The Midnight Tour

RICHARD LAYMON

RAVE REVIEWS FOR RICHARD LAYMON!

“I’ve always been a Laymon fan. He manages to raise serious gooseflesh.”

—Bentley Little

“Laymon is incapable of writing a disappointing book.”

—New York Review of Science Fiction

“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

“A brilliant writer.”

—Sunday Express

“I’ve read every book of Laymon’s I could get my hands on. I’m absolutely a longtime fan.”

—Jack Ketchum, author of Offspring

“One of horror’s rarest talents.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Laymon is, was, and always will be king of the hill.”

—Horror World

“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

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

—Painted Rock Reviews

Other Leisure books by Richard Laymon:

THE BEAST HOUSE

THE CELLAR

INTO THE FIRE

AFTER MIDNIGHT

THE LAKE

COME OUT TONIGHT

RESURRECTION DREAMS

ENDLESS NIGHT

BODY RIDES

BLOOD GAMES

TO WAKE THE DEAD

NO SANCTUARY

DARKNESS, TELL US

NIGHT IN THE LONESOME OCTOBER

ISLAND

THE MUSEUM OF HORRORS .(Anthology)

IN THE DARK

THE TRAVELING VAMPIRE SHOW

AMONG THE MISSING

ONE RAINY NIGHT

BITE

This book is dedicated to Ed Gorman—writer, publisher & friend. Ed, they don’t make them any better than you.

Copyright © 1998 by Richard Laymon

All rights reserved.

Chapter One

SANDY’S STORY—August, 1980

“Ow!” Sandy said. “Watch it with those teeth, buster. There. There, that’s better. Little monkey. Are you my little monkey? Huh, are you?”

Through the open window behind her, she suddenly heard footfalls crunching the forest mat of pine needles and twigs near her trailer home.

Fear knocked her breath out.

Eric stopped sucking, as if he sensed her alarm. He let go of her nipple, tipped back his head and looked up at her face.

“It’s all right,” she whispered.

Eric made a tiny whimper of concern.

“Shhhh.” Turning her head, Sandy looked over her shoulder.

The curtains behind her were shut. She kept them that way most of the time, even though her trailer was hidden away in a clearing and strangers rarely stumbled upon it.

You just never knew.

Watching the curtains, she could see the gloom of dusk through the thin yellow fabric. But she saw no movement, no trace of the intruder.

At least be can’t see us, either.

She wondered how she knew it was a man.

Maybe because of the heavy, sure sound of the footsteps.

He had already walked past the area directly behind her window. He kept going, and the crunching sounds faded a little.

Maybe he’s leaving.

More likely, though, he was circling the trailer—heading for the side with the door.

Just go away! Whoever you are, get out of here!

For a few seconds, she couldn’t hear him walking anymore.

Eric took her nipple into his mouth and resumed sucking.

Then the intruder climbed the stairs. The wood creaked and groaned.

Sandy turned her head and gazed at the door. It was directly across the narrow room from where she sat. It had no window.

Did I lock it?

I always lock it.

But did I?

She’d been awfully upset when she came in—hardly able to think straight.

I must’ve locked it.

No sound came from the other side of the door.

Sandy heard her heart pounding hard. And she heard the quiet suck and slurp of Eric at her breast.

The intruder knocked on the door.

Sandy flinched and Eric nipped her.

“Who is it?”

“Marlon Slade.” The voice was rich and deep like Darth Vader. “We met this morning.”

“I know that.”

“I’d like to speak with you for a moment, Miss Blume.”

“What about?”

“May I please come in?”

“I don’t think so. My dad’ll be getting home from work any minute. He doesn’t like me to have company when he isn’t here.”

“Miss Blume, the mosquitos are eating me alive. Please let me in.”

“Can’t. I can hear you just fine through the door.”

The knob rattled. The sound sent a cold wash of panic through Sandy. “Hey!” she shouted, springing to her feet. “Don’t do that!”

The door stayed shut.

She had locked it.

“I’d rather not discuss this through a door.”

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

“If you don’t think so, I’ll wait out here and speak with your father. I’m sure he’ll be interested in the offer, even if you’re not.”

Standing in the middle of the room with Eric clutched in her arms, she shook her head and said, “I told you I don’t want to be in your movie.”

“Of course you want to be in it. Now, please be a dear and open the door.”

“No, thank you.”

Something thumped hard against it, making it jump.

Making Sandy jump.

Eric turned his head to look at the door.

“Stop that!” Sandy shouted.

Silence.

But no sound of retreat. Marlon Slade was still standing on the top stair in front of her door.

“We can talk about it tomorrow,” Sandy suggested. “I’ll come down to town, and...”

“No,” he said, just as if he knew she was lying. “Let’s talk about it now. I came all the way up from the road to this godforsaken... trailer. I will not go all the way down until we’ve spoken face to face about the situation.”

“There isn’t any situation.”

“You’re refusing to be in my film. I do not accept your refusal. That, young lady, is a situation. I’d like to discuss it with you face to face, like civilized people. Please! The mosquitos are horrendous out here!”

“Then go away. It’s simple.”

“I tell you what. I’ll give you a hundred dollars if you let me in. Cash. You get it whether or not you agree to be in The Horror. How does that sound?”

“I don’t need your money. I do all right.”

“I’m surprised Miss Kutch pays you anything.”

“I get generous tips.”

“I’m sure you do. You’re a very beautiful young lady.”

Scowling at the door, she said, “I’m a good guide.”

“Five hundred. I’ll give you five hundred dollars in cash if you let me in.”

That was a lot of money, too much to turn down without a very good reason. If all she had to do was let him in and listen to his offer...

What’ve I got to lose?

“Okay. Just wait a minute. I’ll be right back.”

She hurried up the hall to Eric’s small bedroom. Leaning over the bars of his crib, she eased him onto the mattress. Then she lowered the lid, fastened the hasp and padlocked it.

“Now keep still, honey,” she whispered.

On her way out, she slid the door shut.

“I’ll be right there,” she called. She rushed into her own room. The tan shorts and shirt of her guide uniform still lay rumpled on her bed where she’d thrown them. Her underwear and socks had already gone into the clothes hamper, but she hadn’t figured out what to do about her uniform—there would be no more tours of Beast House for weeks, maybe not for a couple of months—so she’d left her uniform on the bed.

She grabbed the shorts, hopped into them, pulled them up, and fastened them. The moment her belt was buckled, she snatched her shirt off the bed and raced down the hall. As she hurried along, she worked her arms into the sleeves. When she reached the door, she turned her back to it and scanned the room while she fastened her shirt buttons.

Except for the rumpled old towel on the sofa, there was no evidence of the baby.

There was evidence of Sandy’s father, though: an ashtray on the lamp table; an open pack of Camel cigarettes; copies of Field and Stream magazine, The American Rifleman and Hustler scattered about; and a nearly full bottle of Jim Beam bourbon on the kitchen counter. They were all positioned in plain sight.

Sandy fastened her last button, then tossed the towel behind the sofa.

She scanned the area once more.

That’ll do it.

She went to the door, unlocked it, and swung it open.

Marlon Slade started to enter. She blocked his way. “That’ll be five hundred bucks,” she said, putting out her hand.

“Ah, yes. It nearly slipped my mind.” Smiling but looking miffed, he dug into the back pocket of his slacks. They were the same tan color as Sandy’s uniform, and their legs were tucked into the tops of black leather riding boots. Marlon’s shirt was black silk. Around his neck, he wore a green ascot. Sandy supposed he was trying to look the way he thought a film director ought to look.

To her, he seemed like a pudgy kid playing dress-up.

He brought out his wallet and opened it. The bill compartment was fat with money.

“You’re loaded,” Sandy said.

“I’ll be considerably less loaded after I’ve paid the extortion.”

“It was your idea,” she reminded him.

He counted out hundreds and fifties into her waiting hand.

When she had the promised amount, she said, “Thank you,” and stepped away from the door. Marlon entered. He shut the door.

Sandy folded the money. As she stuffed it into a pocket of her shorts, she saw that she’d buttoned her shirt crooked.

She met Marlon’s eyes. He’d noticed, too.

“I had to put it on in a hurry,” she muttered, blushing.

He grinned. “Sorry if I came at a bad time.”

“It’s all right.” She almost told him that she’d just finished taking a shower. But she stopped herself in time. Better to leave him wondering than to get caught in a lie.

“Could I get you a drink?” she asked.

“That would be spiffy.”

Spiffy?

“My dad drinks bourbon,” she said, and nodded toward the botde.

“Perfect. I’ll have mine straight up.” He eased himself down on the sofa.

On her way to the counter, Sandy smiled over her shoulder and asked, “Are you old enough to drink? I wouldn’t want to corrupt you.”

He chortled. “I’m older than I look.”

“That’s good, because you look like you’re ten.”

“Aren’t we amusing?”

“Yep.” She took down a jelly glass and poured bourbon into it. Then she picked up the glass and started toward him.

“Won’t you be joining me?” he asked.

“I’m a minor.”

“At the very least. How old are you?”

“A lady never tells her age.”

“Fourteen, fifteen?”

“I’m older than I look.”

“Is that so?”

“Sure is.”

“I’m twenty-four,” Marlon said.

“Congratulations.”

“And how old are you?”

“None of your business.” She handed the glass to him, then stepped back, crossed her arms and shifted her weight so she was standing mainly on her left leg with her hip shoved out.

Marlon took a sip of his drink, then sighed and said, “Sit down. Please.” He patted the sofa cushion beside him.

“I’m okay right here.”

“Suit yourself.”

“How did you find my place?” she asked.

His eyes dipped, sneaking a look at her chest, then hurried up to her face. “Agnes Kutch gave me directions,” he said.

“Is that so?”

“Of course.”

“She wouldn’t do that. She doesn’t tell anyone.”

“She told me.”

“No, she didn’t. And nobody else knows where I live. What did you do, follow me?”

“Of course not. I was otherwise occupied at the time you ran off.”

She scowled at him. “You had someone else follow me?”

He tried to look innocent, but the answer showed on his face.

“Well,” Sandy said, “that stinks.”

“I needed to know where to find you.”

“Who did you sic on me?”

“One of my assistants.”

“Who?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It sure does! He’ll blab it around and pretty soon everybody will be coming up here.”

“She won’t blab. I promise you that. You have my word of honor.”

“Oh, well...Your word of honor. Whoop-de-doo.”

“My word is gold.”

“Sure.” Keeping her arms crossed, she shifted her weight to her other foot. “This is just dandy. Just peachy.”

“I want you in my film, Margaret.”

“I already turned you down. Didn’t you believe me? You had to send a spy after me?”

“I want you as my Janice.”

“What?”

“I want you to play Janice Crogan.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Not at all.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I never kid about such things.”

“I thought you wanted me as a...an extra, or something.”

“I want you as my lead. I would’ve explained that to you this morning if you hadn’t been so quick to run off.”

“But what about...whoever she is? The one you bired to play Janice.”

He took another sip of bourbon. “Tricia Talbot. She threw in the towel.”

“What?”

“Quit. Last night.”

Sandy found herself smiling. “You’re kidding. Why’d she quit?”

“We had...creative differences.”

“What do you mean?”

“She wanted to do things her way, not mine. I refused to give in, so she walked.” He grinned. “Not only did she walk, but she drove. She packed up and hightailed it back to San Francisco last night, leaving us sans a Janice. And we start filming tomorrow. I need you tomorrow, bright and early.”

“Can’t you just make a phone call, or something, and get yourself a real actress?”

“Why would I want to do that, when you’re here?”

“I’m not going to be in your movie, that’s why.”

“You must be.”

“No, I mustn’t.”

“You’ll be perfect. You’ll be Janice Crogan.”

“Why don’t you get Janice? She’s right here in town.”

“She won’t be in the movie.”

“Well, that makes two of us.”

“Twenty-five thousand dollars.”

Sandy stared at him, shocked.

“Twenty-five thousand?” she asked, barely able to speak, her voice a whisper.

“For just ten or twelve weeks of work.”

She murmured, “Can’t.”

“And why can’t you?”

“Just can’t. I’m not any actress.”

“You don’t need to be an actress. I’ll make you a star.”

She smirked. “Oh, yeah. A star. Every day and twice on Sundays.”

“You’ve got the look, Margaret.”

“I don’t look much like Janice.”

“There’s no reason why you should. We’ll color your hair, of course. You’ll be spectacular as a blonde.”

“Think so?”

“I know so.”

She grinned.

“And what’s that about?” Marlon asked.

She imagined herself saying, “I’ve got a little secret for you, buddy. Underneath this ugly brown dye job, I am a blonde.”

That’d sure open a can of worms.

“Is something amusing?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t want to turn into a dumb blonde.”

“It would only be for the role.”

“I don’t want the role.”

“I think you do, Margaret. I know you do. Everybody wants to be a star. And you have what it takes.”

“No, I don’t.”

“The look.”

“Bull.”

Marlon took another sip of bourbon, then leaned sideways and set his glass on. the lamp table. “Let me show you something,” he said, getting to his feet. “Do you have a mirror?”

“What kind of mirror?”

“The largest you have.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Come, come, come.” He swept toward Sandy, reaching for her.

She put out a hand to signal him back.

He took hold of it and drew her after him, striding toward the hallway.

“Hey, what’re you doing?”

“We’re off to see the mirror!”

“My dad’ll be home!”

“I doubt it. I’m a director. I know stage props when I see them. A smoker doesn’t live in this trailer.”

“He does, too.”

“My nose tells me otherwise. And it’s a wise nose.”

He pulled her into the bathroom and halted in front of the medicine cabinet mirror. “Surely we can do better than this!”

He barged past her and towed her along.

“You live here alone,” he said. “Admit it.”

“I do not.”

“Just like The Little Girl Who Lived Down the Lane. Jody Foster. Did you see the movie?”

“No.”

“Bet you did.”

He stopped in front of Eric’s room.

He reached for the door.

Sandy gave his hand a hard jerk, tugging him away from it. “Not in there,” she gasped. “It’s my dad’s room.”

“Ah, Dad.”

“I’ve got a big mirror in my room,” she blurted.

“Splendid!”

This time, Sandy led the way, rushing onward, pulling Marlon through the doorway of her bedroom. She stepped around the end of the bed and drew him to her side. They both faced her dresser.

And the mirror above it.

“Fabulous, ” Marlon whispered. “But we need light. It’s far too dark in here. We must have light for the star to shine.” He let go of her hand and said, “Stay. Observe the mirror. Observe yourself in the mirror.”

She went ahead and looked at herself.

“Big deal,” she muttered.

She could see Marlon in the mirror, too. He stood by the doorway, his hand on the light switch. “Behold!” he proclaimed in a deep, resonant tone. Then he flicked the switch.

Crimson light filled the room.

“My lord,” Marlon said.

“It’s just a red bulb,” Sandy explained.

“How remarkably gawdy.” In the mirror, she watched him glide toward her, his arms spread like wings, his shiny black shirt fluttering. The shirt looked purple in the red glow.

She felt a tingle creep up her back.

Why does he have to act so weird?

He swooped in behind Sandy and put his hands on her shoulders.

He stood directly behind her. She could only see the ends of his fingers. The rest of Marlon was hidden behind her body.

Then his head tilted sideways and she saw his chubby face in the mirror as if she were wearing it on her left shoulder.

“My glorious Margaret,” he intoned, his voice thick and low. “My star.” He started rubbing her shoulders. “You shall be my star.”

“Don’t think so,” she muttered.

“Imagine yourself on the big screen,” he said. His hands gently, firmly massaged her shoulders and the sides of her neck. “That’s no mirror in front of us, that’s a movie screen. And there you are, Margaret Blume, two stories high.”

“I just look like I’ve got a real bad sunburn,” she said, and yawned. Though she still felt a little jittery, the massage made her lazy, groggy. Her head began to wobble with the motions of the rubbing.

Then Marlon kissed the side of her neck.

“Hey, don’t,” she murmured.

“Watch the mirror,” he said, his breath tickling her skin.

“Stop it.”

“It’s all right. Nothing’s wrong. Look at yourself. See how beautiful you are. See what your audiences will see.” His reflection smiled at her. Then his hands slid down over her shoulders, down her chest. “You are so glorious,” he whispered, and closed his hands on her breasts. He rubbed them, gently squeezed them through the fabric of her shirt.

Sandy squirmed. “Quit it,” she said.

“You don’t mean that. It feels very good, doesn’t it? I know that it does.”

In the mirror, she saw herself squirm and grab his hands and try to peel them off her breasts.

But he kept them on her.

“It’s all right,” he said. “Don’t fight it. It feels good.”

“No!”

He suddenly released her breasts, ripped her shirt open and jerked it backward and down off her shoulders. She glimpsed herself bare to the waist, her skin bathed in scarlet light, her breasts lurching as she tried to twist away.

He grabbed her arms and pinned them against her sides.

“Look at yourself,” he said, still sounding very calm.

“That’s no mirror. You’re on the big screen, thousands of people staring up at you in awe. You’re a star. Everyone wants you. Everyone wants to look at you, to touch you, to fuck you.”

“Leave me alone!”

“You don’t want that. You want to be up on the screen, huge and spectacular. Look at yourself.”

“Let go of me right now, you bastard!”

“You love it, you love it. You love this. See how you’re watching yourself? You can’t take your eyes away. You love how you look. Now, imagine yourself a hundred times larger. Stop that squirming!” He shook her roughly.

She watched her body jerk back and forth, her head bobbing, her breasts jumping.

He stopped shaking her. “Now stand still,” he said, “and I’ll let go of you.”

“Let go,” she said. Her voice came out high and trembling. “Please.”

Marlon released his tight grip on her arms. He slid the shirt down them. As it fell to the floor, he reached around and caressed her belly with both hands. Then his pudgy fingers went to her belt buckle.

Flinching rigid, she clutched his wrists and gasped, “No!”

Marlon laughed softly and undid the buckle. Then he unfastened the button at her waist. As he started to pull her zipper down, Eric leaped out of the red glow, landed on the dresser, skidded to a halt and whirled to face them.

Marlon’s laughter stopped. His fingers stopped.

Eric stood in a crouch on top of the dresser, his body glistening and ruddy. He snarled, baring his fangs, and raised his arms like a miniature boogeyman.

And sprang straight for Marlon’s face.

As Eric flew at him, the director squeaked once in a high voice that sounded nothing at all like the rich resonance of Marlon Slade.

In the mirror, Sandy watched Marion’s horrified, pudgy face vanish—hidden behind the body of her son.

Marlon’s fingers jerked away from the zipper of her shorts.

He stopped pressing against her back.

Her shorts fell to the floor.

They almost tripped Sandy as she whirled around and watched him stumble backward with Eric clinging to his face. He reached up to grab Eric. The bed knocked his legs out from under him. As he fell, he hurled the infant away.

“No!” Sandy cried out.

Her son crashed against the wall near the head of her bed. He bounced off and dropped to the floor, tumbling.

She kicked the shorts away from her feet, rushed over to him and crouched down.

He lay sprawled on his back, blinking up at her.

His teeth and muzzle were bloody. Sandy hoped the blood was all Marlon’s.

She heard the director whimpering behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she saw him on his hands and knees. He raised his head and gaped at her, his mouth open, his face shredded. “It’s... it’s one of them!” he gasped. “Isn’t it? Isn’t it? My God! Did you see the little fucker attack me?” He pushed himself up, stood on his feet, and stared past Sandy at the baby sprawled on the floor. “Look at that ugly fucker. Son-of-a-bitch! Where’d it come from? Good thing I was here, or it would’ve got you.”

Sandy glared at him and said, “I don’t think so. I’m his mom.”

“What?”

“He’s my kid.”

Marlon staggered toward them, blood spilling from his tattered face.

Sandy stood up in front of him.

“Outa my way, bitch,” he gasped. When he said “bitch,” blood blew off his lips and sprayed Sandy in the face. “I’ve got some business to finish with your little monster, and then...”

She punched him in the nose.

His eyes bulged and he stumbled backward.

Sandy kicked one of his feet sideways. He tripped himself.

With a gasp of alarm, he fell and landed on his rump. The trailer shook.

Sandy turned and lunged for the dresser.

Glimpsed a naked red woman rushing at the mirror.

Jerked open the middle drawer.

Snatched out her butcher knife.

“You take this, ” Agnes Kutch bad said, holding out the big, old knife to her. “You gonna be moving outa the house and living in that trailer out there, you gotta have a weapon. Wish I had a gun to give you, but this here is a real good knife. Mama, she used it on a fella once.”

“I know, ” Sandy’d told her. “I was there. I saw her do it ”

She slammed the dresser drawer and turned to face Marlon.

He was already on his knees, struggling to stand up.

She raised the knife overhead.

Marlon screamed like a woman.

Afterward, Sandy took Eric into the shower with her. Standing under the hot spray, she held him to her chest.

Eric had a lump on his head. It must’ve been sore, because he winced when Sandy touched it—even when she kissed it.

Otherwise, he seemed fine. Maybe a little more subdued than usual.

“My little guy,” she said, caressing him. “You’re such a brave little guy. You knew mommy was in trouble and you dashed to the rescue. My hero. Of course, I oughta spank your little ass for breaking the crib.”

She patted his little ass gently.

Then she started to cry.

Eric made quiet whimpery sounds against her neck.

After a while, Sandy sniffed and sighed. She said, “How do you feel about blowing this town, honey? Cause I guess we can’t stay. Not after this.”

Chapter Two

THE BEAST HOUSE BUS—June, 1997

As the bus started across the Golden Gate Bridge, the young woman in front stood up with her microphone and turned to face the riders. “Good morning, everyone! Welcome aboard! I’ll be your guide for the trip out to Malcasa Point this morning. My name is Patty—and yes, I’m Irish. My grandfather hails from Cork. His name is Bob.”

A few of the riders chuckled.

“I know, I know,” Patty said. “Lame joke.”

“What a dip,” Monica muttered.

Owen nodded and gave her a slight smile. He thought it was a bit early in the game to be calling Patty a dip. Monica, obviously, had taken an instant dislike to her. Monica took instant dislikes to a great many things, but especially to other women...and most especially to attractive ones.

Patty was more attractive than most. Owen supposed she was about twenty-five years old. Her deeply tanned skin and short brown hair made her look athletic. Though you couldn’t call her slender, she wasn’t fat, either. Stout, maybe. Or built. Owen thought she looked very good in the tan shirt and shorts of her guide uniform.

“We’re now crossing San Francisco’s famous Golden Gate Bridge,” Patty said. “If you look out the windows, you’ll see that it is not golden, at all. It’s red. It used to be golden, but the Bridge Authority changed its color to blood red in 1981 in honor of its gory neighbor to the north, Beast House.”

Several riders chuckled and a few even clapped.

“That’s God’s-own-truth,” Patty said, raising her right hand.

Monica leaned over and whispered to Owen, “That isn’t true, is It?”

“Sure, I think so,” he said.

“Can’t be. They wouldn’t paint it red because of some stupid tourist trap. Besides, that place is like ninety miles away.”

“You’re probably right.”

“As you may already know,” Patty continued, “the Golden Gate Bridge was given its name in honor of the famed beavenly Golden Gates belonging to Saint Peter. That’s because so many people have entered Saint Peter’s Golden Gates by jumping off this one.”

With that, Patty received general laughter and applause.

“Thank you, thank you. None of what I’ve just told you is true, of course. My grandfather Bob from Cork did kiss the Blarney Stone, and passed its gift of gab down to me. It’s in my genes, but we won’t get into that. Anyhow, this is the Beast House Bus. If you want the facts about Golden Gate Bridge, take a Gray Line Tour—though I don’t recommend it. I took the Gray Line city tour recently and found myself sitting in a rear seat, which was uncomfortably close to the bus’s toilet. But you don’t want to hear about that. I don’t want to think about it. Let’s get to the serious stuff. You must all be wondering what you’re doing here...”

“She’s sure got that right,” Monica whispered.

“...overview of what’s ahead. We have a fairly long ride, to begin with. It’s something more than a two hour drive up the coast to Malcasa Point. And—guess what?—two or so hours back to San Francisco.”

“Two hours of this?” Monica whispered.

“We’re scheduled to reach our destination at about ten-thirty. At that point, you’ll be free to disembark and enjoy all the creepy delights of Beast House. Your price of admission will include a self-guided audio tour which usually takes people about an hour to complete. But feel free to spend as long as you wish in the house. Some people enjoy lingering around the murder sights and emersing themselves in the ambiance.”

Several riders chuckled about that. Monica rolled her eyes upward.

“In fact, you’ll have plenty of time not only to tour Beast House, but to visit the gift shop and enjoy a leisurely lunch on the grounds. Beast House has a very good snack shop with great chili cheese dogs. I love them chili dogs!”

“And it shows,” Monica whispered.

“You should definitely check out the snack shop’s menu. If nothing suits you, though, there are several good places to eat along the main street of town, easy to walk to. The bus doesn’t leave Malcasa Point until 1:30 p.m., so you’ll have three hours. That’s a pretty fair amount of time. Make sure you don’t miss Janice Crogan’s Beast House museum on Front Street. If you still have time left over, you might take a stroll down to the beach. The beach is only a few hundred yards from Beast House. You might order a take-out lunch from the snack shop, and have yourselves a picnic. Just make sure to keep an eye on your watches. You’ll be amazed at how fast those three hours fly by, and we don’t want you missing the bus back to town. We like to pull out at 1:30 on the nose. That gets you back to your hotels by about four, so you’ll have time to rest and clean up before you go out for your evening fun. I hope you all have big plans for tonight—maybe a nice dinner at Fisherman’s Wharf. Now, I have some matters to take care of. I’ll get back to you in a few minutes, and we’ll talk a little about the history of Beast House.”

With a smile, Patty lowered her microphone and turned away.

“My God,” Monica said, “it’s the whole day.”

“We knew that,” Owen told her. “The brochure...”

“I know we knew it. It’s just now sinking in, that’s all.”

“If you didn’t want to do this, I wish you would’ve spoken up. I mean, it’s a bit late to be changing our minds.

“It’s all right,” she said. “It just seems like sort of a waste, when we’ve only got a week in San Francisco, to spend one entire day doing something like this. And our first day, too. We haven’t even had a chance to see any of the city yet.”

Owen was tempted to remind her that, after checking into their hotel late yesterday afternoon, they’d spent several hours roaming Fisherman’s Wharf. They’d eaten a fine dinner at Fisherman’s Grotto, inspected souvenir shops, visited the Wax Museum, and hiked to Pier 39 where they’d gone on a couple of rides, watched a juggling show, and explored more souvenir shops. It seemed to him that they’d seen at least something of San Francisco. But pointing it out to Monica would be a big mistake.

So he said, “If I’d known you felt that way, we could’ve done something else. We didn’t have to do this.”

“Well, that’s all right.” She smiled gently and patted his leg. “We’ll get it over with today, and then we’ll have the whole rest of the week for other things.”

Get it over with.

Oh, man.

“We didn’t have to do it at all,” he told her. “If you’d only let me know that you didn’t want to...”

“Why would I want to? What’s the big attraction of going to some crummy old house where a lot of people got murdered? In fact, I think the whole idea’s a little sick. They shouldn’t even allow tours of a place like that. And if they do, people ought to have the good sense not to go. It’s perverted. And it’s four hours on a damn bus.”

Owen stared at her. He felt as if he’d been bludgeoned.

“Are you calling me a pervert?” he asked.

She laughed and said, “Don’t be a dope,” and gave his leg a pat. “I didn’t mean you.” Mouth close to his ear, she whispered, “I love you, silly. Do you think I’d love you if you were a pervert?”

“I am, you know.”

“Oh, ho ho. You’re so funny. You’re such a dope. But I love you anyway.” She kissed his ear, then eased away and treated him with her wanton growl.

God only knows where she’d picked it up. Probably from some movie.

Monica’s wanton growl.

A soft grumble in the throat, accompanied by a slight baring of her teeth and a sultry gaze.

Owen hated it.

He’d hated it from the first time she tried it on him, six months ago.

Like Owen, Monica was a first-year teacher at Crawford Junior High School in Los Angeles. He’d met her .at the start of the fall semester, back in September of the previous year. And he hadn’t liked her one bit. His friend Henry, another teacher starting out at Crawford, hadn’t liked her either. He’d said, “She’s such a fucking know-it-all,” and Owen had agreed. “She acts like she thinks her shit smells like roses.” Owen had agreed with that, too. “Too bad,” Henry had said, “‘cause she’s sort of a fox. I wouldn’t mind playing a little hide-the-salami with her, if you know what I mean.” To that, Owen had responded, “Not me. Hide the salami, it’ll probably freeze and break off. And there you’d be, salamiless-in-Gaza.”

Though conceited, condescending, stiff and humorless and generally annoying, Monica was almost beautiful. She looked very similar to the way Elizabeth Taylor had looked in her early twenties. Similar, but different.

The differences were not to Monica’s advantage.

But nobody ever mentioned them to her.

What they pointed out were the similarities.

It had probably been going on since Monica’s early childhood—friends and relatives and teachers and kids in school and strangers stopping her on the street to tell her, “Do you know, you’re the spitting image of Elizabeth Taylor? It’s absolutley uncanny. I can’t believe my eyes.”

It must’ve been constant.

And, of course, she’d bought it.

In spite of the evidence of mirrors.

Owen figured it was little wonder that she’d grown up thinking she was the queen of the universe.

Henry had said, “To know her is to loathe her.”

And Owen had agreed.

During the entire fall semester, he’d done his best to stay out of Monica’s way. He’d wanted nothing to do with her. But they’d often been thrown together by circumstances. Since both were first year English teachers at the same school, it was inevitable.

And Owen just had to be nice to her.

Whenever an encounter couldn’t be avoided, he smiled and spoke to her in a friendly way as if he liked her. He was that way with everyone.

She seemed to react with her usual cold disdain.

Until that December morning when she asked him for a ride to the Christmas party. Cornering him in the teacher’s lounge, she said, “Could I ask you a big favor, Owen?”

“Sure, I guess so.”

“Are you planning to go to the faculty Christmas party?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Will you be driving?”

Oh, no.

“Yes.”

“Are you taking a date?”

If only.

“No, probably not.”

“The reason I’m asking, Owen—I simply can’t drive myself to the party. It’s so dangerous for a woman to be out by herself, especially late at night.”

“It sure is. Dangerous for anybody.”

“But it’s worse for a woman.”

“Sure. I’m sure it is. Worse.”

“And the party probably won’t get over till sometime after midnight. I can’t possibly drive home all by myself at an hour like that. So would you mind terribly taking me to the party? I don’t think I’ll be able to go, otherwise.”

Owen didn’t want to do it. He didn’t like her. But he’d already confessed his intention of going to the party without a date—blow—ing his best possible excuse. On the spur of the moment, he could think of no halfway decent reason to turn her down. So he smiled and said, “Sure, I’d be glad to give you a ride.”

It turned out to be more than a ride: it turned out to be a date. After their arrival at the party, she wouldn’t go away. She stayed by Owen’s side. She held on to his arm. She led him here and there, keeping him while she chatted with an assortment of faculty members and their spouses—usually the very teachers Owen liked least and would’ve avoided, given the chance.

Finally, Owen managed to sneak away from her. He got himself a cupful of red, potent punch, then spent a few minutes with his friends, Henry and Jill and Maureen.

Three minutes, maybe four.

Then Henry, keeping lookout, said, “Oops, here comes trouble. You’re up Shit Creek now, buddy.”

Owen said, “Delightful,” and gulped down his punch.

“If you can’t stand her,” Maureen said, “why not tell her to take a leap?”

“I can’t do that.”

Monica, arriving, greeted everyone with a rigid smile. Then she grabbed Owen’s arm and said to the others, “Will you excuse us, please?”

“Can’t,” Henry said. “You’re inexcuseable.”

“Oh, ho ho. Very amusing.” With that, she led Owen away from his friends. As she hurried him along, she said with a pout, “I thought you’d deserted me. You can’t just bring a girl somewhere and leave her stranded, Owie.”

He hated to be called Owie.

He hated the tone of her voice, as if she were talking to a three year old.

He also hated to dance. But she squeezed his arm and said, “How about tripping the light fantastic for a while?”

“I’m not much of a dancer,” he said.

“That’s all right. I’m a wonderful dancer. And a wonderful teacher. I’ll have you cutting the rug like Fred Astaire.”

“Fred Astaire’s dead.”

She smiled, shook her head, and said, “Don’t be morbid, darling.”

Darling? Oh, my God.

“I’d really rather not dance,” he said.

He despised dancing in general, but was appalled by the idea of dancing with Monica—especially at the faculty Christmas party, surrounded by teachers, counselors, secretaries, vice principals... the principal himself. People he had to see every working day. People who knew him.

“You can’t just bring me here and not dance with me. How would that look?”

You’re not my date! he wanted to shout. I gave you a ride!

Say “Thanks for the lift,” and leave me alone!

He thought it, but didn’t say it. Her feelings wouldn’t just be hurt, they’d be trampled.

He finally said, “I guess I can give it a try.”

She led him downstairs to the recreation room. It was decorated with red and green streamers, and dark except for the glow of Christmas tree lights strung across the ceiling. Owen noticed that there were no clear bulbs, no white bulbs. They were all deep, rich colors: blue and red and green and orange.

They looked gawdy and wonderful, but didn’t illuminate much.

Just as well, Owen thought.

The floor was crowded with dancing couples. Half of nearly every pair was somebody Owen knew from school. Many nodded, smiled, or spoke brief greetings as they made their way to the middle of the floor.

Stopping, Moncia turned to him and gazed into his eyes.

She is pretty, Owen thought.

But he suspected that anyone would look good in the glow of all those Christmas tree lights. He could see the shine of them in Monica’s hair, their sparkle in her eyes. They softened her face, blurring its harshness, hiding the arrogance and suspicion that could usually be seen in her eyes and lips.

She really did resemble Elizabeth Taylor. For the first time, the similarities seemed to surpass the differences.

And she looked great in her angora sweater. It hugged her body in such a way that each breast swelled out separately—they were twin, fuzzy white mounds with a glen between them.

She might’ve looked great in her pleated plaid skirt, too. It was very short and drifted softly against her thighs. But she’d ruined the skirt’s appeal by wearing tights. The black tights encased her legs, showing off their slender curves but hiding every inch of skin.

“Just do what I do, darling,” she said.

With that, she stepped forward until their bodies met.

She took hold of Owen’s left hand, placed her own left hand on his shoulder, and said, “Put your other hand in the middle of my back.”

He followed her instructions.

“That’s right,” she whispered.

A new tune began to flow from the speakers. “White Christmas,” sung by Bing Crosby.

They started to dance.

It was a slow dance, and they held each other close. Owen followed Monica’s lead. It was easy; she hardly moved at all, just swayed back and forth and took small steps this way and that.

She smelled awfully good—some sort of perfume that filled Owen’s mind with images of balmy nights and soft breezes in the tropics. He’d been smelling it all evening. But now it seemed to radiate off her skin in warm, rich waves.

A wonderful, exotic aroma.

But not nearly as wonderful or exotic as the feel of Monica as they danced: her face resting on his shoulder; her hair tickling the side of his face; her left hand caressing his back while her right clasped his hand; her breasts pushing firmly but softly against his chest; her belly pressed to his belly; her crotch rubbing him in a subtle way that seemed almost accidental; her thighs brushing against his with every step she took.

Before Bing was halfway through the song, Owen started getting hard.

Oh, terrific.

Just what I need.

Hoping Monica hadn’t noticed it yet, he bent forward slightly to break contact down there.

“Don’t be a silly,” she said.

Her left hand went down and pulled at his rump until he was tight against her again.

“Ooooh, Owen,” she said. Then she tilted back her head, looked him in the eyes, and let forth with her wanton growl.

Immediately, he hated it. Though it seemed to express approval and lust, its blatant phoniness made it seem like mockery.

She probably thinks it’s a cute thing to do, he told himself. Maybe she even thinks it’s sexy.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Monica said.

“Huh?”

“What’re you daydreaming about?”

“I’m not daydreaming.”

“You’re always off in your own little world.”

“I’m here,” he told her, and tried to smile.

“Now you are.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re such a silly.” She gave his thigh a squeeze. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Whatever you please,” he said. Then he leaned forward and looked past Monica to see out her window. Just a few feet beyond the edge of the road, there seemed to be a drop-off. He could see nothing down there except the ocean. “Yikes,” he said.

“A thrill, isn’t it?” She didn’t sound thrilled, but she was smiling as if she were the only person in on a joke. “If we die, guess whose fault it will be?”

“The bus driver’s?”

“Think again.”

“Mine.”

“Ding! You win. You insisted on coming.”

“I didn’t exactly insist. It was more like a suggestion.”

“We could be riding on a cable car right now.”

“We can ride on cable cars tomorrow.”

“If we’re still alive.”

Chapter Three

TUCK AND DANA

Lynn Tucker, sitting at the kitchen table, set down her cup of coffee and smiled when Dana came in. “Hey, hey, look at you.”

Dana grinned and raised her arms. “Just call me Ranger Rick.”

“You look great.”

“Thanks, Tuck. You, too.” Frowning, she said, “I wish my uniform looked like that.” While Dana’s tan shirt and shorts were stiff and creased and dark, Tuck’s looked soft and faded. “Want to trade?”

“Think mine’d fit you?” Tuck asked.

“Probably not.”

“Probably.” She laughed. “What are you, now, about six-nine, seven feet?”

“Just six. But I’m dainty.”

Tuck pushed back her chair and said, “Sit down, Miss Dainty. I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”

“I can get it.”

“You’re my guest.” Tuck stood up and headed for a cupboard. “Besides, it’s your first day. Tomorrow, I’ll let you get your own coffee.”

“Okay,” Dana said. “Thanks.” She pulled out a chair and sat at the table.

“As for your uniform,” Tuck said, “it’ll be a lot better after a few washings. What you need to do is wash both your uniforms every night whether they need it or not. That’ll get the stiffness out. Before you know it, you’ll look like an old hand.” She took down a cup and turned around. “So, how did you sleep last night?”

“I zonked. I tell you, Tuck... I still can’t believe I’m here. This is such a great place!”

“I thought you might like it.” She picked up the coffee pot and brought the clean cup over to the table. As she filled the cup for Dana, she said, “One thing, okay? Try not to call me Tuck when we’re over at the house. You know, in front of the others.”

“I’ll try. Might be tough, though. I’ve been calling you Tuck since we were kids.”

“For which I’ve never properly repaid you.”

"Think nothing of it,” Dana said.

“Anyway, try to avoid it, okay? The thing is, I’m the boss of things over there. It’s bad enough that I look like I’m only about fifteen years old.”

“A mature fifteen.”

“I’m also only twenty damn years old and have to go around giving orders to all these older people. All I’d need is to have them hear you calling me Tuck.”

"Don’t they know your name’s Tucker?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Nobody uses my last name over there, but they all know Janice is my stepmother. Maybe they think my name’s Crogan.”

“She should’ve changed her name when she married your dad.”

“Would you change your name to Tucker?”

“If I married a guy named Tucker.”

“Anyway, she didn’t. Just don’t call me Tuck in front of the employees, okay?”

“You don’t call me Moose, I won’t call you Tuck.”

“I never called you Moose.”

“Right. You preferred Bullwinkle.”

“Okay, I won’t call you Bullwinkle. I promise. Nothing but Dana. Or Miss Lake, if I have to berate you for doing something stupid.”

“Would I do something stupid?”

“Oh, not you.”

“So,” Dana said, “what should I call you?”

“Boss lady.”

Dana cracked up, and Tuck grinned. She waited for Dana’s laughter to subside, then said, “Lynn would be fine.”

Nodding, Dana lifted her cup. Steam drifted off the dark surface of the coffee. She blew it gently away, then took a sip. “Mm, good.”

"Do you want something to eat?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Good. We don’t have much time. We can grab a bite at the snack shop after we get there. Or we can stop for doughnuts on the way. Are you still a doughnut hound?”

“You bet,” Dana said. “But I’m not that hungry right now. I don’t usually eat much in the morning.”

“About ready to go?”

"Yep. You said to be ready by nine. I’ve been ready since I walked in.” She took another sip of coffee, then another.

“Take your time. We don’t have to rush off right away. I’m the boss, after all.”

"Yeah, but you shouldn’t be late.”

"Even if we don’t get there till nine-thirty, I’ll still be the first one to arrive. Nobody’s all that gung-ho. It’s just a job to them, you know?”

"What is it to you?”

"A passion!”

Dana laughed. "Right.”

“Do you want the truth?”

"If you’re up to it.”

"I love it all. I really do. I love being the boss...”

“You’ve always been great at giving orders.”

"It isn’t just that, either. There’s something about Beast House. It’s got history, you know? An awful history, but...There’s something sort of old and romantic and mysterious about the place. I just love it there. It’s like a strange little piece of the past is still alive...I mean, you can feel it.”

"If you say so.”

"Did you feel it yesterday?”

"Mosdy, I just felt a little spooked.”

Tuck grinned. "Good. You’re supposed to. But after you get used to the place, it probably won’t seem so creepy anymore.”

"Probably?”

"Well, it actually seems to get worse instead of better for some people. That’s pretty rare, though.”

“I hope that doesn’t happen to me.”

"Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. Me, I like the place more all the time.”

“Someday, maybe it’ll be yours.”

"I ain’t gonna hold my breath,” Tuck said.

"You’re Janice’s only heir, aren’t you?”

"Well, shit, I guess so. She doesn’t have any brothers or sisters, and you know what happened to her parents.” Tuck frowned as if thinking about it for a few moments, then said, "Other than Dad and me, she’s got nobody else except an uncle and cousin. But Janice is just in her thirties, for godsake. I doubt if she’ll be pitching forward on her nose in the near future. Besides which, she might even have a kid of her own someday.”

“She hasn’t so far.”

“Yeah, but she’s only been married for a couple of years.”

“She’s how old?”

Tuck frowned for a moment, then said, “Thirty-six.”

“Well, that’s not terribly old to be starting a family.”

“For all I know, she might already be knocked up. And if she’s not, she probably will be by the time they get back from the cruise. I mean, two months together in the South Pacific? I damn near get pregnant just thinking about it.”

“Have they been trying to have a baby?” Dana asked.

“Jeez! How would I know? She’s a great gal and everything and we really like each other, but it’s not like being with you. She my dad’s wife. I mean, I can’t just ask her about stuff like that.” Tuck raised her eyebrows. “Do you want any more coffee?”

“Nope, I’m fine.”

“Maybe we’d better get going.” She reached across the table for Dana’s cup. “I’ll rinse these out and batten down the hatches. You might want to grab your windbreaker. You never know when the fog’ll come rolling in. It can get pretty nippy.”

Five minutes later, Dana followed Tuck into the three-car garage. They walked past the eighteen foot cabin cruiser, then past a Mercedes, before climbing into the red Jeep Wrangler.

“I don’t know how you can stand living in such squalor,” Dana said.

“It’s tough.” As the automatic door rolled upward, Tuck started the Jeep’s engine. “I’ll probably have to move out if I ever get married.”

“Don’t get married. No guy would be worth it.”

“Nobody I know,” Tuck said. Laughing, she backed out of the garage.

As she turned the Jeep around, Dana gazed at the front of the house. With its many outside stairways, its passageways and balconies, the enormous stucco house looked more like a nice hotel than . like a private home. “It’s really fabulous,” she said.

“Amazing what you can do with a few million bucks, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t mind living in a place like this.”

“You are living in a place like this,” Tuck said. “All summer.” She aimed the remote over her shoulder. As the garage door started to close, she put the remote away and headed down the long, narrow driveway.

The morning air blew Dana’s hair. She took deep breaths. She could smell the woods and the ocean.

Though the area immediately in front of the house was bright with sunlight, the driveway soon took them into thick woods. There, in shadows as heavy as dusk, the rays of the sun looked like golden pillars slanting down through the trees. Haze drifted like smoke in the gold.

Dana smiled at Tuck, and shook her head.

“Not exactly like Los Angeles, is it?” Tuck asked.

“Not exactly. I can’t believe I’ll be spending the whole summer here.”

“Neither can I. Man, am I ever glad you could come.”

“You’re glad!”

“You bet I am.” Tuck picked up speed on the downhill. She took the curves awfully fast.

Too fast for Dana’s taste.

Even with the seatbelt on, Dana felt her body being shoved from side to side as they raced around the bends.

It’s okay, she told herself. Tuck knows what she’s doing. She’s probably driven in.and out of this place thousands of times.

Tuck glanced at her and grinned, then faced the front again. Her long, blond hair was streaming behind her in the breeze. “We’re gonna have a great time,” she said.

“I hope so.”

If she doesn ’t slam us into a tree.

“And you know what?” Tuck asked. “I couldn’t have stayed home this summer if you hadn’t agreed to come.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“They were all set to drag me along with them on their damn cruise.”

“Oh, that would’ve been a fate worse than death.” ,

“I hate cruises. Yuck!”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Have you ever gone on one?”

“No.”

“just wait.” Some hair blew across her face. She fingered it out of the way with one hand while she steered around a curve with the other. “It’s like being on a floating prison full of chipper weirdos. But Dad didn’t want me staying here alone. So I’d be out somewhere on the briny sea, right now, if you hadn’t come to stay. I owe you bigtime.”

Shrugging, Dana said, “I’m sure you could’ve gotten somebody else.”

“I didn’t want anyone else. You’re my best friend. Besides, you’re the only person Dad would’ve agreed to. It was you or nobody.”

“How come?”

“Hell, don’t ask me. He likes you. He trusts you. He thinks you’re a regular Girl Scout.”

“I’ve got him fooled.”

Tuck smiled at her. “No you don’t. He’s right.”

“Aw, shucks.”

“Anyway, I thought you should know. It’s not like I’m doing you all the big favors. You’re doing a major one for me just by being here.”

“Why don’t you do me a favor and slow down?”

“This is nothing. You wanta see me really go fast?”

“That’s all right. Some other time. When I’m not in the car, for instance.”

“All right, all right.” Tuck eased her foot down on the brake pedal, and the Jeep slowed down.

“Thank you,” Dana said.

“You’re always so cautious.”

“You’re always so reckless. Maybe that’s why your dad didn’t want you to stay by yourself.”

“I don’t think that’s why.”

“Was he afraid you might throw wild parties?”

“Nah. It was the whole idea of me being alone in the house. You know, it’s so enormous and there’s nothing around it but the woods. No neighbors or anything. It can get a little creepy when you’re there by yourself. Anyway, I think Dad had visions of the Manson family or Hannibal Lecter coming for me.”

“In which case, a lot of good I’d be.”

“It’s just some sort of mental aberration on Dad’s part. He seems to think I’ll be fine if you’re staying with me. It’s not because you’re such a big, strapping brute, either.”

“I hope not.”

“Not that you aren’t.”

“I see that living in the lap of luxury hasn’t robbed you of your native charm.”

“Nope. Thank God, huh?”

“Yeah. It would’ve been a major loss. Anyway, if they’d forced you to go on the cruise with them, what would they have done about Beast House?”

“Put Clyde in charge,”

“Who’s Clyde?”

“Clyde Bennett. You met him yesterday. He’s a charmer. He’s gotta be thrilled to death about me being head honcho this summer.”

“Does he give you a hard time?” Dana asked.

“He used to.”

As they glided around a bend, the two-lane public road came into sight. Tuck slowed the Jeep and came to a complete stop.

This is where you’ve gotta start being careful,” she explalned. “Some of the people around these parts drive like maniacs.” She eased forward, checking in both directions, then stepped on the gas. “Beast House,” she yelled, “here we come!”

Chapter Four

THE STORY ACCORDING TO PATTY

“Hello again,” Patty said.

Owen, relieved by the interruption, settled back in his seat and leaned sideways a little to look up the aisle at the guide.

“Is everyone enjoying the scenery?” she asked. “It’s pretty terrific, isn’t it?”

Looks good from here, Owen thought.

Patty was standing casually with the microphone close to her mouth. She held on to a support pole with her other hand. The hand was high, as if she’d raised her arm to ask a question.

“This section of Pacific Coast Highway can be a little frightening,” Patty said. “But you folks probably enjoy a good scare, or you wouldn’t be on your way to Beast House. Am I right?”

Some of the passengers responded, “Right.” Others chuckled.

“To put your minds at ease, I can tell you that we haven’t lost a bus over the cliffs in the past three weeks. That trip, I hear, was very exciting for a few seconds. But I miss the guide. She and I were pretty good friends. Her name was Bubbles.”

“Give me a break,” Monica muttered.

“Not Sandy?” asked a man in an aisle seat just in front of Patty.

“Good one,” she told him.

“How about Rocky?” suggested another passenger.

“Actually, all three perished. It was a terrible accident. But I’m sure we’ll fare better. Won’t we, Al?” The driver raised his arm and gave a thumbs-up. “He doesn’t let a little thing like cataracts get in his way.” After a short pause, Patty asked, “How many of you have been to Beast House before?”

Looking around, Owen saw eight or ten of the passengers raise a hand.

“What’s that, about one out of five? Pretty good. That’s about typical. We get a lot of repeats. There’s something about Beast House that just keeps drawing people back to it. Especially weirdos. No offense.”

A lot of riders laughed at that one.

“The house has had a long and colorful history. Mostly, the color has been red. I won’t get into much of that, though. What I want to do, now, is tell you a few things that won’t get covered to any extent on the tour.

“Beast House has been a popular tourist trap...attraction...since 1932. For those of you who aren’t whizzes at math, that’s a while ago. The Great Depression was going on. Herbert Hoover was President of the United States. Edward the Eighth sat on the throne of Great Britain. Germany’s comeback kid, Adolph Hitler, was defeated that year in a run-off election for the presidency when a guy by the name of Hindenburg burst his balloon...so to speak.”

“Oh, the humanity, ” someone threw in.

“Exactly,” Patty said. “In 1932, the Japanese invaded Shanghai. Al Capone was sent to prison in Atlanta. The Lindbergh baby got himself kidnapped and murdered. Amelia Earhart was still among the unvanished. Gary Cooper starred in A Farewell to Arms and Shirley Temple made her first movie. Not only that, but 1932 marked the birth of Senator Edward Kennedy and Elizabeth Taylor.”

“There you go,” Owen whispered to Monica. “Liz.”

“But the real highlight of 1932 was the opening of Beast House. The Victorian style house had already been standing for thirty years, but as a private home. It took Maggie Kutch to turn the place into one of America’s most bizarre and infamous tourist attractions.

“Beast House had been built in 1902 by Lilly Thorn, widow of Lyle Thorn. Lyle, the leader of the Thorn Gang, was an outlaw known throughout the west during the latter years of the nineteenth century. You name it, he did it. He robbed banks, stage coaches, and trains. He rustled cattle and horses. It’s said that he committed so many murders and rapes that nobody could keep track of them all. The brutal massacres of several entire families in the Arizona territory have been attributed to Lyle Thorn and his gang, but that’s mostly speculation. Some people think the massacres were the work of Apaches. Nobody knows for sure. Nor does anyone know the fate of Lyle Thorn or his gang. Their depredations simply stopped in the early 1890’s. We can only assume that he and his band of cut-throats came to a sudden, violent end.

“On their way to the end, however, they worked up a ton of bad karma. Lyle must’ve passed it on to his wife and children, and I think it all ended up in Beast House.

“As I mentioned, his wife’s name was Lilly. They were Lyle and Lilly Thom. But nobody around Malcasa Point ever saw Lyle. He had apparently ‘bought the ranch’ before Lilly and the kids ever showed up in town. The boys were named Sam and Earl. It’s believed that Lyle was their father, but nobody knows for sure.

“Anyway, Lilly and the two boys arrived in town in early 1902. And they were loaded. Apparently, Lyle’s life of crime had been very lucrative. Before you know it, Lilly had a crew hard at work building her dream house.

“And they all lived happily ever after in the dream house until August 2, 1903, when the beast came up out of the cellar and ran amok, committing wholesale slaughter on her family. You’ll hear all about that on the tour, though, so I won’t get into it now.

“For now, we want to skip ahead about twenty-eight years. During most of that time, the Thorn house stood deserted. Nobody wanted to live there because of the killings. But in 1931, the Kutch family bought it and moved in. Maggie Kutch lived in the house with her husband, two little girls, and her baby son. For just about two weeks. Then one rainy night, her entire family was brutally slain by what she described as a ‘raving, white beast.’ Maggie was the only survivor.

“You might think that Maggie would’ve left town after such a tragedy. But she stayed and built a home for herself directly across the street from the old Victorian. Her new house was a fortress made of brick. And it didn’t have a single window. You’ll see it today. Unfortunately, the tour doesn’t include the Kutch house. Maggie’s daughter still lives there, so it’s off limits.”

A blonde kid a few rows ahead of Owen raised his hand.

“Question?” Patty asked.

“Yeah. If Maggie’s whole family got slaughtered by the beast, how come she still has a daughter?”

“Good question. What’s your name, friend?”

“Derek.”

“Well, Derek, here’s the thing. Maggie gave birth to this daughter after the massacre. This one—her name’s Agnes—was born several years later.”

“But you said her husband got killed by the beast.”

“He did. Later on, though, Maggie met someone else. This new man in her life became Agnes’s father.”

“Oh, I get it. Okay. Thanks.”

“Thank you for asking, Derek. Now...” Patty frowned. “Let’s see, we’d just gotten Maggie moved into the brick house. Nobody quite knew what she was up to...why she would want to live there, right across the road from the house where the beast had murdered her family. That place was abandoned, boarded up. Some of the town-folk thought it should be torn down or burnt. At that time, they called it Massacre House. They said it was a blight on the good name of the town.

“But it remained standing, and pretty soon, large, mysterious crates began to arrive. The crates were carried up the porch stairs and into Massacre House. Can anyone tell me what was in them? Lab equipment for godless experiments? Or maybe...”

Derek raised his hand. Before Patty could call on him or anyone else, he blurted, “I know what they had in them! Wax dummies of the dead guys!”

“That’s right. Wax dummies of dead guys and gals. At the time, however, nobody had any idea what might be in the crates. They didn’t get their answer until the summer of 1932. First, a ticket booth went up. Then a few signs. A sign at the top of the ticket book read, BEAST HOUSE. Another sign gave the times and prices of the tours. Back in those days, a tour cost only twenty-five cents. That’s a far cry from what they’ll be charging you people today. But a quarter meant something back in 1932. A lot of things did.

“Maggie put up one other sign before she opened Beast House to the public. My favorite. It was painted in red letters on an old wooden door. Unfortunately, it disappeared years and years ago. But you can see photos of it in Janice Crogan’s Beast House Museum on Front Street. It goes like this. BEAST HOUSE! THE LEGENDARY, HISTORICAL SITE OF GHASTLY, MONSTROUS MURDERS! NOT ONE, BUT MANY! SEE WITH YOUR OWN EYES THE ACTUAL SCENES OF BRUTAL, BLOODY BUTCHERIES WHERE THEY HAPPENED! FEAST YOUR EYES ON AUTHENTIC REPRODUCTIONS OF THE BEAST’S RAVAGED VICTIMS—AS THEY WERE FOUND, IN THEIR ACTUAL DEATH GARMENTS. HEAR THE TRUE TALES OF THE BEAST AS TOLD BY ITS ONLY KNOWN SURVIVOR, MAGGIE KUTCH, PROPRIETOR OF BEAST HOUSE AND YOUR PERSONAL GUIDE.’

Patty grinned and said, “Love it. Plenty of the townfolks didn’t, though. They tried to stop Maggie from opening the house, but she wasn’t someone easily stopped and the first tour of Beast House took place, as scheduled, on July 1, 1932.

“Only a few people showed up for it. They were mostly locals. Some were the very people who’d protested against the place. Apparently, they were eager to see just how bad it really was. According to newspaper accounts, what they found was worse than they’d expected. The good folks were shocked and outraged. Several fainted. Others ran from the house, shrieking.

“Now that they’d seen the tour, they considered it an offense against human decency, God, motherhood, and good taste. One published report called it ‘An obscene display of vulgar savagery unfit for the eyes of civilized human beings.’ An editorial went this way: ”Has our community now sunk into such a mire of depravity as to find entertainment in the lewd and gory depiction of scantily clad murder victims such as can be found in every corner of the blasphemy known as Beast House? For shame!’” Grinning and shaking her head, Patty said, ”I like that, ’For shame!’”

“Those people hated Beast House. They kept trying to shut it down. They couldn’t manage that, but the town did pass an ordinance prohibiting children under the age of sixteen from going in.

“As the weeks went by, though, a funny thing happened. Local merchants began to notice they had more money in their cash registers at the end of the day. Pretty soon, it dawned on them that the extra cash had come from the pockets of strartgers. There seemed to be a regular flow of visitors coming into town. They spent money at the gas station, the cafe, the ice cream parlor, the pharmacy, the grocery store. You name the business, and out-of-towners were spending money there. And what was behind this influx of visitors?”

“BEAST HOUSE!” a girl shouted, beating Derek to the punch.

Derek frowned over his shoulder at her.

“That’s right!” Patty said. “Beast House! People were coming to Malcasa Point from nearby towns and farms, even all the way from Marin County, San Francisco and the East Bay, just to take the Beast House tour. But they didn’t only take the tour; they were spending their money all over town. Suddenly, nobody had a bad word to say about Beast House and nobody wanted to shut it down anymore. Also, the restriction against kids was removed. Everyone was allowed to take the tour, regardless of age.

“Ever since then, Beast House has been drawing visitors to Malcasa Point. Not always in great numbers, though. For the first couple of decades, the numbers were pretty low, especially by today’s standards. Some old records show that somewhere between thirty and fifty people per week were taking the tours.

“But Beast House’s popularity grew during the 1950’s, probably because a couple of kids broke in one night and ran into trouble. According to the survivor, the trouble was a beast. He escaped, but his friend wasn’t so lucky. You’ll hear all about it during your audio tour of the house, so I won’t go into the details. Because of the attack, however, interest in Beast House really surged in the fifties. Then it tapered off a little, but not very much. The House continued to pull in a steady stream of visitors until 1979.

“Everyone knows what happened in ‘79. If you didn’t know about it, most of you wouldn’t be riding on this bus today.”

“And wouldn’t that be a shame,” Monica whispered.

“To make a long story short, in 1979 a lot of very nasty business hit the fan. And the fan was Beast House.”

Several passengers chuckled.

“It’s all on the tour and in the books and movies, so I won’t pile the details on. Suffice it to say that the summer of 1979 was a festival of disappearances, abductions, rapes, rescues, and brutal murders.

“To top it all off, the actual corpses of three beasts were discovered after the smoke cleared in ‘79. Two of them quickly disappeared under mysterious circumstances. The third body, though, was preserved by a taxidermist. It was displayed at Janice Crogan’s Beast House Museum for several years until it was stolen in 1984. The museum still has photographs of it, and they can also be found in both of Janice’s books.”

Someone near the back of the bus must’ve raised a hand, because Patty nodded and asked, “Question?”

A man said, “Is it true that the stolen beast turned up in some sort of a freak show?”

Patty grinned. “And your name is?”

“Marv.”

“Well, Marv, you’re probably speaking of the Hairless Orang-utan of Borneo. It wasn’t exactly in a freak show, but in an exhibit called Jasper’s Oddities at the Funland amusement park.”

“Where’s Funland?”Derek asked.

“It’s in Boleta Bay,” Patty explained. “On the coast just south of San Francisco.”

“And it’s got the beast?”

“Well, it bad a creature on exhibit that might’ve been a beast. I saw it a long time ago, myself.”

“So did I,” said a man sitting a few rows ahead of Owen. “Name’s Wayne. Do you think it was the actual beast, or some kind of fake? I heard it was a fake.”

“I can’t say for sure. Nobody can. Like so many other things that have to do with Beast House, it’s a mystery. And it’ll have to stay a mystery, because a positive i.d. was never made and the so-called, Hairless Orang-utan of Borneo disappeared in about 1988. All the Jasper’s Oddities exhibits vanished one night, and the building was demolished shortly after that.”

“Did Janice Crogan ever get a look at the Hairless Orang-utan?” Wayne asked.

“No, she never did.”

“She should’ve taken it back,” Derek said. “If it was her monster and somebody stole it...”

“I talked to Janice about it, and she told me that she was glad to be rid of the thing. She didn’t want it back. When she was keeping it in her museum, she had to face it every single day. It was an awfully vivid reminder of those terrible experiences she’d had in 1979. Also, she told me that it didn’t smell terribly fresh.”

“Oh, yuck,” said the same girl who had cried out “BEAST HOUSE!” a few minutes earlier.

“And what’s your name, young lady?” Patty asked.

“None of your beeswax.”

“And what an unusual name that is,” Patty said. “Do you have a nickname? Wax?”

“Try Bitch,” Owen whispered.

Monica rolled her eyeballs upward.

“Her name’s Shareel,” said the man sitting beside her.

Probably her father.

“Thank you,” Patty told him. “And thank you for your comment about the odor, shareel. According to Janice, the odor was faint but very yucky. She said it smelled like a dead rat.”

Shareel went, “Ooooooo.”

“Apparently, that’s what happens if taxidermy isn’t done just right.”

“This is disgusting,” Monica whispered.

“Yeah,” Owen said, smiling.

“Don’t tell me you like it.”

“Okay, I won’t.”

Patty pointed to someone and said, “Yes, Marv?”

“What can you tell us about its apparatus?”

She grinned and blushed. “It’s apparatus?”

“You know.”

“I certainly know, all right. But we don’t talk about that.”

“It’s in the books.”

“You’re right. It’s in the books. Not in the movies, though, and not on our tour. Not on this tour. If you’re really curious about that sort of thing, we do offer a special, adults only tour of Beast House. Maybe some of you have heard of it. The Midnight Tour? It’s quite an event. Saturday nights only. A trip through Beast House starting at midnight, with our best guide leading the way. It’s a hundred dollars per person, but the price includes a picnic dinner on the grounds of Beast House—with a no host bar for the drinkers among you—followed by a special showing of The Horror at the town movie theater, and finally the special, unexpurgated tour in which you learn all the stuff that’s too nasty for our regular tours. If any of you are interested, you can make reservations at the ticket office.”

“They only have it on Saturday nights?” Marv asked.

“That’s right. One night a week.”

“Does the bus go out to it?”

“There isn’t any special run for the Midnight Tour. What people sometimes do, though, is come in on the Saturday morning bus, spend the whole day, do the Midnight Tour, stay overnight at one of the motels in town, then catch the Sunday afternoon bus back to San Francisco. If you don’t have your own car, that’s about the only sensible way to do it. Imagine what it’d cost for a cab ride.”

“But kids aren’t allowed?” Derek asked, sounding disappointed.

“No kids under the age of eighteen. Beast House rules.”

“That stinks.”

“I know. But just figure it’ll give you something to look forward to doing when you’re a little older.”

“It still stinks.”

“Well, there won’t be much said on the Midnight Tour that isn’t in Janice Crogan’s books. So if you’re really interested, Derek, read the books. Speaking of which, we’ve come back to where I was heading; one of the main participants in the Beast House mayhem of 1979 was an eighteen year old girl named Janice Crogan. You’ve all heard of her, right? She happens to be a very good friend of mine, and my employer.

“After surviving her ordeal, she wrote a nonfiction book called The Horror at Malcasa Point. It contains portions of Lily Thorn’s diary, a general history of Beast House, and a detailed account of the terrible experiences she had there in 1979. It also has quite a few photographs, including those photos I mentioned of the dead beast.” She smiled toward someone at the rear of the bus and said, “Unfortunately, Marv, the photos don’t show the area you’re so interested in.”

“I’m not that interested,” he protested. “Just wondering if what they say is true, you know?”

“Well, can you make the Midnight Tour?”

“Not likely. I’ve gotta get back to Chicago on Saturday.”

“In that case,” Patty said, “I’ll let you in on a little secret. I have it on good authority that the matter you’re curious about is true. But you didn’t hear it here. For those of you who don’t know what we’re talking about, you can satisfy your curiosity by going on the Midnight Tour or by reading either of Janice’s books. One of which is The Horror at Malcasa Point, a nationwide bestseller published in 1980. How many of you have read it?”

Owen raised his hand. Looking around, he saw that only three other people had their hands up. One of them, a heavy bald guy near the back, he suspected of being Marv.

“Four out of about fifty. Not bad, considering it is a book. How many of you have seen any of the Beast House movies?”

Owen raised his hand. So did Monica. So did nearly everyone on the bus.

“Let’s not get into the movies just yet. I need to finish plugging Janice’s books. First came the big bestseller, The Horror at Malcasa Point. It only took her two months to write, which is a truly remarkable feat in itself, considering her injuries and all the horrors that she’d just gone through. I think it’s amazing that she was able to write about those things at all. But she’s such a strong person...” Patty stopped and looked away for a few seconds. Then she faced the passengers again and continued. “Anyway, the book has been in print ever since 1980, and has been published in over fifteen different languages. If you’re interested in purchasing a copy, they’re available at the Beast House gift shop and at Janice’s museum. You can buy the book in paperback, hardbound, or in a special limited edition with a white leather binding that simulates beast skin. Janice is usually around to sign the books, but she’s off on an extended vacation with her husband. She did autograph a bunch of copies before she left, though, so nobody will have to be disappointed in that regard.” A grin spread across Patty’s face. “Though why anybody cares about autographs is beyond me.”

“It makes them more precious,” said an elderly woman sitting near the front. She had a soft, sing-song voice. “I’m Matilda.”

“Nice to meet you, Matilda.”

“I have an autographed copy of A Light in August by Mr. William Faulkner, and it just means the whole world to me.”

“Well, Janice Crogan ain’t no Faulkner, as the saying goes. But she is a whole lot prettier. And she did sign a pile of books before she left on her trip. If you’re interested, you’ll be able to buy autographed copies at the same price as those that aren’t. Of both books. Which brings me to Janice’s second book, Savage Times, which is also available. It was published in 1990, and...How many of you are familiar with that one?”

Owen raised his hand. So did Marv. Nobody else.

“We have a couple of real fans here. Savage Times is an absolutely gorgeous book, but it’s not cheap. It’ll run you eighty-five bucks, plus tax. And as far as I’m concerned, it’s worth more. We’re talking about a very complete, detailed history of Malcasa Point and Beast House, and it even gets into the background of the beasts. Janice prepared the book in collaboration with an old-time native of the area, Captain Frank Sullivan. If you’ve read Horror, then you know about Captain Frank. The thing is, he had special knowledge of the beasts and kept an extensive scrapbook over the years. Janice and Captain Frank worked together on the book for almost ten years, collecting information, interviewing people, and gathering photographs and illustrations. Make sure and take a look at copy of it sometime today. Even if you don’t buy one, you shouldn’t miss the opportunity to thumb through it.

“Now, let’s talk about the movies. Everybody’s seen the movies. At last count, there were seven of them. They’re all available on video tape at the Beast House gift shop and at the museum. But of course, the ‘must see’ film is the original. The Horror. 1982. It was done by an independent film company that called itself Malcasa Pictures. Directed by Ray Cunningham. Screenplay by Steve Saunders based on Janice’s nonfiction bestseller, The Horror at Malcasa Point. The film starred Melinda James in the role of Janice Crogan, and introduced Gunther Sligo as ‘The Beast.’ It almost didn’t get made at all. I bet someone can tell us why.”

Owen raised his hand.

Patty smiled at him and nodded. “You are?”

“Owen.”

“Hi, Owen.”

“Hi, Patty”

A quiet grunting sound came from Monica.

“The reason it almost didn’t get made?”

“Well, for one thing, they didn’t know how to deal on film with the beast’s ‘apparatus.’”

Several passengers laughed. Monica groaned.

“But that’s not what you’re looking for.”

“It’s something I try very hard to avoid,” Patty said.

More laughter.

“What I think you were getting at,” Owen continued, “is that a couple of things happened just before they were supposed to start principle photography. For one, the guy who was originally going to direct it... I don’t recall his name.”

“Marlon Slade.”

“Yeah, that’s him. He apparently assaulted Tricia Talbot, who was supposed to be playing Janice Crogan. I guess he tried to, you know, nail her But she got away from him and left town that night. And then be disappeared the next night.”

“He’ being Marlon Slade, the director.”

“Yeah. And I guess nobody ever found out what happened to him.”

“That’s right,” Patty said. “He vanished into thin air, went kaput, disappeared without a trace and has never been seen again. There is speculation that he ran off with a teenaged girl named Margaret Blume, who was the guide for the real Beast House tours before the arrival of the movie company. Slade’s assistant told authorities that he’d gone looking for the girl’s trailer home that evening. Evidently, he was planning to offer her the Janice Crogan role vacated by Tricia Talbot. But he never returned, and the beautiful young guide also disappeared, along with her trailer. Maybe she and Slade ran off together. Maybe there was foul play. Nobody knows. Another Beast House mystery.”

Chapter Five

SANDY’S STORY—August, 1980

After their shower, Sandy kissed Eric and lowered him into his crib. This time, she didn’t bother trying to lock him in; he’d already broken out to save her from Slade, destroying two of the wooden slats at the front. The gate of his crib looked to Sandy like a smile with two missing teeth.

Besides, he seemed groggy and ready for sleep.

Sandy turned off his bedroom light, eased the door shut, then walked quietly into her own bedroom. Her tan shirt and shorts were still on the floor. She picked up the shirt, studied it in the red light, and found several drops of blood.

“Thanks a lot, Marlon,” she muttered.

She went ahead and put it on.

Her shorts had caught some blood, too.

As she stepped into them and pulled them up, she figured that her days as a Beast House guide were probably over, anyway. She had to leave town. Someone—if only Slade’s assistant—knew that he’d intended to pay her a visit. He probably wouldn’t be missed until morning. When they did miss him, though, suspicion would quickly turn toward Sandy. She and Eric had to be long gone before that happened.

Fastening her shorts, she scowled at Slade’s body. The pudgy corpse lay sprawled on the floor, arms and legs in awkward positions that he never would’ve put them in on purpose. His shirt and trousers, ripped by Sandy’s knife, looked as if they’d been twisted crooked and pasted to his body with gore. His face looked horrible: tom, purple and slimy. His blood-sotted hair was flat against his scalp.

Got what he had coming, the crud.

It had sure felt good, stabbing him. Maybe she shouldn’t have done it so many times, though. She’d gotten a little bit carried away.

For a while there, he’d fought her. That accounted for plenty of his wounds. Sandy’d had to cut through his thrashing hands and arms to get at the vital areas. And he’d kept on struggling while she pounded the blade into his chest and neck and face. But she hadn’t quit stabbing him even after he’d stopped fighting back.

Even after she knew he was dead.

Because he’d thrown Eric. He’d flung her son across the room and hurt him. That was Slade’s worst offense. But he’d also inflicted himself on Sandy. If Eric hadn’t come to the rescue, he would’ve raped her for sure.

“You’re lucky I ever stopped stabbing you,” she muttered, then smiled as she realized what she’d said.

“Lucky,” she repeated. “You’re just brimming over with luck.”

But she’d made such a mess.

Too bad I didn’t strangle him, she thought, and shook her head. It would’ve been impossible to strangle the man. Without Agnes Kutch’s butcher knife, she wouldn’t have stood a chance.

He would’ve raped her, beaten her, maybe even killed her.

And God only knows what he might’ve done to poor little Eric.

The knife had been her salvation.

The bloody mess was part of the price that had to be paid for survival.

Before getting into the shower with Eric, Sandy had decided to leave the cleanup for later. First things first. Get the hell out of town, then worry about disposing of Slade’s body and trying to scrub the blood off the walls and floor.

She finished fastening her belt. Barefoot, she walked over to the body. The rug felt sodden and sticky under her feet.

Now I’ll be tracking blood through the place!

Annoyed, she crouched beside Slade’s right hip. She patted the outside of his front trouser pocket, felt a flat object and heard a slight rattle of keys.

She reached into the pocket. The wet lining clung to her hand. She wrinkled her nose, but dug deeper until she wrapped her fingers around the key case.

She pulled it out.

She wiped the black leather case against her shirt to clean it off, then dropped it into a front pocket of her shorts. Her hand felt tacky from Slade’s pocket, so she rubbed it on her shirt.

She hoped the sticky wet stuff was only blood.

Standing up, she wondered how to avoid leaving a trail of bloody footprints on her way out.

Earlier, she hadn’t been clear-headed enough to worry about such things. She’d carried Eric from the bedroom to the bathroom without giving a thought to the mess she was making. Those tracks would have to be cleaned up. But why double her work by making a new set all the way to the front door?

Her shirt was already ruined, anyway.

She took it off. Standing on her right foot, she used the shirt to wipe the blood off the bottom of her left foot. Then she took a giant step toward the bedroom doorway and set her clean foot down on a section of rug that didn’t seem to have much blood on it. She shifted her weight to that foot. Standing on it, she crossed her right foot over her knee and wiped it clean.

When she started down the hall, her feet felt dry against the rug. She knew she wasn’t leaving a trail, so she didn’t bother looking back. There wasn’t enough light to see much, anyway. Ahead of her, the bathroom light was still on. It filled the short hallway with a dim glow so she could see where she was going. She didn’t want more.

She entered the bathroom, filled the sink with cold water, and stuffed her shirt into it. The water turned rosy. As she swirled the shirt around, hoping to rinse off the worst of the blood, she looked at herself in the mirror and found no blood on her face or chest or belly.

She didn’t want to put the shirt back on. It would be cold and wet. Worse, it would still be stained with Slade’s blood in spite of the washing. The idea of his blood touching her skin... She couldn’t wear the shirt again. Wouldn’t. But she didn’t want to go for a clean one, either. She’d seen enough of Slade for a while. She’d smelled enough of him, too. And if she returned to her bedroom, her feet would get bloody again.

She let the water drain out of the sink, then held the shirt underneath the spigot and ran clean, cold water over it. She started to scrub the ruddy stains with a bar of soap.

And tried to think of something she might wear instead of the shirt. She didn’t have a great many clothes. All that she owned, she kept in her bedroom dresser and highboy.

Anything hanging outside on the line? No. And nothing but diapers and blankets in Eric’s room. No clothes in the living room or kitchen.

I can’t go wandering around in nothing but my shorts.

Who’s going to see me, anyway? she suddenly thought.

Nobody’d better see me. It blows the whole plan if I get spotted taking his car.

But she didn’t know where Slade’s car might be. If she had to go traipsing halfway across town...

She shook her head.

The car wouldn’t be halfway across town. The director was a tubby slob. A guy like that doesn’t walk any farther than he has to. He might’ve been afraid to take his car very far up the hill—scared it might get stuck in a rut, or scratched by the trees and bushes—but he probably would’ve at least started driving up. Or maybe he’d left his car on the roadside at the foot of the hill. No big problem; the trees went nearly all the way to the edge of the pavement.

Regardless, Sandy didn’t like the idea of going that far from home in nothing but her shorts.

She finished rinsing the suds out of her shirt, then shook it open.

Just as she’d expected, plenty of stains remained.

I can’t. I can’t put this on.

She flopped the shirt over the shower curtain rod.

After drying her hands on a towel, she turned off the bathroom light and walked through the dark trailer until she found the switch by the front door. She flicked it. A lamp came on beside the sofa.

In the kitchen, she opened a drawer and took out an old dish drying towel. The flimsy white cloth had ragged edges and a couple of holes in it. Also, it was white. But she didn’t have any dark ones.

This’ll do, she thought.

She shook it open and tried to wrap it around her chest. It was too short for that. But it was long enough to hang from her shoulders to her waist, so she attempted to tie its comers together behind her neck. They wouldn’t reach far enough. She took care of the problem with a six-inch bit of string she found in a drawer. In less than a minute, the dish towel draped her front like a large, flimsy bib. Her shoulders and back remained bare, but that was fine; the towel covered her front and it was clean and dry.

Now, all she needed was a weapon.

The weapon she wanted was Agnes’s butcher knife.

After using it on Slade, she’d dropped it to the floor beside his body, hurried across the room and taken Eric into her arms.

If she wanted it, she would need to return to the bedroom.

No way.

“A knife’s a knife,” she muttered. She didn’t believe it, though. Not really.

Agnes’s knife was special.

Now that she’d used it herself, it almost seemed to possess a protective magic. It had saved her from Slade. Maybe it would save her from every enemy.

“Bull,” she said.

Besides, she was pretty sure that she wouldn’t really need a knife. This was a secret mission to retrieve Slade’s car. The whole idea was to be sneaky and not have to fight anyone. A knife would just be a precaution.

In case.

There were several on a rack above the kitchen counter. She chose one that was just as large as Agnes’s.

Knife in hand, she walked silently back to Eric’s room.

She stopped outside his door and listened. She heard the slow, easy hiss of his breathing. From the sound of it, she knew he was submerged in the depths of sleep.

She returned to the living room, opened the front door, and stepped outside. Though the day had been sunny and warm, the night was cool—chilly enough for a heavy shirt or windbreaker. She shivered a little as she shut the door and made her way carefully down the stairs.

The old, makeshift stairway wobbled. Its wooden planks felt damp and slippery from the moisture in the air. Sandy had fallen off it a couple of times in the month since moving into the trailer, but she didn’t fall tonight.

The ground at the bottom of the stairs felt cool and wet. As she hurried along, pine needles clung to the bottoms of her feet.

She walked completely around the trailer, being careful not to trip over its hitch, bump into her barbeque grill, water tank, or propane tank, or collide with her clothes line. There was no sign of Slade’s car, or anything unusual. Except for the patches of moonlight, the clearing that surrounded her trailer looked dark. The forest looked even darker; only flecks of moonlight made it down through the branches.

She found her way to the old tire tracks and started following them down the hillside. She’d been using the twin trails as footpaths ever since moving into the trailer, hiking downhill each morning on one side and hiking uphill every evening on the other. Weeds had grown high in the middle, but the paths were fairly clear and easy to see in the darkness.

She stayed in the one on the right.

Around every bend, she half expected to find Marlon Slade’s car. But she rounded one bend after another without running into it.

Sandy didn’t mind the hike. She was eager to find his car and get out of town, but she really enjoyed being out like this. She liked the free, exciting way it felt to be wandering the night in nothing except her shorts and the draping dish towel. She liked the feel of her moving body, and the fabric brushing softly against her skin. She liked the cool touch of the moving air. She liked the feel of the moist earth under her feet.

Her footfalls were almost silent. She could hear the wind sliding through the trees, the squeal of seagulls and the murmur of the distant surf.

Wherever we go, she thought, it has to be a place like this.

We’ll find a nice clearing in the hills overlooking the coast, and never leave.

Unless somebody makes us.

Another Marlon Slade.

“Rotten creep,” she muttered, and felt a tightness in her throat.

We shouldn’t have to leave, she thought. It isn’t fair.

They’d already been forced out of Agnes’s house because of the damn movie people. She and Eric had been living there in secret, which had been a tricky business in the first place. But they couldn’t possibly remain hidden once the filming began, so Agnes had made arrangements for them to move into the trailer.

She’d had mixed feelings about leaving Agnes’s home.

She loved Agnes like a mother and sister and best friend all rolled into one, and had known she would miss her terribly. Not only that, but she’d been nervous about the idea of living alone.

While she’d sort of dreaded it, however, she’d also found herself thrilled by the prospect of having her own private place to live—even if it was nothing but a crummy old trailer.

She’d soon found that she loved living in the trailer.

As things turned out, she could’ve stayed at Agnes’s house for another full month. The film had run into some kind of problem that had delayed the start of shooting.

But she was glad she’d had the month.

The way things looked now, it might be the only month she would ever spend in her trailer in the hills above Malcasa Point.

Maybe she would find another place just as good...

No. Impossible. Malcasa was her home. It was where she’d met Agnes and the others, where she’d fallen in love with the father of her child, where she’d given birth.

I don’t want to leave!

Sandy began to weep as she walked down the trail.

She knew that she had to leave. There was no choice. She had to leave even though she’d killed Marlon Slade in self defense and no jury would find her guilty of murder.

Because if she stayed, she would be found out. Eric would be found out. It would be the end of their lives together.

The towel came in handy. As she strode down the trail crying, she lifted it now and again to wipe the tears from her eyes and cheeks.

It just isn’t fair, she thought. We never did anything wrong.

Well, not much, anyway.

Sandy tried to stop crying. It was noisy and messy and childish.

We’ll be fine, she told herself. We’ll just take the trailer someplace else and dump that dirty rotten son-of-bitch’s body along the way and we’ll live by ourselves in the hills and everything’ll be fine.

Soon, she reached the bottom of the slope. Using a tree for cover, she glanced up and down the two-lane, paved road. No cars were coming.

Only one car was in sight.

Parked on the gravel by the side of the road, not far away, was a tiny MG convertible.

Sandy groaned.

No, she thought. Please. Don’t let it be his.

She couldn’t possibly tow the trailer behind that.

Taking the key case out of her pocket, she hurried over to the sports car. She jerked open its door, dropped into the bucket seat, chose a key and tried it in the ignition.

It fit.

With a moan, she slumped forward and rested her head against the steering wheel.

What now? she wondered.

We have to get away tonight.

Why not go ahead and try to drive it up to the trailer, hook it up and just see if ...?

Hook it up?

“Oh cripes,” she muttered. She flung open the door and rushed toward the rear of the car.

Even before she got there, she knew that she wouldn’t find a trailer hitch.

And she was right.

Chapter Six

TUCK AND DANA

Tuck rolled the wrought iron gate open, then hurried back to the Jeep, hopped in and drove into the Beast House parking lot.

She grinned at Dana. “See? I told you we’d be the first ones here.”

“You almost have to be,” Dana pointed out. “If anybody shows up before you, they’ve got no place to park.”

“Plenty of room on Front Street, long as you get here early.” She steered across the empty lot, heading for its far corner. “Didn’t used to have any parking lot at all. Back in the old days, this was all lawn over here and everybody had to park on the street.”

“Progress,” Dana said.

“Things just got out of hand after the first movie. They had to build a parking lot.” She eased her Jeep neatly into the space between the white lines, then shut off the engine.

“Do you always park all the way over here?” Dana asked as they climbed out.

“Yep.”

“You can’t get any farther away from the gate.”

“I could’ve dropped you off back there.”

“That’s all right,” Dana said. They met behind the Jeep and started walking toward the gate. “It just seems like a funny place to park. You are the boss. You can park wherever you like.”

“I like my corner. For one thing, my car’s tucked safely out of the way where nobody is likely to bang it up. The main thing, though—I don’t want to be taking a good parking spot away from the paying customers.”

“That’s very considerate.”

Tuck grinned. “Just good business.”

“No wonder Janice has you running things.”

“It’s probably just because I’m the daughter of her husband. When you have a family business, you try to have family running it. Nobody else cares as much, and a lot of employees will rip you off if they get half a chance.”

Side by side, they walked through the gate. Turning to the right, they followed the sidewalk toward the ticket booth and entrance.

A car coming toward them on Front Street slowed down. Its left turn signal started to blink. Dana glimpsed a couple of adults in front, two or three kids in the back seat. Looking over her shoulder, she saw it turn through the gate of the parking lot.

“First customers of the day,” Tuck said.

“What time do you open the ticket booth?”

“Ten on the nose.”

Tuck turned aside before getting there, and started to unlock the entrance gate.

“Will I be selling tickets?” Dana asked.

“I thought I’d start you off today inside the house.”

“Fine.”

Tuck opened the gate. As soon as they were both inside, she shut it. Then they started up the walkway toward Beast House.

Dana tried not to look at the place. When Tuck had brought her here yesterday, she’d spent too long gazing at it, too long thinking about it. Ending up with a bad case of the creeps, she had almost refused to go in.

Can’t let it get to me. It’s just a house.

“We have regulars who handle the gift shop and snack bar,” Tuck explained, “so you won’t be involved in any of that. The guides basically have five different jobs: running the ticket booth, handing out and collecting the tape players, downstairs monitor, upstairs monitor, and supervisor.”

“That’s you?”

“That’s me. I’m basically in charge of the whole operation, and spend most of the day just wandering around, looking out for problems, trying to be friendly and helpful to our guests. I’m the person you’ll come to if you have any trouble or questions.

“I thought you might start off as the upstairs monitor. Tomorrow, you’ll have a different job. You’ll be alternating on a daily basis with the other guides. It’s very flexible, though. People do a lot of trading. The only thing you can’t trade on is bus tour guide. I suppose that’s job number six, but I don’t really count it. It’s Patty’s job. She lives in San Francisco, shows up here at about ten-thirty with a bus-load of tourists, wanders around being friendly and eating hot dogs, then takes off again at one-thirty and doesn’t come back again till the next day. She’s the only staff member you didn’t get a chance to meet yesterday.”

They started to climb the porch stairs.

Dana suddenly felt a sinking sensation in her stomach, a weakness in her legs.

She turned her head to avoid looking at the hanged man.

It’s all right, she told herself. Calm down. He’s just a dummy. Nothing’s going to happen.

She wiped her hands on the legs of her uniform shorts, and took a deep breath.

At the top of the six wooden stairs, Tuck smiled at her. “Are you okay?”

“A little nervous, I guess.”

“Nobody’s been killed here in years,” Tuck assured her. Then, grinning, she added, “Nobody that we know about, anyhow.”

They stepped across the porch. As Tuck unlocked the front door, Dana noticed the brass knocker. A monkey’s paw. It must’ve been there yesterday, but she didn’t remember seeing it.

“You’ll do fine,” Tuck told her.

“I hope so. The house is kind of creepy.”

“It’s supposed to be.”

“I guess I’ll get used to it.”

“I’m sure you will,” Tuck said, and swung the door open. As they walked in, she said, “If you’d rather start with an outside job...”

“pstairs monitor will be fine. The sooner I get used to working inside, the better.”

Tuck shut the front door, then leaned back against it. She slipped her hands casually into the front pockets of her shorts, crossed her ankles, and said, “It’s a pretty simple job, as work goes. Your main function will just be to wander around upstairs and keep an eye on things. There’ll be a fairly steady stream of tourists all day. You need to make sure everyone behaves, nobody touches the exhibits. Common sense stuff. It’s mostly a security and public relations job.”

“What if there is trouble?”

“It’s usually nothing more than kids acting up. Just tell them politely but firmly to behave themselves—same as you’d do if they were screwing around when you were on duty at the pool. But you’ll have a walkie-talkie on your belt if anything serious happens. The rest of us’ll drop everything and come running.”

“What sort of serious stuff might I expect^?”

“Shootouts.”

“What?”

Tuck laughed. “Naw. But any time you’ve got large numbers of people, things’ll go wrong. A fight might break out. It’s rare, but it happens. More often, we’ll have somebody get indignant or outraged about the exhibits. I guess they didn’t know what they were getting themselves into. They might need to be calmed down or escorted out. Also, we’ve had people sort of flip out once in a while.”

“Oh, great.”

“We call them flippers.”

“Cute.”

“I guess they’re having what you might call panic attacks. It’s an old place and smells a little musty. The hallways are sort of long and narrow. The exhibits are gory. The people are listening to some creepy, nasty stuff on their earphones. It apparently just overwhelms some of them, especially on a busy day when there might be some conjestion in the rooms and hallways. You’ll have flippers, fainters and barfers every so often.”

“It’s sounding more fun all the time.”

“Not as much fun as the heart attacks.”

“You get heart attacks?”

“I don’t, they do. Not often, though.”

“God almighty.”

“Where’s the sweat, lifeguard?”

“I never thought I’d have to be giving CPR in a tourist attraction.”

“Think of Beast House as a big, dry swimming pool. Mostly, people just have fun. But we do have our emergencies from time to time. The trick is, get to the problem people before they go over the edge. They’re easy to spot. Pale, sweaty faces, glassy eyes. Or instead of pale, they might be really flushed. Heavy breathing—that could mean trouble, too. When you spot somebody like that, lead him outside. They’re usually fine as soon as they get into the fresh air. But don’t be afraid to use the walkie-talkie. I’ll be on the other end. If the problem is more than we can handle, I’ll call for an ambulance or the cops or whatever we might need. They usually get here fast.”

Dana nodded.

“When there aren’t problems,” Tuck went on, “things can be a little dull for the floor monitors. The visitors will be getting the tour information through their headsets, so you don’t have any sort of spiel. You’ll just need to field questions.”

“Like ‘where’s the bathroom?’”

“That’s the most frequently asked question. You remember where they are?”

“Out behind the house in the snack shop area. Can’t miss them.”

“Excellent!”

“You ain’t dealing with a chimp.”

“Perhaps a moose...”

“Hey hey hey. Good thing I’m not sensitive about my size.”

“Hell, you love your size.”

“Allows me to intimidate shrimps like you.”

“Can’t touch me, I’m the boss. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll be fine answering questions. Big, smart college girl like you.”

“That’s me.”

“You read both the books...”

“Studied them.”

“So you shouldn’t have any trouble answering questions about the beast, and so forth. They will ask questions. If you don’t know the answer to something, tell the person to see me. I’m the resident expert. If I don’t know it, it ain’t known.” She grinned.

“And you’re modest.”

“I’m all things wonderful. Any questions?”

“About your wonderfulness, or...?”

“Oh, the job.”

“I guess I’ll have plenty as things come up, but...”

“Hey, I’d better warn you about something before I forget. As guides, our official position on the beast’s weenie is that we can’t discuss it.”

“People ask about it?”

“All the time.”

“Oh, great.”

“Some are genuinely curious and figure we’ve got the inside scoop. But some of them just want to watch us squirm. A lot of guys think it’s a real hoot.”

“But I’m not supposed to confirm or deny?”

“Right. Suggest they either sign up for the Midnight Tour, or read the books.”

“And push the Midnight Tour?” Dana asked, grinning.

“Yes! Please! My God! At every opportunity!”

“Is it any good?”

“Is it any good? It’s great! I’m great! And I tell all! Besides which, people haven’t experienced Beast House until they’ve been here at midnight.”

“Can’t wait.”

“Oh, you’ll love it.”

“Sure I will.”

Tuck laughed, then asked, “Ready to go?”

“Go where?”

“This way.” She uncrossed her ankles, pushed off from the door with her rump, and headed across the foyer toward the parlor. “I always do a quick walk-through first thing in the morning before we open her up...make sure everything’s the way it ought to be. We don’t want to have any surprises.”

Dana followed her into the parlor.

“Top of the morning to you, Ethel,” Tuck greeted the body on the floor. “I hope you enjoyed a comfortable...uh-oh. What the hell?”

“Oh, man,” Dana muttered.

“See what I mean?” Tuck said, not sounding very upset. “Surprises.”

Halfway across the parlor, behind a plush red cordon, the wax figure of Ethel Hughes lay sprawled on the floor. One bare leg was propped up on the cushion of the couch. Her eyes were wide open, her face contorted as if with agony or terror. Her white nightgown, drenched and splattered with bright red blood, was ripped open to reveal her bloody, torn skin.

Not just her arms and belly and thighs.

Her breasts.

Her groin.

Yesterday, those areas had been hidden beneath the tatters of Ethel’s bloody gown.

“What happened?” Dana asked.

“I don’t know,” Tuck said, her voice hushed. She glanced over her shoulder and out the doorway.

Dana looked, too. She saw only the empty foyer.

When Tuck walked toward the body, Dana stayed close to her side. They stopped at the red cordon a few feet away from the exhibit.

“Somebody must’ve wanted to check out her anatomy,” Tuck said.

“She sure looks real.”

Frowning, nodding, Tuck muttered, “Maggie was a stickler for details. She started out with nothing but store dummies. But they weren’t good enough. She ordered the realistic wax bodies as soon as she could afford it. They were supposed to be authentic in every detail.”

“Looks like they are.”

“You know why she wanted them anatomically correct?”

“No, why?”

“Cause she was nuts.” With a laugh, Tuck stepped over the rope. “Actually, I think she wanted to make her exhibits match the crime scene photos.” Crouching beside the body, she lifted a torn flap of white fabric and draped it between Ethel’s legs. “That would’ve meant showing everything, so she ordered the wax figures with all their private parts in place. But then she must’ve changed her mind and decided to cover them up.” She carefully placed another strip of white linen over Ethel’s groin. “They sure wrecked the nightgown,” she said.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“It’s about twice as ripped up as it’s supposed to be.”

She started to rearrange the shreds to cover the dummy’s breasts.

“Doesn’t look like they damaged Ethel, though. She seems all right. We’ll have to see about replacing the gown, though.”

“Is it the original?” Dana asked.

“No. A replica. Thank goodness for that. Janice moved all the original clothes over to her museum a long time ago. I thought it was a mistake, you know? And I told her so. I thought they should stay in their real death gamments. Guess she was right and I was wrong.”

Tuck stood up, took a couple of steps backward, and peered down at the body. “How does it look to you?” she asked.

“Lewd and indecent.”

“It’s supposed to look lewd and indecent. But we wanta have the basics covered. You can’t see them, can you?”

“The basics?

“Nipples and vagina.”

“Ah. All right.” Dana sidestepped back and forth behind the cordon, even crouched a couple of times. “I think you’ve got them pretty well covered.”

“Okay, geat.” Tuck stepped over the cordon and headed for the door.

Dana hurried after her. “How do you think it happened? You lock the place up at night...”

“Might’ve been a break-in. I’ll have to check the windows and stuff. Or maybe somebody came in with a tour and didn’t leave. You want to wait outside while I take a look around?”

“Why?”

“Might be somebody in here.”

Dana had already realized that. Hearing Tuck say the words, though, gave her a cold feeling. “I’m supposed to go outside and let you handle him?” she asked.

Tuck shrugged and smiled.

“Not a chance,” Dana said.

The smile grew to a grin. “You’re a pal. True blue, gutsy, and large.”

Dana laughed.

“Let’s do it,” Tuck said.

Together, they made their way quickly through the ground level of the house. As they searched each room, Tuck talked with barely a pause. “Every once in a while, somebody gets the bright idea to spend the night. Which can be a real kick. I don’t exactly blame them, but it’s against the rules and we do a pretty good job of stopping them. The thing is, everyone gets a tape player and a set of headphones before they come in. Then they turn them in at the front gate when they leave. We count the players at the end of each day. If we don’t get them all back, we figure somebody’s unaccounted for and we go looking. Then we usually find the culprits trying to hide somewhere.”

Stopping in the kitchen, Tuck tried the knob of a shut door.

“Nobody got in this way,” she said. She took out her keys, unlocked the door, and swung it open.

Dana, close beside her, gazed down the stairway into the darkness of the cellar.

“Anybody down there?” Tuck called.

“Very amusing.”

“I know.” Leaving the door open, she resumed the search.

“It’s really not all that difficult to pull an ovemighter in here. You just have to be smart enough. You need someone else to turn in the player for you, or else you turn it in yourself and then find a way to sneak back into the house. It’s not that tough if you use your head.”

“Is it usually teenagers?”

“Almost always. I’ve caught a lot of them trying, and they’ve all been teens. Sometimes, it’s one guy doing it on a dare. But I’ve found three or four trying it together. And quite a few boy-girl couples. There are plenty of places to hide, if you’re clever.”

“And I bet you know them all,” Dana said as they returned to the foyer.

“Most of them,” Tuck said.

They started up the stairs.

“No matter how careful we are, though, people still manage to slip through. We’ve had plenty of evidence of overnight visits. Since I’ve been here, we’ve found cigarette butts, graffiti, candy wrappers, condoms, tampons...”

“Oh, nice.”

At the top of the stairs, Tuck resumed her search but didn’t stop talking.

“Assorted undergarments, mostly bras and panties. A pair of eyeglasses, a single shoe, keys and loose change that must’ve fallen out of somebody’s pockets. And assorted examples of human fluids and excretions.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Some people are pigs.”

“I’ll say. But it sounds like they’re getting in here all the time.”

“It really doesn’t happen terribly often. But when it does... You know what they do sometimes? They hide out till after dark, then open a door and let in some of their friends. That way, you might get five or six people running around in here at night.”

After checking a couple of rooms, Tuck stopped at the closed door to the attic. She tried to twist its knob. “Nobody got in here,” she said, then took out a key, unlocked the door and opened it. Inside, a cordon was stretched across the bottom of the stairs.

Dana glanced up the narrow stairwell. Darkness seemed to be seeping down into it from the attic at the top. She looked away quickly.

Tuck headed on down the corridor to resume the search. “Oddly enough, they almost never wreck any of the exhibits when they’re in here fooling around at night. We’ve hardly had any serious vandalism. I haven’t quite figured out why. Maybe they’re afraid it might be tempting fate—or the beast.”

“Have you had anything like this with Ethel’s gown?”

“Not exactly. But I did come in one morning and find her wearing a pair of men’s underwear.”

“Boxers or briefs?”

“White briefs. I thought it was pretty funny, actually. You could tell it was a prank. I don’t like this, though. This looks like a guy wanting to check her out, maybe feel her up. You know? Makes me think he might be a little perverted. And hard up. If he’s that hot for a dummy, just think what he might do to a couple of real-life gals like us.”

“He’d have to catch us first,” Dana said.

“You hold him, I’ll run for help.”

“Thanks. But do you think he’s still around?”

“It’s possible. You never know. So far, I haven’t bumped into anyone when I’m opening the place up. Most of them probably don’t stick around till morning. If they do stay, they probably keep themselves hidden until the place is full of tourists—then they just blend in and leave.”

After checking the final room, Tuck and Dana returned to the corridor and headed for the stairs.

“Whoever did this,” Tuck said, “it looks like he only bothered Ethel. Could’ve been a lot worse.”

They started down the stairs.

“Do you think somebody on the staff might’ve done it?” Dana asked. “As a prank, or something?”

“Pretty heavy for a prank, ruining the gown like that. That sort of thing would get you fired. And maybe prosecuted. I’d probably bring charges against him for destruction of the property.”

“Him?”

“Had to be a guy, don’t you think?”

Dana shook her head. “Not necessarily. Might’ve been a gal wanting it to look like the work of a guy. There’re all kinds of possibilities.”

“I suppose,” Tuck said.

As they walked from the foot of the stairs to the front door, she added, “I still think it was probably a guy. No sign of a break-in, so I’d guess that he took the tour yesterday and liked the looks of Ethel.” She opened the door. Dana followed her onto the porch. “He made sure to get his cassette player back to us, then he hid somewhere in the house until we’d locked up and gone home. After that, he had all the time in the world to fool around with her.”

Though they walked into sunlight as they descended the porch stairs, Dana didn’t notice its brightness or feel its heat. Her mind was inside the Beast House parlor, gazing through the darkness at a figure hunched over the body of Ethel Hughes. In the dim moonlight from the window, she watched him rip at the mannequin’s gown with both hands. He panted for air. He moaned as his hands latched on to her bare breasts. Then he was kissing them, licking them, then kissing his way down her body until his mouth found the crevice between her legs.

Tuck must’ve been thinking about him, too. “If he got off,” she said, “at least he didn’t leave a mess on the floor.”

Dana felt heat rush to her face. “Considerate of him.”

“Maybe he used a condom.”

“He couldn’t have actually penetrated her.”

“Nah. Not very far, anyway.” Stopping, Tuck turned around and stared back at the house.

“What?” Dana asked.

“I wonder if I should go back in and check her mouth.”

“Good idea. I’ll wait here.”

Shaking her head, Tuck glanced at her wristwatch. “No time. We’re already a couple of minutes late for the meeting. Come on.”

She led the way across the lawn, then up a walkway alongside the house. When they stepped past the rear corner, Dana saw three people waiting in front of the snack shop. Clyde and two young women—Rhonda and Sharon. They all wore the tan uniform with the red and white Beast House logo on the back of the shirt. Clyde wore long pants; the other two wore shorts. Clyde, standing, had a white stryofoam cup in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The girls were seated at one of the small white tables. Rhonda, a husky brunette, drank from a cup while Sharon worked on a cigarette. Sharon, slim and deeply tanned, had a long tail of braided blond hair hanging down her back.

At the approach of Tuck and Dana, heads turned. Dana saw friendly smiles and nods from the girls, but Clyde looked somewhat annoyed.

“Hey, y’all,” Tuck said. “Sorry we’re late. How’s everybody this morning?”

No complaints.

“You remember my friend, Dana Lake?”

More nods and smiles and soft-spoken greetings came from Rhonda and Sharon.

“She’ll be the upstairs monitor today. Whose got downstairs?”

Squinting through pale smoke, Sharon said, “That’ll be me.”

“Good.” Tuck smiled at Dana. “Shaion’s our oldest hand.”

“Been here six years,” Sharon said to Dana. She looked as if she might be in her mid-twenties. Her voice was low and husky. With that voice, the sharp angles of her face and her excess of makeup, she seemed to Dana more like a barmaid than a tour guide. Not that Dana’d seen many barmaids, except in the movies. “You have any questions,” Sharon said, “just ask. I know damn near everything. What I don’t know, I improvise.”

Dana smiled and nodded.

“Okay,” Tuck said. “Who’s out front?”

“I’m tickets,” Clyde said.

“I’m tape players,” said Rhonda. She had rosy cheeks and big, friendly eyes.

“Sharon, you were tape players yesterday?”

“Right,” Sharon said, raising two fingers and the cigarette between them.

“The count turned out okay?”

“Oh, yeah. You damn betcha. What’s up? We have a hider last night?”

“Looks that way. Somebody ripped Ethel’s nightgown. I fixed her up so she’s decent enough for the public, and Dana and I did a quick search of the house. We didn’t spot any other problems. No obvious signs of forced entry. It probably was a hider.”

“The count came out right on the button,” Sharon told her.

“Okay. Well, keep an eye out when you’re inside today. Just because we couldn’t find him doesn’t mean he’s gone.”

“You bet,” Sharon said.

“Everybody look sharp today,” Tuck said, her eyes roaming the others. “The guy is probably some sort of pervert.”

“He fuck Ethel?” Sharon asked.

Clyde snorted out a laugh. Rhonda blushed.

“I don’t think so,” Tuck said.

“Nobody’d do that,” the Rhonda said, looking disturbed.

Sharon, grinning, shook her head. “Well, don’t let me burst your bubble.”

“I want everyone to be alert and careful,” Tuck said. “Watch for anyone who seems to be lurking about or acting strange.”

“That’d be about half our customers,” Sharon said, then tipped a wink at Dana and took a puff on her cigarette. “Poor Clyde, too. That boy’s a lurker if I ever seen one.”

Clyde smirked at her, lit up another cigarette and said, “You’re just upset because I stopped lurking in your pants.”

“All right, folks, it’s time we take our positions and open up. Any questions? No questions? Okay, let’s do it.”

Chapter Seven

SANDY’S STORY—August 1980

Sandy started Marlon Slade’s MG, pushed the dutch pedal down with her foot, and shoved the shift around for a while until she found what was probably first gear. Then she let the dutch up. The car jolted forward and died.

“No problem,” she muttered.

In her whole life, she’d never tried to drive any vehicle except for Agnes Kutch’s old pickup truck. And she’d only driven it a few times, off on back roads, because she was too young for a driver’s license.

She’d done just fine with the steering side of things. It was the shifting that had always given her trouble. She’d killed the engine again and again, mostly when trying to start out.

“Yer poppin the clutch, ” Agnes bad explained from the passenger seat. “Ease off her gentle and easy, and step on the gas as ya let her up.”

Following Agnes’s advice now, Sandy twisted the ignition key, gave the engine some gas with her right foot, and raised her left foot very slowly to let the clutch pedal rise beneath it. The car started rolling forward.

"All right!”

She steered onto the road. Staying in first gear, she picked up speed. The engine revved, loud in her ears.

Gotta shift to second. Hope I don’t kill the thing.

As she fingered the knob of the shift, she saw a pale, hazy glow of headbeams in the rearview mirror.

With a quick jerk of the wheel, she swerved off the pavement. The MG crunched over weeds and rocks, bouncing, jolting her. She floored the brake pedal. The car lurched to a stop. Its engine quit.

She glanced back and saw the car come around the bend. As its headlights swung toward her, she dropped sideways.

She lay across the passenger seat, gasping for breath, her heart slamming.

Had she been quick enough or had they already spotted her? What if the MG was so low that they would be able to see her lying across the seats as they drove by?

If they see me down like this, they’ll stop for sure.

The car rushed closer with a sound like a strong wind bearing down.

Sandy fumbled with the dish towel and pressed it snugly against her breasts.

Light skimmed over the car. She saw it on the dashboard, saw it fill the rearview mirror. It reflected off the mirror and shined down as if trying to point her out.

Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop. Just keep going, whoever you are. This is none of your business.

She wondered if she would need the knife.

Before starting the car, she had bent over and tossed it underneath her seat.

Now, her legs were still in front of the knife. Her hip was on the seat above it. But her shoulder was planted in the passenger seat. She couldn’t possibly reach the knife. Not without sitting up first.

The approaching car slowed down.

No, don’t...

As its headlights moved on, the car itself crept up alongside the MG.

Sandy suddenly wondered if it had a trailer hitch.

Don’t even think about it.

Just go away, whoever you are.

With a quiet whine of brakes, the car stopped.

“She’s sure a peach,” a guy said.

He’s seen me!

No, maybe he means the MG.

He had sounded as if he might be standing over the driver’s door, peering in.

“What’s it doing out here?” asked a different voice. The voice of someone farther away. Probably the driver.

A woman.

Sandy felt a sudden, vast relief.

“I reckon it broke down,” said the guy.

“Yeah. Or the dumb shit run outa gas.”

“Same thing.”

“No, it ain’t,” the woman said.

“Sure is a peach.”

“Get on out and see what’s in it, Bill. He might have some good stuff, a fancy-ass car like that.”

Don’t do it, Bill! Stay in your car!

“What if the guy’s just off in the trees takin’ a whizz or something?” he asked.

“Ya gonna do it, or ya gonna sit here all night?”

“Wanta get me caught red-handed?”

“Yer as yella as peed-on snow.”

“Am not,” Bill said.

“Yella, yella, yella!”

“Shut up.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you!”

“Don’t you talk to me that way, ya yella bastard!”

Sandy heard skin hit skin. The woman blurted, “Ow!” Bill must’ve slapped her. “Yella cocksucker!” she squealed.

Then came a flurry of blows and the woman yelping and cursing Bill and pleading for him to stop while he pounded her and grunted with the effort and gasped, "Ya like that? How’s this? Ya like this? Fucking bitch. Ya like this?”

“Stop it!” She was crying like a kid being spanked. “Yer hurtin’ me!”

“Yella, huh?”

“No! Please! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it!”

The blows kept falling.

The woman, sobbing wildly, grunted and cried out each time she was hit. “I’m sorry!” she gasped. “Ya ain’t yella!”

“I’m fuckin’ tired of yer mouth, bitch!

“No! OW!”

“Ya like that? How ‘bout this?”

Smack!

Shoving her elbow into the passenger seat, Sandy pushed herself. up until she could see over the top of her driver’s door. The other car was stopped on the road beside the MG, only four or five feet away,

Still too low for a view inside, Sandy grabbed the steering wheel with her left hand and pulled herself higher.

Bill seemed to be kneeling on the front seat, hunched over as he thrashed the woman behind the steering wheel. Sandy couldn’t see her at all. But she could hear her crying and begging, could hear her clothes being tom, her skin being punched and slapped by Bill.

What’s gonna happen when they stop?

One of them’ll get out and find me, that’s what.

She wished another car would show up. If it came from behind, Bill’s car would be blocking the lane. Maybe he would quit beating the woman and make her drive away.

This was a back road, though. It didn’t get used much, especially at night. Another car might come along seconds from now—or maybe not for hours.

I’ve gotta get out of here.

Sandy pulled herself up the rest of the way. Though she hunkered low behind the steering wheel, she knew that her shoulders and head were in plain sight. If Bill stopped beating on the woman and either of them looked...

Reaching down, Sandy fingered the floor underneath the seat and found the knife.

Just let him try any crap with me.

She set the knife down across her lap, then twisted the ignition key. The engine spluttered, roared to life.

Bill twisted and ducked his head to see out the passenger window. “Hey!” he yelled.

Sandy stepped on the gas and let the clutch up. The MG jumped forward and died.

No!

In silence, it continued to roll forward.

Sandy tried to start the engine again. It sputtered, whinnied, didn’t catch.

Looking back, she saw Bill’s door fly open.

Her stomach knotted.

The engine caught.

Yes!

Easy does it! Easy does it!

She let up on the clutch and the tiny car surged forward, shoving her against the seatback. The leather was cool against her bare skin.

“Wait!” Bill shouted.

She looked back and saw him running toward her.

Gaining on her.

A big, heavy man with hair that was pale and curly in the moonlight. He wore a gray sweatshirt. The sleeves were cut off at the shoulders.

“Leave me alone!” Sandy yelled, swerving onto the pavement.

“Wait up! Where ya going? I ain’t gonna hurt you!”

The engine seemed to shout in protest against going so fast in first gear.

Sandy glanced over her shoulder again.

And gasped.

Bill was almost on her.

She shoved in the clutch, jerked the stick backward hoping for second gear, and let the clutch up. The gears made a nasty grinding noise, so she shoved the pedal down again.

Though she hadn’t killed the engine, she wasn’t in gear.

She was coasting.

“No sweat,” she muttered, trying to calm herself. “Just try it again, and...”

Bill grabbed her hair.

She couldn’t turn her head, but she heard his hard breathing and his shoes smacking the pavement. “Stop the car!” he yelled. He jerked her hair. It tugged at her scalp, turning her face to the right and pulling her head backward.

“Let go of me!” she cried out.

“Stop the fucking car!”

Suddenly not caring how much it might hurt or what damage it might do to her—wanting only to get away from this man—she stomped the gas pedal to the floor. The engine roared. The car, still out of gear, only coasted.

Shit!

“Stop the car or I’ll rip your head off!”

She jerked the steering wheel.

The car cut sideways.

To the left.

Bill shouted, “Watch out!’ Then he cried, “Ah!”

Sandy heard and felt only a slight bump, but the hand abruptly let go of her hair. She twisted her head and looked back.

Bill was down, tumbling on the pavement in the beams of his own car’s headlights.

Giving up on second gear, Sandy tried third.

She let the clutch pedal up and the MG rushed forward as if given a quick, strong shove.

“All right!” she yelled.

In the rearview mirror, she saw Bill push himself to his knees. He seemed to be staring at her.

He was better lit than before.

Behind him, his car was on the move.

The woman must’ve recovered enough to drive. She was coming to pick him up.

Then they’ll come after me!

As the car bore down on Bill, he raised an arm.

Then he tried to get up off his knees.

He shouted, "Donnnnn’t!”

At the last instant, he tried to dive out of the way. But the car chopped his legs out from under him. He flew head first over the hood and crashed through the windshield.

Blasted through the glass all the way to his waist.

On the driver’s side.

The car, still picking up speed, started to gain on Sandy.

She stepped on the gas.

How can that woman see where she’s driving?

Sandy raced around a curve and lost sight of the car.

A few seconds later, it showed in the rearview mirror.

It didn’t make the curve.

Didn’t even seem to try.

Just sped straight on and leaped off the road as if somebody’d decided on a scenic detour through the forest.

Sandy felt a chill prickle its way up her back.

She muttered, “Holy crap.”

The headbeams pushed their brightness into the trees.

Sandy steered around another bend. After that, she could see nothing behind her except the dark road and the woods.

She listened for the sound of the car smashing into a tree.

Any second, now.

Would there be an explosion? She hoped not. If the car exploded, the forest might catch on fire.

She imagined a fire spreading over the wooded hills. And surrounding her trailer. She pictured Eric asleep in his crib as fire closed in.

No sound of a crash came to her.

I’m just too far away to hear it, that’s all. There bad to be a crash by now. How the hell far can you go speeding through the woods?

She imagined the car with its front crushed against a tree trunk, flames lapping up around the edges of its hood.

She picked up speed.

She should be at Agnes’s house in a couple more minutes. But getting the woman to answer her door might take a while.

Then Sandy would need to explain things, get the keys to the pickup truck, head back with it...

Maybe to find herself in the middle of a forest fire.

She stopped the MG, killing its engine. But she started the engine easily. In first gear, she made a U-turn.

She had no trouble finding the place where Bill’s car had gone off the road and plunged into the woods. She pulled over to the side, stopped, picked up the butcher knife and climbed out.

Standing by the road, she stared into the trees.

Not much moonlight made it down through their heavy canopy of branches and leaves.

She couldn’t see Bill’s car.

She couldn’t see flames, either.

That doesn’t mean it isn’t on fire.

Sandy put her back to the road and ran into the woods.

She knew it probably wasn’t a good idea to run. Though she’d never put on the MG’s headlights and her eyes were pretty well adjusted to the darkness, she could see almost nothing in front of her—just a few speckles and patches of moonlight, almost like bits of snow scattered here and there.

Running through the dark, she might trip and fall.

She had a knife in her hand. If she fell on that...

In her mind, she heard her mother warn, “Be careful, you’ll fall and put your eye out.”

Mom.

Don’t think about her The bell with her. The traitor.

Sandy hated it when she happened to think of her mother.

Who needs her, anyway? I’ve got Eric.

She ran faster, pumping hard with her arms, flinging her legs out, her bare feet punching the mat of pine needles. Her breasts, swollen with milk for Eric, bounced and swung wildly. Her dish towel bib flapped up and down, twisted, and soon ended up draping her right shoulder.

Where the hell’s the car?

Though bushes sometimes whipped or scratched her legs, she realized that she wasn’t dodging trees. The dark trunks flew by on both sides of her, but none was in the way.

Can’t last long. just a fluke.

Maybe there was a road here once.

But how could the gal steer through all this when she couldn’t even see out her...

Something snagged Sandy’s right foot. Though she jerked it free, she couldn’t swing her leg forward fast enough. She fell headlong. On the way down, she stretched out her arms so the knife in her right hand would be safe overhead.

She landed on the damp carpet of the forest floor. Her breath knocked out, she skidded on her bare skin. Then she lay there, sprawled out, struggling for air.

The ground beneath her felt springy with layers of soft pine needles. They were wet with dew, and didn’t feel too bad. Prickly, here and there. She also felt some twigs and pine cones pushing against her. She didn’t like how they felt.

When she was able to breathe again, she stood up. Keeping the knife low in her right hand, she used her left hand to brush the clinging forest debris off her chest and breasts and belly.

She bent down and rubbed it off the front of her shorts, her thighs and knees.

She still felt wet and dirty.

A lot of good my shower did.

At least I’m not bloody, she told herself.

Not that I know of.

As she started walking again, she took the towel from around her neck and used it to mop herself dry. Then she put it back on. It felt damp against her skin. She made a face.

I shouldn’t even be out here, she thought. There isn’t any fire. And if there is, what am I gonna do about it—beat it out with my wet dish rag?

She kept going, anyway.

She was pretty sure she wouldn’t find a fire. But what would she find?

Nothing real cheerful, that’s for sure.

As she hurried along, she realized that she needed to know what had become of the car, the woman and Bill. She had to know where they’d stopped—if they’d stopped.

Sure they did.

But she needed to see for herself. Otherwise, she might always be haunted by the idea of the car speeding through the night woods with Bill sticking out of its windshield. Going on and on...

She quickened her pace. Though tempted to run, she sure didn’t want to fall again. She’d been lucky with the last fall.

Next time, she might land on a sharp stick or something.

But I can’t spend all night at this...

She started to trot. Slowly, at first. Then faster. Then even faster until she was racing along full speed.

Find that car and get out of here, get on over to Agnes’s house...

The ground suddenly dropped out from under Sandy’s feet.

Not again!

Plunging headlong down a slope, she stretched out her arms and saw lights off in the distance: the red ovals of a car’s taillights and the white beam of a single headlight reaching into the woods.

Sandy hit the ground and sledded down on her chest until her shoulder hit a rock. She cried out. The blow turned her body sideways and she rolled, flipping from front to back to front to back, glimpsing the lights of the car with each rotation Instead of rolling straight for the bottom of the slope, she took a diagonal route. It ended when her left hip struck a tree. Still rolling fast, she grunted and rammed her belly against the trunk. And stopped hard.

When she could breathe again, she flopped onto her back and groaned

At least I found the damn car, she told herself.

And she still had a grip on her knife. She was fairly sure she hadn’t cut herself with it.

She turned over, pushed herself to her hands and knees, then stood up. Her body hurt in many places, but her right shoulder seemed to have the worst injury. It burned from its collusion with the rock. It felt as if it had been pounded and scraped raw. She hoped it wasn’t broken. It still seemed to work.

She’d lost her dish towel somewhere on the slope.

Have to look for it on the way back up.

In the meantime, she didn’t much care about the loss of the towel. She was too hurt and filthy all over to bother cleaning herself with it. And she didn’t need to worry, down here, about being half naked.

Bill certainly wouldn’t be ogling her.

As for the woman, Sandy didn’t care. She’d never had real trouble with any woman. It was only men who always wanted to stare at her and mess with her.

Dirty cruds, all of them.

Two down in one night, she thought. That’s pretty good.

Limping slightly, she made her way toward the car.

It looked as if it had bounded down the slope, raced across the short clearing at the bottom, and finally met a tree. Though the taillights and one of the headlights still worked, the engine seemed to be dead. She saw no smoke or flames.

As she approached, she crouched slightly to look through the windows.

The woman was sitting up straight behind the steering wheel.

She seemed to be gazing out through the hole in her windshield.

Bill no longer filled the hole.

He’d left his empty sweatshirt in the broken glass at the bottom of the hole, but he was gone.

With a quick, sick feeling, Sandy hurried forward.

She stared at the hood of the car.

Bill was gone from there, too.

But he hadn’t gone far. Maybe fifteen or twenty feet.

The headlight pointed him out.

Sandy gasped. She almost ran away, but realized he didn’t seem interested in her.

He couldn’t even see her.

He was upright with his back toward Sandy, standing on his head—just on his head, not even supporting himself with his hands. Both his arms dangled, his hands limp against the ground.

It seemed a remarkable feat.

Until she noticed that he wasn’t balancing himself on his head. Up above him, both his feet were wedged into the crotch of the tree trunk.

He was no acrobat, after all. Just a dead guy turned by accident into a freakish spectacle.

Sandy grimaced at him.

She could see how it might’ve happened: when the car struck the tree that demolished its right headlight, Bill had been shot backward, feet first, off the left side of the hood. He’d hit the ground and done a wild backward somersault toward a second tree. At the peak of the somersault, only his head touching the ground, he’d rammed both his feet into the V of the trunk and gotten stuck that way.

Staring at him, Sandy felt goosebumps prickle her skin.

Sure doesn’t look accidental, she thought. Looks like somebody put him that way on purpose.

What if someone did, and he’s still around?

Stupid, she thought. The guy just happened to end up like that.

Maybe.

Let’s get.

But she couldn’t. Not yet. First, she needed to check the woman.

She hurried around the rear of the car. In the red glow of the taillights, she saw that it had a traitor hitch.

Lot of good it’ll do me.

She kept moving. Her right hand ached from clutching the knife so hard. She scanned the woods on all sides as she made her way toward the driver’s door.

So dark.

Except where the headlight went, she could see almost nothing.

Somebody could sneak right up on me.

Take it easy. Nobody’s around. It’s Just the three of us, and both of them are dead. Probably.

She crouched near the driver’s door, saw the shape of the woman sitting behind the wheel, then opened the door.

The car filled with light from its ceiling bulb.

The woman wore a seatbelt. Her blouse was torn open and hung off one shoulder—probably the result of the beating, not the crash. From her face to her lap, she was coated with blood. It still dripped off her chin.

Dripped from her wide open mouth.

Her mouth was jammed full of bloody hair.

Not her hair.

Her own hair was all shaved off. The hair stuffing her mouth had to be Bill’s.

It was easy to figure out how that had happened.

Sandy muttered, “Jeez.”

The woman’s head slowly turned toward her.

The eyes opened.

Chapter Eight

THE DAY TOUR

“We’ll be there in just a few minutes, now,” Patty announced. • "Any last questions before we arrive? Yes, Marv?”

“Are there plans to ever open the Kutch house for tours? I mean, it seems like the obvious thing. You could have people go over there through the underground tunnel, you know? It’d be incredible.”

“As a matter of fact, Janice purchased the Kutch house at the same time she bought Beast House. But a condition of the sale was that Agnes would be allowed to continue living there—and that it wouldn’t be shown on tours—as long as she remains alive.”

“So if we wanta see it, we’ve gotta outlive Agnes?”

“That’s right.”

“How old is she?”

Patty shook her head. “I can’t say for sure, but I suppose she must be about fifty-nine or sixty.”

“I won’t hold my breath, then.”

A few of the passengers chuckled, but most didn’t respond. Owen suspected that just about everyone on the bus had grown tired of Marv’s incessant questions and comments. He was a little sick of Marv, himself.

The guy was like a hotdog student, always popping his hand into the air, endlessly ready to answer questions or ask them, forever eager to show that he knew more than anyone else.

Every group seemed to have a Marv.

The Marvs often seemed interesting, at first. But they wore on you until you wished they would just shut up.

“Any more questions?’ Patty asked. “Yes, Marv?”

“How about giving me your phone number?”

A few passengers chuckled.

“Afraid not, Marv.”

Laughter and applause.

Owen looked over his shoulder. Marv was laughing, too, but his face was red.

Patty turned away. Ducking slightly, she peered out the windshield. She faced the group again, then held on to a pole while the bus made a right turn. “Okay, folks, we’re now on Front Street of Malcasa Point. You should be able to catch a few glimpses of the ocean off to the left of the bus.”

Leaning forward to see past Monica, Owen spotted a patch of pale blue water through a break in the trees. But he wasn’t much interested in the Pacific. He swung his gaze northward, hoping to see the Kutch house.

“The Kutch house will shortly be coming up on the left side of the road,” Patty announced. “Beast House itself will be on the right. If you can’t see one or the other from your seat, don’t worry about it; we’ll be parking in just a few seconds and you’ll have three hours to look them over.”

Owen spotted the Kutch house.

He’d seen it plenty of times before: in photographs and in movies.

But this is it. This is really it. Not a picture, the actual Kutch house. And I’m looking at it.

Except for the chain link fence surrounding the property, it looked just as it did in the books and films. Brown-red bricks, almost like the color of old, dry blood. A weathered front door. Just the one door. No windows.

Not only were no other doors or windows in sight, but Owen knew that none existed.

The lack of any windows made the house seem more strange than he would’ve supposed.

He suddenly imagined Janice Crogan locked in one of its upstairs rooms, waking up naked on a mountain of pillows after being raped and abducted. This was one of his favorite scenes from her first book. He’d read it many times, daydreaming about being there, helping her, making love with her on the pillows.

He’d really hoped he might have a chance to meet her today.

Just my luck, she’s out of town.

But she wouldn’t be the Janice he knew from the books, anyway. Not really. That Janice had been eighteen years old. A teenager, not a thirty-six year old woman.

And even if she hadn’t grown older, she couldn’t possibly have lived up to Owen’s fantasies. No girl could be that beautiful, that sexy and tough and brave.

I’m probably lucky she is out of town, he told himself.

“Yoo-hoo,” Monica said. “Anybody home? Planet Earth to Owen. Hello?”

He looked at her.

“Are we just going to sit here all day?” she asked.

He forced himself to smile at her before looking away.

The bus had already stopped. Passengers were making their way down the aisle to disembark.

"Get up, get up, get up,” Monica chanted, smiling slightly.

The smile didn’t match up very well with the smirk in her violet eyes.

“We don’t have to barge right out,” he said.

“I thought you couldn’t wait to get here.”

“There’s no big hurry. We’ll have three whole hours.”

“You’re telling me.”

When the aisle was clear, Owen slipped his camera strap around his neck and stood up. He sidestepped into the aisle, then waited for Monica. Letting her go ahead of him, he realized that, right now, he didn’t even like the way she looked from behind.

Her hair, with its pink bow and a flouncy pony tail, seemed like a phony attempt to make her look like a cute, perky kid.

Her back was too stiff, too arched.

Her white knit shirt was tight, but not as tight as her bra.

Owen could see her bra through the fabric, its back strap squeezing her under the arms so that her flesh bulged over its top.

Her flesh also bulged over the tightly cinched waistband of her jeans.

The jeans themselves, brand new and dark blue, swelled out to encase her hips and buttocks. They fit her so snugly that the denim seat looked solid.

If she falls on her ass, Owen thought, she’ll bounce right up again.

Immediately, he felt guilty about the thought.

A moment later, he felt angry at himself for feeling guilty.

Would it kill her to wear stuff that fits?

He followed her down the bus stairs. Patty, waiting at the bottom, smiled at Monica and said, “Watch your step, please.”

Then she said, “Have a good tour, Owen.”

“Thanks,” he told her.

And wondered if she had a boyfriend.

Probably.

Probably a strapping, handsome guy with a solid handshake and a ready smile.

Or maybe she’s a lesbian.

Either way, I don’t stand a chance.

Monica took hold of his hand, gave it a squeeze, and said, “We might as well make the most of things. Maybe we can have a picnic on the beach or do something fun like that after we finish the tour.”

“Maybe so.”

Dragging him toward the end of the ticket line, she said, “I just love beaches. They’re so romantic.”

“Maybe we should’ve brought our suits.”

“Don’t be a silly. We can’t go swimming.”

“We probably could.”

“No swimming suits, no towels. And where would we change? Besides, I don’t go in oceans. You never know what might be in the water. I don’t relish the notion of catching hepititis or getting eaten alive by a shark.”

They stepped to the end of the line.

“Look at that,” Monica said. “Fifteen dollars apiece. Isn’t that ridiculous ? How can they charge fifteen bucks for a thing like this?”

“Why not? It’s the only place like this in the country—probably in the whole world.”

“It’s robbery.”

“They’re not forcing anyone to pay it.”

“Plus fifteen each for the bus ride. This is costing us sixty dollars.”

“It’s costing me sixty dollars.” He grinned. “Money well spent. Good thing we’ll be gone before Saturday, or I’d be dragging you out here for the Midnight Tour. That’d really cost me an arm and a leg.”

“Would not.”

“No?”

She tilted back her head and showed her teeth. “It’d cost zilch, because I wouldn’t let you do it. You shouldn’t be throwing away this kind of money, much less a couple of hundred dollars for some horrible adults only tour.”

“I bet it’d be great.”

“You would think so.”

“I mean, just to be inside Beast House late at night...”

His head swung sideways. And he saw Beast House.

It had been in full view ever since he’d stepped off the bus, but he’d paid no attention to it.

Until now.

Like the Kutch house across the street, it looked very much as he’d expected from seeing it in so many photographs and movies.

He’d already seen it hundreds of times.

Not the real thing, he told himself. This isn’t a picture, this is it.

He stared at the house.

And felt a little disappointed.

It looked like just an ordinary old Victorian home, a little more ordinary than most of the restored Victorians he’d seen during his travels. Smaller. Not as omate. A lot more dilapidated.

It’s supposed to look dilapidated, he told himself. It’s Beast House.

He wanted to feel a thrill of dread, but it didn’t come.

Too much exposure to the place? he wondered. Had he spent too long staring at the photos in Janice Crogan’s books? Had he seen The Horror and its sequels too many times?

On the other hand, maybe familiarity wasn’t the problem. Maybe the problem was seeing it beseiged by tourists—not a menacing old house, but a thriving attraction.

How can a place give you the willies when it has families parading in and out?

All these damn tourists, he thought.

And what am I, a native? I’m a tourist, the same as all the rest of them.

I’m the ULTIMATE tourist—I came on a bus. Gotta get back on it in three hours so I can’t even stay.

That’s what I’d like to do, he thought. Stay. Stay till after closing time, till after dark. That’d be the only way to get the feel of the house. Stand out here by myself after everyone is gone and look at it through the fence—watch it in the darkness, in the moonlight.

He imagined himself saying to Monica, Hey, how would you like to stay overnight here in town and catch the bus back to San Francisco tomorrow?

What would her response be? Are you nuts? Are you out of your mind? Three hours is three hours too long to be stuck in this miserable excuse for a town. There must be something seriously wrong with you to even consider spending a night here. Besides which, we’ve already paid for our room at the Holiday Inn. We certainly aren’t going to pay for a room and then not spend the night in it. So get that out of your head right this very moment. I’ve never heard anything so...

Owen suddenly realized that the man in front of him was walking away. Nobody else remained between him and the ticket window.

Smiling at the large, broad-shouldered man behind the glass, he reached for his wallet and said, “Hi. Two adults, please.” He paid with a Mastercard.

The man slipped a pair of tickets under the window to him, along with his receipt, a small brochure and a couple of coupons.

“Save your ticket stubs,” he said. “If you show them at the Beast House Museum, you’ll be able to get in for half price. These coupons are good for a ten percent discount on any merchandise purchased at the gift shop or snack bar.”

“Thanks.”

“Take your tickets around to the side, and Rhonda will provide you with your audio equipment.”

“Thanks,” Owen said again.

“Enjoy the tour.”

“Thanks.” He stepped away from the window.

“Over this way,” Monica said.

He followed her around the corner of the ticket shack.

“Good morning,” Rhonda greeted them, smiling and somehow looking too young and too shy for the job. “May I see your tickets, please?”

Owen gave them to her.

She tore them in half. “Be sure to save your stubs,” she said, returning half of each ticket to Owen. “You can get into the Beast House Museum on Front Street for half price.”

“We’ve already been told that,” Monica said.

Rhonda blushed. “Oh. Anyway.” She shrugged, then turned around. The outer wall of the ticket shack looked like a huge, open cupboard. It was lined with shelves. About half the shelves were empty. The others held audio cassette players.

Rhonda pulled one down. It was slightly smaller than a paperback book, black plastic, with a bright orange strap. Earphones were attached. “Here you are,” she said, and handed it to Monica. “You just hang the player around your neck by the strap.”

“I can see that.”

Rhonda blushed again.

Owen felt like smacking Monica.

When Rhonda gave a player to him, he smiled, hung it around his neck, and said, “Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome. It’s a self-guided tour, and the players are all ready to go. You should wait until you reach the porch, which is Station Number One. You’ll see a sign with the number one on it. Then stop there and push Play, which is the oblong button on top.” She pointed it out on Owen’s machine. “And this is the Stop button here. After the porch, you proceed from station to station. The tape will tell you what to do. But feel free to take as long as you wish with the tour. Okay? When you’re done, just bring the players back to me. I’ll be right here.”

“Okay, thank you,” Owen told her.

They started up the walkway toward Beast House.

“I love it already,” Monica said. By the snide tone of her voice, Owen figured that her remark was inspired by the sight of the mannequin hanging from the porch beam.

“That’s poor Gus Goucher,” he explained.

“Yeah, I remember them lynching some guy. Which movie was that in, number two?”

“The Horror 3 in 3-D. But it happened in real life, Monica. Gus was a real person.”

“I know that.”

They halted behind a small group near the foot of the stairs. All wore headphones. Some turned this way and that as if surveying their general surroundings while they listened. Some looked down. A few whispered comments, nodded, chuckled. But most stood motionless and gazed up at the dangling body as they listened to their tapes.

“Lovely,” Monica muttered.

“He’s not supposed to be pretty,” Owen whispered.

"He isn’t.”

Gus’s eyes bulged. His black, swollen tongue stuck out.

His head was tilted sideways at a nasty angle so that his right ear almost touched his shoulder. But the worst part, for Owen, was the neck.

It was way too long..

That’s why they call it "stretching his neck.”

He’d seen photographs of such things.

But he didn’t like how it looked.

The stretched neck made things seem a little too real.

From the shoulders down, Gus looked all right. He wore a plaid shirt, blue jeans and boots.

Monica lowered her head, inspected her cassette player for a moment, then thumbed one of the buttons on top of it. Owen heard the click. He started his own player, then gazed up at Gus.

After a brief, hissy sound, a woman began to speak.

“Good morning, and welcome to Beast House. My name is Janice Crogan.”

Janice!

Her voice was rich and exciting, but not the voice of a teenaged girl. This was Janice grown up.

“I’ll be your guide today, with the help of old Maggie Kutch. Maggie created Beast House as an attraction after her family was murdered here, many years ago. If you had come here before her death in 1979, she would’ve been your guide. Old Maggie, fat and scarred, would’ve stood on the porch steps just in front of you, cane in hand as she introduced herself.

"'Howdy, folks,’” said a low, husky voice that clearly didn’t belong to Janice. It sounded distant and a little scratchy like an old-time recording of a live concert or political speech. ‘“Welcome to Beast House. My name’s Maggie Kutch, and I own it. I started off showing the place just after my husband and three children was butchered by the beast. Now, you might be asking yourselves how come I’d wanta show you my home after it was the scene of such awful grief to me. The answer’s easy: m-o-n-e-y.’

“What you just heard was the actual voice of Maggie Kutch,” Janice explained. “She conducted her tours for a great many years until her death in 1979. Even though she had rules against bringing recording devices into the house, quite a few people sriuck them in anyway. We’ve been lucky enough to obtain several recordings of the tours, so you’ll be able to hear Maggie tell the story in her own words, as if she herself were hobbling through the house as your own personal guide.

“You are now at Station One, which depicts the hanged body of Gus Goucher. Maggie never had a figure of Gus. He was added to the attraction in recent years, after my purchase of Beast House. If you’d been here in Maggie’s day, she would’ve pointed her cane at the beam from which Gus now hangs, and told you...”

Maggie’s voice returned. “‘Right here’s where they strung up poor Gus Goucher. He was only eighteen years old, and stopped by town on his way to San Francisco. He was going there to get a job at the Sutro Baths, where his brother worked. You know the Sutro Baths? They was like giant indoor swimming pools of hot water— salt water—right on the coast over near Cliff House. Cliff House, it’s still there. Some of it is, anyhow. The Sutro Baths’re long gone, but you can see the ruins down the bluff if you go to Cliff House.

“I reckon the Baths was quite a swell place, back then. Only Gus never made it there, because he showed up at this house on August 2, 1903.’” Owen heard a couple of hard thumps and pictured Maggie pounding the tip of her cane against the porch floor. "'Lilly Thorn, the outlaw’s widow, lived here then, along with her two children and her visiting sister, Ethel. Gus split some firewood for Lilly, late that afternoon, and she paid him with a supper. Then he was on his way.

“‘That night, the beast struck. No one, but only Lilly, lived through the attack. She ran into the street, screaming like a madwoman and waking up half the town. Well, the sheriff come along and searched the whole house from top to bottom. He didn’t find no culprit. He found nothing but the torn up, chewed up bodies of Lilly’s sister and two little boys. So then a posse was got up. They all went tromping around in the hills near the house, and who should they stumble on to but poor Gus Goucher, fast asleep by his campfire.

“‘Some of the posse recalled seeing him around Lilly’s house. And there wasn’t nobody to stand up for him, since he was just a stranger passing through. He might’ve sailed by, anyhow, if he’d only had them two strikes against him. But the third was the clencher. Gus had some blood on his clothes. So they dragged him back to town and had a trial for him over at the court house, which ain’t around any longer as it burned to the ground back in 1916.

“‘At the trial, Gus said he was innocent. He claimed the blood came from a cut on his finger, and he had the cut, sure enough. Only the prosecutor said he might’ve cut himself on purpose so he’d have an excuse for the bloody clothes. And the jury, they believed him.

“‘What about Lilly?’” asked a young man. From the volume of his voice, Owen suspected he might’ve been the person secretly recording the tour. “She saw what happened, didn’t she? Why didn’t she take the stand and clear Gus?’

“‘Why, son, she couldn’t. Poor Lilly, she’d gone stark raving mad on account of the slaughter. She wasn’t in shape to testify about nothing. At any rate, the jury took about two minutes flat to make up their minds. They found Gus guilty of triple murder, and the judge sentenced him to swing.

“‘Only thing is, the law never got a chance to carry out its sentence, because a mob beat it to the punch. The night after the trial, a bunch of town folks dressed up in masks busted Gus out of jail. They dragged the poor lad to this very spot, whipped a rope over that beam right there, and strung him up.

“He was an innocent man, of course. Leastwise, as innocent as any man ever is. He didn’t kill nobody at the Thorn house that night. Not unless he had claws. The beast done it. The beast done it all. Let’s go on in, now.’

“You may climb the stairs, now,” Janice said. “As you enter Beast House, you should note that this is not the original front door. The original was blasted open by a police shotgun in 1978, and is on permanent display at the Beast House Museum on Front Street.

“You should now proceed to Station Number Two, just inside the foyer and to your left. Stop the tape, and resume it when you’re inside the parlor.”

Owen pressed the Stop button on his machine.

Monica smirked at him. “Do you suppose it gets any better?”

“Let’s go in and find out.”

Owen had been vaguely aware of people moving on, climbing the porch stairs and disappearing into the house while he’d been listening to the taped voices. Looking behind him as he followed Monica up the stairs, he saw a whole new bunch listening at Station One. Some gazed up at the hanged man with disgust, some looked fascinated, and others averted their eyes.

At the open door to Beast House, Monica stopped and turned to Owen. “You first,” she said.

“If you’d rather not go “in...”

“I’ll go in.”

“You don’t have to. You could wait out on the lawn, or go around to the snack shop or something.”

“And miss all the fun?”

“You don’t seem to be having much fun.”

“Oh, you noticed?”

“Really. Why don’t you just wander around for a while. I’ll hurry.”

“I’ll go in. Just remember I’m doing it for you, Owie. I’ll hate it, but I’ll do it—because I love you.”

Chapter Nine

SANDY’S STORY—August, 1980

The woman behind the steering wheel tried to say something, but the sounds she made were muffled and mushy.

With the thumb and forefinger of her left hand, Sandy dug into the woman’s mouth and started pulling out Bill’s hair. It disgusted her. It reminded her of cleaning out a bathtub drain, except that flesh and teeth came out along with the gobs of sticky hair.

When the mouth was just about clear, the woman gasped, “Bless ya, girl. Bless ya.”

“Are you okay?” Sany asked.

The woman choked out a rough, slurpy laugh, then said, “Did I kill da cocksucker?”

“I guess so.”

“Go look. Gotta know.”

“I’m not going over there, lady. How bad are you hurt?”

“Don’ know.”

“Can you move?”

“Don’ know.”

“See if you can start the car.”

The woman slowly raised her right hand and turned the ignition key. The engine grumbled, caught, and rumbled on, staying alive. The woman turned her head toward Sandy. She grinned a bloody smile.

Though feeling a little sick, Sandy said, “Scoot over and I’ll drive.”

“Huh-uh. What about Bill?”

“Look at him. He’s dead. You think he’s not dead? My God, you probably swallowed some of his brains.”

The woman gurgled another laugh, then said, “He sure pucked up my teet. But I gotta know.” She fumbled with the latch of her seatbelt.

“I tell you what,” Sandy said.

“Huh?”

“Go on and move over. Keep your eyes on me. I’ll take care of things, and then we’ll scoot.”

“Okay.”

Sandy trotted into the white beam of the headlight. She threw a huge shadow ahead of her. Her shadow darkened Bill’s bare back.

When she got to him, she stepped aside so that neither her body nor her shadow would ruin the woman’s view. Then she sank to her knees.

Bill looked as if his head had been buried in the ground to the tops of his ears.

Sandy clutched the hair on the back of his head. When she pulled, his head slid across the ground. It wasn’t buried, after all—just smashed flat.

She tugged hard, pulling the body away from the tree, lifting its head as much as she could, wondering if the woman in the car could see that Bill’s skull was caved in and half empty.

Then she reached around the front with her butcher knife and slit his throat.

She ran back to the car.

She threw herself into the driver’s seat and slammed the door.

“Tanks,” the woman said.

Sandy smiled at her. “Glad to help.”

“I’m Lib.”

“Lib?”

“Libby, Lib.”

“Good to meet you, Lib. I’m Charly. With a y. Let’s get outa...Hey! All right!”

“Huh?” Lib asked.

“You’ve got automatic transmission!” She shoved the lever, then started to back up. For a moment, she was afraid that the right front of the car might remain stuck to the tree. But it came away all right with sounds like clinking glass and crunching tin.

“Where we goin’?” Lib asked.

“I don’t know.”

She didtn’t know. The main thing, for now, was that the car worked. She carefully turned it around, then started driving slowly back through the woods and up the slope.

About halfway to the top, she spotted her dish towel on the ground. But she didn’t dare stop for it.

She left the rag behind and kept her foot on the gas pedal.

They crept over the crest of the hill.

“There!” she gasped.

“What?”

“Made it.”

Not really, she thought, steering carefully through the woods. This is just the start. We’ll probably get to the road okay, but then what?

“Where do you live, Lib?”

“Here.”

“Here in Malcasa?”

“Huh-uh. In my car.”

“You live in your car?”

“Yeah.”

“In this car?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t have a real home?”

“Hab you?”

“I’ve got a trailer,” Sandy said “It’s not very far from here.”

“I got a trailer hitch.”

“I know. I saw it. But we’ve got one dead headlight and a smashed windshield. We’d be pulled over by the first cop that sees us. Then we’d both be busted.”

“Id was selp-depense. He beat me up.”

“Yeah, but he wasn’t doing it when you ran him down. If they find out what happened, you’ll end up in prison.”

“Puck dat.”

When the road came into sight through the trees, Sandy shut off the headlight. She drove to the edge of the pavement and stopped. The road looked dark and empty. She stared at the little MG.

“We take years?” Lib asked.

“It isn’t mine.”

You was...”

“I know. The guy it belongs to is dead. I killed him.”

“Yer kiddin’.” She let out a wet, snorty laugh.

“He attacked me. and my kid tonight.”

“Ya killed him?”

“Yeah.”

“Ain’t dat a hOOt? You’n me, we bote killers!”

“I don’t know what to do about his car.”

“Can’t pull no trailer wid it.”

“I know.”

“Leab it.”

“It’s got my fingerprints on it.”

“Better wipe ‘em opp.”

“Yeah. Okay. Wait here.”

Sandy left the engine running. When she opened the door, the overhead light came on. She looked over at Lib.

They looked at each other.

Lib had cleaned most of the blood off her face. She held a wadded, red bandana against her nose and mouth. A large, golden ring dangled from one of her ears. The lobe of her other ear was torn . and bloody. She might be about thirty years old, but it was hard to tell because of her battered face. She was larger than Sandy, had broad shoulders, and looked strong. Her shaved head made her seem tough, even though her face was torn and puffy.

Lib took the rag away from her mouth and asked, “Where’s yer shirt?”

“Where’s your hair?”

“Haw!”

“I’ll be right back.”

Sandy climbed out of the car and shut its door. She hurried up the roadside to the MG, dropped into its driver’s seat, and pulled out the ignition key.

She stuffed the key ring into a front pocket of. her shorts. Then she leaned sideways and opened the glove compartment.

It held a small revolver.

Sandy pursed her lips, quickly pulled out the handgun and stuffed it into her pocket.

Then she reached into the glove compartment again. This time, she found a few maps and a small stack of paper napkins—Slade must’ve saved the napkins from visits to fast food joints.

Sandy took them out and snapped the compartment shut. There seemed to be six or eight napkins. She used them to wipe the front of the glove compartment, the dashboard, the gear shift knob and the steering wheel. She opened the driver’s door, then wiped the inside handle.

The road was still dark and empty.

She climbed out, shut the door, and rubbed the outside handle. And the area around the handle. Then she made a quick swipe along the top of the door.

Shoving the napkins into a pocket, she hurried back to Lib’s car.

“Whose car is this?” she asked Lib.

Lib sniffed loudly, then said, “Mine.”

“Are you the real owner?”

“Sure.”

“The registered owner?”

“Y’kiddin’ me?”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“Puck no.”

“It’s stolen?”

“Y’betcha.

“Great.

Sandy pulled onto the road, turned left, and headed for her trailer.

“How hot is it?” she asked, and put the headlight on.

“We’b had it a mont.”

“A month?”

“Stole it in Mexico. It’s good ‘n sape.”

“What are you, some kind of big time criminal?”

Lib let out a laugh, then snorted. “Dat’s a good one. Bill ‘n me, big time. Bonnie ‘n Clyde. Dat’s us. Know what? Bill was nuttin’ but a chicken-shit bully wit da brain ob a worm.”

“Was he your husband?”

“Haw!”

“Guess not.”

“Wortless puck.”

Sandy slowed down as she approached her turn-off. The road ahead looked empty. In the rearview, she saw only darkness and bits of moonlight. She swung onto the dirt tracks and powered her way up the hillside. Bushes squeaked against the sides of the car, scraped against its undercarriage.

“Ya lib up here?”

“Yeah. Me and my kid.”

“How old’s yer kid?”

“Six months.”

“A baby.”

“Yeah.”

“Boy ‘r girl?”

“Aw. Dat’s nice, real nice. But ya don’ gotta man?”

“Just him.”

“Bastard knock ya up ‘n run off?”

“Knocked me up and got killed.”

“Aw.”

“Yeah.”

“Did ya lub him?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Lipe’s a bitch, den ya die.”

“That’s what they say. Sort of.”

Lib laughed. Then she reached over and patted Sandy’s leg.

“Yer a good kid, Charly.”

“Thanks.”

As she drove over the crest of the slope, the car’s single headlight swept down from high in the trees and stretched across the clearing to her trailer.

“That’s home,” Sandy said. “Should we hitch it up to your car and get out of here?”

“We can try. Ya know how?”

“Sure. My friend Agnes and I pulled it up here with her pickup truck. I helped her do the whole thing.”

“Done it myselp a pew times,” Lib said. “Use to hab me a peller wid a boat. Course now, there’s dipprent kinds a hitches.”

“I hope these’ll match,” Sandy said. “If they don’t, I guess we’ll . have to try Agnes.” She turned the car around, then backed it slowly toward the front of the trailer. “After it’s hooked up, we can go inside and get cleaned up and stuff before we take off.”

“Good deal.”

Sandy climbed out, leaving the engine running and the lights on. Lib met her behind the car.

“They look like they’ll go together, don’t they?”

“Reckon,” Lib said. “Hey, ya got any beer? My mout’s all busted up dis way. I could sure use me a cold beer. I tink it’d peel mighty good.”

“I don’t have beer, but I’ve got a bottle of bourbon.”

“Dat’d do. Me, I’ll get started hookin’ up dis shit. You go ‘n pine us dat bottle.”

“Okay, sure.”

Sandy hurried around to the side of her trailer, rushed up the wobbly stairs and opened the door. She stepped inside.

She glanced around. Everything looked fine. The bottle of bourbon still stood open on the counter of the kitchen area. She grabbed it, started toward the door, then changed her mind and went on to Eric’s room.

She rolled the bedroom door open a few inches.

Standing motionless, she heard the slow, steady hiss of his breathing. A tightness inside her seemed to loosen and a coldness seemed to grow warm.

He’s all right. He’s fine. Fast asleep.

She quietry rolled the door shut, then crept away.

Outside, she found Lib bending over the trailer hitch.

“Can I give you a hand with that?” she asked.

“Already got it. Just hang on hap a minute, an’ we’ll be all set. Ya got da booze?”

“I’ve got it.”

“Dare!” Lib stood up straight. Rubbing her hands on the front of her jeans, she came over to Sandy. She took the bottle, raised it to her lips, and filled her mouth with the bourbon. When her cheeks were bulging, she lowered the bottle. Sandy heard air hissing in and out her nostrils. Then came sloshing sounds. Lib’s cheeks sank in, ballooned, fluttered. She seemed to be working the bourbon around her teeth and gums as if it were mouthwash. After a while, she stopped swishing and started to swallow. Finally, she opened her mouth and sighed.

“Ohhhh, Charly, dat’s a mighty pine drink. Takes da pain right outa my teet.”

“You got some knocked out, I guess.”

“Bill’s old head come bustin’ right in. I reckon it took out a whole passel of teet, top ‘n bottom—eight or ten ob ‘em. An’ I got all dese bleedin’ holes in my puckfn’ gums. But de booze sorta numbs ’em por me. Damn good stuff.”

She filled her mouth again until her cheeks were bloated, shut her eyes and sighed through·her nose, then sloshed the bourbon all around for a while before swallowing.

“Yer a mighty pine girl, Charly.”

“Well, I’m glad the booze helps.”

“I’m gonna hap to buy me some new teet.”

“Yeah. There’s a lot of stuff we’ll need to do after we get out of ere. Are we all hitched up, now?”

“Yep.”

“Why don’t we go inside and get cleaned up? I’ll have to unhook us from the tanks, but that oughta be the last thing before we take off. Do you have any clean clothes to wear? I’ve got some in the trailer, but they’d probably be a tight fit on you.”

“Da trunk,” Lib said, and filled her mouth again.

Sandy went to the driver’s door of the car. Leaning in, she shut off the lights and engine, then pulled out the ignition key. She hurried to the trunk.

While she unlocked it, Lib sloshed bourbon.

Sandy raised the lid. Inside the trunk, she saw only darkness.

She heard Lib gulping.

Then Lib said, “Just reach on in.”

She reached into the trunk. She wasn’t sure what she expected to touch—suitcases, maybe. Instead of luggage, however, her hands met soft piles of fabric.

“Just grab me out sometin’,” Lib said. “Help yerselp, too. Ya look like ya might be a little low in da duds department.”

“Thanks. I’ve got stuff to wear, but I’d have to track through a lot of blood to get to them.”

“Take whatcha want.”

Sandy lifted garments out of the trunk and held them high so she could see them in the moonlight. She put back a couple of dresses, a sport jacket, a pair of slacks, and an evening gown before settling on a two tops that appeared to be shirts or blouses.

“These okay?” she asked.

“Sure. Whatebber.”

Sandy shut the trunk. “Let’s go inside and clean up before we put them on.”

Lib nodded, then filled her mouth again.

Sandy led the way. As she climbed the stairs, she warned, “Watch out you don’t fall on the way up. This thing’s kind of shaky.”

At the top, she entered the trailer.

And saw what she was carrying. The twin, short-sleeved blouses looked as if they were made of red silk. They gleamed in the lamp-light. They looked enormous. Stitched in swirling gold letters on the back of each were the words, Blazing Babes.

Lib stepped into the trailer.

Sandy turned around to face her. “Blazing Babes?”

Lib grinned. Though her puffy lips were shut, some bourbon dribbled out. She shrugged. She swallowed. After wiping off her lips and chin, she said, “Me and Bill, we piggered it was maybe like a girl’s soccer team or bowlin’ team or sometin’.”

“They aren’t yours?”

“Sure dey are. Didn’t used to be, but dey are now.”

“They’re stolen?”

“Hey, sugar, damn near everyting I got’s stolen. I’m a teep. Been a teep all my lipe. Dat okay?”

“I don’t know. Are you going to steal from me?”

“No! What kinda lowlipe you tink I am? Yer my pard, aren’t ya?”

“I guess so. But if we’re going to travel together, you’ve gotta promise not to get us into trouble. I mean, we’ve both killed guys tonight. We need to disappear quietly. We can’t go around stealing things.”

“Sure. I get it.”

“No more crimes.”

“Whatebber.” She raised her eyebrows. “So, pretty nipty blouses, huh?”

Sandy smirked. “Real nifty. Let’s wash up and get them on. This way.” She led Lib to the bathroom and turned on its light.

“You cart go ahead and use this. I’ll get cleaned up in the kitchen.”

She draped one of the red blouses on a hook just inside the doorway for Lib, then stepped out into the hall.

“Be done in a jip,” Lib said. She raised the bottle toward Sandy. “How ‘bout a sip?”

“No thanks.”

“Last call.”

“You go ahead and finish it.”

“Know what you are? A princess, dat’s what. A real puckin’ princess.”

Sandy laughed and shook her head. “‘That’s me,” she said, then stepped away from the bathroom door. As she headed for her kitchen area, the shower started to run.

She tossed the other Blazing Babes blouse onto the kitchen counter, stepped to the sink and turned on the hot water. She took a clean dishwashing cloth out of the drawer.

Without a mirror, she couldn’t see how her face looked.

She assumed it must be a mess, though. Because, looking down, she could see her shoulders and arms and breasts and belly: they were filthy and scratched and even smeared with blood, here and there. Her shorts were dirty in front. Her legs had taken the same kind of punishment as her torso.

I probably need a shower worse than Lib does.

“What she needs,” Sandy whispered, “is a puckin’ dentist.”

Laughing softly, she soaked her cloth with hot water. Then she bent over the sink and started to wash her face.

She supposed she ought to use soap.

Soap seemed like too much bother.

This’ll be fine.

The hot, sodden rag felt very good on her face. Water spilled down her neck and chest. She leaned against the edge of the sink, hoping to keep her shorts from getting wet. But when she started mopping her breasts, so much water sluiced down her belly that she knew it was hopeless. She tried to stop some of it with the rag. Too much got by, so she tucked the rag under her chin, took a step backward and reached for her belt, figuring to get out of the shorts before they became completely drenched.

Should’ve taken them off in the first...

Someone screamed.

Sandy’s heart slammed. Her hands jumped away from her belt.

She whirled around and ran for the bathroom, the dish cloth sliding down from under her chin, clinging to her chest, falling down between her breasts.

She shoved a hand into the right front pocket of her shorts.

She pulled out the small revolver from Slade’s glove compartment.

And wondered if it was loaded.

Sure it is. Has to be.

And it had to be Lib screaming. Who else could it be?

But why? .

Slade on the move, not really dead?