Beware

by Richard Laymon

  “I’ll do that,” she lied.

  “I would, if I were you.”

  “Is it all right if…?” Two men wheeled a stretcher down the aisle. One hurried ahead to open the door. She looked at the body bag. The contours of the black plastic resembled a human. Had they pieced Elsie back together?

  Shutting her eyes, she tried to think about something else. Her shoulder was touched. She flinched and snapped open her eyes.

  “It’s okay,” Barrett said. He squeezed her shoulder.

  “Sure.”

  “You go on, now. See your doctor. Get a good night’s sleep.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  Outside, she saw the stretcher being slid into the rear of the coroner’s van. She hurried past Red’s pickup, and opened her car door. The ceiling light came on. As she started to climb in, goose bumps prickled her skin.

  She snapped her head sideways. Nobody in the backseat.

  But she couldn’t see the rear floor.

  Silly, she thought. Like a kid checking under the bed.

  Silly or not, she had to make sure nobody was hunched out of sight behind the front seats. Planting a knee on the cushion, she grabbed the headrest and eased herself forward. Her breast hurt as it pushed against the vinyl upholstery. She peered over the top of the seat. Nobody down there.

  Of course not.

  But she’d had to make sure.

  She twisted around, sat down, and pulled her door shut. She locked it. With a glance to the right, she saw that the passenger door wasn’t locked. Stretching across the seat, she jabbed the button down with her forefinger. She checked the rear doors. Their lock buttons looked low and snug.

  She sighed. With a slick, sweaty hand, she rubbed the back of her neck. Then she pushed the key into the ignition, and started the car.

  A cigarette. She wanted a cigarette. A little treat for herself, an indulgence, a comfort that didn’t have to wait till she reached her home on the outskirts of town. The drink and the bath had to wait: not the cigarette.

  She opened her handbag. With a glance around the parking lot to be sure no one would see, she pulled out her ruined bra and pan ties. She tossed them onto the passenger seat. Then she reached into the bag, looking down into its darkness, hoping to find her pack of Tareytons without touching the sodden wads of tissue. Her body jerked as she fingered a cool, slippery ball and gagged. The pack of cigarettes was beneath the mess. She pulled it out, gagging again as her hand came out wet and sticky. She rubbed her hand on her jeans.

  “God,” she muttered.

  Her whole body ached, as if the pressure of the spasms had burst open all her injuries. She pressed her legs together, and held her breasts gently until the pain subsided.

  Then she shook out a cigarette. She held it in her lips and lit it, staring at the glowing red coils of the car’s lighter. The smoke was as soothing as she’d hoped. With a sigh of satisfaction, she turned on the headlights and backed her car out of the parking space.

  The coroner’s van was gone. Three police cars remained, as did Red’s pickup. She supposed the pickup would be towed away before morning.

  The road was deserted. She turned her radio on, and listened to a country station from Tucson. Ronnie Milsap was singing “What a Difference You Made in My Life.” When his song ended, Anne Murray came on with “Can I Have This Dance?” Nice of them to play a couple of her favorites. The songs helped to soothe her shattered nerves.

  As she reached her block, she took a final, deep drag on her cigarette. She held the smoke in, stubbed out her cigarette, and let the smoke ease out of her mouth.

  From behind her came a muffled cough.

  Her eyes snapped to the rearview mirror. A slice of ceiling. The back window. The empty road.

  Had it been the radio?

  No, the cough had come from behind. She was sure. It sounded like someone in the backseat. Impossible. She’d looked so carefully.

  The muffler? A simple backfire? No.

  Lacey swerved across the road, shot up her driveway, and hit the brakes. The car lurched to a stop. She shut it off. Grabbing her handbag, she threw open the door and leapt out. She slammed the door.

  Fighting an urge to run, she stepped close to the rear window and peered inside. Nobody there. Of course not.

  Under the car? Could a man hang on, down there? It seemed impossible. But now that the idea had entered her mind, she had to check. She dropped to her knees, planted her hands on the cool concrete, and lowered herself until she could see under the carriage. She scanned the dark space.

  Nobody.

  The trunk? She stood up, brushing off her hands, and stared at the trunk’s sloping hood.

  How could anyone get in? Pick the lock? Child’s play, probably, for someone who knew how. And if he could get in, he could get out just as easily.

  What if it’s not even latched?

  Holding her breath, Lacey stepped softly toward the rear of the car. The edges of the trunk’s hood were not perfectly flush with the bordering surfaces. Slightly higher. Less than a quarter of an inch, though. Maybe that was normal.

  Maybe not.

  Maybe the killer, the slug who raped her, was hunched inside the trunk, holding it shut.

  She lunged at the trunk, slapped both hands on its top, shoved down and threw herself forward. The car rocked under her weight. But no clack of the trunk’s lock. She lay there, thinking. No clack. The trunk had been locked, after all. Probably. But that didn’t mean the killer wasn’t inside, didn’t mean he couldn’t get out.

  He can’t get out if I stay like this, she thought. But she couldn’t stay that way, sprawled on the trunk with her face pressing the back window, her legs hanging off. Her belly, on the trunk’s rim, took most of her weight so she could hardly breathe. And the pain of lying on her injuries was almost unbearable.

  She squirmed backward until her feet found the driveway, then pushed herself off and ran for her house. She leapt onto the stoop. Sliding her key into the lock, she glanced over her shoulder. Her blue Granada stood in the driveway, looking as it should, as if nothing were wrong. For an instant, Lacey questioned herself. Had she imagined the cough?

  No.

  He’s in there. In the trunk.

  She shoved open the front door, shut and bolted it behind her, and rushed across the living room. She dropped her handbag on the dining room table. Skirting the table, she entered her bedroom and flicked on a light. She rushed to her bed. Jerked open a nightstand drawer. Took out a Smith & Wesson.38-caliber revolver.

  Then she ran from the house. She started to leave the front door open in case she needed a quick escape. But the man could’ve already left the trunk. Not likely—Lacey had been in the house no more than half a minute. That could be time enough, though. He might be out of the trunk, hiding nearby, ready to jump her or sneak inside the house. So she closed the front door and locked it.

  She stood on the Welcome mat, holding the revolver close to her belly. Its weight felt good in her hand. She felt safer than before, as if she’d been joined by a powerful trusted friend—a brother who would nail the bastard for her.

  Just point and fire.

  The only real danger, now, lay in being caught from behind. Like before. That’s how he got me before.

  Not this time.

  He might be in the geraniums.

  He’s probably still in the trunk.

  Lacey sprang from the stoop, past the geranium bushes, and raced into the center of her lawn. She spun around, revolver ready. No one.

  Okay.

  Still in the trunk.

  She ran to her car. Standing behind it, she studied the keys in her left hand. She found the trunk key. Revolver ready, she stabbed the key into the lock and twisted it. The latch clicked.

  She jumped back, and aimed. The springs groaned as the trunk began to open. The lid inched upward. Lacey stared at the dark, widening gap. Her finger was tense on the trigger. The lid gathered speed, stopped abruptly at its apex, and quivered
for a moment.

  In the darkness of the trunk, nothing moved.

  Lacey stepped closer. She saw her spare tire, a pack of road flares, and an old towel she sometimes used for wiping the car windows. There was certainly no man in the trunk.

  She sighed. She felt weary, disappointed. She’d been sure she would find the killer there.

  The rapist.

  The man who tore her and bit her and pumped his foul seed into her.

  He would be in the trunk and Lacey would pump him full of a different kind of seed—the kind that grows death—the lead kind. He would never hurt anyone again.

  “Damn,” she muttered.

  Reaching up with her left hand, she slammed the trunk shut. The car rocked slightly with its impact.

  She remembered her torn undergarments on the front seat. Better pick them up.

  Stepping around the end of the car, she saw that the rear door jutted out an inch. Its lock button stood high.

  “My God,” Lacey said. She covered her mouth, and staggered backward.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  She refused to run. Back in the market, she had run and he’d taken her down from behind. It was a mistake she would not repeat.

  Cautiously, turning to check every side, she made her way to the front door. She stood against its cool wood, the handle near her hip, and reached behind her with the key. It clicked and skidded against the lock-face. Finally, it slid in. She turned it. The lock tongue snapped back.

  Through the bushes to her left, she saw a quick pale movement. She jerked her revolver toward it. The shape rushed clear of the bushes and appeared in the open ahead of her, just across the lawn.

  A man. Cliff Woodman. Out for a run.

  He glanced toward Lacey, waved, and suddenly stopped.

  “That you, Lacey?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Is that a gun?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Trouble?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Lacey stepped away from the door and lowered her revolver as Cliff jogged toward her. She immediately felt better. Cliff, a gym teacher at the high school, was forty years old and an ex-marine. To night, in his running shoes, shorts, and a bandanna knotted around his head as a sweatband, he looked almost savage.

  “What’s the problem?” he asked.

  “I think I’ve got a prowler.”

  “Where?” He squinted at the bushes in front of the house.

  “I don’t know. I think he was in my car.”

  “Your car?” Cliff strode toward it, hunched slightly, arms away from his sides like a wrestler about to do battle. Lacey hurried after him. He jerked the handle of the passenger door.

  Thank God it’s locked, Lacey thought, hoping he wouldn’t discover her torn bra and pan ties.

  He tugged open the back door. “Nobody there now,” he announced, and flung the door shut. “I’ll look around the back.”

  Lacey held out the revolver. “You’d better take this.”

  “Couldn’t hurt.” He took it, and started up the driveway toward the rear of the house.

  Lacey followed. “I’ll go with you.”

  He nodded.

  She hurried forward until she was beside him. “You’ve got to know, Cliff,” she whispered. “I think he’s a murderer.”

  “For real?”

  “I just came back from Hoffman’s Market. Elsie was killed there to night. So was Red Peterson.”

  Cliff’s heavy brows lowered. “Fella that offed Red’s dog?”

  “I guess so. I think he hid in my car when I left there.”

  “Maybe he high tailed it.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, if he’s around here, we’ll get him.” Cliff grinned. “Save the taxpayers the expense of a trial.”

  They followed the driveway past the back of the house. Cliff stared ahead at the garage.

  “It’s padlocked,” Lacey said. “The laundry room’s open, though.”

  “Let’s have a look.”

  Walking near the front of the garage, Lacey scanned her yard, the lounge chairs and barbecue, the hedge along the far side.

  Cliff took her arm. He pushed her against the wall, close to the laundry room door. “Don’t move,” he whispered. He knelt in front of her. Reaching up, he slowly turned the knob. He threw open the door and leaned forward to peer in. Then he rose to his feet. He entered the laundry room, crouching. Lacey stepped in after him.

  “Do you want the light on?” she asked.

  “It’d wreck our night vision.”

  He went to the far end, then hurried back. Together, they cut across the yard. They walked singlefile through the narrow space between the side of the house and the hedge. Then he led her to the front door.

  “Any chance he got inside?”

  “No, I don’t…”

  Cliff opened the front door.

  “Oh no,” Lacey sighed. “I unlocked it just as you came along.”

  “I’d better have a look.”

  “Yeah, please. Damn, that was stupid.”

  They entered the house, and she locked the door. Cliff walked ahead of her, glancing behind furniture, lifting draperies. In the lamplight, his back was glossy. The band of his gray shorts was dark with sweat, and Lacey caught herself wondering what—if anything—he wore beneath them. She suddenly became very aware of her own nakedness inside her jeans and flimsy blouse, a body beaten, soiled by another man’s filth.

  She tried not to think about it.

  She followed Cliff around the dining room table, and into her bedroom. The lamp was still on, the nightstand drawer still open. She stood against the door frame, watching him. On the far side of the bed, he dropped to his knees and lifted the coverlet. Then he got to his feet again, and came back. His eyes met Lacey’s, and he smiled as if to reassure her. When he looked toward the closet, Lacey lowered her gaze. His chest was muscular, his belly flat. His shorts hung low on his hips. They fit snugly. She glimpsed his bulge, and quickly looked away, a warm thickness of revulsion in her stomach.

  He opened the closet door and looked inside.

  “So far,” he said, “so good.”

  Lacey backed out of the doorway. She followed him into the kitchen. He walked through, glancing to each side, ducking to peer under the heavy wooden table that barely fit into the breakfast nook, opening the utility closet door and shutting it again after a quick inspection. He checked the back door. Locked.

  Glancing at Lacey, he shook his head.

  He had, she realized, a dangerous face: deep-set, dark eyes, jutting cheekbones, thin lips, a blocky jaw. A somewhat handsome face, but not a face to inspire any special feeling of tenderness.

  He stepped past her, his arm brushing against her breast. She flinched away from the unwanted contact. Had he done it on purpose? Staying farther away from Cliff, she followed him around the corner and into her study. He walked past its bookshelves, checked behind an easy chair, and looked in the closet.

  “I really appreciate your helping me like this,” Lacey said.

  “Glad I came by when I did.”

  “I guess it’s just a wild-goose chase.”

  “Not yet,” he said, stepping toward her. She quickly backed out of range. He went past, pulled open the linen closet door, then entered the bathroom and turned on its light. He walked past the toilet and sink. At the tub, he slid back the frosted glass door. Then he turned to Lacey and smiled. Not an open friendly smile: it was guarded and sardonic. “Now,” he said, “it’s a wildgoose chase.”

  “Well, thanks an awful lot.”

  “I’m just sorry we didn’t bag him. For your peace of mind. If you’d like me to stick around for a while, I’d be happy to.”

  “Thanks. I think I’ll be all right.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  He handed the revolver to Lacey. “If you ever have to use this, go for the torso and don’t settle for one hit. Put three or four in him, but save a shot or two, just in case.”

/>   Lacey nodded. Strange advice, she thought, but coming from Cliff it sounded perfectly natural.

  “And remember I’m just three houses away, if you need me. Let me give you my number.” He wrote it on a pad by the kitchen telephone. “If you have any trouble, give me a ring. I can get here a lot quicker than the cops.”

  “All right.” She walked ahead of him to the door.

  “Sure you won’t feel better if I hang around for a bit?”

  “I’m sure. Thanks anyway.” She opened the front door for him. “Have a good run.”

  He jumped off the stoop, and raced across the lawn.

  Lacey shut the door and locked it, relieved that he was gone. Had it been intentional, touching her breast? Probably. He’d been so insistent on staying. More than likely, he’d hoped she would fall into his protective arms and…

  Hell, he was just being a good neighbor.

  She tried to push the revolver into her waistband, but the jeans were too tight. She shoved its barrel down a front pocket. It wouldn’t go in past the cylinder, so she pulled it out and carried it into the kitchen and held it while she poured herself a glass of pinot noir. She took the revolver and wine into her study and sat at her desk.

  Her back felt exposed. Turning her chair, she could see the open door. That was better, though she still felt vulnerable. She placed the revolver on her lap. With a trembling hand, she lit a cigarette.

  Then she sipped her wine and picked up the phone. She dialed.

  On the other end, the phone rang twice.

  “Tribune,” said James, the night editor.

  “It’s Lacey. I’ve got a story for you. There were two killings at Hoffman’s to night.”

  “Ahhh.” He sounded disgusted. “Okay, you want to give it Tome?”

  “Tribune reporter Lacey Allen last night discovered the mutilated body of Elsie Hoffman and fatally injured Red Peterson when she entered Hoffman’s Market shortly before closing time.”

  “You found them?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Christ!”

  “Before she could summon authorities, Miss Allen was herself assaulted and rendered unconscious by an unseen assailant. Paragraph. Police, arriving on the scene, found that Red Peterson had succumbed to his injuries. A thorough search of the premises revealed that the killer had fled.”