climaxing under water.

Sure we’re not talking masturbation here?

We’re not? Er, well, Miss O’Neill. Must admit your problem is er ... rather unusual, to say the least. But hey. People get their kicks lotsa ways these days.

Maybe we should edit all of this down to one root cause. In your childhood, you were deprived of nice hot baths and have felt guilty about enjoying them ever since? A classic example of the “naughty but nice” syndrome!

It’s not uncommon for people to become addicted to things they like, things with forbidden connotations. Things which are often socially unacceptable. Such as alcohol, drugs, certain foods. Shopping.

But hot baths... ?

Mmmm-huh. I think we’ve found the answer to your problem, Miss O’Neill. Deprived childhood and no mistake. Good day to you. Oh, and please leave your check for $3000 with the clerk on your way out ...

Of course, she hadn’t seen a shrink. First off, her little jaunts had not only “forbidden” connotations. They were illegal. Her intrusions were a criminal act. But she’d been addicted to them for too long to stop now. She knew that. This thing will be with me forever, she told herself. Like some kind of disability

She’d tried to put a stop to it. Seriously. For weeks at a time she’d abstained. Then, like a reformed junkie offered a free trip, she’d feel the old familiar sequence moving neatly into action. Just like a clockwork train.

It was all there. Again. The adrenaline rush as she eased open the front door. The sweats, the soaring, nerve-wracking excitement, wondering if the house owner really was home. Upstairs taking a nap? On their way to the Speed-D-Mart for Aspirin? Or Pizza Hut for a takeaway?

Or would she be met in the hallway by the occupant? Fearful, trembling, finger poised. About to dial 911.

But she knew that, cool as ever, she’d pass off her intrusion by saying she’d mistaken the house number. She’d express frustration at her own stupidity. I’m sorry ... Whatever must you think of me?

Yes, she was plausible, she knew that. She had her performance down to a fine art. After all this time she could play to packed houses. Fill theaters up and down the country. Her sudden warmth, charm, ingenuousness, would have people eating out of her hand in no time at all.

But it hadn’t ever come to that.

So far, so good.

But only because she did her groundwork like a true pro.

Yeah, sure. She was good. Just as well, since her intrusions were food and drink to her now. A major part of the thrill was paying minute attention to detail—at every stage of the game. The reconnaissance, the illegal entry.

Then, the prize.

Eating and drinking their food. Watching their TV. Sleeping in their bed. And the kick of it all—entering their private domain. Their inner sanctuary.

Unknown to them.

She used their bathroom; their tub; their toilet. And they knew fuck all about it. She invaded their most private places without their knowledge.

That was the kick.

Gillian smiled softly. She didn’t need the help of an expensive shrink to work that one out.

She got off on it is all.

Hey. Tubs she had known ...

About sixty-six in total?

She could write a book.

Or a screenplay.

Miss 0’Neill, talented winner of the Golden Goblet Screehwriter of the Year Award, please tell our viewers—your fans—which, in your experience, has been the most fascinating tub of all?

Her camera and notebook were ready. But instead of taking shots of Fredrick Holden’s artifacts, as planned, she returned to the concrete sundeck and flopped back onto the lounge chair.

So, which was the most fascinating tub? Gillian thought hard about that one. But, damn it, she decided, she didn’t need to give herself such a hard time. Because, like a flame among dying embers, one occasion stood out from all the rest.

Yeah. That one on Silverston. West of Studio City.

No shit, that’s been the most fantastic tub so far.

She’d done her routine check. No one around. No snoopers. No dog-walkers. No mailmen ...

The absence of human life, or of any other type of life on that street, come to that, was in itself unusual.

The house fascinated her from the start. The neighborhood was maybe too upmarket for her liking. But, in some strange way, she knew that the old place needed her.

And Christ, she knew about need, all right. She was here, wasn’t she? Cruising around, searching for places to satisfy her need.

Looks like I’ve found it ...

Too upmarket? Okay, Miss O’Neill, so break a few rules.

This one’s going to be your special treat!

It was as if that lonely old house, set back against dark shadows, was crooking its finger and beckoning to her. She imagined its whispering voice, mingling and swishing with the windblown palms lining its path.

Hey, girl. Come on in. You want tales? I got tales a-plenty to tell—and a thousand secrets to share ...

That clinched it. The white stucco house, detached and with around two, three hundred yards of driveway leading up to it, was her target for tonight. Tall, dark palms ran either side of the driveway. The rustling trees almost blocked out all of the remaining daylight until they looked like one long, dark, moving tunnel.

Leading to what?

The house. Secreted away in the background. Looming like a forgotten ghost; silent and forbidding.

Scary.

I must be nuts.

No possibility of nosy neighbors. Unless they used a pair of step-ladders, the tall yew hedges either side would obscure the driveway from view. And when she’d driven past earlier, she’d seen a For Sale sign sticking up out of next-door’s front lawn. That house had looked dark and empty too.

The gravel leading up to number 1309 crunched loudly under her feet. This place, with its flaky, white-painted exterior, exuded an air of loneliness.

But not emptiness.

The driveway, the gardens, the long green lawn in front of the house, were neat and well-kept. A sure sign that a gardener or handyman had recently been at work. By the time she reached the three shallow steps curving up to the arched front door, she knew there was no one around to halt her progress.

In some strange way, this knowledge was a certainty.

Gillian smiled.

The house was hers.

Alarm system?

Yeah. Alarm system ...

She looked around for tell-tale electronic devices. Wires. Anything.

Nope.

Crazy, but true. There were no alarm devices that she could see.

So, go for it.

She did.

Gaining access was easy. In the studded dark wood door a rectangular window gleamed. It was small, narrow and about two thirds of the way up: a nice stained-glass affair showing a white, stylized lily, cupped by two long green leaves. The background was bright blue. A quick glance around assured her there was no one immediately in sight. Taking her small leather tool satchel from her purse, Gillian paused for a moment, head tilted, listening intently to sounds from within.

Like someone running to open the door.

The click of a telephone being lifted off the book.

Nothing.

She stretched out a length of duct tape and stuck it around the window. She stuck a circle in the center of the window to use as a handle. It’s an old window, she thought with satisfaction. Should drop out okay.

She set to work with her glass cutter. When she’d finished she tapped the glass. It came away in her hand.

Easy as drawing breath.

Too easy?

She reached her hand through the space and felt around with her fingers. The door handle was just below the space. It was large and heavy and she could move it up and down with her fingers. But the door wouldn’t give.

A bolt?

Yeah. She reached inside, felt below the window space and found the bolt.

Slid it back.

It moved smoothly, in double quick time.

Freshly oiled.

Especially for her?

The door swung open.

Briskly, and with a pounding heart, she returned her tools, and the small piece of window, to the satchel, slid it into her purse and picked up her suitcase. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

Taking her tools out again, Gillian worked quickly, replacing the window in the door and returning her tools to the leather satchel. She placed the satchel into her purse.

Then looked around her.

Thirties Hollywood. That was her first impression. Maybe not so big as some of those deco places out in the hills. But in its own faded, still glamorous way, this one was just as tasty.

White marble entrance hall. Light streaming through looped drapes at the long windows either side of the tall white studded door. A white staircase rose before her. It branched off, right and left, each section winding upward and then back on itself. Both sets of stairs met on a white and chrome balcony, the entire width of the house. Just like the prow of a cruise liner.

The Busby Berkeley Babes.

Dick Powell and Ruby Keeler.

“Yessir,” Gillian breathed. “The place has style, all right.”

She shivered. It was this air of loneliness, inside the house as well as out. It hung about the place like some longforgotten melody. It made her want to cry, it was so sad.

The emptiness made her think that maybe this house, too, was up for sale. But once again, she had this deep down certainty that it wasn’t.

A quick check on all the rooms told her that the house was lived in. It was tidy; not a magazine out of place. Garden flowers were still fresh in the tall white vases.

Black and white studio shots of a blonde with cupid bow lips and provocative, dark-lashed eyes smiled archly from the walls. In one photograph, she was dressed up like Heidi, complete with pigtails, accompanied by a mustachioed guy in Bavarian fancy dress.

Gillian recognized the woman—though from where, she couldn’t say. Some all-time movie star. All alone with her memories. Alone, except for a maid coming in twice a week to keep the place straight. ...

She inspected the first bedroom she came to. White quilted satin on a large, circular bed. Flimsy white drapes drawn aside from the heart-shaped quilted satin headboard. Flimsy white drapes at the windows, too. Built-in wardrobes. A curved white dresser covered in glass gewgaws and perfume and stuff. Matching nightstands stood either side of the bed.

A movie set from years ago.

Gillian stepped inside the adjoining all-white bathroom. And gasped with pleasure as her eyes took in the round sunken tub and ornate gold taps shaped like dolphin heads. Slender bottles filled with colored oils and unguents were set neatly at intervals around the rim.

Claudette Colbert in Cleopatra.

Only thing missing was a Nubian slave girl.

Excitement stirred, touching her spine with soft, seductive fingers. The tingly feeling teased her stomach and goosebumps rose on her skin. She couldn’t wait to undress.

But first off, had she missed anything? Like some vital clue telling her that the owner was home, after all? To be safe, Gillian called out, “Hello? Anybody home?”

If somebody answered she could always say ... hell, what could she say? The usual excuses, like she’d been asked to call around, to check on ... who? That she was a relative come to stay? All seemed woefully inadequate.

An escapee from the local psychiatric unit seemed more plausible, she remembered thinking.

Okay. Weak wasn’t the word. Especially if she was discovered upstairs already. She’d have to come up with a pretty good answer. Bluff her way out of a tricky situation.

Or just make a break for it.

Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.

Silence.

No reply.

Thank God.

She was safe. Although ...

Do it now. Do it. I dare you ...

The short hairs on the back of her neck began to rise.

Hey. Live life on the edge, Gilly baby. Why not?

She cocked her head. Listening for sounds. Any sounds.

None.

The familiar tingle of excitement teased her center. Her pubic mound throbbed until the ache became unbearable. A low giggle burst from her lips. She slipped off her shoes and undressed.

A flicker of fear came and went. Wait, a small voice whispered. Forget the tub. Go explore. Make sure it’s safe ...

Against her better judgment, she ran water into the tub. Steam curled into her face, making her gurgle with excitement. Selecting a long-stemmed container of bath oil, Gillian took off the stopper and poured it into the tub. Fascinated, she watched the amethyst fluid flow into the bubbling torrent.

The delicate scent of lilacs met her nostrils. Mmmm ... Stepping into the fragrant water, she hummed a tune:

“Keep young and beautiful ... ”

Yeah. That was the most fascinating, the most luxurious, most memorable tub she’d ever taken.

All round, her most fascinating, memorable intrusion so far.

And the briefest, so it turned out.

Chapter Nine

Bert wasn’t in the tent. Rick told himself there was no reason to worry, but he scurried out of his sleeping bag, needing to see her, needing to banish his sudden fear. He swept aside the tent flap.

She was nowhere in sight.

The fire crackled. Its pale flames fluttered in the morning sunlight. A distance beyond the fire were their packs. The ponchos had been removed and the red nylon top of Bert’s pack was open.

Rick sat down just inside the tent and pulled on his running shoes. His fingers trembled as he tied the laces.

She’s all right, he told himself. Probably down by the stream.

On her back. Wearing one knee sock.

Rick shook his head sharply to dislodge the thoughts, and winced. His head had a dull ache, thanks to the bourbon. He got to his feet, looked around, and walked across the campsite.

She’ll be down by the stream, he thought. When I get to the top of the embankment, I’ll see her. She’s fine.

God oh God, why had he let himself remember all that last night? Over the years he’d become talented at turning his mind away from the memories whenever they started. But lying there in the dark tent, he’d dwelled on them, wallowed in them. He hadn’t even tried to fight the memories.

He suspected that he knew the reason why—because he had a need to remember what happened last time. He was out here again. Probably a hundred miles from the place where Julie was murdered, but here, in the mountains, in the wilderness. He needed to relive the horror. He needed it fresh in his mind. A cautionary tale. Watch out, be ready, it could happen again.

Shaken by the memories, he had crawled from the tent last night, stirred the smoldering fire to life, gone to his pack and taken out the bottle and revolver. The pocket of his parka was deep enough to hold the revolver. Its weight felt good. He sat on a stump close to the fire and drank. The heat of the bourbon swept through him. He wished he had brought two bottles, not just the one. He had six more nights to go. He needed to hold back, to drink no more than a seventh of the bourbon, or he might run out.

But a seventh of a quart wasn’t much at all.

There were bound to be nights when he wouldn’t need to drink, nights when he would sleep through till morning.

Now is when I need it, he thought.

When a quarter of the bottle was gone, he forced himself to quit. Hoping that would be enough to help him sleep, he put the bottle away and returned to the tent. He rolled his parka into a pillow. In spite of its thickness, he could feel the revolver under his head. He didn’t mind.

Nobody gonna fuck with us this time, he thought vaguely, just before falling asleep.

Rick reached the edge of the embankment. For a moment, he didn’t see Bert and something clamped tight in his chest. Then he spotted her. She was off to the right, sitting cross-legged on a rock near the middle of the stream.

“Morning,” he called, climbing down the slope.

She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled. “Afternoon,” she said.

“Oh, it’s not that late.”

She got to her feet, hopped across the stream, and stepped into her sneakers. She was wearing baggy tan shorts and a white T-shirt. She looked fresh and wonderful. She came to Rick. He put his arms around her. She pressed herself against him.

“How come you didn’t invite me to your party?” she asked.

She knew. Of course she knew.

“You were asleep,” Rick said.

He felt her shrug.

“You didn’t miss much. I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep. So I knocked back a few. They helped.”

“The first night out can be tough,” she said. “It’ll get better.”

“God, I hope so.”

“Good thing I didn’t light a match this morning, the tent would’ve blown up.”

Rick laughed softly. “Sorry.”

Her hands slipped inside the seat of his sweatpants. They were warm on his buttocks. “If you have trouble sleeping again, how about waking me up? I don’t want you to suffer alone.”

“All bright.”

She patted his rump, then stepped away. “Let’s get some breakfast. I’m starving.”

Back at the camp, Rick heated water on the fire for instant coffee. Bert dumped powdered eggs into her pan, stirred in water, and used her sheath knife to scrape chunks of meat off a bacon bar. She cooked the meal over the burner of her small propane stove.

Rick normally abhorred instant coffee. This morning, however, it seemed to taste great. He drank it eagerly while he lingered over the scrambled eggs with bacon.

And he watched Bert sitting on a log across from him, eating from the pan. Her hair gleamed like gold over one ear where the sunlight fell on it. Her white T-shirt, so bright that it almost hurt his eyes to look at it, hung loosely over her breasts. Her nipples made it jut and he could see a hint of their darkness through the fabric. The pan was on her lap. Her legs, long and sleek, were stretched out and crossed at the ankles.

Finishing first, Rick got up and went to his pack. He took out his Polaroid camera.

“Come on,” Bert said, “my hair’s a mess.”

“You look great. Just keep eating.”

She shrugged and rolled her eyes upward. Rick took a shot as she lifted the fork to her mouth. With a buzz, the camera ejected the photo.

Rick crouched beside Bert and they watched the picture appear, faint at first, growing sharp, finally showing every detail in rich clarity. “I told you my hair was a mess.”

“Now let’s get one with your shirt off.”

“Up yours.”

“I’ll wait till you go to change it.”

“Who says I’m going to change it?”

Rick tried to keep his tone light. “You show through, you know.”

She grinned. “Is that a problem for you?”

“I love it. But we might meet someone on the trails.”

“Ah.”

“Or you could put on a bra.”

“If I’d brought one.”

“It I’d brought one.”

“I just don’t think...”

“I know. You don’t want some stranger getting an eyeful. Rather selfish of you, don’t you think?”

“Yep.” Not just selfish, he thought. Seeing her nipples through the shirt might give people ideas. Such ideas might lead to ...

“Well, I suppose if it’s going to bother you. But no pictures, or I’ll change in the tent.”

“A deal.”

“Why don’t you get some shots of the campsite before we tear it down?”

Rick obliged, then put the camera away.

They took the cook kits down to the stream. After cleaning them, Rick remained to brush his teeth and wash. He returned to camp. Standing in a patch of sunlight, he changed out of the sweatsuit he had slept in. Bert doused the fire and watched him. Then she pulled off her T-shirt, walked over to her pack, and took out the faded blue chambray shirt she had worn yesterday. She buttoned it up, and gave Rick a coy smile as she fastened the button at her throat. “Is this modest enough for you?” she asked.

“Well, you don’t have to overdo it.”

She smiled and opened the top two buttons. “Okay?”

“Fine.”

She went inside the tent. Rick watched while she forced her sleeping bag into its stuff sack. “Want me to do yours?” she asked.

If she started touching the things on his side of the tent, she might find the revolver in his coat.

“No, fine. I’ll take care of it.”

She crawled out.

Rick entered the tent, rammed his sleeping bag into its tiny sack, and brought it out along with his rolled parka. Bert stayed beside him, rearranging the contents of her backpack. He wanted to put the gun into a side pocket of his pack where it would be easy to reach, but that was impossible with Bert there. So he left it inside his parka. His sleeping bag went on top of it.

So much for easy access, Rick thought.

They struck the tent. They were both on their knees, folding it, when Rick heard voices. His stomach clenched. Head snapping to the side, he saw three figures moving through the trees, coming down the trail that ran past their campsite. He looked at Bert.

She was watching them, too. Her hands were on the tent. The way her loose shirt hung toward the ground, Rick could see the shadowed slope of a breast. He felt as if his head were being squeezed. He wanted to shout for her to button up, damn it! Then the shirt swayed back and concealed her breast as she raised herself.

She waved at the strangers. “Morning,” she called.

Shit!

They might’ve gone on by if she’d kept quiet. Why did Bert do that?

The young man in the lead called, “Hi, there,” and turned off the trail. He stepped between a couple of saplings and came toward them, followed by his two companions.

Bert stood up. She brushed dirt and pine needles off her knees.

Numb and shaking, Rick got to his feet. He forced himself to smile and say, “Hello” to the three approaching men.

Men? Boys. They were teenagers, seventeen or eighteen years old.

That’s worse, he thought.

Three of them. God.

He strolled over to his pack, lifted out his sleeping bag, and set it on the ground. There were voices behind him, but he didn’t listen. Fingers trembling, he plucked at his down parka, turned it until the pocket was on top. He slipped his hand in, pulled out the revolver and shoved its barrel down the front of his pants. He untucked his shirt, looked down at himself to make sure the gun handle didn’t show, then took a cigar from his shirt pocket and faced the intruders.

They’re not intruders, he told himself. Bert invited them over for godsake.

She was still beside the collapsed tent. The three guys stood in a semi-circle, facing her.

He ripped off the cigar’s cellophane wrapper as he walked toward them. “Hello, fellows,” he said, and clamped the cigar in his teeth.

As he lighted up, Bert smiled at him. “They spent the night at Mosquito Pasture,” she said.

“Sure did,” said the leader, smiling. He was bigger than Rick and had a body that looked solid. “They damn near carried us off. Wally got messed up real good.”

Wally, a fat kid in glasses who wore cut-off jeans that hung low and appeared ready to drop around his ankles, turned and pointed to red weals on the backs of his legs. He pointed out others on his neck, on the inner sides of his forearms and the crooks of his elbows. “They murdered me,” he said in a dismal voice.

“Don’t you have insect repellent?” Bert asked, sounding concerned.

“Who wants to stink?”

“That’s a good one,” said the third boy, a lanky, freckled kid in white-rimmed sunglasses and an olive green beret.

Wally sneered at him.

“Have you tried Cutters’?” Bert asked. “It doesn’t smell bad.”

Wally shook his head.

“I’ve got some left in my old botde,” she said. “Why don’t you take it?”

“get...”

Bert headed for her pack.

Wally scratched the side of his neck and watched Bert. The leader watched her, too. Rick couldn’t tell where the guy in the sunglasses was looking, but he could guess.

They were all three staring at the way she moved inside her shorts.

“How long you fellows been in?”

“Three nights,” said the leader, still looking past Rick. He licked a comer of his mouth. Then he took a pack of Winstons from the pocket of his sleeveless shirt, shook out a cigarette, and poked it into his mouth. “Borrow a light?” he asked.

Rick slipped a book of matches from his pocket. He pictured the guy grabbing his hand when he reached out, yanking him forward and driving a knee into his guts. So he tossed the matches.

The guy caught them, muttered “Thanks,” and lit his cigarette. He tossed the matches back to Rick.

“Where are you folks heading?” asked the one in sunglasses.

“Granger Lake,” Rick said. He’d never heard of such a place.

“Yeah? That anywhere near the Pylons?”

“Is that where you’re going?” Rick asked. “The Pylons?”

“Yeah.”

Rick heard footfalls behind him. Bert was coming back, and the eyes that he could see were on her. She stepped past Rick and handed a squeeze-bottle to Wally.

“Thanks a lot.”

In her other hand was a plastic tube. “Here, put some of this on your bites. It should help with the itching.”

Wally nodded. He uncapped the tube, sniffed its opening and wrinkled his nose.

Bert let out her husky laugh.

“Can’t smell any worse than your pits,” the one in the sunglasses said.

“You and the horse you rode in on, Bugger.” He started dabbing the pink ointment onto his bites.

“Bugger?” Bert asked, smiling.

“It’s Burgher.” He spelled it. “Luke Burgher.”

“Also known as Ham, Cheese, and McDouble,” Wally said, leering as he got in his digs.

“So it’s Wally, Luke and ...” Bert looked at the leader and raised her eyebrows.

What is this, Rick thought, a goddamn cocktail party?

The guy blew out smoke and said, “Jase.”

“Jason?”

“Just Jase.”

“He’s sensitive,” Luke said.

“You know,” Wally said. “Jason. Friday the Tbirteentb.”

Bert smiled at Jason. “I didn’t recognize you without the hockey mask.”

He blushed. Then he smiled.

“I’m Bert. Nobody calls me Bertha and lives.” She shook hands with Jase. The cigarette drooped in his lips, and his eyes glazed over as if she were holding his cock instead of his hand.

“My silent partner here is Rick,” she said.

Rick nodded, but didn’t offer his hand. Jase made a feeble smile, and his eyes stayed on Bert as she sidestepped to Wally.

“Bert,” Wally said. He wiped his pink fingertip on his shorts, then shook her hand. He grinned and blushed. Watching, Rick half expected the kid’s glasses to fog up.

She moved on down the line.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Bert,” Luke said, and gave her hand a quick, stiff shake. Rather formal. Rather mocking, as if he thought she was weird for shaking hands with them all.

Good for him, Rick thought.

Wally resumed smearing goo on his bites.

“Are you guys heading up over Dead Mule Pass?” Bert asked.

“Yeah,” Jase said. “How about you?”

“Same here.”

Great, Rick thought. Why don’t you break out the map and show them our whole route?

“Maybe we’ll run into you up ahead,” Bert continued.

“Yeah. Could be.”

Next, she’ll be inviting them to hike along with us.

“We’d better finish getting our stuff together,” Rick said, “or we’ll be here all day.”

“Need a hand with the tent?” Jase asked, looking at Bert.

“We can take care of it,” Rick said. “Thanks anyway.”

Wally twisted the cap back onto the ointment.

“Better?” Bert asked him.

“Yeah. Thanks. And thanks for this.” He patted the shirt pocket where he’d put the mosquito repellent.

“It was nice meeting you,” Jase said. Then, he stepped over to the muddy ashes of the fire and tossed in his cigarette butt.

“Well,” Bert said, “if we don’t run into you fellows up ahead somewhere, have a real good trip.”

Don’t worry, Rick thought. We’ll run into them again. They’ll see to it.

“Yeah,” Jase said. “So long.”

“Nice meeting you,” Wally said.

“See you around,” said Luke.

“Take it easy, guys,” Bert told them.

“Yeah,” added Rick.

He watched the three turn away and head for the trail. Wally looked back and waved. Jase glanced back a couple of times. Luke didn’t.

“Nice kids,” Bert said.

“That remains to be seen.”

She looked at him. “Did I miss something?”

“Hell, they were drooling all over you.”

“Drooling?”

Rick nodded. For a moment, he couldn’t see the three boys. Then they appeared on the other side of a rock cluster. “Looks like they’re leaving,” he muttered.

“Expect them to circle around and jump us?” She sounded amused.

“It’s a possibility.”

“My protector,” she said, and patted his rump.

Rick was tempted to lift his shirt and show her what was in his belt.

Protector, all right.

He fought the urge. If Bert found out that he had a gun, she would go into shock.

She’ll find out if I have to use it, he thought. Then she’ll be damn glad I was scared and crazy enough to bring it along.

“Want to stand guard while I pee?” Bert asked.

“Why don’t you wait a few minutes?”

The smile left her face. “They’re gone, honey.”

“Maybe.”

Frowning, Bert gently stroked his cheek. “I wish you wouldn’t worry so much.”

“Me too.”

“There’s honestly no need for it. We’re perfectly safe out here. We left all the nutcases behind in LA.”

“I hope so.”

“Anyway, my teeth are floating.”

The trail looked deserted. There was no sign of the boys. “Okay, go ahead. But stay out of sight.”

She turned away and walked toward her pack.

Rick shifted his attention from the trail to Bert until she wandered into the trees with a roll of toilet paper in her hand.

The moment she was gone, he rushed over to his pack. After a quick search, he found a T-shirt. He wrapped it around his revolver and stuffed them in a side pocket of his pack. He zipped the pocket shut, patted it, and felt the hardness of the gun inside.

Now he’d be able to get at it without taking his pack apart.

Still wouldn’t be as fast as he’d like.

He only wished he could wear the gun on his hip.

Chapter Ten

Gillian took photographs of every room in Fredrick Holden’s house for her scrapbooks. When shooting the bedroom, she was especially careful to avoid catching her reflection in the mirrors. In the past, she had sometimes taken pictures of herself, either in mirrors or using the camera’s delayed timing device. Fortunately, she hadn’t done that at the Farnsworth house, where the family returned home early and she left everything behind, camera included. After that, she stopped taking self-portraits.

Once every room of Fredrick Holden’s house had been photographed to her satisfaction, Gillian began to investigate.

She started with the kitchen. The notes on the bulletin board by the phone provided no information about Uncle Fredrick’s trip. There were scribbled names and telephone numbers, nothing of much interest.

The refrigerator was well stocked, but Gillian noticed that it held no milk or cream. A good sign. Fredrick had removed the perishables, not wanting to return home and find his refrigerator stinky. He wouldn’t have tossed such things if he planned to be gone for only a couple of days. If Gillian could just find out the date he left ...

The freezer section was full of goodies: steaks, lamb chops, chicken breasts, bags of onion rings and Golden Crisp Potato Nuggets, two sausage pizzas, chocolate-chip ice-cream, a box of tacquito hors d’oeuvres, and a dozen TV dinners such as veal parmesan, lasagna, fried jumbo shrimp, and lobster Neuberg.

Gillian decided she was hungry.

She turned on the oven, tore open a box of pizza, and slid the frozen slab onto the oven tray. After setting the timer for ten minutes, she took a lamb chop from the freezer and set it aside to defrost for dinner.

The pleasant odors of the pizza stole her concentration as she inspected the drawers and cupboards. When the dinger sounded, she opened the oven door. The heat washed over her. She breathed deeply of the rich, spicy aromas. The tomato sauce and cheese bubbled, but the crust needed to darken some more. Leaving it in the oven, she went into the bar and got herself a bottle of Corona beer.

She checked the pizza again. The rim of its crust was golden brown, nearly black in places, just the way she liked it.

She cut out several large wedges, put them on a plate, and sprinkled them with salt and pepper.

She ate outside, sitting cross-legged on the lounge chair with the plate on her lap. The sun felt uncomfortably hot on her bare skin. The pizza, in spite of its wonderful look and smell, was more of a disappointment than a pleasure.

If I’d wanted the taste of cardboard, Gillian thought, I would’ve eaten the box.

But the beer was cold and tasted terrific.

Her hand was wet from the bottle. She rubbed it over her shoulders, sighing as the cool moisture soothed her hot skin.

I ought to get Jerry to invite me over for a swim, she thought.

Forget it. No fraternizing with the neighbors.

She looked over at Fredrick’s spa. The water in there was probably cool.

Later, she told herself. I have more snooping to do before I can flake out.

The second and third slices of pizza didn’t seem as awful as the first. Gillian supposed that they were no less awful; that they only seemed better because she was growing accustomed to the lousy flavor.

When her plate and bottle were empty, she stood up. She was streaming with sweat and the seat of her bikini pants clung to her buttocks. She plucked the fabric away as she walked over to the fence. On tiptoes, she gazed into Jerry’s yard. No sign of him. His pool looked delicious.

He should be in it, Gillian thought. I should be in it.

Back in the house, she peeled off her bikini, went into the bathroom, and took a brief, cool shower. It felt great. In the bedroom, she put on a lightweight sleeveless shirt that draped her thighs. She buttoned it at the waist, and returned to the kitchen.

She wrapped-the left-over pizza in aluminum foil and put it in the refrigerator. It would make a decent snack, cardboard taste or not, for tonight when she planned to watch movies on the VCR.

With another beer from the refrigerator behind the bar, Gillian sat down at a small desk in one corner of the den. The top of the desk was clear. She searched the drawers.

Fredrick had left behind his checkbook, which seemed a little odd. The balancing was up-to-date. His account had a total of $1,248.60.

The last check had been written on June 20.

Friday.

Jesus!

Gillian grinned.

He was still in town on Friday, day before yesterday. I got here yesterday.

He’d stopped his mail, tossed his milk so it wouldn’t go sour.

I bet I could stay two, three more nights. Maybe longer if I want to push it.

The check dated June 20 had been made out to “cash” in the amount of $2,000.00.

He took that kind of money, he might be gone weeks.

Just because he withdrew that much, Gillian thought, doesn’t mean he plans to use it all for his trip.

She looked at the earlier stubs. Most of the checks had been written to pay supermarkets, auto insurance, the monthly mortgage, utilities and credit card companies. None of the checks had been made out to an airline or travel agent.

So he’d probably used part of the two thousand dollars to pay for his transportation to wherever he went.

Unless he drove.

His car is probably parked at the airport, Gillian thought.

She snapped the checkbook shut and slid it back inside the drawer.

Awfully strange that he left it behind. Who would go on a trip without taking his checkbook along?

With that kind of cash, who needs a checkbook?

In the same drawer, Gillian found Fredrick’s savings account passbook. It showed a total of $156,835.46. “Not bad,” she whispered. She had twice that in her own passbook and nearly as much tied up in stocks and bonds, but not everybody gets two wrongful-death settlements to build up that kind of nest egg.

Whatever Uncle Fredrick does for a living, she thought, he does pretty well for himself. Maybe he’s a doctor or a lawyer.

He certainly had quite a modest house considering his income.

“You’d think he could afford a goddamn pool,” Gillian muttered.

She put away the passbook and looked through the rest of the drawers. They held nothing of much interest until she slid open the bottom drawer and found a .357 magnum Colt Python. Whistling softly, she lifted it.

The thing was loaded.

Obviously Uncle Fredrick was prepared to blast away intruders.

That’s me, Gillian thought.

Though she didn’t expect to be taken by surprise, she saw no point in leaving a loaded gun around where it might be used on her.

She broke open the cylinder and tilted the barrel up. The cartridges slid out, dropping into her palm. She dumped them into her shirt pocket and returned the revolver to its drawer.

Finished at the desk, she wandered over to the bookshelves. Three of the shelves were taken up by boxed video tapes. Though tempted to explore the collection, she decided to wait until later and check them out when she was ready to settle down and watch a few.

The books looked fairly normal. At first. The reference collection included a set of the World Book encyclopedia, several atlases, a dictionary, The People’s Almanac, Gray’s Anatomy, and a couple of motion picture encyclopedias. He had several books about body-building, but none that might indicate his profession. Unless he’s a photographer, Gillian thought. There were fifteen or twenty books on that subject, most of them expensive, large format and with glossy pages. Most of them featuring nude women.

His hardbound fiction ran toward best-sellers by Joseph Wambaugh, Robin Cook, Lawrence Sanders, Dean Koontz, Stephen King, and so on. He had rows of paperbacks, mostly suspense and horror novels.

And one entire shelf of non-fiction that made Gillian wonder about Fredrick Holden. She felt a chill on her back as she inspected the books: volumes about Jack the Ripper, Albert Fish, Ed Gein, Charles Starkweather, Richard Speck, the Boston Strangler, the Manson family, John Wayne Gacey, the Skidrow Slasher, the Hillside Strangler, and Theodore Bundy. Many of the books contained photographs of the dead victims.

What’s with this guy? she wondered.

Maybe he’s a suspense writer, she told herself, and just had these books around for reference.

Then where’s his computer?

Maybe he’s a true crime buff, into police procedure and that kind of thing.

Sure. What he is, he’s crazy about homicidal maniacs.

And he’s got a water bed. And mirrors all over his bedroom.

“I really picked a good one,” Gillian muttered.

After sliding a copy of Helter Skelter back onto the shelf, she headed for the bathroom to wash her hands.

She was reminded of the Benning house, where Bill and Andrea had shelves of sex manuals, stacks of nudie magazines, an assortment of dildos and vibrators, various devices for which Gillian could only guess at the purposes, numerous oils and lotions, and erotic wardrobes: transparent negligees, G-strings (Bill’s with a leopard-cloth pouch that opened like curtains), loin cloths, frilly garter belts, leather undies and bras, and bras with open fronts.

Gillian had inspected the Bennings” collection, intrigued and a little embarrassed. Though she’d considered trying out some of the devices and clothes, she’d found the idea more repellent than exciting.

She’d washed her hands after touching the things, just as she was washing her hands now.

All you touched this time were books, she thought as she rinsed off the suds. Hardly the same.

But what kind of person would enjoy reading that kind of junk?

Gillian recalled the uneasy feelings she’d had last night before even arriving at the house. Were they premonitions? Nonsense.

How about the way she reacted when the telephone rang? Phones had rung at odd times when she was staying at other places, but she hadn’t panicked.

It was as if a shadowy comer of her mind knew she’d picked the wrong house this time.

“Bullshit,” Gillian-said. She dried her hands and stepped into the hall. “So what if the guy’s a little bent.”

That’s what keeps it interesting, she told herself. Discovering the hidden quirks.

She took her Minolta from the bedroom and returned to the den and touched the books again. After arranging them on the floor with their front covers showing, she snapped a close-up. She put them away. Just to be thorough, she then grouped the photography books on the floor for a shot, then the body-building books.

That, she thought, takes care of his peculiar reading habits.

In books, at least.

The search for Fredrick’s magazine collection took about two minutes. She found it in the bedroom in the bottom drawer of his nightstand, pretty much where she expected it to be. The magazines were neatly arranged in two stacks. True-crime magazines.

Kneeling on the floor, Gillian lifted out half a dozen. Most of the covers featured a woman in peril, usually sprawled at the feet of a man. Only the back of the man was shown. The woman invariably gazed up at him with terror in her eyes. She was dressed in scanty undergarments or a revealing negligee or a torn blouse. More often than not, her hands were tied.

Gillian looked through a few of the magazines. The stories had lurid tides: “Weird MO of the Sorority Killer,” “Death of the Gang-Sex Beauty,” “Rampage of the Peeper.” There were grainy photos of murder weapons, cops investigating cases (usually in wooded areas), apprehended killers and their victims (before and after).

The advertisements seemed as strange as the stories. They pushed pamphlets revealing the secrets of how to build the body you’ve always wanted, how to earn big bucks at home in your spare time, how to become a detective, how to hypnotize girls Secretly!” so they’ll obey your every command. There were several ads for trusses. Other ads urged readers to buy pellet guns, tear-gas guns, “authentic badges” and “durable, reliable” handcuffs.

Gillian had seen such magazines at news-stands, never suspecting they contained such garbage: stories to titillate you with the details of sex killings (including hints on police procedure to help you avoid capture), followed by those ads.

The crime books in the den were sophisticated literary endeavors compared to these rags.

Who reads this shit? she wondered.

Fredrick Holden, for one.

He’s starting to look like a real sicko.

Gillian lifted more magazines out of the drawer. More of the same.

Then she came to the sex magazines.

“Surprise,” she muttered.

Already feeling disoriented and revolted by the crime magazines, Gillian could only stand to look at a few of these. The photos didn’t depict beautiful women in seductive poses.

The last magazine Gillian inspected dealt with bondage and sado-masochism. Then men and women pictured wore chains and leather. Some wore black leather masks that made them look like medieval executioners. The victims were tied spread-eagled to a bed or shackled to a wall or suspended from a ceiling beam. Gillian flipped the magazine shut. She dosed her eyes and took deep breaths.

She felt as if she had descended into a dark world of perversity.

A world in which Fredrick Holden loved to wallow.

Any more nasty little secrets? Gillian wondered. She bent over the drawer and glanced at the covers of the remaining magazines. Most of those near the bottom of the drawer appeared to be S&M. She left them there.

She spread half a dozen of the crime magazines on the bed and took a photograph. She did the same with several of the sex magazines. After putting them back in the draw she returned to the bathroom and once again scrubbed her hands.

Enough goddamn exploration for one afternoon, she thought.

Keep it up, you might find something really nasty.

She gave a sour laugh. In the mirror above the sink, her face looked a little bloodless, her eyes glassy. There were specks of sweat above her lip. She hadn’t taken pictures of the S&M stuff at the bottom of the drawer. Hadn’t wanted to.

She felt nauseous. Needed fresh air.

Gillian changed into her damp bikini, grabbed a bath towel, and went to the den. She took a beer from the refrigerator behind the bar.

The hot concrete sundeck hurt her feet as she turned toward the spa. Setting her beer and towel aside, she started to remove the cover.

She hesitated.

So you really want to go in this guy’s hot tub? Especially after that dream ... God only knows what’s gone on in it ... who might be in the water.

Yuck.

She picked up the cold bottle of beer and took a drink.

Maybe I should get the hell away from here, she thought, while the getting is good.

“Hey there!”

Gillian whirled around.

Chapter Eleven

“Why don’t we take a breather?” Rick suggested.

Bert grinned along with her frown. “You can’t be pooped again already ... a strong fellow like you.”

“Must be the aldtude.”

“Okay. Five minutes.”

He stepped backward to a waist-high boulder, eased his pack down, and sighed as the straps went loose on his shoulders. The sigh was for Bert’s sake. He’d found the hike rather easy so far and his occasional pleas for rest stops had nothing to do with the effort of lugging his pack up the trail. His only motive was to slow their progress, to avoid overtaking Jase, Luke, and Wally.

So far, fine. He hadn’t seen them since that morning.

The boys had had a fifteen-minute lead by the time the tent was rolled, the packs were ready, and they started out. Fifteen minutes, Rick quickly realized, was too short a gap. Bert didn’t hike with a leisurely stroll; she took long, sure strides that ate up the trail. Though Jase and Luke might be fast on their feet, Wally had seemed like the type who would hold them back. Rick felt sure that, without the frequent stops, they would’ve caught up with the boys by now.

There was also the possibility that the boys would take it slow or even stop and wait to make sure of another encounter with Bert. If that was their game, Rick’s delays would only postpone the meeting, not prevent it.

Rick opened a side pocket of his pack and took out his plastic water bottle. He unscrewed the cap and took a drink, then passed it to Bert. The shadow of her bush hat left her face as she tipped back her head. She shut her eyes and drank.

“I’m wondering if we really want to go over Dead Mule Pass,” he said. “Are we locked into that?”

“It’s the route I planned,” she said, and returned the bottle to him. “That’s how we’ll make a circle and get back to the car without backtracking. What’ve you got against Dead Mule Pass other than its name?”

“Sounds like a tough climb.”

“That’s a good one. All of a sudden you’re pooped at every turn and worried about a little climb. Aren’t you the same guy who did a lOK run last month?”

“That was different.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “I am onto you, y’know. You don’t have to pretend with me. Took a while, but I figured it out after about the third rest stop. You just don’t want us running into our friendly neighborhood teen trio.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe, my ass.”

“It’s your ass I’m worried about,” he said, forcing a smile. “And other nearby areas.”

“You still think they want to jump my bones.”

“You think it hasn’t crossed their minds?”

Bert shrugged. “I suppose it probably has. That hardly means they’ll try it, though. There’s an enormous gap between wanting something like that and actually trying it.”

“Maybe. I just think we’re better off avoiding those guys. I mean, we’re out here in the middle of nowhere and they’ve got us out-numbered. Why tempt fate?”

“Rick, they’re three guys on a camping trip. They seemed perfectly normal to me.”

“Even Jase?”

She hesitated. Frowning, she said, “Jase I could do without. If I were alone out here and he showed up, I might be a little concerned. But you’re with me, and Jase has Burgher and Wally in tow. Those two guys wouldn’t try anything.”

“If they thought they could get away with it, they might.”

“Would you? Suppose the situation were reversed, and you’re out here with a couple of buddies and run into someone like me? Would you and your pals try to rape me?”

“Of course not.”

She put a hand on his thigh. “Sure about that? You’re talking as if it’s inevitable that all guys would try it in a situation like this.”

“It would occur to most guys. It would occur to me, I’m sure. But I wouldn’t do it.”

“Why not?”

Rick shrugged. “Aside from being a decent guy with moral scruples, I suppose I’d be chicken.”

“Afraid the cops’d get you?”

“That’d be a major deterrent. Thing is, and why I’m so worried, this area isn’t exactly teeming with fuzz. We’re pretty much beyond the reach of the law out here. A guy could get away with most anything.” Rick went cold inside. “Especially if he didn’t leave witnesses.”

“Plot thickens,” Bert said. “Now we’re talking murder.”

“You rape someone, you don’t want a prison stretch, nobody knows you did it except you and the victim. Even if you’re not a cold-blooded killer, you’re scared. The thrill is over and you realize what you’ve done—the consequences if you get caught.”

Bert’s fingers tightened on his thigh.

“You take these three,” he went on. “Jase wouldn’t kill us out of panic. He’d be more likely to do it for kicks, or just to be on the safe side, or just for the hell of it.”

“You don’t even know the guy,” Bert muttered.

“I know his type. Burgher, he seemed aloof. The rational sort. He’d see the logic of eliminating us and that might override his qualms about it. Wally, he’d panic. He’d no sooner get his pants up than he’d start seeing himself getting gangraped in prison.”

Bert looked into his eyes. “You’re scaring me,” she said.

“I just think we need to realize the—”

“I mean you’re scaring me. What the hell is going on inside your head? We meet three guys who don’t give us any trouble at all. Next thing you know, you’ve got them raping me. Jase kills us for kicks, Burgher kills us because it makes good sense, and Wally kills us so he won’t get sodomized in prison. My Christ! Your imagination is revolting.”

“I read the newspapers,” he muttered, stunned by her reaction.

“Sounds to me like you’re projecting your own fantasies onto those guys.”

“My fears,” he said.

Her eyes seemed to soften. “Oh, Rick.” Her hand lifted to his face, gently stroked his cheek. “I shouldn’t have dragged you out here, should I?”

“I was doing all right till those three came along.”

“Doing all right? That’s why you got yourself shit-faced last night?” Her tone was sympathetic, not accusing.

“I didn’t get shit-faced.”

“Maybe we’d better hike on back to the car and get out of here.”

“Hell,” he muttered.

“It’s no good if you’re a basket-case the whole time. It isn’t fair to you.”

“I’m sorry. I promised myself that I wouldn’t ruin things. But I won’t get this stuff out of my head.”

“I’m the one who pushed you into this. I knew you hated the idea.” A comer of her mouth curled up. “Guess we should’ve gone to Maui after all.”

“I’d feel awful if we quit,” he said.

“You’d feel worse if we stayed. Besides, you might be right about those guys. I mean, I don’t really expect them to attack us or anything, but just the fact that they’re around—truth is, I’ve had some of the same thoughts as you.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “My thoughts didn’t go quite as far as yours. But it crossed my mind that Jase might talk the others into jumping us.” Her smile widened. “In my version, they thumped you on the head with a rock, but I fended them off with my knife.”

“Always the optimist.”

“That’s me. Anyway, all things considered, I won’t be too disappointed if we leave.”

“I guess we could head over to Lake Tahoe, check into a nice hotel....”

“Nothing to wear.”

“They’ve got stores.”

“Sounds good to—”

Her voice stopped.

Rick heard faint, distant talking. Fear clamped his chest. He handed the water bottle to Bert. Standing, he slipped his arms from the pack straps. He turned to his pack, reached for the side pocket where he’d put his revolver, and pulled at the zipper with trembling fingers. It was half open when he realized that the voices were female.

He glanced at Bert. She was watching him. With a shake of his head as if he were confused, he shut the zipper. He took the water bottle from Bert and slipped it into the other pocket.

“Afraid they’ll try to bum our water?” Bert asked, grinning.

“Exactly. Wouldn’t be sanitary.” He rested against his pack again. He still heard the voices, but he saw nobody on the trail.

“From the sound of them,” Bert said, “they’re either girls or sissies.”

They were girls. They came striding, side by side, around a bend in the trail.

The one on the right looked up, saw them, smiled and said, “Howdy.” The other, flushed and panting, nodded a greeting.