Beware

by Richard Laymon

  For the next five minutes, she continued to tell her story to James and the Tribune’s tape recorder, filling in details, never mentioning her rape or the specifics about the killings or her suspicion that the assailant had escaped in her car, finally recapping the earlier incidents at the market. “That about does it,” she finished. “Except for one thing. I’d like some time to recuperate. Tell Carl I won’t be in tomorrow, okay?”

  “Sure thing. You all right?”

  “Just beat up a little. I’ll be in Friday.”

  “Fine. Great work, Lacey.”

  “Just happened to be at the right place at the right time.”

  “I detect a note of irony.”

  “Only a note?”

  “Take care of yourself, kid.”

  “I will. Night, James.”

  “See ya.”

  She hung up. With the revolver and empty wineglass, she returned to the kitchen for a refill. Then she went into the bathroom. She shut the door and thumbed down its lock button. A feeble mea sure. Any pointed instrument turned in the keyhole, she knew, would pop open the lock. But the little precaution was better than none at all.

  She set her pistol and glass on the floor beside the tub, and started the water running. When it felt hot enough, she stoppered the drain.

  She turned to the medicine cabinet mirror. The face looking back at her was a bad copy of the one she was used to: slack and pallid, dark under the eyes, the eyes themselves wide and vacant. Turning her head, she fingered back the hair draping her right temple and studied the patch of swollen, red-blue skin. The ear, too, was slightly puffed and discolored.

  “A shadow of her former self,” she muttered. It brought a slight smile. Part of the strangeness left her eyes.

  She took off her blouse. Then she unfastened her jeans, tugged them down, and kicked them off. She tossed the blouse and jeans into the hamper.

  She looked down at herself. Fingers had left redblue impressions on both her breasts.

  Must’ve grabbed them and squeezed.

  The teeth indentations had disappeared, but her nipples were purple. She touched one and winced.

  Her body was seamed with fingernail scratches: her shoulders and upper arms, her sides, her belly, her thighs. At least he hadn’t raked her breasts, and none of the scratches would show when she was clothed—the silver lining.

  She tested the water with a foot. Hot, but not burning. She climbed in and slowly lowered herself, clenching rigid with pain as the water seared the raw lips of her vagina. The pain faded, and she let herself down the rest of the way. She gritted her teeth as the water scorched her torn thighs. But that pain soon faded, like the other. She took a deep breath. Leaning forward, she turned off the faucet.

  The house was silent except for the slow plop of water drops near her feet.

  Bracing herself against the shock, she splashed water onto her scratches. At first, it felt like lava running down her open flesh. Then it wasn’t so bad. After a sip of wine, she lathered herself with soap and rinsed.

  She picked up her wineglass again, and lay back. Head propped against the rear of the tub, she sipped the wine. It felt warm and good going down. Holding the glass in one hand, she reached down with the other, down through the hot water between her open legs. Tenderly, she fingered herself.

  He must’ve chewed her there, too.

  Filthy bastard!

  At least he didn’t kill me—another silver lining?

  Fuck the silver linings.

  Lacey blinked tears away, and reached for the bar of soap. She rubbed herself gently.

  And the bathroom lights went out.

  She threw herself against the side of the tub. She clawed the rug, trying to find the revolver.

  Where was it?

  Then she touched its cool steel. She picked it up by the barrel, found its handle, and gripped it tight.

  She stood up. She lifted one foot out of the water and stepped over the tub’s wall. With that foot firm on the rug, she leaned out. In the vague light from the window, she searched the bathroom. She saw no one. The door appeared to be shut.

  Must be shut. Still locked. I’d have heard the button pop…

  Okay, maybe the bulbs in the fixture blew. Three bulbs? Fat chance. How about a general power failure? Sure thing. No, it had to be the fuse box.

  He’s in the house!

  Slowly, she raised her other foot out of the water. She stepped clear of the tub and stood aiming at the door.

  Naked and wet, she felt more vulnerable than ever before in her life. She backed up, and knelt beside the hamper. Switching the pistol to her left hand, she reached in. She pulled out her jeans, her blouse.

  The blouse was easy. She got it on without letting go of the gun. But she needed two hands for the jeans. She set the pistol on the counter by the sink, within easy reach.

  Stupid, she thought as she fumbled with her pants. This is just the moment he’ll choose to bust the door in. But she heard nothing. Only a car speeding along, somewhere far away. If he’d just hold off for a few seconds, she would be dressed and ready for him. She had to be dressed.

  She was bent over, balanced on one leg, her other foot high and pushing into the jeans, when she felt fingers clutch her ankle and jerk it out from under her.

  She hit the floor.

  Rough hands jerked her pants off. She tried to scramble up, but the weight of a man drove her against the floor, forced her legs apart. Her blouse was ripped off her back. Then he was lying on her, pinning her arms to the floor. She felt his hardness against her rump.

  “Scream, cunt, and I’ll rip off your head.”

  She pressed her face to the rug. She cried, she whimpered with pain, she bit her lips until she tasted their blood, but she didn’t scream. At some point, with the man grunting and thrusting in the darkness above her, Lacey passed out.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Dukane landed his Cessna Bonanza, that night, at Santa Monica airport. He stepped into the passenger cabin.

  Alice smiled at him. “Hello, dead man.”

  “Pleasant flight?” he asked.

  “Very nice. I spent it thinking about what they’ll do to you.”

  “Nothing too drastic, I hope.” He bent down and unlocked the cuffs chaining her left wrist to the seat’s armrest.

  “You messed with Laveda, man. You’re good as dead.”

  “Better than dead, at the moment.”

  “Sure, joke. You’ll be laughing outa the other side of your face when they catch up with you. And they will. And I’ll be with’em, you can count on it. I’ll be the one with the knife, cutting out your eyes.”

  “Such talk,” he said.

  “You can’t hide from us. We’re everywhere. We know all. We’re all powerful.”

  “Yep. Okay, stand up.” He backed away. Alice stepped into the aisle. She looked good in the yellow sundress—fresh, and even younger than her nineteen years. Dukane had bought it at a Penny’s in Houma, leaving Alice drugged in the passenger seat of his rented car. After buying the dress, he drove to a deserted stretch of road. He braced her against the side of the car, stripped off the oversized shirt he’d earlier used to clothe her, and wrestled her limp body into the dress.

  “Are we getting outa this plane, or you just gonna stare at me all night?”

  “We need to make a decision. I can either take you out of here handcuffed, as a prisoner, or you can agree to cooperate and we’ll go to my car like friends. Which do you prefer?” “You don’t need the cuffs.” “If you try to get away, you’ll be hurt.” “I know, I know. You proved that back in the bayou, didn’t you? Well, I’ll tell you something. I don’t have to get away from you. They’ll come for me. Wherever you take me, they’ll come. I don’t have to lift a finger—just wait and use my powers to call them.”

  “Fancy car,” Alice said as Dukane climbed into the Jaguar beside her. “Kidnapping must pay good.”

  “Yep.” The car grumbled to life.

  “How much
did my folks pay you?”

  “Enough.”

  “Enough to die for?”

  “That’s not in my plans.”

  “It’s in mine. They’ll have to die, too. Can’t go messing with Laveda.”

  “You’re a sweetheart,” Dukane said. He backed out of the parking space, and headed for the exit.

  “Wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, man.”

  “I know. You’re all powerful. You’ve drunk at the river.”

  “Fuckin’ right.”

  “Imagine. All that from drinking a gal’s blood.”

  “The blood is the life.”

  “Where’ve I heard that before,” he said, and switched the radio on. He turned left onto Ocean Park Blvd.

  “This isn’t the way home.”

  “I’m not taking you home. You’ve got a date with a certain Dr. T. R. Miles. He specializes in deprogramming screwed up kids.”

  “Deprogramming?” She made a quiet, nasal laugh. “What do you think I am, a Moonie?”

  “I didn’t hire him, your parents did. Far as I’m concerned, you and the rest of Laveda’s gang ought to be burned at the stake.”

  Her head jerked toward him.

  “That’s how the old-timers dealt with witches, I believe.”

  “We’re not witches,” she muttered.

  “Near enough. Laveda’s got her own set of rules and rituals, but it boils down to the same thing—you’re a bunch of homicidal lunatics on a power trip. You need to be stopped.”

  “We can’t be stopped,” she said, but the earlier tone of scornful confidence was gone from her voice. “We’re everywhere.”

  “Put the torch to Laveda, and the whole gang would fall apart.”

  “Shut up.”

  A layer of fog hung over the road as they neared the ocean. It swirled in the headlights, rolled off the windshield. Dukane slowed down. He squinted ahead, searching for the dim glow of traffic lights.

  In the silence, he thought about Alice’s bluster falling away at the mention of fire. She seemed to have an exaggerated fear of burning.

  He’d noted the same dread in the man named Walter. The muscular fellow had acted brazen, at first, during Dukane’s interrogation three nights before the bayou gathering. Like Alice, he’d claimed to be invulnerable. He’d refused to talk. But he broke down, whimpering and pleading, when Dukane doused him with gasoline. In short order, he told about Laveda’s group, its structure and purposes, the extent of its membership, the time and location of the meeting. What Dukane learned had scared the hell out of him, but it gave him all he needed to know in his search for Alice.

  At the blur of a red light just ahead, Dukane eased down on the brake. He hit the arm of the turn signal, hoping this was Main, and turned left when the light changed. He drove slowly, gazing into the fog, seeking a landmark. When he saw the Boulangerie, off to the right, he knew where he was. He continued down Main, glimpsed a cluster of vague figures at the entrance to the Oar House, and kept going until he reached the traffic signal at Rose. A pair of dim lights appeared ahead. He waited for the car to pass, then turned left and parked at the curb.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  They climbed from the car. Alice followed him up the street, hunched slightly and moving fast, her bare arms crossed against her breasts.

  “We’re almost there,” Dukane told her, his chin shaking. He clenched his teeth, then made a conscious effort to relax his muscles and stop the shivering. Alice, he knew, must be freezing in her thin sundress. He put an arm across her shoulders, but she whirled away.

  “Don’t touch me,” she said.

  “Just trying to help.”

  “I can live without it.”

  They crossed a dark street, and hurried up the sidewalk. “This is it,” he said, nodding toward the lighted porch of a small, wood-frame house. He opened the gate. They rushed up a narrow walkway. Dukane took the porch stairs two at a time, and rang the doorbell.

  Alice waited beside him, legs tight together, arms hugging herself, teeth chattering.

  The door was opened as far as the guard chain allowed. A black-haired, attractive woman studied them through her wire-rimmed glasses.

  “We’re here to see Dr. Miles,” Dukane said.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Dukane.”

  The woman nodded. She shut the door briefly, then swung it open. “Please come in.”

  They stepped into the warm house. The woman shut the door, took a sip of coffee from her Snoopy mug, and turned to them. “You must be Alice,” she said.

  Alice curled her nose.

  “You both look chilled to the bone. Let’s go in by the fire, and I’ll get you some coffee.”

  They followed her into the living room. It was wood paneled and cozy, with the feel of a summer cottage. Alice crossed toward the fireplace. She stopped two yards from its screen, and held out her hands.

  “Cream or sugar?”

  Alice didn’t respond.

  “I’ll take mine black,” Dukane said.

  “Back in a jiff,” the woman said, and left.

  Dukane stepped past Alice. He stood close to the fire, feeling its heat through his trouser legs, then crouching to warm his upper body and face. He turned around, still squatting, and smiled up at Alice. “Nothing like a nice, crackling fire.”

  “Get fucked.”

  The woman came back, carrying a coffee mug in each hand. Dukane noticed the way her breasts jiggled slightly under the cashmere of her white turtleneck. Below the hem of her tweed skirt, her calves looked trim and well defined. Probably, Dukane thought, she jogs on the beach—just like half the other residents of Venice.

  He stood, and accepted a hot mug. This one came from the Hearst Castle gift shop. She held out a Big Apple mug to Alice.

  Alice swatted it from her hand. The mug flipped away, exploding coffee, and bounced off the rug.

  The woman slapped her face.

  Alice leaped at her, snarling, hands out like claws. As Dukane set his mug on the mantel, he saw that the woman needed no help. She grabbed Alice’s right arm, jerked it toward her, and swiveled around. Her rump caught Alice low. The girl flew over her back and hit the floor with a grunt.

  “Sorry about that, but I won’t allow intemperate behavior.” Her sweater had pulled up, revealing lightly tanned skin above her belt. She adjusted her sweater, and stared down at Alice. “Is that understood?”

  Alice gazed at the ceiling. “You’re gonna die.”

  “Not before I’ve straightened you out.”

  “You’re Dr. Miles?” Dukane asked.

  Her smile caught him off-guard; he’d expected a condescending smirk. “Don’t be embarrassed,” she said. “A doctor with a name like Teri Miles is begging for erroneous assumptions of gender. You thought I was the good doctor’s receptionist?”

  “Or wife. I was starting to envy him.”

  She smiled, and surprised him again—this time by blushing.

  Dukane took a sip of hot coffee. “I see you can handle yourself well.”

  “One has to, in this line of work. I’ve had patients a lot rougher than Alice.”

  “She seems to think she’ll get away in short order.”

  “I have a locked room for her, grates on the windows. So far, I haven’t lost anyone.”

  “She thinks she’ll have help.”

  “You made sure you weren’t followed?”

  “In that fog, it would’ve taken Rudolph to follow us.”

  Dr. Miles grinned. “Any red noses in the rearview mirror?”

  “Not a one.”

  “We should be all right, then. Nobody knows where she is except you and her parents.”

  “They’ll know,” Alice said from the floor.

  “She thinks they’ll find her through telepathy.”

  “I’d say that’s remote.”

  “Hope so,” Dukane said. “Laveda’s gang believes in all sorts of hogwash, but if they have any special power, I haven’t seen it
in action. I observed one of their meetings, infiltrated it, even had contact with Laveda herself. If she’s some kind of mind reader, I think she would’ve known I didn’t belong. She acted as if I were just another member of the group. They all did. So I think their magic is a lot of talk, not much else. It’s a dangerous bunch, though. They think they’ve got a handle on magical powers, so they act as if they do. They’re basically fearless, think they’re invulnerable.”

  “We are,” Alice said. She sat up, crossed her legs, and looked up at them, smirking.

  “They do fear burning.”

  “Fire,” said Dr. Miles, “has traditionally been associated with purification. I’ve dealt with satanists who actually exhibit a phobic response to it.”

  “There’s something else I should tell you. They practice human sacrifice. I saw a young woman murdered at their meeting. The others drank her blood. Even Alice, here.”

  Dr. Miles stiffened slightly.

  “So it’s a blood thirsty group.”

  “You could be in a great deal of danger if they do find out, somehow, that Alice is here.”

  “Well…”

  “It might be wise for me to stick around.”

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”

  “I’d feel easier about it.”

  “I don’t think you realize—the process could take weeks, depending on the depth of her conditioning. Besides, I really don’t imagine there’s much cause for concern. Her location’s secret. As for telepathy, I agree with you that it’s hogwash. I’ve been involved with these matters for several years, and haven’t lost a patient yet.”

  “All right,” Dukane said. He felt a bit rebuffed, and realized his offer had been motivated by more than simple concern for her safety. He was attracted to her, wanted to spend more time in her presence. “Well, I’ll check in occasionally.”

  “Better that you don’t. We wouldn’t want to compromise her location.”

  “What ever you say. But be careful, all right?”

  “I always am.”

  “For all the good it’ll do,” said Alice.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Lacey woke up, and wished she hadn’t. She lay on her back, eyes shut. Her arms, stretched overhead, were numb. Moving slightly, she felt a sheet beneath her. She wasn’t covered: a mild breeze stirred against her skin, probably from the window above her bed.