Funland

by Richard Laymon

  If I don’t let her have the hatchet…

  She set the chair down silently on the carpet in front of the door, tipped it backward, and eased its backpiece under the knob.

  The chair would prevent anyone from entering the room, but Jeremy knew it had a different purpose. It was there to stop a quick escape.

  She took hold of the hatchet. Jeremy made no attempt to keep it from her. She switched it to her left hand, gripped his wrist, and guided him to the foot of the bed. From here he could hear the breathing of the people beneath the covers.

  Tanya glided along the left side of the bed. She bent low over the sleeping form. Her right hand took the hatchet.

  Jeremy saw the hatchet rise.

  Chop down.

  No!

  The thud flashed pain through his own head. He cringed and felt his legs go rubbery, but he heard a harsh gasp, and the covers on the other side of the bed suddenly flew up. “Get her!” Tanya snapped.

  The girl was naked and dusky against the white sheets, one hand thrusting the blankets aside as she squirmed to free her legs and sit up.

  He dived onto her, smashing her down. The mattress bounced her against him. She twisted and writhed. He pinned one hand, but the other was free and he couldn’t catch it because of the hammer. Her nails ripped streaks of fire down his cheek. He let the hammer fall. As it pounded the floor, he grabbed her wrist.

  Now I’ve got you!

  She bucked, hurling him sideways. He fell. His back slammed the carpeted floor. The hammer jabbed his shoulder blade. She came down on top of him, whimpering and snarling. She bit his chin and he cried out, released her wrists, and punched her in the face. The blow ripped her teeth from his flesh. In a frenzy of pain, Jeremy grabbed the short hair over her ears and twisted her head, rolling with her as he forced her sprawling onto the floor beside him.

  She drove a knee into his stomach. His breath blasted out. He doubled up, hugging his belly.

  “What the fuck’s going on!” Tanya’s voice.

  Sucking for air, Jeremy saw the girl push herself up and get to her feet.

  The room filled with light.

  The girl seemed to freeze in position, hunched over and ready to run, head turned, looking over her shoulder toward the other side of the bed.

  “Don’t move a muscle,” Tanya warned.

  Jeremy struggled to sit up. Panting and clutching his chin, he saw Tanya glaring at the girl. She was bent over Nate’s motionless body, the hatchet poised for another strike. In the light from the lamp beside her, he saw that Nate’s face was bathed with blood that spilled out of a gash on his forehead. No huge, gaping wound, though. Tanya hadn’t chopped him with the hatchet’s sharp edge. But it was the sharp edge, now, that hovered above him.

  “Get her clothes for her, Duke. She’s gotta look right.”

  Nodding, he picked up his hammer and stood. He stepped closer to the girl. She hadn’t moved since Tanya turned the lamp on. She didn’t look back at Jeremy.

  “Put your hands on your head,” he gasped.

  Her body straightened. She raised her arms and interlaced her fingers on top of her head.

  Jeremy stared at her back, her smooth tanned skin, the pale mounds of her buttocks, her slender legs.

  He took his hand away from his chin. The rubber glove was slick with blood.

  He raked the claws of the hammer down the middle of the girl’s back. She made a hissing sound, and flinched rigid as the claws gouged twin furrows in her skin. Blood began to well from the rips.

  He glanced at Tanya.

  Tanya nodded. She wore a tight smile.

  Jeremy stepped to the front of the girl. Her eyes fixed on him. They looked frightened and hurt, but they were filled with loathing, as if she longed to destroy him.

  He smeared his blood onto her chin and cheeks. He slapped her face, rocking her head sideways. But she faced him again. She bared her teeth and kept glaring at him, but didn’t resist as his hand moved over her, caressing, squeezing, pinching. When he rammed the hammer head into her belly, she folded and dropped to her knees, wheezing for air. His knee crashed her mouth shut, snapped her head backward, and she tumbled sprawling onto the floor.

  “That’s enough,” Tanya said. “We’re running low on time.”

  While he searched for the girl’s clothes, Tanya cuffed one of Nate’s hands to the bed frame. Jeremy found the backpack inside the closet. He took jeans and a faded blue work shirt from the pack. He tossed them onto the girl and watched her slow, pained struggle to put them on. Before she could button the shirt, he snatched her by the hair, hauled her up, and cuffed her hands behind her back.

  He took off his belt, slipped one end through the buckle, and dropped the loop over the girl’s head.

  Tanya grabbed Nate’s keys off the top of the dresser. She stuffed them into her pouch, then turned off the light.

  “Okay,” she said. “When we get outside, I’ll bust a window to make it look like a break-in. Don’t let me forget.”

  “Right,” Jeremy said.

  Pulling his belt like a leash, he led the girl into the dark hallway.

  Thirty-nine

  The bed wobbled slightly, stirring Dave from sleep. Through his closed eyelids he saw light. Is it morning? he wondered. Joan had made him set the alarm clock for midnight, but maybe he’d turned it off in his sleep or something. He hoped so. He hoped it was morning.

  A bare bottom sat down on him. He squirmed under the pleasant weight and opened his eyes. With a tug of disappointment and fear, he saw that the light came from the bedside lamp. Joan was straddling him, hands against the mattress near his shoulders. She smiled gently and lowered herself. Her nipples touched his chest, and she rocked herself to make them move, stroking him. Then he felt the solid warm heaviness of her breasts. They pushed against him. Her mouth covered his.

  He ran his hands slowly up and down her back.

  She lifted her mouth away from him. “Time to shine, honey.”

  “Time to rise and shine,” he said.

  He saw the familiar mischief in her eyes.

  “Oh,” he said. “I get it.”

  She kissed him again, then said, “We have to go.”

  “I was afraid of that. What time is it?”

  “Twelve-thirty.”

  “What happened to the alarm?”

  “I shut it off. I was awake anyway.”

  “Couldn’t sleep?” Dave asked.

  “Didn’t want to. It seemed like such a waste of time. It was so much nicer, staying awake and looking at you.”

  “Voyeur.”

  “You got it, pal.”

  “You should’ve woken me.”

  “Didn’t want to. You’ve had a hard night. You needed your sleep. That’s why I didn’t wake you up sooner.” She kissed him once more. “Okay, now, at ’em.”

  She climbed off Dave, taking away her weight and smoothness and heat. He sat up and pulled the blanket to his waist. He watched Joan step into her panties, watched her pull a T-shirt down over her head. When her face reappeared, she said, “Show’s over. You can get dressed now.”

  Dave scooted to the edge of the bed. He lowered his feet to the floor, but didn’t stand up.

  Instead, he watched Joan slide into one of the dark blue vests he had picked up at the station that afternoon. She fastened it shut around her torso with Velcro straps. “You look like you’re ready to go water-skiing,” he said.

  “Wishful thinking.” Squatting beside the grocery bag, she took out a shoulder harness. She slipped into it, and tucked her S&W .38 into the holster below her left armpit. A smaller holster went around her right ankle. She filled it with a chrome-plated semiauto. Still another harness came out of her sack. Dave shook his head as she got into it. She straightened the leather sheath against the right side of her rib cage and slid a long double-edged knife into it.

  “God Almighty,” Dave said. “Where do you get your stuff, from Soldier of Fortune magazine?”

  “How
’d you guess?”

  “Anything else? Have you got an Uzi in there?”

  “This about does it.” When she reached into the sack again, she came out with a pair of gray sweatpants that looked as if they’d been dabbed with shoe polish.

  Dave got up from the bed. He took fresh underwear and socks from his dresser and put them on while Joan covered the top part of her arsenal with a baggy sweatshirt. The shirt had rips in it that showed the blue of her Kevlar vest. The tears in her pants showed bare leg.

  “My sexy Rambo,” Dave said. Like Joan, he put on a T-shirt to keep the vest away from his skin. Then he got into his jeans and vest and running shoes. He went to the closet for his own weapons: a snub-nosed .38 with a clip-on holster that he fastened to his belt on the right, and a 9mm Beretta with a shoulder harness.

  “You don’t travel exactly light yourself,” Joan said, nodding at the Beretta.

  “We oughta be able to take on an army,” Dave said.

  “Debbie thinks we may have to.”

  “You told her, huh?” Dave slipped into a heavy plaid shirt and watched Joan knot a red bandanna around her thigh. “What’s that for?”

  “Style. Yeah, I told her. Probably should’ve kept it to myself, but I don’t like to do that. She was not pleased, to say the least. She’s afraid I won’t come back.”

  Joan’s words made a cold knot in Dave’s belly. “I don’t blame her,” he said.

  “She’s more worried about trolls than the teenagers. Still thinks they had something to do with Mom.” Joan carried her socks and a ratty old pair of running shoes to the bed, sat on its edge, and tried to hunch over to put them on. “Damn,” she muttered, having trouble because of her vest and harnesses.

  “Allow me,” Dave said.

  “My knight. So chivalrous.”

  Kneeling in front of her, he started to put the socks on her feet.

  “You’re pretty good at this,” she said, ruffling his hair. “You can be the official sock-putter-onner for our kids.”

  He smiled up at her. “Our kids?”

  “Or don’t you want any?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “How many?”

  “As many as you want,” he said, and suddenly wished she hadn’t mentioned kids, hadn’t touched him with dreams of the future. A future that might not be there. The night ahead loomed in front of Dave like a black wall, and he feared there might be nothing beyond it.

  That’s ridiculous, he told himself.

  But they got Gloria.

  Gloria was alone. She wasn’t armed. This is a whole different ball game.

  He finished tying the shoes, and rubbed Joan’s thighs through the soft fabric of the sweatpants. He slipped a hand inside one of the rips. “Maybe we should check Gloria’s place on the way over,” he said.

  “What’s the point? She won’t be there, we both know that.”

  “Couldn’t hurt to check one more time. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

  Her eyes darkened. “I don’t want to go in there again.”

  “You can wait in the car,” Dave said. They’d driven over after dinner. Joan had gone in with him, and the experience had obviously upset her. She’d walked stiffly through the house, clutching Dave’s hand, a grim look on her face. He couldn’t blame her. It was the home of his former lover, a woman who had probably been murdered last night, whose ruined body had likely been discarded in some lonely place where the killers hoped she would never be found.

  When Dave started showing Gloria’s cast-off clothes to her, she’d shaken her head sharply, blurted, “I don’t want to see that stuff,” and nearly dragged him out of the house.

  It was no wonder she didn’t want to go there again.

  “I’ll make a phone call instead,” Dave told her.

  “If you want.”

  He went to the telephone on the nightstand and dialed Gloria’s number. After three rings the line opened. “Hello. This is Gloria.”

  Dave’s heart jumped.

  “Gloria?” he asked. He saw Joan’s head snap toward him, stunned surprise on her face.

  “I’m not home right now, but if you’d like to leave a message…”

  “Shit,” he muttered. “It’s her answering machine.” He’d probably left messages on the damn thing a hundred times. How could he have let it fool him, lift his hopes?

  Joan’s face was slack with disappointment.

  “…I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

  Right, he thought. Sure you will.

  Dead. She’s dead, and talking to me just as if nothing is wrong.

  Her machine beeped, signaling him to leave his message.

  He remembered how she used to complain about hang-ups.

  He remembered how she often talked to him, home after all, once he’d identified himself.

  “It’s Dave,” he said.

  Joan’s lips curled. She looked sick.

  “If you’re there, for Godsake pick up the phone.”

  He listened to distant, empty sounds.

  “Gloria? It’s Dave. Are you there?”

  I’m talking to a dead woman.

  He hung up.

  Joan came to him and put her arms around him.

  “We might as well get it over with,” he muttered. He hugged her tightly, feeling her stiff vest, the gun and knife, but also feeling the warmth of her legs, the softness of her cheek. He kissed her. “If I lose you because of this…”

  “We owe God a death,” she said.

  “Just what I wanted to hear.”

  “’Tis not due yet.” She gently swatted his rump and stepped away from him.

  He watched her reach into the paper bag, pull out a stocking cap, and drag it down over her head until only a fringe of blond hair showed around its edges.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Am I devastating yet?”

  “Gorgeous.”

  She picked up the bag, which still had something in it.

  “You do have an Uzi.”

  “Just an old blanket,” she said.

  “What’s that for?”

  “More style.”

  In the living room Dave waited while she opened her purse. She took her badge out of its leather case. “Can’t forget this,” she said. “Have you got yours?”

  He patted his wallet.

  Joan lifted her sweatshirt and pinned the shield to a strap of her shoulder harness. Then she picked up her bag again, and they left the house.

  Dave locked the door with his house key, found the ignition key, and walked beside Joan toward the driveway, where his car waited.

  Waited on flat tires.

  “What the hell?” he muttered.

  He walked around the car. All four tires were mashed against the pavement by the weight of the car. Joan, he saw, was heading for the street.

  She looked back at him. “Mine too,” she said.

  “You’re kidding.” He caught up with her. Joan’s car, parked at the curb, rested on four flat tires. “I’ll be damned.”

  “Looks like somebody decided to sabotage our mission,” she said.

  “That’s crazy. It was probably just some kids.”

  “One kid in particular. My sister.”

  “Debbie? You think she did this?”

  “She must’ve. It can’t be just some weird coincidence. God, she must be a lot more upset than I thought.”

  “Does she know where I live?”

  “You’re in the book, partner. She just looked you up, hiked over here, and had at ’em.”

  “Well, good for her!”

  “The little beast. Wait’ll I get my hands on her.”

  Dave tried to force the smile off his face, but didn’t succeed. “She’s a spunky kid. Must run in the family.”

  “I’m gonna strangle her.”

  “She just did it because she loves you.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m gonna draw and quarter her, the rat.” Dave laughed.

  “Yeah, yuck it up. Right.” Tur
ning away from him, she crouched beside the front tire.

  “It isn’t slashed, I hope.”

  “Debbie wouldn’t go that far. I’m sure she just let the air out.” Joan rubbed her hands on the side of the tire. Standing up, she rubbed her face, then lowered her hands. Her brow, cheeks, and chin were smudged with grime that looked gray and smoky in the streetlights.

  “I know,” Dave said. “Style. Does this mean we’re still planning to go?”

  “I am.”

  “Great,” he muttered. “Should I go in and call a cab?”

  “Let’s just walk. It’s not that far.”

  “All right. Hang on a minute, though. I want to get my flashlight.” He walked toward his car, feeling strangely cheerful. Nothing was about to stop Joan, but the flat tires would certainly slow her down. A hike to the beach should take the better part of half an hour.

  A reprieve.

  Thank you, Debbie. Thank you very much. I owe you for this.

  I’ll buy her an ice-cream cone, he thought, and grinned.

  He unlocked his car, took the flashlight out from under the driver’s seat, then ambled back toward Joan. “Let’s take it slow and easy,” he said. “God forbid one of us should turn an ankle.”

  Forty

  “How’s it going back there?” Tanya asked, glancing over her shoulder.

  “Fine,” Jeremy said. His own voice sounded strange to him—a little whiny, but mean. “Just fine.”

  The girl was stretched across the backseat, pinned down by his weight on her belly. He bounced on her, and heard a gush of breath that pleased him.

  They passed a streetlamp. Its light swept briefly across the girl’s bare chest. He took off his gloves. He pinched her again, and felt her flinch.

  It made him feel good to hurt her, but it didn’t turn him on.

  He felt cheated.

  Could’ve been great, back here sitting on the bitch. Her hands were cuffed behind her back. Her shirt was open. She was at his fucking mercy.

  She might as well have been a guy, for all the lust he felt.

  He slapped her. She winced. He slapped her again. “You ruined me, you cunt!”

  “Hope so,” she muttered.

  He made her cry out.