No Sanctuary

by Richard Laymon

  Stop screwing around, this is your life!

  She ripped at the cable. Newspapers whispered and crackled beneath her as she slid. Her knees pounded the front of the trunk. The rope dug into her throat. She jammed her hands down to give herself slack, bent forward slightly, felt the rope rub between her legs and buttocks, felt the pressure ease across her throat, and kicked back with both feet. The cable gave. It didn’t flop loose, but Gillian was certain that some of the small wires running off to the lights must’ve popped free. She pictured the car moving along the road, the lights dead on its right rear side.

  Now if we just get pulled over, she thought.

  They didn’t get pulled over.

  And Holden didn’t stop in a secluded place in the Hollywood Hills to finish with her.

  They would’ve been there by now.

  Hours had seemed to go by after Gillian’s struggle with the wiring.

  Lying on her side had become unbearable after a while, so she had experimented with moving and found to her surprise that she could lie on her back. By angling herself across the trunk, she was actually able to stretch her legs out. The rope at her throat seemed more like a nuisance than a threat. She had figured out that it would not choke her so long as she kept her back straight and her arms stretched down. But the rope made it impossible for her to reach the knots and work on them. That’s what it’s for, she knew.

  In bits and pieces over the hours, during short periods of time when she could focus her mind, Gillian had assembled the puzzle of what Holden must’ve done after she lost consciousness in his house.

  First, he stripped her naked. Probably fooled with her. He would, wouldn’t he? Yeah. Maybe even fucked her, though she had no way of knowing, not after the condition Jerry had left her in. When he finished messing with her, he tied her up. Oh, he must’ve got some extra jollies from that, running the rope down from her hands, centering it so it went right into her, turning her over and pulling it up so tight she could actually feel it against her anus, then looping it around her throat so it would choke her if she struggled. Her arms must’ve been bent just a little while he did all that; otherwise, she would’ve been strangled by now. He probably left some slack on purpose, not wanting to have her die in the trunk and miss the fun. Then he bound her ankles together.

  Somehow, he got her to his car. His car hadn’t been in the driveway when Gillian went to his house. Maybe he’d put it into the garage. If that’s where it was, he’d simply carried her out the back door to the garage, opened up the trunk, and dropped her in. Maybe took out the spare tire first to make more room, and spread newspapers on the floor of the trunk before putting her in. Newspapers that could be removed later, and burned to destroy any evidence that might be left behind: blood, semen, hairs, the kind of stuff cops vacuum out of a suspect’s trunk and put under a microscope and use in court. Holden had read a lot of books. He knew about such things.

  What had he done with her suitcase and clothes? Probably brought them along. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave them in his house. When they got where they were going, he would burn them or bury them or just leave them by her body. Took his scrapbook out of the suitcase, of course. He’d probably searched her suitcase while she was at Jerry’s. Must’ve been a shocker to find the scrapbook and realize she knew his secret. If he’d had any ideas about letting her live, that had put a stop to them. He’d probably had no such ideas, though. How could he pass up a chance like this—to have a victim walk right into his house? Like getting a surprise gift. Which he couldn’t wait to unwrap and try out.

  Only try out, though. His own house was no place for really having fun. Not for a careful man like Holden, who traveled out of state to find his victims, who never even killed them in their own homes or apartments but took them out to wild areas where their bodies wouldn’t be found for days or weeks, or at all.

  So where’s he taking me? Gillian wondered.

  Someplace far away, she thought, or we’d be there by now.

  She wondered if it was still night. After sunrise, it wouldn’t matter so much about the dead lights. Maybe she had nailed a brake light, but what good would that do?

  Where is he taking me?

  From the smooth, steady ride and the engine sounds, she guessed that they were on a freeway—had been on a freeway most of the time.

  We’re going very far away, she thought, and then felt herself slip away again.

  She woke up gasping with fear and bathed in sweat.

  Sweat?

  The air in the trunk felt warm. She couldn’t remember it being warm before. She could remember shivering sometimes and wishing she had clothes on, or at least a sheet to cover herself. The warmth meant sunlight.

  It’s daytime.

  She wondered what time they had left Holden’s house. Maybe three or three-thirty in the morning? There was no way to be sure, since she’d been unconscious, but he’d probably been quick to get on the road. The sun would start heating things up by seven or eight. If it was much later than that, the trunk would probably be a lot hotter.

  So we’ve been on the road about four hours, maybe longer.

  If he headed south, we’re well into Mexico by now. East, we’re in Arizona.

  “Crucify me on a cactus,” she heard herself mumble. “Ha ha.” No joke. She could see herself on one of those saguaros that stood in the desert like a mutant man with upraised arms. She felt nails in her palms, the spines piercing her back and buttocks and legs. The sun seared her bare skin. She heard her skin sizzling like bacon on a skillet. Squinting through the glare of the noon sun, she saw Holden smile and drop to his hands and knees and crawl toward her. Bones littered his way—glaring white skulls, ribcages, parts- of a dozen bodies or twenty. The bones clinked and clattered as Holden scuttled through them. Some dissolved into white powder that puffed, and he was crawling through a cloud of bone dust. When he emerged from the cloud, he was no longer Fredrick Holden. He was a tarantula, fat and furry and half a foot across. And scurrying toward Gillian’s feet. Gasping, she tried to move her feet away from it. Skeleton fingers held her feet to the hot desert ground. She couldn’t move. The spider climbed onto her bare left foot, walked up the skeleton hand at her ankle as if the finger bones were the rungs of a ladder. It moved up her shin. It sat for a moment on her knee as if resting. Then it began crawling up Gillian’s thigh, and she screamed.

  The scream snatched her away from the horrors in the desert. She was in the trunk again, panting. When she opened her eyes, they both burned as if someone had flung saltwater into her face. She realized it was sweat.

  The trunk was very hot. The black air felt like a heavy blanket pressing down on her, suffocating her.

  I won’t suffocate, she told herself. This trunk isn’t airtight. I’ll just cook.

  I must’ve been out a while, she thought.

  She was drenched. Even lying motionless, she could feel runnels sliding down her body, tickling her. The newspapers felt sodden under her back. She rolled onto her right side. Sweat must have been clinging to her skin in tiny beads like raindrops, standing in pools in the hollows of her throat and navel. It cascaded off her when she rolled. She heard it spill onto the newspapers.

  The change of position helped. Much of the paper peeled off her back with the turn. A sheet of it still adhered to her buttocks, but there was nothing she could do. She lay there motionless, her eyes shut tight to keep the sweat from stinging them. The trickles continued. Her legs, pressed together, felt as if they were lathered with hot butter. Only her mouth was dry. Her tongue touched dry flakes along her lips.

  The floor of the trunk suddenly tipped beneath her. She flinched and choked herself on the rope and quickly bent her knees, rumpling the papers but stopping her forward roll.

  The car’s going uphill, she thought. Up a steep hill.

  It had moved up and down many times before, rocking her slightly, but never anything like this.

  He’s taking me into the mountains, she thought
.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Rick jerked awake as something smacked the wall of his tent. He lifted his head. The blue tent was murky inside with daylight. He thought a pine cone must’ve fallen. But then the tent was struck twice more, and other objects, missing, thumped the ground outside.

  Bert moved, rubbing him, and he looked down at her. “What’s going on?” she whispered.

  “They’re throwing stuff.”

  The sleeping bag’s zipper was on the other side of Bert. He couldn’t get to it without crawling over her, so he started to squirm out the top. Bert rolled away from him. He heard the zipper slide with a sound like ripping fabric.

  “So long, Rick the Prick!” Jason’s voice. It came from a distance. “So long, cunts!”

  Rick was half out of the bag, sitting up, his hand on the knife propped upright inside his hiking boot. Bert had slid out the open side. She was on her elbows. At the sound of Jase’s voice, she stopped trying to get out.

  “It hasn’t been nice knowing you!”Luke called.

  “FUCK YOU AND THE HORSES YOU RODE IN ON!” That one came from Andrea. From nearby. Her tent?

  Bert shook her head.

  There was distant, derisive laughter from the boys.

  Rick sat motionless, waiting. Bert didn’t move either. She was still stretched out, lying half across her empty sleeping bag, propped up on her elbows, naked to the knees. Her feet were still inside Rick’s bag. Her breasts rose and fell as she breathed.

  “I guess they’re gone,” Rick finally said.

  “Good riddance to bad rubbish.” Smiling, she lay back and folded her hands behind her head. One of her feet stroked the side of Rick’s leg. “I hope that’s the last of them.”

  “We’ll take that other trail.”

  “And make sure, first, they’re really going up to Dead Mule Pass.” Bert took her legs out of Rick’s bag and stretched them out on top of it. “It’s hot in here. Must be late.”

  He flipped the sleeping bag off his hot legs. The air felt good on them. “When Jase handed the gun to you, it changed everything. That ... I think that pretty much shattered my obsession with Julie and the rest of it.”

  “God, if I’d known what you went through. I feel like such a jerk for forcing you into this trip.”

  “It was probably good for me. I know you’ve been good for me.”

  “We don’t have to go on, though. If we turn around, we could be back at the car this afternoon. Would you rather do that?”

  “I don’t know. I think I’ll be all right now. And I’d hate to cheat you out of the rest ...”

  “I wouldn’t mind. This hasn’t exactly gone the way I’d hoped, anyway.”

  Rick nodded. “Bet you didn’t expect it to be this exciting.”

  “Or this crowded.”

  “Well, now that Jase and his pals are gone ...”

  “That only leaves Andrea and Bonnie.”

  “Maybe we ought to split up with them.” That, Rick knew, was what Bert wanted. Strangely, the idea of leaving the girls behind didn’t disturb him. He felt no disappointment. Andrea was a temptation and she had offered herself to him. If she were gone, he could stop struggling against the urge to take her up on it. And he could be alone with Bert.

  “They’re nice and everything,” Bert said. “Andrea’s kind of a kick.”

  “She’s sure got a mouth,” Rick added.

  “But it’s like having guests. Even if you like their company, they’re in the way.”

  Rick suddenly had a thought that made his heart quicken. “How about this?” he asked. “We’ll have a leisurely breakfast, tell the girls to go on without us, and then we’ll get all our stuff together. And we’ll hike around the end of the lake to our stream.”

  “You mean, stay there?” Her voice was eager, her eyes bright.

  “All day. And we’ll pitch our tent down by the inlet and spend the night. Does that sound okay?”

  “It sounds perfect. Too good to be true.”

  “But true,” Rick said.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The ride became a torture as the heat in the trunk grew worse and the car climbed and dropped and made sharp turns, sliding Gillian over the newspapers, trying to throw her forward and back, the rope squeezing her throat each time she flinched at the sudden movements.

  It can’t go on much longer, she thought.

  We’re in the mountains. We’ll stop soon and he’ll let me out.

  Let me out. No! God, what am I going to do!

  The car slowed abruptly, throwing Gillian onto her back. Her knees flew up. Her left knee bumped the lid of the trunk before she could straighten her legs.

  She felt the car make a sharp turn. Then it began moving forward. It was no longer on pavement. On a dirt road? The floor of the trunk shuddered under her back, shaking her, sometimes bouncing her roughly.

  It won’t be long now.

  I’m sorry, Jerry, she thought. I shouldn’t have left without you. But then he might’ve gotten you, too, so maybe it’s better this way.

  Knowing that she would never see Jerry again, Gillian felt a twist of sorrow and loss.

  It’s not over yet, she told herself.

  Then the car stopped and the engine went silent.

  Gillian felt a change inside herself as if a switch had been thrown. She no longer felt the stifling heat, or the pains of her bound and battered body, the awful fear. Her heartbeat thundered. She shivered. She felt cold. Even her mind felt cold. And sharp.

  He’s gonna have to work for it.

  The trunk lid swung up. Daylight poured down on Gillian, blinding her. Cool air lapped her burning wet body. The air smelled of pine and damp earth. Squinting, she peered out. The opening was about three feet high. Beyond it, she saw the green of trees and a few pale patches of sky. Fredrick Holden wasn’t there.

  He must’ve used a trunk release on his dashboard.

  Gillian heard the soft sound of a breeze whispering through the woods. There were birds singing, chirping, squawking. She even heard the flutter of wings. The whiny buzz of a mosquito.

  Where is he?

  She heard a footstep. It made a quiet crunching sound on the ground. Then there were more footsteps.

  He’s coming!

  He stood over the trunk and stared down at her.

  Didn’t do anything, just stared as if entranced by the look of Gillian stretched out in his trunk, naked and gleaming with sweat, tied up and helpless.

  His eyes seemed to bulge. His mouth hung open. Gillian could see his chest move as he breathed rapidly. He closed his mouth, licked his lips and swallowed. Then he rubbed a forearm across his mouth.

  “All mine,” he muttered as if to himself. “Allll mine.”

  He bent over the trunk. His hands swirled over Gillian’s slick skin as if he were fingerpainting.

  Go ahead. Enjoy the hell out of this. I’ll get my turn.

  The hands slid on her shoulders, circled and kneaded her breasts, swarmed over her belly and down her thighs, slipped between her thighs and slithered there, delving around the rope. Then they roamed up her body again and lingered on her breasts as if he couldn’t get enough of the slippery way they felt, especially when he squeezed them.

  “Untie me,” Gillian said. Her voice came out in a dry, raspy whisper. “I’ll do wonderful things to you.”

  He slapped her face hard.

  Then he rubbed his hands on his shirt. They left dark stains on the pale fabric. His right hand dropped out of sight below the edge of the trunk. It came back with a knife.

  It was a huge knife with a long, broad blade. A bowie knife?

  Leaning over the trunk, he cut through the rope around Gillian’s ankles. The edge of the blade scraped lightly along the side of her calf and kept moving higher. Goosebumps crawled over her skin. She tried not to shiver. She couldn’t help it. She wanted to damp her legs together, but that would push the blade into her thigh.

  He’s gonna ram it right up into
me.

  No, he won’t, she thought. He can’t have blood in his trunk. Even the newspapers wouldn’t hold it all. He’s smart enough to know that.

  The knife turned. The point lightly traced its way up the hollow where her leg joined her groin, followed it to her hip.

  The knife rose above her. Holden kept it in his hand while he wiped his mouth again with his forearm. Then it came down slowly and Gillian thought he was going to free her hands. The blade pressed, instead, against her pubic mound. She saw his arm make a sawing motion, but she felt no pain. He’s cutting the rope, she realized. That’s all.

  That’s all?

  She felt the rope part. Her hands were still bound together, but now she would be able to raise them without choking herself.

  And my feet are loose, she thought.

  He’d take me easily in a fight, but I can make a run for it.

  Holden pressed the blade to her throat. With his other hand, he reached behind her neck. He grabbed the rope and yanked it. Gillian felt as if she were being scorched by the streaking rope, but then it was out from under her.

  Holden clutched the end of it with his left hand. “Up,” he said, and tugged it like a leash. Gillian sat up. Sweat streamed down her body, dripped off her chin and breasts. Sodden newspapers clung to her back.

  With his rope hand, Holden peeled the papers off. “Out,” he said. His command was followed by another tug. Gillian winced.

  Bracing herself with forearms on the edge of the trunk, she turned and got to her knees. She had papers on her rump. They stayed stuck to her while she swung a leg out of the trunk. Her knee found the bumper. It slipped off when she put her weight on it. She squirmed on the edge. The rope at her throat was yanked, and she tumbled out, rolling. The bumper hit her side. She bounced off it and slammed the ground ... and reached up and caught the rope and jerked it. Holden yelped. His arm snapped forward. The end of the rope flew from his hand.

  Gillian flipped over. She rammed the fists of her tied hands against the ground and thrust herself up, and was almost to her feet when Holden’s kick caught her hip and sent her hurling sideways. She crashed against the rear of the car. It knocked her away. She fell and rolled and tried to keep rolling but Holden pinned her down with a shoe on her belly.